I don't know why I've felt exceptionally vulnerable over the last few weeks. It's like the past has made itself a resident again lately. I have become a pro at shutting it off, but I just can't for the life of me do that right now. There is a part of me that feels incredibly guilty, like, haven't I moved past this already? I'm not a fan of feeling like I'm stuck. I am working really hard and trying to do everything in my daily life that is necessary, but the overwhelm in my everyday life is very present. Finding that letter from my mother, to being asked if I am ok because of my tears, has taken a toll. Those things seem so insignificant, but somewhere in my head, they are not. Things that I have worked so hard to overcome, and yet there is another layer of 'Oh, crap, am I doing okay?' These little setbacks have become bigger than I imagined. In this, I am trying to accept that there will always be things that come up that bother me, that take me back for a few days. Just because that happens doesn't mean I'm going backwards or not doing well; it simply means I'm still affected.
Sleeping has been extremely difficult, with so many nightmares. I remember some of them, and yet others I don't know, but the feeling of being hurt is still there, and it feels extremely weighty in the morning. I wake up around 2 or 3 each night and barely get back to sleep before the alarm goes off for school. Sometimes it's terror, other times it's dread; either way, they are disturbing and awful. Sometimes it's actually me who is being hurt; other times it's a threat that I can't escape from. It's running a marathon with no finish line; you're told to just keep running, and maybe with some kind of luck, you will make it. I wouldn't know what to do with a full 8 hours of restful sleep. I have not known that for my entire 50 years of life. I guess it's something that I should get used to by now.
Then there are the flashbacks. Some of them stop me in my tracks and take my breath away. They are so real and everything that I would like to forget. Sometimes I freeze, I know what's happening to me, and I feel far away. Other times, it is me, and those are the ones where I do anything to distract myself from remembering. I will scroll through my phone or Netflix for hours, looking for something to make the things I remember less painful, hoping that the scrolling will make me forget. There are tears, and I can't believe the things I have lived through. I was just a girl, a little girl who carried so much. Music seems to be the thing that is bringing up so much. But I love music, and it makes me angry that even something I love is so affected by what was done to me. I hear songs and know I was abused during them. The music was my happy place when things were unimaginable. Living knowing that is really hard sometimes. My skin feels more sensitive than ever, and the slightest touch makes me cower.
It is sometimes extremely hard being in the field that I am in. I get frustrated that I still have to deal with these things, like someone who is becoming a counselor should make these things easier for me. I have done the hard work and will forever be healing, and sometimes that is more frustrating than anything else. I am slowly coming to the realization that no matter how far I come in life and what I accomplish, my past will always be my past. There are going to be times when it rears its ugly head, and I will just breathe, put it to the side, and do what I was meant to do, dealing with my own heart later. I'm happy that I'm good at that, but sometimes I wish I didn't have to. It's hard sometimes, feeling like a fake because I still have work to do. We all have work, and perhaps I should be gentler on myself, but the areas I need to work on are those that bring me the most passion. What is that saying that your passion comes from your deepest wounds? I believe that with my whole heart. That doesn't make the personal side of it any easier. Healing while my heart is breaking.
The things that have happened to me are here to stay. I can not change them, make them into anything different. I can say the nicer words make them sound prettier, but they are what they are. They were horrific, and they changed me forever. Maybe that is why they seem so overwhelming the last few weeks. With finding that letter my mother wrote and much of that guilt fading away about my reaction to her death, maybe that gives me space to truly work on healing Spunky. There was always something holding her back, scared of breathing, terrified of being seen, being believed. Afraid to use her voice to express herself. I am not sure if she has ever been able to speak, not truly. Maybe now this is her time. For me, there seems to be this anger that I have never had before. That I was surrounded by people who should have stepped up and didn't. Everyone was out to save their own ass, over protecting me. Everyone was worried about their own needs, and what I needed was of little importance to them. Realizing that my mother played a role, played just as significant a role as my father in my abuse. Looking the other way, ignoring, pretending all things that added to my sadness and pain. I have fought for the tears that I can cry today. Someone questioning them brings a feeling of weakness, and my truth is that it is tough. I hate living with the trauma that I have lived, but I am no longer willing to let it control me and the person that I have become. I will use those things and help others. I will forever and always continue to fight so that other women don't have to sit at their computer spilling their soul with all the words she was never allowed to speak. I will keep fighting with every breath that I have to find that happy that I was never allowed to have.
At this time and place, it feels like I am fighting to breathe. I have so many good things going for me, and yet the pull to the past can sometimes be so powerful. The nightmares pull me back, songs from the '80s pull me back, those moments of panic all pull me back. I am working so hard moving forward, and there are these ties that I can't seem to break. There are some chains that I hope will give me some slack; they come in waves, and this is a wave. A massive wave. I was just listening to the TV today, and it was like song after song, there was this emotion welling up, this panic. I shut it off because I remember enough as it is, and I do not want to remember anymore. I have come to terms with the fact that there may be more that I don't remember, but that's okay with me. I remember enough as it is.
It's frustrating when even listening to music is a trigger. I love music; when I don't have words, there is music. When I am happy, there is music; when I am sad, there is music; when I can't find words, I can find a song. It's hard to explain; a specific song will come in, and there's this void, almost, like I completely freeze. I hear the words of the song, but they are far away, and I am there, but I am not. I hear the words, and nothing else. It's like being in a dark room, and things are happening, yet it's too much, so you just focus on the music. I know there are things in those moments, and I just want them to go away. I just need them to go away. There is no need to remember another thing. And I get more than angry at myself. I hear James in my head when I was really struggling, and he basically said that if nothing else had happened to me, then I should be fine. I hear him telling me that the nightmares and flashbacks are basically my choice. So when these things happen, there is a bit of come on, Callahan, aren't you done yet? What's taking you so long, and why are you dwelling on things? So many good things are happening; let it go. If it were just that simple, shut the switch off on all your trauma.
That may be the nature of the beast. Perhaps, there will always be things that are attached to me. Maybe there will always be moments when it will rear its ugly head, and I will be stopped right where I am. With a history like mine that lasted so many years, with so many things overlapping, and twisting together, triggers are just something that happens. Believe me, if there were a switch, I would have found it, used it, and made sure it was no longer in operation. Nice thought, but we all know it doesn't work that way. So I keep breathing, keep moving forward, just another step in my healing.
I'm no longer surprised, but still incredibly heartbroken. Maybe because I believed I had found all of the damaging things she had said on paper. Maybe I thought there was nothing else she could say that would make a difference. I am the kind of upset where there are no words, just an internal ache that is painful and deafeningly silent. The kind that tears at your heart, the kind that makes you realize all the things that you thought were true about a person really were. The kind that helps me understand my lack of sadness over her death. I want to scream, 'This is why, this is why, I could not trust her with my heart.' Today, I am not sad that she isn't here. I want to shake this letter at the world, yell at them, this is why I am even more relieved that she is no longer here.
I was cleaning out more things from what used to be her room. I wasn't looking at anything; I had already been hurt enough by things that I had seen and found. I bought boxes and was just throwing things away, and it felt more than amazing. Pictures off the wall being given away, making this space happy and one fit for my granddaughter; my heart was filled with happiness. Then there was a letter in front of me. And the words that I saw were a goodbye letter to Sherri. I picked it up, set them aside for later, and continued throwing everything away — everything that reminded me of her.
Then I took that letter and I read the entire thing. I was beyond words. I never cried, I never felt anything other than disgust. There was this kind of quiet, that I can't explain. I hated her then, and it made me hate her even more in the moment. Then I read it today, and there was that sinking feeling. She never knew me and was unable to see past her own selfishness. I'm in a place where I'm trying to understand the how and why of her words and how they relate to each other in her actions. She never took responsibility for anything that ever happened to me. If she had read my journals and emails, she would have known what I went through and how scared and alone I was.
There were some things that just broke my heart, which I will write word for word from her goodbye letter in blue; some of them are hard to read. And then I will try to convey my feelings about them, and my truth. I don't know of any other way to get through them. Some of the things are crushing, and I feel like I'm being stabbed through the heart.
I can not let you manipulate me into feeling sorry for you ?_- Sorry for you? For What?
I don't know what this is supposed to mean. I never tried to manipulate you, and never once wanted you to feel sorry for me. I did everything the opposite, actually. I think it was the "For what?" that struck me the most. Maybe for the things that your husband did, maybe for not keeping me safe, maybe for making me your friend, maybe for losing my childhood, maybe for having to be a co-spouse and take care of all the things that you did as his wife. If you want honesty, there are many things that you should have felt differently about, but not once did I ever want you to feel sorry for me; I wanted you to see me and do things differently. I want you to take responsibility, be a mother, and keep me safe.
I bought you a laptop, a diamond ring, I bought you a 1000 dollar diamond ring
I was grateful for that laptop; I needed it for school, and it really was very helpful. The ring, okay, I was grateful and I loved it. I don't know why it's even being brought up. Were there stipulations to that ring? I will gladly take it off and put it away; it is off my finger as I write this. It was a gift that I didn't ask for, and nothing that I asked you to spend. It feels like a slap in the face. Look at what I spent on you. I would have rathered kindness and understanding over that ring any day.
You forgot a week at a beach house? You forgot the ponies for their birthday? Too bad you can't remember the good things.
Crazy how two people can remember things so differently. I remember the beach house well; it was my birthday, and Gotye was on Saturday Night Live that weekend. I remember the crazy nightmares, and the inability to fall asleep. When walking on the beach, you chose to walk with Chris's girlfriend, and I was left alone. There was Drama the night of my birthday. I just wanted to take a walk on the pier, but that never happened. There was drama, and I was left to my own devices. For my birthday, I was given a mouse for my computer. I was drowning and trying to smile for my children. The Beach was a place where I felt peace when things were so hard. I would sit on the deck, tears flowing, yeah, too bad I can't remember the good things. I remember feeling like I could breathe watching the sunrise and drinking my coffee, my kids safely playing on the lower deck. The ponies for their birthday, I will never forget. I saved and was so excited to do that for them. I wanted them to have a birthday to remember, and they had a blast. The ponies were more than amazing, and everything was more than perfect. One of the best parties in the world, but a birthday party for my children doesn't erase yours, and years of trauma and abuse. I do remember many good things, special moments with my children, and how they got to live a life so different than mine, because of the things I created.
All of your ghosts haunt you. You live in a haunted house, and I refuse to visit
Wow, I'm not sure how to respond to this one. You refuse to visit a place that you helped create; maybe that lies at the heart of the problem. Yes, I was haunted by all the things that had happened to me, all the things that you pretended not to know about, and I needed you. I needed you to care, I needed you to hold my hand and let me know I wasn't so awful. I needed a mom, but you were too preoccupied with all that you had going on to even notice that I was slowly slipping away. My job was to take care of you my entire life, and I always did, until that day came when I put myself first. That never went over well with you. Goodness, you hated that my children came first. All of your ghosts haunt you, yes, they did. I once lived in a haunted house, where everyone pretended that everything was fine and everything was good, but nothing was fine. You refuse to visit, you talk about wanting things to be different, but refuse to help me where I am. I was in the darkest place you could imagine, trying to process things that had happened to me on my own, so don't you dare talk about what I am haunted by and then refuse to visit. I was pressing charges on my father alone, I was going through the court system alone, and there were no words of support or comfort or anything from you. I was breaking family secrets, and it killed you. I was fighting those ghosts, standing up wanting better for others, wanting to make sure that another little girl wasn't hurt by him like I was.
You listed all the counselors I had seen and said at least they loved me, yes they did you walked away, ran away the victim again and again and again
I don't know what all my counselors have to do with anything. I was grasping at straws, trying to find some help and support. The world that I carried was burdensome, and I was caving from the weight of all that had happened in my life. I never walked away from counseling, that was a place I ran to looking for help when none was offered at home. I never gave up on counseling. You are very wrong, I was never the victim, I never walked into counseling thinking Oh, poor me, look at the things that I have survived I walked in there with a will to fight, and to take back all that was taken from me. I was not a victim again and again and again. I grew, I changed, I became stronger, and I moved to a place where I was going to be given the help that I desperately longed for. You speak about how you went to each counselor, sharing your life with them in an attempt to help me, but I don't understand. I was in counseling to heal my life and the things that I survived. My getting counseling had nothing to do with your past, and you were unable to see that. You saw my counselors because you were afraid of what I was saying. You wanted to be the big hero, but I'm here to help. No, you were only there for yourself, trying to save face and making sure there were few family secrets told.
I know of you from journals left out, journals I searched for to get inside of you to read emails.
This is fascinating. If you read my journals and emails, you would have gained valuable insight into all that I was going through. You would have known the things that happened to me and how I was tormented by flashbacks and nightmares each and every day. You would have seen my heart and the things that I was struggling with. You would have had a better understanding of the person I was and why I reacted in specific ways. You read journals and emails for information, but not to intervene and offer help. You saw the scratches on my arms and all the bruises on my legs; you saw the evidence of just how much I was trying to fight. The things I wrote in those were who I was to my core. I was dying inside, and the journals were where I turned, and you want to use that against me. You never wanted to get inside of who I was; you wanted information and to know what family secrets I was no longer keeping. It's hard to imagine that you read them knowing I wasn't okay and still stood by, doing nothing; that's where the problem lies.
Oh yes, James, where is he now ?
James was the only person that I had for a time. And you're even including him is another sword that I didn't deserve. You will never understand what he meant, and you don't deserve to know what happened. He was everything to me for a time; he gave me more love and support than you ever did. People change what they need changes and, I was in that place. I was going further than James was able to help; that is what happened. So fuck you, for wanting to destroy something that I clung on to for dear life.
You wrote about your abuse, and how I didn't want to hear that
That may be the truest thing that you have said in the letter. It was only after I pressed charges against my father that you showed an interest in sharing about yourself. Not once did you ever ask what he did, what happened to me, you said, he molested me, no he raped me from before I was 5. There was never a time in my life when I didn't know about sex and what was expected. I knew it was good night when he couldn't get an erection, how is that for 5 year old knowledge. I didn't have the words. He would straddle my neck on your water bed and want me to perform oral sex. He would threaten me not to get sick and push me out of bed. He would touch me, his hands everywhere, all the time. He would come into my bed at night, and I would have to hold his cross so it didn't make any noise as he raped my little body. Many mornings, I would sneak to the trash and throw my bloody underwear away. Did you even notice how often they were missing ? He would kiss you and look at me; there was never a single second when I wasn't terrified of him. So, did I want to hear all about your abuse? No, I did not. I had enough terror in my mind. I wanted someone to see me, hold my heart, and help me heal. This was not about you.
I trained myself to remember the good stuff, moment to moment, how stupid that I thought I was- I wasn't stupid, I was surviving. How dare you hate me
What you don't understand is that I kept smiling, kept living. The difference is that you were an adult, you had a choice; I did not. I hated you; yes, I did. I still hate you because you never stood up for me. You never said, 'I am here; what do you need?' You never asked what he did to me, you never wanted to hear what your husband put me through, because you were too self-centered, while you were living moment to moment, remembering the good stuff, your husband was hurting me. How dare I hate you? I expect nothing less than that if my children were suffering and I did nothing to keep them safe and sound. If I knew that atrocious things were happening to my children, I would spend every day the rest of my life making up for that. I would never tell them to just move on, get over it, or that it's over.
I thought I was his victim, never ever did I imagine that he was coming to you at night
Bullshit. Because I still hear your words in my head all the time, when one of those counselors that you talked about had you in for a session. She asked, Where do you think he was going at night? And your response literally said it all. You said, "Well, at least he wasn't in my bed ". You said that out loud in front of other therapists in the room and two interns. You knew where he was, but you cared more about yourself. You were there for his cruelness often and did nothing to intervene, making me climb on the dining room table to shove pills down my throat; you were there in the kitchen. When I was hit, I wanted some comfort from you when you were in the living room. When I was made to stand up at the dinner table for rocking in my chair, when friends came over, you saw his cruelty and did nothing, just a bystander, so you keep wondering why I hated you. Is that really a fair question?
I lived that tomorrow would be better, you live in look what my life has tortured me with--poor me--Over and over you tell your story, oh what will they think if they knew who I am? How dare you
I am thrilled that you were able to live, hoping that tomorrow would be better. I knew that tomorrow would not be better for me; I knew I would be hurt and humiliated. So, I made sure that those around me were safe; I went out of my way to ensure that others were taken care of. I was not cared for, and I was going to give others all the things that I never got. That is how I survived. I do not, and never did, live in a place where I dwelled on the things that happened to me. I mostly blamed myself, wanting to find some rhyme and meaning when there was literally none. For decades, I blamed myself for picking out one of his T-shirts to sleep in. I was telling my story because it deserved to be told, it deserved to live somewhere other than in my heart and soul. How dare I tell my story? Why is that a bad thing? Why was my healing a problem for you? You were not a part of it. How dare I? I don't understand. How dare I heal? How dare I try to move on?
Plumb : Cut
I am asked if I forgive you, how can I forgive you for something you do every waking moment that you have
The word itself is a hard one for me. Forgiveness, I'm not a fan of it, really. What exactly do I need to be forgiven for? What did I do every waking moment that was so terrible? Survive in ways that I knew how, breathe, I am not sure.
Did you know Det Clemons came to the learning center- oh yes you do, you got a copy of his report I saw that in an email. To help you, I gave him every torturous moment that I spent with your father, so they could get the full picture of who he was. I shared every raw moment to help you...You hate me no more Sherri no more
Where do I start with this one? First, his name was Detective Plemons, and yes, I knew that he came to see you at work. It was a criminal investigation; he was doing his job, investigating the crimes against me. I knew because he told me, he was my only support as I went through the process of pressing charges and keeping Angela safe. I spoke with him often to understand all that was happening. You pretend that you spoke with him, sharing details to help me, do you want a fucking medal? I shared every raw moment. Great, he was a monster who deserved to be put away for a very long time. I am supposed to be forever grateful for you telling them what a monster he was? Yes, I hate you because you let it happen, you knew the things he was capable of and did nothing to stand up for your children. We are discussing two very different things. I hate you because you refused to give me the things that I needed, you spoke to him because I was choosing to do things differently, and there was a criminal investigation; he had a right to know what kind of monster he was dealing with, that is all. Yes, later I did obtain a copy of the report as I attempted to understand the entire legal process. I had questions that I needed answers for, and his report was part of that. I was just looking for another piece that I needed to find healing and peace.
If it wasn't for my faith- God's love for me, I do not know how I would have survived these last two years. For you to put down my friends, my church
I am very glad that you had your faith. I had nothing to do with any of your friends; they were just your friends. And your church. I never put down your church, I just expressed that it wasn't right for me or my children. You can do and go wherever you want. You knew that I had been significantly hurt by the church, and that was not something I wanted to be involved in; you were an adult, make your own choice. My views were different, I expressed them, and you didn't like that.
You are graduating from college, yet you feel you did it with no help from me Sad so sad
Unbelievable, you want credit for my college graduation? There were times when you were supportive, but my graduation was ultimately a result of my own tenacity and determination, and I let nothing stand in my way. I did it, with seeing the men who gang raped me at school. I did it, even though I was scared walking to my car after class. I did it when I was exhausted and working two jobs. I did it after I was raped and got pregnant with my children, I did it when there was every obstacle a person could imagine. I did it, I kept going, kept dreaming, and I did it. I did it through pressing charges on my father trying to save another little girl and going through the court system. I did it; when I had to ask Catrina for gas money to get to school, I did it, even though not a single soul believed in me. I did it. I did it those late nights doing homework after the kids went to bed. You can take no credit for that success. I wanted better for my children. The sad part is that I was alone.
You still have such a long journey ahead of you Someday reality may hit, maybe not, I know that I love you and did the best I could
Your best wasn't good enough, and for a great deal of the time, you didn't even try. I know there was a great deal of generational trauma for you, but that is no excuse. You keep your children safe, when you know better, you do better. When you read my journals and emails, you should have stepped up and done better. You knew the pain that I was in, and you chose to look the other way and focus on yourself. I stood up and did the right thing, as terrifying as it was. You are right, I do have a long journey ahead, and I will be on that journey forever, trying to heal and become the woman that I chose to be. I am well aware of reality, I have lived there my entire life. The truth is, I was broken by a household that didn't see me or value the person that I was. I lived in a household that set me up to be victimized over and over and over and not do a damn thing about it. The fact is that you were not there and always chose the needs of my father over the protection of your children. How about you let that reality sink in?
I would do it all over again, just a little different
How telling, you would just do it a little differently. So selfish. Just a little different at the cost of your daughter, that is heartbreaking. I could write about things that should have been different for the rest of my life. How dare you say, just a little different? A little difference is changing your hair color or your shirt. My life was something that needed more than a little change; I needed you to see me and believe in me. I needed you to do the hard things and keep me safe, to tell him to stop. I needed you to see and notice. I don't call those things 'a little different'; they were significant things that could have had a profound impact on how I lived my life then and how I continue to live my life. You would do it all again, but I would do nothing again. The hell that I grew up in, that you allowed, destroyed the little girl that I was supposed to be. There is nothing okay about that.
Enough for now time for a glass of wine be blessed in all you do
Just so cold, so distant. I often felt that way throughout my life, but I never understood why you hated me. I see your words about how much you loved me, but that was not my experience. Your love was very conditional, depending on whether your needs were being met. Big things would happen, and you casually watched, offering no help or support. You have that glass of wine; I hope it keeps you company and helps drown out your feelings about how our relationship has played out. Have I been cold and distant? Yes, often. I have to keep this tender heart of mine safe. I can not afford any more hurt to a heart that will forever be healing because of your choices. Be blessed in all you do, go fuck yourself. I have created a world where I am achieving each and every dream, doing things I never imagined, and supporting my children where they are. I see them, and I hear their heart; I notice everything.
I do believe it will take a miracle for you not to see me as a wicked person. But I do believe in miracles, May god bless you , shine his face on you and your children, may you get to know him, get unstuck and breathe his love and receive his grace
You and your god mean nothing to me. I prayed to god when I was 5 for the rapes to stop, I prayed to die each night when we would have to hold hands and pray. I would pray not to wake up because I couldn't be hurt anymore! Your god was not something I ever wanted to believe in. I believe in kindness, whales, and in doing the right thing. I believe in the trees and the rain and the smile on my children's faces when they are proud and excited. I believe in the sweet voice of my granddaughter as she coos and carries on a conversation. I am not stuck, I am healing. I do believe there was a wicked side to you, because you took care of yourself when I was drowning. I believe that you were one of the most self-centered people that I knew. Your needs were what mattered at any cost, even mine. You are just as guilty as my father in the damage that you have caused. There was a part of you that loved the idea of me, but you never loved the person I was or the woman I was becoming. You hated my strength, my desire to keep moving forward, and my desire to make a difference and stand up for what is right. You lost out, and that was your choice.
Plumb: Unlovable
I am relieved that you are gone. I am relieved that I no longer have to fight a battle that I know wasn't good for me. You can no longer hurt my children; you have no control over anything that I do in this life. You have done a great deal of damage to my very soul, and it's going to take time to heal, maybe lifetimes, but I will never stop fighting. I am not sorry that you are not here. I miss having a mom, but I do not miss you. I get sad sometimes, for Vincent, he loved you so, but I know that you were often unhealthy for him, I hope in time he will be able to recognize that. You wanted to pass down the unhealthy environment that I grew up in, and hated that I wanted something different for myself and my family. I was his mom and stood up for what I believed was right. Almost all of your things are gone from the house, and with each object, each memory gone, there is a sigh of relief. I have found enough hurtful things written by you; I have seen enough to last for several lifetimes. I have come to understand that, regardless of the number of times you said you loved me, I meant very little. I have read this letter trying to understand your words, but I never will. There is no way for me to have a clear understanding, and at this point, I don't want to waste my energy. You never saw me. You never understood who I was or what I wanted to be in this world, and that's what makes me sad.
You are gone, and I can't let you hurt me anymore. I won't let you. I have a beautiful life to live, sharing the love I have with my beautiful children and granddaughter. I am making a difference and using the life I've lived to be a voice for others; there is not a single thing that is controlled by you. So, I guess this is a goodbye.
WOW. I watched Straw on Netflix, and I am a wreck. It's hard to see through the tears; they just won't stop. It's that kind of soul cry when I have so much of an understanding of that movie. I have a sense, a knowing, and the heartbreak of many experiences in what I just saw. This is more than a movie of something that I cannot comprehend. Today, I sit here watching it in my own home, and in Graduate school, and I have the job that I worked more than hard for. The tears are coming from that place of understanding that not everyone makes it. I understand having to do things on your own. I know not having enough. I understand how people treat you differently and how your children are perceived. I know what it's like to be left out and not have enough money for the simple essentials. I sometimes forget just how far I have come, and still feel like the person that the world is most unkind to. Because I forget just how far I have come.
I could go minute by minute in that movie and explain things that have happened to me, how I have been treated, and where I was not even given a thought of kindness or concern. Moments where I was degraded and mocked. Moments that chipped away at the very person that I was. But I always smiled with a grateful heart, things could have been worse. I took each and every moment to express how thankful I was. Now, looking back, the moments that stand out sting like a million bees out for the attack. I could never have acknowledged the disrespect at the time; it would have been too much for me in the moment. I could write a book just about the moments where I was treated like a second-class citizen because I didn't have what others did. I never experienced life the way that others did. I have always said, and will always say, I never expected to be handed life on a silver platter, and I never expected things to be handed to me. I just wanted to be believed and respected. I just wanted to be believed and cared for. I just wanted the everyday life things that each person deserves.
When it was just me, I was able to keep moving and not think about the effect. When you don't see your worth, it's easy to keep going; it's just what you do. You aren't worth better, you are just grateful. When I had my children, it got much harder. I was more than aware of how we were perceived, treated, and overlooked.
We never had much money when we were growing up. I remember arguments about utilities, and I didn't understand them, but there were times we had food stamps. It was a big deal when Clementines were 10 for a dollar at Winn-Dixie, and I got to pick out the ones I wanted. I remember seeing a bandana with fluorescent colors that was so cool, and I wanted it so badly. My grandmother would dig in her change purse to get it for me. I was so very excited. There were always little things like that, and I wanted better.
I wasn't sure I realized just how differently people treat you until after my children were born. I didn't even have insurance at the time. So I went on Medicaid. That is never a good thing; they treat you like a second-class citizen, and I was often looked down upon. For me there was an extra layer, of shame because of the rape. Many times, questions were asked, and I would answer them to the best of my ability. When there was talk about the father, I always grew silent. I saw myself as the slut who got pregnant and figured they saw the same. If anyone had taken a few extra minutes, they would have understood the situation so much better. Shame upon shame upon embarrassment upon silence but I never stopped smiling I was going to keep these babies healthy. We would have a very thick book, so I'm going to explain a few of the key points that stand out, in no particular order.
There was the first week after the kids were born, and you had to go to the health and human services office. I was still recuperating from a C-section with twins, and making sure that I had everything that they needed. The waiting room was oh so full and more than dirty. Just walking in I could feel the mood in the air. You are treated harshly and unintelligently. I was called back; they needed their crib cards, and I had everything. Then, they had questions about the father. I said I didn't know. I gave what I knew, but that wasn't enough, and she threw a pen at me across the table.
I was devastated. I was in this state of awe, being a mom, having my most amazing children, and they were cruel and uncaring. I can remember taking Mariska out to the car and trying to nurse her. I remember talking to them, telling them how amazing they were, and that we would be fine. I just kept smiling, grateful for my two healthy babies. And every six months, they call, and you get the same questions, the same disrespect; those were the days that I dreaded the most. Those were the reminders that made me feel like I was so much less than, you know, you need to file child support, are you making any money? Sometimes you would get kind case workers, and other times, they would make you recount every detail from beginning to end. There were the WIC appointments where people would ask Oh, are they yours. No amount of care and support. But I smiled and kept going. I had my wonderful children.
There was a crisis pregnancy center, and when they were newborn, they gave you diapers and clothes. My mom came home with things for them, and I started to cry. The clothes were stained and terribly worn. And there was a bible in the baby bath. The tears began to flow. I didn't for a second want to be ungrateful, I didn't want their bible, and I wasn't going to put my precious children in those awful clothes. That was the same place where, when I asked if they had an extra high chair, they brought out this high chair with mold on it, and said that we just needed to scrub it down. I was at a loss for words. So I said thank you, with tears running down my face. That was the last time that I went there.
As they grew up, I did a lot of smiling and was very grateful. I also did a lot of crying myself to sleep at night when they were peacefully sleeping. I was not okay, and the weight on my shoulders was incredible. When I went to ask for help, I was told that if I wasn't experiencing hallucinations and wasn't a danger to myself or others, then they were unable to offer any assistance. I was on my own. Once I reached out to another organization, they requested that I enroll my children in a drop-in daycare while I attended the orientation. Being the mom that I was, I wanted to check them out, as I never left my children for a second. What I learned was terrifying; the daycare had been investigated for child abuse. When I read the reports, I was beyond furious, so because I need help, you want me to put my children in harm's way. I found a neighbor to watch them, and I attended this meeting. They talked down to me and treated me like I was clueless in the world. I just wanted someone to see me and who I was. I was grateful at every step of the way, and even in the worst moments when I was treated most unkindly, I remained grateful. I was a mom to the two best kids, and they were happy and safe. For their first Christmas, that was the first time I felt seen and cared for. The local library adopted my family for the Christmas season. The kids got amazing, thoughtful gifts, and I was whatever the word is when you hold your heart kind of tears, grateful. That was the emotion that I felt. Everything was perfect, and they had the most amazing Christmas. I still have the stocking holders that they received as a gift, and each year I put them out and think about how far we have come. I hope that they know what a difference they made for me and that I still thank them each year, despite the passage of time.
Things never got easier; my car was taken. I can remember sitting on the quilt, as they played on the floor, and they came to get my car. Goodness, I loved that mustang, and just like that, it was gone. We thoroughly enjoyed every single second, and I was there for every moment. When they started school, I went back to finish my degree at UNT. There were times when they attended class with me and brought their reading buddy to campus. We were going to make it the three of us. Home was getting worse and worse, my mother had changed, and I became a problem. I was the dirt under her feet and was treated terribly. It was her house, and we got in the way. I tried to talk to my brother, but he saw nothing wrong; he couldn't understand where I was coming from, and I got tired of trying to explain. I was crying a lot of the time, so many things were going on, but there was no time for me, and no time to deal with the sadness. So many things happened during this time. It's hard to put into words all that occurred because I had to pretend to be ok and just keep going. During this time, my mother had weight loss surgery and became a secretive person.
We lived in the same house, but all of a sudden, everything was separated and everything was hers. I was often belittled and asked, 'Are you going to eat that?' Her self-centeredness was blaring, and I continued to be caught in the crossfire. I will never understand what happened during this time. Furniture moving and not leaving enough room to walk by; she constantly did that with the dining room table. It became a battle that I will never understand. There was even a time when she complained about the kids' backpacks on the back of the chairs. I was finishing school at UNT, subbing at the kids' school on the days that I was needed, and a single mom to twins, and nothing that I did was enough. So, when this woman asked me if I wanted to move in with her, I was scared to death, but I jumped at the chance. I often felt less than, and it began on moving day. I knew that I wasn't doing well and could no longer pretend that things were okay at home. I totally took the leap and moved out.
The woman was sad; she had just lost her husband and had a young son. Initially, I believe we both needed each other. There were signs that I didn't fit in with her or her friends, but goodness, I tried. When we delivered my furniture there, she had it all sitting out in the front yard and scrubbed everything down. It was pretty humiliating, though at the time, I was just grateful. She had people there unpacking our things and going through everything; these people were deciding what was worth keeping, and it felt terrible. Things were truly okay in the beginning; we helped each other. She even gave me money every month for gas when my mother changed her mind.
As I neared the completion of my education and gained strength, I began to stand on my own feet, and things started to change. I was working full time, which is a different role than just being a substitute. I couldn't go have coffee, and just get supported and cared for. I was expected to be that babysitter whenever she wanted. She always said Are you sure and to ask for help when I needed it. As my student teaching began, and I started subbing, there wasn't much time left, but I was expected to watch him frequently, and I always did. She even bought me a car that was huge, and I was more than grateful. I wasn't sure that I was worth that kind of generosity. I passed all my exams and was saving so that we could move out; I also landed my first teaching job. I was working so hard, and was so tired. And at the same time, she was on a lot of dating sites, and there were a lot of dates and overnights. Many things made me feel very uncomfortable. Well, it was another work trip, and the kids were off from school, but I had an in-service. I was asked to pick him up late Sunday and then bring him somewhere else in the morning. I asked if someone could take him, because I still had to work. Well, the reaction was that he won't be there at all, and when she returned from the trip, she said she wanted us out by Thanksgiving. She always said to ask for help, and the second that I did, I was no longer welcome. The leaf came out of the table; there was no niceness. She removed me from Facebook. Often, men would come over for dinner, and the kids and I would eat in the car in a parking lot. There was no room for us. It was more than uncomfortable as soon as she said she wanted us out. I went and found a place, and we were out before her timeline. Once again, that made her angry. I was less than her, in every way, and she made sure I knew it. She even went out of town the weekend we moved. She just left a note wanting me to leave the key. And that day, it had broken, so I left her both parts of the key and never spoke to her again. I will always be grateful for her taking us in, for her generosity, and for my ca,r but how I was eventually treated was not ok. When I was stronger and my dreams were happening, we seemed to get in the way. It was years later that I received a text from her, something about us being on her heart. I laughed and deleted the number.
There were a few trips that we were asked to join, with our favorites, and they planned all of these activities. If you don't have money, those are things you cannot do. The dinners and horseback riding, the kids and I were never given a thought; those are the times when you realize just how different you are. And just how little money they have and just how much it matters. You make excuses and pretend that you don't care. But it hurts and breaks your heart. But you smile and think of something else fun for your kids. I was always that person who was different in how I did things and how I viewed the world. Everything was always fine, no big deal, only they were all a BIG deal, and I was significantly affected. Then I found my perfect house in Anna, TX, and the kids and I were overjoyed; we had finally found our own place. Where we could be happy, and eat at our own table, and not worry about being a bother. It was everything excellent and perfect, and that will forever be my favorite house. For once, it was all mine, and no one could kick me out or tell me that I didn't belong.
Not one person who called me a friend helped me move, or even connected with me once I had my own home. No one reached out to make sure I was okay. It felt like I was seen as a piece of trash, and she was the hero. She offered me her broken couch when I moved out. I politely said No, thank you. She made sure to tell me that it was going in the trash anyway, and that I couldn't start out with everything I needed. I was literally crushed. It was new people that I had met who stepped up and truly made a difference. My favorites even became her favorite, and when they came back in town for a visit, all those women who claimed to be my friends all met for dinner, but I was never invited. It hurts, still, but I know those were not my people. They were always mine; I was never theirs. I had to learn that the hard way, but I wanted so badly to belong. One woman even tried to make excuses for her, but I was never seen or heard. My experiences were never understood, and I was forgotten about.
There are many different pieces of the story that are overlooked; it's challenging to compile them all. Some things are so small, while others are so huge. Yet each piece is a significant part of the journey. All of which broke my heart a little more, each of those things has led me here.
So as I sat and watched Straw, I understood and felt each and every emotion. A few different choices, and I could have been her. This movie is one that will stay with me forever. There is a scene where she is so upset that she screams, "I've always had to do everything myself," and I understand that to my core. In my moments of greatest need, I required help and support. In it all I needed care, and that was often to much to ask for.
I will always be that person who cares, that person who notices and makes sure that I am aware of what is happening in the lives of those around me. This is one that many need to see, which will open many eyes and prompt a choice to speak a little softer, be more understanding, and give people a break. My story is far from finished, but I hope that when others look back, they will remember me and how I made a difference by being there, noticing, and caring.
For a long time, I couldn't cry. I just had to be strong and keep going. I feel like today, when I cry, it's all the tears that I was never allowed to cry for my entire life. There is a massive problem with that, because no one wants to see tears. Tears are seen as weak and something to be done in private. No one wants to acknowledge that there are just some things in life that are just that sad, and that sometimes even a lifetime isn't enough for those tears to completely go away.
I have always been emotional, but becoming even more emotional has been difficult, and it is not seen as a good thing. Even in places where people should be allowed to cry, they really can't. When I cry about the things I am most passionate about, others do not understand. I often feel like I am seen as weak and incapable. I must agree that there are times when my tears are most inconvenient, and I also wish they would not come as fast and furiously as they do. There are times when my tears are so heavy, there are no words. Or if there are words, they come out ugly and often unintelligible. I have a lot of catching up to do; I have lifetimes of tears still to cry. I don't want to feel like I am less of a person because of my tears, because I am finally in a place where I am able to let them flow. There are some things I can still talk about, like they happened to someone else, and I will not shed a single tear.
For those deeply affected by trauma, we have a right to our tears, and even in later healing, tears are proof of survival, of hope, of a passion wanting better for others, and if even a single tear holds more room for more healing, then I will never stop crying. There are times when I can speak about something tragic and have no tears, and then some days the universe says, 'Yes, today the tears will flow.' Maybe that is just a part of who I am and where I have come from.
I am a crier through and through. I have a heart that feels it all and more. When I speak, there are tears; when I listen, there are tears; when I drive, yes, even more tears. I am grateful to be in the place that I am in today.
Do I need to control them more? Sure. I would love that.
Do I sometimes cry at the wrong times? I do, but that's a genuine part of who I am.
I cry because I can not even explain how deeply that I feel things. I cry because it's just that important for people to understand where I have been, and the experiences that I have lived through. With kindness, caring, and support, there is no limit to what those who have suffered like me can accomplish. Healing takes tears, and I will cry them until my very last breath. I am not less competent or less of a human because of my tears. I am just a very feeling person, and I have a right to those tears. I have earned them.
Am I still healing absolutely and I will be healing the rest of my life. In time I hope the tears lessen, but I will still feel everything with my whole heart. I will give others a space for their tears and let them come, those tears are good, healing, and everything real.
I have been on a bit of an emotional roller-coaster for a time. So many feelings, so many thoughts and realizing how far that I have come. I am so tired, have come so far, and have a long way to go but I am ready for it all. There are just moments when my grateful heart explodes and I feel like I belong somewhere. There is someone who is willing to stand with me on this journey, gently guiding and caring for this tender heart of mine.
This afternoon My Wednesday, like clockwork; I received my reminder for my 5 o'clock space and I could do nothing but let the tears flow as I held my heart. I have a space. I am not wasting his time.
I am not sure that there is a way to convey, what that means when you are not often seen or valued. I don't have the words.
I know that I have Wednesday and I am seen and I am heard, and even after all my crazy thoughts I still have a spot. A place, where who I am is just right.
This is just how important that those little things are.
