The Madman is Back

Sheba’s foot is healing nicely. Still, we did not walk in the morning. Instead, I hurried into the village to fetch some nice blueberry scones to serve Merrill when she and Issa came by to visit later in the morning. Merrill is a young woman I adore, and Issa, her 3-year-old daughter, was the best part of living here on the island until they moved away to live in Abbotsford. They used to live next door.

She had bad news. Her husband, Leo, who I liked, decided he wanted an open marriage, and he took a lover, so Merrill had him to move out. He’s become a person I disrespect, choosing not to work very much so that Merrill must financially support him (plus pay three grand a month for the house she’s renting). When she told me, I cried. The ‘perfect’ family had broken, and I was crushed for Issa.

They brought me a lovely framed photograph of Issa asleep in my hammock.

After they left, we all had lunch and then I was back to yard work, but by 3:30 I was sweaty and thoroughly pooped. However, the progress I see in the yard thrills me. It felt so good to chainsaw the enormous branch that came down close to the house. My chainsaw may be girlie (it’s small and electric), but it sure does the jobs I need to do around Pinecone Park. I used to have to get help to tote the large branches that fell, and I’d dump them in the forest behind my fence (in the part of my yard I use to house forest fall). Now I quickly cut off all the little branches and I cut the huge one into small pieces and I will burn them next Winter.

Sheba is walking well again. She’s good about keeping her sock on, and the sock holds a pad infused with Polysporin in place on her wound. It helps her paw pad to heal quickly. Our walks were short yesterday, but this morning, we walked with our friends for a good long walk.

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Oh, how I’m feeling change. The madman is back. The thoughts I’m having due to this journey I’m taking with Dr. Shoja, they have me back in my past often. I continue to be taken aback by things that occur to me as my mind, possessed now of this ‘neglect’ diagnosis, free flows through my memories making linkages my conscious mind would never make.  

When I woke up yesterday morning, my mind chose to revisit my high school graduation. My father came to neither my high school nor my college graduation, and that’s always bothered me—particularly the memory of the second time because it hurt me so badly. I’d not intended to go to my college grad ceremony, but Don said he would come if I went. But he didn’t, of course. It wasn’t anything life threatening or anything, but the double betrayal gutted me.

I was surprised to find myself thinking about the high school grad. So, I pondered that, and I’ve come to consider the high school one as the worst, because it forced me to realize the distance between me and my custodians for the first time. The second time he chose not to be part of a very significant life event of mine just confirmed it.

I’m in a bad novel. 

I have, however, a new self-invented therapy. 

I am the God of Pinecone Park. I am the creator of my half-acre universe. When I came here, there was nothing, and from nothing I have created a landscape that, for the first time, is yielding pride and joy. Two things have changed: the gardens have matured, and I’ve lowered my expectations … my ambitions for the garden. In the beginning, it was sparce of plants, and when I planted, they were small, but now things are looking very, very good

I understand better, that this is a long-time process. The failure of the lawns forced me to let go of the vision I had for Pinecone Park. Accepting to let the land between the gardens go au naturel started a process of dialogue with Mother Nature. Each year I have added plants, and now I see the yard much more positively. The garden story is as an effective antidote to the bad novel.

Back to the novel.

Dwight and I have a great relationship. I know that it is mutually comfortable, and I have incredible respect for his intelligence. We think alike about abstracts, and we are open books to each other, as I am with all my close friends. We have distance from our parents in common. I think that is likely key to our bond. Two emotional orphans find each other at the first rehearsal of a new play.

One night, I did something that I didn’t really think about until years later. I calculated my place in Dwight’s social hierarchy. After his siblings, his children, and his wife, I figured I was in 7^th position. I recalled the memory of this ranking after Dr. Shoja referred to me as a neglected child.

My story of my life from age 4 through 11 would be called My Life with Doug and Marilyn. They were my emotional life. High school separated us; our friendship died. I didn’t miss Doug or Marilyn, his sister, I missed having a very close and faithful friend. Twenty years later, I met Steve and Dwight. And now, due to my therapy, I realize that these three people have been my family.

People often say they have a chosen family, and I love that. We all get value from building a network of trustworthy and loving relationships. Chosen families are second families to most of us, however, but my chosen family is my first family experience. I’m the guy who, when Steve and I had our fist argument, thought our relationship was over. I had zero social negotiation experience.

With Doug and Marilyn, I was over dependent. It was pathetic. I’d sit in their yard when there were away and wait for them. Dwight, Steve and I moved in together and I learned from two people who liked me, how to co-exist—to bond. I have a name and number for the next of kin question in the hospital in them.

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Today is cloudy and cool and I’m okay with that. The sunshine is like a drug that pulls me outside and compels me to work. Today, I will chill and do some cooking. I’ll get a good rest, and it’ll help my sore and tired body heal.