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Hubs and I have been having some great talks in recent weeks. Maybe even a few breakthroughs in our marital dysfunctions. This is the first anniversary of his near death experiences and his mother's death. He was too near death himself to attend his mother's funeral. And, of course, can't forget THE HOLIDAYS.
Hubs was raised with the televised December, modeled after the Hollywood stage sets. I was raised much closer to the sewers which run beneath the stage sets. December is an intense string of Trauma Anniversaries for me. When my amnesia was still intact, that made for nightmare flashbacks, et al. Our early Decembers together were painful.
Circa 1989, at the start of our separation, December began morphing - bit by bit - into my Therapy Month. I began absenting myself from all Formal Celebration with Military Precision. "Talk to the Uzi, ma'am. Not asking opinions, Sir." In between skirmishes, I became intensely involved in therapy work. "Intensely" could be an understatement. I am still studying ignorance on how to stage a Christmas production. Hubs and still young sons learned some extra gratitude for Grandmother's event planning skills. They attended her events with ?religious? devotion, especially after the Huntington's Disease took away her event planning skills.
This year I find myself calling my own December, "Therapy Month" with casual ease. Nothing planned or deliberate. It just keeps popping out of my mouth that way when we begin skirting around the subject of my conspicuous absence from the scheduled events. The term seems to be weaving inoffensively through the dialogue with Hubs, Adult Sons and Significant Others as we discuss the Holiday hopes and plans.
Thoughts? Opines? Reality Checks?
Hubs was raised with the televised December, modeled after the Hollywood stage sets. I was raised much closer to the sewers which run beneath the stage sets. December is an intense string of Trauma Anniversaries for me. When my amnesia was still intact, that made for nightmare flashbacks, et al. Our early Decembers together were painful.
Circa 1989, at the start of our separation, December began morphing - bit by bit - into my Therapy Month. I began absenting myself from all Formal Celebration with Military Precision. "Talk to the Uzi, ma'am. Not asking opinions, Sir." In between skirmishes, I became intensely involved in therapy work. "Intensely" could be an understatement. I am still studying ignorance on how to stage a Christmas production. Hubs and still young sons learned some extra gratitude for Grandmother's event planning skills. They attended her events with ?religious? devotion, especially after the Huntington's Disease took away her event planning skills.
This year I find myself calling my own December, "Therapy Month" with casual ease. Nothing planned or deliberate. It just keeps popping out of my mouth that way when we begin skirting around the subject of my conspicuous absence from the scheduled events. The term seems to be weaving inoffensively through the dialogue with Hubs, Adult Sons and Significant Others as we discuss the Holiday hopes and plans.
Thoughts? Opines? Reality Checks?
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I did the dumbest thing today. I charged my earbuds, unplugged the block and put the block in my little bag instead of the earbuds. I wasn't happy about that when I got to the gym. What a dummy!
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Ever since I stopped doing therapy because of insurance, I've been feeling that old tense and irritable sense of anxiety and stress. I hate that. I was making so many strides and changes during therapy, my therapist would acknowledge all of my progress and accomplishments, and I miss that reassurance. Today I thought about it, and I made those changes! She would always tell me that I chose to...
Glad you and your hubby are talking a lot about this I think that will prove to be good for both of you.
((Hugs))
From one sewer survivor to another, Arfie, hold the course that keeps you from capsizing. Calm seas to you, and fair winds.
Hubs and Sons have been losing their Holidays since the Huntington's Disease started taking the family event planner from them. My FIL and his employees have been trying to take up the slack, but they had BIG shoes to fill. This is the first anniversary of her death. They are struggling. . . I want to be supportive.
Yes, I find myself wanting to call it a healing miracle that Hubs and I are able to discuss "it" calmly and respectfully.
FWIW: Eldest son's decision on The Holidays was the clearest. He wants to honor his grandfather's holidays to the very end. Hubs decided he would ride to Houston with his son and his son's girlfriend.
I am critter sitting here at the homestead. I loves my critters and their simple clarity.