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.

Here We Go Again...

The illusion (because everyone sits in the
grass wearing a maxi-dress while blogging...)

Several years ago, I used to maintain a blog on a semi-regular basis. I had many reasons for doing so. First and foremost, I enjoyed the process of writing, although frankly, I never felt compelled to write just for the sake of writing itself-- I needed a purpose in doing so, and I found it in blogging. 

At first, my blog posts were just for me. I kept my blog private and it served as a sort of personal journal of my thoughts, photos, recipes, memories, and day-to-day life. I found that writing served to help me organize my thoughts, process my emotions, clear my head when I needed to purge, and expand my creativity on the occasions when I felt like stretching my writing skills in order to try to bring a memory, situation, event, etc., to life as vividly as possible.

Later, when I decided to tackle the Appalachian Trail (my "healing pilgrimage" after the death of my grandson), I decided to make my blog public. I wrote extensively of my adventures and my blog became quite renowned among hikers and lurkers alike. I was astounded at the size of my readership.I maintained that blog for some time after my return, and it served me well.

After a while, however, I abandoned my blog. I'd simply lost interest in it, and when I returned, I found that it had been pirated. (Look up tamijovanderwilt.com and see for yourself.) To this day I lament the loss of those posts. It was some of my finest writing. But that's life, and I've moved on.

Years later I decided to give it a go again. Again, I posted anything and everything about my life, and again, at first it was just for me. But after a while, I decided to quietly make my blog public. I didn't promote it at first; I simply pushed that scary button: PUBLISH. 

The reality is farless appealing

I'm not sure how it happened, but people eventually stumbled upon my website and, much to my surprise and delight, my postings were favorably received. That was quite the unexpected boost and it encouraged me to become increasingly candid, sort of testing the waters. I began to explore anything and everything, from silly flights of fancy to some of the traumatic events in my life. The former were fun and easy, the latter were frightening but cleansing. And though doing so made me feel somewhat vulnerable and exposed, it also helped me in ways I never could have anticipated. Best of all, whether I chose to write about the good stuff or the bad, I found that people responded to it in gratifying and meaningful ways. It gave me the courage to begin to actually promote it a bit.

It's been a few years and a great deal has happened since those days. My blogging hobby (and a great deal else) fell by the wayside and I got caught up in other things. Frankly, I lost my motivation and, in a very real sense, I lost my way. But deep in the back of my mind, I found that I missed my blog. As silly as that may seem to some, it fulfilled something in me.

I've decided that the time is right to sit down to my keyboard again. In fact, my psychiatrist, Dr. M., kind of "prescribed" it to me. In those years, he could see the ways that it benefited me, and he recently encouraged me to resume. I'm not entirely sure, but I do believe he read my musings on occasion, and he could see the effect that writing had on my psyche.

Sometimes it was just plain fun and I shared for the sheer joy of it. I posted of my travels, my adventures and misadventures, and my family. I shared favorite photos, recipes, poems...whatever struck my fancy on a given day.

Sometimes it was raw and brutal. I discussed the deaths of my first grandson and, shortly thereafter, of my eldest son. I discussed my inner turmoil and confusion. My anger. But as I said, on such occasions I found it therapeutic. Those were the most gut-wrenching posts to write and the most frightening to share, but they were also the most healing for me. And when I took a chance and put myself out into the world, I discovered that not only did I find support, I also discovered that I had the power to touch others' lives in ways I'd never anticipated. I reached others who were struggling and helped them to realize that they were not alone. It was humbling and empowering at the same time. I even had a couple of occasions in which someone wrote to tell me that my words had helped them to hang on for another day.

So...here I go again. I might post twice or even thrice in a day or a week, only to go weeks or even months without checking in. I might write about Tootsie Rolls and daisies today, and desperation tomorrow. My blog will have no rhyme or reason, except just to be. Mostly it exists for me, but if you happen to find it compelling in any way, then we both have gained by it.


Whoever you are, wherever you are, I'm glad you stopped by. I hope you stick around. Whether or not you do, I wish you well and...


Happy trails!