I ventured out today on this beautiful October day, didn't feel like getting out, but I had to run an errand in Morehead and go to the Dollar Store, so off I went.

When I got to the place where I was going to run my errand, the receptionist asked me if I was OK. I said, "Just a bit wobbly".

Fact is = I was disoriented, not attached to the real world, should not have been out by myself but I was, had nobody to drive me to where I needed to go. I left that office, drove to the BP station, got me a large cup of coffee and a carved turkey sandwich at Subway's. The person who was making the sandwich asked me if I was OK and asked me if she could help me get a cup of coffee. It dawned on me as I made my way back to the house that people saw me differently than the person I saw in the bathroom mirror before I left on my journey to the outside world.

Fact is, the MS had been "relapsing" the last couple of days and that is the way my physical body presented itself to the public. I know there are other people suffering from MS, but for a 71-year-old to suffer from it, according to my doctors, "it is almost always fatal" = I'm living on "borrowed time" = never wanted to say that before but I'm saying it here for the first time = two doctors have told me that prognosis. I have told people otherwise, but what I just said is the real truth. I'm taking all my medicine the doctors prescribed for me in July for the pneumonia and the long-lasting symptoms that come with it, I'm following the diet the doctors prescribed to keep my weight down, to make my physical body as comfortable as possible, but nothing I do at this point can stop the inevitable outcome of this illness from happening = it is what it is = I am walking that Final Mile, day by day, week by week, month by month and year by year.

I can't help but wonder what kind of footprints my "father" left behind in his 81 years here on earth. The man I was always told was my father, even though his name did not appear on my birth certificate, was born in 1888, 

twenty-three years after Lincoln's assassination!! = and my father died in 1969. He died in his garden of a stroke = I have a picture of him = someone told me he was in his 60s when the picture was taken = but I picture him in a straw hat working in the garden like his ancestors had, toiling to make a living, shuffling through his journey of life, leaving his footprints somewhere in the soil of the garden.

Never got the chance to measure myself against him, never felt the need to, but always felt an emptiness in my heart and soul of something missing.

Tried to fill that emptiness over the years but not succeeding, even my marriage was an attempt to do that, to no avail. When I talk of "I did this" and "I did that" up until 1989, I was really with my wife, but when she invalidated our marriage in 2010 by telling me of her affairs, I don't feel it necessary to put her name in the narrative of my life, because she betrayed me by doing something she always accused me of doing, having several affairs.

She had her single female friends, but when I made friends with a single guy, she always wanted to meet him. One time, I made the mistake of introducing her to one of my single male friends at work and she verbally pinned him to the wall, because she "disagreed" with his philosophy of life. The 2010 "breakup" we finally went through was when she became hateful and virulently spiteful in a bunch of emails to me and her "real" self came out. So, to me, she doesn't belong in the narrative of my life. Neither does my father, actually, because he was a non-person to me all my life and continues to be so.

My life today shows the burden of sadness and sickness that have shaped my soul and mind and my physical body = the way I walk, the way I talk, my emotional outbursts, my desire to be alone except for my babies, not trusting anyone, not being able to communicate on a human's level, because, to me, they always have a hidden agenda. I can sense the negative vibes in a person as soon as I meet them. I know it's not politically correct to judge a person on one's first impression, but honestly, I do. Only a few have passed the test and I have let them into my house and into my life, but only a select few. Until they betray me, if they do, then all bets are off.

This has been and is my journey = it's been a long and winding road, but it's been my journey = I own it = every curve and bump in it. I know I will be alone when I make my final journey to the Pearly Gates, but I know there is something great waiting for me there = Eternal Peace, for one thing and a reunion with all my babies.

My babies have become my life, I am indeed a member of the "Cat World" and proud to be one, but I also love and respect all animals, trying to be their voice because they cannot speak, so this is the picture I have of myself when I only have one baby left.

When he or she is gone, I will go right behind them, either with God's help or finding my own way to leave this Earth, or maybe the MS will do its "dirty deed" = because there is no way I could go on living in an empty house and staring at an empty front porch where their footprints and scratch marks will be there for all Eternity. The footprints of my life's journey will no longer make an impression as I get to the End of the Road, only the memories people have of me and of the marks, if any, I leave behind.

Excuse Me While I Disappear

Some people say I rescued and adopted my cats because they can't talk back to me and they can't disagree with anything I say.

I say "they talk to me, not back at me" and I do prefer their company over humans any day of the week. If you're not comfortable with that part of my life, you need to walk the other way.

An article in last week's Outlook spoke of being alone and liking your own company = I agree with that, I love to be (not alone, I have my 8 babies) free of human contact.

Today is a good example of beautiful weather, loving my babies and feeling an odd sense of peace and well-being, rarities for me. Add a much-needed cup of coffee, the New York Times Saturday crossword puzzle, some crackers and cheese and it's a pleasant day.

I have also found out that some of my babies who wouldn't sit next to me or sit on my lap now do so with eagerness. Baby-Doo occupied that space for many years and the others just stood back and watched and waited for their turn. In Baby-Doo's absence, they have re-thought their choices. My beloved Baby-Doo's spirit lives strongly in my heart and mind, so he still has a place with me and that will always be true, no matter how old I get before Jesus leads me to my new Home.

Sixty years ago, all was not well in my mind = there was not a sense of well-being and peace of mind, and there would not be any for many, many years = I didn't know at the time that what was happening to me was verbal, emotional and mental abuse, but I learned over the years from all the psychiatric visits I scheduled, that it was indeed, abuse in its strongest form. I still have nightmares about the man who inflicted that upon me.

He was a young red-headed stranger to me when he drove up to our house on Sour Springs Road in 1956 in his white convertible with a black top. I sensed something wasn't right about him as soon as I met him and I knew instinctively to stay away from him and I was proven right.

He became my mother's boyfriend and I knew not to disagree with him on anything or stand up for myself or disobey "one of his rules" = consequences would be paid, in spades.

He never physically hit me, but he would back me into a corner, literally, in the house and spew his venom directly into my face. After a while, I taught myself how to "disappear" from the situation. Later, I was told by my psychiatrist it was a form of "disassociative behavior" = not a split personality, but putting myself into another place where things were OK and peaceful and non-threatening. That's what I think I'm arriving at currently, keeping to myself, creating my own safe world and calling all the shots, being independent and private and happy with being alone. But the nightmares of him still haunt me, 60 years after the fact. He died a long time ago, but, in my mind, I can see him as he was the first day I met him.

I have forgiven my Mom a long time ago for letting him do that to me and my sister, but I know now she suffered from bi-polar disorder, just like I do and there was no medicine back then to help her cope with her mental demons. This stranger took advantage of her mental state and dictated every choice she made about me and my sister.

Between the ages of 11 and 16, my life on earth became a living Hell.

= excuse me while I disappear =

All people have 2 faces they wear = one for the public, one they put on behind closed doors = I had to put on my public persona today because I had to go out and mingle with the public, but as soon as I got back to my "nest", I put on my regular face, you know, the old face and the bald head and the wrinkles and talking to my babies =  not "at" them, but "to" them.

I dread those trips out in the public = I have really begun to dread them = takes me a long time to mentally prepare myself for the onslaught of humans out there who I prefer not to connect with. They seem to stare at me, maybe they're not doing that, but I do sometimes catch middle-aged men with the beer-bellies and frowns on their face, looking me up and down. I know my feminine side is apparent and there's nothing I can do about it and the more weight I lose, the more feminine I become, but it's a no-brainer for me = to stay healthy so I can survive as long as I can = I follow the diet the heart doctor put me on back in July when he discharged me from the hospital.

The near-fatal bout with pneumonia and the death of Baby=Doo in the same month shattered something inside me that has left me living a surreal existence, where I want to disappear, with my babies of course, to a place where no one will ever see me again.

Is it an irrational thought? = probably so = but my mind works that way now. Do I have to explain it to people around me? = no = the people who are close to me in a sincere way accept me for who I am and how I present myself to them, don't need to explain much of anything to them. If they try and "fix" me in any way, they can walk away and let me live my life as I choose = I don't need their approval or advice at this time in my life = just let me be and =

= excuse me while I disappear = 

= into the Vast Unknown =

4 Roses Under A Tulip Tree

Some people say I'm mentally challenged.

Some people say I'm emotionally challenged.

Some people say I'm too emotional, too sensitive.

Well, even if they're right, I make no apologies for any of my characteristics or traits. It is who I am and I am surprised by the few number of close friends I have that they tolerate this in me, but they do, stick by me, have my back. And I have a lot of emotional baggage.

In the early morning hours of October 6, 2009, everything in my life changed and I still carry those scars from that morning on my soul and on my heart.

I had rescued Maggie the Cat from a tree in front of my rental house on High Street. The fire department came and helped me get her down out of the tree. She immediately "adopted" me as her Mama and was by my side constantly. I could hear her playing at night, batting a pop bottle lid around on the linoleum floor.

I had other babies I had rescued but she soon blended in with the rest of the family.

I went to bed early on October 6, 2009 and tossed and turned because I had just been fired from a job that I loved. Maggie was sleeping on my chest, nuzzled on my neck. I let my emotions and anger get the best of me and I jumped out of bed and staggered against the recliner sitting by the bed, where Beanie, my oldest baby, was sleeping. The recliner tilted a little bit and my anger must have frightened Maggie, because she jumped under the recliner and it fell on her little body.

My heart almost stopped and I pulled her out from under the chair, but it was too late, she died in my arms. I cradled her in one of my quilts and placed her on the couch. I called a friend of mine and she took Maggie to hold her for me until I could find a place to bury her.

One minute she was nuzzling my neck, all warm and cozy and loving and the next minute she was gone.

All these years, that memory has not been erased. It shattered my heart and soul and forever emotionally damaged me. I could not, and still can't, relieve myself of the guilt that I caused her death. That is why I picked a spot out for her under a tulip tree in a pet cemetery, in a beautiful setting I know she would have loved to have jumped and played in, but she was never going to get to do that.

Another friend of mine made Maggie a little wooden casket and I put some of her favorite toys in it with her = the pop bottle lid she loved to play with on the floor and I wrapped her tiny casket in one of my jackets and wrapped the arms around her. From that day forward, after having put the dirt on top of her grave, my heart and soul would never be the same. All these years later, I am still damaged goods.

The night I went over to my friend's house to pick up Maggie in her tiny casket, for burial the next day, a lady passing by the open window of my car, said "there is this baby who looks to be starving, looks like he has been in a fight" = she handed him to me, a big orange and white cat who nuzzled against my chest and started to purr loudly. I took him home, called him Darby. Maggie sent him to me, absolutely. I was in the right place at the right time.

Darby, the night I rescued him.

I went on and continued to rescue strays = my heart wasn't in it, but I did it to save their lives and I would do it again in a heartbeat. The next August, Beanie passed away at home, in the exact same spot where Maggie had died.

This is Beanie with Maggie.

To say I am emotionally damaged would be an understatement. I have always been very emotional, very sensitive, but Maggie's death and my part in it damaged my very heart and soul and continues to do so today.

I ordered a wooden cross with Maggie's name on it, so her grave would be recognizable when I visited it. That is where I want to be, my ashes scattered on her grave, to protect her. I saved her once, but couldn't save her twice. Her spirit has found a place in my heart. My grief for her is still very present. Her memory has not faded.

She will always be the little cat in the tree, Maggie the cat who loved to play with a pop bottle lid and nuzzle my neck, all the while stealing my heart.

My beloved baby Maggie, I miss you so.

Of all the tales of mice and men

And all the things I've ever seen,

The man I am and strive to be

Is the one man you do not see.

"They" say that what you see is what you get and that is partially true, because you don't see everything. You think you do, but you do not = you cannot see inside a person's thoughts.

Putting on a face for the public, which I do not like to be a part of, is like a woman putting on her makeup before she leaves the house, but I'm not a woman and I don't wear makeup, so I just put on my cap and face the world as the man I see in the mirror.

My personal thoughts, as I look in the mirror, do not jive with the physical form. My thoughts are on a loop, a crazy loop, like a tape you rewind and play and play and play again = there is no respite from that loop, that thought process that some people would call "insanity".

No, I don't think I'm insane, but I do think I'm damaged goods = with Lucy Belle as my computer company today, my mind does not rest on her, I notice her, but today my mind doesn't take in her total being. I love her and my other babies unconditionally, but today is just today, no different from the other days in my life, on a continuous loop that will never be silent.

There's an emptiness that's always surrounded me, like a physical, tangible being. When I was tucked into bed at night, Mom would tighten all the covers around me, head to toe, until I thought I was going to suffocate. I waited until I was sure she was asleep and I would kick the tightly-wound covers away from my body and sneak out of bed. I would walk around the house, trying not to disturb anyone.

My thoughts, even then, were racing at break-neck speed, not making any sense to me, bizarre phrases and words kept popping into my head but at that age, I did not understand what they were or what they meant, but I tried to get away from them. I stayed up all night and crawled back into bed, sleepless on Ore Mines Road.

Our collie Lassie (yes, that was her name) slept in front of the fireplace, even though in the middle of the night, it would go out and turn into ashes before morning, but she slept in front of the hearth every night. My bed was in that front room, in the corner, tucked  away in its own nook, like it was shutting me away from the rest of the family and the rest of the world.

We lived near a railroad track and when the train sounded its whistle at the nearby crossing, it seemed to be saying something to me, a pattern that has stayed with me all my life = noises that seem to be saying something to me = even now, it is a muffled sound, like a crowd of people talking all at once, but definitely carrying on a conversation.

Some people would say that was my "muse" talking to me = perhaps, perhaps not, but it's very real. When Baby-Doo died on July 29th of this year, his spirit lingered in the trailer for weeks and it's still here in various forms and shapes, but I can definitely feel its presence. When a bond with a human or a pet is formed, death does not erase it. It is almost physical, almost tangible.

The strange words and phrases that I have in my head never go away. I can be talking to someone, watching TV, reading the paper, reading People magazine or just sitting doing nothing, and a word or a phrase pops into my head and it won't go away = then that phrase will appear in something I'm watching on TV or something I'm reading = there it is, in all its glory.

Age has diminished my looks and my hair and added a lot of wrinkles, but my mind is still intact, still taking in those bizarre words and phrases and still hearing the noises "talking" to me, but I go on, putting my public face out there for the world to see, but taking it off as soon I get home. I am a poet at heart but those rhyming words and schemes do not come to me as easily as they used to, so I move on to what I have left, my ability to write my thoughts down. And on I go.

My words don't "fool" = they tell my truth.

What If God Was One Of Us?

Every decision I have ever made and every road I have ever traveled has led me to this place in my life, a place where I am supposed to be.

Having said that, there are times of sadness and memories that are hard to think about that cloud my mind at times, memories I wish I could erase, but I cannot.

The sins I have imposed on other souls I have asked God to forgive me and I lay them at His feet. I pray He accepts the forgiveness and I pray I will stand by His side when I see Him on the Other Side. Each step of a spiritual person, I believe, is measured by the good you do, the help you give and the respect you show.

Self-preservation used to be my main goal in life and basically it still is, but I think I spend too much time thinking about my survival that I sometimes forget I live in a world surrounding me that is real, spinning around and around, sometimes out of control, but still spinning around and around.

This has been a hard day for me, missing my babies that have crossed the Rainbow Bridge. I don't know why their memories were so prevalent in my head today, but my mind takes random trips without me and brings me to a place where it controls my day. Those memories today went back almost 40 years when I was 31 and they were very fresh and raw, as if they had happened yesterday = the memories I mean.

The images of my babies kept popping up in my mind and wouldn't go away until I was swept away with grief and sadness = the gentle rain on the tin roof of my trailer added to these feelings, I don't know why, but they did and I looked around me and saw everything was in its place, my 8 babies were all accounted for, but I missed all the others I had lost, all of them, not just Baby-Doo, but all of them. And at this moment, sitting here at 12:43 a.m., those feelings have come again and the tears flow freely. I don't fight them, I just let them be, it seems to cleanse my soul, purge my mind of certain thoughts, but very painful when they are flowing.

Toot is my buddy tonight. He is asleep in his clean bed, sound asleep until I lay my glasses down on the computer table. Then he is ready to walk with me into the living room, fighting sleep the whole way. His loyalty and the loyalty and love my other babies give me is beyond measure and they each have a story to tell, all the rescues I accomplished were nothing short of miracles.

Miracles of their rescues made me a believer again, late in life, I knelt before a picture of my God and Lord = it was a puzzle that had been framed and had hung above my sister Marie's bed while she was in the Frenchburg nursing home. When she passed away on July 4th, 2011, I brought the picture home with me. Christmas week, I knelt before that picture and gave my life over to God, and asked Him to help me find Pete, one of my rescues I had been trying to find for 3 days, to no avail. It was snowing and sleeting and very cold outside. I asked for that miracle, that miracle of finding Pete. Two, three days passed and I was frantic with grief and worry, that I would never see Pete again. I went back to the place I had last seen her and I heard her in the distance, a faint sound I recognized as her voice. Out of the woods she ran and I picked her up and saved her life that night, the night before Christmas those several years ago = I have forgotten the year, but I have not forgotten the warmth of her fuzzy little body as she curled up on my chest and I took her to a safe, warm environment.

She greets me in the morning with that same familiar sound, I would recognize it anywhere. Her story is a miracle and God made that happen, no doubt in my mind, He brought her back to me and made me a believer.

What if God is one of us?

What if He was in the room with me that night, kneeling beside me in front of that puzzle picture? What if?

I believe He walks among us, in many forms, keeping measure of our good deeds, our help to other souls in crisis and keeping measure of our respect to each other in a world that keeps spinning and spinning, sometimes out of control.

To Him I give myself and for Pete's rescue and all the decisions I have made and all the roads I have taken, I give those decisions and road choices to Him also = I am where I am supposed to be at this time in my life, not sure of tomorrow, still burdened by grief and sorrow, but knowing He is helping me carry the load.

What if He is one of us?

Who Do You Think You Are?

When the average person thinks of a "creature", I believe they think of an animal, but we are all "creatures of God" = whether we walk on four legs or two.

When I was a  little boy, many, many years ago, I didn't know I was a little boy, I just thought I was someone surrounded by big people who loved to pull my pants down in front of other big people. The big people thought this was funny = I cried, but I didn't know why I cried. At night, sometimes my bed would be taken over by someone I didn't recognize, but my Mom would give them my bed and I had to sleep on the floor on a "pallet" she made from some old quilts.

That was the beginning of being "singled out" which would continue for many, many years to come.

I believe my ex-wife singled me out, not because she supposedly loved me, but because she saw me as a "project" she would take on, with a determination to "change" me = she continued on this quest for 23 years, to no avail, she coudn't change me, regardless of what she did or who she talked to.

Oftentimes, when we went out in public, she would hold onto my arm like I was going to run away and as I walked with her through the restaurant to our table, a lot of men's eyes were on me = I wasn't handsome, by any means, but I held my own against a lot of the men in the room. I was aware they were looking at me, she was aware they were looking at me.

She thought because I was gay that I didn't know how to order, how to conduct myself, how to use my silverware, where to place my napkin, didn't know what to order, so she would go through the menu and criticize everything she saw = the prices, the portions, the waiter, the waitress, the food, the taste, the service, etc. She was never satisfied, she was always looking for perfection.

She was a creature of God, but not one of his better products. She didn't win in the long run, the prize at the end of the tunnel = she didn't change me, her "project" didn't work, so she turned to another man, a younger man, a very homely-looking younger man who abused her, but I divorced her and she married him, still with him after all these 27 years. She took him on as a "project", taking this "train wreck" and turning him into an acceptable human being. She succeeded in her second attempt to complete a "project".

People have been trying to "change" me all of my life, starting with my mother, who didn't want me to be single, didn't want me to be singled out because I was a "sissy" boy, subjected to daily bullying from the young people around me and a lot of adults around me.

I'll admit that at first, I wanted to have a family, a house with a white picket fence, a good job = all the trappings of the American dream, but even though it looked perfect on the outside, inside my mind it was constant turmoil. Little did I know then I was suffering from a severe mental illness, little did I know then that my mother and one of my sisters was suffering from the same mental illness. Years later, I looked back at both of these women and finally understood their behavior, but by that time I was an adult, struggling to understand my "unquiet mind", dissatisfied with my sexual desires, not wanting to be connected to another person in any way, shape or form. I have never been a sexual person, I have been a person who could have lived my whole life without experiencing it. To me, it never brought anything but frustraton, sadness and dissatisfaction.

But I tried, I tried = "if at first you don't succeed, try, try again" =

When it finally dawned on me I was living my life to please other people, I was powerless to change the situation. My job, my marriage, my sanity, was at stake. I had a lot to lose if I stopped living my life to please other people = I believe that's why I lost one of the best jobs I ever had, I couldn't do that anymore, I couldn't do it, I couldn't please my boss, my co-workers, my wife, my friends = I couldn't please them anymore, so my life spiraled out of control.

I tried to keep steering on a straight-lined highway to my dreams, but I couldn't do it any more, so I clawed and struggled to find myself in another light, winning a little bit at a time, winning my self-esteem and my confidence back after all those years of not having any.

And here I am, in all my glory, still not sure who I ever was, all the roles I played to get through this life, but here I am, content in some ways, malcontent in others. There's no one around me to try to "change" me = wouldn't do them any good.

I read yesterday that transgender actress Alexis Arquette died = a pioneer who paved the way for a lot of people who weren't sure who they wanted to be, but I dedicate this to her (him) = it doesn't matter = I dedicate this to the person they became, living by their own rules, on their own terms.

All of us should be so free !!

In the overall scheme of things, my life will probably be just a blip on the radar of life, but I believe every life tells a story, each one different than the other.

With a storm erupting outside tonight, my mind is eerily quiet, it's not filled with all those crazy thoughts and names and pictures floating around = something rare in my universe. 

You see, I've created my own universe, my own little spot in the world, which works for me but would not work for anyone else. I guard my privacy and independence with a wary eye for any intruder who may spoil my nest. Those who are disrespectful of my life are not welcome.

I'm coming off a rollercoaster of emotional highs and lows which pushed me to the brink of madness during the last 3 months = still not sure if I've gotten off the ride, but the ride is slowing down somewhat and again that is rare in my universe, in my life.

My life tells a story of beating the odds, overcoming obstacles, landing on my feet, etc., etc. It has been told in many ways and I won't repeat it here, everyone is familiar with it and familiarity can breed contempt and I surely don't want people to feel any contempt toward me. I know there are people who don't like me or agree with me on certain issues, but that is never going to change = I'm not bending my beliefs and my will to anybody's image of what their truth may be.

One of my nieces said she and I no longer shared the bond of friendship because of the way we "butted heads" on the facts of my life = again, my life, not hers, mine. She never put her life into the equation except to say she could't come around to my way of thinking. 

Her loss, I say.

As I get older, my views don't change on many things and I believe that is common with people my age. I never believed I would live past 30, let alone deal with being 71-years-old. Body aged, mind still young.

In my youth, I tested the boundaries of good taste, pushing the envelope too far at times, just to see what I could get away with. It is in a lot of my postings I have blamed my past for my present, but I don't believe that's 100 percent true, maybe 50 percent true. When a person reaches a certain age, the "blame game" doesn't quite work any more.

I have made my own way down a bumpy road to get this far and I count my blessings every day. God gives me another day and I take it, good or bad, I take it. I don't believe God can fix everything, but I have witnessed miracles I know came from him, there is no other explanation for it. I believe God walks among us and could be anybody you come in contact with.

My spirituality tells me that a soul doesn't entirely leave us, but comes back every now and then in spirit to tell us they are OK, that we are OK, and for us to move forward. In times of great sadness, which I have experienced recently, it was hard to believe that, but I saw signs that made me believe.

Will the remainder of my life then, be peaceful = probably not. If you make plans, God just laughs, because you believe you are in control of your destiny and He knows you are not. I don't make plans, I put one foot in front of the other and hope I make it through any given day.

My life tells its own story.

I love putting graphics in my postings and usually there are several throughout, but this particular one I think tells the reader what I want to convey.

I'm not a romantic, even if there is a heart in the picture, because personally I don't believe in romance, it comes off to me as very phony, very contrived and I don't think it's human nature for two people to join together and spend their entire lives together, it's just something I don't believe in. All the postings on Facebook of couples expressing their undying love and affection for each other is not believable. I'm sorry, it just isn't.

I believe their expressions of undying love and affection for one another is put out there for everyone to see, to hide what their lives are really like behind closed doors = not so great. A picture is indeed worth a thousand words and the words to me are not flattering.

Every life has pieces, like puzzle pieces, you might be able to put the corner pieces together to make an outline of the puzzle, but when you start working it, some of the pieces are always missing, the important pieces that bring everything together. Those pieces tell a story, sometimes to be told, sometimes to be left untold.

From infancy until the time you leave this Earth, you have to fill in the "dash" between the date of your birth and the date of your death = it's up to you how you make those pieces fit. Sometimes they never fit and you waste your lifetime trying to figure out why. I wasted a lot of years doing that and realized that until I became "true to myself" that nothing in my life was going to change = it was up to me to change it, to make the pieces fit the way I wanted them to fit. I took that giant step in 1989 when I filed for divorce and struck out on my own.

The first part of that journey did not go very well, but I learned a lot about myself during the process. I'm still a work in progress, but it is my journey I'm on, no one else's. No one is responsible for me but me, regardless of the help I've received along the way. The final and ultimate decision for my life's trajectory is left up to me, my decision.

My life, indeed, tells a story, a mixed bag of events that are not significant to other people, even though they like to read about them, but they are significant to me, milestones if you will, of things I have done, things I have accomplished, things I couldn't do, things I couldn't accomplish and the good, the bad and the ugly, a lot of ugly.

But my life now is filled with the blessings of my babies = Darby, Toot, Emma, Pete, Penny, Linus, Lucy Belle and Charlie Brown. Baby-Doo is missing in physical form but alive in spirit all around me. My grief for him is still raw, there will be no closure, there is no end to the pain of the loss, just a place to put his memories and bring them out to cry or laugh about.

Baby-Doo, your life told me a story and I cherish those chapters you shared with me for almost 13 years. Love you always, my beloved old friend and miss you always.

By the way, my computer buddies for tonight are Toot (shown here getting a drink from the faucet, a favorite place for him to quench his thirst) and Pete, watching TV from her front-row seat.

Three of my blessings, part of my story.