Fence Posts and Remote Controls...

Big changes are happening in my life my at head-spinning rate. Seems these days are filled with task after task, taking me away from where I’ve been for the past several decades to… something new. The precise shape of that something is somewhat of a mystery, but I look forward to it in eager (but cautious) anticipation.

I’m less than one week away from closing on a new house-- my first ever on my own. Mind you, I’ve had apartments of my own from the age of 16 until the age of 24, but most of those were shared with a roommate or two. Then, at age 24, I met my future husband and I have been part of a family household ever since. 

For me, moving to a place entirely my own is an enormous event in my life, and despite the excitement I feel, I’m also a little apprehensive. You see, my soon-to-be ex-husband tended to almost all of the “grownup” stuff: bills, insurance, investments, technology, household repairs… the list is too long to enumerate. And when I did try to tackle a task that was beyond my ken, I knew I could always call upon him to help me. “Pat, how do I…” “What’s this thingy for?” “What does this mean?” In so very many regards, he was more than good to me. He still is, and I am grateful beyond words for it, and for him. We’re great friends, and I hope we remain so. We just weren’t good as partners, a fact that was difficult for both of us to accept, particularly because the love remains (although it has long since evolved from a romantic love to a platonic love---almost like that of siblings). Sometimes we must acknowledge that love isn’t always enough, and that time has come at long last. I regret that we didn’t face this inevitability twenty years ago, as we should have, but I suppose regret is a waste of time. And so, as I prepare to bring my 32-year marriage to a close, I will do my best to hold on to the good and let go of the rest. And I will be forever grateful to Pat for the gifts he gave me: love, support, security, four beautiful children…again, a list too vast to enumerate. And though we close the book on our marriage, I know that we still have much to share in the years to come. He will forever be a part of my life, and I am grateful.

Now I’m beginning to learn so much that I had taken for granted: investments, insurance, budgeting (the horror!), minor repair work… I know that there will be myriad things I’ll have to tackle on my own from now on. I’ll have no one to carry the heavy stuff, no one to get the stuff I can’t reach on the high shelf, no one to be a second set of hands when I’m working on a project… but of course these are things I can and will work around. The hardest to let go of are the dreams I once had: sharing my life with a man I love; bouncing our great-grandkids on our knees as we sit together on the porch in our twilight years; family vacations (although maybe this could still happen); having someone to hold, and to be held in return. Ah, well… the world keeps turning and (forgive the cliché) when one door closes, another opens. Perhaps I’ll find that I like being single. Perhaps I’ll find love again. Who knows? Either will be fine by me.

In the meantime, I have a new house to turn into a home: a home uniquely mine. I can (and will) do whatever I want in this home. I will paint the walls whatever outrageous colors I like. I will furnish the interior without regard for anyone else’s preferences. I’ll play my music as loud as I want. I’ll read in bed into the wee hours and turn the pages as loudly as I want, too. I’ll stock the refrigerator as only I see fit. I’ll leave dishes on the counter for tomorrow if I’m tired. I’ll dance naked in the living room. I’ll sing off-key at the top of my lungs. I’ll let my dogs sleep with me in my bed. I’ll live life on my own terms within the home I create.

Yes, it’s an exciting prospect, but at the same time it sounds so woefully lonely---yet I don’t know why. Truth is, Pat and I have been living in separate dwellings for several years already, yet this was still our home together, and he has come here at least once a week every week to help with the maintenance of this huge house. So, though I’m already fairly well-versed in being alone, this seems so…final. So official. So REAL.

I won’t be able to expect his help as I have in the past. I’m sure he’ll still help me when I really need it, but not as before. He’s made that clear, and it’s certainly fair. And in the meantime, he recognizes that over the years, he’s allowed me to become dependent on him, so instead of leaving me high and dry, he’s teaching me things about computers, money, remote controls, etc., before I establish my own household. 

(Yeah…remote controls: it’s a running joke in our household that Mom needs a 3-page set of custom-written instructions just to turn on the dang TV! And frankly? I’ve given up. With the exception of a few times that I can count on one hand with fingers to spare, I just don’t even try to watch television in my living room. The men in this house have the TV set up in such a convoluted way (in my opinion, although it makes perfect sense to those nerds) that I have to turn on 3-4 gizmos in proper sequence, each with their own custom-programmed remote, adjusting each gizmo to the proper setting among seemingly dozens of possibilities, that I simply don’t watch TV in my living room. They--- Pat and the boys---have wired it so in order to have the options of watching network TV or Netflix or HBO (or any number of other options) on one gizmo; DVD’s on another; even using the TV screen as a computer monitor (yes, there’s a keyboard under our TV). And as if that weren’t complicated enough, some gizmos are routed through a gaming system because (some “logical’ reason that made perfect sense to Pat and the boys when they set this thing up), and the whole thing makes my technologically inept brain want to explode!!!!!!! So…I simply don’t watch television in the living room. But I digress from my main topic. But mark my words, when I get my own house, I want a TV with an on/off switch, channel control, and volume control. That’s IT!!!!!)

So…on my own. And I close on my house in six short days.

I have a lot to do in these final days, so I need to get cracking. But one of today’s missions has nothing to do with my new house; rather, it is to do with my other home, my Pensacola playhouse; Avant Garden. Unable to find fencepost caps to suit my needs, I’m fabricating them myself. I’ve done a lot of some of the smaller tasks at that house, and though rather limited, I’m proud of my woodworking skill. Still, not everyone (whether man or woman) feels comfortable in a shop, but I do. And if I can’t buy it, I’ll make it! And so, I am. Silly little fencepost caps, made to specific criteria. Happily, working with the wood is a brief distraction from all the other grown-up stuff I have to do. And the best part? Fresh-cut cedar smells sooooo good!!!!

Until next time--- 

Happy Trails!

Dawn and Cherry Garcia...

It’s 6:30 a.m. and the day is just beginning to dawn. And oh, my, but what a dawn it is! Despite the fact that it is early August here in Central Texas, there is a pleasant, mild coolness in the morning air. Birds are chirruping in the nearby trees and I hear the hum of the cars of early commuters, likely on their way to work. The slight breeze tickles my cheek as I write, and I smile to myself as I haven’t in some time: a smile elicited not in response to another, nor something humorous I may have seen or read or heard; no, this smile comes straight from my heart for no other reason except that I feel a sense of peace and optimism today, despite the hurdles ahead of me.

Today I am embracing this day with a renewed sense of hope. I can feel that my new medications are beginning to have their desired effect at last, and I joyfully recognize that I have even been able to begin to tackle  that monumental list of tasks I described to you earlier. Even more significant: I am genuinely beginning to look at my next chapter with excitement rather than fear or even dread. Yes, the fear is still there in the back of my mind, but I’m beginning to really look forward to whatever comes next. I feel that exhilarating sense of joyful anticipation, like I do at the start of a new adventure. And indeed, this will be an adventure. Tami Jo, solo. Directing my future as only I deem appropriate. How marvelous!

What that future will look like is anyone’s guess, but I believe it will be bright: literally as well as figuratively. You see, I am a person who loves to surround herself with deeply saturated colors---colors most folks wouldn’t dare to use in decorating their homes. But as we all know, I’m not most folks. (I know...none of us are, but you know what I mean.) I’m a little addled, a little wild, a little adventurous, a little unconventional---and it comes out in my sense of aesthetics. I let my freak flag fly with joy in my Pensacola home, Avant Garden, and my environment brings me so much joy that I have decided to follow suit here, with my next (forever?) home. I'll probably adjust the palette somewhat so that this home is not simply a larger version of what I have in Florida, but it will be wild. It will be colorful. It will be fun. It will be ME!

I had a conversation about my plans with a very dear friend yesterday, and he asked, "Are you sure you don't want to have something different since you already have that in Florida?" I told him that I'm done with muted, earthy colors. Everyone has muted, earthy colors. Or beige. Or any one of an infinite number of variations of white.

Now, I'm not disparaging that sort of decor,: it's elegant, calming, serene... but it's simply not for me. It's too plain, too safe, too... vanilla.

I'm not vanilla. I'm Cherry Garcia with extra fudge and sprinkles, whipped cream and a few nuts thrown in for good measure, served in an extra-large chartreuse bowl with pink polka-dots. I'm anything but a minimalist: I'm a maximalist, and that's OK by me.

Yesterday's big task was to find the perfect flooring for my new abode. Currently there is hard flooring in the kitchen, dining and bathrooms, if I remember correctly (can't verify because it's not mine until the 22nd and folks are still living there), but all bedrooms, living rooms, media room (soon to be my studio) are carpet. And I detest carpet. Carpets are a catch-all for dust mites, dander from humans and animals alike, pet hair (and of course the occasional "accident"--- see Bucket List item #29), dirt, mold, bacteria... yeah, I hate carpet. So, I'm replacing all carpeted areas with a high-quality wood-look vinyl flooring. I was limited in making my selection by the necessity to find something that looks nice with the existing ceramic tile in the kitchen, but I've succeeded marvelously and I think it will be fabulous.

Next task is to settle on a color scheme, then find painters willing to take it on. It will be a "fussy" project, so it will require someone with patience and a willingness to deal with a somewhat eccentric lady who will likely make numerous adjustments until it's "just right." If any of my local readers knows of such a person (crew, really...I'm overhauling the whole thing), please let me know. 

The pictures I've included in this post are some I've found on the Internet as I've searched for inspiration. My house will, of course, be unique to me, but I think you get a sense of where I'm going. 

Between the new flooring and the painting required, it will probably take a month or more before I am ready to bring furniture into the home. I may begin with my bedroom so I can start sleeping there at least. A bed and a table are I'll I need to start. Maybe some peanut M&M's.

It will be a big undertaking but as I said, I am approaching it with eagerness and enthusiasm rather than trepidation and wistfulness. 

When one door closes another opens.

(Here's a bit of trivia for you: the above is a partial quote of words by Alexander Graham Bell. The quote, in its entirety: "When one door closes, another opens; but we often look so long and so regretfully upon the closed door that we do not see the one which has opened for us."

I'm not going to look back at that closed door with regret. I lived on the other side of that door for a long while, and there was a great deal of good there and I am grateful. But that door IS closed and to long wistfully for what was, or what might have been, is futile. I'm taking my steps through the threshold of a new door, and it's an exciting prospect.

So glad you stopped by today. I hope you have a great day!  And just to let you know, I love feedback so if you're so inclined, your comments can be made anonymously or publicly.

Happy Trails!

Mixed Metaphors and a Conundrum...

(Turns out that the following is a sort of continuation of yesterday's musings. You can watch me wobble again as I write, and ultimately you'll see me solve my conundrum.)

I recently posted some very personal things about myself and my current living situation. Then, I went away for a weekend and during that time, I gave some serious thought about what I'd written and why, and I realized that I really didn't feel entirely comfortable sharing quite so much. Perhaps I made myself far too vulnerable, and opened myself up to the harsh scrutiny of others. So I asked the advice of a couple of friends and loved ones, and got a variety of responses. Some felt that it was okay; some felt that I was "brave" for doing so; others felt it opened me up to the possibility of being taken advantage of in my vulnerable state. Still others questioned my motives. Hell, even I question my motives. Others fell somewhere in between. So......... seeking advice from others wasn't exactly helpful. Ultimately it is a decision only I can make.

Everyone has hardships in his or her life but not everyone blasts it to the world. I don't know why I feel compelled to do that, to be honest. Part of me genuinely feels that sharing might be beneficial to others, but part of me also knows that I did so for purely selfish reasons: I'm feeling rather overwhelmed and alone, and I just need to vent, and I need to be heard. But the things I shared are probably more suited to a counselor's office, not a public forum such as this. So, I reverted the two posts I was fearful of to draft. They're still there, and I can reveal them at the touch of a button if I so choose. Or I can edit them and perhaps share just some of what I'm going through. I just don't know. I'll sit with this until I decide.

In the meantime, today is a new day, another opportunity for a fresh start. As always, my plate is overly full but I will try my best to get by until the storm has passed. Yes, plates and storms are mixed metaphors. I can live with that.

So if I don't write about my life, which is the purpose of this blog, what then? What, indeed?

I have an appointment to get my roots touched up today. That should be riveting reading for those of you who follow my blog. After that, I have to take my dog to the vet for a follow-up because he has a skin condition. I know that will keep you on the edges of your seats! And in-between times, I have a million and one errands and tasks, some big (dismantling a life as I once knew it) and some insignificant. I could outline them for you. I know you'd find that fascinating reading.

Yes, I have some thinking to do regarding the direction I want to take this blog. I truly love to write, as it helps me to sort what's uppermost on my mind. Currently, that happens to be the eye of the storm I am living in right now. Maybe that's just too heavy to share. But I cannot write about mundane things and make it interesting. Nor do I have any desire to try to do so. 

So...do I write what I need to and keep it to myself? But what about people who publish their memoirs? I just feel like I'm writing mine in real-time, as I live it. And am I asking approval or permission to proceed? What is this all about? And why, oh why, do I live in my head so much??? I confess that part of me feels sad to not share it. But why? What does that reveal about me? (My brain is so weird. I wish, with all my heart, that I were "normal.")

Maybe, when I overcome my hurdles, I'll be able to write retrospectively and say, "This is where I was, and this is where I am." A sort of tale of perseverance and overcoming obstacles. Then it will be a story that is more palatable, more socially acceptable. And indeed, I have overcome many, many obstacles...mostly. My trials have definitely left their mark, but they've changed me in positive ways, too. Mine truly is a tale of survival. I've just hit a new bump, and I'll survive this, too.

I read an article that validates my reasons for telling my sordid story. In part, it states that, "We all have different ways we tackle the difficult parts of life. Some of us tell anyone who will listen, while others bury it deep in our souls. Some of us go into deep depression,while others just keep getting up over and over again. However we deal with it, I think that it is vital that we find a way to talk about it. If we can't share it at the time it is happening, we need to put a voice to it sometime in our lives, if for no other reason than to teach those who go after us that we are not alone in our trials." (Rachel J. Trotter, writer/editor at Evalogue: Life---Tell Your Story)

I have been every one of those people that Trotter describes. I've buried my stuff, only to have it come bursting forth in destructive ways. I've fallen into deep depressions many times throughout my life,but I do try to find ways to keep on keeping on, over and over again. But I do need to talk about it. It's how I process my stuff. And for reasons that even I cannot fully explain or even understand myself, I wish to do so here. I wish to be the one who "tell(s) anyone who will listen."

Another article I found in which the author's views about sharing happen to coincide with mine is this:

The Healing Power of Telling Your Story (link)

The entire article is definitely worth a read, in my opinion, but for those who might feel disinclined to do so, here are some excerpts that I find particularly compelling:

"When we tell our stories and others bear witness, the notion that we are disconnected beings suffering alone dissolves under the weight of evidence that this whole concept is merely an illusion and that millions of others are suffering just like us. They say misery loves company, and it’s true! The minute you discover that someone else is suffering just like you—or even better, that they’re celebrating their wholeness just like you—that sense of disconnection eases and you start to glimpse the truth—that we are beings of vibrating energy, connected on the energy internet through processes like quantum entanglement, with overlapping consciousness that connects us to a divine Source and to the Inner Pilot Light of every being on this planet (and perhaps others.)"

(Yes, the latter part of this, the portion that I underlined, is definitely "new-agey" psychobabble stuff, which I don't buy into, but my take on the underlying thought is that, basically, we're all in this together. And sharing reinforces the fact that "no man is an island, entire of itself; every man is a piece of the continent, a part of the main". Maybe I just happen to be part of the San Andreas fault... a little cracked but still holding on.)

Another worthy excerpt:

"The Power of Vulnerability:

In order to benefit fully from the healing medicine of telling your story, you must resist holding anything back. You must strip off your masks, be unapologetically you, ditch worrying about what “everybody” is going to think, and let your glorious freak flag fly. Otherwise, your story becomes a watered down, milk toast version of who you are.

As Brené Brown teaches in her TEDx talk The Power of Vulnerability, the gateway to intimacy is via being vulnerable about your imperfections. If you try to sugar coat your story, you miss out on the sense of connection with another human being that you can only attain when you’re letting someone see your warts and your big ugly tail. Every time you expose those imperfections—and someone loves you in spite of—even because of—those imperfections, you gain trust (or as Brené calls it, you “put marbles in the jar”). Over time, the intimacy you feel with other people depends on how many marbles are in your jar."

Do you want to listen? And do I really want to share? Hmmmmm..... maybe I will muster the courage to go for it 100%. Or maybe I'll just describe how I cut little slots in hot dogs to hide the medicine my dog needs to take. Either way, my hair will be FABULOUS!

P.S. (After several more hours of pondering and debating with myself...) I'm going for it. The two posts are published once again. I know that if this level of openness is uncomfortable for some, they'll simply turn away. Others might be drawn in, whether out of compassion, a genuine and well-intentioned interest, or simply to witness the train wreck, I don't know. Either way is fine with me. I will no longer concern myself with how my musings are received. I know only that I find it cathartic and it gives me pleasure. So... I'm going to ramble on...even though it really is a little scary. Especially since I have begun taking tentative steps in the dating world. This will certainly scare off the faint of heart and those who claim to insist on "no baggage." 'Cause baby, I got baggage and then some. But I'm also a great deal more.


Oh well, to quote the sage Popeye: "I yam what I yam." And I yam OK.

Damn the Torpedoes, Full Speed Ahead

I had a great weekend camping with my daughter, Rhiannon, this past weekend. We stayed at an LCRA park in Bastrop, where we camped and explored and did a little stand-up paddling and kayaking with a group that I am a part of: Hill Country Outdoors. Great group, highly recommend if you live in the central Texas area and lack a tribe of folks of your own making who share your interests. Look 'em up. Worth it.

As I am wont to do in quiet moments, my mind began to drift inward as I was enjoying the weekend's activities. I found myself indulging in introspective psychoanalysis as it pertains to my blog. I have to laugh here as I tell you this: I have a friend who is well-versed in my tendencies to go inward in times of trouble, and her admonishment was, "that's not a place you want to go. That’s a bad neighborhood." Indeed.

To be forthright, I began asking myself why I feel compelled to not only maintain a blog, but to share (almost) every sordid detail to friends, acquaintances, and complete strangers alike. Sure, keeping a blog is fun for lots of folks, myself included. But that is where most similarities end. Most folks don’t feel compelled to share the stuff that I do. Indeed, most folks would do anything in their power to keep certain things on the down low to the best of their ability, and only show the “good stuff'... often a glorified version at that. Me? Not so much. But why? To be sure, I genuinely believe that in sharing my true self, I might enable others to feel that they, too, might be able to share of themselves, although most certainly in a far less public forum. To know that it’s okay to be vulnerable, to hurt, to need. To feel safe in revealing the kinks in one’s armor, so to speak. And conversely, for those fortunates who do not know the struggle many of us feel, I hoped to give mental illness a face. To show you that it doesn’t matter what one’s bank account looks like, nor the image one sees in the mirror. It doesn’t matter how many Facebook or Instagram friends you have, nor what alphabet soup follows your name on a business card. We are all human, and though some of us may struggle more than others, we are ALL part of a wonderful tapestry of individuals whose unique presence adds color and texture to the fabric of our shared humanity. And that mental illness is not to be feared, but rather to be dealt with as any other malady that one might face, such as cancer, diabetes, AIDS, or any other serious but manageable condition. In other words, do not fear us. Embrace us. Talk to us. Ask us. And maybe even celebrate us, because often the most troubled minds are also among the most bright and creative.

I feel like I have a platform in which to help those who suffer like me. But at the same time, I have to ask myself… Is that really all that motivates me? Yeah, those motivations are all well and good. Maybe misguided, but the intent is well-meaning. But still, I wonder, is there something more behind this? Is it that I find my keyboard is a more comfortable audience than flesh-and-blood people? And if that were solely the case, why publish? Why not purge on paper and let it go? Am I someone so desperate as to say, "Hey world, look at me! Hear me!"?  Am I doing this selflessly or selfishly?

The truth is, it is probably both. I wish it were otherwise, but I am selfishly motivated, at least in part. My blog helps me. It allows me to sort my thoughts and perhaps divest myself of some of the sh%# I carry. But at the same time I earnestly hope it helps someone else, too. It did last time I took up this project, and it was gratifying. But this time I have a strange sense of foreboding: "You're crazy, Tami. Stupid and crazy." I hope I'm wrong. I've decided to throw caution to the wind, and to plunge forward, come what may.

 The scariest part? Being wholly authentic to those I am most drawn to, whether friend, potential friend, or ---most intimidating of all--- a potential lover. Only my very, very closest friends know and accept me and my circumstances. But that circle is small, and I wish to expand...authentically. I want more people in my life, but I want to be accepted as I am, warts and all.

Yeah, I’m gonna share my blog with everyone and let the chips fall where they may. I figure that if I share my sh%@ here and you decide to stick around, you either believe that I’m worth it or you just like the drama. Either way, it's alright with me.

So, despite my inner misgivings, I am going to trudge forth. I’ll examine my conundrum further with professionals, but in the meantime, damn the torpedoes and full speed ahead.

Happy trails!

What's on Your List?

With the exception of The Really Big Stuff (marriage, family, career), I never paid much heed to what I wanted out of life...until harsh reality came crashing down with a vengeance I never imagined, and reminded me that tomorrow is never guaranteed..

Once I made the decision to stick around, I made a vow to Ethan and Aiden: I told them, through the communication of my heart, that since they couldn't live, I would live more fully for all of us.

And so I made a Bucket List. And I firmly believe that everyone should have one. It shouldn't take a tragedy to prompt you to do so. It's fun, and it's also a good way to really think about what you want. Having an actual list is a motivator. I made mine, and I've posted it here. Look for the link in the column to the right.

And if any of you have the means, desire, wherewithal, or gumption to help me cross some of these items off my list (or better yet: join me and we'll do it together), let's go!!!

Carpe diem.

And tell me...what's at the top of your list? I genuinely want to know!

Not for the Faint of Heart...a Life Turned on its Head--- again

I’m going through a really tough time in my life right now. Goodness knows I’ve seen more than my share of hard times, and I’ll likely see more of these figurative crevasses before my days are through, but when one is in the middle of it and just trying to make her way out of such a crevasse, it sure can be daunting.

Let’s see… first is the winding down of a 35-year marriage and all that entails---physically, mentally, emotionally, financially… those of you whom have been here know what I’m talking about. It’s a really tough situation, despite the fact that my hubby and I part as friends. I’m grateful for that, at least. Nonetheless, it’s hard…especially emotionally. It means closing the door on everything I once thought my future would be. I know I’ll be exploring that further with the help of my keyboard (as well as my psychiatrist and counselor) further in the days, weeks, months, and maybe even years to come.

Next is the dismantling of my familial home, which is, of course, a direct result of the divorce, but which necessarily would have happened anyway, eventually. The kids have grown and gone and the necessity to downsize is the inevitable result. This beautiful house is simply too damned big for one or even two people, and the maintenance is a financial and logistical nightmare. After all, it's 12,000 square feet in size, eight beds and eight baths, 6 air conditioning units, blah blah blah blah blah... But I love my home. I mean, I really love my home. In fact, I designed much of it myself, with the help of an architect of course, but still…as an artist and craftsperson, I have put my heart and soul into this house over the years.

More importantly, however, is the fact that my home represents an enormous chapter of my emotional life. It’s been a place of both great joy and great sorrow. It’s where I watched my children grow up and become the adults they now are; where birthdays and holidays were celebrated, milestones achieved. Beloved pets have come and gone through the years. It is the place where a beautiful little boy took his first steps, bestowed upon his adoring fans his first smiles, and indeed his first laugh. It's also the place where my first grandchild perished, and where I lived when I lost my son. Yes, there are a great many memories wrapped up within these walls, good and bad, and it will be hard to turn away. I just wish I’d photographed each and every room of it before the dismantling began. Why did I not think to do so? Well, like much of my life, my memories will have to suffice.

In dismantling a home, I am faced with the next challenge: finding a new home. Unlike my current home, this one will be missing some very important elements: my people. There will be no partner to share my life. There will be no children or grandchildren to routinely enliven my space (though I hope there will be many visits). It will be just me, alone for the first time since my mid-twenties. Well, me and a couple of dogs and a cat. This is both extremely daunting and terribly exciting at the same time. In this moment in time, however, the daunting part is precedent. I suppose that the exciting part will begin once I make the move and begin turning it into a space uniquely mine. But boy, what changes I face!

My new home will not even be in the city in which I currently live. I’ll have to immerse myself in a new community. Reach out in the hope of making new friends. Find a whole new routine. It’s… a bit terrifying, to be perfectly honest. I make acquaintances quite easily, but the truth is I find it very hard to make new friends... at least the deep and genuine friendships I relish. That’s a topic ripe for further exploration someday.

Another situation that needs immediate attention is finding a tenant for a condominium unit I own in San Marcos. This one is not nearly as challenging as some of my other tasks, but still… it’s another thing that I must address and it’s another thing that stretches my already-taught tether to sanity and stability. Fortunately, I have already addressed most of the difficult tasks related to this endeavor: I’ve had it renovated with new cabinets and countertops, a fresh coat of paint, and some furnishings. Hopefully the rest will simply be a matter of a few more phone calls and I’ll be able to cross this one off my list.

This condominium unit was originally meant to be my part-time home. I’d been trying to earn my degree in Fine Arts at Texas State University, and several of my classes didn’t let out until after 10:00 pm. Indeed, sometimes I had to remain all night, monitoring the kiln in the ceramics department. It proved extremely mentally and physically exhausting, being that my commute was an hour and a half, so I reasoned that If I had a condo to rest in during the week, I might just be able to pull it off. With everything else I’ve had to deal with of late, however, I have put that goal aside (only for now, I hope), and instead I am offering it up for rent until a day comes that I might pursue that elusive goal again.

An enormous challenge, and one that I am grateful to report is finally about to come to a close, is a nearly two-year renovation project that I am tackling from afar: a 100-year-old “playhouse” in Pensacola, Florida that I call “Avant Garden” (formerly Tami’s Little Jewel, because, as I said to some of my friends, I was endeavoring to create a little jewel in the midst of Pensacola’s East Hill neighborhood). This project has been almost all-consuming at times. It’s meant numerous trips back and forth, endless phone calls and challenges with sub-contractors (yes, I’m handling every detail myself), permits, and a great deal of cold, hard, cash. But it’s lovely, and soon I will be able to go there and (hopefully) escape the shit-show that is my life here from time to time, enjoying the fruits of my labors.

My next challenge, and it’s a doozy, is that I am currently in some pretty serious legal trouble. I have debated back and forth about whether I should reveal this ugly truth, and with a great deal of trepidation I am just going to take a deep breath and risk it. After all, like I said, this blog is for me, primarily, and in keeping it I am attempting to sort through everything: the good, the bad, and the ugly. And this is pretty damned ugly. It will likely go down as one of the deepest shames of my life.

I got myself a DUI. There. I said it.

Yes, I went out to lunch with a friend and yes, in the middle of the day I drank too many cocktails and yes, I got behind the wheel and put everyone on the road at risk. I’m a loser and a failure and a despicable human being and I’ve gotten everything I deserve for making such a colossal mistake. I chastise myself daily, and I have enormous legal fees and a breathalyzer device on my car to show for it. It’s going to take me years to put this behind me. I’m just grateful it wasn’t worse: I could have hurt or even killed somebody, including myself. And the devastation that would have left behind is unthinkable. I count my lucky stars every day that that was not the case. In actuality, I was quite lucky: there was not even so much as a fender-bender. I was simply swerving in my lane and got caught by the ever-vigilant Lakeway police about a block from my home. I had the unique experience of spending a night in the Travis County jail, along with a really interesting mosaic of utterly delightful citizens facing whatever it was they were facing. And to add insult to injury, I was faced with another harsh reality: I look really ugly in stripes! I have to laugh in spite of myself: they didn’t have jail garb small enough for me, so I had to roll the pant legs up and the waistband down considerably, and even hold the waistband when I stood, else they’d have fallen right off! (Hey, you have to find the humor in even the ugliest of situations in order to get by sometimes, eh?) 

Of great impact to my current mental and emotional state is the fact that these stressors have prompted me to resume psychiatric treatment. Frankly, I should never have left. You see, I suffer from chronic major depressive disorder, PTSD (thanks, “Dad,”), ADD, and possibly bipolar disorder. Yes, I’m a mess. Frankly, it’s a miracle that I’m still here. At any rate, I’m on some new medications and they are tough. My hands are shaking and I’m often in a mental fog. And a couple of times, my emotions have taken sudden and dramatic turns toward The Dark Side. But I’ve been here before and I know from experience that transitioning to a new psychotropic medication is hard initially, but with luck, my meds will produce the desired results and help settle this addled brain. Sometimes it just takes time to get used to a new medication. And if these don't work, I’ll have to try again with something else. But I absolutely must continue to try, or else. The alternative is unthinkable, and on that topic I will say no more at this time.

LATER:

I'm editing the latter part of this post from its former contents because as it turns out, some of the stuff I wrote previously was completely inaccurate. My friends have helped me to see that. Frankly, I'm really kind of not thinking clearly. I think this comes as a result of complications from a brand new medication. A caring and trusted friend told me that I am not myself and urged me to call my doctor immediately. I did so, and we just finished a phone consult. He's adjusting my medication but did tell me that the stuff I'm on can be brutal at first. He still think it's the right approach, but the dosage is maybe too much too soon. And he's adding something to help ease the adjustment period. So, I'm going to stay with it and trust that my doctor and I are doing the right thing.

I'm tough as nails, and I'll get by. After all, as several of my friends have reminded me, I’ve been through more hardship than post people do in ten lifetimes, but I'm still kicking, and I’ll keep on kicking. It's not easy but I'm determined. I deserve to be happy. I will do everything in my power to turn this train wreck around. I know that I'm taking the right steps, but the interim is challenging. Still, I have hope. It's all good. It's hard to live with a brain like mine, but at the same time, sometimes my brain is pretty darned awesome if I do say so myself. 

Happy trails!



ADDENDUM: This entry is somewhat of a “Reader’s Digest Condensed Version” of events taking place in my life right now, in this moment in time. As you can imagine, I have devoted mere paragraphs to topics that are pretty darned enormous in scope, and I’m sure I’ll devote further exploration to each in due time. But the primary purpose of this entry is to take a general inventory of what I currently have on my plate, and to share my struggles. Also, to be honest to myself and the world at large. I don’t know why revealing myself to perfect strangers is easier than doing so to friends, but it is. I guess there is safety behind the anonymity of my keyboard. And in some way that defies logic, sharing myself helps me. It’s an emotional purge that helps to lift some of the weight I carry.

In proofreading the above, I can only guess as to how it will be received. Perhaps you will judge me for the DUI? Perhaps you will think I’m a sniveling crybaby at best, or pathetic loser at worst, because I lament the lack of support I desperately need? You wouldn't be alone. I judge myself so.

It’s a risk I’m willing to take.

Baggage? Yeah, I've got plenty. But I’m a work in progress. I am me, for better or worse. And I trust and hope that in the next chapter, better days are ahead. Maybe a better, stronger Tami Jo, too.

Happy trails!

Happy Birthday, My Darlings!!!!!

As I have become accustomed to doing these days, I have once again woken in the middle of the night, only to find that I cannot seem to go back to sleep just yet. It can be extremely frustrating sometimes, but tonight it affords me the the opportunity to enjoy a moment of peaceful solitude in which to savor the memories of events that took place thirty years ago today.

On that day I became a mother---not just once, but twice over! It was, as one might expect, one of the most profound moments of my life, as hubby and I welcomed our beautiful twin daughter and son into the world. 

I had pregnancy-induced carpal tunnel
syndrom toward the end. And man,
I was BIG! Lots of ladies can settle a
beverage on their bellies while seated.
I could do so while standing.
Lemme tell ya, this ravaged me.
I should never be naked again!
At the end, this horrid bag of an outfit was
the only thing that fit me and I wore it
every day.

Rhiannon Michelle Vanderwilt and Ethan Patrick Vanderwilt came into this world at Austin's Seton Medical Center via cesarean section. I share this rather personal detail because it is significant: all three of us would have perished without such surgical intervention. I truly believe that had we been alive a hundred years ago, we would not have survived.

I was able to carry my babies to term, which was somewhat of a surprise to my doctor due to my very small (about 98 pounds pre-pregnancy) frame. She suspected that I'd go into labor prematurely, and toward the end she monitored me very closely, performing ultrasound on a weekly basis. Mine was considered a high-risk pregnancy, and indeed at one point I was restricted to extended bed rest for about six weeks, as I nearly miscarried my precious babes. (If you know me, you'll know this was torture to be confined to a bed for so long. And woe of woes, we didn't have cable television, so I was bored to tears!!!! Lots of reading and doing cross-stitch to pass the seemingly endless hours. It was brutal.)

But I was otherwise healthy and strong, and my body managed to sustain my pregnancy to nearly full-term. Toward the end, when we knew that birth would take place any day, we felt confident that all was well. The babies were in an ideal position for birth, and the doctor was entirely optimistic that the birth would be smooth sailing, as births go. The countdown to birthday was on!

Little did I know, but my babies
would be born the following day

One day, however, I felt a huge upheaval---I really can think of no better word to describe it-- in my abdomen. I could actually see my belly contorting and reshaping itself in ways I never imagined! It was the strangest feeling. It wasn't painful--- just a sudden and immense pressure. And it looked like something out of the movie "Alien" when it was happening.

I called my doctor and described what had happened,and she insisted that I come to her clinic immediately. Upon performing the ultrasound, she exclaimed in astonishment that the babies had not only traded places, but that the lower of the two---Rhiannon--- was now lying in transverse (sideways) in my uterus. She was dumbfounded, as she said she wouldn't have believed that they'd have room enough to move in such a way at this point in my pregnancy, particularly given my tiny frame. But move they had, and we knew then that the babies would have to be delivered via cesarean section. She cautioned that it would be extremely dangerous for me to go into labor under such circumstances, and scheduled me for my surgery two weeks hence.

I served until very near to my due-date.
(Egads, those bangs were dreadful!)

But Ethan and Rhiannon had plans of their own. One week later, I went into labor, and Pat rushed me to the hospital. My doctor met us there, and within mere moments of my arrival I was whisked into the delivery room for an emergency cesarean section.

I laugh now when I recall the birthing plan that Pat and I had written up for my delivery. We'd planned to have only essential personnel present as we wanted as intimate a birth as possible: just our doctor and nurse, and us. We created a playlist to listen to as we welcomed our babies (mostly David Lanz and Enya). The lights were to be dimmed. We brought champagne. Our reality, however, was far different.

Instead of the intimate birth we'd envisioned, we had a room full of people: my primary OB/GYN and a secondary OB/GYN; a pediatrician and a nurse for each baby; an anesthesiologist and his assistant. Even a person whose only job was to record the time of birth! Others, too, whose role I no longer recall. And moments before it happened, my doctor told me that there was a group of interns that had requested the opportunity to watch the births, if I agreed to grant permission. At that point, I laughed and said, "what the hell, half the world is in here already, why not bring in four more?!" I honestly have no idea how many people were ultimately crowded into that relatively small surgical suite, but I can assure you, it was quite a lot!

And so, with a crowd around us, Rhiannon was born, followed one minute later by her brother Ethan. And although quite small (5 lbs. 4 oz. and 5 lbs., 12 oz. respectively), they were healthy, strong, and utterly beautiful! 

Today my beautiful daughter, a mother herself now, turns thirty. And although my son Ethan is no longer with us, I celebrate the fact that thirty years ago today, I was given the gift of becoming a mother to two of the most beautiful children to grace this earth.


Happy Birthday, Rhiannon!!! I love you to the moon and back a million times and a million times again!!!!

Pat went to A&M and I went to UT, two schools who had a robust but
friendly rivalry with one another. Our birth announcements read,
"What do you get when you cross an Aggie with a Longhorn?
A special delivery that's twice as nice!"

And Ethan, you live forever in my heart. I miss you terribly, my precious, beautiful boy... but today is a day of celebration, and I am eternally grateful that I had you with me for as long as I did.