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I recently won a radio contest. I’m not sure why, but I find that a bit embarassing, and I blush a little every time I say it.

BUT ANYWAY, I won, and it was a great prize: a Supreme Pamper Day at a local Spa Seekers establishment. And let me just tell you, this is a fantastic day, at a choice of really nice spas. And the radio station (Southern FM, if anyone is interested) even threw in £30 travel money!

As I live about an hour away from Brighton, and it’s a convenient drive, I opted to redeem my voucher at the Landsdowne Place Hotel in Brighton. Their spa is beautiful, and the staff really set out to make me feel welcome.

Upon arrival, I met Sam, who informed me that she was my beauty therapist for the day. Each beauty therapist has her own treatment room, so being assigned to Sam for all my treatments meant I basically had my own private room for the day. Sam gave me a quick tour of the facilities I’d be using (the ‘Relaxation Room’, complete with sauna, steam room and open showers, and the women’s ‘Locker Room’, where I was given my own locker [although that word seems far too crass when you realise it was a full-size cupboard, with a hanger for my clothes and a shelf for personal items and tall wooden lockable door] and shown where to change and the toilet that was accessible there. I had been warned to bring swimwear (necessary for access to the sauna or steam room, if that’s your sort of thing — I’m not good with too much heat myself — but also just so you feel more comfortable roaming around the place) and Sam told me to change into that and then put on the lovely, thick, white terrycloth robe provided. She instructed me to return to the Relaxation Room (this is the drop-off and pick-up point for clients, and a place to rest, read a magazine, have a drink — instant coffee, numerous teas and water were compimentary all day — etc.) to wait for her to come get me.

When Sam came for me, we went to her treatment room, and my day began. We started with a full-body scrub. (Paper knickers were offered instead of swimwear, but you can wear that, or indeed your own underwear, if you feel more comfortable. Or you can go entirely without if you prefer since you are always covered with multiple towels and all the therapists take great pains to make you feel secure and comfortable.) This was done on a heated table with sea salts, that come in three varieties. (All the products were from the ESPA line, and they are available on the company’s website.) Mine was ‘Relaxing’ and I definitely did that while being scrubbed all over. Sam was really great, and we chatted while she worked. I asked a number of questions and she answered very knowledgeably and thoroughly. She was really good at putting me at ease.

Once my scrub was finished, Sam explained to me that she’d go out for 10 minutes, to allow me to shower off the salt. (There is a shower room as part of each treatment room, complete with shower gel and shampoo and conditioner as well.) Once I was cleaned and robed again, she came back in to change all the salt covered towels for clean ones. (I remarked that they must spend a fortune on towels, and she assured me they do!)

Then I got back onto the table and it was time for a full body massage. Sam asked how I like my massage, which meant how much pressure. I opted for firm, as I have a lot of tension and knotted muscles in my back and neck.

One word of advice here — don’t say ‘firm’ if you don’t really want it. (And you can always change your mind if the pressure is too much.) I knew what I was asking for, and I really wanted my muscles loosened, so I was okay with that. She really had to work hard to get at some of the muscles, especially as it had been a year since my last massage. (I plan to go more often now!) Sometimes the pressure was a bit painful, but the relief afterwards was tremendous, when she was able to work out some of those muscle pains. With any massage, unless you go very regularly, it’s normal to have some soreness afterwards, because muscles have been manipulated in ways that you are unused to. Most of my soreness was in my neck, which tells you a lot about where my tensions focus is!

A full body massage is just that, back and front, neck to soles of the feet, even your fingers get massaged. By the time I was on my back (you start face down) I was so relaxed I could have gone to sleep. Taking her cue from me, Sam only spoke to tell me when she needed me to move, as I was in a place where I had no desire to say anything!

Once the massage was done, Sam moved straight on to a full facial as I was in a perfect position to do this. The warmth on my back from the heated table while she worked on my face, neck and décolletage was absolute bliss! The facial involved numerous scrubs and treatments, and smelled wonderful. I can’t remember when I’ve ever been so relaxed in my life! Scrub, massage, facial is a treatment list I’d recommend for anyone who needs to really relax.

After my morning treatments, I had been promised a ‘light lunch’. (I told my husband this would probably involve a few bits of fruit, a lettuce leaf and a cracker. ) At 12:30, I was escorted to the hotel’s restaurant — in my robe no less! But I was assured that ‘all the guests do that’ — and offered their ‘day menu’. LIGHT? HA! There were ‘lighter bites’ listed, but when you’re told to “choose any two courses” and promised a drink as well (which can be soft drinks, juices or indeed house wine), it’s hard to think ‘light’! I opted for a starter (As I’m basically allergic to sugar desserts are usually a no-go, and I was told I couldn’t deviate from the offered menu. But honestly, I don’t think you’d need to. There were about a half dozen starter or light meal options, the same sort of number of main meals and four desserts.) and a main meal. I had fish chowder to start, which was creamy and full of big chunks of salmon and other fish, and a burger for a main. The burger turned out to be a large, thick patty (seriously, must have been a half pound of meat) on a bun that had been toasted on the grill, with a mound of ’shoestring’ chips and a rocket and pepper salad. Oh my god! It was fantastic food, and the staff was very polite and eager to please. I really did feel pampered after all that!

The day wasn’t over though. My Supreme Pamper Day included painting of fingernails and toenails as well. Sam came to get me from the Relaxation Room again, and we set off to the manicure station. I got to choose two colours of polish (This is apparently the thing now — toes and fingers have no need to match, and it seems a lot of women are choosing subtle fingers and stronger coloured toes, and that’s the route I went as well.) and she set to work. Again she was very good with chatting with me, answering questions about products and such, and it was very enjoyable. Once all was complete, she took me back to the Relaxation Room to dry, and she told me to enjoy the rest of my day. (I was allowed to stay until 17:00 if I wished and make use of any of the facilities.) In the end once I was completely dry, I was really wanting to go home and sleep! I felt very relaxed, and definitely pampered (as it says on the tin!), and I was ready to call it a day.

I found out online that this package costs about £165, or £175 on Friday and weekends. As I went on a Friday, my day came into the higher slot. But, honestly, SO WORTH IT! If you have that sort of money to drop on a spa day like this, I cannot recommend it highly enough. I’m just so grateful to have had a day like this, especially as it’s something I wouldn’t necessarily think to get for myself. But I may again in future! They also do gift vouchers, so you can give such an experience to a woman who wouldn’t think to do it for herself.

Incidentally, I did ask Sam if men went to the Spa for treatments as well. She assured me that they often have as many or more men than women (and later in the day, I did see a couple who was there for treatments together) as many companies send men to the hotel on business, and include a visit to the spa in the package.

This particular spa also features two ‘dual treatment rooms’, where two people go together — whether friends, family members, couple, whatever — and receive their treatments in the same room, each from their own beauty therapist. The only thing I think could have made my day any better was doing it with a friend, so this is a great selling point.

They also sell the full range of ESPA products in the spa itself. They are not cheap, but everything feels terrific, smells good and is made of all natural ingredients. Plus they put a lot of research into the development of really good products, so worth looking into.

I honestly cannot recommend the Lansdowne Place Hotel Spa, or its staff, highly enough. Everyone was wonderful and seemed so intent on giving me the best possible experience. If you are lucky enough to be able to be able to take advantage of a Pamper Day, or even an individual treatment there, definitely go for it! I can assure you it’s an experience you won’t soon forget.

When things haven’t gone my way — if I have an embarrassing moment or a fight with a friend or family member, for example — I have this habit of replaying the whole scene in my head. More than once. Vividly.

Like a movie scene, I can run the experience through my head over and over, hearing every nuance, seeing everything that happened. It can be torturous.

But honestly, I don’t do this to punish myself at all. Although the memories often make me cringe, that isn’t my goal, to make myself fee worse; The reality is, I keep replaying the scene in an effort to change it somehow.

Now I know you can’t change the past. I do get that. But in my head, I keep thinking that maybe it wasn’t as bad as I think. Maybe what I said didn’t really sound that bad. Maybe I didn’t actually say that last, really cutting, remark. Maybe I didn’t really drop that plate and break it to bits.

I know I did. And I know that replaying it doesn’t change it. But it’s just such a hard habit to break. Before I know it, I’ve hit the mental rewind button, and here we go, watching it all over again.

A big focus of my life at the moment is balance. Not too much, not too little, finding the middle line instead. So, I’m not trying to cut out ALL of my replaying. I’m just working to keep it to a minimal amount.

And be a little kinder to myself about my failings in general.

I wrote a few weeks ago about losing my sense of normal with regard to developing asthma late in life. What a difference a few weeks, and the right medicine, makes!

I’m due back at the asthma clinic on Monday, and I can’t wait to go. I’ve had such a dramatic turnaround that my husband is actually questioning whether I truly have asthma or not!

I know however. Some things are different — hills and stairs cause me to get a bit out of breath no matter what I do. And I react to environmental factors: dust and certain perfumes can be debilitating.

BUT. I have rediscovered ‘normal‘.

I have been doing my walking, and crazy person that I am, I’ve decided to start running. Now running for me is not as exciting as it sounds. For me it’s run one minute, walk five to recover, and then run again. But I’m doing it. Regularly and consistently, and I’m building on my progress.

And during my run/walk/run cycles, there is a set of stairs on my regular route. (I run on the seafront promenade which is minutes from my house.) And, no matter what I’m supposed to be doing at the time, whether walking or running, I always run up those stairs. Just to show them I can. Stairs have been my nemesis since this whole saga started, and I’m not going to let them beat me!

Nor will I let asthma beat me. It’s been a long road back, but I’ve found normal again. And even if I lose for a time again, I know it’s there and I know how to get back to it.

That is worth a lot.

Every parent thinks their baby is bright, their child is special. But mine are. Truly! And parenting a child who is intelligent is, in my opinion, a much more daunting prospect.

When my first was born, I was determined that, unlike my mother, I was not going to say ‘because I said so’. I was very careful, whenever he asked me why, to explain all the reasons in as full a manner as I thought he could understand. So what did he do? As soon as he was old enough to figure all this out, he started arguing all the reasons I should do what he wanted instead of what I felt was best. I, foolishly, went along with this for a while, arguing my reasoning back with him, to which he’d counter argue and so on. Eventually, exhausted by the process, I found myself saying to him, “Look, I am the parent, and it’s my job to make these decisions. I have to make the best choice I can in the situation, and hey, it may even be the wrong one, but I can only do my best. And you must abide by my decisions because you are my child.” And then it hit me, that was a very fancy way of saying “Because I said so.” Terrific.

When my second child came along (also bright, of course) I found myself saying more often, “I’m sorry but that’s the way it is. I have to make the decisions and this is the one I’m making.” Still an elongated “Because I said so” but better in my opinion. And if they ask me to explain why, I will. However, I’ve had to be very clear with my oldest child, now a pre-teen, that ‘the why’ is not an avenue to negotiation; He can disagree all he likes, but the decision will stand.

Having said that, I do allow my children a chance to explain if they think I’m wrong. NOT to wear me down — No means no! — but to show me their side if they think either I didn’t ‘get it’ or else that my reasoning is faulty. Sometimes they’re right, and I change my mind.

For example, my oldest child wanted a later bedtime. He is 12 now, and he felt his bedtime should be later. I didn’t want this because I felt he his bedtime was age-appropriate. He said he really felt that he could handle it and wanted me to think about it again. So I let him explain, and he pointed out that he doesn’t seem to need as much sleep as some other kids his age, and he really wanted some uninterrupted time after his brother had gone to bed, so ‘me time’ for him without his younger siblings buzzing around, and only a half hour separated their bedtimes at that point. I thought that was a reasonable argument, so I did change my mind, and gave him a trial run on it. So far he’s been right, and the later bedtime stands.

These kids are definitely smart, and if I’m not careful, they can get the better of me. Not only do I have to make the best decisions possible, I have to out-think him the best I can as well!

The out-smarting thing is definitely important in my relationship with my middle son. He is slightly under-motivated in certain areas, like reading. Let me just say here, in my family we are Readers. (Capital letter intentional!) My husband reads a lot (both books and copiously on the Internet), I read every spare moment, and my eldest child is a prolific reader as well, although he came into it a bit late. Back to the middle child, so NOT a reader. He can read, and do it well. He just doesn’t seem to enjoy it. (I still have hope though — his brother was 10 before he started to read for enjoyment.) So, being good parents of a bright child who needs a bit of scholastic pushing, we got him a library card, took him to said library and watched while he checked out books. We instituted reading time, where we all read at the same time, and then we would quiz him afterwards about what he’d read to be sure he was taking it in. He answered the questions, but we noticed that, over time, the amount he was getting through in the allotted time was growing astronomically! Hhhmmmm… Yep you probably guessed it, the stinker was skimming chapter titles, learning the main character’s names, and then reading the last chapter so he could tell us how it ended! Sneaky!

And now we come to the third child, this one a girl. She’s not yet three, so you’d think I was off the hook with the smart thing, right? You couldn’t be more wrong. Not yet three and she knows all her alphabet, colours (even down to obscure ones like ‘beige’), numbers to 12 and she can talk rings around all of us, using very sophisticated vocabulary to do it! It doesn’t hurt that my mother-in-law quit her job as a teaching assistant to keep our daughter from the age of 6 months, but trust me, the kid is bright. And, oh joy, we are to the ‘Why?’ stage of nearly-three. I have explained why about everything from the need to wear socks under shoes, to the justification for her going to Nanny’s house while the boys and I go elsewhere everyday, (Even though she loves going to Nanny’s and wouldn’t really want to go anywhere else!) to the reason that people have belly buttons. Believe me, I have explained just about everything there is to explain! And still she asks ‘Why’!!!

As an aside, I once asked her why she asks ‘Why’ all the time. Her answer? “I don’t know, I just have to.” Profound that.

In my experience, parenting intelligent children is an exhausting and introspective process. I’m continuously having to think about how I talk to them, how to explain things from their perspective (You try explaining the British legal system to an inquisitive six year-old!) and then review how I’ve dealt with them. I’m also trying to think ahead to how the systems I put in place today may turn on me tomorrow! It’s definitely never easy.

But worth it? Oh yeah. Just talking to these wonderful small people who have fresh and amazing insights on the world, who never run out of things to tell me and who regale me with yet a 14th chorus of ‘Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star’ (that’s the little one, mind, who knows all the words and doesn’t seem to understand when a song is over) is a wonderfully enjoyable experience. I just have to remember that during the times when the constant chattering and singing drives me crazy.

I have learned a lot in the last few weeks about ‘normal’ and the lack of it. I wrote a few weeks ago about how I had ’suddenly’ developed asthma. This has been a life changing experience — when you can’t breathe, everything that is important to you, everything you thought you knew about your body, suddenly changes. Breathing is so integral to life itself, that when you’re struggling to do it, you can’t think of much else.

Having said that, after several changes in medicine, my regime is finally working. My asthma is improving, and I actually am starting to feel that it’s coming under control.

I still struggle with stairs, mind you, but I’m back to walking again for exercise. (I can’t do Level 20, Random Hills on a treadmill anymore, but I can walk on fairly level ground — with, hey hey!, one set of stairs in the middle — at a brisk pace.) I’m increasing my time gradually, and today after walking I didn’t even feel the need for a recovery inhaler afterwards. So things are better.

But…

I feel the loss of ‘normal’. I’m of an age now where I kinda know what my body can do and what it can’t. I know how much I can push myself and what kind of recovery it will take afterwards.

Or at least I did.

I miss that. I know I don’t actually have a lot to complain about: I’m getting better, I’m under good care and things are most definitely improving.

But I can’t help feeling a tiny bit sorry for myself that, at least a part of the ‘me’ I knew is gone.

I have quite a few female friends, most of whom are married and have been for some time. In the past few years, I’ve heard from more than one of my married friends only to find out that they and their husbands have split. And more than half of the time, the split has been precipitated (notice I did not say ’caused’) by the husband first saying he’s ‘unhappy’ or ‘disatisfied’ or ‘going through something’, and then in the end it turns out he’s found someone else. Sometimes the wife has known said woman because she was ‘just a friend’ or ’someone I work with’ and other times it’s been a shock completely out of the blue. And once ‘the other woman’ enters the picture, things deteriorate rapidly.

I do realise, of course, that some relationships need to end. I think most times that’s down to the individuals, but you can reach a point where there is nowhere left to go, or else there are so many things wrong in the relationship (especially where something like abuse is concerned) that the relationship needs to end.

I have no problem with that. What bothers me is when a person, still in a relationship, decides to ’stray’ with another person. They create a new relationship before their current one is finished, and generally one person doesn’t know what’s going on and ends up feeling really stupid, betrayed and angry as a result.

Now I’m not naieve enough to believe that these people were in perfect relationships (Oh dear, I had trouble even typing that phrase, as I don’t believe ‘perfect relationships’ even exist!) that rapidly fell apart once ‘the other woman’ entered the scene. In fact, situations like this always make me think of a very apt line from the film When Harry Met Sally: “Marriages don’t break up on account of infidelity. It’s just a symptom that something else is wrong.”

While I do believe that infidelity is an outcome, rather than a cause, I find myself asking why so many people, and especially so many men (at least that seems to be the case), attempt to solve their relationship problems by finding a new relationship.

One big reason I think this avenue is so tempting is because it gives a feeling of control. If your most central relationship is threatened, you really feel it. When you find yourself constantly arguing with your partner, or else growing very distant and maybe having nothing to say to each other, it can feel very scary. For a lot of reasons. Somewhere down inside you feel a failure when you can’t make your relationship work. You can also feel afraid of the future, afraid of the unknown, out of control. You may even start to feel worthless.

On the flip side, we all know how it feels to be in a new relationship. You feel good about yourself, desired, attractive, and if you do lose control, it’s in a fun, total emotional ‘rush‘ kind of way. If you’re feeling your relationship with your partner is breaking down, if you feel undesirable to your partner, or if you feel as if everything you do is ‘wrong’, that ‘rush’ can be a powerful temptation. Why work on old issues or bother with confrontation when you can just have a ‘clean slate’ with a new person who thinks you’re wonderful?

Why indeed. And many people seem to think this way.

That brings me back to a book I read a very long time ago, The Road Less Traveled by M. Scott Peck. Of all the valuable things in it (It’s a fascinating take on life and what makes it worth living, what things we need to do in order to become a person who lives a truly fulfilling life.) the one that stuck with me the most was about love. In a nutshell, Peck believed that real love is a choice. Attraction is biological, as is infatuation. Feelings are important — you don’t want to be with someone you don’t even find attractive! No one should be that self-sacrificing — but they are not the be-all, end-all. They are just the starting point. To truly love someone, you have to commit, you have to choose to be there. You choose to do what it takes to make that relationship work.

The benefits of that choice, that commitment, can be amazing. When you’ve been through real life with someone else, worked on your issues, found your strengths, been a support to that person and been supported by them, that’s a real relationship. You have a friend, a partner, someone to laugh and cry with, someone who really knows you — both the good and the bad — and chooses to still be with you. That is something worthwhile.

Of course, anything worthwhile comes with a price. And, in this case, that price can be hard work, at least some of the time.

There are always rough patches in a relationship, times when you make each other more angry than you thought possible, times when you cannot seem to get through a day without a shouting match. To get past those points can require real work: copious discussion, true listening, compromise, sacrifice, being honest with yourself, sometimes painful things. It definitely isn’t easy sometimes.

So is it worth it? I think so. A lot of my friends and family agree.

But there will always be some who take a different path, the ‘easy’ path if you will. Much easier to just call it quits and start again. More exciting? Yes. More fun? Probably. Better than commiting to your relationship and working through the obstacles? Not to me, that’s for sure.

I guess, like Peck and the poet Robert Frost I believe:

Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.

(from The Road Not Taken by Robert Frost)

When I was pregnant with my first child, I had not been in England long and I didn’t have many friends. None of the friends I did have were pregnant and I felt as if I had no one to talk to that was going through the same thing I was. So my husband, being the Internet-focused man he was and is, found me a mailing list.

As I was due in May, I joined a list called MayMoms. It was a complete turning point in my life.

At full strength there were over a hundred of us, women all due to give birth in May of 1996. We shared fears and concerns, we asked for ‘reality checks’ over whether we were imagining things that were happening to us, we talked about babies kicking and growing bigger and midwives and obstetricians and birth plans and everything to do with having a baby. And when our babies were born we talked about weights and feeding and poops (It’s amazing how much new mothers can have to say about baby poop!) and milestones. And later we discussed baby blues and postpartum depression and finding yourself apart from being ‘Mom’. And then came siblings and school and so on.

We discussed our lives. Some of us even met in person. We made our own yearbooks, complete with photos of our family members. We knew each other.

I was connected to a whole group of women (admittedly mostly white collar, upper-middle-class, highly intelligent, educated women — not anywhere near the norm of all women and we knew that) that were my friends. I knew these women, cared about them, gave my input when they asked for it, and asked for theirs in return. We talked members through illness, divorces, infidelity, unemployment, buying and selling houses, moving to new countries, you name it.

And just yesterday, one of us died.

I haven’t read the list actively in the past year. I’ve checked in now and then, and one woman in particular has been good to flag up important news to those of us who had become ‘on the fringe’ of the group. It was her email that let me know I’d lost a friend.

A friend I’ve never met in person, never spoken to on the phone, I probably couldn’t pick her out of a lineup. But she was my friend. We met in the virtual world, far from my everyday life, but our connection was real. I knew about her illness, that she had cancer. I knew she went into remission, and then I knew she was ill again. And now she’s gone.

I will miss her.

I hate to cry.

My mother, bless her, is a cry-er. She cries when she’s angry, she cries when she’s sad, she cries when she’s moved, she cries when she’s happy. Do not misunderstand me — I love my mother, very, very much. I also know this thing about her, and I’m honest about it.

I have never been and never wanted to be a cry-er. I look awful when I cry (red face, runny nose, swollen eyes — NOT pretty) and I feel pretty awful while doing it. I feel better afterwards, but I’m still not good at it.

Now it is a woman thing. We honestly can’t help crying sometimes. ESPECIALLY if a woman has ever had a child. That hormone thing is real and it’s weird. And we can’t help it!

So why is it, when nearly every 2nd person on the planet has to do the crying thing sometimes, that men are so flummoxed by it?!

My husband hates it when I cry. Now he’s known me, been with me, lived with me, for more than a decade now. And yet every time I cry, it’s like this totally baffling (and irritating) experience for him. Do they not cover this at men school?

If you’re a guy, let me give you a small piece of advice. (And trust me, this will take you far, with the ladies I mean.) When a woman cries, this is what she wants: 1) Have a sympathetic look on your face, 2) put your arms around her and hold tight and 3) this one is your choice — either rock slightly with her in your arms, or make soothing noises (words like “It’s okay”, or “I know” or other similar phrases are great), or heck, BOTH at the same time. You can even rub or pat if you feel so moved (BONUS POINTS), but these aren’t totally requisite. The first three, non-negotiable. Must be done.

The sympathetic look doesn’t have to be real. You can fake it. Trust me, we don’t care. We just want to see it. We want to believe you get it. That you understand. You don’t. You probably can’t. You are a different species, after all. On some level, we know that, but when we’re crying we want to believe you get it. Don’t make any other kind of face, even if you’re feeling it inside. Feed the fantasy.

The hugging thing scores major points. Don’t walk away, (or worse, run) although we know, again at some deep level, that you want to. Don’t pretend you don’t hear us sniffling or sobbing. Don’t suddenly get absorbed in a fascinating article on the Internet. Approach and hug. Believe me, it will have payoffs for you. This is worth doing.

As for the sounds/rocking, we don’t know why we need it, we just do. It just helps. Don’t tsk. Do not, under any circumstances, roll your eyes. Do not sigh. Rock or make soothing noises, or do both. (Depends on a) how believable you can be with the noises and b) how much credit you want for this!) That’s it. Don’t improvise and don’t let us know you don’t really want to do this. It will go much better for you if follow these rules, believe me.

Now there may be a woman out there somewhere who doesn’t like this. But chances are, even if it’s not how she wants her crying to be handled, she’ll still appreciate the attempt.

So do us, and yourself, a favour. Ignore your natural instincts. Follow the three rules as laid out.

And then our crying will be over sooner, and you will benefit from being seen as such a “wonderful, understanding man”. See? Everybody wins!!!

Books are one of my greatest pleasures.

My husband and I seem to disagree TOTALLY about books. I love Sci-fi and Fantasy books; he hates them. He likes trendy new novels; I can get through a few, but I don’t usually like them. He reads factual books; I’d rather gnaw my arm off at the elbow. We can both enjoy biographies, but our ideas of a ‘good biography’ seem to be poles apart.

Me? I love a good story. Throw it into an as-yet non-existent world or universe, add some ability or power nobody really has, chuck in some impending doom that isn’t a possibility in this life, and I’m in heaven. Why? Because it sets my imagination free.

I love when a book goes places we can’t go in this world. That’s the excitement of it for me: not knowing where things will go or what might happen. I like that kind of surprise.

I love worlds where people move things with their minds, spaceships go further than we could get in several lifetimes, vampire masters can be defeated by a girl who raises the dead for a living (Ssshhhh! If you know, don’t tell. ), women who always thought they were perfectly normal can suddenly work magic and do extraordinary things. I love this stuff because a part of me would love to live this stuff. No, I don’t really want to live in a world inhabited by vampire masters (If they’re really out there, then don’t tell me!), but I’d love to be a girl who could kick vampire butt and save the day. I’d love to be more than I think I am, do more than I know I can do.

Is that so strange?

Isn’t that why we go to movies? To forget who we are for a little while, to try to walk in another person’s shoes, a person who can and does do things we cannot?

Books are my own personal movie, running in my head. I can see it all on the big screen and in living colour.

That being the case, why wouldn’t I want to read the stories that are larger than life, completely impossible and full of creativity and imagination? I don’t want to read about what’s been done — I want to read about doing what I wish could possibly be. I want to read about all the things that the server technician, wife and mother-of-three will never do, but would love to think that maybe, in another universe, she could.

I really don’t sleep well. I wonder if I ever have. I sleep poorly, suffer from nightmares and, worst of all, from night terrors. The kind that have you out of bed screaming without really knowing what’s happening or being able to get yourself out of it. And the only blessing is that usually I don’t remember it in the morning.

Why? Why don’t I sleep well? Why do I have these issues?

I think it’s because the god of my childhood was a bastard.

You may not think it’s fair to ‘blame god’ for my past fears or my present sleep problems. And I’m not really. I’m blaming the image I have had of god all my life. An image that I am admittedly responsible for creating and perpetuating, but one I haven’t yet been able to escape. An all-seeing, all-knowing, all-powerful bully, who takes great joy in watching you get screwed over.

Man, that’s sad, powerful stuff, isn’t it? And it all started before I was even five or six years old. As soon as I was old enough to understand it all. And believe me, that was early.

I’ve heard it said that the picture you have of god when you’re a child mirrors the picture you have of your grandfather.

Yeah, that definitely makes sense. My grandfather was a bastard. In fact, both my grandfathers pretty much were, but one more than the other. One definitely hurt me more than the other. And I think he was my cardboard cutout when I was forming my god picture.

Mind you, I had a lot of extra help there. My childhood religion did a LOT to influence that picture. It’s little wonder I’m not religious now. (I’m not sure I could be and remain sane.) But I still can’t really feel safe. Not anywhere. Sometimes I find that terrifying, and other times I just find it unbearably sad.

I grew up in a fundamental Christian family. They were, and are, lovely people, my family. Lovely and loving. However, our religion, THEIR religion, was not.

Take fire and brimstone, add a heap of terror and a child’s understanding of you’re-going-to-hell-if-you-don’t-get-this-exactly-right, tack on the worry that you can’t possibly get it right, mix well with trying extremely hard to get it right and saying the same ’sinner’s prayer’ at least four dozen times (I’m being conservative), being baptized twice (in case it didn’t ‘take’), and finish off with being quite sure it’s still not ‘right‘. My childhood in a bottle, ready to serve.

And the worst part is, being the intelligent, conscientious, precocious child I was, I had to worry about the state of everybody’s else’s soul as well. After all, I was responsible for them knowing ‘the good news‘, too.

And all the while, that super-duper bully was there waiting…just waiting for me to mess up. Put just one foot wrong.

My god, how did I not only survive that, but end up a functional, productive, mostly happy adult?

I have no answer except that I’m a survivor. How else do you make it through? And I always do.

Through a list of average, bad, and VERY BAD men and relationships. Past a number of bosses who seemed bent on emotionally abusing and/or destroying me and my self-esteem. Through a lot of very hard times. But I did. I do. I continue to not only survive, but go beyond that.

I’m married to a good man, a good father, a man I love, a man I have amazing chemistry with and a good friendship with as well. I have three amazing, intelligent and beautiful children. I have a difficult, responsible job that challenges and excites me.

And yet, when I close my eyes, it’s not safe. All the scary things are still there.

I’ve dealt with so much in so many ways. Yes, I’ll raise my hand and say I’ve been through therapy, with a number of different therapists. And it’s better. I don’t sleep with my fists clenched anymore. I don’t wake up with my shoulders aching anymore. But I still don’t sleep well.

I’ve met and comforted my inner child. I’ve faced the things that happened in my childhood. I’ve confronted those that hurt me. I’ve distanced myself from, and reconciled myself to, my family. I’ve left the church. I’ve journalled, talked, done the twelve steps, tried self-hypnosis, used every sleep aid on the market, read every related book I could find, google’d every website. I still don’t sleep well.

I’ve been on this earth quite a number of years, and really past the age of four, I’ve never slept well. I’m coming to the place where I believe I just maybe never will.

And that, is a very lonely, depressing and frightening place. But there is worse. A lot worse. And I know that. So I am grateful for what I have, and I carry on.