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Showing posts with label Friendship. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Friendship. Show all posts

Saturday

December 14, 1960

A letter from Laura Wakely of Merritt Island Florida, to her best friend, Gennie Deane, living in Burt, New York.


December 14, 1960

Dearest Gennie,

Well I guess it’s time I answered your letters.

It sure has been cold for the last 2 days. But then, I guess it’s nothing compared to what you are getting up North!

Jerry and Darrell are both working for a fruit packing co. Jerry going on 2 weeks and Darrell one. It seems good to not have them under foot, but I miss my babysitter.

Roy is working from 12 AM until 8 am. So he is home all day now and it’s just like a mad house. I never get my work done. I hate it.

I was so in hopes we would be in the house by xmas. But that is another dream up in smoke. He hasn't done anything since it was plastered and tiled except make five windows and fix one closet. I guess he isn't going to. I asked him today if we couldn't buy the furnace. He says, “what with?” and we really aren't that hard up. God, he is a pinch penny. I don’t blame him for not wanting to spend all he has in the bank. But I don’t see how he can take this place either.

At least he has been home every day for nearly 2 weeks. I don’t know what happened to him. But I hope it continues

Gee, xmas will soon be here and I don’t have a bit of xmas spirit. Do you? I don’t like the holidays anymore.

Well I have all my uppers out except four and I’ve really had a time with them. My face was black and blue. This is the second week, and I’ve had enough jaw bone out to make a soup!

Well anyway they are all better now and I’m not going back until after xmas, as he said I need a rest and I agree, It sure took a heck of a lot out of me.

Dam, my feet are cold. Mr. Brandy and Princess are sleeping. That is good, as I could just take one and knock the other in the head. I don’t usually feel that way

I sure hope your problems are dissolving and your life will be happier. At the best, life is hard isn’t it? I’ve already received some xmas cards. I almost feel like Scrooge. Bah Humbug!

I haven’t seen Myrna and kids since Friday but I guess they are all fine.

I’ve got to go to the toilet and Roy is in there. Guess he has rented it. It sure look’s funny to see him stand there with the toilet seat in his one hand and Ha Ha in the other. Then, when you want to flush the dam thing, you have to reach on the back as the handle is broke. Well I hope he freezes his hand. Then maybe he will get busy. It’s been like that for about a year. Then he wonders why I bitch.

I’ve just got to get me some warmer clothes.

Wanda’s daughter is in the hospital. At first they thought she had polio or a virus infection of the spine but they still don’t know what it is. She can’t walk. Well anyway I guess she is better but still can’t walk.

I guess my husband is looking at furnaces in the catalogue. I hope he buys one, as I’m mean when I’m cold. And I’m cold.

Well I can’t think of any more this time except I love you very much, and when you are unhappy so am I. Just remember that everyone has problems.

The best way is to pray, and you really get the strength to go on. I know that the Lord is up there, and I know that it has sure helped me to keep my senses in my hum drum world because when I need Him, I can just feel Him. So, I know that He will help me, and protect me. Well, anyway, it is a wonderful feeling. And without that thought, I doubt that I could stay sane, as sometimes it’s pretty rough around here.

I don’t pray for me. I pray the Lord will just comfort me and give me strength. I'd I swear I do get strength, almost like I could feel His presence, and I know I’m not worthy. But I pray to Him a lot and hope, in my feeble way, He forgives me and loves me. I’ve never told this to anyone. But I hope you try it. Because if I couldn't have this feeling, I’d be more lost than even you was. At best, there is very little pleasure or comfort around here so, you see, I sure need something strong to cling to.

Love always
Laura and All

Sunday

Living La Vida Loca (What's a Bi-Polar to do?)

The sun rises and the sun sets, but before it sets, the shadows start out ahead of her sneaking across the land, falling upon every plant and tree limb, every building, every face. Sometimes the full moon rises and brings back some light to make the night less foreboding, but mostly the night is dark, the only signs of hope, stars. But, then, there are the moonless nights shrouded in clouds.


My depressions start like that, slow and insidious even when I feel like the sun is still shining. Like a prowler, that shadow spirit haunts me. I feel uneasy, have trouble sleeping. Sometimes there are nightmares, grotesque faces, angry voices, and the moaning of pain. I toss and turn. I awaken exhausted, dreading another day. The sun hurts my eyes. I seek the shade of the trees. I stay indoors, close myself off from the world, sadness and grief my companions. There is no comfort.

Friends say, "Call me when you get to feeling blue. You can lean on me. I'll be there for you." That's the last thing on my mind. Reaching out is not part of shadow self.

"Just think happy thoughts. Watch funny movies. Focus on the positive," well meaning acquaintances say. Yeah, yeah, yeah. I’ve heard it all before. But find myself not reaching out. Who can reach out when curled into fetal position?

It's brain chemistry. It would be like telling a diabetic to produce his own pancreatic hormone by magically inducing healing insulin. Mind over matter stuff only works so far. Ordinary depression that everyone feels at some point in their lives is not a mental illness. It's not the kind of depression that takes over my life like an unwelcome overbearing relative. I was so grateful to science when I learned that I was not to blame for being crazy. It’s brain chemistry! Too bad I didn't know that back then.

Doing without medication to fix my brain chemistry is a big mistake, like an asthmatic doing without an inhaler. Things just get worse. Lives are in danger without psychiatric medication… especially my own. I’ve learned that the hard way.

Though, over the years I’ve also learned, if I can manage to pay attention and focus my awareness. I can remind myself that it's not permanent, that it will eventually go away. Everything changes. Rivers flow. Winter changes into spring. The sun rises and sets. But I need the help of brain chemistry changers to help me get through. Otherwise I'd be dead now. I would have continued to make attempts to end my life. Science. I love science!

Of course medication is not the be all, end all of the problem. Pop a pill and your well? Not exactly. But, at least life is more tolerable and can be productive. With bipolar disorder, which is what I have, one must learn to recognize the mania. By definition mania is "a state of abnormally elevated or irritable mood, arousal, and/ or energy levels". That's saying it mildly.


I like the elevated moods… feeling happy, especially the ones of my youth. I could go on for weeks like that, loving myself and everyone I met. Smiling and showering those smiles upon the world. Truly everyone loves me when I'm like that. I believe I can do anything I want. I succeed and accomplish whatever I set out to do. My brain is my high caliber engine, racing along, multi-tasking with perfection. I get things done. I am artiste extraordinaire! I paint pictures that sell. I am a genealogy researcher, I speak to large groups and teach history. I'm a musician, entertaining Saturday night clubs and blessing Sunday morning churches with my voice. That was me in my thirties and forties.

I'm also a bitch on edge, fighting off anxiety attacks, sweating and palpitating, afraid my heart will explode. A powerful desperate energy runs through me. I argue heatedly with my spouse. I criticize my kids, frightening the B‘Jesus out of them. I yell at strangers, that woman who took the last purple shirt during the sale, that young gangster guy who bumped into my car. I threatened him with my fist and flipped his hat back off his head. He could have killed me if he wanted. Even when manic, I challenge life to leave me, the Angel of Death grinning hopefully at my side.

I should count myself lucky, I guess. I've got what they call hypomania (Bipolar II). It’s not as obvious as full blown mania, exhibited on a grander scale than what I experience. That's why it took five decades before a qualified psychiatrist properly diagnosed me. I never saw a shrink when I was feeling manic. I thought I was well. I wasn't depressed. Why would I think otherwise?

True Bipolar I patients are a different story. I've seen them in the hospital those times I was there for depression and suicidal ideation. They pace. They cannot sit or stand still. They are not able to stop talking, changing the subject as though someone was constantly switching channels on a TV. Whenever I could catch what was being said by a fully manic person, their intelligence left me breathless.

For example: there was Irene. She had just returned from an exorbitant trip to China and gave me an valuable jade bracelet as a gift because I was her room mate in the mental ward we shared. She thought we were soul sisters within five minutes of meeting me. She knew that for sure. She had been looking for me all her life. She knew we would find others like us and begin our own community on an Island in the Pacific. Her whole trip to China and back, she had charged to her credit cards with no money to pay. When I met her, she was coming down off her expansive high.

Before I left the hospital I didn't recognize her. She had been given a drug called Lithium. We were no longer soul sisters. She was extremely calm. Her eyes were blank. She no longer had a personality. I was a stranger to her. When I tried to give her back the jade bracelet, she didn't recognize it as hers. At the time I didn't know I was a Bipolar, but I swore if anyone ever prescribed Lithium for me I would never take it and I’ve kept my promise to myself.

They used to say that the diagnosis of manic depressive illness was Schizophrenia because there was no medication to control it. That was the doctor told me when I first went for help after my second suicide attempt, at the age of twenty in 1965. He gave me that diagnosis because of the white light I saw when I had a near death experience during the birth of my daughter. It continued to manifest itself for a few months after. Hallucinations… he called them. I called them Visitations, yes, with a capital V. They were the only peaceful place in my life and I wanted badly to be with that light permanently. That’s the dichotomy!

Being the dutiful patient I took the two kinds of sleeping pills he gave me back then, and the tranquilizers, and the uppers to wake me up and get me going through the day. Truly I felt crazier than ever, and eventually flushed them down the toilet. I needed to tend to the needs of both my girls. I needed to hear my three month old baby, if she cried. I needed to know what my older girl was doing. A toddler climbing out of her crib, wandering about the house by herself, opening the door, going down the outside is not something any mother wants to experience!

With today’s medical wisdom we now know my diagnosis was partly post-partum depression. Maybe not the Visitations, though. I still think they were real. That Spirit Light is not something of this earth.

Flushing those drugs… that was a mistake. I didn't know you needed to go off those medications slowly. The mania came upon me then. I cleaned house from top to bottom, took my babies out for rides, buying and selling antiques. I packed up the house and drove 3,000 miles with my husband and kids. We made the trip in record time. He slept while I drove. I needed no sleep.

A few months later in the dead of winter, I was back to being immobilized, unable to take care of myself, let alone the girls. Arguing with my husband ended that day in the car when I opened the door and jumped out. Needless to say, that led to another hospitalization. That doctor said I was in no way a Schizophrenic. I was only despondent and suppressed by a bad marriage. "Get out of the marriage and your life will improve." He was right.

All the anger and irritation that had built up, dissapated and I was energized again, ready to take on the world. Splitting up was easy. Just like sweeping dirt into a dustpan and tossing it in the trash. I never looked back, got a job in a luggage factory sewing seams and zippers. I drove my car too fast, played the radio too loud, left the kids at the babysitters and went out and danced to Motown every weekend. Sleep? I didn't need it. Sitting at those heavy duty sewing machines was enough to put anyone to sleep.

Again there was that wonderful honey flavored life where I was the center of attention. I loved everyone and they loved me. It's not just an imaginary feeling. Studies show there's something about being manic that creates some charisma. People like a happy, magnanimous manic person. Even when irritable a manic can be quite convincing as to the reasons why. People easily overlook those outbursts as long as they are not with that person all the time.

During lunch breaks at the luggage factory, my co-workers would gather around me to have their fortunes told. In my teens I had read a book on palmistry once belonging to my grandmother. Suddenly it all came back to me with clarity as I pointed at lines on palms, the shapes of hands, noting their meaning and told people how many marriages and children they had, what their health and finances were, and even when they would die. I had full confidence I was right, and so did those whose palms I read, especially the woman who had four marriages and seven kids, three boys one girl, the one that had not survived her birth. I had gotten it right. They called me Gypsy.

One can only go sleepless for so many weeks playing the wise woman and  happy Motown dancing girl before one gets into trouble. I hadn't bother to pay bills, except for the babysitter, and before you know it I was evicted. I sold my furnishings, packed what I could in the car. I drove myself and my girls a thousand miles to live with my parents. That was a really big mistake.

A workaholic Dad, an alcoholic mom, a divorced older brother and two unhappy teenagers (my siblings) and a crazy woman with kids is a bad recipe for a healthy relationship.

Friday

Mom's Best Friend 1960 Letter

Darrell and Myrna Wakely 1950's

For historical and genealogical reference:

December 14, 1960

Dearest Gennie,

Well I guess it’s time I answered your letters.

It sure has been cold for the last 2 days. But then, I guess it’s nothing compared to what you are getting up North!

Jerry and Darrell are both working for a fruit packing co. Jerry going on 2 weeks and Darrell one. It seems good to not have them under foot, but I miss my babysitter.

Roy is working from 12 AM until 8 am. So he is home all day now and it’s just like a mad house. I never get my work done. I hate it.

I was so in hopes we would be in the house by xmas. But that is another dream up in smoke. He hasn't done anything since it was plastered and tiled except make five windows and fix one closet. I guess he isn't going to. I asked him today if we couldn't buy the furnace. He says, “what with?” and we really aren't that hard up. God, he is a pinch penny. I don’t blame him for not wanting to spend all he has in the bank. But I don’t see how he can take this place either.

At least he has been home every day for nearly 2 weeks. I don’t know what happened to him. But I hope it continues

Gee, xmas will soon be here and I don’t have a bit of xmas spirit. Do you? I don’t like the holidays anymore.

Well I have all my uppers out except four and I've really had a time with them. My face was black and blue. This is the second week, and I've had enough jaw bone out to make a soup!

Well anyway they are all better now and I’m not going back until after xmas, as he said I need a rest and I agree, It sure took a heck of a lot out of me.

Roy Wakely, Erie, PA 1950's
Dam, my feet are cold. Mr. Brandy and Princess are sleeping. That is good, as I could just take one and knock the other in the head. I don’t usually feel that way

I sure hope your problems are dissolving and your life will be happier. At the best, life is hard isn't it? I've already received some xmas cards. I almost feel like Scrooge. Bah Humbug!

I haven’t seen Myrna and kids since Friday but I guess they are all fine.

I've got to go to the toilet and Roy is in there. Guess he has rented it. It sure look’s funny to see him stand there with the toilet seat in his one hand and Ha Ha in the other. Then, when you want to flush the dam thing, you have to reach on the back as the handle is broke. Well I hope he freezes his hand. Then maybe he will get busy. It’s been like that for about a year. Then he wonders why I bitch.

I've just got to get me some warmer clothes.

Wanda’s daughter is in the hospital. At first they thought she had polio or a virus infection of the spine but they still don’t know what it is. She can’t walk. Well anyway I guess she is better but still can’t walk.

I guess my husband is looking at furnaces in the catalogue. I hope he buys one, as I’m mean when I’m cold. And I’m cold.

Well I can’t think of any more this time except I love you very much, and when you are unhappy so am I. Just remember that everyone has problems.

The best way is to pray, and you really get the strength to go on. I know that the Lord is up there, and I know that it has sure helped me to keep my senses in my hum drum world because when I need Him, I can just feel Him. So, I know that He will help me, and protect me. Well, anyway, it is a wonderful feeling. And without that thought, I doubt that I could stay sane, as sometimes it’s pretty rough around here.

I don’t pray for me. I pray the Lord will just comfort me and give me strength. I'd I swear I do get strength, almost like I could feel His presence, and I know I’m not worthy. But I pray to Him a lot and hope, in my feeble way, He forgives me and loves me. I've never told this to anyone. But I hope you try it. Because if I couldn't have this feeling, I’d be more lost than even you was. At best, there is very little pleasure or comfort around here so, you see, I sure need something strong to cling to.

Love always
Laura and All

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Laura Wakely is my "Godmother", always called her "Aunt" Laura
Roy Wakely is my "Godfather", always called him Uncle Roy. He had black hair
Myrna Wakely is their daughter, (first born) was blond and pin-curled my hair
Darrell Wakely is their son. He had big blue eyes and was quite tall and my brother's best friend
I was baptized in St. Stephen's Episcopal Church, NF, NY
They were not Episcopalian, but somehow that issue was avoided. If I recall correctly Aunt Laura was a Baptist.

Princess and Brandi were their dogs. They always had pets and Laura was very fond of them.

They previously lived at 812 Ross St. Erie, Pennsylvania and moved to Cocoa Beach, Merritt Island, Florida. This letter to my Mom was written there.

At this date (2012) Laura and Roy have passed away. I believe Myrna (Courtney) and Darrell still live in Florida.

I don't know who Jerry is.

Thursday

Verna's Lines

Spring cleaning has taken over my life. While going through old file boxes, I came across the following written to me by Verna, which I find as touching today as when I first read it.

When someone believes in you
It is easier
to believe in yourself.

To know that someone
will remember your star,
when everyone else has forgotten
it was ever shining at all,
keeps you looking to the sky.

It is good and strong
to be happy for yourself
and all that you do.

It's just that when someone like you
has faith in someone like me,
the happiness is easier to find.

Look to the light for it never burns out.

1990 B.J. Verna

Saturday

Karen's Story - A Snippet 2

It wasn't until summertime that someone actually made friends with her. It wasn't me, though. I was surprised to learn it was my little sister. One day, I found the two of them, sitting on the ground leaning against the trunk of the old cherry tree eating tomatoes picked fresh from our garden.  An unlikely pair, they looked odd together, Karen, tall, pale and gangly next to my short, rosy faced 8 year old sister. Karen looked more bedraggled than she had throughout the school year, her long bruised legs barely covered now by her too small dress. That same dress I'd always seen her wearing to school.

Karen, shyly kept her eyes averted from me until I asked her how old she was. I was shocked to learn she was a few weeks from her 13th birthday. I was 16 at the time. She seemed so much younger playing games and giggling with my sister.  As the days went by I realized Karen was waiting outside at the edge of our property, probably since dawn, until my sister got up and went outside. So I invited her in and gave her breakfast. She didn't turn me down and thanked me profusely. That girl could put away a lot of food!

Her eyes spoke volumes. I just didn't know how to interpret the message. I thought I knew then why the guarded, sad eyes. Her mother had died and she lived in that shack with her father who left her alone to manage throughout the day as he went to work. No wonder she spent all her time hanging out with my sister. As they ran and played across the woods and pastures, the dogs lolling along with them Karen bloomed and ripened with the apple trees. I liked to think it was the three square meals we provided her every day.

A short time before school was to start in the fall I was up in my room sewing my new clothes. Farm girls did that back then. I heard the girls shreiking in joy and I went to the window to see what was going on. They were jumping up and down and going in circles, Karen holding some dollar bills in her hand. I don't know why it made me suspicious, but I went downstairs and called them in to have lemonade. Karen had the money rolled tightly in her hand as she whispered in my sister's ear and passed it on to her.

"What's going on?" I asked, wondering if the girls had stolen the money from the old man who took care of the chickens and slept in the converted cow shed. Old Jim had been a fixture on the farm since we had moved there and the landlord gave him the right to live there until he died, as he had worked for his family as a farmhand for generations. Old Jim swore like a sailor and drank too much in my opinion. I didn't care for him and steered clear. I knew he had recently recieved his social security check as his friend, Clarence with the old Bathtub Nash, had driven by to pick him up so the two of them could go into town and buy booze.

"Will you sew some clothes for Karen, for school? She has money to buy the fabric."

"And where did this money come from?"

"Old Jim."

I couldn't believe my ears. Not only did they steal the money but they were stupid enough to tell me about it. "You girls go put that money back from where you got it! Or I'm telling Mom!"

My sister, defiant, came to Karen's rescue. "But, she didn't steal it. She earned it. Jim asked her to clean up his place and gave her the money for it."

I was relieved and agreed to sew some new school clothes for Karen. It began to bother me as more money and more requests for new clothes came every few days.

Tuesday

Cancer gave me the gift of life and hope through terrible sufferring


There was a time when cancer was a long drawn out time in my life with many recurrences and aftereffects that never stop.

I didn't think much of it at the time, but lately was made aware how it might have had an impact on others.

So, I wrote some friends. This is what I asked:

Were you affected by it?
Do you have one memory in particular that stands out in your mind?
Was there maybe one moment of inspiration or discouragement that came from the experience of knowing me and knowing that I had a history of cancer?
Was there some realization that came to you that touched your life?
Even if the way my cancer affected my life after I was done with the worst of it?
Did you gain some new understanding by knowing that I had that experience?

A dear old friend who I hadn't been in touch with for a while responded:

I think perhaps the most important thing to consider is the uncertainty of having a friend who is uncertain about her future. At the same time as you seemed positive that you would be alive the next year; you also seemed to be reluctant to plan very far ahead. And I suspect that you often missed opportunities in your life that would have required a long-term commitment to something beside your disease. Now I don't know you well enough to know how many of those opportunities were simply impossible because of your disease, and how often you might have used the disease as an excuse for not doing something, or how often the simple uncertainly of not knowing what the future held made it see impossible to plan ahead. But I'll bet that if you had known that you would still be here at the age you are now, after all these years, you would have planned a lot differently and would have taken advantage of more opportunities.

I was deeply touched that my old friend had these insights and it got me to thinking about them. Most definitely I would have lived my life differently if I knew that I was going to survive. But, I think I wouldn't have treasured life the way I do. I don't think I would have dared to do so many things as I have. (I didn't care if I was taking a risk, after all, I was going to die anyways, was my attitude) On the other hand, I could have completed my education, could have planned on a career, an income, a retirement fund.

I can't say I would have had a marriage that would last, or a home filled with children. I did get married a few times. Having cancer return over and over again can really stress out a marriage. Having long term medical consequences due to the cancer, but not the cancer itself, can be terribly confusing, not only to husbands, and families but friends and strangers as well.

Sure, I might be able to hiking one day, but be laid up in bed the next. Gives people conflicting messages. You know what I mean?

I actually did have a home at one point, a job, not a career, but hope that I might be able to work permanently, but those dreams were dashed. So owning a home, became owning a 1947 mobile home, if you can call it that. A trailer home is the right word for it. Beyond that never again. Always a renter. One time in a tent for a short while til a friend took me in.

For me, it's true... Home is where the heart is.

The more I think about it, I realize I am deeply touched by what my friend wrote. His insight gave me a intake of breath, and something to think about that had never occurred to me.

I don't think I ever gave much consideration to the uncertaintly that others might have felt about my own uncertainty in making plans. Though, I think I had grown used to being aware that some others cut off being friends because I couldn't always keep a date to do things with them. Plans for out to breakfast or a movie, or whatever, often had to be cancelled on a moment's notice simply because all of a sudden I didn't feel well. And that doesn't always win friends who want to someone reliable. Not everyone understood the fluctuations in my health. Usually whenever anyone saw me in public, I looked okay, so because I wasn't seen as unwell, it was hard to believe there were times when I couldn't function. And of course I seldom went out when I wasn't well, so no one ever really saw me that way. They just couldn't make the connection.

One thing I have no regrets about is, even though I wasn't certain about the long term future, it just made me live for the moment, and take every opportunity I would not have considered in the past, had I been without the long term history of cancer.

It turns out having cancer became a gift for me. Gave me rights and freedoms, I never would have considered before I had cancer. Sometimes I took chances with my life that were dangerous as I mentioned earlier. Mountain climbing in a rural area in high heat, with a camera taking, lots of film but no water. What was I thinking? I just wanted to capture beauty on film. But without sufficient water? Stupid, yes. But at that moment when doctors were telling me to stay home and wait it out, I felt I had nothing to lose but my life, and damn it, I'd rather go the exciting way. Why stay home in bed to die, if I can help it? Get out and DO something! If there is a will, there is a way, they say. I could barely walk that day, had to use a cane. But, it was worth every struggling step, every drop of sweat, and the joy of seeing my child explore the wilderness, while Mommy poked along. Don't worry, he knew not to wander off.

Of course, there were those days when all I could do was just lie abed and just wish I could be somewhere else. But, those days have their own special qualities, too. Some not so great. But, there's always something to gather from ones' experiences. Don't you think? One can learn from the "negatives".

My dear friend was right about my having missed opportunities in life I didn't always have a nagging feeling maybe I wouldn't be around long enough to meet a goal, any goal. That's why I never had a career, though I had a plethora of jobs and volunteering, and going back to school under auspices of Vocational Rehabilitation, in order to return to work. Imagine my disappointment in learning I had a return of tumor to put the kabosh (sp) on it all. I had taken the pre-requisites for medical school, Well almost.... still missing a few credits. If I had firm hope, perhaps I would have gone back and finished, but I did not.

Then, there were all those years I just kept going to school for the sheer sake of the joy of learning, regardless of outcome. I changed majors constantly so I wouldn't have to graduate. I could do that here in CA, don't know if it can be done elsewhere.

My life always seems incomplete. I feel everything has been interrupted. Hopes and plans are not allowed. Keep everything short term. That's the way to live my life, because you never know when cancer is going to come back and change all your ideas, change your geography, change your group of friends.

There's a few things I do wish I could have done. Have my artwork known, and published, for example. I've written a lot over the years but never disciplined enough to polish anything off. Besides, starting things is what I do. There is no promise of fulfillment. So, the starting of things is fulfillment enough. I have so many unfinished stories, a collection of unmatched poetry, a ton of diaries, so many different styles of artwork..... nothing finished.... nothing finessed.... incomplete.

If I still have one thing I'd like to do, I'd write my autobiography. Well, in a way I do that anyway, but I wish it could become published and make an impression on other people's lives.

"Did you read that book about the woman who had cancer, lost one of her kids to adoption, had all those failed marriages with men who couldn't deal with her illness? Wasn't it amazing how she learned to walk, when they said she couldn't? And she's still alive after all this time. Her cancer was so rare. I've never even heard of it. Have you? What was it called anyways? I forget. But, I will never forget that book!"

Pipe dreams. I'm not a celebrity. It wouldn't sell. Blah! Still I write, though not well organized.

And still, there is so much more to write..... Maybe here is good enough.