"Help, I need somebody
Help, not just anybody"
--Lennon/McCartney

What nice people this blogger circle is made up of. Nice support, sensible comments, compassion. Molly is right, I am the person I was before, in many ways. None of us is the same after all the miles we've traveled. Not only is the warranty up--our bodies start really falling apart at 40, but we learn lots of stuff from life's experiences. And I have had a lot of experiences. Not experiences like climbing Everest (I have asthma) or getting a PhD (oh, dissertations are so long) or having septuplets (or having any child) or joining the Peace Corps (I give that a thought every so often), or swimming the English Channel (yuck--all that goo you have to cover your body with) or owning a horse and breeding at least 5 different breeds of dogs (what's stopping me from doing that? 1/3 laziness, 1/3 money and 1/3 I would never be able to go anywhere. But think how much fun that would be!).

Molly's support is nice--she's the person, the only one, whose memory of me as a child I can count on. Our mother's past is of a different reality. Anyway, we all wonder what we were like as children, don't we? And we all wonder what type of person we've been at different times in our lives. Molly, Fred and the Laundrys tell me I'm generous. Not something I've ever thought about myself--in fact, I've always thought I was selfish. Terribly insecure, incredibly insecure. But see? You don't know what people think of you, really. And I do like some things about myself. But I still feel it's a lot (too much?) of work to behave like the kind of person I expect myself to be. No, my standards are not too high, trust me. I see people on the news here all the time from our "urban" areas (Burlington and Plattsburgh are too small to have slums, but they sure have poorly educated, welfare-collecting, wife-beating, child-abusing residents). Last night's news had footage of a shooting in which the victim's brother (sister shot by her boyfriend) said, "We knew he was crazy, but he don't know how crazy we are." Here's my reaction to that: good about myself, disappointed in America, lucky I was raised by the people I was raised by and surrounded by the people I'm surrounded by, and sad that the guy didn't/couldn't take advantage of what was hopefully available to him as a child so he wouldn't turn out to be that man. Oh how preachy and judgmental I am.


Last night I sat, pretty tearily watching TV, proud of myself for making it through another day (don't read more into that than there is) and hoping for a better one today. I like going to bed, it's a cheerful time for me because the dogs and I are a pack (yes, Dog Whisperer, I think I am the Pack Leader, but they sure are not in a calm, submissive state) with a specific and joyous routine. That makes me feel good about myself. Once, just after my father died, my mother told my evil uncle that she found that having a dog help her with her grief. His reply, in a letter (here's a direct quote, often used by Liza and me) was "Thank goodness I don't have to rely on a dog for company." What a charmer he was. Always made me sit on his lap, pinched me. Jamie's grandfather, jealous and petty.

Anyway, today is another day, Scarlett, and I'm tottering along. I know the people at my coffee place think I'm always cheerful and never cross (this is what they tell me). Today was the day I got my free coffee (after buying 6 cups you get a free one) so I made a fuss about loving my Free Fridays. If I can be cheerful there, what? Is it gone within the next 20 miles, before I reach Plattsburgh? I usually get in my car with my coffee, feeling pretty good about myself, about my life, where I live--about things. Lots of times I feel that way at work, too. Problem is it's usually when I do good work, or enjoy what I'm doing; I don't often feel so good about my interactions with other people. I like the feeling when things have gone well, I just don't feel that it comes often enough. And I feel as if I'm much better, and much less often am I "that person" but I have a residually bad reputation among my co-workers. That's one of the things that depresses me: you can't undo your behavior in the past. Thank goodness we have a new director and she doesn't see me that way--she just sees me as high-maintenance but well worth the effort. And she likes me.


So yes, I feel good about myself. That's not so much an issue. What I feel is tired. Tired of trying, tired of concentrating, tired of thinking about my behavior. I think I do feel OK about not being the same person I was--Molly helped put that in perspective. It's a very strange thing, though, to be so different though chemical treatment. I have a friend who had a bone marrow transplant and now has her brother's DNA. She no longer exists--there's no record of her on this planet, none of her DNA. I guess I sort of feel that way, only I think her situation is way more dramatic and complicated. We joke that she could rob a bank and her brother would be arrested.


As for Sue the Bank Not-Lady: she didn't call me back yesterday. I'm not sure what they'll do with me and I can't wait to find out. What do they do with someone who tells them she can't pay what she owes in overdraft charges? Ponder, ponder. I've been rehearsing oh, so many things, and have come up with these factoids:
--I've had an account there for 24 years, nearly half my life
--I've deposited more than 4,000 paychecks in that account
--My ex-husband and I (ok, the "and I" is a stretch) had a business that ran more than $2 million dollars through that bank
--I had a business that ran more than $20,000 through that bank
--I had a personal loan (not by choice: it was to bail out the sawmill when they wouldn't lend Jamie any more money) that I paid off early through that bank.

If they don't appreciate customer loyalty like that, then shame on them. I've already decided I'm closing my account there and switching to Adirondack Bank. It has a much nicer name and they've always been really nice to me and they gave us a mortgage when no one else would even look us in the eye (OK, they only lent us money because Jamie's father crawled across the floor with 8 lbs of filet mignon to offer the president, offering a life of servitude if he'd help us). So now I've grown a backbone and have dried my tears of humility. Bring it on Susan the Bank Not-Lady. "She don't know how crazy I am!"