SO ANGRY

 

I am beyond angry to the point that my hands are shaking, and I can't even see straight. It's the end of another semester, and I put my heart and soul into everything I turn in and every required response. One big final paper, a 20-pager, was one that I wrote and re-wrote every word so that there was an understanding.  They wanted an autobiography talking about stages and theories of the entire life span.  I poured my heart and soul into this paper.  I looked this after noon; they had been graded, and I received a 100. Great right? NO, not great.  There were no comments, no thoughts, no nothing.  I don't know what I was looking for, but I got nothing.  I would have rather gotten a 50, and at least had comments as to why. I wanted a thank for your honesty, I wanted a thank you for being transparent and for showing up.  I wanted something to know that my professor had read and understood a part of me and why I am here. I wanted an acknowledgment that she saw the heart and energy I gave that paper, yet I got nothing. It takes nothing to give someone a positive comment about something that obviously means the world to them. 

That is one part of being in this graduate program that doesn't make sense to me.  They say how vital Trauma and Grief work is, yet when I bring it up, they tell me I am not competent enough. I found a fantastic article, but they say I am not ready. I share from my heart why this work is just that important to me, and I am shut down at every turn.  I understand that this is not a Therapy session, I know that this is a place of learning. That is precisely where I am coming from, a place of learning. I have so much knowledge that I want to share, but they are not willing to let me share it. I want all of these therapists in training to learn and do things differently. If we can't learn from real Trauma and what that is, what in the world are we doing? They have no idea how competent I am, and how dedicated I am to making a difference for trauma survivors.  Yet, every chance I am shot down and silenced. A graduate program is one place where silence is the enemy.  So you teach us all these things and expect us to keep going.  They fail to see that we are humans coming into this program with Trauma histories and things to share that are important for others coming into the field to hear. I am not bringing my trauma into the program; I have lived the trauma, I am healing, and I have a lot of things to say about how we should be treated. I understand that there is a great deal I don't know; I have a long way to go.  But this program is missing all that I have to offer and the knowledge that I have because of the life that I have lived. Once in my very first semester, my very first class, actually. There was an acknowledgment of who I was as a person, an acknowledgment of me and what I have been through. We were speaking about different client populations, and I commented that I would not work with offenders. I was a little hot-headed. Maybe a little too loud.  That is a population that I would not have a connection with.  I was almost infuriated at the entire conversation, really, I expected to work with a population that wounded others.

After class, I was working on my work, and my professor was in the room. I asked him a question. I don't even remember what it was specifically, but it had something to do with the offender population and how I could do that. How could I be a good therapist for them? He looked at me and asked if I had experience with that. I stopped for a second, the air leaving the room, tears running down my face, and I said yes. He told me to look up wounded healer and let him know my thoughts. I did find research articles and emailed him with all that I found, but there was no response; however, there was an acknowledgment of where I was coming from.  I know that he said other things, but there was an acknowledgment, he saw ME. I have not been given that since.  I researched, looked it up, and found a place where I fit.  I didn't expect counseling; I have my own therapist. 
I was just sharing from exactly where I was, and he saw me. 

In my group counseling class, I asked what we would discuss.  She made a snide remark that this wasn't a processing group for any kind of Trauma.  I never said it was, I was just asking about topics and parameters. If graduate school isn't a place where you can speak about trauma and its impact, where can we talk about it?  It feels like this hush-hush topic is off limits, but it keeps getting talked about as something so fundamental.  It can't be both ways. You can't keep telling me how important this work is, yet expect me not to share the voice I have worked so hard to get. 

This program has filled a hole in me that I didn't even know existed.  It has filled me with things that I have been longing for. They need to make a difference and do things better for others. I have come further than I ever imagined.  I am doing this because it matters and is more than important to me. I come to each and every class and give my whole heart to them, and these are more than just classes to get me to graduation. These classes prepare me for clients I will meet who need someone to walk on their journey with them. 

I need my professors to see my passion for this work. I need them to see who I am and why this is so important. I want them to see and know me.  I want them to understand me as a person. This degree is more personal than anything I have ever done. I am not going to let them steal the passion that I have for trauma. I won't let them keep pretending that this is something that we can't speak about.  As counseling professionals, this is something that we should be loud about; we should be screaming from the rooftops, so that when trauma comes up, it is not shoved to the side but acknowledged and valued.  The insight that I have, that they are trying to conceal, is heartbreaking. I understand that I am a counselor in training, but I bring to the table experiences that they don't even want to understand. The insight I want to share is bursting from every cell in my body!!! This is more than a class, more than a grade, more than a means to an end. This is a drive and passion to make the road easier for others like me. 

Maybe it's time we stopped walking on eggshells and did the right thing. Be a little kinder, move beyond what is right to say, and just say what needs to be said. Just talk about the things that need to be talked about. 

I heart your heart. 

What does done look like ?

 

Once upon a time, in a fairy tale, I believed there would come a time when I could once and for all put a pretty bow on all the things that had happened to me and move on like nothing ever happened. For a really long time, I truly believed that. Honestly, a part of me still holds onto that hope, if even a little, even if I know it is impossible in my head. Over time and tears, I am learning it will never be the case.  I know that I have come a really long way, I know that I have worked my ass off to get to where I am.  Now I have to learn that there is no end date, no final solutions. Some things will always affect me, always be a part of the person I am, and how I live my life. 

I worked so hard on little Callahan, that innocent five-year-old part of me who just wanted to be loved. That little innocent girl who would have done anything just to be special and to be kept safe and sound. She was something else, always looking for the little things, those little glimmers of life. She saw the smallest ant and the most amazing rainbows. She had a light that refused to give up and give in. Instead, she looked for even more light. Sometimes I wish I knew where that came from; in all that happened, she never lost what made her special. From her earliest memory, she felt different, out of place, and always observant. She noticed everything all around her all the time. She knew when people were off; she knew so many things beyond her years. Today, she is free; she no longer carries the weight of the things she survived. She has never forgotten, but she knows those things were not her fault.  She plays today like she should have all those years ago. She is special, and I will forever cherish her for helping me survive and believing in the good things in life when she was only hurt. She has gotten me here today, and I am forever grateful. 

Then there is spunky. I have worked so very hard, and yet she is still sitting on the couch outside of my therapist's door. She is still more than afraid and blames herself for so much. She is brave and strong and doesn't believe it yet. She wants to be close and belong, but she is still filled with everything she thinks she has control over. She blames herself for so much and is afraid of the unknown. She sits on that couch, afraid to breathe, move, and truly be. She was made to feel at fault, like something was defective about her. I know she has come an exceptionally long way; she is more a part of me than I ever imagined, yet sometimes I feel like she is a million miles away. She is afraid of being a burden and a bother; she was told she was too much of everything her entire life. She bears a story inside of her that is unimaginably heavy, that she doesn't know how to release; she tries in bits and pieces, she does. How does a person share that kind of horror? Her story makes her feel so much less than, and it's easier for her to blame herself than hold those accountable for doing the right thing and taking care of her when she needed them the most. 

I fear she will never be in the place Little Callahan lives. There is a different kind of weight in her soul that I struggle to find words for. Spunky has a knowing that Little Callahan never had. She was aware and felt so much in so many ways that there were no words for. She lives where words don't fit, and the intensity of what she feels is enormous.  Words seem empty for the depth of the things inside of her. She is afraid and alone, and she questions her role in everything all the time. Sometimes it is more than challenging to talk about her, because I don't know what to say or where to start. She lives in this panic, where she isn't good enough and never will be. She is in a place where things that happened play on repeat, and often, she is stuck in that cycle, trying to figure out what she could have done differently.  

I can't even focus on breathing because it is too much. Breathing and focusing on my breath brings a specific awareness I am not ready for. Sometimes I sit in my library when I can breathe, but not for long. That panic sets in, and I literally stop breathing. It's like if I stop breathing, no one can see, and I can't be hurt. I mean, it's crazy. Breathing is a necessity, but that is it. When I focus, there is this need to get away, because it's too intense. Sometimes, even in my writing, I find myself having to take a deep breath because I realize that I have stopped breathing.  If I stop breathing, there is a part of me that just doesn't exist, and if you don't exist, nothing can be taken away from you.  

So today, I am doing all that I can to try and figure out Spunky so that she can get off the couch and stop blaming herself and stop trying to figure out the things that there are no answers for. I think that done for us is going to be her and me, arm in arm, taking on the rest of the world. There is no safe place for her, no going back to something; she has to start from the very beginning, and that has to start with me.  I have said it before, and I will say it again, she is in the middle of everything I am doing right now. Everything I am doing is for her and others like her so they never have to live in silence. 

At this moment, sitting here in tears, I can't answer the question of what being done looks like. Being done is a moving target; when I get to a place I thought would be the end goal, things change, and I want more. Maybe there is no end.  Maybe there is no being done. I do know the place that I want to get to in order to be able to say I am in a place where I will no longer need my Wednesday at 5 o'clock. That thought is terrifying, and it is closer than it has ever been. I am not saying I am ready this month or next month, I don't have a date. I also know it's not forever.  I know there will come a time when Spunky and I are arm in arm and prepared to conquer the world. I am in a place, learning and growing, until that day when Spunky and I can be together, making a difference, and standing up for others. I know that when we are done, we will walk through those doors, both strong, brave, and so very capable of changing the world.  We are not done, but we are well on our way. She is me, and I am her; she got me through, now it's my turn to get her through.  

I heart your heart.  

Not everyone makes it

 

Today, there was a huge realization and sadness for me.  I woke up to the news that Virginia Giuffre, who was victimized by Jeffrey Epstein and Prince Edward, had committed suicide. I read the news and was heartbroken; it reminded me that the damage is done, and recovery often can take a lifetime.  She stood up for herself, she used her voice, she made a difference, and yet she ended her own life.  Of course, there may have been a thousand other things going on, and there are things that we don't know about her life. 

For me today, it was just a different kind of sadness because not everyone who fights or strives to do the right thing comes out on top. I often get more than frustrated with myself, that I am still so affected by what happened to me. I can acknowledge that I have come a really long way, but there are times when I am so tired of the hurt, the pain, the replaying of the past, the pictures, and the way that I am still so affected. I still have moments where I am thrown back to that time when I was a terrified 13-year-old who would have done anything to survive. I hate the dreams that make me feel I was raped yesterday, and I hate the memories that I see every detail of.  I replay what people said to me, and it still breaks my heart every single time. I question myself and wonder if it was really that bad.  Was I making a mountain out of a molehill?  Was I really that innocent?  I repeatedly play people's words in my mind, and think, did I really mean that little? 

In my heart, deep down, I feel that I am a survivor. I am not, nor have I ever been, a victim. I have fought my entire life. I always roll with the punches and keep going. For my healing, things have gotten piled and piled, and life happens, and more gets piled, and I am forever and always trying to dig myself out.  I have done the hard work, and there is less digging. The fact is, digging is digging, and sometimes, I just need a break. I look at Virginia, her strength, courage, and willingness to do the hard and right things; she is a light that the world no longer has, and I am heartbroken.  What made us so different? Why do I keep fighting?  Why did she decide she could not fight anymore? I know I will never stop fighting; I have to fight for the girl I was at 13. That girl who so badly wanted to be loved and belong.  I will forever fight for her, and someday we will be arm in arm, fighting together, ensuring that those who come after us know that life can be better.  We will keep fighting until each girl, boy, woman, and man can stand in their truth and be proud of themselves for surviving. 

Virginia's death is a reminder that there were times I could have made a different choice, even on the days when I didn't want to go on, there was something that kept me going. There will always be something to keep me going: my children, my granddaughter, and the clients I will have in the future. Spunky will keep me going because she deserves so much more than she ever got in this life.  Together, these things keep me fighting. To make a difference, the drive and passion that I have are something that I just can't control. There is a hole in my heart, but fighting fills that hole, knowing I can make a difference for others. Virginia, I want to give you this huge hug and make it better, but I can't do that. So I will keep fighting for you and for all of us, until the world is a much safer place for all of us. 

I heart your heart.  

Where to begin

 

Today was the first day since last Thursday that the tears slowed down. Today, I am overwhelmed and heartbroken. I am terrified to sit and start writing because I fear the tears will begin again. Life has been a whirlwind since last week, and I need some kind of playbook, some direction, and some answers for what I am supposed to do. I am so tired of being left out, left behind, and never considered. 

I knew that something wasn't right when the baby bassinet showed up, but I didn't get an answer. Then, not coming home for two straight days and seeing that Vincent was at the hospital. Vincent finally came home Thursday evening, and he came and sat on the couch in the library, Something he never does. I asked him what was going on, but he said nothing. I told him how much I loved him, but he just shook his head, saying nothing. He could not speak the words. I asked him, Vincent, are you a dad? and he said yes and started crying. There were so many things running through my head. I wanted to know everything: was it a boy or a girl, what her name was, and when she was born. I wanted all the details. She was born on Tuesday, March 26, at 12:22, weighing 6'4 and 18 inches long. Her name was Amelia May Ann Callahan. I was a grandmother and had already missed out on celebrating her first moments. My heart was everywhere and nowhere and bursting all in the same second. I wanted to understand why Vincent never told me, never let me in on this part of his life. In those seconds, I was just literally crushed.  I was a grandmother and didn't even know it. I missed gender reveals, baby showers, and all the things that I would have been so excited to be a part of.  I missed it all. I wanted to know when I could meet her.  So I went and picked Mariska up at work, and Vincent took a shower and got more clothes.  I followed him there; she literally lives not even 5 minutes away. 

I went to pick Mariska up at work, and we got home, waiting for Vincent to be ready. There were so many thoughts, and the weight in the room was great. I would be meeting my granddaughter for the first time. I was a nervous wreck, and I just could not get there fast enough. I walked in, and her dad answered the door. I said hello, gave him a hug, saw her mom, and gave her a hug. And there they were sitting in the recliner. My grandaughter Amelia May-Anne.  She was everything perfect. She had Vincent's nose. Of course, there were so many tears. I had only met Shelbi one other time, when we went out to dinner. I told her parents that I didn't know.  I kept saying that over and over; I just didn't know. Shelbi offered me to hold her right away, and I was more than grateful.  I cried, and I held her, pouring my heart into her.  I couldn't even sit down; I just stood there looking at every little detail, taking all of her in.  

Then I asked Shelbi's mom if I could see her first pictures, and she pulled out her phone and scrolled through screen after screen of pictures, and my heart broke. I was thinking about all the things that I didn't get the chance to be involved in. I was already more in love with Ms.Amelia and was heartbroken that I never got to celebrate her. I didn't even know about her until a few hours ago. I walked into that house and felt like such an outsider.  Even Mariska had known for months, since October.  Her Grandfather saw her in Walmart and asked why she wasn't at the gender reveal or the shower.  She had no idea what he was talking about until he said You know, for Vincent and Shelbi.  That is how Mariska found out. So many things that I missed out on, getting to be a part of.  Maternity pictures, showers, sonogram pictures, just all of it, that I never got to be a part of.  

I hold her, cherishing every second, and then that ache is still there. Of course, there are the thoughts that once outsider always an outsider. I am sure that all of her people have thoughts and wonder where his mom is and why she isn't around. Once again, so many much-missed opportunities that are just heartbreaking and seem to be a major theme in my life.  

I don't know how to do this and be a grandmother and see her and do all the things. There is no manual for this, and I so want there to be. I want to see her all the time and be so involved, and since they are living at her house, that is more than hard. I can not come over anytime that I want, I can not be there and love on her just because that I want to I have to ask and make sure that it is a good time, that it's ok, so many things to experience and I want to be be there for every single one of them. I have to figure out all of those pieces.   Vincent said in a text about coming over any time.  I texted back, letting him know that wasn't an option, I can't do that, I don't get to see her when I want.  I get to see her when it's ok with everyone around her. So much is so complicated.  

For me, a lot comes up, Vincent's genes and my assault, and do they know that? Have they ever asked him about his side?  What about Amelia? Will she ever ask what I will say? Will what happened to me ever be a topic? I just don't know. So many unknowns, and my heart is heavy and exhausted. 

He is such a good dad. He is so very gentle with her. He holds her and gets close to her little face. He is gentle with her socks, diapers, and everything little. How he holds her, the kindness- pretty amazing to watch. 

So many things to figure out. So much to learn about how all of this is going to work. I want to be there all the time, and that just isn't an option for me, so I am there every second that I can, that he wants me, that he invites me. I love her with my whole heart, with all that I am from the second that I found out. Ms.Amelia ,there are so many things that I can't wait to do with you. I already have great plans for her room, for pictures for a bed, I have books, and animals and so many amazing beautiful things that I so look forward to sharing with her. 

Mariska is awesome with her, I am in awe watching how she speaks to her, how they interact. She loves her with her whole heart.  She is going to be the most amazing aunt ! 

Lots of new things, so many things to figure out and find meaning for.  It has only been two weeks, and it's still all sinking in. I hope her mom Kayla and I can do lunch; I feel like there are so many things to talk about. Since Shelbi is her daughter, I feel like so much rests on her little did she know, I am more than happy to help carry the load. I hope in time we can get to know each other better. Her first texts were amazing and welcoming, telling me I am a part of the family. That is hard to hear. I want to believe it, but only time will tell.  I am not a part of the family; I am not one of their people. I want to jump all in, believing it, but I am the one that will be left alone, and I can't do that.  I have to see what happens as time goes on and relationships are built. 

I am proud of Vincent and love Amelai more than words. There are so many things that can't even fit in the post. Some things just can't be spoken. Amelia, I heart your heart. Vincent, you mean the world to me. Shelbi, I hope you can let me in and be the grandmother that I so long to be. 

I heart your heart. Here's the very first picture I took the night that I met her. 

My whole heart

It's the acknowledgement

 

Something else I realized last week was that there is so much to be said for acknowledgment. It seems like such a small thing, but really, it is very big and more than important. In my life, that is something that I have always struggled with. There was no acknowledgment of anything that happened to me, my feelings, or who I was as a person in the house I grew up in.  Not only that, but even later in life, the things that have mattered to me were often not acknowledged. Those things have very long-lasting impacts. So when things are acknowledged, it is those aha moments like it's ok that those things happened. It's a breath of air for the things that have been under lock and key that haven't received air for a long time.  Of if they have by some chance gotten a little air, it was never known to anyone. I was talking about my very first Grad school class last week.  My very first professor and the difference that he made for me. Oh, he was often unorganized; he said things and then forgot.  But he is a professor, that made a difference. He saw me and acknowledged what I was saying. 

We were talking about different clientele and the people that we would serve. I adamantly said that I would never work with offenders; that was not my area, and I was ok with that. He said things that made me think so gently and so kindly. After class, we started talking, and I don't even know what was said. But he said you have experience with that.  I am pretty sure that I was in shock; I said yes, and the tears started flowing.  I didn't have to say a word, and he knew. That acknowledgment was everything.  And he said to do some research on wounded healers. I told him that I would, and I did.   I emailed him my research, but I never heard back, but the fact that he saw me and acknowledged the pain was everything. Dr. Asante, those moments meant the world, and I will never forget them. I am truly grateful.

Then this semester I am very careful I don't want my story to be the topis of conversation or a part of the class. There are things that I would sometimes like to share that are making the counselor that I am going to be. There are moments in class when my experiences are very relevant to the things that we are discussing. I hear her words loud and clear, we are not to speak about our stories, there is a very strong feeling that she is more than uncomfortable.  Instead of that acknowledgment, there is a fear and it is pushed away.  In a grad class, talking about hard things, and my hard things are not even acknowledged. It makes me think that maybe those stories, maybe my story is just to close to handle. It makes me sad.  I respect her so very much, and the passion for teaching is something I have never experienced; when something like this occurs, I find myself shrinking that somehow, once again, my story doesn't matter. I get the feeling that my story scares her, and it should not. 

Two totally different reactions. Dr.Asante was able to see that my story made me stronger and acknowledged that. Dr. Monsour made me feel like I had no right to share; my story was something not to be discussed. Little did they know, I felt powerful and heard with him and small and weak in the latter. 

That makes me more than sad; I have worked so hard to acknowledge the things that have happened and not see myself as all the ugly things I have said, and in a split second, all of those things come rushing back. My story does not make me weak; my story makes me the strong person that I am today. If I were to mention anything, it would be for the good of the class as a counselor in training, not as a survivor trying to process what has happened. There was a day when I would not have known the difference but I do today. When I share, it's not from my bleeding heart but from the parts that have healed. Do I have a long way to go, of coarse. Have I come a really long way? Yes.  And all the hard work that I have done has brought me here, and I will be the therapist that I am because of my story. 

I heart your heart. Dr.Asante, someday, I will tell you just what those moments meant for me. I am truly grateful. 

Just Struggling

 

I don't even know where to start, and I feel like I haven't been in this place in a long time.  But I am here, and it's really hard. I am on the brink of tears most of the time. I feel like the weight of the world is on my shoulders, and I am absolutely spent. I hate that April is coming up, I hate that it's almost my birthday, and I just wish that we could skip it and move on. The kid's birthday is coming up, and I would love to celebrate and make it special, so I am going to try and do that, making it special regardless and without expectations. I am sitting here staring at the screen. There are so many things to get out, and they are stuck. I probably have at least 10 blog posts that are open, that are full of my thoughts, but they just aren't making any kind of connection or sense.  They are all parts and pieces of where I am right now.   There is this empty feeling, this looking for something that I don't have that I am not even sure where to find. Last week was my spring break for school, and it was, well, just awful. There is a sense of being unsettled, of wanting to be in a different place that isn't an option right now. It's transmission time, things are changing, and as sure as I am that I am heading in the right direction, there is unrest. I am tired, so very tired. I have this big house that I am more than grateful for, but the amount of upkeep and work that includes is great. Trying to do it all on my own is more than difficult, and when I am unsure about what to do, there is no one to go to and there is no one that I can rely on to guide me in the right direction. I don't want the answers from someone, but someone who hears me and lets me know if I am even heading in the right direction would mean the world. I do everything all the time, and it would be nice if I didn't have to. Like Mulch for the front yard.  I do not have strong arms, and I know that loading and unloading all of that mulch and then spreading it all over the flower bed is hard.  Not to mention that yard work is not my friend.  It's those kinds of things that I wish I had help with. Even earlier today, I was taking entirely too much down the stairs to limit the amount of trips it was going to take, and there just isn't help. I was seen and was ignored; my son could do so much to lessen my load just a little, but there was no desire to help me with anything.  And I know I could have asked, but that would just cause more drama so I do it myself. Doing it all on your own takes a toll, and I think that right now, I feel that all the way to the core of my being.  Working full time, full-time grad school, my kids, this house, and all the other things that come up in a day, it feels like I am climbing a mountain that continues to get taller and taller with each added task. There is nothing left of me and such an emptiness inside. 

I heart your heart.

He looks like me

 

While cleaning out the upstairs living room, I found an old picture of me, and it almost made me cry.  Vincent looks like me.  The same facial structure, the chiseled chin. My eyes started to drip; he looked like me and not him. It's been on my mind a lot more lately, as they get older. I wonder if they have questions or things that they think about or are concerned about. There are so many things that I don't know, but today, there was a relief that he looks like me. I think sometimes he wants to be as far away from me as possible; there is a piece of him, even if he won't admit it, that is more than angry at me. For what I don't know yet, but I hope that someday he will tell me. Sometimes he scares me, he is so cold.  I get glimpses of the Vincent that I know, and I hold on to those for dear life. When I see that smile, when I get a response to a good morning text.  Oh, I hold on to those. When I get that I love you back, that means the world.

I will always wonder what traits he got from "him". Someday, I hope to find other moms like me and hear their worries and concerns and hear how they go about life. With this, I am on my own, and there is no rule book on what to do. How do you tell your children they were conceived in rape but are truly the best things that ever happened to you. I will tell them over and over that I would do it all again to get to be their mom. My heart is often broken by him because I don't understand how he treats me. It's gone on a long time, years in fact, and I am often at a loss. He doesn't talk to me or engage in any kind of conversation. He doesn't eat with us and doesn't interact at all. Asking him to help with the simplest task is like asking for a limb. He won't help me, because I need it I have to beg.  There are just some things that I can't do. I am going to keep that door open and keep telling him how much I love him, and maybe someday he will reach back. Since my mom died, it's gotten worse. I am sure she filled his head with things that made me the bad guy, and I can't go back and change that. I have to hope that someday he will come around. I hear him in his room, and he talks and laughs, but with me, nothing. I don't even remember the last real conversation that we had. So I am going to hold on to him looking like me and hope with all that I am that someday he will be softer with me. I hope someday we can have those conversations so he can understand where I have come from, why I did the things that I did, and how I lived my life the way that I lived it. I love you with my whole heart, Vincent, and I will forever keep reaching, even when you have broken my heart for the millionth time. I love you just that much. I am sorry for so many things, and so many things were out of my control, but you are my world, and I want the best for you always. I heart your heart.