One day I had this most amazing dream........

 

 

So I am not one that enjoys sleep. I kind of dread it actually. I hear people say that they lay their head on the pillow and they are out, WHAT.... REALLY...that is something that I just don't understand. Sleep is not a good thing and is usually filled with things that are scary and mean . For me sleep is a time to fight to run and try too get away. Not exactly peaceful and restful. But the other night I had the absolutely most amazing dream. Mind blowing amazing dream. It was one of those dreams that is more than real. A dream that makes you feel alive that gives you hope, a dream that touches a place in your soul like nothing else. It was one of those dreams and I want so much to remember to hold on to the feelings. My dream and nightmare life is on constant alert and to not want to wake up because something is so perfect is close to a miracle in my world. To wake up rested and refreshed is truly a blessing. And this is a blessing that I don't ever want to forget. Someday I hope it will be more than a dream but reality, a piece that I am working on.

The entire dream was more than a little crazy, it started off more than a little chaotic. I was in this old run down house, in the middle of nowhere. There were holes in the walls and there was nothing else around at all ,anywhere. This old house way out in the country. There were weeds and tall grass everywhere. Stones from the smallest pebble to the biggest of boulders covered the ground. The yard was filled with kids. I was trying to get them all situated and happy. It was a happy place, people were happy, the kids were happy, and I was trying to make everything right. There were a few kids that were back by this big tree making ice-cream. They were all laughing and joking, they were all in their bare feet, everyone was safe. I was running around trying to make sure that everyone was taken care of and had anything that they needed. And there was a car out front a lady who had a story like mine and was sharing, but she was all over the place, I was sad when I saw her wanting so badly to talk to her, but she was way too busy. I took the first steps almost walking to meet her at the car but it just wasn't right, so I stayed away. She was walking in circles giving the kids stickers and stamps and was trying to prove how not affected that she was by anything. She was all about the attention and I wanted nothing to do with that. I just made sure the kids were ok watching from the background, not getting too close. It was a feeling that I feel a lot . Kind of watching everything happening but not being a part of it, for so many reasons. That longing is there but I worry about being a bother or a pest. Then to the left out of no where I saw another woman. As soon as I saw her, I started crying. That gentle cry, when the tears just fall when you just know that something is so right . I didn't know who she was but at the same time I knew exactly who she was. She was almost ready to go, I had almost missed her, but I wanted a hug, I needed a hug. With no hesitation, and my eyes filled with tears I very quietly went up to her and looked at the ground, then looked slightly up and I asked her if I could have a hug. With no words, with no feelings of disgust, she just opened her arms. I walked into her arms and she just held on to me.

 

 

 

 

 

It's hard o explain. I basically melted in her arms, she knew and understood with out me having to say a single word. She was holding me, and I cried and cried and I spoke of all the things that can't be spoken of. And she just held me, and at he right time she would tell me that it was ok, that she understood and I held on and cried some more. And of coarse, I would try to let go thinking I was being a bother and she would tell me it was ok and she just held me tighter; gently rocking me. For once I felt no shame, no anxiety, I wasn't afraid, I wasn't embarrassed, I wasn’t used goods. I was a women with a hurt heart who was with someone who completely understood and was holding my heart. It was absolutely the most amazing feeling. I cried and talked and held on. I talked about all the things in my head, all that has happened and she only held me tighter. I have never in my life ever had a dream that was this amazing. I was so accepted so cared for, and I just didn't want to wake up, I could have slept forever in this dream.

This dream means so very much. I wish that I could explain what being held like that felt like. When you have grown up not knowing unconditional love. And to truly experience it, was more than powerful. I don't have a clue who in the world that this woman was, but I am going to call her Linor <3

I am grateful for this dream, I woke up and I was so refreshed, and rested. I can remember waking up and thinking no, I am not ready, I don't want to wake up yet, I need to be here, being helped, being heard talking and crying .....But I was awake....there was no going back but that feeling oh my goodness. I didn't hate myself, I didn't hate at all, I only felt love and that was more than amazing. The nights since have not been so great but at least I had this one and I am sure that I will never forget, and will hold on to this for as long as I live. Blessed to have this most amazing dream, I am grateful. And I will hold on to it.
　

Give someone a hug just because.

I heart your heart.





 

 

Wearing His Shirts

So this has been brewing for a few months now. Because I keep writing and keep erasing, it’s something that is so innocent, that was ruined, that I want so much to understand. Being excited to wear your dad’s shirts seems so ordinary; but for me it’s something completely different. Its something that bothers me almost haunts me really. It’s a constant nagging, itching burning tearing awful in your chest heavy kind of feeling. And no matter what you do it just won't go away. My father’s shirts are something that for me hurts my heart; only it’s worse than that. Most things go away after a few days and you forget that it even happened; it’s not a big deal. Wearing my fathers T-shirts was for me, terrible awful. Wearing his shirts that I would be so excited to wear has become something I am more than ashamed about and feel incredibly guilty about. I wanted to wear those shirts, they were huge and often would drag on the floor, they were so long. I hate that I wore those shirts. I hate that I can still see the pictures on the front of my favorites. There was the totally eighties bright baby blue one, with the sparkly Dallas letters on the front. The letters were like those iron on’s that were not really all that soft. There was the bright yellow one that we got in Buck snort Tennessee. I can not believe that I still hold my little five year old self accountable for picking out a shirt to wear to bed. Somehow my picking out a shirt and being so excited was in my mind reason to be assaulted. I hate that I would be so excited, I hate that I wanted him to look at me and smile and be special. I wanted him to really see me.

I can not seem to get away from this piece of my history. I was talking about it a few times in the last few weeks and then there was a post on face book about the things that we wear and the feelings they have for us. All the work that I have done and it comes to the simple fact that I picked out a shirt, and I blame myself for the things that would happen to me after picking out that shirt . I feel guilty that I asked for what happened because I wore his shirt. In my head, I do know that is INSANE, so that is the good part. But deep in my bones, I wish that I wasn't excited. I wish that I didn't still see those shirts and the pictures in my head. I can remember feeling so little standing by his dresser I couldn't even reach the top. And I could barely reach the shelf. I can remember how they were folded and I can remember thinking how cool that those glass Avon cologne bottles were. I can remember the color of his dresser and I remember him standing there with his arm on the top. And then there was little me standing there with my bare chest picking out a shirt to wear to bed. In most homes that might be something that wasn’t dangerous, might even be a good thing but in my house as many things it was different. It was dangerous and not at all, innocent.

I remember seeing him standing there and thinking he was huge, so tall. I guess when you are five, most people are tall. I can remember thinking that I wanted him to look at me and be special to him. I wanted him to like me and that just never happened. And the kid that I was I never stopped trying. Even when he was at his worst I wanted to run to him, I wanted him to be proud; I wanted him to keep me safe and sound.

Its crazy thinking back, even as I got older, I can remember going into his dresser and like somehow I was still looking for answers. And I would touch all those cologne bottles. I would straighten things; look at the shirts like somehow there were clues in his dresser as to why he hated me so much. I can remember doing that even as I got older. 

I do understand in my head that I was a little girl and it should have been ok, it should have been safe to wear one your dad’s shirts to bed at night. For me it wasn’t just a shirt, I wanted to pick out just the right shirt, to make him proud to make him like me. For me it wasn’t just a shirt, it was so much more!!!!  It was a way for him to love me, to see me really see me. It was those few seconds when I would get excited and hope that one of my favorites was there and folded and waiting for me to wear it that I remember and feel awful about.  I wanted to wear that shirt to keep me safe and sound and seen and loved. I had hopes of being seen and being protected. I knew what was going to happen at night. I knew that it wasn’t going to be good and I knew that I was going to be hurt. And yet I would still stand there excited, wanting what I knew was impossible. And that I do not understand. I hated what he was doing, I hated how he would hurt me and I continued to hope and be excited that if I picked the right one, maybe if I wore it just right then maybe somehow he could love me.  That is completly unimaginable.  What a monster, what a complete monster.

And the tears flow……I wanted him to love me.  I wanted him to see me, not hurt me.   I have seen dads with their kids and the look that the dads have, that their kids are just precious just awesome, I wanted my dad to look at me like that. I wanted to make him happy just because I was me. I wanted to make him like me, make him love me. I wanted to know that look, that kind of love.

This is one of those rough pieces of my past. I hold myself accountable for wanting all the things that every five year old girl feels. Maybe the shirts were just part of it for him, pick out a shirt, go to bed with him, maybe it was just part of his evil cruel plan. I don’t remember many words from him, but his eyes his actions spoke loud and clear. I was nothing, I meant nothing, I was nothing absolutley nothing, I couldn’t do anything right, I was good to be used and abused and often I didn’t even do that right, I was just so small.

I am trying to understand this piece of my past, and it’s hard. It hurts my heart. Not being loved, not feeling special and wanting it so much. The things that my little five year old brain had to think about were not five year old things.  The things that I had to think about were not even adult decisions.  The things I had to think about were decisions that no human being should ever have to think about. I couldn’t just make a decision I had to think about what all the consequences might be. In my head, I think I should not have stood there in my little underwear picking out a shirt, and being excited, I knew what was going to happen next what was coming how in the world could I be excited!!!!!! I do not understand. I am trying to understand but I do not. I have figured out bigger pieces, this one will just take some time.

I heart your heart, Callahan. Be gentle with yourself.

Pearl Jam : Daughter

So Close Yet So Far Away....

So yes, that's how things are for me.  Some things are so close I can feel them then they are gone, just like that.  And all I can say is well then those things just weren't supposed to happen.  SO today I sit here typing this and yet another job that was so close is out of reach and I  have a peace about that, but at the same time, its sad.  It just wasn't the right one, there was no housing, there was no place that I would feel safe and that is big .    Today I was supposed to be in Plainview meeting my principle and fellow teachers, finding where I was going to live and seeing my class.  It didn't happen like that.  It all seemed so right, but there was something that just wasn't, and I couldn't explain it, it all seemed so perfect but something was holding me back.


It all happened so quickly, being asked if I would take a job that I had to move.  Sure why not, a move would be good. I send an email and my resume and within a few hours I get a response from the principle that she would like to speak with me, two days later I have a phone interview, and she is calling my references.  My head was spinning, third grade, my favorite grade and I was being told that she was going to recommend me for the position.  So I cried.  And I cried some more.  And I sent a text asking if a friend would go with me, and with out any hesitation she said yes when can we go ?  It was a long two weeks let me tell you, so all this back and forth with the new principle she wants to hire me ..then silence.  I was thinking of moving and packing and things that I needed for an apartment, my mind was overwhelmed and chaotic.  I wrote her three emails called twice finding out what time that she wanted to get together Friday.  I let her know my plans,   how excited that I was and nothing.  I have said during this process that I wanted clear answers.  I wanted to know for sure if this is what I was supposed to do, or if I was supposed to stay here and try to find something.  There was so much going on in my heart that I just couldn't share, I didn't know what I was supposed to do, it was a job a real live teaching job someone wanted me to teach in their school that I would be a perfect fit for.

And that silence that I am so used to in my life....that deafening silence and you know something just isn't right. So as we were getting ready for our Fort Worth stay-cation, I sill had not heard a thing so I again changed plans and said well, I guess her silence is as loud as it gets. And then the email Friday that she was super excited but she also looked into leasing and that there just wasn't much available.  In the first email I had asked her to help, since I was not finding places for us to live.  I think in her silence she knew that there were no options for me.  And in her silence I knew that this was not the right position for me.  And it makes me sad because so many things were good and perfect and right.  And then there were also some things that weren't so right, that wouldn't be good for my heart.  I mean I would be fine anywhere, that's the problem I always am, on my worst days, if you were to ask I would be fine.  Only I am not.

SO moving there to that little town called Plainview I am sure that I would be fine because that is just what I do. But also in moving there it would not have been the best move for my heart.  So in Mrs. Wrenns silence I knew this was not meant to be.  Part of my heart was relieved another part was more than sad.

I just want to teach more than anything. I want a classroom full of kids that I can care for their hearts and teach them the things that they need to know.  I will not give up, but I want this more than anything.  I have done everything I can possible do. I sent probably 10 emails this morning already hearing back from one principle, and those are all good things, its just hard.   I don't think people understand I want this more than anything and this is one thing in life that I am sure I can do really well.  I can make a difference and I will notice those little thins that make a difference. 

I want to be so excited about different things that are coming up and I just don't want to be crushed again.  I know I am doing everything I can and putting resumes out there and turning in applications but that doesn't seem to be enough. 

The entire situation was more than frustrating, I was torn between a job getting paid being able to support Vincent and Mariska.  And My heart.  My heart isn't ready to be alone yet again, I have finally found a few real true honest genuine people here and I am not ready to be on my own again.  I am on my own because that is who I am I don't like to let people in, I don't like to be a bother.  I am not ready too go back to the place that I was in 4 years ago, with nothing and no one.  People kept saying "oh you will be fine, you will be fine"......they don't understand I know I WILL be fine, its the fact that I want more than just being Fine and I am working on that here.

In so many things I am so close and so far away.  I am grateful to those people who told me to care for my own heart. I am grateful for the silence to know that moving wasn't the right choice, right now.  And I am grateful to have a home here where I am supported and even loved even in my craziness. 

I don't have a clue what these next few weeks hold hopefully that perfect job and that perfect fit that I am after.  But I know that whatever I am looking for its right here.  I know that here my heart is taken care of and I need that so very much. I haven't ever had enough of that ever, and it takes getting used to.  I know that my arms are open and I am more than ready to  take what comes my way. 

I heart your heart.

Tear Soup

 

So this is a book that I found that is more than amazing.  It talks about healing and the time that it takes and how each and everyone one of us heals differently and for a different amount of time.    Some can smile through the pain some need lots of extra time some don't even cry at all because its all been taken before.  There are so many reasons for why a person heals the way that they do, it is what it is.  And yes sometimes healing can even take years. I think there are different levels of tears, and things that you realize even later that still make you sad.  I think there are some sadnesses that will never totally go away.  We grow we learn to be happy again but there is just something there that we can't totally explain.   So here is the Story Tear Soup by Pat Schwiebert and Chuck DeKlyen Illustrated by Taylor Bills.  If this story touches your heart I say go buy it and read it and cry and if you need to call me, because I heart your heart. Know that someday you will feel better, I mean we have to someday, we just have to keep going.

TEAR SOUP

 

 

There once was an old and somewhat wise woman whom everyone called Grandy.

 

She just suffered a big loss in her life.  Pops her husband suffered the same loss, but in his own way. 

 

This is the story of how Grandy faced her loss by setting out to make tear soup.

 

 

For many years the custom of making tear soup had been forgotten.

 

As peoples lives became more rushed they found it much easier to pull

 

"Soup In A Can" from the shelf and heat it on the stove.

 

But several years ago Grandy got a taste of a well seasoned tear soup.

 

One of her friends made it from scratch when her child died.

 

As soon as Gandy tasted the rich flavor of that carefully made soup ,

 

She promised herself never again to assume that quicker was better.

 

Because of her great loss Grandy knew this time her recipe for Tear Soup would call for a big pot.

 

With a big pot sh would have plenty of room for all the memories, all the misgivings, all the feelings

 

and all the tears she needed to stew in the pot over time.

 

She put on her apron, because she knew it would get messy.

 

It seems that grief is never clean. People feel misunderstood, feelings get hurt and wrong assumptions

 

 are made all over the place.  

 

To make matters worse, grief always takes longer to cook than anyone wants it to.

 

And then..........

 

Grandy started to Cry.

 

At first she sobbed.

 

Sometimes she wept quietly.

 

And sometimes when she was in a safe place where no one could hear her...............

 

She even wailed.

 

Grandy knew she had to make much of this part of the soup alone.

 

She learned from past experiences that most people don't like being around tears. Her friends would

 

worry if they knew just how many tears Grandy's recipe called for this time. 

 

So, the old and somewhat wise woman reflected on her own special recipe as she looked down into

 

the large overflowing pot of memories.

 

It was a task she would repeat many times during the next few months.

 

Grandy winced when she took a sip of the broth.

 

All she could taste was salt from her teardrops.

 

It tasted bitter, but she knew this was where she had to start.

 

And for now, it was the only think on her menu.

 

There were things that Grandy never wanted to forget.

 

These included the good times and the bad times, the silly and the sad times.

 

With her arms full of memories, Grandy made many trips to the kitchen.

 

One at a time, she slowly stirred all her precious and not so precious memories into the pot.

 

But eventually she ran out of things to add.

 

Grandy's arms ached and she felt stone cold and empty.

 

There were no words that could describe the pain that she was feeling.

 

Whats more, when she looked out the window it surprised her to see how the rest of the world was

 

going on as usual while her world had stopped.

 

Her Grandson, Chester, who just wanted Grandy to be happy hoped, that his chocolate drops would

 

make her feel better.

 

Mrs.Bloomklotz, Ms.Chadwick and Mr. Long, all brave yet fearful neighbors, dropped by to see how

 

Grandy was doing.

 

They filled the air with words, but none of their words took the smell of tear soup away.

 

Grandy was gracious because she knew how helpless her friends felt.

 

They wanted to fix her, but they couldn't .

 

All Grandy really needed from them at that moment was a knowing look and a warm hug.

 

There were also days when Grandy hungered for a thoughtful ear.

 

Sometimes she would ask total strangers .

 

"Care to join me in a bowl of tear soup ?

 

" No thanks," most would reply. " I don't have time for tear soup today."

 

Even some of Grandy's friends hurried past her house and pretended not to notice the aroma of tear

 

soup coming through the open door.

 

Grandy found that most people can tolerate only a cup of someone else's tear soup. 

 

The giant bowl, where Grandy could repeatedly share her sadness in great detail, was left for a few

 

willing friends.

 

"I'm here," Midge cried. "I got here as fast as I could and I'll be here whenever you need me.  

 

What a tragedy. 

 

I am so sorry that you are having to make such a big pot of soup."    

 

Oh what a relief. Grandy knew that she didn't have to be careful what she said around Midge.

 

Midge wouldn't try to talk her out of anything she was feeling.

 

And Grandy could even laugh and not worry that Midge would assume Grandy was over her grief.

 

"Sorry I couldn't get here sooner," Said Midge

 

"No problem," replied Grandy. "I've had plenty of help. But most of these friends will be history

 

pretty soon. They'll be over my tragedy long before I am.  But I know that you will still be around."

 

"I don't know what to say, but I'll be glad to listen," Midge said Tenderly .  "C'mon tell me all about it

 

while we make some bread to go along with your soup."

 

These two friends who had shared a thousand laughs and just as many tears, pounded at the bread

 

dough together.

 

"I feel like I'm unraveling." Grandy Cried.

 

"I'm mad. I'm confused. I can't make any decisions. Nobody can make me feel good.

 

I'm a mess. I just didn't realize it would be this hard."

 

"Why don't we go for a walk while we wait for the bread to rise." Midge suggested.

 

"I know exercise is supposed to help me but I feel like I have concrete blocks strapped to my legs.

 

We'd better not go too far or you'll have to carry me home." moaned Grandy.

 

Mrs. Cries-a-lot called and reminded Grandy that she has been making tear soup for years

 

and would be more than glad to come right over and show her how to make it the correct way.

 

"Thanks, but no,"said Grandy.

 

"This pot has my name on it."

 

Grandy knew better than to let Mrs. cries-a-lot or anyone else tell her what she should do to get

 

through this terrible loss.

 

Next her recipes called for some comfort food.

 

For Grandy this meant mashed potatoes or ice-cream. Comfort food always makes you feel better--

 

at least for a little while.  It gets past that big lump in your throat when other foods can't.

 

"I think I need some chocolate too." After all, it was her soup.

 

Grandy kept attending worship even though she was mad at god.

 

Sometimes she yelled at God and asked Why this happened. And sometimes she demanded to know

 

where God was when she was feeling so alone.

 

Still, Grandy trusted God, but she didn't understand God.

 

She sensed that people believed that if she really had faith she would be spared deep sorrow, anger

 

and loneliness. Grandy kept reminding herself to be grateful for ALL the emotions that God had given

 

her.

 

On some afternoons people would ask questions like,

 

"Is it soup yet? "  or

 

"How long is it going to take? You have been at this for over a month now. Its time to get out of the

 

kitchen."

 

Grandy fumes at the caller's advise.

 

Grandy looked forward to getting the mail each day. She dreaded the day when no more sympathy

 

cards would come.

 

When she was alone and needed to think she found it helpful to keep notes on her soup making.

 

Thank Goodness Grandy and Pops have been married a long time.

 

They already knew each other's tear soup would be different.

 

Secretly Grandy wished pops would put more flavoring in his soup, but he doesn't want to. 

 

And he's perfectly content to dine alone and sip his own soup.

 

Making Tear Soup is hard work.

 

Sometimes it was all that she could think about. Even the things Grandy used to love to do, she didn't

 

have the energy for, nor did she care about anymore.

 

Some of Grandy's friends over the years had not tended to their tear soup. Their soup boiled over and

 

the pot scorched.  What a mess. It took them a long time to clean up their pots and to start over. 

 

The smell of burnt soup still lingers in some of their homes.

 

Grandy knew there were times when she needed to take a break from her soup making.

 

Even though it was hard to do, she forced herself to get away.

 

Grandy heard that a neighbor was having to take her turn in the kitchen.

 

Some people thought that the neighbor was eating too much tear soup.

 

So Grandy being old and somewhat wise woman, called and invited her to a special soup gathering

 

where it's not bad manners to cry in your soup or have second helpings.

 

Soon the thoughtful cooks sat at Grandy's table and discussed the process of making tear soup.

 

There are some parts that require help from Friends and some parts you just have to do alone.

 

They shared stories about soup making they wouldn't dare tell anyone else for fear of being judged a

 

bad cook.

 

They all laughed knowingly when Grandy remarked, how on days when she was day-dreaming while

 

driving, she was glad that the car seemed to know where she wanted to go.

 

These people had become Grandy's "new best friend's."

 

One day Grandy and Chester were going for a drive, Chester asked,

 

"Mom says that you've been making tear soup. What does she mean?"

 

"Well, tear soup is a way for you to sort through all the different types of feelings and memories you have when you loose someone or something special. Remember when your baby brother dies right before he was born and your mom sat for days holding his blanket and weeping? She was making

 

Tear Soup."

 

"You made tear soup  yourself by acting out your own disappointment when you shouted at Jason, wishing that his brother would die too."

 

"Remember when Billy's dog died and he didn't want to play with you? Not feeling like having fun is one of the ingredients of tear soup, also."  

 

"And remember when aunt Meg got divorced and they had to move? There was a lot of tear soup simmering in that house."

 

"Some days when you're making tear soup it's even hard to breathe. Some days you feel like running away. You just hope a better day comes along soon. And then comes one of the hardest parts of making tear soup,"

 

"It's when you decide it may be ok to eat something instead of soup all the time."

 

The next morning as Grandy was cleaning up, Chester asked her if she was making tear soup.

 

"Well, I don't think that you actually ever finish. The hard work of making this batch of soup is almost done though. I'll put the rest in the freezer and will pull it out from time t time to have a little taste."

 

"So what else have you learned by making tear soup, Grandy ?"

 

"I've learned that grief like a pot of soup, changes the longer it simmers and the more things that you put into it. I've learned that sometimes people say unkind things, but they really don't mean to hurt you,"

 

"And most importantly, I've learned that there is something down deep in all of us ready to help us survive the things we think we can't survive."

 

"Grandy, you know so much. What will I d after you die?"

 

"Don't worry, I will leave you my recipe for tear soup."

 

  

 

So yes, I love this story.  I found it in the clearance section at Half Price Books and didn't even read through the entire book it was just one of those things that I picked up and I got home and read it and I cried and cried. I am better but still working on my very own tear soup.  Not many people stay, that is for sure but here I have a few special people and that is truly all that you need.  There are times that I can put the soup away , and there are times that its out and there are more ingredients that I need to add.  I realize that my tear soup has been a work in progress but its the progress that is a good thing.  There will always be tear soup in my life because of the magnitude of things that have happened. I need to know and understand that its ok for others not to understand, and to stay away, that is just how it works.  I will keep working, and try to be gentle on myself when it seems my soup is going to boil.  I would rather see it and acknowledge it and take gentle care of my heart, then become cold and pretend that I am fine. It seems that lately, I have been adding to my soup, new things that I have yet to understand, but I am working. So from my healing heart.  I don't ask you to know or to understand or even accept my tear soup but at least be gentle and kind its my soup .

 

 

 

I heart your heart.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 



   

Where's My Happily Ever After ??

So ......I think that my life is about to change, I think that good things are coming but I am not sure what they are or where they are. I am pretty sure that I am scared out of my mind.   There are so many things that I want to say and I hope that I can find just the right words to figure out what is in my heart, my picture of my very own happily ever after. Lately some moments I am so sure that a move is the right thing; that someplace else is where things are going to be better where the memories will fade and I will be better.  Then the next day, I think what am I crazy I have no savings yet, I am not prepared, I have nothing to lean on there, I have no furniture anymore and know absolutely no one ! Some days I see the options so clear other days they are clear as mud and so I cry, because I don't have a clue.

I think my happily ever after is different, its not the fairy tale riding away in a carriage with prince charming its much more than that, it might not be anyone else's fairy tale happy ending in the world but its mine. And I can promise you with my whole heart that I want to find my very own happily ever after and I want it more than you can imagine.  It looks different, its where my heart is happy, where my children know that I love them, its having a classroom with happy little hearts everywhere.  It is having a good guy in my life that makes me feel safe, that is patient, that listens to my heart and loves my children.  In my happily ever after the nightmares will lessen, the flashbacks will subside, and I won't hate myself for all that has happened.

It was when I drove around the colony, that I realized just how much feeling that this place has for me.  Places that I drive by and remember the people and times.  This past year I have made many awesome memories.  Things that I will never forget kindnesses that I can never repay, and for those things I will never be the same.  But if I stay here some of those places will stay alive and have power in my head and really I don't want to do that anymore.  If I stay I can grow some of the amazing relationships that are just blooming. If I stay there are amazing programs that I can get involved with, and help kids; nurture their little hearts because I understand.

If I go, its all new, and I will have to stretch more than I ever have.  I will have to get out meet new people.  I will have to do things that I am not sure are even in me.  Even here, I have stepped out of my box more than I ever have and its been good, I think that I have grown, and its been good for me, am I ready to do that all on my own, I just don't know.  I know that I would for my children but what would be the cost to me.


There is no peace yet about the choices that I am going to have to make in these next few weeks. There is no peace and no real answer as to exactly what I am supposed to be doing. I am going to try to remember to breathe.  I am going to try to think through each and every piece, little by little.  I want to be  sure of each and every one and I am pretty sure that somewhere in this I am going to have to have a little faith. Because in this life there are not many guarantees at all,  But I want this to work more than anything.  I want new pieces of my puzzle and I want to grow and maybe even like the person that I am becoming. I want Happily Ever After.

I have survived hell and back a few times. Things were bad really bad, but I always made it through.  There was always something that kept me going, that kept hope alive in me.  I don't have a clue what it is or what to call it but I have always had it. A hope a dream a knowing that things were not always going to be so rough.  A good friend of mine always said to me, when you hand is right in front of your face, things are so clear and exactly that IN YOUR FACE and you can't see anything else. But as you move your hand away, things fade and other things begin to get clearer. I am sure that he said it much better than I am but you get the point.  Sometimes I work so hard trying to heal the past that I ignore the present. I think maybe here its like my hand in front of my face will that change in a new place or make things worse ?  I don't have a clue, not one single cell in all my body knows.

I have realized that some this summer, is that I forget to live.  I forget to have fun I forget that I don't have to have all the answers that I long for.  Even in the knowing it can't change anything.  All I can do is go forward.  I think I am going to have to learn to acknowledge when those things come up and let that be ok.  But I also need to be ok with telling myself, I am really enjoying myself right now and I will not let my past rob me of the good things to come.  Believe me that is easier aid than done but its said, its written and I am going to try.  So where ever I end up, whatever Job that I have, I am going to make it.  I am going to have a classroom full of happy hearts, Somewhere in some school district.  Vincent and Mariska will continue to grow and become the amazing people that they were meant to be.
 

 

 

I think this kinda says it all.  I want so much and I think sometimes that I don't even know what it is that I want.  Its one of those things I will know when I am there.  And I am not there yet.  SO I keep going.  I am going to take the next few weeks trying to remember to breathe.  I am going to try and enjoy each second, my kids laughing, the birds outside, the Friday night pizza and a movie. Washing dishes , watching the garden, listening to little giggles and pounding feet.  I don't have a clue what is next, not a single clue as to what the right thing to do is.  So I will try and be patient, I will try and have a little faith and I will wait.

I heart your heart.   I am grateful. Thank You Thank You.  So I pray, I cry, and I hope that the right thing will come, and the decision will bring peace.

 Jason Castro : Hallelujah

What I Crave

 

 



 

This article is AMAZING, if you have even noticed my blog and opening this THANK YOU. Its worth a read and then you get my thoughts once you read it; well aren't you lucky. HAHA   Just Kidding, its important and what I want someday.  So read it, Please :) 

While childhood abuse is common, open talk about the struggle to live, love, and parent well after being raised in hell is rare.
“If I was dissociating, I wouldn’t feel so anxious,” she said.
“Or you might, but you just wouldn’t know it,” I replied.
We laughed the PTSD laugh.
This is how survivors talk to one another. We don’t flashback together or complain about our parents. We talk about how our present day symptoms (numbness, anxiety, nightmares, and fearfulness) are like gum in the hair, leaks in the roof, and jack hammers to the nervous system that won’t be ignored.
Developmental trauma is a newer phrase, like Complex Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, which means the trauma was repeated at the hands of loved ones throughout childhood, and it’s complicated.
I say, abuse was the peanut butter of childhood and neglect the jelly.
Adverse childhood events and the lasting toll they take on mental and physical health throughout the life cycle are now well documented in the ACE STUDY.
However, while childhood abuse is common, open talk about the struggle to live, love, and parent well after being raised in hell is rare.
So, meeting a woman to talk to about writing, life, and surviving is still exciting for me. We were going to a bookstore coffee shop to share techniques for clearing the never-ending sink full of dirty dishes in our brain.
A panic attack took precedence. She called to cancel and apologize as though her panic was an insult to me. It wasn’t. I was impressed that she didn’t make up a lie. I know it’s hard to be that honest.
Coping well and being calm during crisis can be a personality trait, like always wearing dangly earrings. It’s difficult to give up because the perks for being accomplished and productive are so good, and the rewards for nurturing the self are so invisible and low.
To be emotionally available and responsive to others, it turns out I have to be emotionally present and responsive to myself. This is not good news and I recoil a little inside every time I remember.
The spilling of actual emotions is as appealing as letting snot leak from the nose or pus ooze from a cut. My default setting is to greet my feelings with the same “What the fuck do you want?” response I received in childhood.
But I’m not a child anymore.
“The only abuser left in your life,” a yoga teacher once said to me in a private session, “is you.” You need to parent yourself the way you wish you had been parented.
Now, I only slip into high self-hate and low self-acceptance when I’m post-traumatically stressed out (parenting, in a relationship, having menopause symptoms, or when a relative dies).
Emotional health requires staying present at least some of the time. Staying present is a challenge for even the most seasoned meditators staring at sunsets and sunflowers. For those who were helpless children, staying present can be impossible. We learned how to do the opposite: We rock at staying absent.
As a child, I air lifted myself out of my body and right into my brain. I played dead or became one with the ceiling. It felt like hiding in a corner while the house was robbed. I was the house. Relatives were the robbers.
Now, I am learning to give up my favorite coping skills. And when I do, all of those old sensations are stored in the stillness. They waited for me to mature and center. That seems so mean.
But this is the work, and sometimes it pisses me off that my energy is spent on this.
I often look for an easier way. I wonder how old I’ll be when I’m done unraveling the knots in my nervous system.
I’m sick of being sick of the process.
I’ve been an adult longer than I was a child and I don’t want to be impacted. Can’t I at least circle new drains or upgrade the scenery on this repeat track. I don’t want to have to do regular exercise to keep off the emotional pounds.
I feel burdened, exhausted, and martyred at times, wearing an itchy wool coat I can’t disrobe.
It is not the presence of bad (abuse) but the absence of good (love, attachment, boundaries, modeling) that injures children into adulthood. Most of us have learned not to drink, abuse, and be violent (yay us!), but the more subtle aspects of self-care and recovery are healthy nurturing, interdependence, making time for love and joy. Those can be mysterious.
What I know is talking to other survivors helps most. We can laugh about missing the “ease” of numbness while knowing the agony of being emotionally blunted isn’t worth the trade off. We can share how strenuous the process feels and is. And we can learn from each other.
This new friend risked being authentic and vulnerable, let down her walls and defenses and showed me what intimacy is.
Talking with her, I was reminded, survivors have symptoms. They can linger for a long time. That’s just how it is. I don’t think any less of her. I felt no judgment. We helped each other. Most days, we are high-functioning warriors building and rebuilding lives and selves. On those days, there is no shortage of people to talk with and relate to.
But on the days we feel tipped over inside by trauma, we need one another, people who get it as though we are sharing the same orange and saying, “It’s juicy, tangy, messy, and sweet.” It’s a sensory, tactile knowing, not theoretical or abstract or requiring a co-pay or short educational asides.
I crave more of this. I have always craved this. I want to be able to say and hear others talking about the important and unglamorous healing of developmental trauma. I want to hear people who document and describe what breaking the cycle actually requires.
We aren’t children anymore, but we are never too old to be reminded we are not alone.

Christine Cissy White is a stay-at-home writer and in-the-world mother and feminist. She writes about how to live and parent well after being raised in hell at www.healwritenow.com and has been published in Ms. Magazine online, The Boston Globe, Literary Mama and Elephant Journal.

I am listening......My heart is not done, there s so much more

Yea so I read this article the other day and the tears just flowed.  Oh I crave that kind of relationship, someone that can understand the craziness and then , then not judge me for it!!! Yea that would be kind of a miracle.   I know I had that with one friend, Cheryl. She was more than amazing she was my miracle.  She flew with me to Boston when I had to testify, and the nightmares were about as bad as they had ever been.  I warned her about them so she wouldn't be alarmed.  And with out a doubt when we woke up in the morning she told me the story.  She was like man what did you dream about last night ?  And I got a little quiet she was like man you screamed bloody murder and were kicking the covers and you about sent me out the window, waking me from a dead sleep.  And we laughed and laughed, she understood where they were coming from and she thought nothing less of me.  That was one of the most amazing, hard, terrifying trips that I have ever had and I was more real and I was not for a second judged.  I am grateful for that friend, for the laughter, the trueness the time to be me.  I am not asking people to walk on egg shells around me I am wanting them to think, to be kind with their words.  The world that I live in; that I come from is not funny not  a joke and we, survivors like I am,  live in a place that is more real than you can even imagine. The things we have seen and experienced are life shattering, life altering that changes absolutely everything about us. Its not about pulling our boot straps up and "getting over it"  there is so much more to it than that.  I want so much for people to understand and that doesn't always happen.  What I think and feel are often the brunt of many jokes like what are you doing here, isn't there too many people for you ? And then the laugh that makes you feel like you are an idiot, but you laugh too because its better than feeling the shame and wishing that you were different. Or the well whats the difference you don't go out anyway, and its followed by that laugh they don't understand.  Believe me WE KNOW and UNDERSTAND that its crazy but its those little things that we do that helped us survive that sometimes we carry as a means of protection, even all this time later.   If it was so easy as to just cry once wipe the tears and all is well, that would be PERFECT; true healing doesn't work like that, as much as we would like it too.  Its a long process and it takes time, precious time, and lots of patience lots and lots.  I get mad at myself all the time for not being done yet.  The last time anything happened was over 10 years ago ?  I know you think that, I should be done, I am dwelling I just need to get over it.  But I am trying, my heart works long hard hours trying to be ok, to do just that 'be over it'.  There is a point to my story, if there wasn't I would be able to close the book and wipe my hands clean and all would be well.  There is something more, so much more than I am searching for.   A persons doesn't work as hard as I work to just be dwelling. From the outside some may think that and I can tell you times I Have gotten stuck there in the ugliness but now is not one of those times.  I just have to figure what I am supposed to be doing and what I need to do next.  And I am on my way and WILL NOT STOP.  

I Heart your Heart, Here's to my Healing.

 

 

    

No Shame in Surviving

My heart wants to write and I can honestly say that I don't have a clue where to begin. Believe me I cry all the time, ALL THE TIME and lately there aren't even any tears. I am numb, confused, frustrated. I have so many things going on in my heart; in my head and yet I am numb. Its crazy how I can just remove myself from things when they become so overwhelming. A skill that I learned really early in life and I hate myself for it. Just do what you have to do pretend that everything is fine, don't tell anyone just make sure that you clear the mess and make everything ok. Oh the messages that I got as a little girl the messages that I got so early on, I don't even remember life with out them, Again as I am turning on this next step in my healing, I am scared to death. I have worked really hard, really really hard and still there are things that I hold onto for dear life. I have let go of a few really big things, and there are a few really big ones left to tackle. And when I say big they are big like life changing HUGE KIND OF BIG ! I am scared to death 95% of the time, that is a big amount of time. And being that afraid all the time takes up a whole lot of energy.

And often the fear is so big that I check out and I don't want to check out anymore. Some people measure their lives in different things. For babies we measure their life in minutes or weeks or months. For Authors we may measure their life in the number of books that they have completed. For some it may be the amount of people in their life, the friends that they have. There are so very many things that a person can measure their life by. For me, I have always measured my life by the number of rapes, the number of assaults the number of people that didn't do their job and I was the one that always had to pay the price . The number of things that I didn't do right are in the hundreds. I have measured my life by what has happened and all the ways that I think that I have failed. How I fail myself today and how I failed little five year old me that did everything she was supposed to but it still wasn't enough. To be honest, I write this blog because I want people to understand so much and I want people to understand why I am not so crazy, I may seem that way but I am really not, I am just hurt and scared that I will never be a whole person. And I apologize all the time for being hurt for wanting to explain that and I am sorry that you have to see my craziness. Its your choice, I am totally not making anyone read my heart, it is what it is, and its often hurt. My heart is a work in progress And I just might have to work until I am in my 70's to be done, but I will if that is what it takes. The truth is I write because sometimes that is all I have. My tender heart is bruised and I have to work on making it better. If I keep apologizing for that, I am not going to get any further.

I can't go back and get all the things that I never had. I can't go back and get all that was taken all that was lost. But I live every day always noticing those little things around me always making a difference and always dealing with the things that my heart has endured.  When you have been so close to death,nothing is taken for granted, and for everything my heart is grateful.  So I can't apologize anymore, I can't be sorry for the things that I didn't want to happen. I can't be sorry that I need to write about them. I can't be sorry that its true that it happened and that some people just can't handle the truth. And writing this I find myself close to every other word wanting to apologize, wanting to write those words and I just can't do that anymore. Some; no most people will not understand my heart, there is just too much and I can completely understand that. But I can not apologize for that either; for my heart because others don't understand . You don’t have to understand but oh goodness please be gentle, tender, kind and thoughtful. I need that more than anything. Just to be thought of.

I measure my life in the moments that I thought I was going to die, I measure my life in the moments that I had a gun to my head and I wanted them to pull the trigger to end it, just finish me off, because I wasn’t sure I could really live ever again . I have measured my life in the seconds that it took to destroy the love of a little girl. I have measured my life by the men that stole everything that a little girl is supposed to be. I have measured my life in the moments I couldn't save those little tadpoles. I have measured my life in the things that I can never un see. I have enough self blame and hate to make many trips around the world. And today I have to try and stop that. They are still things to conquer and I am going to have to do some digging, some more healing, maybe a lot more but those are not the moments that make me .  They may be my view but there are many other more important moments to acknowledge and celebrate. Its about time, I start measuring my moments very differently!   And this is my heart right now, I can't explain what my heart feels like it hurts, my chest is heavy and I feel like there are mountains ahead of me that I can't imagine winning at this moment, but I also can’t imagine not wining them. There are many good things for me to hold onto as I work on beating them, and I am holding on as tight as I can.



I want to measure my life in the good things. In the children’s lives that I will touch. In the animals that I am passionate about , in the lives of my own children that they will do great things. I want to measure my life in the risks that I have taken and the amazing people that have been a season in my life and walked part of that path with me. I want to measure my life in the ways that I didn't die , but in the ways that I made it. Times change, people change, and so will my heart. For a short time it honestly felt like my heart had wings, and I want to find that again. I am on my way, there will be a lot of writing, trying to figure things out. I think I am going to start my art journals again, get those ever present thoughts and nightmares out of my head!!!!!!!!


There is no shame in SURVIVING !
I heard that for the first time today.
There is no shame in SURVIVING!


  Wow, that is pretty big. Because honestly, I have been shamed my entire life for making it, for surviving. It was always ok for everyone else to have their stories. Its ok for others to share and be sad but me and my story somehow is not ok. And I feel the weight of that. Others are believed, I am not. Others can share I can not. People can mourn their losses I can not. Peoples stories, others stories are so important but my story is not. But my story is important and I have to feel my way through it just like you do yours. Mine looks different, feels different but its mine and I know its been a long time I know that its over, but I never had a good start. I grew up learning to hate not learning that I was loved, that I was good and worthy just because of the mere fact that I existed . I have a foundation now to build on because of a few AMAZING people and I have to use that strength to get through this next part, these next chapters. My story is mine, and its important, What has happened to me matters.

　

My hope maybe someday, I will be normal ! ok maybe that is pushing it; but at least Semi-Normal might be a good goal !

I love you, I heart your heart, thank you !