Today I sit alone, much as I have most holidays for nearly four years. You might think this fact presents a sad state of affairs. On the contrary, it couldn’t be further from the truth. The difficult part is that I had to lose everything to find out. And none of it could have come without the excruciating decision of self-imposed exile from an extended family who claimed to love me as their own but could no longer, from a person who said he loved me but was too disabled to cope with anything at all, from the daughters I adore who used to adore me, and from a town that had changed so dramatically we came to loathe each other.
Born from this exile, my self-reflection has taken the form of setting and attaining lofty goals, accepting and forgiving my mistakes, and attempting to forgive my wrongdoers. The difficult part of this self-reflection is to accept the fact that there was no way to avoid losing my entire family, as it became the ultimate definition of insanity to continue to fight battles I would probably continue to “win” in court, while knowing that I could spend every dime I had and still lose the war. But that was my tormentor’s goal, wasn’t it?
I’ve also learned that self-reflection has both positive and negative results. Have I made all good choices since arriving in my new home? Far from it. The largest lesson I learned from all the craziness is that it’s definitely a choice to focus and act on the good in every bad situation, it’s a choice to offer up one’s life to God so to not fear the future, and ultimately, it’s my choice to never again allow myself to buy into what I was fed for 20 years: That I am fundamentally flawed. Does this mean I blame every bad situation in my life on others? Absolutely not. Allowing that to happen will mean that I have become my tormentor.
I also learned that I couldn’t control the tens of thousands of dollars gifted to my tormentor to exact revenge upon me. I learned I couldn’t control the lies my tormentor told to destroy relationships with those most dear to me. Most of all, I learned that I will most certainly go mad trying to affect the thoughts and actions of others who send blame my way while demanding that I “fix” myself (without telling me what they think I need to fix) in order to have a chance (but only a miniscule chance) at a relationship with them.
When I first moved to this little hurricane-ravaged sand bar, everyone asked, “Why does a west coast girl from Seattle move to the Texas coast?” My canned answer became, “It’s a long story.” When encouraged to tell that story, I did. But as the tragic ugliness of my story became too much for most people to bear, they abruptly cut me off and said, “Hey! That’s all in the past! Why dwell on it?” So I stopped answering their questions and began reverting to the self-destructive internal conversation my tormentor always enjoyed setting up, while stating that the only way out was to accept “help,” but the help could never be of my own choosing. After making even more mistakes, I’m finally on the mend, determined to purge the tormentor from my mind forever.
During the process of purchasing my new home in late 2018, I got to know a local real estate broker who helped me with that process. After hearing the story of the years-long, punishing adventure that led me from the Great Northwest to the Gulf Coast, he told me that what I endured was admirable and that I should document the struggle. I didn’t think (and still don’t think) anything I’ve done is admirable, though the struggle is definitely real. What I do believe, though, is that I must write about it. If for no other reason than to purge, to heal, and to let others in similar situations know that in order to survive the tragedies in this life, the road toward the light at the end of the tunnel must be paved with gratefulness.
For me that means I’m grateful for being intellectually prepared for the fight of my life when I filed for divorce in 2016. As the underdog, I persevered against the unlimited supply of cash to my tormentor and against the most ruthless family law firm that family cash could buy. I’m also grateful the experience led me to being the first person in the Bogdon family since 1890 to obtain a college degree. In just a few weeks I’ll have my AAS in Paralegal Studies at age 61. As a result, I’m grateful I can now call myself a blogger.
I’m grateful I found a great group of docs in Texas to treat my spinal disease without surgery or narcotics, and as a result, I’ve become an avid cyclist who rides between 60 and 100 miles per week (weather permitting) on my circa 1993 Trek 930 mountain bike outfitted for the road. I regularly hear people–some I recognize and some I don’t–shout, “Hey Cat!” when they recognize me in my distinctive gold helmet braving pedestrians on the seawall, or whizzing along with traffic on Seawall Blvd. Without my neurologist, this disease would most certainly be crippling.
I’m grateful I haven’t succumbed to “Coronavirus Derangement Syndrome,” which is far more virulent than COVID-19. It’s gripped my community so severely that countless people are accusing others of being potential murderers for exiting their homes for any reason at all. Since the number of cases has finally leveled off and there seem to be far more tests, hospital beds and ventilators than needed to accommodate the number of expected cases, Texas governor Abbott is working on a plan to slowly restore the state to normalcy. And for that I’m supremely grateful!
Ta-ta for now!
Cat