Returning from beyond

....climbing...back...up...from the edge of the world. You thought I'd slipped off for good, didn't you?

Well, ha! Fooled you! I'm here. Just after 3 weeks of not blogging - does that mean I've developed the habit of not blogging? I'd rather call it a serious lapse than a change of lifestyle. Sound okay? Okay.

So what have I been doing with myself? What do I have to show for this incommunicado-ness?

Work has been especially demanding, meaning no time for any kind of break or lull to toss off a blog post. So good, but damn busy, on the work front.

The kids had lots of December school and after school stuff. 2 days a week, we take one of R's classmates for the afternoon. Another classmate comes every other Wednesday. Tuesday, R has had "acting camp," a project completely started and managed by another classmate of hers. He'd written a script for a play production of A Series of Unfortunate Events (and this is before the film was released, mind you), and R and other classmates were practicing for 2 hrs every Tuesday. It's that kind of class, I tell you. Thursdays, R. has gymnastics now. S. has gymnastics Fridays, then R. has riding lessons Saturdays which take up from 10:30am to 1pm. (Have I mentioned this before. Sorry if I'm repeating myself, but this is the sort of babbling journaling that I do for my own later reference. Here is where my life is at right now, e.g.)

I have written little. I have jogged about 4 times a week, and when each run takes anywhere from 45 minutes to 90 minutes, I think this has wiped out what little free time I'd had. I feel like I've been too busy making sure the dishes get washed and the kids' lunches get made and my half-marathon training happens to just sit my butt down and write. Another argument for the writer's group BIC (butt-in-chair) meetings.

Another thing that I think has somehow wiped me out and kept me from writing, ironically, is a new insight that came last week when I went to visit the counselor whom R. had seen 3 times for ADD issues.

This was the first time I'd seen a therapist since I was a post-breakup suicidal twenty year old. And even then, I think I only saw someone three times. I'm just too stingy to spend money talking to someone about myself when I already have the bad habit of doing it far too much for free. If that makes sense. Anyway, that last therapist's last comment to me 18 years ago had been, "You know, someday, you're going to want to talk to someone about your father." I remember at the time, I'd thought something like, "That's weird! I wonder why she thought that? All I ever talked about was me and my ex boyfriend and stuff. I didn't even talk about my dad!"

Uh. Hem. You can see what an insightful twenty year old I was.

Anyway, darned if after my dad's call the other night and his "Actually, I was dead," letter, I didn't find myself thinking, "I want to talk to someone about my father."

Those of you who don't care about digging this deep into my brain and emotions, feel free to stop reading this blog and enjoy something else instead. Like How to Build an Igloo or Hello Kitty Horoscopes or something. And because I know my birth mom and birth dad read this blog (hi guys!), this is the part of the entry where I tell you that I still think you did the RIGHT thing by putting me up for adoption and that I do not want you to feel ANY remorse or concern or whatever. IT'S OH-KAY. Okay? Got it? Really got it? Good. Thanks. No, really.

Anyway, after a chat with this very nice, very competent therapist (let's call her Dr. X), I've learned the following things:

**Warning. Angst-ridden self-absorption follows. Warning.**

1) My father (and by this, I mean my adoptive father, of course) falls neatly into the DSM-IV definition for Antisocial Personality Disorder. As Dr. X gently pointed out, "Your father is a sociopath." I demurred a little, until she read to me from the DSM-IV and I said, "Oh, yeah. That's him."

2) I've survived this remarkably well. She said she was fascinated by how it was that I got out of my childhood so healthy. I told her I suspected genetics had a lot to do with it. The birth relatives I've met are all strong, strong people. Phew. Thank God for that! And I also give God credit for helping me. I may have mixed feelings about who Jesus was right now, but I'm very clear on God.

3) My very handy ability to be detached when it comes to my dad's illness is no reason for me to think that it's not really affecting me at some level. Case in point: I cried in the office. When Dr. X said, "Maybe you've never let yourself cry about this," and I said, "Cry about what? I'm fine. I don't think I really need to cry about it. Much. And besides, even if I did, I wouldn't know how to cry about it. I wouldn't know how to make a catharsis happen." (Besides, I thought, I'm kinda busy...)

4) Saying to Dr. X, "I guess I'll stop in the restroom to blow my nose," doesn't mean that I won't find myself in said restroom choking down sobs and feeling suddenly like I could cry for two hours straight and not be done.

So there you have it.

Plus I've been making Christmas cookies. And, you know, mailing out cards and dragging the kids around shopping. That kind of thing.

(Dr. X suggested I might want to see her one more time. I guess I will.)