Green Tomatoes in October

Why am I sobbing over the tomatoes?

I have had a lot of thoughts that I want to share about moving, but moving comes with packing and a lot of other logistical things. We have to be out of this house in four days, and it will be a minimum of five days or more before we can move into the new house. So we are packing up and getting ready, being uncertain about what this coming week will look like for us.

Kev is cleaning up the yard, taking the compost over to add to a neighbor’s compost pile, and he asked me about my tomato plants which I nursed through the first freezing temperatures and are (were five minute ago) still working hard at bearing fruit. They can’t stay. They are going with the compost. I am sad.

Moving Again (and Stress)

Is moving a choice for most people? I have always hated moving. There were times when I chose to look at it as a chance to start over and make a new start, but mostly it is a disruption that interrupts my life. I always dreamed of having a home town, where I would belong, and always have a place to return to (or just stay). My parents have a home town. They grew up there, and they live there now. I remember visiting my grandparents there (all four of them, walking distance from one house to the other). But I have never lived there and don’t really even know my way around. But that wasn’t what I was planning to write about today.

Mostly, I had to move when my dad got transferred. Moving was stressful for my parents, who did most of the work, but it was traumatic for me because I was getting pulled up by the roots and had no control. As an adult, I have moved almost as often as I did as a child, and still it was not something that I had much control over. Usually it was related to my husband’s job (him getting a job or losing one), and my work if I had a job outside of the home was secondary and not enough to support the family. That has been the nature of women’s work – it is usually undervalued in multiple ways. And again, that was not what I intended to write about right now, although an important topic for another day.

The past eleven years, I have been more in charge of my own life than ever before and still tossed and thrown hear and there. I would have liked to have had a home of my own and finally some stability with that. I have not told much of the story of my life as an adult here yet, and I am not going to attempt to bring you up to date on all of that just yet, but I will summarize briefly that I was married for twenty years and divorced, which is a complicated story. At the time of the divorce, I was just completing my internship as a mental health counselor. I was at the very beginning of my career and did not have a secure position or reliable income at that point, or enough experience or confidence to get started with any kind of security or stability. Jumping to the point here, I found myself homeless for about a month, accepted a job in that was several hours distance from where my children were, and so I commuted each week out to work on a ranch in the middle of nowhere (it was a residential treatment center), and back to the county where my children still lived with their dad.

There were six years of not having my own home, renting a room and living in someone else’s home or with roommates. I was not technically homeless, but often felt that I was. I had an address and a place to sleep. But I didn’t belong, and I had no real stability. When I started to get comfortable, I would have to leave for some reason beyond my control. In some places I was the victim of emotional abuse. How many people in their forties run away from home? I did. Two houses were sold out from under me within a year. Economically, I didn’t think that I could have my own place. I will get into a bit of that in a future post too. And then I rented the place where I have been for the past five years. It is one side of a duplex. A lot of life has happened here, too. Five years is as long as i have ever been able to stay anywhere, with only one exception to that. And now this house has also been sold, and we have to move again. “We” referring to my current husband (of almost three years), Kev, and our pets and plants, … and somehow in this time we have ended up cramming two households worth of stuff in to this house.

This duplex was the first place where I ever lived alone. I started to feel like I was in control of my own life at times. That felt nice, but I soon got a roommate to help with expenses and because I didn’t need three bedrooms all by myself, which had been my plan when I rented this house. A lot of life has happened in these five years too. In this space. Some of it good, some of it painful. I had started to allow myself to think that maybe I had a home. This home has felt much less stable and secure the past few months as the landlords first became critical of my gardening and landscaping activities (they had told me that I could garden when I came here), and then showed up and literally attacked my herb garden, trying to destroy my plants, then they backed off for a short time, and then we found out that they were selling the property.

As a society, we seem to think that we have made progress in the area of “renter’s rights.” I am realizing that renters actually have very little by way of rights in this country. With thirty days notice, you can be asked to leave and have no real recourse. And with thirty days notice, renters are erased and forgotten.

Do you realize that the current housing market effectively shuts certain people out from having a home? If I were still single, I could go back to renting a room again. But to have a home for a couple, or a family? To be able to have pets, which are a part of the family? The biggest reason, besides stability, for me to rent this house rather than rent a room again five years ago was that I need pets. If you rent a room, they don’t have to let you have an emotional support animal, even if you have the documentation to have one. When you rent an entire apartment or home, many landlords want to prohibit pets, but they have to allow emotional support animals. It still may be a battle, but it is one that you will generally win. But the problem right now is that there are not homes available for rent hardly at all. And rental prices are higher than mortgage. And if you rent, then the rent that you pay does not contribute to future security in the form of home ownership.

I knew these things before, but did not have the option or ability to buy a house. I don’t know how anybody does that these days unless they already own property or have family or someone with the ability and desire to help them get started, which means a significant financial investment. Jumping through to get to the point again, I didn’t believe that I could own a home of my own, maybe not ever, because I don’t have those resources. I will just never be able to afford to retire. And I can’t afford to live past retirement age. People my age are already talking about retirement and some are starting to take early retirement, and I am struggling to buy a starter home. Not technically my first home – we owned three houses one after another in my first marriage – but this will for intents and purposes be my first home. And we are attempting to buy a home. I can’t trust that it will really happen. Maybe in two weeks we will be homeless. But I hope that it somehow does work out. And it would not be possible if a generous friend had not offered to help. I don’t know how to wrap my mind around that one.

So, I wanted to talk about stress, and how stress affects us, and also some resources for coping with stress. I think that I am going to have to try again tonight or tomorrow. I have been affected by the stress and trauma of this uncertainty and all of the stress and trauma that I associate with moving essentially since July, and as I attempt to write about it, I see it in my writing. It is very difficult to get to my point, or even to do any writing at all. I have been attempting to write this post for over a week. And this stress-induced writer’s block also makes it more difficult to do the writing that I need to do on a daily basis, which is an essential part of making a living for me. Also, I am watching as Kev gets to work on packing up the house and getting ready for the move, hearing him work at it, and if I try to help, I freeze and I am no help at all.

I will try to get back to this with another entry tonight or tomorrow. For now, let me summarize responses to stress. Most people have heard of “fight or flight.” There are two more categories. “Freeze,” and “fawn.” All of these various responses serve a purpose, but all of them can cause problems too. If you haven’t guessed by now, my typical response to stress is “freeze.” Freezing may help me to cope in the moment and generally not make things worse, but it is not very helpful when something needs to get done!

More about stress responses:

https://www.healthline.com/health/mental-health/fight-flight-freeze-fawn

The name of this blog

I started this blog about a week ago. Just now, I tried searching for the name of this blog, and there were several things that came up, but the most prominent is a book that has the same name. Can You See Me? And the theme is similar – it is about an eleven year old girl with autism starting sixth grade. It sounds like it is worth checking out! The book is by Libby Scott and Rebecca Westcott. I have not read it yet. I don’t want to step on toes here. Of course our stories are going to be different, but I am also sure that we will probably have some things in common.

What do you think? My biggest hangup in starting the blog was that I went to the WordPress site, started to register, and had to come up with a name for my blog. It took me several months to think of a name that I could relate to. I know that books exist with the same or similar names. People may have the same names. I thought that my actual name was unique enough that I would not run into name doubles, but I have name doubles – some with different spellings. Do I need to find a different name? Do you have suggestions? How difficult would it be to change the name at this point, once I have started a blog and registered the domain?

Hello!

Can you see me? My tendency is to assume that I am invisible. I am quiet too, so you really might not hear me. Writing helps me to break through that invisibility barrier and find my voice.

It has taken me forever to get this blog started. I have wanted to do this for a long time. Actually, I had a few other blogs before, but that was a long time ago and I was a different person back then. For now, this is a work in progress.

Why a blog?

  • I want to tell my story. Actually, I do want to write my autobiography. It is writing itself constantly in my head. If you could hear what is happening in my head, I would not be invisible at all. The book that is writing itself in my head doesn’t stop, and if I don’t start writing some of it down, I won’t remember it. In my head, I am not talking to myself. I am talking to you. Sometimes to a particular person. Always to someone that I wish could understand me, and where I am coming from, and how I see things, and most of all to know that I am really doing the best that I know how to do with what I have under the circumstances. We all are.
  • There are things that I have found, am finding, will yet find that help me to make sense of the world, make sense of myself, and to be able to do better. When we know better, we can do better. I want to share some of these tips and resources.

I wrote a first post already. An overview of my childhood. There are memories that I will probably go back and revisit, and a lot to tell about who I am and where I am now and how I got here. I would like support and feedback. I think that a lot of people will relate to my story and maybe want to tell their own. I hope that I don’t step on people’s toes too much. Although I grew up feeling invisible, which does imply emotional neglect at the least, this is not about blaming anybody for that. If you know me or my family, you might recognize the people in my life. Maybe you are a part of my story. I hope that we can all learn together.

You might not agree with me. Okay. Please be kind. I will try to listen and understand you and where you are coming from too, and I ask the same in return.

You might recognize yourself not specifically but in some of the patterns or mindsets that I will describe. If you do, remember what I just said up above. Be kind. That includes kindness towards yourself. We are all doing the best that we know how. We can only give what we have to give. We are all learning. When we know better, we can do better. Blame and judgement don’t help.

What is this blog about:

  • Telling my story
  • Mental Health
  • Autism
  • The search for community and belonging
  • Hopes for making the world a better place
  • Anything else that helps me to cover these ideas

Who am I?

Who am I? Difficult question. Telling my story is why I need this blog. Let’s start at the beginning, I guess. I was born at Edwards Air Force Base but I don’t remember living there. I am not from anywhere. We moved every couple of years or so. My parents live in their home town in California where they both grew up. I remember visiting grandparents there, but I never lived there, and don’t know the place well enough to find my way around without help (electronic or otherwise). When I was eleven years old we moved overseas, then a couple more places in the U.S. I always wanted to belong somewhere, but I was only one of those Air Force brats, and that was how I thought of myself. I didn’t think that anybody really knew that I was there. I might not have been entirely right about that, but that feeling of invisibility is a major theme throughout my life.

I was the quiet kid in the corner, not usually bothering anybody. I always knew that I didn’t belong. Sometimes I was bullied. A lot of the time I just withdrew and went away somewhere in my own head. I had a few friends, but I knew that it would never last. I had a best friend once, or I thought that I did. She made me feel safe from the bullies. I still remember when her birthday is. Then we moved again when I was nine years old, and I stopped trying. I was scared, and I was sad. If I met someone they could be a bully, or they could not care about me at all, or they could be someone that I would have to leave after starting to connect with them, and maybe that was what I feared the most, because that really hurt.

Did anybody notice? Maybe they did, but I didn’t really trust them, and I also didn’t know how to tell my story. I cried sometimes. Mostly, I shut down. I remember writing a letter to the best friend that I left behind when I was nine, telling her that all the color had gone out of my world. I think that she replied that time, but she was nine too, and I don’t think she knew what to do. I lost track of her when we moved again.

I remember having aunts and uncles and grandparents. I was the oldest of six children. My parents were each the oldest of five. When I was eleven and we moved to Spain, most of my cousins were not born yet. I remember some of them as little kids, and most of my family must remember me the same way. I don’t belong to my own family. They don’t know who I became, and there is not room for me in their lives, or maybe I don’t know how to ask if there is a place for me in their lives.

My parents were never ready for me to grow up or for me to “become.” Childhood is all about “becoming.” I wanted to. It was never convenient, or it was just too hard. I really wanted to have a birthday party when I turned eight, but dad was stationed overseas and mom really had her hands full with almost five kids by then, and not living close enough to family for them to help. In the spirit of fairness, since I didn’t get a birthday party that year or any other year, none of my siblings ever got one either. Not the kind where you could invite your friends. We didn’t know how to have a party. My parents didn’t have time for driving to activities and things, and there wasn’t money for music lessons or clubs or activities anyway, but even if the resources had been there for developing individual interests and attachments, we were only in any place temporarily, and it just wasn’t worth it to get started only to get uprooted again.

This was the story that I told myself. Looking back now, there were a few exceptions, but somehow it didn’t ever “count.” I did have a few friends at school or friends at church, and I did get attached to people, but I always knew that it was temporary, while hoping that it would last, and I never believed that I meant anything to them, especially since we were all just there as long as our families were stationed there. It wasn’t real life, just temporary stations because we were mostly all from military families and we weren’t allowed to sit anyplace long enough to grow roots. All of my childhood was lived that way. No roots allowed.

When I was thirteen we moved back to the U.S. Between sixth grade and eighth grade I went to four different schools in two different countries and two different U.S. states. And I had learned that life in any given place was only temporary and we didn’t ever belong and we could be leaving again at any time. But my parents bought a house for the first time in Austin, Texas, and we lived off base, among people who had lived there for their whole lives. I wanted to belong. We ended up staying there until I graduated from high school, even though the whole time, especially through my senior year, we were expecting a transfer at any time. I begged to be allowed to stay in Texas to finish my senior year but was told that if we got transferred, no matter when it was, I would be going along to wherever was next. That shadow and insecurity were salient even during the time of the most stability I had ever had. I had no ability to plan for any future because I had internalized that I had no choice or control and life was unpredictable. By graduation, we knew that we were moving again. Someone at school asked me for a permanent address so that they could find me for future reunions, and I couldn’t even understand the question.

Once I get started telling my life story, I get sucked in by all the memories and especially the emotions that I didn’t know how to make sense of back then. I want to keep going, but if I do, I will be here for hours or days, and it will probably be more than what you want to read all at once, so I am going to try to leave it here for now and write more soon.

Let’s refocus here on why I am writing this blog. I want to tell my story. I still have this leftover need to be seen and heard and understood. I always thought that I was essentially invisible. I felt that I didn’t matter. And not being understood, not even understanding myself for most of my life, has had a significant impact on my life. For one thing, since I didn’t even really know myself, how could anyone else actually know or understand me? I understand myself better now than I used to, but still have the need for connection and belonging. One thing that I hope for in writing this is for my family to be able to know who I am, especially my children, because I was invisible when they were growing up too, and that has affected them too.

And I have also realized that my story is not only my story. There are other people who are like me, who feel invisible. And when you feel invisible, it is very hard to get your needs met. If you don’t think that anyone cares, and you think that your prime directive is to never bother anybody, how can you ever belong to a community or family, or connect, or ask for what you need?

As a society, we tend to focus on the kids who are acting out, getting into trouble, and causing problems. Not the quiet one in the corner. And we need to notice that quiet kid in the corner. We need to see that child, and we need to reach out and listen and not assume that they are okay or that someone else will take care of them. Be present. Be interested. Be available. Make a connection. That is what all kids need. We all needed to matter, and we needed to know that we mattered. We still do.

And I want to share resources here. I want to help others to heal. I plan to tell you about some of the books that I have read and the ideas that have helped me to figure some of this out for myself that might help you too.

Where I am now in life, I am a licensed mental health therapist. That was a long road too, and I plan to share the story of how I got here. Connecting with my clients and being able to help them with the stuff that keeps them from being able to live their best lives has become one of the most meaningful things in my life. I am not the right therapist for everyone, and this blog is not intended to take the place of professional treatment for any mental or physical health concern. But I think that this may help me to be able to reach more people and make a difference and make the world a better place.

I plan to write about a variety of topics here, and not everyone is going to agree with me or even want to hear all of what I have to say, and that is fine. I will try to use tags so that you can choose what you want to read and what you don’t. If you leave comments, I am okay with discussing things with you even if you disagree, but I will ask you to be kind to me and to others. This writing is going to touch on things that are very sensitive to me. Connection can’t happen without some vulnerability, and I have already shared some of my vulnerability. There will be more vulnerability. Let’s keep this positive and supportive. Vulnerability is a strength too. Courage is not an absence of fear, but rather the willingness to face what you fear even when you are scared.