It's the acknowledgement

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

Just Struggling

 

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

I heart your heart.

He looks like me

 

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

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

Appreciate Life and Unravel

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

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

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

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

I heart your heart

 

NO need to share

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

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

I heart your heart.   

Her Things, Still Heavy

 

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

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

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

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

Blue October : Home 

I heart your heart. 

Lonesomeness

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

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

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

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

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

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

I heart your heart. 

Celebrations make for disappoints

 

I am not one to celebrate, really. Little things, big things, for me, are all just invitations to disappointment, and that's a no-thanks for me. There is enough disappointment in the world without me making a big deal out of things that are no big deal at all. I think that I am a person who finds joy and light in the little moments. The little bird, the dog talking a walk.  My students when they smile and are proud of their accomplishments. Those are the little things that make my heart happy. 

The big things have been filled with such great sadness and disappointment that it's better just not to celebrate those things. As far back as I can remember, life celebrations were nothing of a celebration for me, and that just made me even more sad. So, if I try not to celebrate and ignore the successes, then somehow, that will ease things in this life of mine.     

Birthdays for one. I hate them. I hate the celebrations; I hate it all. As far back as I can remember, they were never a moment of celebration but a reminder of the aloneness that I have always felt. I can remember a few parties that no one came to. I was invited to a few, but I felt like an outsider, and I can remember being so excited and getting on a recliner and breaking one of the girl's presents. Amazing, all these years later, the memories still stick. 

My high school graduation. I hated every single second. I hated what I wore, I hated the ceremony, and I hated even being there. It didn't feel like an accomplishment; I am not sure that I felt anything. The disappointment came after when my father had an imagined panic attack and made everything all about him. I can remember feeling so sad and walking back to the car alone. No friends were by my side, and my parents and relatives all surrounded my father. I was left alone. That was my graduation experience. 

When  I was pregnant with the kids. Even at work when they decorated my desk, and I was given some gifts. It was an experience that I didn't have words for because I felt all the whispers in the background, and that clouded everything. When people asked me what I needed, I didn't know what to say and usually said nothing. I guess as a first-time mom, you don't even know what you need. I wasn't being stuck up or snobbish when I said I didn't need anything. It was just the fact that I didn't have a clue where to start.   The things that meant the most were the blankets, one pink and one blue, that an older lady made. 

Celebrations were never about me; I never felt valued or special. Even my college graduation.  I was so excited for James to be there, but then there was all the added drama with my family, and it just took away from the day. When you leave the stadium, it's a madhouse, so trying to connect with everyone is close to impossible.  My mother and brother were there, but they said that I was ignoring them when all I did was come out the same door as every other graduate. The entire situation was uncomfortable from beginning to end. We stood there, none of us having words. No one knew what to say and then they left. I am glad I got my picture with my children, with James, with DJ. There isn't a single picture of my mom or my brother. That is more than sad; my mom is gone, and my brother doesn't speak to me anymore.  Even the celebration the next day was full of drama.  Things felt off; I was uncomfortable and wanted it all to be over. I felt like I had done something wrong wanting to celebrate with the ones who helped me. I felt like the cat that ate the canary.  Let me be quietly proud of myself; I don't care what the world thinks of me. It was such a rough time with my mom; she wasn't supportive or kind, and everything felt forced. I just wanted to be; it had taken me so long to get to this moment. Moments I can never ever get back. Just utter disappointment.  

My teacher of the year celebration. That, really, there was nothing to be celebrated. Once again, there were no pictures. They sent the CT guy in to take my picture, and it was terrible. I hated everything about it. I hated every single moment. My people were there at the celebration, and that meant the world. As a whole, once again, I was unable to find any joy. My clothes didn't fit right, my shirt was too big, my shoes were terrible, and I felt completely out of place. It just wasn't the place for me. 

Just so much disappointment, even all the things that should have been amazing. So, for me, it's better to quietly smile, hold my heart, and be grateful. Because all of these things bring an insane amount of disappointment, and that is the last thing that I need more of in this world. 

I heart your heart. 

I will never

 
There is a heaviness in the air about the things that I will never have. So many things were taken before I knew that they were mine. There are so many things that I will never experience, never have, and never hold, and there is a deep loss in that. I have lost so much in this lifetime, and there are days that it hits harder than I would like to admit. I am tired of doing everything on my own. I am tired of having to make every single decision. Everything in this life falls on my shoulders alone, and today, I am doing the best that I can, trying to find some kind of something that makes me feel less broken. So here I am, trying to find the words that are streaming from my eyes. Maybe this is just leftover feelings from Valentine's; maybe it's all the things that the Superbowl brought to the surface. Maybe it's just my tired heart longing for answers that I know I will never find. I am so heavy with heartbreak, and there is not a thing in the world that can take it away. So many things that need my attention, so many things that there are no answers for. One of those posts that is just my heart trying to make sense of things that there is no sense for. I know that there are words somewhere that fit. I know that there is a picture somewhere in the world that would make me feel less alone. I don't have time to find the picture or the words; the stairs are waiting, and the list of to-do's is growing. The anxiety is heavy in my chest, and trying to breathe isn't making it feel any better. So I keep going; tomorrow will be better, and tomorrow things will make more sense. Tomorrow, things won't seem so lonely for all the things I will never do.  

I heart your heart 

Good Thing for Tomorrow's

 Sometimes, I am still blown away by the little things that still effect me. Today is Valentine's Day, and I have been on the verge of tears almost all day. It's a little bit of everything and then nothing all at the same time. Work was not a fun place. The team leader is like a wrecking ball, and I am everything opposite. She is young, and it's like everyone should do things the way she does and think how she does.  I do not, and that often proves to be very difficult. I repeat to myself so many times in one day, one more year, one more year, one more year. I look at the kids and remind myself I do it for them.  Today was just that straw that broke me, making me feel weak and useless. With everything else going on, today was just a lot, more than I imagined or thought it would be.  She makes me feel small and insignificant and that I don't know what I am doing.  I do know what I am doing, but we go about things very differently, and she hasn't learned yet that,that isn't a bad thing so that is really hard. Today was a hard day for me anyway this year, and then add a wrecking ball, and I was not okay. It was one thing after another after another. No matter what I did, I felt like it wasn't enough and I was doing things all wrong. 

A parent came saying that they hadn't gotten any communication from me. When I showed her that emails had been sent, she blew it off, wanting to add her husband. When one of my students had their Valentine's box, one of the paraprofessionals argued that it wasn't his over and over. There was an entire mess this morning with the team lead wanting things done her way.  It just seemed like things were thrown at me all day, and by the end of the day, I was no longer able to dodge any more negatives, and the tears flowed. 

For me personally, this day was more difficult than it had been in some time. I am working really hard to heal Spunky, and today is one of those touchy days. I woke up feeling the weight of the day, and it just never left. It's got worse as the day went on, actually. I honestly just want to go upstairs and go to bed, cry until there are no more tears, and fall asleep.  The night of the 8th grade Valentine dance, the first rape.  I should have been at that dance, being 13 and having fun.  I should have been at that dance, doing all the girl things that 13-year-old girls do. Those were not things that were meant for me. 

I look around me in my library with all of my favorite things, favorite sayings, and things that make my heart happy, and I can see just how far I have come. There is this thinking that I should not be sad at that time. Look at where I am today in this moment.  But I think there is a part of me that says, look at where you are and just imagine where you would be if all of those things had not been a part of your life. Such a double bind.  My heart feels crushed, my mind is spinning, and this tiredness comes from all the fighting just to pretend that everything is fine. 

I know I will be fine, I always am, but in this moment that just doesn't make me feel better. Good thing for Tomorrow's Yes, good thing for Tomorrow's. 

I heart your heart. 

I imagine

 

I imagine a girl of 13 excited about Valentine's Day. She thinks of being important to someone, of someday receiving flowers and candy, and of, well, I don't know all the things that a normal 13-year-old girl would want. Because all the normal things in life were things that I never got to experience, I was on the exact opposite continuum of what a normal 13-year-old girl would like. I was scared and alone in the world. I was something other than.  I was different and didn't really fit anywhere. I always felt like I was on the outside looking in; I could never connect or understand the girls my age who were playing with make-up and fixing their hair. Girls my age were a bit loud, always talking about boys. I wanted nothing to do with being seen; I didn't want to bring attention to myself; I just wanted to be me. I just never had the chance to do normal girl things.  Sleepovers, friends, and parties were things for other girls. 

At this Christian Youth Weekend, I was shown attention, seen, and felt special. I had those butterflies that everyone talks about. A cute boy saw me, danced with me, and made me laugh. At Mass on Sunday, he smiled and winked at me as he walked the cross down the aisle behind the priest.  For a time, there was no one else in the sanctuary. I was so excited.  I never imagined that his intent was not innocent and kind. I had no idea that he was unkind.  He was cruel.  He saw that sign on my head, and I became his target. 

It was months later, around Valentine's Day when he came. It was the night of the school dance, and of course, that was something for the pretty girls, the popular girls. I was neither of those things and  was at home alone. I am sure that my brother was at a friend's house, as he always was.  My parents, well, I am not sure, probably something with the church.  Which left me. I think that the movie Great Balls of Fire was on TV. I was half watching, half not, probably playing with my pets, but I don't know where they went once he came. I was pretty used to being on my own. There was a knock at the door. It was dark, and I should have known, but I answered the door. It was Don.  For a second those butterflies were there like I had just seen him yesterday. They didn't last long. He was not the same guy that I had met that weekend months before. He had made his way into the house; I think I was stunned and in shock.  There are a lot of things that I don't remember.  I remember his roughness, I remember feeling this panic, I wasn't safe. He started kissing me so roughly, and within seconds, I knew he had come to do what had been done my entire life.  His hands were everywhere; the more I pushed him away, the rougher he got. He pushed me to the ground; I tried to fight for a time, but I knew he was bigger and stronger. I sit here writing and can see the pictures, the entryway.  He wasn't worried for a second and didn't ask if anyone was home. He knocked on that door with a plan.  Once he had me pinned to the floor, it was all over. The fight in me left, I can remember the tears rolling down my face; I didn't understand.  He raped me, and I was left feeling like I was at fault. I had kissed him right before, we left that weekend, somehow I had asked for this. So many feelings that I don't have words for when your body is being violated; you feel everything and nothing. I knew what he was doing and felt so disgusting. I hated being a girl and hated my body.

I looked away and focused on the pattern of the shelf in the hall, my hand palm up. I traced the pattern of the floor over and over until he was done. He left me there, and I did what I was taught to do.  I was always the clean-up specialist. Clean up and pretend that everything is fine. Pick your heart up off the floor and try to put it back in your chest, Afterall you asked for this, you were the one who danced with him.  Even kissing him before leaving saying that you would see each other again. I never imagined this when I said that.  There was never a thought to say a word, never a thought to ask for help.  Telling was not even an option that was ever considered. This is what happened the night of the Valentine's dance. A girl trying to collect herself in the aftermath of another brutal assault. This is what I was good for. 

So, for me, Valentine's Day is not about love and being cared for. It's about Violence and pain. Some years, this seems far away, but this year, it feels closer than ever. That sweet girl who just wanted to be seen. Even loved. I often imagine how different things would have been if we had never gone on that stupid weekend and I had never met Don. I wonder if I would be married, if I would be further in my career. I wonder how I wonder just how different things could have been for me. I am not that girl anymore.  I have learned to be kinder with my words and take that blame, but some days it is harder than others. I have tried to be kinder to that spunky girl who was just a 13-year-old girl doing what 13-year-old girls do. I wasn't a slut, and I didn't ask for it. I didn't want what happened to me, and it didn't matter if I opened the door or not. It never should have ever happened. I feel more now than I ever have, and someday soon, I will cry the tears I never cried and free her from all that isn't hers to carry. 

I heart your heart. 

Superbowl 2025

 

I'm kind of shocked that this day still stings. I woke up this morning with crazy dreams that were unsettling but kind of normal for me. Oh yeah, it's that stupid football game that is on today. After all this time, there is a sting more like the sting of an entire swarm.  I was folding the laundry from the week, Mariska was doing the socks, and I said something; I don't even remember what it was, but she laughed at me.  Just like that, all the blood drained from my face, my arms got heavy, and my heart sank.  She was laughing at me, and it was like I hit a break wall.  There are far too many Superbowls that I have been laughed at and made fun of. The tears started and I could tell she didn't have a clue, she said she was sorry. I brushed it off and quickly went into the other room to try and remember to breathe. This moment had nothing to do with what I had said or Mariska's reaction. It was just old wounds, a scab being ripped off that felt more like a stabbed heart than a little laugh. it still hurts like it did then.  Reminders of all the ways that you don't belong that you are less than. Reminders that you were around because they only felt bad for you; you were not there as a friend or important person. Just another body in the crowd.  

The first one was a party that we were invited to, the kids and I. I am sure we were only invited because we all attended the same church. I thought I belonged, but I got there and just felt out of place. Everyone was asked to bring something. I found these awesome cupcakes and spent my last 20 dollars to bring them.  I was just a sub and finishing up school. There was no extra money. They had said that they were getting pizza, and everyone could give money towards that. So of course there was no money so we didn't eat any of the pizza.  The kids ate what was brought, but they just stayed away from the pizza. After not really fitting in and being out of place, we were getting to leave. And he comes up to me asking for money. I could have burst into tears. There was no money, little did he know I told my kids not to eat any because of that. So I went to my wallet and gave him the last bit of cash that I had. I felt like dirt. It was the worst feeling in the world. I was heartbroken.  Not only didn't I fit in with that group of people, but my last money was also taken for something my children didn't even get to eat.  I cried all the way home, my children not understanding where the tears were coming from. 

Another was when I was laughed at.  I don't like big crowds and a lot of people. I am just more comfortable in smaller gatherings. Well, this is when we didn't have a place to live and were living with someone else. So she came up to me, laughing in my face, letting me know that lots of people were coming and I would probably want to be somewhere else. My kids and I didn't have a place to call our own, and we once again were not wanted. I was laughed at.  Like mouth wide open, cackling in my face because I didn't like something. I was being made fun of and laughed at.  I cried and called someone, asking what they were doing.  I ended up going to someone's house. It was fine, but I was just another piece of the wall. Again, it was with church people.  I should have known I didn't belong there but I so badly wanted to belong somewhere. 

I guess all that is to say that today, I am in my own home, peaceful, reflective, and working on what matters most. The laundry is going, and I am doing homework. It will always amaze me that those things still hurt so much. Goodness, I so wanted to just be and belong somewhere, but those things weren't meant for me. I am not saying that I will never attend another Super Bowl party if asked.  If I had the right people, I might make it work.  But please, people, take care of each other and be vigilant about a person's situation and how they are doing.  You can make or break a person by your words and actions. Just be careful.  Don't let your actions today be the reason why someone years later is still hurting.  

I heart your heart. 

You can't assume

 

I think in some of my grad classes, they assume that a student is unable to handle a topic or unable to dig into something because we are students.  I am finding that they often do not take into account, that I am not most students. I have gotten here because of my need to make things better for others and because of the way that I was treated.  I am here because of a passion that I have had for most of my life. There are a crazy number of things for me to learn, and at the same time, I have been learning and studying as a way to cope with the cards that I have dealt with in this life. I have an understanding of trauma beyond any professor's knowledge, and I am not sure how to get that across. 

There are so many times I want to explore topics and experiences not from a personal level but to explain a point or to help a classmate understand. Today, I got into a conversation about MDMA therapy and different options for those with complex C-PTSD.  Those are two things that I want to become more knowledgeable in and grow as a professional. I think different therapies may work well with clients who suffer from C-PTSD. I have personal experiences with the things that we are speaking about.  I have experiences that give me a different understanding, and sometimes, I just want to be able to share them. 

I have so many thoughts and opinions that I would love feedback on. I have ideas and things that I think would be helpful to others that I don't even have enough knowledge yet to articulate. But they are there, just wanting to be heard.  

I listen to every word of men like Yalom, who has a special place in my heart.  I would love to have time to share and explore with him.  He has a deepness that I connect with. He has an understanding that I have yet to find words for. I watch Yalom's cure, and I get it.  His quiet understanding and strength. I don't have a word for it yet, but I will someday.  

Mt professor saw an article I found, and she was like, "Oh, see Dissassociation. That's a rough one." I want to scream, "Yes, I know I have been there and can explain things you would not be able to get your head around." I want to be in a place where the things that I have been through can be seen as insight and courage.  I want to get to a place where the things I have experienced and the things that I did to survive are things that can help others and prove to be walking stones for practitioners to heal other patients. 

The things I survived have given me a passion and desire to want others to do things differently. there is something in this that satisfies something in my soul to my very core, like nothing I have ever known. Maybe this isn't the time to share why I come from the places that I do.  I can promise you that time is coming, and I will never stop making a difference for others. 

I heart your heart. 

In the breeze

 

Yesterday was one of those February days in Texas where the weather was everything perfect and warm, and it felt almost too good to be true.  Sometimes, those days are tough for me. There is that warmth, the sun is shining, and there is that ever-so-faint gentle breeze. The sky is the bluest blue and so bright.  The birds are singing, and it seems all is well with the world. Sometimes, it's those little things that can remind us of some of the things that we want to forget. It's like for me, on days like that.  I can still remember so clearly what happened, where I was, and exactly what the weather was like.   Those first few days of a changing season when all is well with the world. Only I had no idea that things were going to end so badly. 

I have worked on this so much, and I guess it more than shocked me to still see things so clearly. It doesn't hurt like it used to, but there is an ache that I had to go through. I was so innocent, so unaware,  just a little girl.  Strange to have something so usual shake your world a little. That day seemed so far away, and a small thing like the weather brought it all back.  

In these moments, I realized that no matter how much I talk about it and heal, there are going to be times when, out of nowhere, that page opens, and it's there, clear as crystal. Today I look and experience it different. I saw the little innocent girl that I was, and I no longer beat myself up for not being able to save those tadpoles. Today, different things stand out. Just how small that I was.  Struggling to walk because my body hurt. It is unimaginable that my first thought wasn't to ask for help. There was no thought in my brain of having someone care for me.

I already knew I just had to clean up and move on. No wonder I was not an outgoing, active kid. I think that my little body was in pain a lot of the time. Another piece of the puzzle. The smaller you become and the quieter you get, the less chance there is for you to get in the way and get hurt. I knew that at 5. I guess writing this is just a way for me to honor that little girl who lived through so much. I know that part of me no longer carries the burden of all that was done to her. I know that she is free, she will never forget, but she has found peace. Hopefully, in time, the pictures will become less clear for me; with my whole heart, I hope to find that someday, just like little callahan. I guess maybe she carried it for so long. This is my piece to mourn for. 

I heart your heart 

Between Sleeping and awake

 

Sunday is the only day that no alarms go off, and there is nowhere to be.  A day when you can stay snuggled in the covers before starting the day and completing all that needs to get one. It's a cloudy day and darker than normal, I must have dozed off and dreamt of sitting my children down and telling them about what happened to me.  

There were hearts everywhere, and the room was bright and inviting. They are the age they are today. The room was comfortable, but nothing that I knew. I asked them to sit down, and the words literally came out of my mouth that I had never imagined saying: Do you have any questions about your father? There was this strange kind of calm. I was prepared for whatever they needed to say or ask. 

Vincent spoke up first and simply asked.  What happened. 

I said that I had met him online and we were going to go shopping. He was getting ready to leave the country.  I said that he had come, but he had never had any intention of shopping.  I said that he put a pillow over my face and raped me.  Once those words came out of my mouth, tears started streaming down my face, but I was no longer able to hear any words that either of us were saying.  

I woke up unable to breathe. No one should ever have to say those words. I don't know if a person can ever be prepared for such a conversation. These kinds of conversations are things that happen when the other person is ready or has a longing to know.  For those like me, there is no right time or right way.  There is no way to make the words anything other than the violence that they are.  So that is how the day started. 

Later, I watched the documentary Sugarland.  It was heartbreaking and often painful. It was about the schools that many native Americans were sent to that were run by catholic priests. One of the women who grew up there said how she always felt dirty for being an Indian. Heartbreaking.  Abuse was everywhere, and of course, no one knew a thing or did anything when there were rumors of terrible things happening to those children.  It follows some as they try to heal their story. Those who are still fighting, those who want answers, others who want justice, and others whose hearts are still brutally broken.  A huge piece of this work was the girls who became pregnant because of what happened to them.  Many of the babies were born and thrown into the incinerator.  One of the men who was followed in the documentary was one of the only men who had a different fate. He was one of the only children to survive. He tried to speak with his mother, wanting some gaps filled in his birth story; she cried that soul cry, unable to speak about what had happened to her, how her son came to be, and how he ended up in a trash bin. It was done beautifully, raising awareness of the atrocities that occurred. 

I find myself watching things like this, thinking this happens often, and no one speaks about it. This happens, and people want to pretend that it doesn't. What happens to these children? How do they deal with the facts of how they were conceived? I wonder all the time if those are things that my children think about. Do they have questions? Do they wonder what happened? I do not ever want them to feel sorry for me or think differently.  I hope that they would have a deeper understanding of the person that I am today.  It has only been spoken about once, and I don't remember much of it.  At the time, I told them they were in middle school, and in my mind, I was still just a slut. 

I don't think of it much anymore; my thoughts stay with my children, for whom I am so grateful. They are my world, so I focus on that. That keeps most of the pain away, and I keep breathing. But every now and then, I want to know where the other moms like me are.  What are their thoughts? Do they think some of the same things?  What is their relationship with their children, and how did they tell them? 364 days a year, I am just another mom in the world.  But on that 365th day each year, on August 22, I have my day.  I still often wonder how things could be different.  Not that I wouldn't have my children, but the fact that I wish someone had asked questions. I wish that someone had noticed the hurt. I wish that there was more care and less judgment. I wish on that day, there was an acknowledgment that from that moment forward, nothing in my life would ever be the same. I will forever and always, until my last breath, say I would do it all over again to have them.  But my heart breaks for the girl who just wanted to be normal that day. Days like today, I realize just how affected I still am even when I wish with all that I am that it didn't. Someday, I hope my children will speak to me. Someday, I hope they will understand.

I heart your heart.

Violence

 

For me, Violence was just another word.  Well, it was just another word until yesterday. A word that I could read, that I heard, and it was literally just another word. Violence is just another word in the human language.  A word that I think of when I see and hear about terrible stories.  A word that I think is something that isn't ok.  I have never thought of that word as it pertained to me.  That changed yesterday, and it was a feeling that made me want to run.  

I was in counseling, and he used the word pertaining to the things I had been through.  As soon as he said it, there was recoil in my very being, and I wanted to get away.  If I could have sunk into the couch, I would have. If I could have dug my heels into the ground any harder, I would have pushed myself through the wall behind me.   It was a reaction that I didn't expect and am trying to understand.  All the times I speak and share, I am even part of a conference Titled Women of Violence!   But to have that word applied directly to me, is something I just have never ever thought of. 

I wrote that more than two weeks ago because I just couldn't go there. Somewhere in my head, I know that there is an understanding that the things that happened were violent.  But in that same breath, I brush it off. It's really hard for me still to comprehend and get my head around just how violent those things were. There are pieces of my brain that still want all those things to somehow fit somewhere in a nice neat box.  A box that looks like any other thing besides violent. I think that for me if I say that things were violent, it makes me feel like a victim in a way. I hate that more than the word itself. I feel like if I say that the things that happened to me were violent, it feels like, oh, poor me.  

I do wish that I could call things what they were without wanting to protect everyone else around me. I know I do that in counseling all the time. That dance around a word that I know fits is correct, but hearing it come out of my mouth makes it more real. I say the words to help others, so there is somewhere that I know they fit. But to say them in my safe place, where it's safe to feel, is something entirely different. 

I want to be able to say these things happened and feel proud of myself for how far I have come. Most often, when I say them, I feel shame, second-guessing myself that I was the one who did something wrong.   

It is Valentine's Day next week, and I find myself trying to avoid the day and all that it means. I can finally see that I was just a girl.  The struggle still lies in all the things that others said to her.  Really, if it was that violent, wouldn't someone have done something differently?  Wouldn't they have cared for her? I make excuses for Valentine's Day because I opened the door.  I make excuses because that is easier than the truth.  I was just a girl who wanted little girl things. I wanted to be seen; I wanted to be loved and cared for. I did not ask to be raped. I did not ask him to show up. It was the night of the Valentine dance at school. Just in 8th grade, I was 13. Still a girl. I say that, and still more questions?  Did he know it was the night of the dance?  Another question I will never know.  Middle school, I was in middle school. I was shocked and so excited to see him. Those fucking butterflies, I was glad to see him even.  I knew very quickly he was not the same person that I had met. I know he was talking, and I can see his mouth moving in my mind, but I can not remember a word that he said. I tried to fight; I tried to tell him no. He was big, and I wasn't going to win. He was so rough. Part of me just went away; I knew I was fighting a losing battle. He raped me, and I went somewhere far away. It's amazing that something so terrible can be happening, and your mind just does what is necessary. I remember looking to my left and seeing my little hand.  I wish that I didn't have an understanding of what he was doing to me.  I knew and felt disgusted at myself. It wasn't him that I thought was a terrible, awful person. It was me. I sit here, and the pictures are so very clear, I see it like a movie, only that is me.  I don't know what to do with the thoughts, I hated what he was doing. In my little brain, there was this disbelief like, is this all I am good for? 

I have a hard time calling this violent because I was so far removed from my body.  I don't remember feeling anything other than him pinning my arms down.  In the beginning, when I was fighting, I fought really hard. I can remember his weight on me, the pressure on my arms. His weight on me.  Once I gave up knowing what he was going to do, there was a part of me that was just gone. I can remember asking once if body memories were real.  As I remember, I see it like a movie with no sound.  Somewhere, my cells know, my body feels it, and it's the most terrible, awful feeling. To be so used and degraded, like you mean nothing. I do believe my body remembers, and I have the pictures, but never both at the same time.  I just can't put them together in my mind, because that is where that word.  That terrible word violence would come into the picture.  Once those two things collide, there is no pretending that things were not as awful as they were. He was violent, I was hurt, and I will forever pay the price and fight for that 13-year-old girl who just wanted what everyone else her age wanted. Literally breaks my heart. I am so very sorry Spunky, so so sorry. You were a good girl. He was just another evil man. 

I heart your heart

Crisis Class

 

This semester, I am taking an Individual and Family Crisis Class.  I am a little shocked at how overwhelmed some of the students are with the discussions.  For me and the house that I grew up in, Crisis was something that happened on a daily basis, so when some are so shocked by things, I am not.   Sometimes, I forget that not everyone lived in a house like mine. Growing up, that was all that I knew, of course, but there was no other way for me.  I think it was when I was a nanny that I finally realized that not every house was like the one I had grown up in.  I can remember being in my room, and the dad came and started vacuuming my room.  My mouth was wide open; I was shocked.  I had never seen a man vacuum before. And I was in my early 20's.  It's more of a continuum, I think; little by little, I knew that houses were not all like mine, but when that is all you know, it's hard to imagine things differently. 

Taking a class like this is a reminder of just how crazy things were for me growing up. With that comes the realization of just how far I have come.  Growing up in a household where there was crisis day in and day out, I literally learned to take care of the things that needed attention and just keep moving.  There is also this grief because of the things that people should have done for my family growing up, and everyone looked the other way. I could give pages and pages of examples.  

There are a few that come to mind that literally take my breath away.  First and foremost, when dealing with a crisis, you want to make sure that the person is safe and their needs are met.  But for me, after I told that I was gang raped, no one made sure that I was safe no one tended to my basic physical needs. Mentally, I was not ok; physically, I was not ok.   I don't feel like I mattered at all.  Everything was all about the adult's reactions and the chaos around me.  It was everyone saving their own ass, and I was left to figure things out.  There was no attention to what I needed at all.  I think of that counselor who sat there with all of her turquoise jewelry, her legs crossed in a knot.  She sat there letting my father scream, berate, and blame me for the entire session, then said maybe we should do this separately. Where was the care and concern in making sure that I was okay?  So much of what I am learning is things that I never received.  Things that should have happened. Ways that a girl who had been gang raped should be cared for, I never got those things. Things happen. You clean up and keep going.  You pretend that you are fine because the things that happen to you are things that happen to pretty popular girls. The things that happened don't happen to girls like you.  You just want attention; you are just lying. 

I was failed in every possible way. I know it was a long time ago, and things have changed. Laws have been created, and there is greater awareness. That doesn't help that 13-year-old girl that I was, who needed to be cared for. There is still this longing to have the things that I didn't get.  That is crazy to be almost 50; I would give almost anything to go back and be able to give her all the care and attention that she needed.  I guess that is why I always say I am going to become the care that I never got. 

I heart your heart. 

If Only you knew

 If only you knew

Would you still treat me the same

If only you knew

Would you still want to be my friend 

If only you knew 

that every day I wake up scared and afraid that this might be the day that I crumble

If only you knew 

that I take all your words to heart, would you be a little kinder

the bad ones more than good ones just so you know

If you only knew 

the pictures that I still see and the hands that I still feel 

Would you still be my friend 

If I said I wasn't fine, would you just be with me 

The nightmares and flashbacks feel like they are in the here and now

would you run, if I told you? 

would you Sit and listen?  talk to me like before? 

Can you handle my dark?  NO really!! I need to know

If you only knew just how dark it gets, would that matter?  

Would you take the time to listen if you knew just how not ok, that I felt sometimes. 

I heart your heart. 

Satisfies my soul

 

Oh, my heart. We watched this video today in my research class, and the tears started flowing.  Grad school is a place that I never imagined that fills a part of me that I didn't know was empty. Grad school is something I wanted before I even knew why I wanted it. This is a calling, a passion. It's something that is so far beyond any words that I have. Someday I hope to find the words, they may come later after I have received that doctorate. Yet they may come before. They may come at a time when I least expect it, but I know they will come. I have come so far in this world, and as heavy as my heart still is at times, there is this desire to help people change and understand trauma and its impacts. I want to help others see the things that they can't even begin to imagine. There is this purpose, this meaning that grad school has given to the terrible, awful things that life has thrown at me. Life was not kind nor understanding.  My life was cruel and unimaginable, yet I held on to the smallest speck of light for dear life. People survive life each and every day.  Some just do it and move on. Some decide to scream at the world that we can do things better.   I will write, I will share, and I will never stop speaking. People deserve better. Grad school satisfies a space in my heart that somehow soothes some of the pain.  I will cry, find joy and feel every moment of this journey. There is nothing more that I want in this world, and nothing that will stop me. 

                            I heart your heart