A Valentine's Day Gift for My Sister

circa 1975

 My sister and I have always had a strained relationship. You can call it sibling rivalry but as a kids (and into my teens) I thought she hated me. She did the normal older sister stuff...hiding under my bed to scare me at night, telling me I was adopted (I wasn't) and tricking me into saying cuss words ('Hey sis, sing Yankee Doodle but use "F" as the first letter of each word') and then telling on me. And yes, my mom believed in punishing foul language with a bar of soap in the mouth.

But I was (and still am) very sensitive so I thought she was intentionally cruel when she wouldn't let me sit next to her on the school bus and the bus driver refused to go until everyone was seated (and I was the only one standing) or when she kicked me out of the car miles from home and left me there.

One thing we did share was our disdain for the first day of school.

Even in adulthood we struggled to be friendly to each other. We could be civil but it took work and left me drained (I'm sure she was equally put out). We were polar opposites in every.single.way.

She's blonde. I'm brunette.
She's and extrovert. I'm an introvert.
She's funny. I'm reflective.
She's tall. I'm short.
She's driven. I'm laid back.
She's loud. I'm quiet.
She's beautiful and I am Mousy Brown.
She's smart. I'm smarter. (just seeing who's paying attention)

But both of us felt the need to compete with each other and our relationship always felt on the verge of collapse. With all of their faults (and who doesn't like to blame their parents for everything bad) I'm not sure what we put our parents through was "fair" in the name of sibling rivalry. My sister had on-going issues that led to her no longer being welcome in our house and I had mine...one which led to being hospitalized for 4 months. But both of us put enormous amounts of pressure on ourselves to excel at academics and sports (mainly competitive horseback riding).

There's a lot of truth in this book...it's not a means to place blame but to move forward and break the pattern.

It was the kind of pressure perfectionists place on themselves that make parents worry and drive away potential friendships. I was, in particular, very much a loner....excelling at solo ventures (be it gymnastics or debates) but had no social skills because friendships were superfluous. I couldn't relate to people my own age because I had aged myself through academic and physical discipline (and later with food restriction) not realizing that one could be social and successful. My sister took a slightly different route. Although she was(is) quite the overachiever she was also just as self-destructive with questionable relationships and "shock value" escapades.

So I think we surprised each other when somewhere in our late 20's and early 30's we found that not only were we both still alive, but we were thriving. She was forging a very successful career in the Army and I was moving up through the highly competitive, all male dominated, automotive industry. But that disconnect was still there and on the rare occasion we found ourselves together (there had only been a handful of times) it felt like we were teenagers again...bickering, competing, and feeling less than.

Our family (Japan 1972).

Our dad died in 2009 after a horrific car accident. My sister and I had a huge falling out in the week before he died and remained in a coma. At the outset, this tragedy tore at the already fragile seams of our relationship, and for the first time in my life I felt like I was right when it came to her (I judged her initial blowup as an unwarranted attack at an inappropriate time...somehow growing a spine during this intense moment in time). I had spent the entire 39 years of my life feeling inferior to my sister. She was everything I wished I could be...but I couldn't tell her that. Instead I had to pick apart her faults, rehash the past and basically make myself miserable by trying to 'out do' her.

My parent's car after being hit head on by a reckless drive.

During a second round of heated battles (tragedy brings out the best, and worst in people) my sister told me that she had felt this same way...inferior to her little sister...and no matter what she did, she could not gain the approval of our parents. And now, with our dad in a coma, dying, she would never have the chance to even ask him if was proud of her.

Marylou and our dad at Disney World.

The tables had turned and for a brief moment we were able to see into each others' pain. Four decades of struggle, four decades of pulling out all the stops looking for approval, four decades of focusing energy on a rivalry that should have never existed, four decades of competing with an illusion. She was me and I was her. This was life changing. My sister's honesty was a catalyst for the direction my life has taken since that dreadful week in October 2009.

My dad's headstone.

I just spent 6 weeks with my sister camping in the New England area this past fall. Although our entire adulthood (actually, since I was 15 years old and she was 17) has been spent living thousands of miles apart we've found ourselves at the same place emotionally. We are seeking {and finding} a peace and balance in our relationship which has spilled over into all other facets of our lives...or maybe it's the other way around.

Along the Maine Coast...looking for balance {literally}.

I feel like we've been part of a "twins separated at birth" study. Both of us, far removed from our childhood past, far removed physically from each other and still traveling down different paths in some regards (like politics). But those paths are actually parallel to each other and constantly meet and intertwine, separating briefly and meandering back together more often than not. We are both now vegetarians and aspiring yogis...spiritual and inquisitive, grounded yet still dreaming, goal oriented but much more forgiving...not only of others but of ourselves.

Marylou and me at Squaw Valley Ski Resort for my wedding.

For the first time in my life I can say, unequivocally, that my sister is also my friend. I trust her with my innermost secrets free of the feeling that I will be judged or that they will used against me one day. As a matter of fact, I know that no matter how outlandish my thoughts, feelings or confessions are, when I expose them to my sister it will only draw us closer together.

My sister and I actually goofing off and having fun...together!

Befriending my sister and accepting our similarities rather than trying to force superior airs has been one of the most liberating experiences in my life. The time we recently spent together has only strengthened our bond. We spent hours practicing yoga side by side...sometimes in below freezing weather and sometimes dripping in sweat. I really believe our connection has deepened from both the tragic death of our father and the light and love we expressed in our shared yoga space. There is comfort in the fact that I know she will always be there for me, and I for her, not just because we are sisters but because we are friends.

Happy Valentine's Day.

Lessons From My Mother Through the Eyes a Self-Righteous Daughter

My older sister, me and my mom circa 1972 in Tokyo, Japan.

I've always loved my mom...but I haven't always respected her. Those are hard words to type and actually bring tears to my eyes. I mean, I don't have to confess this to anyone. I am ashamed of myself. But I've learned so much about her, and myself, since my dad died that I want to scream from the roof tops how amazing she is...and it just wouldn't makes as much sense without telling you that it wasn't always this way.

I've always gotten along with my mom...she's fun, super nice, always in a good mood and seems to never tire until after her family's needs have been tended to. She talks to everyone and always offers a heartfelt compliment...cashiers, bus boys, toll takers, TSA agents...everyone. She's also a great listener and is the type of person who, instead of trying to turn the conversation around to talk about herself, will ask more questions of the speaker allowing them to remain in the spotlight. She's affectionate and thinks nothing of hugging me and kissing me whenever the urge hits her, even in public (and no matter if I am 6, 16 or 42).  If she feels like showing her love she just does it. And her laugh is infectious...you see it in her eyes and you feel it in the air...there's nothing fake about it.

Our family lived in a kind of vacuum. My dad was in the Air Force and consequently we moved frequently, about every 3 years. Growing up without an extended family around and changing friends regularly meant we pretty much relied on each other as company. The older I got and the more we moved, the less likely I was to try to maintain old friendships and make new ones. I am an introvert and the effort was too much.

Our little family...I have no idea why I'm the only one not smiling...

Without the influence of other relationships and without the ability to observe other family dynamics the foundation for what I would perceive as normal was laid for me by my parents. Don't get me wrong, this isn't the old blame game...just an observation. My parents did everything they could for my sister and me...including getting us horses. We always had food, new clothes every school year, pets to play with and we always sat down to dinner together. We played games like Yatzee or watched sitcoms in the evening. We took family vacations...normally to visit family in Pennsylvania meaning a major road trip at least once a year, but we also went camping, visited Disney World and saw pretty much all of the tourist attractions in whatever area we happened to be living in at the time.

So, how is it I lost respect for my mom? Well, my dad was an alcoholic...a functional alcoholic, but an alcoholic none-the-less. I don't know when that happened because in my lifetime, he was always an alcoholic. He grew up on a farm and it was hard work, he dropped out of school in the 8th grade, he was the one who found his father dead of a massive heart attack, he went to Vietnam and saw things no human being should see, early in his career he struggled to provide for his family and he also went undiagnosed as bi-polar for almost his entire life. These aren't excuses but realities. He was the only man I knew and the only man for a very long time who would have any influence on my life and experiences. And he took his suffering out on my mom by belittling her in front of his children.

My mom visiting us in Santa Cruz.

I doubt he understood the harm he was causing from his behavior (god, I hope not) but his disappointment with my mom for various, sometimes petty things seemed never ending. In time I learned that his disappointment was really about himself , something my mom and I talked about during our last visit.

My mom rarely stood her ground, at least not that we could see. The more it happened (which equated to the 'worse' of a drunk he became and the longer he went without treatment for his mental health disorder) the weaker my mom appeared in my eyes. Us kids would test the grounds ourselves, offering a few disrespectful comments here and there, speaking down to her and ultimately feeling superior or maybe smarter than her and we felt no repercussions from our behavior. I don't believe we were ever cruel nor was this an intentional act but more like a learned behavior. Also, it is not abnormal for there to be a sort of  'power struggle' between teen girls and their mother as part of the growing process.

But what gets me is that somewhere down inside I knew my dad had a problem. Yet, I chose his relationship style over my mom's. I saw my mom more and more as a push-over and people pleaser rather than a parental figure and a loving, sensitive person (who also needed to be loved back). I guess I thought that in  order for me to be a success I needed to be more like my dad. After all, he was a middle school drop out who had managed to earn his master's degree while working his full-time job in the military (and still earning promotions) and raising a family. He was smart, driven, sarcastic, condescending, judgmental (yet afraid of confrontation) and moody. He was my hero...and he was kind of an asshole to my mom.

My parent's wedding day...August 26, 1967.

 I know he loved her, provided for her and even she will tell you that if she wanted for something he would be sure she got it. But apparently, his need...the need to feel feel superior and less like a failure due to his own insecurities...required him to belittle her. And she took it. And I wondered why she didn't leave him even though there was no where for her to go. She had sacrificed her own dreams and career to follow him around the world as an Air Force wife. They were married in 1967...things were different then and women just didn't up an leave, especially since my dad's alcoholism was our family's secret due to his military career. The longer she stayed with him, as he spiraled further into the abyss that is alcoholism, the more I wanted her to leave.

But she did stay...for 42 years. And one day they were in a car accident and my dad died. And my mom became this amazingly strong person right before my eyes. Perhaps that strong person was always there but the shadow my dad made snuffed out the light she needed to blossom or for us to even notice.

Doesn't my mom just glow?

I spent 6 weeks with her this past spring and I finally talked to her about all of these thoughts I've had. I confessed to her the misguided judgements I had passed even though my own life was far from perfect and some of my own past relationships were perhaps worse in comparison. It's so easy to tell someone else how to improve their life rather than work on your own.

She spoke to me of the lack of emotion from him early on in their relationship which she led her to shower us with the love that not only she had but also what he felt for us, but could not show. She didn't let his fear of people and crowds (he was painfully introverted) diminish her love for them and she always had friends. She didn't let his moodiness be cast on her like a wet blanket but instead let her joy show not only in her smile but in her entire being. She didn't let his irrational and spontaneous ideas (he once bought a show car with money he had pulled out of an investment with steep penalties for early withdrawal...without telling her) take away from the needs of her children, always finding ways to make ends meet even though it was she who often got blamed for over-spending.

You see, I found that my mom, in a way, has learned something a lot of us struggle with daily. We have the ability (and the right) to choose how happy we want to be...even if we are surrounded by unhappiness. Although she chose to 'stick it out' with my dad, she did so under her own power and with her own principles in mind. Surely she wasn't always happy...and perhaps she wondered about the 'what-if's'...don't we all? But she took a bad situation and not only lived through it but thrived...as a strong woman who is still so full of joy and goodness.

My mom made the bouquet for my wedding in Tahoe.

I don't look at my mom as a weak person anymore. She is strong beyond belief. While I was full of self-righteousness and thought she should be better or different than what she was, she was accepting of all of us just as we were. Trust me, there is a lesson in that. She deserves my respect and then some.

These days, while I still long for the approval from a dead father who was never one to show emotion anyway, I find myself ever thankful that my mother has shown me that it doesn't really matter and to just be happy with what it is I am doing. My hope now is to one day be as strong and loving as my mom.

Hitting Rock Bottom...A Story of Personal Accountability

“Ester asked why people are sad.
"That’s simple," says the old man. "They are the prisoners of their personal history. Everyone believes that the main aim in life is to follow a plan. They never ask if that plan is theirs or if it was created by another person. They accumulate experiences, memories, things, other people's ideas, and it is more than they can possibly cope with. And that is why they forget their dreams.”
― Paulo Coelho, The Zahir

Sometimes I get sad. I know we all do and that it's a perfectly "normal" emotion but I find myself feeling selfish (on top of sad)...as if I don't have the right to be depressed.

Years ago (and who really knows when it all started) I suffered from pretty severe depression. Severe enough that over the years I went from a being hospitalized anorexic to an over-weight binge eater to a self-sabotaging, controlling bitch of a wife to a divorced, needy, recluse who couldn't leave the house for anything other than work since that actually gave me a reason to live. I took Paxil just to be able to muster the "I-give-just-enough-of-a-shit" to take a shower and feed myself at least once in a while.

During my stint in the psyche ward in Anchorage, Alaska (for anorexia) I went to therapy sessions daily. They ranged from one-on-ones to groups with a lot of role-playing, acting as the concern parents or as each other as outside observers. I was only 16 (I celebrated my 17th birthday in the hospital, as well as Thanksgiving, Christmas and New Years) so I was still looking for others to tell me how to feel and show me how to act. I wasn't ready to be a grown up and with high school graduation looming I knew I was at a crossroads...no longer the youngest child and certainly not ready to face real life. Still, I learned a lot.

After my discharge I went almost a decade without professional help although I struggled immensely as my weight fluctuated up and down the scale and my life remained out-of-control. I married a military man because it was the only life style I knew. Even though the chaos of moving every 2-3 years had previously worn me down my young self saw no way out of it at the time...I depended on the medical benefits. Instead of trying to find happiness I chose to try to control my husband. Things did not end well.

At some point I decided to search for more answers. I'm analytical...I need to see the map before I can commit to taking the first step. I found an Al-Anon program that met locally as I was sure that the root of all of my "issues" stemmed from my dad's alcoholism. I went 3 times a week to 3 different groups. None of it clicked and frankly, it left me more confused and depressed. I looked at the women in those groups, some of them now grandmothers and great-grandmothers who appeared to still be blaming their parent for their entire lives. I wanted to "get over it" not wallow in pity for the next 40 years. I wanted to heal and found quite the opposite happening in these meetings.

Shortly after my Al-Anon experience I really hit rock bottom (I know, you'd have thought that would have happened when I was in in-patient care barely clinging to life). I worked as many hours as possible, often for free, just so I wouldn't have to go home. I lived alone and was in the most destructive relationship I've witnessed. Had I been my own friend I would have slapped myself across the face and asked "what in the hell are you doing to yourself?? Get OUT!!". But I didn't like myself and felt that the pain of remaining in this relationship was my Karma...and it was quite possible I deserved worse.

I beat myself up real good in those few years. It got so I couldn't leave the house and dreaded the weekends when I knew my boyfriend would make promises to come see me but wouldn't...leaving me waiting from Friday after work until Monday morning...unable to sleep, constantly checking my phone or listening for a car door to slam. I missed so much life by just waiting.

I slept all the time until bruises started to form on my body. Then I got brave enough to see my doctor, sounding utterly pathetic as I explained that while I didn't want to die I also really didn't care if I lived. It was too much work and so exhausting to be. That's when I got the prescription for Paxil.

I hate taking medication and, as a control freak I really hated taking psychiatric drugs. I naively felt that "smart" people didn't need drugs...we can analyze things and figure it all out with common sense. But I lost complete control and was spiraling deeper into the abyss. The Paxil was able to slowly start applying the brakes.

In my new mellow state I turned to yoga and meditation and through much diligence was able to get weaned off of the Paxil (with my doctor's help). There were some rough spots and it would have been easy, if not medically sound, to start the pills again but I wanted a clear mind to face the demons head on...even though it was terrifying. The drugs had made me not care...but they didn't fix anything and I wanted to be fixed. If I stopped them cold turkey I would most definitely get sucked right back down that rabbit hole...it was the self-realization and personal accountability that was truly healing me.

I stopped blaming my dad's alcoholism for my issues...that was a far to easy of a crutch to use as I started to approach my 4th decade of life. I stopped blaming my mom for being co-dependent instead of standing her ground (something I was actually very wrong about and I hope to write about my mom's bravery in a future post). That was her battle and not something I was obligated to become just because she was. I learned to accept and embrace responsibility for myself and my actions. And I didn't just say those words...I mean I embraced it...100%. Yes my dad was an alcoholic but that does not define me!!

So many people have uttered those words..."I take responsibility" only to follow up with "but so-and-so needs to take responsibility too". No they don't. This is our own journey and while there may be people hanging out on the periphery they do not have control over your life, your emotions or your future...unless you let them have control. And then guess what...it's still your fault for handing over that control.

It's a hard thing to accept, I know. It means standing in front of a mirror and having a good long talk with yourself. It means facing every situation and making the best decision for you and accepting the consequences good or bad. It means looking at all of those things you'd like to blame your issues on and realizing that you and only you can allow them to continue to control your happiness.

Use those instances as a crutch and I promise you will never heal. We all have our own lives to live and we all make insanely ridiculous decisions on occasion. But we need to move forward or be stuck reliving those moments for the rest of our lives. My dad was an alcoholic. Some shitty things occurred in my life due to his alcoholism but I have released him from any responsibility for my actions or my current or future happiness. It's only fair. He obviously had his own battles to wage...

I still get sad...and sometimes it scares the shit out of me. I know from personal experience how precarious the edge can be. I have a wonderful life and have been born into pretty ideal conditions. I often feel guilty when I feel the sadness creeping in. Sometimes the guilt is worse than the sadness...as if I have no right to just be sad. Sometimes I try to fight the sad until it turns into an ugly form of displaced anger. But in the end what I really need is just to be sad. Maybe even cry. And no matter how beautiful my life or how perfect the day I must embrace this sadness and let it have it's moment...with no blame and no guilt.

*This is my personal story and is in no way intended to replace sound medical advise. Every one is different and it is ill-advised for anyone to stop taking prescribed medication without professional medical supervision as it could have adverse effects on one's mental state. Please seek proper medical advise from a professional for help if you think you suffer from depression.

Love > Hate

I just spent the last month visiting my mom at her home outside of Montgomery Alabama. We had planned a long stay so that we could do some remodeling in the RV as well as spend some quality time together. What I hadn't planned on was our visit coinciding with the release of the man who caused the automobile accident that killed my father and permanently injured my mother.

A still from the scene of the accident.

My parents car.

The driver's side of my parents car.

March 20th would have been my dad's 66th birthday if it hadn't been for that fateful day October 15, 2009. It was a day that found a man too much in a hurry, too irresponsible to have a driver's license...a man who would illegally pass another vehicle only to collide head-on into my parents car. My dad died a week later, my mom still has physical pain every single day. I miss my dad.

My mom and I made a trip to the Alabama National Cemetery in Montevallo to bring flowers to dad's grave on his birthday. The dreary grey skies soon turned blue as the sun broke through the clouds. As we walked to his marker my mom pointed out that he would have loved the view...his stone faces a pond. A bird skirted through the reeds and stopped to look at us for a long while. If I didn't know any better I'd say that maybe dad had sent that bird.

The view from his headstone.

We got a vase and set the yellow and orange mums at the base of his head stone. It still seems so surreal...even after all of these year.

His birthday fell on a Wednesday. Two days later we were in court to see, perhaps for the last time, the man who caused this heartache. The man who killed my dad and argued in court that 2 years in jail was too harsh of a penalty for what he had done. I didn't know what to expect...would I cry or break down or scream at him? Would he look at me and know that it was MY dad he killed?? Would he know that while he was going to be released the very next morning and be able to hug his family and live his life I would be longing for just 5 more minutes with my dad?

My dad clowning around at work.

When his name was called and he was brought out of the holding cell my mom and I approached the bench. He never made eye contact but he saw us. He was noticeably nervous. I stared at him trying to read his thoughts...willing him to just turn to us and apologize. Just 3 simple words..."I am sorry".

They never came. I felt numb. My mind wanted me to scream and an image of me losing control and being dragged off of this man flashed behind my eyes. And then a warm calmness seemed to embrace me. Here's what I wrote that day:

  Today I got to stand next to the man who killed my father 3 years ago. He served a 2 year sentence and is being released from jail tomorrow. I felt nothing but pity for this man. I feel that he does not grasp the enormity of his responsibility for his actions and his words, some how it's always someone else's fault or circumstances beyond his control. He, like all of us, is a product of every decision he has made throughout his life. If he wants forgiveness and perhaps even a happy and fulfilling life he can start by understanding that every decision, every action, every thought, every word spoken creates the person we become and life that we live. Although he is not the victim (although he truly believes he is in one way or another) I pity him for the life he took (my dad's) as well as the one he is throwing out the window, his own.

 Trust me...I wanted to hate him. I wanted him to die a slow and agonizing death or have someone dear to him be taken away. I wanted to belittle him, yell and make him feel like he would be better off dead. But what I really wanted was my dad to not be dead...and nothing anyone did could make that happen. So, the next best thing was to not allow this man to take any more life from me, to shift the focus off of him (because he doesn't deserve it anyway) and place it on the love I have in my life...the love I feel is even stronger now that this tragedy has taken place.

I can't explain this shift that occurred. Perhaps it was beyond my control. I'd like to think my dad somehow had something to do with it...I know I dream about him more often now. Certainly getting older has played a part in this new perspective but I think my yoga practice and meditation has also been a factor. I find myself less reactive and more introspective...less willing to allow others to destroy my inner peace and more willing to find empathy. Some might mistakenly believe this is a weakness, that I am being a push over, but its not and I'm not. It takes a certain kind of strength to be responsible for one's feelings and emotions and to forgive those we think we should hate...and in most worlds, have the 'right' to hate.

But fear not...I am far from perfect and I still get into silly "arguments"  with complete strangers on Facebook. I still have 'buttons' that can be pushed and I have yet to really learn how to take a compliment. All of life is a lesson and we are constantly learning. And yoga and meditation are called 'practices' for a reason...seldom, if ever, does anyone attain perfect enlightenment. But it's a journey we all take and we can choose how that road is paved. We can be victims or survivors, we can stay stuck in the mire or persevere until we reach firm ground, we can blame everyone else or take credit for who we are, we can feed the hate or feed the love...for that which we feed grows and what we starve dies.

We leave Alabama tomorrow and I'm really going to miss my mom. It's been great having all of this time with her. She's the sweetest, most loving person you could ever meet...and I'm not just saying that. I'm thankful that out of this pain our relationship has grown stronger and our love deeper. She's an amazing woman and I'm a very lucky daughter.

My mom and I at my wedding (she did my flowers).

Memories...

We walked out on the pier to the Boat Shack at Nick's Cove at Point Reyes Seashore. Inside the old weather beaten building the potbellied stove was breathing warmth into the room. An old upright piano, a few keys visibly stuck, sat lonely and dusty along one wall. Suspended from the ceiling is a row boat missing the lap of water across it's bow. A hint of sunshine was peeking through the overcast sky~the last crumbs of summer along the California Coast.

We sat in the Adirondack chairs outside, allowing our lunches to digest, my husband, Clark, and his sister reminiscing about the happenings of 30 or more years ago. Where does all of that time go? Listening to them chat got me thinking about my own childhood memories...some so distant they seem like those wispy clouds that break apart right before your eyes or like a dream that fades away faster than you can tell someone the story.

Other memories bring back a flood of images and even smells. As we travel around the country I, of course, want to take Clark to that little town in Pennsylvania where my extended family still lives and where my most vivid childhood memories were born. But what I really want is for him to be able to experience it in the same way I did as a kid...as if we were both 12 years old.

It would be during a summer break visiting Grammy Weber's house. We'd wake every morning and eat Apple Jacks and then go check for eggs in the chicken coop. This would be followed by a hike to the Fishing Hole along the creek to build up our appetites because Gram would, most certainly, be making homemade Alphabet Soup or Lentils for lunch. And, of course, there would her famous Rice Pudding.

Everyone would be 30 years younger...Grammy and my dad would be alive as would my cousins Jenny and Rosemary. We would have the innocence and awe of children all over again. But I know that it won't be the same.

The creek will seem closer and the farm smaller (and not even a farm anymore) and everyone will be older. Hell, I'm now older than most of them were the last time I saw them!

But we will still go and visit and make new memories. I'll try to describe everything as I remembered when I was 12...the place where the tiny wild strawberries grew that Grammy made into jam, the spot dad and I would "camp" along McMichael's Creek that once felt so far from the house that I would be too scared to walk there alone and then I'll show Clark how my sister and I would use one of the handmade afghans as a 'tent' to warm ourselves up over the vents of the furnace (the metal grates would get so hot it would melt waffle marks into the bottoms of our slippers).

I'll show Clark the bedroom I stayed in for 9 months while my Gram and Aunt Beatrice nursed me back to health both physically and emotionally when I left home after "recovering" from anorexia. And then I'll show him where I worked as a trail ride guide until I moved to California to train horses and then back to Alaska for college.

There are a lot of good memories there...and a lot of good people. I'm afraid I've let time and distance separate me from my family but I also know we will be able to pick up where we left off. It won't be the same I know, but it will still be good.