Somewhere between the late 80's and early 90's, December became my "Therapy Month." My winter solstice celebrations began to flow through Al-anon support yaddahs, like hospitals, jails, Live Grinch performances, Bing Cosby production sets on LSD, etc., etc. Prayer groups and meditation became my balancing agents.

This, as some already know, coincided with the years hubs and I nearly became divorce statistics. Yes, we count the separation years in our Anniversary count. We have wondered if we should count those years twice. They were the years of many hard lessons. It also coincided with my decision to take the "Trauma Induced Amnesia" therapy seriously. My early therapy months were heavily guided. Not guarded. Just guided, by both pros and peer supporters. The peer supporters are the comrades who walked the trenches with me.

With yet another salute to pride as a deadly sin, I am beginning to believe it worked. Inside my own strictly personals, my self-confidence inflates with manic enthusiasm. Me hypo? Ha! I don't mess with Mister In-between! Give me an ounce of pride and I will give you a creative chemical reaction in return, at speeds lab-trained chemists fear. Still. . . A self-esteem well grounded in reality is essential. I am beginning to think my years of declaring December as, "Therapy Month" have worked. I am staying calm and steady within the proliferation of Santa Suits and Ho Ho Muzak.

Hubs and sons did The Holidays with his parents during all the years of my therapy December. My goal was to simply stay out of their way and keep my issues out of their Holidays. With my MIL's stroke 4(?) years ago and her passing during my husband's first near-death-experience last year, those dynamics have changed radically. The FIL's rent-a-family have tried valiantly to fill the MIL's holiday shoes, but. . . They are CNA's. The MIL was an Event Planner. Her Event Planner shoes are big shoes to fill. I am fairly confident the MIL never learned how to change an adult diaper. Pure conjecture on my part. The subject never came up during our chit chat. For sure, the loss of her Event Planner skills has created a huge void for Hubs and Sons. Just taking inventory of all those Man-sized busies is a huge undertaking.

By some mystery of the cosmos, that inventory rolled through one of my days this past week, in a single, manageable stream. Wham, bam, thank you ma'am, the sons and independent peripherals (GF's, children, etc.) rolled through and gave me their personal Thanksgiving inventories. Hubs looked relieved and grateful when I was able to hand it over in itemized clarity. Not a single conclusion on the inventory, but information we can work with.

Somehow this ramble started with a meditation of when to Love and when to Honor. Seem to have lost the thread. . . Rambles often work that way. Let's see if it comes back to me.

Just sorting. . . Thanks for the sort space.