Like it was yesterday

 The last few days, I have felt like what happened to me at 13 is very clearly present and very heavy. My heart hurts for that little girl who just wanted to belong, and my heart hurts for me because I still have to work through this.  I am trying to figure out my feelings and thoughts, and it's a lot. It's a kind of sad that is bottomless.  It's a kind of hurt that aches to the very bone.  It's feeling less than human and wanting to be anywhere but in your own skin. It's feeling like your insides are screaming, and people just keep looking at you and smiling.  It's that smell that you can't stand that you can never forget. It's all of those things and more. It feels like I am in the fight of my life, wanting more than I ever imagined and wanting to forget the hell that has happened. 

I am trying to remember that day was long ago—lifetimes ago. I am trying to remember that I am strong and safe today. I am trying to remind myself of all those things. I am trying to be present in the moment today. I know it wasn't yesterday. But it's frustrating at almost 50 to feel overwhelmed about something I had no control over. 

There are feelings that I can't quite put my finger on, but they are strong and, on the surface, seem so untouchable. All I can explain is the day after, I had to tell and was lying in the back of the car.  It was chilly, but the sun was out, and there was a warmth. My whole body was still so bruised and hurt I was just lying in the back seat.  I felt the sun and was grateful, the smell of the happy meal took me to a much simpler place, when my world was even a little safer. I can remember just wanting to lay there forever in the back of that Nissan Altima.  I wanted to forget all that was happening around me and just be. I can close my eyes and feel that sun.  I had no idea what would be ahead of me that day.  I just wanted to disappear and pretend that I had never said a word.  Leave me alone, let me heal, and like I always do, I will just keep moving.  That is what I wanted more than anything. 

For those first few days after I told, things seemed to move in slow motion.  There was all this commotion around me, and simultaneously, my world slowed down.  Everyone expected me to react and feel something, but they never understood that this was just what happened to me.  This is what I was used to, yes this was more violent there were more of them, in so many ways it was different. But in many ways, it was the same people taking things that were not theirs to take.  People hurting me, I wasn't even a person anymore.  The 5 of them treated me as less than human, and the people around me were doing the same things in a different way. I was dying inside, and no one saw me.  I was behind in life, going through the motions, a puppet playing by their rules.  Just like that two days later not another word was spoken, I was left to fend for my own heart and soul. 

It's crazy that all this time later, I could close my eyes and be back in that car that day; in those moments, I focused on the sun, my happy meal, and the little bird that got one of my french fries by the car.  I was all alone, in so much pain, and everyone had their own agenda.  There were two days of everyone trying to cover their tracks, and nothing changed for me.  Everyone just moved on pretending I wanted attention, I was just the unpopular chubby girl who would want to do that to me.  So in my head, I became a liar and a slut and somehow knew that I asked for it. Someone would have taken care of me if it was that bad. 

This is the heaviest weight that one could ever imagine.  I am moving on, trying to become the person that I was meant to be.  The chains of this time are strong and have a grip that I don't understand. It's frustrating, all that I am accomplishing now, if I didn't have these thoughts and memories on reply just imagine all that I could accomplish.  I am working so hard, so hard.  It's just extremely painful and so hurtful that no one cared enough to be with me. 

                                                                                  

  I heart your heart. 

Mother

 

I can feel the date approaching.  It's a looming darkness that I can not escape. It's almost been three years since she passed away. I have thought about her so much the last week or two; my hurt hasn't lessened. There are moments that I still feel guilty because the sad people speak of when they lose their mom is something I have not experienced.  It was sad for my son and brother, but it was a relief for me.  A relief that even I don't understand. She hurt me more than words. She hated the person that I was and the person that I was becoming. A mom is supposed to be there to encourage and understand.  A mom is supposed to be your soft place to fall, but I didn't get that. All of the things I knew on my own were bad enough, but the things I learned after were even worse.  So much that was just so unnecessary. It was a month before she died that she made my brother the sole beneficiary.  I do believe that he knew. The fucking money had nothing to do with it.  The mere fact that I meant so little to her was the worst kind of jab.  It did not come as any kind of surprise to him.  I know from his actions and his words that even if he never speaks to me again, I know.  

I gave up the place that I loved the most for her.  I will never be more grateful for her having the down payment on a house that was big enough for all of us payment.  But I didn't want to move; I loved my perfect place in Anna.  I was truly happy there, my own home where no one could ever make me feel unwanted. For a time, our relationship grew until it didn't.  I wasn't enough.  She got between my children and me. She made me the bad guy in her story and told everyone about it. She was unkind to Mariska and befriended Vincent. She put a wedge between the two of us, and I will have to spend the rest of my life trying to repair it. 

I sit here in silence, the hurtful things that she said and did running through my mind. It amazes me how she wondered why I was the way that I was.  The time that she changed the locks on the house, the time she would buy toilet paper, the things of mine that she gave away.  The letters that were written about me were left out.  On Christmas, I was a substitute trying to finish student teaching.  I can remember buying her pillows in a thrift store.  We had close to nothing.  I remember her opening them and saying well, I can wash them.  I was crushed and not sure what she was expecting. When she said she wanted to read my blog books, I told her that was my room and she had no right to be in my room. She always talked about her, the kids, and me taking a trip to Alaska, and she went with my brother.  When she got bak and asked if I wanted to hear about it, I said I was hurt that she had always talked about doing that trip with the kids and I, as tears rolled down my face.  She said she was getting older and that I should be happy for her. Not a single word was said about my feelings. Looking back, I should have known from people's reactions that something wasn't right, but I never expected the kind of treatment I got from her.  Martha was a perfect example, even after she passed away she didn't want to go to any kind of ceremony if I was going to be there. She brought my brother a check, but I was never spoken to. She didn't even want to share a room with the same air. My mother made it all about her, and I was just an inconvenience.  When she had weight loss surgery, it was so secretive, and all of a sudden, I became the dirt under her feet.  I was everything ugly that she despised, and I felt that in my bones. Even after she passed away, I found a letter that she wrote about surgery, saying that she was doing it to prove to her morbidly obese daughter that it could be done.  That cut like a knife. Somewhere along the way, I became the ugliest monster in her story, and she made sure everyone around her knew it.  It had nothing to do with her surgery; it was how I was treated in the process. She broke my heart.  She stepped on it, smashed it into millions of pieces, and never looked back. 

It is hard because there were a few times that she was there and supportive.  There were a few times, but it was never unconditional.  She got between my brother and me; she could never be nice to both of us at the same time.  There were Christmases spent at Disney; I was not invited.  It was once again her, my brother, and my grandmother.  I was never included in things.  Was I standoffish often I was because my heart was so hurt b the things I had experienced in life and they could never understand any of that.  They wanted me to shut up and pretend that I was fine.  I did that for a long time until I couldn't anymore.  

No one ever talked about the life that I had to live; I was never ever loved unconditionally. There were always conditions.  Kind of crazy I often feel that I don't belong, writing this I am realizing I didn't fit anywhere even in my own family. I was just never one who belonged or had a place. So much hurt from someone who is supposed to love you through and through.  I always felt that my brother was a favorite.  One of those things when you know you know. 

I wonder if I would do anything different this time, three years ago.  I remember after her trip to Alaska, she came into my room.  I was annoyed, her bedhead getting on my nerves.  She wanted the two of us to take a trip.  It was the kid's senior year.  I told her that, which was more of an excuse I didn't want to go anywhere with her.  Sometimes I wonder if she knew something.  I am not sure she wanted to be alive anymore.  My brother talked about her, saying how much she missed her mom.  Three years ago, there wasn't a connection by this time.  I was someone that she didn't like.  I didn't like the person that she was.  We were in the same story but never on the same page. It was the Monday or Tuesday night before she passed, and she was sitting in her chair downstairs.  I was talking about my day, and there was nothing from her.  No feeling, no real conversation, and when I realized that, I just stopped talking, and by Friday, she was gone.  So fast, so very fast.  

I think about her today, and it still stings.  I feel the disappointment, the disregard, and the dirty looks that were a part of my everyday.  The last Thanksgiving, she was sick with Covid and My brother was in the hospital.  I made a huge dinner and brought it all to the Hospital.  It was a disaster; needless to say, none of the last few interactions that I had with her were good.  Each and every one of them left me feeling worse than the one before. 

My brother had power of attorney, and yet I had to make all the final decisions.  Her body was shutting down only the medicine was keeping her alive. Covid had come and destroyed.  Almost instantaneously, when they stopped the medicine, she had no fight left. Dr's were coming and going, but I saw the flatline.  I asked if she was already gone, and he said yes.  When we got back there, she was not there, just a shell of a woman that I could never make like me.  The nurses turned off all the machines, and just like that, it was over. the world keeps spinning, the tears keep flowing, and all the things I ever wished for and held hope for were never to be.  I was sad for those around me, but oh, the relief.  The relief that I still feel today.  She didn't protect me growing up.  She didn't protect me and love me exactly where I was.  She could never see my hurt or even acknowledge its existence. 

Everyone else's feelings were always okay, but mine never were.  I was told to be careful, that I was too harsh on everything, but yet their feelings were all okay.  I was not sorry, and there was a loss, but for me, that loss had been going on for so long. There were times I tried to explain things to my brother, but he was never able to hear. So today, it's been almost three years, and I think I have been waiting for that time to miss her, to be sad, and it just hasn't come.  There is a part of me that believed she had to love me sometime, but she was never able to show it in what I needed.  She never held my heart when it got heavy.  She never told me I wasn't a burden; her actions said that I was, and I have carried that for as long as I can remember.  This year feels different and harder, and I am not sure why.  Maybe it's just a different realization of how little I meant and how little I was understood. Maybe there will always be pieces of my broken heart that will forever be connected to her. 

I heart your heart. I heart your heart mom, wish you hearted mine. 

Two choices

 I was at a loss tonight. I kept saying over and over I don't know, I don't know, I don't know!! I am working so hard, and I feel like I should know, I should have words, and be able to move beyond this.  What happened to me at 13 is unimaginable. I hold it in this faraway place as some kind of proof that it happened. I hold it far away for fear that it will destroy me. This thing still feels like it has the power to destroy me. I am and will do everything I can to help that spunky, sweet 13-year-old girl. I feel like there are 2 choices. Letting her sit and catch her breath, I hold this swirling, violent sphere of darkness and everything awful. I spend all this energy trying to keep this blackness away from her; if I hold it as something precious, it allows her to breathe easily, but does it really help her?  In my mind, somewhere letting it go. It feels like it doesn't matter like she was just a little slut begging for attention. I wish there was a way for me to understand why I hold it the way I do and why this untouchable, all-ending thing that has already happened still has the capacity to destroy me? 

It's this heavy chain that is attached to everything. It's the same in so many ways and so different in so many more. I don't understand it or the power that it still has over me. It terrifies me.  I always talk about the ending of KPAX, and I am terrified that sometimes breaking that bubble and bringing it closer will destroy me. As strong as I am, to this day, those people still have the control to take everything away that I worked so hard for.  We have already survived it, and somehow, it feels like we won't. I worry all the time, that this is the thing that is going to break me, that is going to prove to be something too big that it just going to have to stay far away.  There is a numb feeling because feeling brings it closer, and bringing it closer feels like a darkness that I would not survive. 

I got stuck in a place trying to heal this piece and wanted to just move on.  I crave the freedom of it not being important anymore, and at the same time, there is so much doubt that is even a possibility. I worry all the time that this may be a piece that will remain an open wound. It could be one of those things that is too deep and too dark to be able to find a place of freedom.  I am in a place where I want to fight, and I am also in a place where it seems insurmountable that I will ever be free. I know I am not there anymore, but my body and mind remember as if it were yesterday.  I am struggling.  I want so much to move on, and to do that, I can't leave this part of me behind.  Do I keep fighting, or do I accept that this is one of the unhealable things? It could be entirely too big.  Maybe I just care for Spunky in all the ways she was never cared for and hold on to that tiny hope that someday she will be ready.  If that is the case, I hope that as I continue to move forward, I will be in a place ready and willing to help her when she is ready. I will forever be there for her and never leave her behind.  There also comes a time when I have to move forward.  There are things in this world that I never imagined that are right in front of me.  I must move on, and I need her to accompany me. I need her to be a part of the me that I am today, and that has come so very far.  We, her and I, have to do this because we both deserved so much better than what we got. 

Where are you?

 

The media has been screaming at me for the last couple of weeks, and it's getting really old. So much political fighting and unkindness wares on me.  There is so much debate about abortion, and these politicians are bringing up these heavy things as if they are feathers.  For those affected, they are very heavy boulders that they know nothing about.  There was a statistic being thrown around about the number of pregnancies that have resulted in rape.  I want to scream at the world, where are you because me too, and I need someone to talk to.  How do you deal with it? Where are you? I want to find you because no one talks about it, and far too many think that it doesn't happen.  My children are the most amazing things to ever happen to me, yet from something so awful.  I try with all that I am to keep them so separate, and sometimes it just melts together, breaking my heart. Where are these children, and where are their moms.  Do they struggle with some of the same things that I do? I want to know what their thoughts and feelings are.  Do they cringe when they hear those statistics on TV?  Do they have support? Did people believe in them?  The questions that I have could go on for pages.  I often feel like the only one, and it's not even something that a person can bring up in conversation.  I don't get to share about so many aspects of my life because they are tied to this one piece.  It just cuts so deep.  How have their children been affected?  How have they dealt with that?  So many pieces of a puzzle that only those who have lived it could understand. There is still so much shame and humiliation.  I still feel guilty that I just wanted to be normal. I just wanted to have lunch, go shopping, and feel like I was a normal person. I will never stop searching for them. Those who can understand my heart and hate what happened to them but love the result so deeply. Somedays it is ok, it is not a thought in my mind.  Other days it is a thought, and it aches and makes it hard to breathe. I don't know if my children will ever speak to me about it.  I don't know if I will be able to speak.  I just hope when that time comes, I will have just the right words to soothe their heart and help them understand. It's more than heavy; it's a kind of heavy that doesn't go away.  A heavy that ebbs and flows but is forever present. 

Where are you? Where are you? There are so many things to say! 

I heart your heart. 

What were they thinking ?

 

Sometimes I watch a movie and it all just hits.  What did my parents think after they found out I was raped? I was left mostly to fend for myself in a kind of sadness that swallowed me whole. The moments seem to be on repeat things moving so fast yet so slow. There was all this commotion around me but no one was talking to me.  It was the worst feeling, I was drowning and no one around me noticed. It was cold, I can remember the sweater that I had on.  the white one with little confetti sprinkles, goodness I so loved that sweater.  I remember talking to Larry and Joey outside, and I didn't understand how they knew. There was a part of me that was so disconnected, like what happened was just another day for me. Calvin said that I had to tell someone, if I didn't he was going to.  He said that I couldn't keep getting hurt.  Someone caring was more than strange and almost harder to understand than someone treating me like the plague. 

I can remember being terrified to tell my parents and for some reason thought that telling the youth group leaders, was a better option. I can remember Calvin and I walking into the master bedroom, and I honestly don't remember very many words.   I remember talking; so much talking but no one was talking to me.  I don't remember saying I was raped, so it must have been Calvin. I remember Joan sat on the bed and asked if we should get a pregnancy test.  There was so much commotion around me, and I felt more than alone.  My body still hurt,  mostly black, and felt like I was the one who had done something wrong. there was no comfort no kindness. I can remember my mother coming into the room.  She gave me a hug but I didn't really feel it.  It kind of felt like she was going through the motions. I don't remember her saying a thing to me. So much pain and so much silence.  I didn't feel a thing on the outside, I was stone cold, but my insides felt like they were being smashed into a million little pieces. I can remember everyone leaving and it was just Calvin and I and I cried, thinking that they were going to have so many questions.  I can remember it hurting to lift my arms, Calvin bending over, and he just holding on to me.  That hug was the most important thing that happened that night.  Little did I know.  No one really cared, no questions would be asked. 

Everyone seemed to be busy, someone said that they took my father out for a ride to tell him.  They said he screamed, yelled, and cried.  I am sure if was all for show, oh poor bob. Joan's husband Bob is the one who took me home.  I wanted so much to be heard to feel safe, to feel like I mattered and other than Calvin that never happened.  He sat next to me on the couch and told me how different things were going to be.  I remember the room was dark, and I sat there screaming inside, how dare he fucking tell me how different things were going to be.  Once I even said I knew.  I just wanted him to shut up he didn't know, couldn't understand, and didn't want to. I don't remember my parents getting home, where I was, or what was next.  In a flash, the night was over. People knew what had happened to me and still didn't do anything different. 

I feel such sadness writing this today. It's been sad since watching that movie really.  I literally had no one on my side.  The only hug that I got was from Calvin he was a kid.  He should not have had to care for my heart yet was the only one that did. He checked on me and made sure I was ok. He made sure that I felt safe, he made sure that I was heard.   I am just sitting here staring in disbelief at what I have survived.  I was just a girl who wanted a place in the world. Just a normal girl who wanted normal things. If I could just go back and have one conversation with that so hurt girl, just to hold her and tell her it wasn't her fault.  Just because they couldn't handle what happened, she was not less than and not a burden.  I felt like such a bother, that people took off work, and that I made people uncomfortable.   

The next few days were a blur. I woke up that next morning and my parents were both just standing by my bed. I felt like I had done something terrible.  There was going to the rape crisis center, there was going to the Dr.  There were the overheard conversations. One from Joan and the other with the police.  Yet, still, no one was talking to me. I was not asked anything about what was done, how I felt, or what I needed. I was dying inside and no one seemed to care. They liked the drama and attention when all was said and done, they blamed me. 

That day at the rape crisis center, was indescribable.  I literally felt nothing.  I was cold, and just wanted to be anywhere but there. I can remember getting a happy meal before our appointment and just laying down in the back of the car.  My body still hurt and laying down felt better.  I just remember feeling the sun on my face and wanting to pretend that no one knew what happened to me.  I still remember the room perfectly, The blown paneling, the greenery everywhere. Her twisty legs and all the turquoise jewelry that she wore on each and every finger. She had an underbite, with very shiny lipstick.  Incredible the things that my little mind remembered. Honestly I think there were a few times, she tried to include me in the conversation but my father's screaming and yelling, were overpowering and even she was unable to stand up to him.  They pretended that I wanted attention and was just a fat cow, because something as terrible as rape doesn't happen to someone like me. The overheard conversation from Joan I was the chubby unpopular kid who would want to rape me ?  I just wanted attention.  If she knew me at all, she would have known that was the last thing I ever wanted in the world. Then of coarse, hearing my mother talking to the police station.  Oh no we don't want to report it.  My entire life, I have always questioned why not.  I wonder what they told the officer, I wonder if they even believed that I was raped. 

The world was silent and I was screaming inside.  No one heard me and no one cared. I felt like I was the one to blame, I was the one who had done something terribly wrong. I was just the fat girl that no one wanted to touch. I felt awful before and felt even worse about people knowing. The next day was when I went to the Dr. I am not going to make excuses he should have said this or that. He should have said, we need to do an exam and make sure you are ok.  They could have gotten evidence, they could have taken pictures.  If he had seen what was under my clothes, I am sure that the police would have been called.  There would have been no pretending that everything was ok. I would have finally been worth someones time and attention. I wish he said "What we need to do to make sure that you are ok, let me help you"  He did not.  I will forever be grateful that he didn't touch me, I fear that an exam would have sent me to a place far far away and I would not have come back.  My body was so bruised and battered, that everything hurt.  I just sat there him talking, telling me that I couldn't keep everything inside.  Of coarse, I said, "I know".  He so gently put his hand on my leg, so kind, and not hurtful.  I was grateful he heard me and listened and yet wished he saw so that there would never be any doubt to anyone about what I went through. It was a silent ride home, I just watched out the window, the world spinning, everything was moving so fast and I wanted to scream for everything to stop.  What was my mother thinking in that car ride home?  Why didn't she say she was sorry or ask me what happened to me.  Why didn't she notice my arms and legs?  Why didn't she notice something anything? My heart was broken, and life went on as if I was a criminal.  I was the one who destroyed everyone's world around me for a few days. I don't remember that night, But by Friday I was back at school.  Word had gotten around, I was a slut that wanted attention.  I felt the stares and heard the whispers, and all the while was still terrified that I may see them. My life at 13.  No one wants to dance with a blacksheep, a slut, one who makes up stories because she wants attention.  Life was lonely before and who knew it was even more lonely when everyone knew how gross and disgusting I was.  No one cared before it happened and no one cared after.  It was just me all me, to try and survive day by day.  Until the day I decided I was done, enough was enough. I didn't want to live another day. But I did.  Sweet Spunky, we did. I will always be forever and ever always grateful. 

I heart your heart 

Death by a thousand Paper cuts

 I heard this phrase, and it hit me like a lead balloon.  I often feel like this throughout my life. I feel like I am slowly dying from a million little things.   I know how to survive the big things; I know how to clean up and pretend that everything is fine. I know what it's like, to have the rug ripped right from, under you. I know what it's like to have all the things I thought were real and true show their true colors and I become a leftover.  That breadstick that stays in the basket. To get picked at, and eventually left.  It's all the other things that seem to stab at my heart.  It is usually the smallest things, that can push me one way or the other and seems to throw my world into a tailspin. I seem to be spending a lot of time in that spiral, and I am overwhelmed.  When I am in that place, the things that are true and real play tricks and make me think it's a matter of time before my whole world crumbles; Yet again.

It's something that is more than hard to explain.  Today at work, I cannot even count on one hand, the number of times that I could have burst into tears. New programs, new rules that no one is given enough training on.  They expect us to spend a great deal of extra time after hours just to get our job done and I don't have that kind of time to give them anymore.  Each new task they want us to complete, it's as if the house is on fire.  The house is not on fire, and I cannot pretend that every task that needs to be completed needs to be treated as such. I want to scream; the house isn't on fire!!!  Education has stolen every last ounce of love that I once had for the field. It isn't what is right for the child anymore.  Children today have an exceptional number of needs that the education system isn't prepared for.  Instead of doing the right thing, they say it's the teachers, they say we are giving too many services.  They say that we are doing things all wrong and tell us to put our questions in the virtual parking lot; to be answered when they have time. I don't want to work for a place where kids don't come first. I understand rules and procedures and I know why they are important. 

It's the small daily things that feel like all these little cuts, over and over and there is no making it stop.  I think this is kind of what my teaching career has felt like.  On most days you wouldn't know just how completely burnt out that I am.  I do it for the kids, I do it because they matter and they deserve the best. But my heart has been bruised and battered and the love that I once had for something I thought I would never leave is something hard to get my head around. This is going to be a rough year, I am determined to stand up for what's right, and care the only way that my heart knows, will all that I have even on those days when getting up is dreadful. 

I heart your heart 

Why I cry

 I wrote an email to one of my professors.  She is more than amazing; she is intense and yet compassionate she sees you.  She sees me as a person, and she notices oh how she notices. There are times when she is explaining something and she gets it, she has an understanding about hard things in life.  There are many times in class that the tears come.  They are not sad tears they are grateful tears, to be seen, to be understood.  For someone to experience things so deeply is something I often cannot even put words to.  She does that for me she has an understanding.  She notices those small tears and truly makes a difference. She talks about doing your own work and has an understanding of the finiteness of life. I always say that I want to become the care that I never got, and having her as my teacher, is giving me the tools to do that.  I am truly grateful for her.  Someday I hope to share the incredible difference that she has made and will continue to make for me.  She is funny and fierce and everything caring. I heart your heart. 

I think that I am learning that I cry because I am grateful to be where I am.  I am grateful to be heard and understood.  I am grateful that I get the chance to cry these tears and make a difference for others. I think I am finally at a place where the tears have to be ok.  Do I have work to do of course, do I cry too much maybe. But the life that I have lived the life I have survived I have a very real right to cry these grateful happy tears.  

At the conference this Summer, one woman said that she was worried about me because of the tears, and I think oh my friend you are missing the point, be worried if I can no longer cry.  Be worried if I get up there happy like everything is fine.  No, I cannot be anything other than me.  Those things hurt; those things could have killed me.  It is in the moments of music or words that I can reach places that I never could any other way.  There was recently an interview with Andrew Garfield.  He was reading a piece, and he began to cry.   The interviewer asked why this was hitting him so hard and he said." This is why art is so important.  Because it can get us to the places that we can't get to any other way. " Let that sink in so very powerful. I cry because I am alive, because terrible things happened to me and yet here, I still stand making a difference and doing things that no one ever expected. I cry because things mater because niceness, genuineness and trueness make a difference.  

I feel everything on such a deep level that it's hard to describe.  I never remember feeling anything differently.  It was deeply or not at all.  In this profession I will find the happy medium. I will find my place.  As I work on getting there the tears will flow, happy, sometimes sad.  Always from a place of compassion and heart. 

I hear your heart.