More Jabs from Beyond the grave

I'm no longer surprised, but still incredibly heartbroken. Maybe because I believed I had found all of the damaging things she had said on paper. Maybe I thought there was nothing else she could say that would make a difference. I am the kind of upset where there are no words, just an internal ache that is painful and deafeningly silent.  The kind that tears at your heart, the kind that makes you realize all the things that you thought were true about a person really were. The kind that helps me understand my lack of sadness over her death. I want to scream, 'This is why, this is why, I could not trust her with my heart.' Today, I am not sad that she isn't here. I want to shake this letter at the world, yell at them, this is why I am even more relieved that she is no longer here. 

I was cleaning out more things from what used to be her room. I wasn't looking at anything; I had already been hurt enough by things that I had seen and found.  I bought boxes and was just throwing things away, and it felt more than amazing. Pictures off the wall being given away, making this space happy and one fit for my granddaughter; my heart was filled with happiness.  Then there was a letter in front of me. And the words that I saw were a goodbye letter to Sherri. I picked it up, set them aside for later, and continued throwing everything away — everything that reminded me of her. 

Then I took that letter and I read the entire thing. I was beyond words. I never cried, I never felt anything other than disgust. There was this kind of quiet, that I can't explain. I hated her then, and it made me hate her even more in the moment. Then I read it today, and there was that sinking feeling. She never knew me and was unable to see past her own selfishness. I'm in a place where I'm trying to understand the how and why of her words and how they relate to each other in her actions. She never took responsibility for anything that ever happened to me. If she had read my journals and emails, she would have known what I went through and how scared and alone I was.

There were some things that just broke my heart, which I will write word for word from her goodbye letter in blue; some of them are hard to read. And then I will try to convey my feelings about them, and my truth.  I don't know of any other way to get through them.  Some of the things are crushing, and I feel like I'm being stabbed through the heart. 

I can not let you manipulate me into feeling sorry for you ?_- Sorry for you? For What? 

I don't know what this is supposed to mean. I never tried to manipulate you, and never once wanted you to feel sorry for me. I did everything the opposite, actually.  I think it was the "For what?" that struck me the most.  Maybe for the things that your husband did, maybe for not keeping me safe, maybe for making me your friend, maybe for losing my childhood, maybe for having to be a co-spouse and take care of all the things that you did as his wife. If you want honesty, there are many things that you should have felt differently about, but not once did I ever want you to feel sorry for me; I wanted you to see me and do things differently.  I want you to take responsibility, be a mother, and keep me safe.

I bought you a laptop, a diamond ring, I bought you a 1000 dollar diamond ring 

I was grateful for that laptop; I needed it for school, and it really was very helpful.  The ring, okay, I was grateful and I loved it. I don't know why it's even being brought up. Were there stipulations to that ring? I will gladly take it off and put it away; it is off my finger as I write this. It was a gift that I didn't ask for, and nothing that I asked you to spend. It feels like a slap in the face. Look at what I spent on you. I would have rathered kindness and understanding over that ring any day.

You forgot a week at a beach house? You forgot the ponies for their birthday? Too bad you can't remember the good things. 

Crazy how two people can remember things so differently. I remember the beach house well; it was my birthday, and Gotye was on Saturday Night Live that weekend. I remember the crazy nightmares, and the inability to fall asleep. When walking on the beach, you chose to walk with Chris's girlfriend, and I was left alone. There was Drama the night of my birthday. I just wanted to take a walk on the pier, but that never happened. There was drama, and I was left to my own devices.  For my birthday, I was given a mouse for my computer. I was drowning and trying to smile for my children. The Beach was a place where I felt peace when things were so hard. I would sit on the deck, tears flowing, yeah, too bad I can't remember the good things. I remember feeling like I could breathe watching the sunrise and drinking my coffee, my kids safely playing on the lower deck.  The ponies for their birthday, I will never forget. I saved and was so excited to do that for them. I wanted them to have a birthday to remember, and they had a blast. The ponies were more than amazing, and everything was more than perfect. One of the best parties in the world, but a birthday party for my children doesn't erase yours, and years of trauma and abuse.  I do remember many good things, special moments with my children, and how they got to live a life so different than mine, because of the things I created.  

All of your ghosts haunt you. You live in a haunted house, and I refuse to visit

Wow, I'm not sure how to respond to this one. You refuse to visit a place that you helped create; maybe that lies at the heart of the problem. Yes, I was haunted by all the things that had happened to me, all the things that you pretended not to know about, and I needed you. I needed you to care, I needed you to hold my hand and let me know I wasn't so awful. I needed a mom, but you were too preoccupied with all that you had going on to even notice that I was slowly slipping away. My job was to take care of you my entire life, and I always did, until that day came when I put myself first. That never went over well with you. Goodness, you hated that my children came first.  All of your ghosts haunt you, yes, they did.  I once lived in a haunted house, where everyone pretended that everything was fine and everything was good, but nothing was fine. You refuse to visit, you talk about wanting things to be different, but refuse to help me where I am. I was in the darkest place you could imagine, trying to process things that had happened to me on my own, so don't you dare talk about what I am haunted by and then refuse to visit. I was pressing charges on my father alone, I was going through the court system alone, and there were no words of support or comfort or anything from you. I was breaking family secrets, and it killed you. I was fighting those ghosts, standing up wanting better for others, wanting to make sure that another little girl wasn't hurt by him like I was.  

You listed all the counselors I had seen and said at least they loved me, yes they did you walked away, ran away the victim again and again and again

I don't know what all my counselors have to do with anything. I was grasping at straws, trying to find some help and support. The world that I carried was burdensome, and I was caving from the weight of all that had happened in my life. I never walked away from counseling, that was a place I ran to looking for help when none was offered at home. I never gave up on counseling. You are very wrong, I was never the victim, I never walked into counseling thinking Oh, poor me, look at the things that I have survived I walked in there with a will to fight, and to take back all that was taken from me.  I was not a victim again and again and again. I grew, I changed, I became stronger, and I moved to a place where I was going to be given the help that I desperately longed for. You speak about how you went to each counselor, sharing your life with them in an attempt to help me, but I don't understand. I was in counseling to heal my life and the things that I survived. My getting counseling had nothing to do with your past, and you were unable to see that. You saw my counselors because you were afraid of what I was saying. You wanted to be the big hero, but I'm here to help. No, you were only there for yourself, trying to save face and making sure there were few family secrets told.  

I know of you from journals left out, journals I searched for to get inside of you to read emails. 

This is fascinating. If you read my journals and emails, you would have gained valuable insight into all that I was going through. You would have known the things that happened to me and how I was tormented by flashbacks and nightmares each and every day. You would have seen my heart and the things that I was struggling with. You would have had a better understanding of the person I was and why I reacted in specific ways. You read journals and emails for information, but not to intervene and offer help. You saw the scratches on my arms and all the bruises on my legs; you saw the evidence of just how much I was trying to fight.  The things I wrote in those were who I was to my core. I was dying inside, and the journals were where I turned, and you want to use that against me. You never wanted to get inside of who I was; you wanted information and to know what family secrets I was no longer keeping.  It's hard to imagine that you read them knowing I wasn't okay and still stood by, doing nothing; that's where the problem lies. 

Oh yes, James, where is he now ? 

James was the only person that I had for a time.  And you're even including him is another sword that I didn't deserve. You will never understand what he meant, and you don't deserve to know what happened. He was everything to me for a time; he gave me more love and support than you ever did. People change what they need changes and, I was in that place. I was going further than James was able to help; that is what happened. So fuck you, for wanting to destroy something that I clung on to for dear life.

You wrote about your abuse, and how I didn't want to hear that 

That may be the truest thing that you have said in the letter. It was only after I pressed charges against my father that you showed an interest in sharing about yourself. Not once did you ever ask what he did, what happened to me, you said, he molested me, no he raped me from before I was 5. There was never a time in my life when I didn't know about sex and what was expected. I knew it was good night when he couldn't get an erection, how is that for 5 year old knowledge. I didn't have the words. He would straddle my neck on your water bed and want me to perform oral sex. He would threaten me not to get sick and push me out of bed. He would touch me, his hands everywhere, all the time. He would come into my bed at night, and I would have to hold his cross so it didn't make any noise as he raped my little body. Many mornings, I would sneak to the trash and throw my bloody underwear away. Did you even notice how often they were missing ? He would kiss you and look at me; there was never a single second when I wasn't terrified of him.   So, did I want to hear all about your abuse? No, I did not. I had enough terror in my mind. I wanted someone to see me, hold my heart, and help me heal.  This was not about you. 

I trained myself to remember the good stuff, moment to moment, how stupid that I thought I was- I wasn't stupid, I was surviving. How dare you hate me 

What you don't understand is that I kept smiling, kept living. The difference is that you were an adult, you had a choice; I did not. I hated you; yes, I did. I still hate you because you never stood up for me. You never said, 'I am here; what do you need?' You never asked what he did to me, you never wanted to hear what your husband put me through, because you were too self-centered, while you were living moment to moment, remembering the good stuff, your husband was hurting me. How dare I hate you? I expect nothing less than that if my children were suffering and I did nothing to keep them safe and sound. If I knew that atrocious things were happening to my children, I would spend every day the rest of my life making up for that. I would never tell them to just move on, get over it, or that it's over. 

I thought I was his victim, never ever did I imagine that he was coming to you at night 

Bullshit.  Because I still hear your words in my head all the time, when one of those counselors that you talked about had you in for a session. She asked, Where do you think he was going at night? And your response literally said it all. You said, "Well, at least he wasn't in my bed ". You said that out loud in front of other therapists in the room and two interns. You knew where he was, but you cared more about yourself. You were there for his cruelness often and did nothing to intervene, making me climb on the dining room table to shove pills down my throat; you were there in the kitchen. When I was hit, I wanted some comfort from you when you were in the living room. When I was made to stand up at the dinner table for rocking in my chair, when friends came over, you saw his cruelty and did nothing, just a bystander, so you keep wondering why I hated you. Is that really a fair question?   

I lived that tomorrow would be better, you live in look what my life has tortured me with--poor me--Over and over you tell your story, oh what will they think if they knew who I am? How dare you

I am thrilled that you were able to live, hoping that tomorrow would be better. I knew that tomorrow would not be better for me; I knew I would be hurt and humiliated.  So, I made sure that those around me were safe; I went out of my way to ensure that others were taken care of. I was not cared for, and I was going to give others all the things that I never got. That is how I survived. I do not, and never did, live in a place where I dwelled on the things that happened to me. I mostly blamed myself, wanting to find some rhyme and meaning when there was literally none. For decades, I blamed myself for picking out one of his T-shirts to sleep in. I was telling my story because it deserved to be told, it deserved to live somewhere other than in my heart and soul. How dare I tell my story? Why is that a bad thing? Why was my healing a problem for you? You were not a part of it. How dare I? I don't understand. How dare I heal? How dare I try to move on? 

Plumb : Cut 

I am asked if I forgive you, how can I forgive you for something you do every waking moment that you have 

The word itself is a hard one for me. Forgiveness, I'm not a fan of it, really. What exactly do I need to be forgiven for?  What did I do every waking moment that was so terrible? Survive in ways that I knew how, breathe, I am not sure. 

Did you know Det Clemons came to the learning center- oh yes you do, you got a copy of his report I saw that in an email. To help you, I gave him every torturous moment that I spent with your father, so they could get the full picture of who he was. I shared every raw moment to help you...You hate me no more Sherri  no more

Where do I start with this one?  First, his name was Detective Plemons, and yes, I knew that he came to see you at work.  It was a criminal investigation; he was doing his job, investigating the crimes against me. I knew because he told me, he was my only support as I went through the process of pressing charges and keeping Angela safe. I spoke with him often to understand all that was happening. You pretend that you spoke with him, sharing details to help me, do you want a fucking medal? I shared every raw moment. Great, he was a monster who deserved to be put away for a very long time. I am supposed to be forever grateful for you telling them what a monster he was? Yes, I hate you because you let it happen, you knew the things he was capable of and did nothing to stand up for your children. We are discussing two very different things. I hate you because you refused to give me the things that I needed, you spoke to him because I was choosing to do things differently, and there was a criminal investigation; he had a right to know what kind of monster he was dealing with, that is all. Yes, later I did obtain a copy of the report as I attempted to understand the entire legal process. I had questions that I needed answers for, and his report was part of that. I was just looking for another piece that I needed to find healing and peace.

If it wasn't for my faith- God's love for me, I do not know how I would have survived these last two years. For you to put down my friends, my church

I am very glad that you had your faith. I had nothing to do with any of your friends; they were just your friends. And your church.  I never put down your church, I just expressed that it wasn't right for me or my children. You can do and go wherever you want. You knew that I had been significantly hurt by the church, and that was not something I wanted to be involved in; you were an adult, make your own choice. My views were different, I expressed them, and you didn't like that. 

You are graduating from college, yet you feel you did it with no help from me Sad so sad

Unbelievable, you want credit for my college graduation?  There were times when you were supportive, but my graduation was ultimately a result of my own tenacity and determination, and I let nothing stand in my way. I did it, with seeing the men who gang raped me at school. I did it, even though I was scared walking to my car after class. I did it when I was exhausted and working two jobs. I did it after I was raped and got pregnant with my children, I did it when there was every obstacle a person could imagine. I did it, I kept going, kept dreaming, and I did it. I did it through pressing charges on my father trying to save another little girl and going through the court system. I did it; when I had to ask Catrina for gas money to get to school, I did it, even though not a single soul believed in me. I did it. I did it those late nights doing homework after the kids went to bed. You can take no credit for that success. I wanted better for my children. The sad part is that I was alone. 

You still have such a long journey ahead of you Someday reality may hit, maybe not, I know that I love you and did the best I could

Your best wasn't good enough, and for a great deal of the time, you didn't even try. I know there was a great deal of generational trauma for you, but that is no excuse. You keep your children safe, when you know better, you do better. When you read my journals and emails, you should have stepped up and done better. You knew the pain that I was in, and you chose to look the other way and focus on yourself.  I stood up and did the right thing, as terrifying as it was. You are right, I do have a long journey ahead, and I will be on that journey forever, trying to heal and become the woman that I chose to be. I am well aware of reality, I have lived there my entire life.  The truth is, I was broken by a household that didn't see me or value the person that I was. I lived in a household that set me up to be victimized over and over and over and not do a damn thing about it. The fact is that you were not there and always chose the needs of my father over the protection of your children. How about you let that reality sink in?  

I would do it all over again, just a little different 

How telling, you would just do it a little differently. So selfish. Just a little different at the cost of your daughter, that is heartbreaking. I could write about things that should have been different for the rest of my life. How dare you say, just a little different? A little difference is changing your hair color or your shirt. My life was something that needed more than a little change; I needed you to see me and believe in me. I needed you to do the hard things and keep me safe, to tell him to stop. I needed you to see and notice. I don't call those things 'a little different'; they were significant things that could have had a profound impact on how I lived my life then and how I continue to live my life. You would do it all again, but I would do nothing again. The hell that I grew up in, that you allowed, destroyed the little girl that I was supposed to be. There is nothing okay about that. 

 Enough for now time for a glass of wine be blessed in all you do 

Just so cold, so distant. I often felt that way throughout my life, but I never understood why you hated me. I see your words about how much you loved me, but that was not my experience. Your love was very conditional, depending on whether your needs were being met. Big things would happen, and you casually watched, offering no help or support. You have that glass of wine; I hope it keeps you company and helps drown out your feelings about how our relationship has played out. Have I been cold and distant? Yes, often. I have to keep this tender heart of mine safe. I can not afford any more hurt to a heart that will forever be healing because of your choices. Be blessed in all you do, go fuck yourself. I have created a world where I am achieving each and every dream, doing things I never imagined, and supporting my children where they are. I see them, and I hear their heart; I notice everything. 

I do believe it will take a miracle for you not to see me as a wicked person. But I do believe in miracles, May god bless you , shine his face on you and your children, may you get to know him, get unstuck and breathe his love and receive his grace 

You and your god mean nothing to me. I prayed to god when I was 5 for the rapes to stop, I prayed to die each night when we would have to hold hands and pray. I would pray not to wake up because I couldn't be hurt anymore! Your god was not something I ever wanted to believe in.  I believe in kindness, whales, and in doing the right thing. I believe in the trees and the rain and the smile on my children's faces when they are proud and excited. I believe in the sweet voice of my granddaughter as she coos and carries on a conversation. I am not stuck, I am healing. I do believe there was a wicked side to you, because you took care of yourself when I was drowning. I believe that you were one of the most self-centered people that I knew.  Your needs were what mattered at any cost, even mine. You are just as guilty as my father in the damage that you have caused. There was a part of you that loved the idea of me, but you never loved the person I was or the woman I was becoming. You hated my strength, my desire to keep moving forward, and my desire to make a difference and stand up for what is right. You lost out, and that was your choice. 

Plumb: Unlovable

I am relieved that you are gone. I am relieved that I no longer have to fight a battle that I know wasn't good for me. You can no longer hurt my children; you have no control over anything that I do in this life. You have done a great deal of damage to my very soul, and it's going to take time to heal, maybe lifetimes, but I will never stop fighting. I am not sorry that you are not here. I miss having a mom, but I do not miss you. I get sad sometimes, for Vincent, he loved you so, but I know that you were often unhealthy for him, I hope in time he will be able to recognize that. You wanted to pass down the unhealthy environment that I grew up in, and hated that I wanted something different for myself and my family. I was his mom and stood up for what I believed was right. Almost all of your things are gone from the house, and with each object, each memory gone, there is a sigh of relief. I have found enough hurtful things written by you; I have seen enough to last for several lifetimes. I have come to understand that, regardless of the number of times you said you loved me, I meant very little. I have read this letter trying to understand your words, but I never will. There is no way for me to have a clear understanding, and at this point, I don't want to waste my energy. You never saw me. You never understood who I was or what I wanted to be in this world, and that's what makes me sad. 

You are gone, and I can't let you hurt me anymore. I won't let you. I have a beautiful life to live, sharing the love I have with my beautiful children and granddaughter. I am making a difference and using the life I've lived to be a voice for others; there is not a single thing that is controlled by you. So, I guess this is a goodbye.

I heart your heart. 

Grief can exist where there is life

There is a sadness that I can't put my finger on that lingers, 

a sadness that stays with me even in my greatest joy

It's something I fight all the time and desperately try to understand

I have learned that there are just some things in life that are not. 

Understandable.

There is a grief that is more than hard to put into words.

I think of the ending scene in Nell, and that is what it feels like. 

There is a peace in the moment when we are fully present.

Yet, that sadness remains forever. 

I think that I'm going to have to learn to live in this place.

To enjoy the moments that make my heart most happy 

But sit in the grief because there are pieces I will never hold or understand.

How crazy that once I believed in happily ever after

Those things are not meant for me.

I will find my happiness, but there is no happily ever after

That is a huge difference.

I am not comfortable with this grief; I wish it weren't there as a permanent resident.

I am ok with the visitation, but there are pieces of my heart that are just. 

pure grief, in all of its ugliness

Honestly, I think that it is grief that has always been my closest friend.

So many good things and new beginnings

Yet this grief still exists where there is life

I heart your heart

 

 

Straw

 

WOW.  I watched Straw on Netflix, and I am a wreck.  It's hard to see through the tears; they just won't stop. It's that kind of soul cry when I have so much of an understanding of that movie. I have a sense, a knowing, and the heartbreak of many experiences in what I just saw. This is more than a movie of something that I cannot comprehend. Today, I sit here watching it in my own home, and in Graduate school, and I have the job that I worked more than hard for. The tears are coming from that place of understanding that not everyone makes it. I understand having to do things on your own. I know not having enough. I understand how people treat you differently and how your children are perceived. I know what it's like to be left out and not have enough money for the simple essentials. I sometimes forget just how far I have come, and still feel like the person that the world is most unkind to. Because I forget just how far I have come. 

I could go minute by minute in that movie and explain things that have happened to me, how I have been treated, and where I was not even given a thought of kindness or concern. Moments where I was degraded and mocked. Moments that chipped away at the very person that I was. But I always smiled with a grateful heart, things could have been worse. I took each and every moment to express how thankful I was. Now, looking back, the moments that stand out sting like a million bees out for the attack. I could never have acknowledged the disrespect at the time; it would have been too much for me in the moment. I could write a book just about the moments where I was treated like a second-class citizen because I didn't have what others did.  I never experienced life the way that others did. I have always said, and will always say, I never expected to be handed life on a silver platter, and I never expected things to be handed to me. I just wanted to be believed and respected. I just wanted to be believed and cared for. I just wanted the everyday life things that each person deserves.

When it was just me, I  was able to keep moving and not think about the effect. When you don't see your worth, it's easy to keep going; it's just what you do. You aren't worth better, you are just grateful. When I had my children, it got much harder. I was more than aware of how we were perceived, treated, and overlooked. 

We never had much money when we were growing up.  I remember arguments about utilities, and I didn't understand them, but there were times we had food stamps. It was a big deal when Clementines were 10 for a dollar at Winn-Dixie, and I got to pick out the ones I wanted.  I remember seeing a bandana with fluorescent colors that was so cool, and I wanted it so badly. My grandmother would dig in her change purse to get it for me. I was so very excited. There were always little things like that, and I wanted better. 

I wasn't sure I realized just how differently people treat you until after my children were born.  I didn't even have insurance at the time.  So I went on Medicaid.  That is never a good thing; they treat you like a second-class citizen, and I was often looked down upon. For me there was an extra layer, of shame because of the rape.  Many times, questions were asked, and I would answer them to the best of my ability. When there was talk about the father, I always grew silent.  I saw myself as the slut who got pregnant and figured they saw the same. If anyone had taken a few extra minutes, they would have understood the situation so much better. Shame upon shame upon embarrassment upon silence but I never stopped smiling I was going to keep these babies healthy. We would have a very thick book, so I'm going to explain a few of the key points that stand out, in no particular order. 

There was the first week after the kids were born, and you had to go to the health and human services office. I was still recuperating from a C-section with twins, and making sure that I had everything that they needed. The waiting room was oh so full and more than dirty. Just walking in I could feel the mood in the air. You are treated harshly and unintelligently. I was called back; they needed their crib cards, and I had everything. Then, they had questions about the father. I said I didn't know. I gave what I knew, but that wasn't enough, and she threw a pen at me across the table.

I was devastated.  I was in this state of awe, being a mom, having my most amazing children, and they were cruel and uncaring. I can remember taking Mariska out to the car and trying to nurse her. I remember talking to them, telling them how amazing they were, and that we would be fine. I just kept smiling, grateful for my two healthy babies. And every six months, they call, and you get the same questions, the same disrespect; those were the days that I dreaded the most. Those were the reminders that made me feel like I was so much less than, you know, you need to file child support, are you making any money? Sometimes you would get kind case workers, and other times, they would make you recount every detail from beginning to end. There were the WIC appointments where people would ask Oh, are they yours. No amount of care and support. But I smiled and kept going. I had my wonderful children.

There was a crisis pregnancy center, and when they were newborn, they gave you diapers and clothes.  My mom came home with things for them, and I started to cry. The clothes were stained and terribly worn.  And there was a bible in the baby bath. The tears began to flow. I didn't for a second want to be ungrateful, I didn't want their bible, and I wasn't going to put my precious children in those awful clothes. That was the same place where, when I asked if they had an extra high chair, they brought out this high chair with mold on it, and said that we just needed to scrub it down. I was at a loss for words.   So I said thank you, with tears running down my face. That was the last time that I went there. 

As they grew up, I did a lot of smiling and was very grateful. I also did a lot of crying myself to sleep at night when they were peacefully sleeping. I was not okay, and the weight on my shoulders was incredible. When I went to ask for help, I was told that if I wasn't experiencing hallucinations and wasn't a danger to myself or others, then they were unable to offer any assistance.  I was on my own. Once I reached out to another organization, they requested that I enroll my children in a drop-in daycare while I attended the orientation. Being the mom that I was, I wanted to check them out, as I never left my children for a second.  What I learned was terrifying; the daycare had been investigated for child abuse.   When I read the reports, I was beyond furious, so because I need help, you want me to put my children in harm's way. I found a neighbor to watch them, and I attended this meeting. They talked down to me and treated me like I was clueless in the world. I just wanted someone to see me and who I was.  I was grateful at every step of the way, and even in the worst moments when I was treated most unkindly, I remained grateful.  I was a mom to the two best kids, and they were happy and safe.  For their first Christmas, that was the first time I felt seen and cared for.  The local library adopted my family for the Christmas season. The kids got amazing, thoughtful gifts, and I was whatever the word is when you hold your heart kind of tears, grateful. That was the emotion that I felt. Everything was perfect, and they had the most amazing Christmas. I still have the stocking holders that they received as a gift, and each year I put them out and think about how far we have come. I hope that they know what a difference they made for me and that I still thank them each year, despite the passage of time. 

Things never got easier; my car was taken. I can remember sitting on the quilt, as they played on the floor, and they came to get my car.  Goodness, I loved that mustang, and just like that, it was gone. We thoroughly enjoyed every single second, and I was there for every moment. When they started school, I went back to finish my degree at UNT. There were times when they attended class with me and brought their reading buddy to campus. We were going to make it the three of us. Home was getting worse and worse, my mother had changed, and I became a problem. I was the dirt under her feet and was treated terribly. It was her house, and we got in the way. I tried to talk to my brother, but he saw nothing wrong; he couldn't understand where I was coming from, and I got tired of trying to explain. I was crying a lot of the time, so many things were going on, but there was no time for me, and no time to deal with the sadness. So many things happened during this time.  It's hard to put into words all that occurred because I had to pretend to be ok and just keep going. During this time, my mother had weight loss surgery and became a secretive person.

We lived in the same house, but all of a sudden, everything was separated and everything was hers. I was often belittled and asked, 'Are you going to eat that?' Her self-centeredness was blaring, and I continued to be caught in the crossfire. I will never understand what happened during this time. Furniture moving and not leaving enough room to walk by; she constantly did that with the dining room table. It became a battle that I will never understand. There was even a time when she complained about the kids' backpacks on the back of the chairs. I was finishing school at UNT, subbing at the kids' school on the days that I was needed, and a single mom to twins, and nothing that I did was enough. So, when this woman asked me if I wanted to move in with her, I was scared to death, but I jumped at the chance.  I often felt less than, and it began on moving day. I knew that I wasn't doing well and could no longer pretend that things were okay at home. I totally took the leap and moved out. 

The woman was sad; she had just lost her husband and had a young son. Initially, I believe we both needed each other. There were signs that I didn't fit in with her or her friends, but goodness, I tried. When we delivered my furniture there, she had it all sitting out in the front yard and scrubbed everything down.  It was pretty humiliating, though at the time, I was just grateful. She had people there unpacking our things and going through everything; these people were deciding what was worth keeping, and it felt terrible. Things were truly okay in the beginning; we helped each other. She even gave me money every month for gas when my mother changed her mind.

As I neared the completion of my education and gained strength, I began to stand on my own feet, and things started to change. I was working full time, which is a different role than just being a substitute. I couldn't go have coffee, and just get supported and cared for. I was expected to be that babysitter whenever she wanted.  She always said Are you sure and to ask for help when I needed it. As my student teaching began, and I started subbing, there wasn't much time left, but I was expected to watch him frequently, and I always did. She even bought me a car that was huge, and I was more than grateful.  I wasn't sure that I was worth that kind of generosity. I passed all my exams and was saving so that we could move out; I also landed my first teaching job. I was working so hard, and was so tired. And at the same time, she was on a lot of dating sites, and there were a lot of dates and overnights. Many things made me feel very uncomfortable.  Well, it was another work trip, and the kids were off from school, but I had an in-service. I was asked to pick him up late Sunday and then bring him somewhere else in the morning. I asked if someone could take him, because I still had to work.  Well, the reaction was that he won't be there at all, and when she returned from the trip, she said she wanted us out by Thanksgiving. She always said to ask for help, and the second that I did, I was no longer welcome. The leaf came out of the table; there was no niceness. She removed me from Facebook. Often, men would come over for dinner, and the kids and I would eat in the car in a parking lot. There was no room for us. It was more than uncomfortable as soon as she said she wanted us out. I went and found a place, and we were out before her timeline. Once again, that made her angry. I was less than her, in every way, and she made sure I knew it. She even went out of town the weekend we moved. She just left a note wanting me to leave the key. And that day, it had broken, so I left her both parts of the key and never spoke to her again. I will always be grateful for her taking us in, for her generosity, and for my ca,r but how I was eventually treated was not ok. When I was stronger and my dreams were happening, we seemed to get in the way. It was years later that I received a text from her, something about us being on her heart. I laughed and deleted the number.

There were a few trips that we were asked to join, with our favorites, and they planned all of these activities.  If you don't have money, those are things you cannot do. The dinners and horseback riding, the kids and I were never given a thought; those are the times when you realize just how different you are. And just how little money they have and just how much it matters. You make excuses and pretend that you don't care.  But it hurts and breaks your heart. But you smile and think of something else fun for your kids. I was always that person who was different in how I did things and how I viewed the world. Everything was always fine, no big deal, only they were all a BIG deal, and I was significantly affected. Then I found my perfect house in Anna, TX, and the kids and I were overjoyed; we had finally found our own place. Where we could be happy, and eat at our own table, and not worry about being a bother. It was everything excellent and perfect, and that will forever be my favorite house. For once, it was all mine, and no one could kick me out or tell me that I didn't belong.

Not one person who called me a friend helped me move, or even connected with me once I had my own home. No one reached out to make sure I was okay.  It felt like I was seen as a piece of trash, and she was the hero.  She offered me her broken couch when I moved out. I politely said No, thank you.  She made sure to tell me that it was going in the trash anyway, and that I couldn't start out with everything I needed. I was literally crushed.  It was new people that I had met who stepped up and truly made a difference. My favorites even became her favorite, and when they came back in town for a visit, all those women who claimed to be my friends all met for dinner, but I was never invited.  It hurts, still, but I know those were not my people. They were always mine; I was never theirs. I had to learn that the hard way, but I wanted so badly to belong. One woman even tried to make excuses for her, but I was never seen or heard.  My experiences were never understood, and I was forgotten about. 

There are many different pieces of the story that are overlooked; it's challenging to compile them all. Some things are so small, while others are so huge. Yet each piece is a significant part of the journey.  All of which broke my heart a little more, each of those things has led me here. 

So as I sat and watched Straw, I understood and felt each and every emotion. A few different choices, and I could have been her. This movie is one that will stay with me forever. There is a scene where she is so upset that she screams, "I've always had to do everything myself," and I understand that to my core. In my moments of greatest need, I required help and support. In it all I needed care, and that was often to much to ask for. 

I will always be that person who cares, that person who notices and makes sure that I am aware of what is happening in the lives of those around me. This is one that many need to see, which will open many eyes and prompt a choice to speak a little softer, be more understanding, and give people a break. My story is far from finished, but I hope that when others look back, they will remember me and how I made a difference by being there, noticing, and caring. 

I heart your heart.    

Crying

 

For a long time, I couldn't cry.  I just had to be strong and keep going. I feel like today, when I cry, it's all the tears that I was never allowed to cry for my entire life. There is a massive problem with that, because no one wants to see tears. Tears are seen as weak and something to be done in private. No one wants to acknowledge that there are just some things in life that are just that sad, and that sometimes even a lifetime isn't enough for those tears to completely go away.     

I have always been emotional, but becoming even more emotional has been difficult, and it is not seen as a good thing. Even in places where people should be allowed to cry, they really can't. When I cry about the things I am most passionate about, others do not understand. I often feel like I am seen as weak and incapable.  I must agree that there are times when my tears are most inconvenient, and I also wish they would not come as fast and furiously as they do.  There are times when my tears are so heavy, there are no words. Or if there are words, they come out ugly and often unintelligible. I have a lot of catching up to do; I have lifetimes of tears still to cry. I don't want to feel like I am less of a person because of my tears, because I am finally in a place where I am able to let them flow.  There are some things I can still talk about, like they happened to someone else, and I will not shed a single tear. 

For those deeply affected by trauma, we have a right to our tears, and even in later healing, tears are proof of survival, of hope, of a passion wanting better for others, and if even a single tear holds more room for more healing, then I will never stop crying.  There are times when I can speak about something tragic and have no tears, and then some days the universe says, 'Yes, today the tears will flow.' Maybe that is just a part of who I am and where I have come from. 

I am a crier through and through.  I have a heart that feels it all and more. When I speak, there are tears; when I listen, there are tears; when I drive, yes, even more tears. I am grateful to be in the place that I am in today. 

Do I need to control them more? Sure. I would love that.

Do I sometimes cry at the wrong times? I do, but that's a genuine part of who I am. 

I cry because I can not even explain how deeply that I feel things. I cry because it's just that important for people to understand where I have been, and the experiences that I have lived through. With kindness, caring, and support, there is no limit to what those who have suffered like me can accomplish.  Healing takes tears, and I will cry them until my very last breath. I am not less competent or less of a human because of my tears. I am just a very feeling person, and I have a right to those tears.  I have earned them. 

Am I still healing absolutely and I will be healing the rest of my life. In time I hope the tears lessen, but I will still feel everything with my whole heart. I will give others a space for their tears and let them come, those tears are good, healing, and everything real. 

I heart your heart. 

Appointment Reminders

I have been on a bit of an emotional roller-coaster for a time. So many feelings, so many thoughts and realizing how far that I have come. I am so tired, have come so far, and have a long way to go but I am ready for it all. There are just moments when my grateful heart explodes and I feel like I belong somewhere. There is someone who is willing to stand with me on this journey, gently guiding and caring for this tender heart of mine.

This afternoon My Wednesday, like clockwork; I received my reminder for my 5 o'clock space and I could do nothing but let the tears flow as I held my heart. I have a space. I am not wasting his time.

I am not sure that there is a way to convey, what that means when you are not often seen or valued. I don't have the words.

I know that I have Wednesday and I am seen and I am heard, and even after all my crazy thoughts I still have a spot. A place, where who I am is just right. 

This is just how important that those little things are.  

From my forever Grateful Heart

I heart your heart

 

Silence in the Middle

 I was watching a documentary this afternoon, and at one point one of the people were talking about the silence in the middle of people.  And that when there is that kind of silence, it's impossible to connect and be close to someone. All that I could think of was my mom. There was always this silence between the two of us, that was as loud as silence could ever be.  We were never able to connect because I was expected to keep the silence at all costs.  When I found out that another child was living with my father, that wasn't an option for me. I think that there were parts of her that hated me for opening my mouth, for speaking the unspeakable.  This documentary had me thinking about how much abuse is passed from generation to generation!!!  So many generations before us were like, 'It happened, put it behind you, and move on.'  I do not know if my Grandmother was ever abused. I know that she gave a little boy up for adoption and was not allowed to speak about it. I know that she was silenced about things things that happened in her life.  I know that she married an abuser who abused my mother. I know that my mother married an abuser who abused his brothers and both my brother and I. I wonder how many generations back that abuse really goes. In my father's family, he abused his brothers. Was he abused by his father? I do not know for sure. I know that there was mental illness on my fathers side, and that his mom had relatives that that were never spoken about that today we understand as intellectual disability. There are a great many things that were never discussed on either side of the family. What a tragedy that no one on either side chose to say this isn't okay, that these things should not be happening, that we are not okay, and that we are going to talk about it. Not one person stood up for those who had been abused. 

When I pressed charges on my father to save Angela, not a single family member reached out, supported, or cared for me; I was entirely on my own throughout the entire process. Even when I got back from testifying and my mother picked me up at the airport, she never asked me how it went or anything about my experience. When his case took a plea, she gave me a hug and said, 'It's all over, it's all over.' Little did she know that nothing was over; there was still a great deal of work to do. 

I think of my Uncle.  He was abused by my father and you would think when his abuser had children he would, try to protect me and say something, but that wasn't the case at all. Years later when I became an adult, and we were sitting in his kitchen I was shocked by his question did your father hurt you ?  What I had never said a thing, how would he know ? So he knew what my father as capable of and did nothing ?  Does that make him a victim ? A monster or both? To let another child suffer like he had is incomprehensible to me. I will never understand. He brought it up and when I chose to speak about it and press charges, the tables turned 180.  He did talk with a detective about what happened to him, but then said he would make my father look like a fucking saint if they made him come and testify in court. Why was there no understanding or desire to keep others safe.  

I believe Amelia has helped usher in a new generation of strong women in this family. She will be allowed to speak, she will be allowed to feel, and to grieve, and to talk about all the things, from the smallest to the largest details of her life. I hold my heart and think this started with me. I chose differently. I will always chose the hard thing, the right thing the thing that is the right thing to do. I raised my children differently, and she has a very different life from any previous generation. I am slowly, getting to know the other side of her family and I hope that they also would allow her to speak her truth, scream it from the treetops if she needed too. She is a new generation, and there are many things that I hope to help her understand; and I hope that she will be proud. 

I wish that there were easy answers to understand this kind of generational trauma, and the need for silence that is passed down over and over again. It creates so much damage across the life span, and a kind of normalcy is placed on the most atrocious things. So many times, I have heard people say, it's over put it past you, move on. Even with out an understanding of Trauma why are we telling people that what happened to them didn't matter ? All these years later and all the work that  I have done, that is a struggle, I was told too many times to count that I just needed to move on.  Each time that I stood up for Angela, I was met with gasps, and disgust because I was choosing to stand up and use my voice to protect others. My own family never understood my need to protect others, and I was made the troublemaker, I was the one they labeled as living in the past and unwilling to let things go.  I will never understand that time and how I was treated and I know that from this point on, I chose to stand and to continue to make a difference. I have always done the things that I did to protect others, but each time that I do I heal myself a little more and that is a feeling that no amount of generational trauam can ever steal from me.  No more silence, just care, trust and a passion to make sure that will be afforded to others. 

I heart your heart. 

That's one way to put it

 Sometimes I'm unsure of how to express myself. I want to present them in a nice, neat package that makes them easier to hear. I want to say the words, but I can't get them out, so I find a different way to tell them. I found myself doing that last weekend, and it makes me angry, but I don't know how to do it any other way. I was out and someone asked about Vincent's father.  She asked if it was ok to ask, I said, of course, I am open until I realize the words that need to come out are more than ugly.  A million thoughts go through my head; the room starts to shrink. How do I say it? What will her reaction be? Will she think differently of me and Vincent? So I say, 

"My house was broken into and I got pregnant". Then the silence.

 In my head, I know exactly what that means. I hear the words come out of my mouth and think, well, that isn't it, but that makes it easier for them to bear, right?   I am trying to make it easier for others, but really, they don't understand what I am trying to say. Does that really make it any easier?  I see the confused look as they try to find the meaning in the words. And as soon as the words come out, the look on their faces, and even then, I want to take it all back and make it anything other than what it is. It's like they are trying to figure out what I said, and the thoughts run through my mind just say the words, but I can't. Not out loud, because the truth still hurts sometimes. 

I was raped and got pregnant. Those are the real words that fit, and I feel my heart sinking. Sinking for the day, but so excited for the after.

The words that I really need to say are so very different, but I desperately think that somehow the nice words will make it sound better, like somehow you will think better of me. Like it's better for your house to get broken into than the fact that I let him in and got raped. I will be glad when I can say the actual words without a thought about what others think.  That day is just a piece of my story that has brought me here to this moment. 

I would do that day all over again in a heartbeat to be Vincent and Marisk's mom.  To be Amelia's Poppi. I would not change that day for a single thing to be different.  Without that day, I wouldn't have the best part of my story. 

I want to be in a place where I am comfortable speaking the words and feeling proud of all that I have accomplished, despite the things that have happened to me. There is this before-and-after piece that fits this situation. There is August 22, the day that I got pregnant, the day all he cared about was his car and getting his needs met. The day he put that pillow over my face and the world went black. That day, I just wanted to be normal; I wanted to belong, to have a normal experience of lunch and shopping. 

Two weeks later, when I took that test, it was positive. That was my time, that was the moment I was going to be a mom, and they were going to be everything amazing and wonderful. That was the day that mattered the most, that would change the course of history. It was then that my dreams began to come true. There was the beginning of an entirely different story, which has shaped me into the person I am today. We have struggled, we have won, we have made our own way in this crazy world. I always want them to know that they are the after, they are the best part of everything that I have ever done. 

There are conversations to be had, someday. I wonder if, in time, Amelia will have questions, or perhaps there will be an understanding that this is just our life. I don't know, but I hope that when the time comes. I will be well prepared say the word and explain that the rape was the before, but the after, oh the after is the most fantastic gift.  I get to be her poppi. I will put my hands on her little cheeks, and tell her Oh, beautiful girl, because of your dad, I have you, and that is everything. 

I heart your heart. 

It has a life of it's own

 I was watching TV this afternoon when someone mentioned something that happened to them. They said that it felt like it had a life of its own. It was like a lightbulb went off, and I came to write.  Me Too, Me Too. What happened to me at 13 has a life of its own. It's a time and place so close, yet so far away. A place and time that I know so well yet often feels like something so foreign.

What happened to me when I was 13 lives in a place where it is on repeat, trying to figure itself out, and become anything other than what it is. There are moments I remember so clearly, as well as others when everything seems to have vanished. There are moments when I watch from the ceiling, and moments when everything goes black. There are moments when I become stuck in panic. Still, there are other moments when I see it from someone else's perspective. I have been working so hard, wanting so badly to heal that part of me. I want her to feel acknowledged and to understand that those things were not her fault.

Whether she danced with him or not. Whether others noticed or not. I want her so badly to stand in her truth, to say these things happened to me, but I am here today.  I am doing everything I have ever dreamed about, and Don and his friends will never take that away from me. I say that, and I feel a sinking feeling; there is so much doubt. There are days I feel like they still win, no matter how hard I fight. Throughout the entire journey, I encountered many cruel comments that I took to heart, and they became etched in the person I was. The questions I couldn't answer were the things I didn't know. I was made to believe that it was my fault, and although I know in my head that isn't the case, my heart still struggles. Well, how long were they there? I didn't see you dancing with anyone. It didn't look like someone broke in. I was unpopular, weird, and overweight; who would want to do that to me? No one held my hand to tell me it was ok and asked me what happened. 

I often feel that they took pieces of me that I can never get back. They did so much damage that there are things I will never experience in my lifetime. That is a different kind of devastation. There is layer upon layer of things I can't understand and will never know. Most of me is ok with what I don't have, but there is a piece of me that wants all the pieces. Sometimes it's easier to focus on what I don't have than on the pieces I remember every second.  What I don't know and can't remember is just gone. Somehow, focusing on things that I don't have keeps me away from the things that I am all too clear about, which are keeping Spunky on that couch, scared to even breathe or take up space. 

What happened to me has a life of its own, which holds on to every part of my being for dear life. I don't understand why this is so incomprehensible. I know it was unthinkable, but I doubt myself all the time, if it was that bad. If it had been that bad, the entire day would have become blackened, but there are parts I so clearly remember.  The sun on the floor, through the sliding glass door. The blades of the fan, and repeating their names over and over. Don's laugh. The smells. The chaos, wanting to see Andy. Was it really as bad as I remember it? There is this fight, knowing it was devastating, and at the same time, I am questioning everything, like am I just overreacting? 

That may be part of the reason why this is so challenging, as it encompasses so much and is deeply intertwined with everything. Nothing ever stopped; life just kept going, no matter how bad I was hurt. There is a part of me that has to keep going, just keep going, move forward. The world doesn't stop just because I'm sad or hurt. There is a certain devastation for Spunky that takes my breath away. I know she is me, and I am her, but goodness, sometimes I feel like she might crush me. 

I heart your heart 

I Feel nothing but hurt

 

I think that this quote sums up what it was like living with my mother. 
I think I am realizing more and more just how much she hurt me but how much she hurt my children in the process. She hurt them in very different ways, but the damage that she created is something I will never get over. I see her pictures and I literally feel nothing, there is this ache but nothing more. How she treated Mariska, so unkind. Her being a tattle tale almost. Nothing that she did was ever enough. She made Vincent her everything, making sure to drive that wedge between the two of us. I was always the bad guy, and she made sure to tell him that Mariska was always the favorite. I was the parent, but she led him to believe I was holding him back and not letting him grow. I can't imagine the things she fed him, but she did and it breaks my heart. 

This Mother's Day was just hard. Mariska worked, I didn't hear from Vincent till later in the afternoon, there were many many tears. I tried to keep myself busy, but there was a heaviness to the day. A part of me wishes that I did miss my own mom, but it just isn't there. I found a post from my brother, with a picture of him and her and the flowers that he got her one Mother's Day. I saw the picture and just stopped.  I can remember her saying that she liked the other flowers better. And yet here he is, years later posting that picture, like look at me and all that I did for my mom. It made me angry.  She was always playing both sides, she could never be nice to us at the same time. When she got home from the cruise, she called and said that she couldn't wait to get home to the kids and I that it was a long trip. And it was in the same month that she made him the sole beneficiary. Just so many questions and not enough answers. He was the hero of her story; Always.  He was unable to hear the true version even in her passing. My words were too much for him to hear.  He could gush and share, because that was his reality, the importance of the male.  I was being cold, and unable to share my reality of the situation. I can remember the relief that I felt that day and every day since, I could not imagine living the way that I was. The growth that I have made since that day, is just extraordinary. 

She was unable to see the woman that I was and refused to take responsibility for anything that happened in my life. I was the angry one the one holding grudges, not once was there ever an acknowledgment of what I had been through in my life. Makes me think of the counseling session where she said Well at least he wasn't in bed with me. That makes my blood boil. How dare her say that out load in a room full of people, if that was too my face what did she think when I wasn't around. This mothers day there was this feeling of intense anger, that I don't miss her, and that she was not kind to my children.  Mariska and I are able to talk, and vent and share how we saw things and what our experiences were.  My mother put Vincent in a bubble feeding him all untruths about me and his sister and my intentions.  She got in the middle of us whenever she had a chance, and all of that came to the surface on Sunday. I ended the day just going up to bed and crying myself to sleep. I felt terrible for both of my children and the situation that they were in. Since Vincent becoming a dad, he is opening up, it is going to take time. She did a lot of damage, and for a long time he believed her lies, I hope as he watches me with Amelia, he will learn who I truly am and the intentions that I have always had, wanting the best for them always. 

It is a little scary honestly, that I don't feel more for her.  The hurt is so deep and that it affected my children so profoundly is not ok. Mariska and I are open and talk about what it was like. Vincent is slowly peeking his head out, in time I hope we can have those conversations and he will be able to heal and see that I love him with my whole heart. 

I heart your heart

She Doesn't Breathe

 

For homework last week, I was asked to think about my breathing. I laughed, but I will never forget my homework or just not do it. Breathing is one of those things necessary for life. For me, breathing is being seen, which is not good. Often, I realize that I stop breathing. When I stop long enough to focus on breathing, the panic that sets in is something so overwhelming that I could run laps around any Olympic runner. I am terrified to breathe and be in my own skin.  I realized recently that I don't think Spunky breathes at all. I am pretty sure that she stopped breathing because that was just the easiest thing for her to do. It's easier to stop breathing than to acknowledge what is happening to you. I can't talk about it because I don't have the breath to get the words out.  The words require air and deserve the light, but for Spunky, there was no air or light. It is unbelievable to me that I sit down to write and have to take an intense breath because I have forgotten to just breathe. 

There is a presence to breathing that I have to work on for Spunky. If I want her to walk in that door and sit beside me, I have to be prepared to breathe through whatever it is that she needs to say or feel. She has often been called a tough cookie and I have to say that I agree. She is gentle, she is brave, she longs for safety and a place that she can feel like home. She has never belonged anywhere even in her own skin. She is scared to take up space, scared that she is a burden and terrified that if she does trust she will eventually be left again. She is fragile in a way, that is precious.  Her heart has been shattered and each and every time she gathers the pieces trying to make it whole again. There is a realization, that some pieces are never going to fit or have a place but that doesn't make her any less then. 

I am trying to be more aware, I am trying to focus more on the breathing, but it's terrifying in the worst ways. I have worked so hard to find my voice but am terrified of hers. Maybe she will be stronger than me, maybe she will speak with such clarity and resolve, that I will be speechless.  I want the world for her, and am working on it. I will continue to work, to focus on what she needs and what I can do to make her comfortable, make her safe and make breathing something that she is no longer afraid to do. 

I heart your heart. 

I hate special days

 Its Mothers day. I am laying in bed and I can't stop crying. I picked Mariska up from work at 8 pm , I just grabbed laundry and went upstairs when we got home. No dinner no acknowledgment, just nothing. Just another ordinary day alone doing the laundry cleaning and doing all the things that need to get done.  Mariska got flowers yesterday and balloons, she had a special gift. I don't for a second want to disregard that. What she did was wonderful. I even said to her, I wish she could stay home. I knew I would be alone and doing all the normal things I have to do on Sundays. She made breakfast before I had to start the laundry for the day, this morning. Once she went to work, it was just another normal Sunday. Me alone doing all the things that have to get done.

I can't even tell you how much I hate special days. Days that are supposed to be special be different. So many special days I end up hurt and disappointed. I wish I could just throw any and all expectations out the window when it comes to days like this. I dread these days more than you could imagine. I reach out, telling everyone to have a great day, saying all the things that I wish someone would say to me. I get some responses, I am not one that anyone reaches out to. I hate that it even bothers me, I just wish I was thought about, the way that I think about others. I texted Shelbi and she said they would be coming soon. That was before noon. I heard nothing from Vincent until late afternoon saying they were doing dinner at 8. I was hurt. After all day, there isn't consideration or making things special or any kind of acknowledgment for me.  I said maybe Mariska would want something. Then silence. I asked if they were still coming. It was already 8:30 and he was still in Mckinney. I have work tomorrow, there is no telling what time he would have showed up.  So I folded and put away, and went to bed crying. I just hate these stupid days, its just more heartbreak for me and that's the Last thing I need. I hate celebrations, I hate special days, for me they aren't special, and I end up heartbroken. 

SO ANGRY

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I heart your heart.