Leslea Tash's Blog, page 5

babyfreesoul:Enjoy Your MealI’m going to be attempting this...

babyfreesoul:

Enjoy Your Meal

I’m going to be attempting this recipe today!

https://www.allrecipes.com/article/how-to-decorate-focaccia-bread-like-work-of-art/

Weigh in on your experiences with Artsy bread on my ykyz thread! It’s fun!

babyfreesoul:Enjoy Your MealI’m going to be attempting this...

babyfreesoul:

Enjoy Your Meal

I’m going to be attempting this recipe today!

https://www.allrecipes.com/article/how-to-decorate-focaccia-bread-like-work-of-art/

I’ve had the same conversation about cacao so many times the past few weeks, I wanted to drop some...

I’ve had the same conversation about cacao so many times the past few weeks, I wanted to drop some links in one spot.

Brewing cacao is similar to coffee, but no caffeine, and an amazing chocolate flavor. I have tried four different varieties of Crio Bru brand so far, but I’m curious about trying others, if you know of any.

I have had best results so far using a French Press, but I’ve also used a tea strainer, as well as a pour over coffee thingie. The Crio Bru offers a basket filter for drip coffee, but I think the French Press is sufficient. I will note that my son accidentally made a pot of cacao thinking it was coffee, and it didn’t strain through the coffee filter like he expected…resulting in a big, surprise mess! So, even though it’s a great coffee substitute, if you really want to make it in a drip coffeemaker, then you should probably get the special filter basket.

If you know of other brands, let me know!

Crio Bru website

Crio Bru on Amazon

Dreams of future fabulousness

We’ve been very good about obeying the stay at home order. I’m immunocompromised, so I haven’t left the house much at all. This past week I wistfully announced that when the produce CSA starts up next month, I might drive to Louisville by myself to do the pick up from Rainbow Blossom in Saint Matthews.

“What an expanse of time to myself!” I thought. “A whole 20-30 minute drive there…a brief interaction with well-trained social distancers, and then a drive home!” I brimmed with excitement as I realized I might not only be able to record a real podcast episode, but also to CATCH UP on my friends’ podcasts, and…HEAR MYSELF THINK! I might be able to hear myself T-H-I-N-K for the first time in…what year is it…?

The look on Tim’s face said it all. “I’m so afraid you’ll be exposed to the virus,” he said.

And I know he’s right.

“But, still…”

And the thing is, he’s not keeping me here. He’s not forcing me. I can leave any time I want to. I’m not going to do that to him, though. He’d be so anxious. I think it would be safe to drive my car to a park and take my dog for a walk, all on my own, but there’s little point when I can just walk down the driveway. We live in a park-like setting, after all. Why not just go for a walk here?

And the thing is, when I do…I usually have company of the human variety. Which is nice, because, really, isn’t the whole point of having a big family the LOVE? I mean, we don’t have a farm, so I can’t say I needed them for chorin’. I wanted to love them. All of them. Even the husband. I don’t ever tell them, “No, I really had my heart set on taking a walk by myself,” because of that look in their eyes when I say it. I’m fortunate to be loved by my kids. I’m not going to doing anything to plant a seed of rejection. Honestly, even our 18 year old son had a minor panic attack yesterday when his 14 year old brother suggested playfully that he had to move out into his own place once the pandemic is over. I’m not purposefully hamstringing anyone–I want them to leave the nest when they are able to financially. I think the emotional readiness will come with time.

Which brings me to today’s topic: the dreaming, the future, the fabulousness yet to come.

I sent a real estate listing to my husband via email today. That’s one of our favorite ways to dream. “Imagine if we lived here. What would our lives be like?”

(I also sent it to Heather Marie Adkins, btw, because I think it would actually be the stone cottage of her dreams, and I’d like to have her as a neighbor.)

I had no intention of going to see the place any time soon. It’s not really big enough for our family and I didn’t think Tim would like the location.

“Hey,” he said, bouncing into the living room in that way only Tim can. (For those who have known Tim all his life, they know what I mean…it’s akin to the Tigger bounce. It’s the Timmer bounce? Okay. “Let go for a drive and see that house.”

“Oh, I already know where it is,” I said. “You won’t like the location.”

“I won’t?” He looked disappointed.

“I think it’s too close to that (business name here) and too close to the road for you.”

“Aww…I wanted to get you out of the house for a few minutes. You don’t have to leave the car. Let’s just go look.”

“I haven’t finished my second cup of coffee yet,” I said. Wow, my butt was really not wanting to leave that cozy spot on the couch this morning!

“We have to go cups for coffee,” he said.

I took a deep breath and smiled. This is a similar feeling to when the kids or husband ask to join me on a walk. “Fine. I’ll concede to that. Let me go put on jeans.”

And off we went. What started as a lookie-loo trip to a vacant idyllic property (it truly is magical right now, Heather…lots of redbuds. Go see for yourself…) ended up being a short errand run for essential items. Tim kept saying he was NOT ready to go home yet. I managed to stay in the car while he bought sugar and flour, and record a 30 second podcast. I even watched two raptors (either small hawks or large kestrels) carrying on by Little Indian Creek, that runs through Lanesville. It was terrific.

The best part, though, if I’m honest, was the dreaming. Tim and I dreaming together about what our future might look like. Would we want to move somewhere with a bachelor pad so the boys can live in it as they learn to adult? Someplace that we can let a succession of boys and then a girl rent from us on their way to adult independence? Maybe even turn that space eventually into an AirBnB on our property? And what about a space for a writing cabin or cottage? What if there was enough sun for a modest vegetable and herb garden? If we had ten acres like this pretty property had, we could have so many more chickens…we could possibly even train our Great Pyrenees to stay on the property and not have to fence him in. And if we *did* still feel like we needed to fence our dogs, surely on ten acres we would have a spot to do so…we could make it work…

The easiest part of the future lifestyle dream is that it’s not dependent on income at all. All dreams are feasible because there’s never money standing in the way of making a dream come true. Money money money money money. The great dream crusher.

But.

The truth is, we are playing with the idea of building a little writing cabin on the site of the hot tub I accidentally murdered. It’s the perfect spot for a work-at-home office for Tim and writing room for me. It’s not down a muddy hill or next to a pit. It’s actually right out our basement door. And maybe we don’t have a bachelor apartment here on our smaller three acres, but that’s okay. I don’t foresee this space being a huge hit on AirBnB, anyway. Not like Nashville, Indiana would be…

So then I turn to the real estate listings for Brown County, Indiana, and I begin the dream again…

Who knows what the future holds for this fabulous family. I love these people. All of them, so deeply. I cherish them.

It may not be obvious, when I’m dying for five minutes alone…but whenever I plan for the future, there is a place for each of them, and their loved ones, in my mind and in my heart. And we will make a life for ourselves and each other, together, because the love is real. And it is fabulous.

#dreaming #planning #bigfamilies #pandemicblues #podcasting #airbnb #dreams

The Fabulousness turned 10 today!

The Fabulousness turned 10 today!

The study

So, one of the things I do to try and earn a little (very little) money is take part in online studies. Most of them are psychological or political in nature, and I believe 99% of them are from American and British universities. They are generally pretty short and pay about $.25 to complete. (I told you it was very little).

Today a study asked me to remember an incident when I felt offended. Although I’m sure I’ve felt offended a lot in my day to day life (we all do!), the occasion that came to mind first was a few years ago. It was a betrayal.

I was asked to write a letter to the person who offended me and really let her have it. Use my anger and resentment, they said. Make her experience MY pain, they said.

This is what I wrote:

***,

I can’t in any way begin to make you experience some of the pain that I have felt because of your latest betrayal. You are beyond having that kind of empathy for me and my experience, and I accept that now. When we were younger and you used to say I was your soulmate, I really thought you understood me better than anyone. Now I realize that you are not a deep person at all. You are a “surface” person who is engrossed in the shallow experiences of life. You don’t mind being angry, confused, in a fight, involved in drama, etc. all of the time. I am nothing like that. How we grew so far apart, I do not really know. I could say it is because our lives were very different, but I think it is just the way we were always going to end up. I think I am sensitive by nature and you are not. This is why I can’t use my resentment to make you feel pain: you simply are not capable of feeling pain in the way that I do. Maybe this is the part I resent about you the most: you have always been able to hurt and betray me and suffer neither the consequences of the loss of a great friendship, nor the feelings of guilt and hurt that I feel at the various ends of our association throughout the years. I admit that since telling you that you were not the kind of friend I needed you to be, there has been a sense of relief. I no longer am waiting for the other shoe to drop when you betray my trust yet again. I wish you all the best, but I like you much better from a distance.

Sincerely,

LHT

I was later asked to write a letter expressing forgiveness to this person, so that I would feel better. Their study explained that people usually do feel better when they accept things, rather than rage about them. 

I told the study that I thought I’d already done that, but now that I re-read my answer, it still sounds pretty angry.

Angry, but…

I do think I accept how different we are from one another. That’s sort of like forgiveness. Maybe I’m just not the forgiving type. Maybe when someone shows me who they are, I believe them. Eventually.

I was asked to rate how angry I still am at this person. It’s been years. I guess that deep down I’m still angry, but I literally never think about it. I only thought about it today because they asked and gave me a quarter.

I could literally not think of any other thing that has offended me, and the fact that the mail carrier in my neighborhood keeps delivering my mail next door and I’m taking my ex back to court are both very real things going on in my life. These things don’t make me feel offended, though.

I guess you can’t be offended if you don’t have expectations. And, damn, did that person set expectations for us. I sound like a bitter ex-girlfriend because that’s what I am, even though the relationship was not romantic. 

I feel things deeply and I am not ashamed.

Insert witty title here

I want to make some kind of wry joke about pneumonia. Honestly, I can’t. I’m so tired. I’m tired and depressed. I tried to do some reading about pneumonia recovery, and it was all really bad news…like, it takes up to 6 months, and a certain percentage of people will DIE in that time frame. It makes me so sad, and a little scared, and in the meantime I feel so much pressure from all the things I need to get done  (not even counting providing Christmas for the kids). The shopping part is done, at any rate. It’s just everything else that hasn’t been doable. No Thanksgiving, no tree, no decorations, no holiday luncheon today…I might miss out on the Winter Fantasia concert Saturday. 

Then there’s the 3rd grade party next week. What if I’m still not well enough to go? The last thing I want to do is embarrass my little sunshine of a daughter by bringing a serious medical situation to her classroom fun time.

Tim sent me a selfie of the two of them from the Christmas luncheon today. I’m so glad he was able to go with her. It doesn’t escape my attention, though, that this is two school functions in a row for her (Veterans Day on 11/11 and now this event today) that I have been too sick to attend.

Even though I try and remind myself that when I’m sick, I feel like it’s always going to last forever…there is always that fatalistic side of me that pipes up with, “What if this is your last Christmas? The kids will grow up traumatized about the holidays.” Shit like that. As if I can pressure my lungs into doing the right thing.

So, a small inventory: my breathing is better today than last week. I have a check-up coming up on the 17th. My husband is the love of my life and he’s there for me. It’s 100% normal and reasonable to want to cry. It’s probably good for me on some level to actually cry, it just isn’t happening. I got sick of wallowing in my 30s, I reckon. Hard to turn on the sprinkler system now.

sidenote - not a matcha tea person - yuck

Back to gratitude: the kids are healthy. GiGi is recovering from her cough. The boys are all fine, health-wise. I won’t mention the interpersonal problems of raising three teen boys under the same roof right now. I’ll just be grateful they are all healthy enough to be…outspoken about their emotions.

I will eventually feel better. I will feel better and then I won’t feel sad like this. I will feel hope again. I will make plans again. I will leave the house again. All of that will happen.

And in the odd chance it doesn’t happen…that I never get well, and I’m truly going to be sick forever and then die from this…then I am loved. I am so loved. Maybe I don’t feel all the love flowing back to me every day, but I trust that the love I have poured into my little ones is going to flow forward in their lives. Their hearts will be as soft as they need to be. They will make good choices. (They will make mistakes, but they will learn from them.) They will make themselves proud, they will live lives of compassion, and they will matter SO much to the people around them. Those ripples, those waves of love…they are already in motion. 

This time of year we’re reminded to look hard at our little babies, to drink in their sweetness and potential and see them for the blessings they are. For me they are four bright stars, burning brighter than anything. I am like a planet in orbit around four suns.

I just want to stay in orbit. 

The Fabulousness

Oh, the fabulousness, the fabulousness.

I opened up my blog, blew off the dust, and sat down to write about how sick and tired I am of being sick and tired.

Then I saw the name of the blog.

The.

Fabulousness.

Why did I name my blog The Fabulousness? Because life was hard, and it was easy to focus on the tough bits. I needed a reminder to focus on the good bits. This is not the kind of toxic positivity that says “everything is super great!” while your ship is taking on water. No.

The Fabulousness is the wine. The good wine that the captain grabs on his way down. Okay, so maybe today’s not that dire…I’ve just been sick for over a week and it’s difficult to feel anything other than frustration at this point. It’s difficult to feel that Fabulousness, and I so need it.

It’s five o’clock somewhere, and I’m ready for the wine you drink when you need to whine, but you don’t want to bore anyone with your trials and tribulations. Maybe life is a great big barrel of grapes, sweet and sour in turn. Maybe sometimes you’re the foot, maybe sometimes you got all the juice, maybe sometimes you fall flat on your face and just “UGH ARGH UGH UGH UGH” all the way down.

I’m going to level with you. Although I feel a little bad about not being well enough to go shopping for Thanksgiving food, or well enough to meet any of my appointments, or well enough to do all the mothering responsibilities I need to do, I emotionally do not feel anywhere near as bad as I feel bodily. I am physically depressed because I am sick. I am not sad, disappointed, angry, or anything else. I’m struggling to get through the days because that’s what being sick is, but I have support. 

Tim loves me and does his best to take care of me. GiGi is a little helper. The boys…sometimes notice that I’m doubled over in pain, but mysteriously remain a bit clueless about my illnesses. They will do something for me if I ask them, but they literally do not notice if I feel badly, even if I’m coughing loudly. Somehow I think that is enculturated into them. Men do not hone in on other men’s faults when they are teammates. They generally only criticize enemies or rivals. And Tim wasn’t always so kind and sweet. I knew him when he was the boys’ age. He grew into the sexy nurturing husband and father that he is now, so I have no fear that my boys will grow into wonderful caretakers, as well.

And how sick can I be, if I still have the energy to stare into the woods and cogitate on the future of my children? The sun is shining on the forest of bare brown bark. Golden leaves dance on the wind, saying, “What will be will be. Rest. Get well, Leslea.”

THAT is the Fabulousness. I will get well. All will be well, all is well. And Fabulous.

Lei mangia una mela

Researching Seamus’ autism characteristics inevitably led me to realizing that I, too, am on the spectrum. One of the BEST parts of being autistic is the special interests superpower.

A couple of weeks ago, Tim and I realized that he (Tim, not Seamus) might be able to apply for dual citizenship with Italy and the US. Once we opened that door of research, I have gone swiftly down the rabbit hole of a new special interest. Oh, boy, is it special!!!

I am having so much fun. Right now the kids are busy doing kid things and I have a little time to myself, and there are literally 31 tabs open on my browser, because I must do ALL THE THINGS at once. I actually love this about myself. I have always loved this about myself, my ability to immerse completely into a subject and just take it all in…breathe it in, breathe it out.

Sometimes the intensity gets a little rough. Like, when you’re dreaming about Italy and you’ve never been there. It’s okay, though. Experience has taught me the intensity lessens, and sometimes completely fades away, depending on how much the topic remains a part of my life.

Tim chuckled when I reminded him of how I got super into embroidery, and then decided to make my own embroidery templates/patterns, and try to sell them on Etsy. I asked him if he thought less of me for doing “silly” things like that, and he said something like, “No, I love you for that. That’s just who you are. You like to try all the things.”

I’ve always loved to learn. A lifelong love of learning is a blessing, and yet…it seems like our culture values the specialist so much, that the Renaissance gal is seen as a flake. God knows I’m anything but a flake. I’m a damned specialist at being a mom. I’m a great writer. I’m the best Leslea you will EVER freaking meet…but it’s true, I do tend to gravitate toward a topic, drink it in, and then…drift onto the next.

Mostly, I retain the knowledge. I know the birds I know. I know the herbs I know. I’ll never stop birding or using herbs. These are life skills. (If you don’t think birding is a skill, let me introduce you to mindfulness and research, friend.)

I’m not even intermediate level at speaking Spanish, but since I started this Italian research journey, I’ve realized that what I do know from 4+ years of Spanish has helped me a ton with learning Italian. And learning even just a tiny bit of Italian has unlocked a code, so I can read a lot of Italian. Reading a lot of Italian comes in handy when you are scrolling through five thousand pages of turn of the century cursive documents from Sicily, looking for signs of your Great-Great-Grandparents-in-law (I know that’s too many dashes, but I don’t care) and all that.

Did I mention I find this fun?

I may be the only expert in the world on my particular field of study, but damn…I’m good. ;)

Anyway, this process is going to take years to complete. Stay tuned. If nothing else, I will plan a vacation to Italy, and at some point I hope there will be photos of that on this blog. In the meantime…here’s a pic I found of Tusa, Sicily, where Tim’s people are from:

Io capesco unpo l’Italiano. I maybe not have spelled all of that right. But…I’m getting there, and WE are getting ^^^^there!!!^^^^

PHOTO CREDIT

Can Pesky Tarnation Strand Ducks?

It’s the age old question, isn’t it?

C-PTSD. Do you know what that is? I did, but I didn’t, not really.

In the 1990s when I was first diagnosed with Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD), the psychologist who gave the diagnosis commented that “sometimes, people experience trauma after trauma, so that it’s not just one event that leads to PTSD, but a series of events.” That blew my mind. 

What I’d known about PTSD up to that point was very little, but essentially it centered around “shellshock” and Gulf War Vet syndrome. I knew I had gone through a hard time, but I didn’t know that I had PTSD. I just knew I was reliving certain events wherein attempts were made on my life. I knew I was basing nearly all my daily decisions around my safety from certain people who I had not seen in years, and I knew that wasn’t normal. I knew I couldn’t sleep. I knew I wanted to sleep, so badly.

Now, a solid 20+ years later, I have learned there is an emerging diagnostic label called Complex PTSD. Unlike your run of the mill, vanilla PTSD (ha! HAAaaaa!!!) that had me crawling on the floor of my house like a Vietnam Vet afraid of Charlie, C-PTSD is the kind of situation my original therapist was describing. C-PTSD doesn’t come from just one event. It comes from a series of events, typically in childhood. There was no diagnostic test for it at the time, and it’s not yet in the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders (DSM-5), so it will probably be a few years before specialized treatments are developed for this particular bag of nuts.

So why does it matter? Why do I care? I’m a well-adjusted adult woman, I’m a good mother and wife, I am helpful and kind to neighbors and friends, I’m a good citizen, etc., etc. I’m not some nutcase, right? What does C-PTSD have to do with me? Most days there is nothing wrong with me that a little wine or chocolate can’t fix.

Here’s the thing. Upon my son’s diagnosis of Autism Spectrum Disorder, I realized that I, too, am very likely on the spectrum. It explains a lot of why & how I process inputs the way I do. It also explains the way my memory functioned until the past eight years or so. I was never an expert on PTSD, but I felt like I had my symptoms and stress level under control, so I didn’t need to be an expert. I’m reading all the time about ASD now, and dealing with a teenager on the spectrum who is being traumatized by ongoing bullying. Parsing everything he is going through, trying to deal with his reactions (some angry and destructive), trying to shield him from disciplinary actions he does not deserve–all while waiting in limbo for our letter from BDDS so we can receive services that might help him (hey, no guarantees) to live a better life…all while mothering three other children with the same level of need as any other kid. It’s a lot. It has thrown me into autistic shutdown mode. That’s not fun, but that’s not the thing. The thing is the emotional flashbacks.

Emotional flashbacks. Emotional fucking flashbacks? Seriously? Emotional flashbacks.

Yes, they are a thing. I’ve had these from time-to-time for years, although for the past eight or nine years of marriage to Tim, I’ve had them so much less. (Funny what being LOVED by a reciprocal partner will do for your mental health, huh?) Rarely do I feel so badly that I can’t tell him how I’m feeling, but that happened over the weekend.

You know that tipping point where you feel so badly, you can’t bear the pain, and the only obvious escape is death? If you’ve never felt that way, then you are so blessed. As I’ve matured and made my life less populated with problematic people, I’ve experienced that feeling less and less. I’ve grown. Sometimes I feel strong. I remind myself when I am very low that these feelings always pass. I’m blessed to have lots of hugs and loving, sweet faces to remind me that I’ll be grateful for pushing on. I push on. Things get better. I move away from the sad episodes and do healthy things for myself–take a walk, get a massage, meditate, take my vitamins, make fresh juice, call a friend, listen to a novel on audiobook while I accomplish a household chore…it’s called self-care. I do that stuff. It doesn’t fix the wounds/scars deep down inside me, but it puts me back up on the level of human-kind. Away from the worms. Or maybe I should say the Pesky Tarnation. I do my damnedest to get past the past (ha) and be fully in the now, even if the now is extra advanced level difficulty and I’m forever a novice.

This weekend I found a book about C-PTSD. It’s an audiobook. It was quite informative. It helped me understand so much about myself, and about my problematic stress response to parenting challenges. All of this preceeding text is an introduction so I can share it with you, just in case you need it. I checked it out from hoopla on audiobook for free, but here it is on Amazon: Complex PTSD : From Surviving to Thriving: A GUIDE AND MAP FOR RECOVERING FROM CHILDHOOD TRAUMA by Pete Walker.

If you find yourself in the pages of that book, there’s also a nice reddit community I’d like you to meet: CPTSD on reddit. I don’t post there, but it has been helpful to read the stories and even to laugh at the memes. 

I don’t like to lose myself in the hole of self-diagnosis and all that stuff too much. I just know that I need psychic first aid at times and in ways that no one ever talks about, no one ever demonstrates in books, movies, or songs, and I’ve never understood why. Like, I knew I had a rough start, but why couldn’t I overcome my past entirely and put all of that behind me and just be unencumbered by it? A great majority of people seem like they can do this, and I’m obviously not so dysfunctional as to require disability and full-time care or anything like that, so…why? Why intermittently break down?

I don’t know. I’m a stranded duck, sometimes, but I can, and do get past it. I don’t share this often, but sometimes, the pain is back, and it’s so loud, I can’t even speak. I can’t ask for help. I can’t tell Tim I need him to hold me. I can’t drown out the voice in my head telling me that I should just die because the pain will never get better. I certainly can’t text a friend or call someone or announce it to FB.

All I can do is get through it the best I can, until I reach a point I can apply a little bit of self-care. 

Today is World Autism Day and people are posting about ASD, so here I am posting about C-PTSD, lawl, bc of course I am. My ex-husband used to criticize me for becoming defensive and angry after opening up emotionally. He wasn’t wrong. I will hit publish on this and then regret it, burning inside like I’m on fire. It will eat at me and I will feel immense shame, although I know full well I did nothing wrong, and endeavor daily to do so many things right.

If you’ve read this far, please leave a kind word. Any kind word will do.