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. 

Appreciate Life and Unravel

I hope that I am learning to appreciate life. The life that I have, the moments that I can hold my heart and remember the days when I never ever imagined that I would be in this place today. You never know from one day to the next the things that are going to impact you, the people that you are going to meet, and the experiences that you might have. My life has been nothing short of amazing in each and every second that I have been on this earth. In a few short weeks, I turn 50, and there is a weight to that, like I never imagined. I have spent the last 50 years hating who I was and all the things that have happened to me. I have spent each and every moment scared of the next one, wondering if I am good enough.  I always fear that I am not good enough, not smart enough, not pretty enough, not everything enough to get all the things that I want in this life. I am working so hard in every area right now, wanting more for myself. 

We have been talking about compassion for ourselves in my grad classes, and for me, that is extremely hard.  I don't have compassion for the girl that I was, the woman that I am today, or the person that I am becoming. I am trying really hard and doing all the things to better myself and feel like I am worth the things around me. When I was cleaning more of the upstairs living room, I found my favorite picture of me when I was a baby. There is one little tear, and I look at that picture, and for once, there is a sense of compassion for that sweet girl who would go through so much. I even went and bought a frame, wanting that picture to have a special place and to never be forgotten. I am trying to give myself those graces that should be afforded to everyone, but somehow, I have always felt that those things never applied to me. It is something different to live life always feeling that you are less than everyone all the time. Even when I hear good things, even when people tell me good things, I struggle to believe that they are real, that what they are saying actually applies to me. I am desperately trying to work on that; it's just more than hard and something that I have to constantly be aware of. I worry all the time if I am enough. In every interaction, every paper, every word that I speak, I wonder if I have a right to my thoughts. I wonder how they will be taken and how I will be viewed. It's a constant battle to feel like I am worthy—like a second-to-second battle.  I appreciate each and every moment of the life that I have today. I notice the breeze, the raindrops, and the sound of the birds. I notice all of those things all the time, every day. 

There are days that are the hardest that you could ever imagine, and yet you would never know it. Because I keep going, keep smiling, keep fighting for the life that I want regardless of those so hard days. I am fighting for that 13-year-old girl that I was; so hurt by the world and everyone around her. She is safe, she is closer than ever, and she is resting. She is taking things in preparing for the next steps to freedom. She wants to forget where she has been and all the hands that have touched her, taking away what wasn't theirs piece by piece. She has a need to take off her skin that holds all the feelings and the memories, but she knows that is impossible. So slowly, ever so slowly, we are coming back together, fighting for each other to live the life we are destined to have. She is in the middle of all that I am doing right now. With all that we are, we would do anything to make the things that happened to us disappear. We are all too aware that that isn't an option, but some days we wish for that more than anything. Because we can't change it or make it any different, we are learning and want to do things differently for others. We are looking out into the world, reading journal articles and diving head first into all that there is to healing so that one day we can help others like us on their own journey. 

We unravel bit by bit, trying to find a place of peace and a place where we can forever be safe and sound. 

I heart your heart

 

NO need to share

 Once again, I am different, and there is no need to share.  Little do they know that I feel everything, and I know that there is fear about the words that will come out of my mouth. Words are spoken that we don't need "details" in a paper; that is for your own personal counseling. It is crazy to me that even in a graduate class, there are still things that are off limits.  It feels off-limits to me, and I get the message very clearly. It is very clear that some things are okay, and still, other things are not okay. It's ok for some things to be spoken about, but still, others are deemed inappropriate for class. It's a crisis class, I understand.  I think there will be open discussion about topics and ideas.  The first class was during the time of the California Fires, and we watched a video and talked about our thoughts and impressions.  One of my classmates had an Uncle who survived the fire but lost his home and all his belongings. He was in his 90s, and the question was whether to rebuild or not. Those things are ok to talk about. My classmates' experiences are ok to talk about. Adoption, yes, that is ok to talk about. Feelings of abandonment, feelings of self-worth, and feelings of belonging. Those are things that are ok to talk about. Another classmate talked about her daughter and wanting to get an attorney so the mother can make decisions if she is not able.  Those things are ok. However, I made a connection with the book Surrounded by Madness, and about when the parents are brought in for a counseling session and learn what happened to their daughter when she was 11.  They were aware of how they made the right decision but still didn't know. There is nothing. I feel the silence with all that I am. I am well-versed in the silence that is experienced. As a class, we start talking about self-compassion, and I am honest about the fact that it is a hard one for me to process. I acknowledge that it is hard and an area that I know I need to work on. I don't even remember which part of class it was, but I talked about where I have come from, and there was nothing in that book that I didn't have some connection to.  For me, there is nothing in this class that is shocking because I have lived a life of trauma. So, for me, these things are terrible, but there is a different understanding for me, and that has never been acknowledged. There have been a few times she has made comments, well, that is for counseling, that is not for here. And I think why not here in a crisis class for these classmates to understand the things that they may come in contact with? I am a real-life story sitting right in front of them, and I am not allowed to share my experiences. With comments that are made, when we have to write a paper, I hear the unspoken words; I have heard them my entire life. Maybe they are worried about how I will share the information about me. Little do they know I want to talk about the healing side and that it's possible and that I want to be that light to show them that it can be done. I hear her words over over and over in my head, well in your paper you can say your life experiences have brought you here but no details because those things are meant for counseling. When I am sharing or writing about my experience, I am not writing for anything other than to share a different insight into why I am the person that I am.  It makes me sad that it is not understood. It's a disservice to me and others in the class. They don't get insight that might help those who will be their clients, and it's a message to a trauma survivor that her story is something not meant for class. I would never inappropriately share anything. I would just like to share where I have been and where I am now for an understanding of just how far I have come. 

So many times in classes, there are moments that I want to share, and I try to make it pretty by dancing around the things that I want to say, but there is so much missed opportunity. There are things that I want to share because they add insight, because they're important. Others can share about things that they are impacted by, but trauma is still an area that is shunned. If they would just hear me, to know where I was coming from, it would be helpful for them and for me. I have come so far, and to feel like I am being shut down is hard. I am not coming from the place of a client who needs counseling. I am coming as a professional who had had experiences that have brought me here to this moment wanting to help others. I wish there was an understanding for that. I have worked so hard to find my voice, and when others are allowed to share their experiences but yours are off-limits, it hits hard and brings all kinds of feelings.  It's sad that there are things I can share that are so much a part of where I am but are not welcomed. I wish that it was as ok to talk about serious trauma as other things. I will keep fighting for that. Once you find your voice, you become even more sensitive to those who don't or won't hear your thoughts or experiences. There is a way to do it, and I think there was a time I wasn't ready, but I am today. And no matter how I love the professor and value her thoughts, it's not ok that I am made to feel that the things I want explore in class are things she deems inappropriate. Someday. Someday, things will be different. There are a lot of trauma survivors in these classes, and we have things to say and express that are important and should be valued, not hushed away or covered in different words. 

I heart your heart.   

Her Things, Still Heavy

 

Cleaning out after someone has passed is never an easy task. it's heavy oh so heavy. When that person has hurt you so badly, it adds an extra level of sadness that things weren't different. She was my mom and i wanted so much more. I want to be able to look fondly at her things, thinking of the good memories and warm moments. For me, that just isn't the case, and it makes me very sad. Part of me wants to throw everything away. And there's another part that just doesn't understand why she hated me so very much. So many of the things were things I gave her, and what do I do with them? Her desk, oh she loved that desk. It's not me; I don't want it. What do I do? I don't like the pictures of the turtles and the boats! Do I put them in what used to be her room? Do I give them away to make room for the things that are me, that make my heart happy? I don't know. I am trying not to view things from my hurt heart, but there is no other way, at least not right now. 

Mariska and I were in the upstairs living room all day yesterday cleaning out and making things ours again.  It felt more than good and more than sad. We went into her room for atime to see where things would go, what room there was and I quickly realized that rome was not built in a day and that I didn't want to be in what used to be her speace. The things that I had gotten for her, the things that were on the wall.  It felt like I was in some kind of time warp, with scenes and memories all playing out at the same time.  I felt the tears coming and decided that I was going to tackle her room on another day. After all this time, what I think should be easy is just as hard as right after she passed.  Mariska and I laughed a lot and made things fun.  There was a lot of furniture moving and throwing things away.  I took down many of the things that were her, and nothing that I was or stood for.  There were some quiet moments, reflecting on where things went so wrong.  Mariska made the comment once that she wasn't born with the right gentalie to be loved.  That made me sad she knew that boys were a favorite. There were moments, that we remembered and talked about our thoughts and feelings. Some of the things that she said broke my heart. She was so unkind to her, and that killed me. She even said that she missed her cat Dorothy, and didn't really miss her at all. That was heart wrenching you are suppossed to mis your grandmother, the only grandparent in her life, but yet she missed her cat. There were a lot of moments like that. I tried not to go through a lot of things and just simply knew that they wee not mine and threw them away.  There were many things that I am sure there was a smirk as I threw them in the trash box. There was one picture imparticular that I tore to shreads. A night when it all about her, and I cried to my brother trying to get him to understand all that was going on in the house, he was unable and unwilling to listen. I remember it so well, I was heartbroken and there was no one to help. She was quite proud of herself, as warrented but I didn't have to get trampled in the process. Such a crazy time.  I tore it one way and then the other then again and again until there was nothing but morsels in my hand. 

It was a long but productive day. We brought some of the things to give away and went back upstairs and couldn not believe the progress.  It felt lighter, it felt more like ours than it had in forever. We have decided to decorate the walls with all different kinds of birds which I think is perfect and so fitting. It's an amazing feeling when a space feels like comfort. It is so open and welcoming, nothing like it was before. 

I have never felt so free.  I am lonesome, and I get so sad, because of the life that i have lived, but goodness I have come such a long way and I am finally doing what makes my heart happy. I have a long way to go and i may always have a long way to go but I am creating a space that feels good for Mariska and I.  We both keep talking about how awesome it looks and that we can't wait to finish. My house and another beautiful room in the making, my heart is full.  This is my house and no one can make me feel unwanted in my own home ever again. That is progress. I have a home. 

Blue October : Home 

I heart your heart. 

Lonesomeness

 I saw this today, and my tears started to swell. I had never seen this word before, but it's so fitting. I think sometimes that I live in that state. I have always lived there; it might even be my go-to. I do have a few people in my life, the constant the forever's, but there is a sense that I will forever be lonesome. Maybe it's the things I have experienced; maybe it's how I was raised. Maybe this is just a time for me to realize how far I have come and be sad about the things that have broken my heart. Over and over, I think I was just a girl who was 13 years old, and that is not very old at all.  I seem to be focused lately so much on the First rape by Don. It seems that the pictures are clearer, and it makes me sad. I was not the woman that I thought I was. I was not an adult; I was just a girl who wanted to be loved and cared for. 

I feel like I'm in this loop, replaying the smallest details of that one day, trying to give it some kind of understanding or some peace. I don't know if there is any. I feel like it should not be affecting me the way that it is. I should not be so upset; it was lifetimes ago, and yet these last few weeks, there have been days when it feels so present. I think I have realized that a young, innocent girl is right in the middle of everything in grad school, wanting to be heard and understood. I find research articles and think that for certain topics to be on others' minds as well as mine gives me a certain comfort. 

They say that there is a story behind every counselor, and I think that could not be truer. We all have stories, and I have mine. Mine just feels exceptionally heavy these days. This semester at school is a heavy semester.  I still know that I am on the right path; I am where I am meant to be. There are just a lot of realizations that hurt. This is just one of those times when it's hard to separate the person that I am from the counselor in training. Because Spunky, that girl that I was, is in the middle of everything and struggling to be free. There are a lot of realizations that things should have been so different. I have run from her my entire life, and for once, not running is just plain painful. I have never sat with her, the pain or the realization of her truth. Everything was always her fault; she did this and that and then this, and it was always her fault. But nothing is her fault, even the dancing, the wanting to be included and cared for. None of those things are things that any other normal 13-year-old girl wouldn't want. 

I found an article talking about weight and Rape. I think there was a moment when reading that sucked all of the air out of the room. Everyone told me I was the chubby unpopular kid who would want to do that to me. That has stuck with me after all this time; each time I think about it, I can hear the words and feel myself shrinking; oh, right, who would want to do that to me. It's a constant fight. 

I feel so alone in my bones lately, and it is heavy and very strong. I need to speak with others who understand. How is it that I can work so hard to heal little Callahan and struggle so much with Spunky? I know these things, and she still seems so different from me. She is closer than ever and still feels very far away. Just hurt beyond imagination, still scared of the world. The work that I am doing now is for her so she can someday find some peace; she deserves to rest forever.  She needs so much kindness, maybe that is why I think she will always be in a place far away, then there is a certain reassurance that she can never be hurt again. She wouldn't make it.  If she is alone, then I can guarantee that. Maybe someday it won't be like that, I have to hope.  

There is a need to connect with other moms like me. Being a mom right now is very lonely, and I don't know what to do. I feel like Vincent hates me, and I just want to understand why. What are his thoughts? What is he thinking? But he doesn't even want to be in the same room. So much so that I wonder if all those things are because of me. I want to talk to other moms who have been raped and have their children.  What are their thoughts and experiences? I have never met another mom like me. Do they have support,  do they struggle with making each and every life decision. I don't know, but lately, that seems to be weighing heavy on my heart. Was I treating him different because of what happened, I have worked so hard not to, but maybe did I do something unintentionally?  I just don't know. Another area where lonesome is the only word that fits. Others can't understand what it's like and all that we have to carry. Another step in the process of healing, but my heart is so tired. Just a time of lonesomeness, I will be ok I always am, but it's an insurmountable load to carry. 

I heart your heart.