Here are the rest of the photos showing the sequence as I painted the piece for New Directions. It’s a dawning of true brightness on the path, after wandering in the dark for so long. Tomorrow, the rest of the story.
Note: All paintings by the author
The next several entries in this “Old Country” section of my memoir — the “Old Country” being the story of my life — cover these last fifteen or so years of my life. It has been the part that has gifted me with “New Directions.” Joyous directions. Directions full of curiosity, creativity, and most especially, PURPOSE.
This last segment has been the part that finally took everything from my life, synthesized and transformed it into something that has just blossomed. While I managed to thrive in some fashion through all those earlier years of pain and hard work, these past years have been an absolute joy to me.
As with all my earlier posts, I have paired the text with photos or paintings that represented those times. So, it is only fitting that for this “New Directions” phase, it has its own painting — a visual expression of what I felt to move beyond so much struggle and emerge into the life I was born to live.
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The thriving wouldn’t come overnight. It was more of a slow-growing plant nurtured by my wonderful therapist. And it is a still-going-on process. But at that time, her help gave me hope. I didn’t expect it to turn out as wonderfully as it has. Hope was enough then.
The help of my therapist, and the medications the psychiatrist prescribed had brought me back from the edge. The PTSD anxiety was coming under control. The depression was improving, though it would take a little longer.
The best way to show its progress was in from something I wrote in 2017, about a 2011 trip Ed and I took.
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Maybe I didn’t dare speak those words at that point about my life situation…I felt it for sure. But as long as I didn’t admit them, I could go on. But I did have to say them about working in the memory-care center.
I had started volunteering there in the fall of 2008 and helped with the Christmas party for their residents. We danced, brought out food, and sang songs. I tried to keep my mood light and match the delight of all the patients. It was surreal, though. One moment, someone would seem worlds away mentally, then you’d play a certain song from decades ago, and they would come alive, smiling and singing along. While it was nice to see them have a moment of joy, it broke my heart because they would mentally “slip away” once the song was over.
(more…)I spoke in an earlier post about my struggles with female friends. During that time period, there were a couple of friendships that really triggered me. The conversations seemed to have an energy behind them. There seemed to be undercurrents of things unsaid, and even the things said felt provocative, interrogative, almost confrontational. So those things added to the trauma from that December intensified my anxiety.
I literally began to feel unnerved. Like I was being watched…viewed as guilty of something…bad….poked at emotionally…and unsafe. Maybe the weird energy was mine projected on them. Maybe it was both. I know that after almost losing Ed, and realizing I couldn’t be the strong, self-sufficient island anymore, I was desperate to nail down a friend I could depend on. I felt lost in the chaos of life and started to question my sanity.
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I mentioned the movie “Doubt,” which came out at the end of 2008. It hit such a nerve in me that I was unable to watch it…then.
It was set in a 1960s parochial school, and centered around the possibility that the parish priest was sexually abusing one of the altar boys there. And the Sister principal of the school, sometimes too rigid but determined to protect the children, was equally determined to stop him.
In 2024, I was finally able to watch it. By then, I had the anxiety and PTSD symptoms well under control, and had a lot more awareness about myself, friendship, how to live a healthy life, and what those years of abuse and trauma had done to me. While it was still a hard movie to watch, I viewed it SEVERAL times, and NEEDED to. It was time, and it was calling to me.
(more…)I went to see my regular doctor, desperate for any kind of help. Whereas in 1978, I had refused to take the Librium the doctor gave me because I viewed it as a failure to use them, now I had no such illusions. He did give me a prescription for Prozac, but I later learned it was such a low dose it wouldn’t have done anything for me. And he wouldn’t consider increasing the dose or changing the med.
The only other thing he offered was some Ambien or Lunesta for sleep, and some Xanax for anxiety. I didn’t want the Xanax. I had used it once in the past, and I feared its addictive powers. So I tried the sleep meds.
To me, those seemed “odd.” Yes, I “slept.” But it was more like just flipping switches on and off. I took them, they’d hit, and shortly I’d be “out.” Then, when they wore off, it was like flipping the light switch back on, and I was conscious. But not rested. It wasn’t “sleep.” More like “suspended animation.” I am sure they are helpful for others, but they just didn’t work for me.
I was so desperate, I even looked up one of my old gynecologists. She had the same last name as my dead aunt, who had been a nun. Could that be a sign from heaven? However, she didn’t have anything else she could offer me other than possibly some estrogen.
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In 1984, I was walking every night, trying not to kill myself. I had to start life all over again.
In 2008, I was afraid to get off the couch, and having an emotional breakdown. And again, I was having to start life over.
Both times, I was at the end of my rope, hanging by a thread, not wanting to be dead, but wondering what else there was in life, and if I had any value.
I was consumed by a level of anxiety I’d never experienced before. It was so bad, I was afraid to get out of bed in the morning — dreaded starting another day of pain. But I was too afraid to stay in bed. Yet I couldn’t wait for the day to be over so I could get back in bed, and when I did, I only felt safe on my stomach, propped up on elbows, watching the same video over and over again on a small portable player while Ed watched TV.
Almost every night for months, it was the Pixar movie, “A Bug’s Life.” It was safe, all the ants worked together, and there was nothing scary or provocative. And the best part, the part I wanted to be in, was the big sleeping chamber where all the ants rested, sleeping safely and comfortably in their little hammocks. It was snuggly, all of them there together, safe from any threats. Just the security of being there together with all of their friends. I so wished I could live with them.
(more…)In college, I had a lot of chemistry classes. An especially dreadful one was called “Quantitative Analysis.” It was a special form of torture that focused on three things: precision, purity, and creating a brand new compound from original ingredients.
We would execute experiments of extreme precision to create new compounds that had totally different behaviors from the ingredients we started with. All this through the “magic” of chemical reactions.
A chemical reaction happens when you mix different chemicals together, then apply heat or something other “stressor” to cause them to react with each other. In that process, the atoms of each chemical come apart, then reassemble themselves into totally new compounds.
Think baking a cake. The original ingredients you measure out and put in the bowl, and stir. Say flour, sugars, baking soda, and such. But when you put that mixture in a cake pan and subject it to oven heat for a period of time, those ingredients “rearrange” to become something new, a cake.
So far, not so bad. But unlike measuring cake ingredients with spoons and measuring cups, in our lab, we had to use TINY amounts of each chemical. So we had to use a special “analytical” balance to weigh out each ingredient, and after the experiment, weigh the tiny amount of the new compound we made.
The analytical balance was so sensitive that you dare not breathe near it. It lived in its own closet, inside its own case, which sat on a thick stone slab for stability. When weighing each item, we had to weigh it three times, and those three measure HAD to match within a very narrow range, or you started over. You were at the mercy of that balance.
To me, it was torture. Sometimes the class seemed less about the actual chemical reactions we had to execute, and more about becoming proficient in weighing the tiny amounts of chemicals. If your weights were wrong at the start, so was your “cake.” And then you failed.
For example, we would usually start with maybe a gram or less of each ingredient. For perspective, 1 gram = 0.035 ounces. Not a lot. And sometimes even less. The balance could measure amounts to the TEN-THOUSANDTH of a gram, or 0.0000035 ounces. REALLY small. So lots of potential for failure.
To make matters worse, once we had our ingredients weighed, before we could put them into our “cake pan,” which was a small ceramic cup called a crucible, we had to make sure the crucible was “pure.”
A pure crucible meant it had no moisture or stray impurities in its ceramic structure that could interfere with the chemical reaction of the ingredients. To achieve a pure crucible, we had to heat it for two hours over a special lab burner that ran at 3000°F. Only then could we start the experiment. Yes, a degree of precision and purity that could drive you crazy.
But the point is this. The process of firing that crucible to white-hot for two hours meant that all stray chemical impurities or water in that vessel were burned out of it. The only thing remaining at that point was the pure vessel itself.
So, to make our chemical cake, it took precision and purity. Then, if you were lucky, you would create that brand new substance that did different things than the original ingredients…and you could then weigh it to extreme insanity.
That was Quantitative Analysis.
I never envisioned going through that process ever again. Until December of 2006. Watching my soulmate, Ed, almost die in front of me, I became that white-hot crucible being purified over the burner of terror and pain. Anything less than my pure heart would get burned out of me.
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All my life, I was strong. I had to be. And aside from Ed, I walked that road alone. I was like all those old Slovak women: “Str-r-r-o-n-g like bull!” I would do what I had to. Depend on no one. Keep going.
Until life finally broke me. Hard. And then it became – What now? IS there a “now” anymore?
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Soul Mosaic 