IntrinsicTina

My niece came by the nursing home to visit me. What an honor! That may seem like an odd thing to say but I have a reason for my gratitude. I believe that I held my husband's family at arm's length unfairly. I loved my husband fiercely and selfishly, to the exclusion of others (with the exception of my daughter).  I also judged them as dysfunctional, like my own brand of dysfunction was somehow better. The devil you know... Anyway, the veil has been lifted.  I have new eyes and a renewed heart. I've known this beautiful young woman since she was five or six. This little blonde, active, smiling imp bounced around when her father had custody. Accompanied by her hyperactive, "tough" of a brother, always picking on her and acting up. Made it difficult to watch and be around. Allergies or some undiagnosed respiratory issue left her with a perpetual snot nose and a bitter, jealous mother, freshly-divorced, pulling custody and child support stunts made it difficult to

Sing it with me... "I went skydiving; I went Rocky Mountain climbing; I went 2.7 seconds on a bull named Fu Manchu..."  Hell to the yeah!  It was an awe-inspiring, balls-to-the-wall, scream-worthy, boundary-pushing event! A not-to-be-denied booster shot to my ego. It was so far out of my formerly staid domestic life. Nobody saw it coming...not even me! Following the implosion of my marriage with the requisite accusations, grenade-lobbing of insults, splitting of the money, bills, furnishings and paraphernalia of a married life, I was an empty shell walking. Alternately filled to bursting with anger, bitterness, rage, self-loathing, and terror, without a support system, I turned to alcohol, men, and anything that took me out of me. Oddly, it was a man, my paramedic, who appeared following a suicide attempt, that introduced the idea of skydiving. He described his experiences and the idea took root and quickly came to fruition. One beautiful, sunny desert day, I awoke to t

Dear Renee´, I still think of you every day. I don't cry every day because I saw you infrequently and it's as if you will visit soon, as you always told me. But every so often the finality hits me and off I go on a crying jag. This time, I was watching the movie, San Andreas with Dwayne "The Rock" Johnson. I don't know what triggered the sudden deluge, the death of loved ones or being reminded that San Francisco and surroundings were your stomping grounds. Or simply because I wish we watched it together. Perhaps, all the above. I miss you. .

2 I reluctantly, very reluctantly, awoke from a very tactile memory dream. I had a card table set up in the living room, upon it, a partially worked jigsaw puzzle, a 1500-piece monstrosity. All the pieces were turned right-side up and separate sections were assembled, like little rafts or islands ready to be connected up with the mainland. Like days gone past, I'd scan the table for certain color combinations and shapes then try to fit them in.  This time, I was looking for leafless dark branches fingering out on a background of robin's egg blue sky, my favorite -- high contrast. Unlike days gone by, the kodak-color, high gloss pictured lid is not propped up on the corner of the table lending guidance. I notice the deepening shadows in the room and go for a lamp to put a little light on the subject. The lamp is an ancient relic, a yellowed marble-patterned spike with an equally yellowed lampshade. Plugging in the thick braided cord with it's oblong yellowed plug, produc

I'm listening to the audiobook Toxic Parents: Overcoming their Hurtful Legacy and Reclaiming Your Life . I've known for years that I had toxic parents. Thanks to Alcoholics Anonymous, I was able to identify, determine my part, if any, and move to acceptance and the amends process. I love and accept them today but they perpetrated many injustices upon their children. Additionally,  I don't kid myself into thinking my own daughter escaped the cycle of abuse unscathed. I can think of a half dozen examples she probably carries with her. I regretted the actions at the time and to this day. I'd like to think I made the appropriate amends to her but you would have to ask her. My own charming mother employed the use of wooden spoons, belts, and hangars to beat us for infractions. I remember being pre-K in the middle of a thrashing with a belt and, stubbornly, deciding not to give her the satisfaction; I turned my head to say Didn't hurt. As you can imagine, it infuriate

2 Today marks my 21st anniversary of being a part of Alcoholics Anonymous. But, it is not my AA Birthday. I did not stay sober. I drank, again. Today is also St. Patrick's Day. Why talk about Alcoholics Anonymous on St. Patrick's Day? What began as a Christian feast day, celebrating the establishment of Christianity in Ireland, suspending the Lenten restrictions on eating and alcohol drinking, has degenerated into a day of celebrating Irish heritage and drinking to excess. I was among the revelers, participating in bar crawls, drinking green beer, and getting blind, black-out drunk, no religious connotation whatsoever. An excuse to claim my Irish heritage and dial-up my debauchery. The problem arriving upon awakening, the alarm too loud, my mouth parched -- feeling like an ashtray, though I'm a non-smoker -- stomach roiling, jittery, and surreal. And the horror of finding a stranger in my bed, or worse, not recognizing my surroundings or playmate. I well remember the &q

Twenty-four years ago, I went through the most challenging experiences of my life. Infidelity, estrangement from family, husband, daughter, grandfather, mother-in-law, sister-in-law, et al. A complete breakdown of self; no coping mechanism, no self esteem, suicidal tendencies. No safety net.  I clutched at whatever showed me the slightest bit of attention, mostly men. They were a quick fix, a balm to my battered ego. My empty dream home, devoid of life, an empty shell, a symbol of love lost and gone sucked out my will to live. An impending divorce, court battle for custody and foreclosure further overwhelmed my pysche. I sought solace in sordid places and drank my inhibitions into submission. In the light of day, my morals returned whereupon my rationalizations kicked into high gear. I hated being me in my situation, my skin didn't fit. I tried so hard to move forward in my life. I made sure that I had a job even when I couldn't get through a shift without crying. I enrol

I had a cockatiel, an exceptionally handsome bird, a female, lemony-yellow face and erectile crown, gray and white body, with the classic dull orange "cheddar cheeks".  She came to me as an adult, a gift from a couple dear to my heart. They bought Peri a beautiful cage, like a black palace, palacial in shape not in size. She stood upon her perch, a multiple-colored, twisted cord, soft affair that gracefully spanned the width of cage, to be an integral part of my life. Peri had one fault, she would only bond with one person. Initially, she was bonded with my friend, Rita, and I worried she wouldn't accept me. I need not have worried. Peri was my bird. She outlasted and hissed at boyfriends, friends, extended family, my daughter, my husband, and a few cats. But, me, she only had eyes for me. A fact that irritated my husband but tickled me. "I feed you, you little ingrate!", he'd boom. It had to rankle when she developed an unlikely friendship with my cat,

Every time I get to a place of acceptance, it seems God allows ALS to take that away as well. When I lost my job, I had to learn that a job did not define me. I said, Okay, if I cannot work here, then I will redouble my efforts to get to the bottom of my infirmity, heal, then get a better job. I got my ALS diagnosis. I grieved the loss of my life as I once knew it. I said, If I'm to lose control over my muscles, I will get my affairs in order; I will sell my motorcycle and my car and purchase a wheelchair van. We will build ramps onto the house, widen the doors, add a door to the bedroom, and add a roll-in shower. As long as I can assure my mobility, I can deal.    When I got a whopping dose of frontotemporal disease, as a byproduct of ALS, the combination of wildly fluctuating emotions and increasing caregiving needs, my husband became overwhelmed and tapped-out, abandoning me and forcing me into a nursing facility. My family withdrew. I thought, I cannot do this! Eventually

Living in a nursing facility and having mobility issues gets one automatically placed in adult diapers. (a real ego crusher being forced to unlearn a lifetime of good toileting habits) I'm fortunate enough to be in a facility run more humanely, and can, on occasion, use a bedside commode. However, I must be hoisted by lift and sling, sans dignity-preserving covering, to be deposited upon said commode, like a bottomless, lame zip-lining ride, hoo-hah hanging out. And that's not the most cringe-worthy part! Add two well-meaning, albeit bumbling patient care technicians, who cannot retain the procedural steps to transfer me and must discuss, start, hesitate, rediscuss, restart. Whilst I clench butt cheeks, rolling my eyes at the absurdity, and try not to think ill thoughts. They finally get me up in the sling when progress again ceases. At the same time, suspended a foot over my hospital bed, my bowels moved infinitesimally. I scolded them in panic, disregarding my dysphasia, my