Rainy Day

It's 11:00 a.m. and so dark and rainy outside. I'm really fighting with feeling depressed. Also feeling scared, or having fear. I think I'm going to try turning on a bunch of lights and maybe burn some nice smelling candles. I don't want to fall into this funk.

I saw my counselor Kate on Friday, and she told me that my next visit would mark one year since I first saw her and my psychiatrist for counseling and meds. She said that during that next visit, they would reassess me. The diagnosis on my chart still reads "Severe Depression accompanied by Generalized Anxiety Disorder, Marital Problems, and Low Self Esteem". I am anxious to see what my updated diagnosis will be. There is no doubt the medications have helped me tremendously. While it still exists, and probably always will, my depression is much better than one year ago. Anxiety is still much more of a problem, but has improved. I think the area where I've made the greatest improvement will come with "Low Self Esteem". I remember how bad that was during my first sessions with both of them. I couldn't find much good to say about myself, if anything. During some exercises, Kate asked me to write my negative thoughts about myself on some cards, then think of logical reasons why those things were exaggerated, and write those on the backs of the cards. I honestly couldn't think of anything to write on the backs! That was very sobering to me. I'm not really sure what brought me out of that, but I'm feeling much better about myself. Although a man at work payed me a compliment one day this week and those insecurities jumped right out. He said he liked my dress, and I immediately started saying how I normally didn't wear dresses that showed my knees, because they looked "old". As it was coming out of my mouth I knew I shouldn't have said it, so I finally just stopped myself and said "Thank you".

Sometimes I think I'm a mess. Sometimes I feel pretty good. There's a long way to go, but I think I'm making progress in all areas.

My Mom

When I was a kid, we didn't have DVR. When you watched television, there was no pausing the show and resuming at your convenience. If you had something you needed to do, you had to do it during the commercial break, or miss your show. So Mom and I would play a game in the evenings during television time. When a commercial break came, we'd jump up from our chairs, race to our bedrooms, put on our pajamas, and see who could get back to their spot first. In those days my mom was young, healthy, and pretty fast. I had to bust my ass if I had any chance at beating her. Sometimes we'd stub our toe while running back, sometimes our buttons would be crooked, sometimes we ran into each other like figure 8 cars, crossing paths as we re-entered the room. The pajama race was always good for some big laughs, at least for my mom and me. My dad didn't seem to think it was too funny. But for me, this is a very fun and happy memory. Just me and my mom acting silly.

America, Children and Animals, and the USPS

I first met Mr. Striker about eight or nine years ago. I was sitting in my office at work when I got a frantic call to come out and diffuse an angry customer. I had no idea what I was in for. I walked out to find three members of my staff looking frazzled, and maybe even a little frightened. I didn't know what to expect next. They were all standing in front of a little old man, frail and thin, with an uncomfortably curved spine. His hair was thin and white, and a little messy. He had a look of frustration on his face that instantly made my stomach hurt.

I smiled half-heartedly and asked if I could help. The man started telling me how incompetent everyone in the office was, and how no one would listen to what he was trying to say. He was so upset, I took him into my office so he wouldn't catch the attention of the other customers.

Mr. Striker had been a member of our organization for more than 50 years. He had some problems with his account, and wanted to pay for two other accounts. I didn't really know what to say, so I just shut up and let him talk. And talk he did. For about an hour. Mr. Striker told me how he had lost faith in America. How workers today didn't care about customers. He told me how one day in the near future, the United States would become a province of China. He told me how he'd devoted his entire life to charity and humanitarian work; helping children and animals. He told me how difficult it was to communicate with any type of business because he only had a rotary dial phone. He told me how he didn't trust the U.S. Mail because he had seen a mail carrier throw mail into a creek. He'd also seen a mail carrier burn mail. He told me how he didn't trust doctors. How he had a medical background and how he knew doctors didn't know what they were talking about. He talked about politics. He talked about religion. He talked about minorities and illegal immigrants. He told me how his house was constantly vandalized. I just listened. I didn't know what else to do! During the time he spoke, I worked a little magic and took care of all three of the accounts he was paying for. By the time he was done talking, everything was straightened out.

Little did I know, this would be the first of many, MANY times I would hear the same exact speech about the state of America, Children and Animals, and the mail service. In fact, in the years to come I would hear it all over and over and over again. You see, something happened during that hour, and Mr. Striker took the first step at becoming a very dear person in my life.

He was so thrilled that I was able to help him. He was so thrilled that I listened to him. From that moment on, whenever Mr. Striker had any dealings at all with our company, he insisted on speaking to me, and only me. For the next few years, whenever he would come into the office, even though he frightened them, my staff would smile really big, and in their best, most polite voice would say "Hello, Mr. Striker! How are you today?" But Mr. Striker would just growl at them and ask where he might find me.

Mr. Striker began to call me his "Earth Angel". A term I hold very dear, since the song by the same name was one of my mother's all time favorites. During his speech about America, Children and Animals, and the USPS he would tell me how people like me were this country's only saving grace. After about a year of this, Mr. Striker started to ask about my personal life. Then he would offer "Is there anything I can do to help YOU, Ms. Bailey?" He would ask about my kids. He'd ask how I was doing; how I was feeling. About two years into our "relationship" he told me he loved me. He said "Now don't take this the wrong way, Ms. Bailey. I don't love you in a romantic way, I love you in an agape way. Do you know what that means, Ms. Bailey?" I told him I did. From that moment on, in addition to the speech about America, Children and Animals, and the USPS, he always ended our conversations with "I love you, Ms. Bailey. Goodbye".

Up until a few years ago, our organization held a luncheon once a year for members who had been with us 50 years and longer. For two or three years, I would save the spot next to me for Mr. Striker. When he'd walk in, I made a big deal about it. Even though I was keeping him steady, I'd hold his arm and let him escort me to our table, and he was my date for the afternoon. He'd tell everyone at the table about his Earth Angel. For some reason, at that event, he never brought up the state of America, Children and Animals, or the USPS. It was just a nice lunch and he was a perfect gentleman.

The company stopped having the luncheon right about the same time Mr. Striker's health took a turn and he stopped driving. Our talks for the past three or four years have strictly been by phone. As his health declined, I began to see a much more fragile man. A very sad man. And it made me wonder how he got that way.

I suspect Mr. Striker is a hoarder. One day he phoned me after a long absence, and was quite upset. He had been in a nursing home for a few months, and while he was there, his brother and his nieces and nephews had come into his home and cleaned it out. He told me they threw away all his keys, all his papers, all his files, all his records. Something told me he had every piece of mail he'd received for the past 50 years. He was absolutely devastated to return home and find all his things were gone. Since he spoke so often about vandalism at his home, I figured he probably lived in a questionable neighborhood. He had told me several times that the home he lived in had belonged to his family for generations. This made me curious, and I searched his address on the Property Value Administration site. My jaw hit the desk when I discovered the home and land was valued at about $1.5 million. It sits on several acres in one of the most affluent (yet older) neighborhoods in our town. The rest of the neighborhood was built around this home, which had been standing for quite some time when the rest came along. I guess this explains his ability to spend his life doing charity work.

Mr. Striker drove two different cars; one from the 1960's, one from the 1970's. His clothes were modest. I knew he never married, and had no children. He has one brother, whom he can't stand. The brother is the polar opposite of Mr. Striker. A business man, a conformist with a cell phone and a new car. The brother has some children. Nieces and nephews of Mr. Sriker. He doesn't like them either. I'm sure they are all anxious for the crotchety, crazy old uncle to "go away" so they can sell the family house.

Something happened that caused Mr. Striker to be frozen in time. He had to have had friends at some point. I wondered what had happened to them. I believe he drove them all away; closed himself off from them. He wanted the world to be the way it was in the 1940's. I think he just threw in the towel and stopped moving forward all together, somewhere around 1974. I always felt Mr. Striker had loved someone once, very much; and lost her. He's never spoken of it, but that's what my heart always told me. I often felt that event is what froze him in his tracks--what made him stop living his life and retreat into what became a bitter shell.

I last spoke with Mr. Striker about a month ago. He called to arrange payment of his membership dues. He was home then, but had been back in the hospital and nursing home again, and sounded extraordinarily weak and frail. He didn't even bother to tell me about the declining state of our country. As always, he refused to put his statement and payment into the return envelope, and send it to our processing center in Ohio (this prompted the USPS story again). He had to address a handwritten envelope to my attention and send the check directly to me, his Earth Angel. He knows I'll take care of it, and mail him back a receipt, also in a handwritten envelope, along with a nice thank you note. As he ended the conversation, he asked once again if there was anything he could do to help me and my family, then said "I love you, Ms. Bailey. Goodbye". I told him I loved him too. I'm not sure how many more opportunities I'll have to say that to him, and I really wanted him to know. After all, every human being needs someone; anyone to love them. I'm honored that for Mr. Striker, I have been able to be that person.

No Peace

Someone said something to me a few days ago, and I can't get it out of my mind. They said "No peace in my mind, and I feel I am to blame". Powerful words.

I guess we sometimes prevent ourselves from having peace. Maybe we feel we've made a bad decision. Maybe we feel we need to MAKE a decision. Maybe we feel stuck. It's not good to feel stuck--like you don't have options. You've backed yourself into a corner, and now there's no way out. No easy way, anyway. And let's face it, most of us don't want to take the hard way out, do we?

Life is complicated.

Spring Cleaning

Lately I've had the strangest overwhelming desire to get organized. It started the night I was in the kitchen, cleaning out the freezer, and the breeze came over me. Now, everywhere I look, I want to empty everything out, clean, throw out the excess,and reorganize. Funny thing is, I've only done it a few places around the house and at work. Most of the time, like tonight, I just stare at it and think how I'd like to organize it, but it seems too overwhelming, so I don't.

When a woman is near the end of a pregnancy, this is called "nesting". An incredible urge to make sure every detail is in order before the baby comes. The nursery must be ready, the bag packed, the house clean. I'm not sure what's causing this in me now. I'm certainly not expecting a new baby, but maybe I am anticipating a different type of birth. A rebirth, maybe.

It's time for me to get my life in order.

Is It Learned, Or Are We Born With It?

Conversation between my son, 14 and my daughter, 12, while watching my daughter's favorite singer on American Idol.

Daughter: Who are those girls?
Son: What girls?
Daughter: Those girls from the audience, all around Colton.
Son: (Sighs) I feel sorry for your boyfriend.
Daughter: I don't have a boyfriend.
Son: Well when you do; I feel sorry for him.
Daughter: Why?
Son: Because you're so insecure.

Ugh.

Next Door Neighbors Part 2

We moved from the old house and Mrs. Crevistan the summer after 3rd grade. I would live in the next house until I got married for the first time. My Dad still lives there. We had a few next door neighbors there, but the one who lived there when we moved in was the most fun.

Milton was about 55 years old. He lived in the house with his elderly mother. Milton was as flamboyant as a middle class Liberace might have been. He pranced around in his silk shirts, making sure to leave the top buttons undone to reveal his gold chains, and white, hairy chest. He loved diamonds, and had lots of them dripping from his fingers in the form of very large, gaudy rings. He always drove big, flashy cars. Milton had wonderful dishes. He had beautiful stemware and big gold goblets. He had chandeliers, candelabras, and outlandish furniture. Milton had the most wonderful record collection; Don Ho and Liberace. They would let me play the records whenever I wanted. They knew I'd be very careful with them. I respected them and loved listening to this music that seemed so exciting and foreign to me.

Shortly after we moved in, Milton and his mother had a pool installed. Milton would parade around with the gold chains and Speedo bikini shorts. It was a sight. He had a very large, round belly, and skinny sticks for legs.

Milton had a girlfriend. A very large, very loud red head. It all seemed for show really, at least to me. But Milton always put on the "tough guy" act. He'd talk about getting into fights with practical jokers at work, and bloodying their noses. So it just became one of those situations where you just didn't think much about it, and let it go.

Milton's mother was the epitome of a classy, elderly lady. I loved her very much. She would sit out on the back porch and keep an eye on me so I could come to swim in the summer. She told my mother I looked like a little goddess out there swimming around the pool. When she died, Milton gave my mother a fabulous pearl necklace and earrings that belonged to her. He told my mother they were to be mine one day. He also gave her a large, beautiful mirror; again, with the understanding that when I had a house of my own, it was to be mine. That mirror is hanging in my dining room, and the pearls are in my jewelry box. I wore them in my wedding. They are among my most prized possessions.

Another item I acquired from Milton, was a set of multi colored tin drinking cups. I saw them in the garage one day and once he knew I had my eye on them, they became mine. I drank out of them all the time. Years later, when I was pregnant with my son, I actually picked one of them up and hurled it at my husband's head. Thanks to his cat-like reflexes, he ducked just in time. He accused me of trying to kill him. I was pregnant, it was Derby week, he was hours late getting home, and he'd been to a strip club. Hell yeah, I was trying to kill him! I'm not sure where those cups are now.

Milton didn't live too long after his mother died. His spending became over the top, and debt started piling up. He ended up selling the house. He moved into an apartment and things seemed to start falling apart. Milton developed cancer and died a year or so later. I'm not sure how old he was at the time, but probably in his mid 60's.

There have been other neighbors in that house. Most of which I've probably mentioned in this blog. The next was the lady who started my mother drinking, ultimately landing her in rehab for a month. The next was a young guy who had wild pool parties that went way in to the wee hours. The day after those, my dad would go out at 7:00 a.m. and start up the lawn mower and roll it next to their bedroom window, then go in the house. The current neighbors are the Vietnamese family.

What a wonderful, over-the-top, colorful man Milton was. I loved him. I loved his mother. I smile now as I think of them. I will never forget them.