Widening the Circle

Almost forty years ago I was housebound with phobic fear—technically called agoraphobia and sometimes defined as fear of fear. Today it’s often called chronic anxiety disorder. No matter the name, it leads to unease, anxiety, depression, and too often panic attacks. The end of the driveway was as far as I would go alone, and I wasn’t really comfortable out in the world with other people. I’m not sure what triggered it—perhaps my father’s death, perhaps a lifelong tendency toward fearfulness. A lot of group therapy helped me past that point, but I know too well it’s a question of pushing back on the circles of fear that enclose you.

So today, after a week and a half at home with various back troubles and a bad scare with my back—which isn’t as bad as I initially believed—I am once again beginning to push back the circles. Today was my first venture out in the world—a full day.

It began with a haircut person. Rosa, who has done my hair for at least fifteen years, promised to come out to the car to meet me. I was fiddling with my phone, trying to find her number, when I looked up and she was standing by the car. So I got a cute haircut (if I do say so), Rosa walked me back to my car, and I headed home.

Then I met an old friend I probably haven’t see in twenty-five years for lunch at Carshon’s. I have a favorite space to park there—easy for me to get into the deli—but I was uncertain of footing once in the restaurant. Enjoyed lunch immensely, my friend walked me to the door, and I was headed home again.

One more outing, for supper with friends Sue and Teddy. This time I was truly spoiled—Teddy picked me up, shepherded me when I was at their house, and brought me home, all the while praising the way I was moving about. That’s the kind of positive enforcement I need to hear. Sue fixed a delicious dinner, her teenage son joined us, and we enjoyed good food and great fellowship.

All in all, it was a big day and a giant push outward on those circles. Jordan said she saw great improvement over a week ago. So I’m feeling optimistic tonight. And tired. But, no, I don’t want to be a recluse.

The wisdom of an old horse

My brother has a mare, Blondie, who is forty-one years old. Yes, that’s a very old horse. Her blood lines trace back to the first registered Quarter Horses, hence the name Blondie. Every time I visit I expect her to be gone but there she is grazing behind the house. Pastures are so green this year, you’d think she’d be fat, but she’s skin and bones. She’s well cared for, fed and watered, but just has that old-age skinniness that some get (alas, I get the opposite). She seems quite content, always glad for a nose rub. She must know that she is no longer beautiful and that her days of running across green pastures are over, but she clings to life.

John and his wife, Cindy, live on a road that makes a loop back onto the state highway with only a few houses on it, so there’s little traffic on the road. But Cindy told me one day Blondie was grazing in the pasture beside the house, close to the road. A car stopped and the people stared at the horse for so long Cindy was afraid they would report animal cruelty.

It strikes me that there’s an analogy there. Blondie makes no apologies for her looks or slow movements. She accepts who she is at this stage of her life. It’s an attitude I’m working on. To people who wonder why I work so hard at my writing, I want to say, “I am who I am.” Same answer to people who questions my anxiety symptoms—no, I won’t ride in an elevator alone. It’s who I am.

I told friends of forty years or more last night that my new motto was “I am who I am.” Phil said, “We’ve always known that about you.” That startled me, because I feel I’ve spent a lifetime doing and being what others wanted. It’s only with age that I’ve learned to be forthright and honest—like calling a doctor’s office to ask if someone would come walk me across the parking lot (now Phil and his guide dog are going with me). But there’s a fine line to draw there—I can easily become too reliant on others to do things I’m perfectly capable of doing. Like asking son-in-law Christian to carry out recyclables because I let the bin get too heavy. Now I just do it in two trips.

I told my brother recently that while physical therapy improved my walking a lot, the need for it made me feel fragile. He, some six years older than I, replied, “We are fragile.” I don’t like to think of myself that way, but the truth is I’m probably a wild mix of strength and fragility. I am who I am. Gosh, it took me a lot of years to get there.

Reflections on a Week of Food

I seem to have eaten out a lot this week, and the menus have varied wildly--from  a chef's salad and meatloaf to fresh crab, oysters and a charred artichoke--oh and there was a great scoop of tuna salad (my favorite food perhaps). It as strange to have an egg and toast for breakfast, when I usually eat cottage cheese, and I looked with awe at my tablemates who ate ham and eggs and hash browns and biscuits. If I did that I'd be uncomfortable--and soon fat as a blimp.
I often say I travel on my stomach. I like nothing better than finding a wonderful restaurant in a new city-the domed restaurant in Edinburgh comes to mind--but I equally like going to old familiar haunts, like Harrys Roadhouse, Pasquales, and Tecolote in Santa Fe. So does food define my life?
I've given some thought to writing a memoir--I'm sort of between projects, a place I find uncomfortable, though I have several possibilities on the horizon, and some projects underway that will require attention again soon but not yet. So what do I do in the meantime?
The trouble with memoir is deciding how I want my life defined. In spite of my love for good food and cooking, I don't think that's the main thread. I'd probably define my life in terms of the four children I raised as a mostly single parent--but where's the story in that? Too many women have that experience and probably many in much more difficult circumstances than me. And often without the wonderful adults my children have become. But readers want trauma--not the happy life I lead.
I've thought about anxiety, which has plagued me all my life and limited my opportunities. Once in my thirties I consulted a psychiatrist who predicted that if anything ever happened to my husband (it did--he absconded for life with one of his students) I would probably live close to a university and work there. Still makes me mad because it proved true--except I've done a lot that many people with anxiety wouldn't dare do, like traveling to the Caymans and Scotland. Still I don't want it to be the defining factor of my life.
And then there's my career in publishing and my work as an author of over 60 books (I've stopped counting but could figure it out if I had to). To other writers, it might be an interesting story, but it still doesn't define my life the way my children and grandchildren do.
And how would I work in the Scottish heritage that is so important to me? And my liberal beliefs which are part of me? And my faith? How would you organize a memoir? Chronologically? By subject? The whole thing is a conundrum to me.
I actually did write a food memoir--Cooking My Way Through Life With Kids and Books--but it sure doesn't tell the whole story. It does have recipes however.
I give up. I'm going to read a mystery now.