Winter’s Color

It’s going to be a snowy cold day. During yesterday’s reprieve, feeling almost spring-like, walks lengthened into almost double the usual until legs grew weary. My hand went out tapping the pines like old friends. A beaver came to shore nibbling on grass, or old wood, swimming away quickly after a long stare at me.

Try not to be down because of the dead, dull environment, look for excitement anyway. Hard to do without color. Butterfly bushes needed trimming. While working the sun appeared as if to say, Spring is coming, I’ll be around more to soothe your soul.

Memories of the ease of warmer weather are mixed with reminders that PTSD issues stay even in summer. Feast on the idle hours in winter. They can be enjoyed too.



It is so easy to follow my mind into the pit of worry, but no, whatever might be a problem, it is not my problem to solve unless it is about me. Caring is one thing, injecting my input into another is not. It happens with kids and grand-kids, especially when my head hits the pillow.

Detach. It is their time to deal with their problems if they exist, because my mind can go places where nothing really is happening. Yet my gut also is aware of things that others are oblivious to. So don’t throw out concerns that may be valid, just don’t lose sleep over them.

If they are there, they are not mine to solve. Sleep did come, deep and long.

Come On Spring!

It is hard to describe, this vaporous hole inside searching for a mooring, finding none, so it whirls ungrounded craving connection without landing.

It spins in the night, waking me.

Thoughts keep the comet sparking sending me to the cabinet for antacids, then TV, then bed again till 5 AM rolls around. How to hold all that goes on outside of myself inside, and still remain balanced.

In winter it is struggle. So when the blues of Cory’s leaving passes, there is still the depression less daylight brings. As days grow longer by seconds, then minutes, the wait for spring begins.


Maybe that feeling of ‘less than’ will follow me all of the days of my life; an achy wound begging to heal yet left ragged with edges that won’t come together. Always there, always present, just sometimes in the background more than others.

A person’s look can cast the hook clinging at my innards pricking fresh blood. How can a grand-mother moving towards her seventies still feel this lonely scratching yearning for self-love and acceptance?

Because even if every other person in the world adored me, it wouldn’t chase away the self-scorn lying inside that causes me to feel little, unloved, not-liked, a cast-off with little worth.  

Self-worth arises when making decisions that are respectful of my needs, yet some of my needs that will always be there are PTSD issues. Using methods to numb that out backfire. There is much work to be done in providing healthier ways of coping. 

It is a new year, with new hopes, dreams, and goals. SUCCESS lays waiting.  



There is a fear of being in my body and staying there. Others seem to check in with their body unconsciously knowing when there is hunger, fullness, cold, pain, and the list goes. Often I’ve checked out.

My fear is internal, also unconscious, yet the terror is there laying wait. Perhaps the rape, repressed, causes this schism between body and mind. Perhaps it is the next couple of years after that when the others took what they wanted.

Coming ‘home’ and staying is fleeting. Zoning in a place other than the here and now still is comforting at times. It takes energy to breath, notice my hand as it washes the dishes, and be among the living.

After time, it becomes easier to be present, yet that far off place still calls, still offers comfort, and still owns me some of the time. And the disconnect, the fissure from the body that others don’t have to deal with yet take for granted, it still a force to be reckoned with.

Wholeness is fleeting, but necessary to take good care of body, mind, spirit, and soul. I may be different, alone in many ways, but still shine. We all offer a specialness no one else can; the tree in the forest set apart from others but still beautiful. 



The rattling that occurred in every bodily system took such a jarring that even days later after cataract removal exhaustion still overcomes me. Each day brings more strength and clearer vision. Due to the traumas of childhood my doctor agreed to remove both cataracts at once, unheard of in modern day American medical procedures.

Others have one done, then go back two weeks later for the other one. And not under general anesthesia where a breathing pipe is put down the throat. That left a sore throat for a few days, but with it a gratefulness to be fully out with no awareness of anything.

Though my heart began pounding when the mask was put on concerning the anesthesiologist because the mask brought in gas to put me out not wind me up. She underestimated the effects of long term PTSD that was not processed at the time the trauma(s) took place.

But then out, and done. Others surely recover quicker, but each day is a slow process of recovery from the anesthesia, even more so, the terror. Tears down my cheeks told the story to others, and each one provided compassion in their own way, wiping the tears, offering words of comfort.

That was good, but no words calmed the terror of the body which believed itself to be in mortal danger. It’s done. I awoke. I’m not blind, both things worried about beforehand.

There is an adjustment to the new lens and the extensive brightness which the cloudy lens had blocked out. And that will take time for the brain to adjust to. Reminder to self; this was done to improve my quality of life. That when walking the meadow the nausea of not seeing well will lift, and that things wouldn’t continue to become more and more blurry.

I know others recoup faster, with so much more zest. But others also don’t come with frightful memories still locked inside making these events so strenuous and exhausting. Allowing myself to take each day as it is at whatever pace is needed with gentleness is the way through this healing process.



Waking in fear that the clock will say 2 AM, not 5, relief comes to see it close to 5 AM. Unsure why 6 miraculous weeks of good sleep were bestowed upon me, fear ratchets up after a bad night that more will follow. Repeated nights of those are so hard.

I used to think something during the day needing tending to kept me awake, or woke me in the night. That doesn’t seem to be the culprit. What does seem likely is my broken nervous system that catapults into overdrive even with a thought.

And many unpleasant thoughts come visiting in the wee hours of morning, or in the middle of the night. It takes persistent counter tactics to even out those negative messages.

It occurred to me that other things about me will remain broken, especially the feelings of being bad, not good enough, dirty— name whatever a child believes when she has been sexually attacked by loved ones, and that is what I’ve taken in as my fault cementing into part of my personality.

They would have had a chance if I hadn’t been born. (brothers who attacked) They died so young in terms of how long we tend to live today; one at 28, one at 52, one at 66, the last still living is 76.

Why didn’t you just stop having them, especially me?  These are my thoughts upon waking even after a good night of sleep.

Why would you have so many? They were beautiful children, yet she seemed more interested in partying, and being belle of the ball. Seven beautiful boys who needed love and attention, not her scorn, and outright hate because of the work to care for so many. 

Those feelings about myself remain a part of who I am. And that is the work, learning to be kind to myself… making a retreat worth coming into. A soft place to fall inside me. To warm that cold interior where no one would want to be, and make it my haven, my home.