Tears For A Friend

Of the furry variety.

Tears are rolling down my face, again. The love this animal brought to my life, is a beautiful thing. He loved simply, and he loved deeply.

He was there, when I needed some comfort. He was there, when I needed to be needed. He really enjoyed the scritching and body massages I started giving him this winter, on a couple occasions. He was there, afterwards, to shed yet more fur after such massage, even though I looked like the Shaggy Dog by then . . .

He was there, when I needed a friendly smile, with nothing but pure love and doggy personality behind it. He was there to greet me, with a bark and wagging tail, when I'd open the door and enter his house.

He was there, when I couldn't be, to comfort Betty. He was there to be a companion, and deep friend, and a source of unconditional love for her, no matter what, no matter when, even when I could not be there.

He was kind, he was fun (especially in his younger days!), he was white, he was willing to do tricks for treats (with occasional coaxing!), he was loyal, he was ALWAYS concerned for the welfare of his pet human, Betty, and he was willing to accept me as a member of his pack when I married into the family. He was simple, he was a joy, he was playful (especially in his younger days, again!), he was unique; he had his quirks, and his particularities, and he had his greeting for all those who were welcome; he also had his greeting for all those who were not, among which number passing bicycles, skateboards, deliverymen, and strange dogs. He did enjoy a good chase of any felines he caught wind of, even of late when he was not as spry.

He was comfort, he was companion, he was a beggar for table scraps (oh, that LOOK in his eyes!) He was friend, he was confidante, for whom would he tell your secrets to? He was the memory of a fuzzy white furball you could hold in the palm of your hand;

he was BEAR.

Goodbye, my friend. Until I see you again, with this parting eulogy I leave you, and sadly, yet gladly, for your release from infirmity, do we part from each other for a time.

I'll be waiting to give you a massage, the next time we meet.

I imagine, that I hear your, "Rff!", and see the gleam in your eye, the smile beneath, the perk of your ears, the tilt of your head, and see the welcome wag of your tail.

Goodbye . . . .

Bear, You Were A Good Dog . . .

I dedicate the following to Bear, and for all of us who loved him, but most especially his best companion, my mother-in-law, Betty.

Where To Bury A Dog

There are various places within which a dog may be buried. We are thinking now of a setter, whose coat was flame in the sunshine, and who, so far as we are aware, never entertained a mean or an unworthy thought. This setter is buried beneath a cherry tree, under four feet of garden loam, and at its proper season the cherry strews petals on the green lawn of his grave. Beneath a cherry tree, or an apple, or any flowering shrub of the garden, is an excellent place to bury a good dog. Beneath such trees, such shrubs, he slept in the drowsy summer, or gnawed at a flavorous bone, or lifted head to challenge some strange intruder. These are good places, in life or in death. Yet it is a small matter, and it touches sentiment more than anything else.

For if the dog be well remembered, if sometimes he leaps through your dreams actual as in life, eyes kindling, questing, asking, laughing, begging, it matters not at all where that dog sleeps at long and at last. On a hill where the wind is unrebuked and the trees are roaring, or beside a stream he knew in puppyhood, or somewhere in the flatness of a pasture land, where most exhilarating cattle graze. It is all one to the dog, and all one to you, and nothing is gained, and nothing lost -- if memory lives. But there is one best place to bury a dog. One place that is best of all.

If you bury him in this spot, the secret of which you must already have, he will come to you when you call -- come to you over the grim, dim frontiers of death, and down the well-remembered path, and to your side again. And though you call a dozen living dogs to heel they should not growl at him, nor resent his coming, for he is yours and he belongs there.

People may scoff at you, who see no lightest blade of grass bent by his footfall, who hear no whimper pitched too fine for mere audition, people who may never really have had a dog. Smile at them then, for you shall know something that is hidden from them, and which is well worth the knowing.

The one best place to bury a good dog is in the heart of his master.

by Ben Hur Lampman

Talk about big mistakes . . .

Actor Crush of the Day: Matthew Fox!

Well, apparently last night when I was setting the alarm for this morning, I must have accidentally set the time an hour ahead. It's 8:15 right now, and 5 minutes ago I realized, after checking various sources for the time, that I dropped Emily off at the school at 7:30, instead of 8:30, like I thought it was. And here I thought I was dropping her off late . . . No wonder she was so tired!

Doh!

I just left a message at the school, explaining what happened and such. I assume they let her wait until breakfast was ready, because I received no call.

Poor Emily; she has such a scatterbrain for a mother!!!

On another note, yesterday's therapy was really, really great. Dr. Mower and his expertise and kindness are a great gift in my life. Oh yes, and very definitely his Patience, with a capital P . . . .

(Okay, now I have that one song from The Music Man in my head . . . .)

I'm going back to sleep, if I can stop worrying about Emily.

Darn ME.

In Tatters

Update: I just spoke with my psychologist over the phone. I had left him a message shortly after posting this Tatters post, as I recognized that I needed his help to cope with the feelings and thoughts I was having. I have also made a second appointment for later in the week next week, as, with this current crisis I am experiencing, coupled with my husband being gone for a week starting Sunday, that I will need some extra help and support this coming week. He was glad to oblige, and agreed that it was a valid thing for me to consider and request, given the circumstances. I have never been apart from my husband for longer than two nights at once.

How does one face the world each day, knowing that the way in which one presents ones' self to the world, may not be under your control?

That the way in which you interact with others . . . . is not a matter of deciding how you are going to do so.

I dunno. Does it sound like I'm looking for or making excuses? Probably.

Are the first two paragraphs, the way my experience of life has been so far?

Yes . . . I type as I sob with all my soul and what few tatters remain of my heart.

Mental Illness and Ability to Control Ones' Self

To be or not to be, is NOT the question.

Although it is one I have to re-answer, periodically. That last time being a week or two ago.

The main crux right now is, to the extent that mental illness affects ones' self-restraint, self-control, ability to act, react, restrain, withhold, refrain from acting, how, then, does that mesh up with the notions of agency, self-direction, and full responsibility for self?

If these illnesses really do interfere with my ability to control myself, then what does that imply for all sorts of other things?

I do not seek absolution from anyone, although the notion appeals. How could it not, given the problems I have?

I am struggling with this, mightily. And trying not to do all-or-nothing thinking, which leads to bad places. But . . . if my illnesses MEAN nothing, as far as my problems with controlling my behavior, then, in fact, the illnesses, the diagnoses, MEAN NOTHING. But then again, I was raised to believe that I am completely responsible for myself and my actions. Which I DO.

I am amidst a . . . conundrum. And it tears me apart. I DO NOT KNOW HOW TO SETTLE THIS.

You Always Hurt the Ones You Love

And I know it will happen again, no matter how hard I try.

I am not planning on failing, people say those who fail to plan, plan to fail. Er, that doesn't really fit this. Or if you think you fail, of course, you will . . .

But at the same time, it's going to be a long time before I'm healed from all sorts of psychological crap; although I will not be healed from my illnesses. I may be able to learn how to manage them somewhat better, to hopefully alot better.

I just hate that, until then, I basically suck.

And as I go through therapy, it brings up alot of buried and bottled up emotions, that explode and spew all over the place.

I know I cannot say that that won't happen again, because it has happened my whole life. NO MATTER HOW HARD I'VE TRIED, I haven't been able to stop it.

And, alot more difficult stuff and feelings coming up that are just so confusing and then that whole transference thing.

None of this is excuse, but it's explanation.

I don't even know how I can even say, I can't stop it from happening again, and what kind of person that makes me; what kind of human being, what kind of acceptable/unacceptable/horrible etc. that makes me.

Therapy is helping, but it is oh-so-slow. I am sorry.

And, again, sorry for having these illnesses, sorry for being this way, sorry for being me, and sorry for being ME around my families. It must SUCK to be my family.

Really, really, very much so. Some might say definitely not, but I know that, in the end, I am difficult, overreactive (even knowing that, I can't help FEELING it, because I'm in the MIDDLE of it and it feels real, and not overdone, when I'm feeling it, and later, even), unpleasant, emotional, paranoid, etc.

I hate what I do, what I am. How I am, and how I do things. Who I am, and who I do (well, okay, I love who I do, because I love my husband, teehee!).

The inevitability of this crap . . . . it creates such a hopeless, helpless feeling . . . what kind of person can't even control themselves to that kind of degree . . . but then, this is one of the main cruxes of my problems, my illnesses . . . .

I have a mean left hook . . . in my SLEEP!

Actor Crush of the Day: Matthew McConaughy (I need some Southern Comfort!)

This last 11 days or so, I've discovered myself on three occasions, throwing a left hook punch in my sleep. I wake up just a tich enough to realize hey WTH am I doing in my sleep? And then go back to sleep all the way.

I've come close to smashing myself pretty bad on the corner of the craft desk set up next to my side of the bed. As well, I suppose I could end up hitting myself in the face or elsewhere, possibly.

It's a good thing I mostly sleep on my right side, or my husband would REALLY get it, but good!

*POW*

I joked with my ologist that maybe I was practicing Tae-bo in my sleep . . . although I've never done it at all, ever. Tae-bo, that is!

So if I'm ever sleeping at your house, watch out! *BAM*

Oh wait, that's Emeril's line . . . and it now reminds me of that toothpaste he does commercials for!