Salmon—strange word.

Somehow, it just doesn’t sound right. Odd spelling . . . why the need for the silent “L” in the middle? Is it to attract attention or mislead? Does it serve any particular purpose at all? Oh, I am well aware of the seemingly endless intricacies of the English language and the many exceptions to the rule, but I still don’t find any solace in the word, S—A—L—M—O—N. It simply doesn’t feel right.

How appropriate! I can relate to this fish. I am the fish out of water. I don’t even like fish. I’m allergic to fish; fish could literally kill me!

I wasn’t intentionally looking for a metaphor but it just came to me, so to speak, just as so many events in my life have been revealed to me—often in my dreams, but more often when my mind wanders—and so many more dreams remain unanswered, undiscovered, unfinished.

Swimming upstream. Struggling to reach my goal. What is my goal? Am I swimming for my life or swimming for pleasure? Do fish even feel pleasure? Do I need pleasure? Isn’t that selfish? Am I supposed to be selfish? Am I swimming out of necessity—to continue my species—my kind? Hey, what is my kind anyway? Am I the silent “L”?

. . . This may actually be my life’s work. My calling. After much soul-searching and a lifetime of memories, I am putting pen to paper. If telling my story can help enlighten just one individual by taking comfort in some similarity or connection, then I will have done my job.

I excitedly embrace the dawning of my empowerment.

. . . I always acknowledged that guilt and fear led me in so many ways that it became a lifestyle. But when it is on paper, it takes on a whole new meaning. In the past, I think I have elevated it to a much higher, celestial level—almost heavenly. The School Sisters of Notre Dame would be quite proud. Oh, I’m sorry—pride is a sin. I think sarcasm might be as well. I’m doomed.

I can’t completely fault the entire Catholic religion. My own parents helped foster a fear of Mr. Peanut and Charles Chips. On the boardwalk down the shore, my brother and I were forced to approach the seven foot peanut to get a free package of nuts and a plastic Mr. Peanut mug. I still have the red mug displayed in my cupboard, although I turn it facing inward to shield me from the glaring memory of that monocled nut. Now Charles Chips was another situation altogether. My brother and I were instructed to remain silent when Mr. Chips came calling. We didn’t utter a peep. I thought we were hiding from some notorious man. At about thirty years old I realized that I was afraid of the potato chip vendor who used to visit our neighborhood. My mother was too embarrassed to let him know that we couldn’t afford any extra treats. Is there a snack phobia?

One of my earliest identifiable obsessive behaviors was searching for patterns—patterns in the carpet, in the wallpaper, in the clouds, and even in the bowl of cereal. I also had this preoccupation with completing any and all things for a pre-determined amount of time. One day while in the bathroom, I decided to stand with one foot on the rim of the bathtub and the other foot outstretched to the wall. I jumped to the floor and repositioned myself again to complete the cycle; this time it was seven times. After a prolonged thudding sound emitting from the bathroom, my mother threw open the door ordering me to cease and desist. Under usual circumstances I would have immediately obliged. The problem was that I was only on number six and the necessity to complete number seven far outweighed the probability that I would be in serious trouble. I couldn’t risk what might happen if I didn’t finish the scheduled cycle. Number seven was not as gratifying as I expected. I was sent to my room for the rest of the night where, for the record, I counted all the ceiling tiles forward and backward and up and down—seven times each. I think I had too much time on my hands.

. . . Instead of the 4H Club, I was a full-fledged member of the not-so-well-known “4F” Club—fragile, fearful, fraudulent, failure. What an effin’ mess!

. . . I remember comparing my journey to climbing a tree. A very simple analogy. I knew the direction I was heading and that my ultimate goal was to reach the top, but I wasn’t sure which branch I would choose. Would I make the sure, steady, reliable selection and reach for the strongest, yet lowest branch? Or would I daringly grasp for the wispy, new growth, unsure if it would hold my weight—my burden? Both choices would ultimately lead me upward, but which carried the most risk? Which would be more exciting and challenging? Which would be safer? Occasionally I would reach for that more elusive wisp, but more frequently and not surprisingly, I held fast to the sturdy support of the lowest branch—convinced that I couldn’t fall from a level so close to the ground. Ironically, I spent much of my adult life encouraging my own children and the children I taught, to climb that tree to its very height with a sure-footed deliberance. In retrospect, I spent most of my life making the safe choice because I frequently felt that I had no control in so many other areas most definitely beyond my realm of power. My biggest risk had always been simply surviving. But I wanted much more out of life. I wanted not only to merely exist, but to thrive in some notable endeavor. I think I wanted to be famous!