Therapy

Ah, here it is, my blogger template. This feels a bit like crawling into a cozy spot I have left empty for awhile. When I don't write, I feel as empty as a blank page that needs to be filled up. I was perusing my own blog this evening, after finally contributing to it this morning. As always happens when I return here after months go by, I read some entries I had completely forgotten. And, as always happens I thought of more things I want to write down. Of course there's a chance I might repeat myself, since I don't remember all the stories I've already told. :)

So, let's talk about fears. I'm afraid to drive sometimes, especially on the freeway in busy traffic. I'm also afraid as a passenger, which is not fun for the driver or for me. Last spring I realized my fear was becoming bigger and causing me to miss out on things. My husband is always more than willing to hop in the car and drive me anywhere I want to go. My fear causes me to choose only to take those trips that I am comfortable taking, the ones without the busy freeway.

I finally decided to conquer the fear once and for all. I called a counselor and began therapy. I learned that a person doesn't have to be in the traumatic event for the traumatic event to impact them. I was diagnosed with PTSD and began the groundwork to prepare for EMDR therapy.

The way this was explained to me is that trauma lives in your amygdala. The reasoning part of your brain (pre-frontal cortex) covers the amygdala and allows people to use common sense. When someone with PTSD encounters a ‘trigger’ they ‘flip their lid’ (that frontal cortex) and the amygdala takes over and stimulates a fight or flight response. My triggers are loud noises, busy traffic, semi trucks and sudden braking - or just everything you encounter on the freeway. At first I was disappointed. I didn't want to talk, I just wanted the magic wand to fix me. After a few sessions I started to realize that there were a lot of contributing factors that I had forgotten.

Trying to pull even the memory of last year's therapy from my clogged up mind is almost as difficult as it was to pull the memories that trip me up in life.

My earliest memories are hard for me to grasp. The overall feeling is that my childhood was a happy one, but spotted with the frustration of always being afraid. I was shy. Even with cousins it would take hours to an entire day for me to warm up and talk, let alone play. Once I was comfortable I had a great time. When I started school it was the same way. I didn't have friends in my class to play with. My best friends, Elece and Traci Hempel, were one and two years behind me and they were making their own friends once they started school. By third grade I'd set my sights on making friends with Gayleen. I walked to her house one day and climbed the steps, knocked lightly on the door. When no one answered (because obviously I'd knocked too lightly and they didn't hear it) I walked home, head down and sad. Soon after, Elece and Traci moved away and I was even more alone.

I'm not sure how we finally became friends, but I know it was a turning point for me. Gayleen wasn't shy and she forced me out of my shell all through those early school years. By middle school she had even cajoled me into running for cheerleader. That same year, just as I was looking forward to the start of school, my brother and nephew were killed by a drunk driver.

I've written about this experience before; waking up to a house filled with my mom's friends cooking and cleaning, learning about Brad and Aaron's deaths. There was a funeral and then I was whisked away by the Hempels on their end of summer vacation. Looking back I realize there were not conversations about what happened to Brad and Aaron. I know I cried and I'm sure my mom hugged me. Once I was back home I remember being with Gayleen and sobbing on the couch. She stayed away, she didn't know what to say or do. School started and life went on.

As I re-lived these experiences in therapy I had a memory that I had buried for over 40 years. I remembered that when I was very young there was a tragic accident that killed the parents of a girl I went to school with. I was very shy, of course, and I saw this girl surrounded by love and friends who were so sad for her loss. As I had laid in my bed I could hear my parents fighting with my brother Brad. During this time Brad was not going to school, partying, and having a hard time with things in general. I had this little thought, what if something happened to Brad? Would I suddenly be surrounded by friends? Please know, even now, this is not something I share easily, as I still feel a tinge of guilt for the thoughts I had as a child. I know that there was a good possibility that something bad could have happened to my brother during that time, which is probably where that thought came from. Maybe the thought was me worrying about him. I know that I never wanted to lose him and wish every day that I could have known him as an adult.

This haunted me for years, although I never spoke of it and tried not to think of it. My counselor explained to me that when we're young, we believe our thoughts have power. I believed it was my fault that Brad and Aaron were killed.

Another strong memory for me was being at the funeral home, seeing Brad and Aaron in their coffins and seeing my dad cry for the first time. I know I was thinking how disappointed my parents would be if they knew about the horrible thought I had had several years earlier. I pushed it away even further.

As life went on my fears were reinforced every time someone I knew was killed in an auto accident, as well as every time I was rear-ended or had a fender bender as an adult.

When my daughter went to college I was sure something awful would happen to her. Instead of imagining her on a beautiful campus, making new friends and learning new things I was having nightmares of her being hurt, or worse.

When my son went to war I was afraid every day. I lived my life in fear. My belief was that horrible things happened to good people, and that horrible things were going to happen to me. My children can attest that I worried too much about them, and truth be told, I still do.

How do we overcome these fears? We try imagining ourselves in our "safe place" when things get scary, we use scents or other memories to push the fear away. We try manifesting wonderful things with our thoughts in the hope that those things will come true. (I guess we still believe our thoughts have powers.)

One year ago I thought I'd kicked the fear and I know that I have been better. Unfortunately I haven't been on any trips to Seattle to test the success of my therapy. This weekend I am faced with the decision of whether or not to go to Spokane for a funeral. I am trying to not let my fear dictate my decision. There are other factors to consider, but can I trust myself to not look for excuses to just avoid dealing with my fears?

I'll get back to you.

In my heart, this car is mine.

My Buick came home yesterday, but not to stay. Someone else was able to do what I never could; return my Buick to the beauty it deserved to be. I loved it, but my resources were limited so the love I had for the car never showed in it's care or preservation.
I was 17 years old on a bright spring day back in 1978. For some reason I had walked to school that day and when I got home I noticed my 1964 Pontiac was not in the driveway. In its place was a 1966 Buick Skylark Gran Sport. I was told it had belonged to Gladys Breed. Mrs. Breed was a retired school teacher who had actually been Mom's 7th grade teacher. The car had been special ordered from the factory and was just like new. In fact, the back seat had never been sat in.
At first I was a little bit sad that Dad had sold my car (with my new 8-track tape deck) without telling me. But then I drove the Buick.
I didn't need the tape deck, as I had a perfectly fine AM/FM radio in my car and the 445 Wildcat under the hood. I was a happy and lucky girl!
I drove the car the short trip back and forth to school for the remainder of the year. The following fall I moved to Spokane to attend Spokane Falls Community College. I lived right on Spokane Falls Boulevard, so my Buick still didn't have much of a commute to get me to and from school.
Going home to Wilbur on the weekends was the furthest I ever drove my car. I loved knowing that I could pass another car on the highway and never worry if I had time to get around it. I had a fast car.
The next year I got married and the Buick and I moved to Kennewick. I still drove it daily until the spring of 1980 when I was hit head on by a young man who had just bought his car that day. I was pregnant with my first child and a bit shaken up, but my car kept me safe. In fact, it didn't even move. I was able to drive it so we took it to Wilbur to show my dad. The car looked fine, other than the driver's side bumper being smashed. Even so, I was told it was a total loss, but dad still got it fixed for me.
Once I had it back in Kennewick I'm not sure what happened. I had another child in 1983 and the Buick started needing more work than we could afford. It sat a lot.
At some point in the 80s I took the Buick to Wilbur and parked it in my parent's garage. I think it was after 1986 because that is when my dad passed away and I know dad would have worked on the Buick if he'd still been alive.
In 1996 my mom had to sell the old house so I got a flat bed trailer and hauled the Buick back to Kennewick. Anna was getting her driver's license so I was determined to fix the Buick up for her to drive. I was divorced by this time and didn't have ready cash for car repairs. I took a loan from my 401k and had Charlie's Automotive get the car running. I can't remember what all they did, but I know they replaced the starter and a few other things. I think I spent about $1000. Anna drove the Buick all through her high school years, but we had to get her something more dependable and economical when she went to college in Bellingham.
By this time, Noah had his license, but decided he wanted a cowboy limousine that was for sale in Wilbur instead, so the Buick sat for a few more years.
In 2002 Noah joined the Marine Corps and in 2003 he went for his first tour to Iraq. Noah gave me his power of attorney and asked me to use his combat pay to fix up the Buick. He wanted it all finished when he got out of the Corps so it could be his car. His phone calls  home were filled with questions about the progress on the car. Getting the Buick fixed was a good project for a worried mom and thinking about it was a good distraction for a young man in a war zone.
We got the engine rebuilt in Pasco, and they did a wonderful job. The transmission was re-built at Astley's in Kennewick, who kindly gave a discount for a Marine at war. When the engine was ready, Noah's friend Jeremy took charge of putting it back into the car. Darrell soda blasted it and then we had the body worked on and primed. I don't remember where we took it for the body work, but now I've heard it wasn't the best work. We were well on our way to finally fixing the Buick all up when Noah finished his second tour. He got married and bought a car in San Diego while he was working at the base in Camp Pendleton. Once the combat pay stopped, so did the work on the Buick. Sadly, I don't think Noah ever got to really drive it after sinking over $5000 into it.
I would often go out to my driveway and sit in it, wishing I could finish the work and give Noah back his investment so I could drive it again. I know the car means almost as much to him as it does to me.

After several years Noah needed the money so he sold the car to Jeremy, who had wanted it for some time. I wanted to buy it from Noah then, but I had been laid off from my job and money was tight. I always hoped that I could buy it back someday, but eventually Jeremy sold it  and I didn't hear about it until it was too late. It wasn't meant to be and I don't think it would have turned out so great if I'd been the one trying to get it done.
A couple weeks ago pictures of the Buick were sent to me and I cried. It was beautiful, and for that I was happy, but I was so sad that it wasn't me who had done it. I know it's silly to cry over a car and I should be happy for my memories and the joy I had when Dad gave me the Buick, but I can't stop feeling that it belongs with me.
The man who fixed it up so beautifully is Dennis Sandmeier. He was kind enough yesterday to drive the Buick over here so I could see it "in person" and he even let me drive it! What memories washed over me as I drove around the block, what a bittersweet experience. As I pulled back into my driveway in the Buick, Darrell said "honey, you look good in there." My reply was, "Well I should, it's my car." I'm so glad the Buick is fixed up, and I so selfishly wish it belonged to me. I wish I was in a position right now to buy it, but there are other things more important for our golden years - like a new home and retirement funds. I know my dad wouldn't want me feeling so bad about the car and oh gosh, he would be so happy to see it all shiny and pretty again. I can just see the grin on his face - the one he got whenever he saw a great car. When Dennis said he would drive the car over for me to see, he said he hoped I would approve of the restoration he'd done.
Dad and I approve.