Author: josborne17602

Reading Goal – 2025

For those of you who didn’t have the opportunity to read my post in the fall of 2024, a quick synopsis is this: My goals each year since I started tracking how many books I read in that year finally reached a number (it was 172) that I knew I couldn’t make and admitted defeat that early. I was so far behind that reading had become a chore, rather than a pleasure. With advice from my dear friend, Marnette, I was able to understand that I was in competition with myself, not necessarily a healthy undertaking. Then and there, I set a new goal for 2025 and going forward… My goal was to read 101 books a year so that I could say I read over 100 books a year.

I finished that goal in 2025 on June 11th, and it was liberating to know that anything I read throughout the rest of the year was because I wanted to read. I kept counting, just out of curiosity, and finished 189 books for the year. I learned not to invest time in stories that didn’t capture me and my DNF (did not finish) count was higher than it’s ever been, but I am totally okay with that.

My favorite book for 2025 was Chasing Rabbits, written by Rodolfo Del Toro. A driven medical student’s perspective is challenged when assigned to a pediatric oncology unit, where he learns invaluable lessons from both his colleagues and the brave young patients on the unit. I finished the story with both tears in my eyes and a smile on my lips. I never re-read books, but this is a story I’d read again, knowing the ending and recognizing that I would get more from the story as it unfolds with that knowledge.

Another favorite book, a close runner-up, was A Fall of Marigolds. written by Susan Meissner. This is a story of two women in New York after two horrific events in history – 1911 and 2011 – and a single piece of material that binds their stories.

My reading goal for 2026 is, of course, 101 books and yes, I’ll probably keep track of exactly when I hit it and how much past it I’ll go. I’m just a girl who loves books!

Lost & Found

In the spring of 1997, I was introduced to a man who lived in Indiana but traveled to Lancaster County, where I lived and worked, regularly for business. I remember how easily and quickly we connected on a mental, almost intellectual, level and that we stood talking to each other for a seemingly long – and much too short – time. I remember finally exiting that meeting to head home and thinking to myself how long it had been since I’d enjoyed a conversation like that with someone. On his next trip to town, he made it a point to spend time conversing with me again, and did the same on his next trip. I really enjoyed his company each time, and we ended up spending time together on each of his upcoming visits, which often included dinner out. To make a long story short, I found myself falling in love with him and he was the first to say, “I love you”. For almost 10 years, we maintained a long-distance relationship and it worked for us well. We each had careers we were invested in and neither of us was in the position to make a move closer to each other. When he came to town, however, we invested every spare moment we had being with each other.

But all good things come to an end, and there came a time when it wasn’t feasible to continue, as our relationship couldn’t move forward and neither of us were willing to make the sacrifices it would have taken to push it forward. My heart was broken, but it just couldn’t happen for us.

Time passed… a lot of time, years in fact… and though we lost touch with each other, eventually both of us retired, my heart never got over him. During those years apart, I sporadically dated here and there, but found that no man could capture me completely the way that John had. So I held on to that theory that “it is better to have loved and lost than to have never loved at all”.

Time passed – almost 18 years to be exact – and one day a couple of months ago, there was a message in my voice mail (callers not in my contact list go straight to my voice mail) and it was from John. He left his number and I immediately called him back. Apparently, his heart had never stopped thinking about me as mine had never stopped thinking about him. He’s still in Indiana and I’m still in Pennsylvania, but it feels to both of us that we’ve just picked up where we left off all those years ago. We’ve been exchanging emails and phone calls and texts and even bought each other Christmas gifts this year (he spoiled me!). We’ve been talking about meeting together somewhere neutral and spend days just talking and catching up and seeing if the feelings we have can capture a reality. I’ve already said I was willing to move (though the thought of packing up and the expense of moving overwhelms me) if we find that we can maintain a day-to-day reality with each other. I harbor some concerns that my medical issues might be a burden I don’t want to place on him, and he has some concerns that his two grown daughters, especially the younger one with whom he shares a house, may not be prepared to have a woman in their dad’s life and have to share him.

But a lost love has been found, and I am deliriously crazy in love again. The only sadness is that my brother is not here to share my joy, as he knew that my heart was still invested in this one man. Where we go from here? Where we end up? We are both dreaming of a future together and our hearts and minds are totally invested in making that dream come true. But it’s going to be a slow process – and he’s teaching me patience in the meantime. But he’s being present with me in ways his past life – and mine – prevented him from doing before.

I know it’s been a while since I’ve written a blog post – – but I just can’t keep these feelings to myself. It’s too cold outside to go out and shout it from the rooftop! (Not that I’d risk climbing up to the roof with my balance issues.)

So that’s the Reader’s Digest condensed version of where I’m spending my time and with whom I’m spending it.

I Am Highly Functional

I have suffered from depression for most of my adult life.  With the recent loss of my beloved brother, coupled with the changing seasons of autumn and impending weather, I am aware by several factors that I am in the throes of depression.

I first became aware of my depression at the age of 19.  It was autumn, I was in college, and from my desk I could see outside to a wooded area in the distance.  The leaves were about 50% changed into their fall display of color, and one otherwise normal college day, I looked at those trees and felt a kind of melancholy seep into my brain.  Back then, there was no attached name and known diagnosis, but this later became known as Seasonal Affective Disorder (SAD – a perfect acronym, huh?).  Once winter arrived, I didn’t consciously feel an overwhelming sadness, so I never questioned it beyond thinking that it was something emotional about how beautiful the scenery was in autumn and how bare the trees looked once winter had planted me in its midst.

I lived on in that intellectual understanding of why the melancholy set in at that time of the year without question or concern.  I merely accepted that it existed.

I was in my early 50s when, during a visit with my then PCP, I talked about that melancholy feeling and it was at that time my status was given the name SAD as I fit the symptoms of it.  I was started on a mild depressant, which I had to take daily, regardless of the season, but it did seem to lessen the severity of my symptoms.  And life went on.

Looking back on my life, I can easily see that I met the criteria of suffering from depression, but I never really thought about it – much less talked about it – because I thought that this was just the way life felt.  Plus, I was ensconced in the hotel industry, for which I required myself to wear a mask behind which I kept my emotions and emotional weaknesses hidden.  I got quite adept at sharing happy emotions but no one, unless I allowed them to, saw anything less than happy.  I made that who I was.  Meanwhile, unbeknownst to me at that time, I was draining my emotional energies to keep that part of me hidden.  To be honest, as I look back over those years, I can’t recall if I was ever truly happy (beyond occasional moments when some event brought happiness) or whether I had just acted happy when I was supposed to be happy.

I remember telling Joanne and the Wentling crew that, now retired, I was taking off the mask.  It was easier said than done.  I had become afraid that sharing my genuine self – the good, the bad and the ugly – that people had become close to me based on the person they believed me to be and wouldn’t feel the same about me if they found out I was someone quite different.  After a while, with people I thought I could trust, I started to ignore the filter and gave myself permission to express things that were real for me in the moment I thought them.  Because I was only just discovering myself, I spoke and behaved in some ways that ended up hurting others because they didn’t know, much less understand, where I was coming from and why. I lost a “best friend” because of that, and that is someone I miss very much.  I tried to fix it, but apparently the pain had cut too deep for forgiveness.  It’s been a couple of years without her in my life, and I regret losing her to this day.

Anyhow, about 8 years ago, I had a doctor’s appointment with a new practice after I’d moved 1-1/2 hours from where I had been living; I had a January appointment in which I complained that I was mentally, emotionally and physically exhausted.  It turns out that, although both my iron and vitamin D levels were extremely low, I was having what qualified as a major depressive episode.  A full antidepressant, while still taking the medication for SAD, was added to my regime.

Did it help? To be honest, I don’t know. I started on both iron and vitamin D supplements at the same time, so I couldn’t say with any certainty if getting over that exhaustion was caused by the antidepressant or not.  To this day, I continue taking both antidepressants and both supplements (and a handful of other medications and supplements as well).

I had an appointment recently for my annual physical exam, and as my PCP knew about my brother’s passing from a previous follow-up appointment in mid-August, I shared with her that I was struggling with motivation.  That’s when I started reading about “highly functional depression” and believe that is where I live.  I’m far from over grieving the loss of my beloved brother, and I said to my PCP that the thing about feeling depressed is that “while it’s not comfortable, it’s familiar”.  Saying that aloud is what made me realize that I have suffered from depression for all of my adult life.

It’s become important to me to admit to suffering depression.  The old stigma is that if you are depressed, you are suicidal.  Not the case!  NOT THE CASE! I have no motive or plan to end my life.  I’ll admit that, when life feels like a living hell, I’d be okay if my time on earth was up.  But that is not ever going to be in my hands.

So, while I risk the loss of people for whom I am grateful to have in my life, in order for me to accept that this is who I am fully and freely, I have to share this part of me with others.  Perhaps someone reading this is suffering and feeling alone in the struggle.  Perhaps someone will be thankful for a greater insight into what living with depression is like.  Perhaps I will give someone the courage to be vulnerable enough to share their own story because I have.

Hey, world, I’m not going to commit suicide and I still manage to function (though right now, more from need than want).  And like the snow birds who travel to the south to avoid winter, this is where I am and will likely at least partly reside throughout the coming months.

But I will always be okay because it’s familiar and I know what to expect and how to get through it.

Thank you for letting me share my story.

 

The Gift That Keeps on Giving

For as far back as I can remember, I have often quoted the words, “Guilt. The gift that keeps on giving.” I don’t know if I heard/read that somewhere or whether it’s something I made up on my own, but it is something I’ve experienced for longer back than when I remember quoting those words.

When I use that phrase, I am most likely connecting it to something that happened between my mother and me. I can remember feeling guilty that I’d upset her in some way all the way back to my early tween years. Lately, I have been thinking about interactions with my parents (my dad was sometimes included, but my mom was “in charge” of the decisions made as a result of those interactions). I think this might have been more prominently in my thoughts now because of the upcoming anniversary of her death, the anniversary of her birth and my parents’ wedding anniversary, all happening from mid-February and the beginning of April. I’ve read countless social media posts and blog posts about mothers, and all but one were flowery and loving, filled with adoration for the wonderful mother that they had. If I had written anything like that, it would not have been authentic.

I’m not saying that I didn’t love my mother, or that my mother didn’t love me. We were not a family by word or act of affection, and much like what I talked about in my post questioning if negativity was genetic, criticism was both verbal and physical, but I can’t recall ever hearing either parent say to any of the three of us the simple words “I love you” unless it was in response to us saying it first. Maybe when we were very young and, upon being tucked in bed at night, we’d get a response of “I love you, too” if we first said, “I love you, mommy.” It honestly felt like the only time we got our parents’ attention was for something negative we’d said or done. Because that negative attention almost always included fierce physical punishment, I most often tried to be invisible. Actually, my brothers, especially my older one, wasn’t ‘bad’ often, but when he was, he took being bad to the max. I think the younger one got away with a little more because most of his ‘crimes’ were small by comparison…. and my parents were tired by that time as well.

It took me until just a few years ago to come to understand that, while I wasn’t a perfect child and deserved consequences for my behaviors – we all did – that the punishments didn’t always fit the crimes. My mother was fond of her carved wooden paddle and putting us over a kitchen chair as her choice of punishment. More often than not, we were left with bruises and welts by the time she had expunged her anger in this manner. And when I say that “the punishments didn’t always fit the crimes”, I mean that the amount of strikes by the paddle were most often not in conjunction with said crime but simply continued until she was done. Taking a dollar bill to spend at the snack bar at the community pool could be worth 10 smacks while saying some random swear word (the ones that got heard, anyhow) might get 4 or 5. By the time I was in high school, I was too big for the chair, so the new form of discipline became taking away anything that could be considered a privilege. And since I didn’t have many privileges to begin with, what was taken away was usually a privilege that was near and dear. The one I will never forget is not being allowed to audition for my senior year’s musical. I had been in everything musical – marching and concert band, choir, a group for choir known as the Choraliers, and the chorus for my junior year’s musical. I don’t even remember what I’d done wrong, but that loss of privilege broke my heart and still hurts my heart today when I think about it.

My mom, who passed in 1999, still comes into my thoughts on a regular basis. Lately, when the negative thoughts and memories arise, I make myself think about all of the things my mother did by action which can prove that she did love me. I remember when The Sound of Music came to the theatres and she and I, without my brothers and dad, went to see it on Sunday afternoons – yes, afternoonS, plural – I don’t remember how many times but I know that it was more than I can count on one hand. Later on, she took me along – and paid for -on bus trips to NYC her school district was having for senior class members to see shows on Broadway and play tourist in the downtown area. Chaperones led the students around but we were on our own to do as we pleased. Mom always chose the two-show option, a matinee and an evening performance. She didn’t have to take me. In fact, she could have gone on her own with her friends also going and I would never have known, but I cherish those opportunities still today. And always, these things remind me why I can say with authority that my mother gave me the legacy of the love of music in all forms, watching, singing and playing.

I’m sure she knew how much I adored those times, but lately I’ve come to realize that I never told her “thank you” in those words or shared my appreciation in any way. I never spent any money except for an inexpensive trinket if I stumbled upon one. There were also times when I got to spend one-on-one time with her, such as helping her out each evening after I got off work to go to the Farm Show Complex where she had a table of her ceramics at a craft show and sale. I was happy that I was the caring daughter who came to give her a break, manning the table as she took a much-needed break to walk around and head outside for a cigarette break. It was definitely a time when I felt like an adult in her presence, which didn’t happen often. And I felt trusted, which was a huge feeling for me to experience. That came from a place where I often felt that my parents were unconsciously awaiting the next mistake I’d make.

The gift that keeps on giving – guilt. I can’t say I felt guilty during those growing years for the reasons I made her angry and punishment seemingly necessary. But over the past few years, I feel a hefty weight of guilt at times for a lot of things.

My guilt isn’t limited to my relationship with my mom, though it is a prominent source due to the nature and length of that relationship. I’m having a current bout of guilt that I have to continue to consciously talk myself away from. My beloved brother has mentioned about making a trip to visit me. Now, over the course of time that I’ve lived here (almost 9 years), I have made far more drives to visit him, easier because I was retired and the 4-hour round trip wasn’t as big a bite into my time as it is for his on one of his two days off each week. Most trips (all but one that I remember) also included the transfer of frozen meals from my freezer to his to heat and eat at his convenience. The last time I made a trip there, I realized that my health issues made me less than 100% comfortable, though I’ve managed just fine. I’d prefer not to test myself, though I’d make that drive without question if I was needed to make it. Anyhow, he’s talking about a visit to me. I’m grateful, not only not to have to make the drive but because there are a couple of things around my place that I need assistance with – for example, changing smoke detector batteries since I’m not willing to climb high enough on the step stool without serious worry of falling. The same goes for anything for which I need to get down on my knees to do since getting back up is difficult and painful. And I know he’ll help me out without a second thought. The most difficult part – for me – is dealing with my stubbornness about needing help in the first place. But the biggest part that sticks in my head is what it will cost him in gas to make the trip. He doesn’t have a whole lot of wiggle room in his budget. But I keep reminding myself that I gave him my gas discount card to use a couple of years ago since I can get by on a tank of gas for 2 to 3 months. I contribute to the discount earned – more than he does – by the shopping I do that earns the discount. It may only be $3. 00 or $4.00 or so on a tank of gas, but over the course of the years he’s had that card to use, I’ve contributed more than enough to pay for a tank of gas. And yet… the money that he’ll have to spend to visit me makes me feel guilty.

Guilt – it is a gift that keeps on giving in my life. I’m getting better at looking at guilt rationally, like the deal with my brother spending money for gas, but I’ve never been able to stop receiving the gift of it. And the gift is like a perfume – it lingers in the air long after it has been sprayed.

My mother gave me this gift first, and it is apparently a gift that lasts a lifetime…