So much is in my heart. I am happy, yet I am broken, overwhelmed, and totally burnt out. I was watching Lilith Fair, the documentary, and it was so good, the songs I grew up listening to. All the moments of my life, and the tears started flowing. When all of those artists came onto the scene, those were the words to the story of my life. Those were the songs that played through the tears and the hopes for the future. The life I have lived and the experiences I have had have given me an immense amount of strength, hope, and a longing for things to be different for me. I want freedom, I want the kind of peace that feels complete. I want the kind of rest that makes me feel renewed each day. I am in a difficult place right now, and I understand why, yet at the same time, I don't. I am in a place that I have worked so hard for, and there is a hole. There is this sadness, this intense sense that I am missing out on something. There is a need to belong somewhere, and yet I don't really belong anywhere. I no longer belong in the teaching field; I have yet to belong to the counseling field. And I, in my own skin, have yet to hold spunky and help her heal her heart so much all at once. I just need more of myself, more time, more space, more light to believe that I am truly going to make it. Maybe even that I am worthy of all the things that I long for.
I recently received my copy of Sara Mclaughlin's new album, and one of the songs, of course, you guessed it, brought me to tears.
This healing journey is so long, and as I work on these last few pieces, the last few pivotal pieces, it's a lot. Daily, I wonder if I am strong enough and brave enough for these steps. I just want her with me, beside me, a part of who I am in my everyday. Not someone sitting in the past trying to make it right. Because no matter how badly I want to make it something other than what it is, I can't. No matter how long Spunky sits there trying to make sense out of all that happened, there is no making sense. It was just terrible, and it happened it happened to us and we have to face it, and find a way to be ok. The amount of energy everything takes right now is extraordinary. I want to be this bubbly, happy person, but right now I am just not ok. I can't even tell you how hard that is to admit. I am not ok, and I want to be more than anything. I dread waking up every day, going to a job that just isn't the same. I am tired of being hit, and everyone keeps saying 'more data, more data.' How bad does someone have to get hurt before something changes? Goodness, there are good moments. I love the kids, but I just can't anymore. I feel like I am lost in a swamp, trying to stay alive in quicksand. The daily triggers are just too much, and I am not sure what a person is supposed to do with that. I can not be grabbed at my neck, slapped on my chest, bitten on my chest, and pretend that everything is fine. Maybe someone else can take that and keep going, but I cannot because it affects me so deeply. I am not sure that others can understand the impact that it has on me. In those moments, I am thrown back into the most awful moments of my life.
I am trying harder than I ever have to heal Spunky, and I feel like I am beating my head against the wall. I want nothing more than for her to be a part of me and join me on this journey. I feel like I need her now more than ever. She is so much a part of everything that I do in my everyday, and yet there is a distance. I don't hate her anymore. I want her with me, and as much as I want her with me, I am terrified. In my bone,s she is all the things that I don't feel like I am. She is me, and I am her, but there is a separation that is more than hard to put into any kind of words. She is everything I am not. I am everything gross and disgusting.
I am just not ok right now, and I am overwhelmed. There are so many things that I want, and I feel like I am not very good at any one of them.
I heard this the other day, and it sparked a thought that made me smile, going backwards before going forwards. People often look at healing all wrong. There is no switch, and everything is magically better. There is a time to look back, and there is a time to move on; both are necessary. I smiled to myself because that could not be more true, and I wonder how true that is for many people. I hear it all the time: you have to look forward, you have to move on from the past, you need to look towards the future. Don't look in the rearview mirror, all those things are gone, there is nothing in the past, just look towards the future, leave the past in the past. All of those things make sense and I understand them, but there is a time to look back, heal the things that hurt, then continue to move on. There is a new song out, and these words I heard so very clearly: "The pain keeps coming till we face it till we heal it".
So many people run from the things that hurt, the things that are buried in their soul, with the thought that buried things shouldn't bother them, but maybe the matter of fact is that those buried things are the things that bother us the most. Perhaps we need to look back to live fully and be able to move forward.
In this, maybe I should listen to my own words. I have come to a place where Spunky, that little 13-year-old part of me that still feels like she needs too much and takes up too much space. She feels like a burden and a bother all the time. She needs such a massive amount of reassurance that I often feel more than guilty for it. She doesn't believe she is okay, she doesn't believe she is worthy of common decency, and she doesn't even think she is lovable. Who could love someone who made such terrible choices, who lived through the most unimaginable? So she needs more light and love. I have worked more than hard, trying to heal her, and I often feel like I am running in place, round and round, trying to understand and make some kind of sense out of the trauma that she lived through and the reactions around her. Her focus is always on those around her who refused to see her hurt heart. Those around her who pointed fingers and made her believe that she was the one who had done something terribly wrong. She struggles to understand how she was left so alone and blamed for something that she never wanted. She wants to understand that more than anything. People have told her all her life that there is nothing that can be done about the past, so she should move on; her own mother refused to take responsibility for anything. So spunky took all the responsibility that wasn't hers and continues to pay the price.
She is in fight mode most of the time; when not in fight mode, she is frozen, scared of everything and nothing all at the same time. Broken in pieces, trying to put everything back together.
People tell her that things are over, but for her, they are all there, right below the surface, reminding her of the damage in her nightmares, triggers, and memories. I spend most of my time trying to get her to another place, anywhere other than where she is, and maybe just maybe, I need to be. Be there with her, just present. Maybe it's time I give her that space to look back, dig in the mud, face it, feel it, then come sit with me in our safe place and move forward together.
Oh, there are so many things, and I can't seem to get out of my own way. The exhaustion is absolute, and there isn't much time for anything. I have little patience. Seemingly small things are getting on every last nerve that I have. I am in a place that I have always wanted to be in, and yet there is that sadness that just won't let go. It's the ever-present heavy kind that I just can't seem to shake.
I received the evaluation from the conference, and everything was excellent, primarily, but I focused on the ones that weren't. The one who said they could have done without the music, but that music gave an insight that you wouldn't have had. The one who said they left feeling defeated missed the entire point; it was wanting them to be different. I am not even looking at it again. I can't right now. I read some of their comments and think they are not prepared for trauma or its effects, and that makes me sad. I need to learn to focus on the many good things that were said, and right now, that is more challenging than I thought. It was three negatives in a room full of positives, and all I see are the ones who don't understand. I know that there is no way in a presentation to make everyone happy, but goodness, I want everyone to see my heart and where I am coming from.
Even the other day at work, someone with all good intentions often told me to go home and get some rest. I can usually smile and keep going, but on Friday, I had heard it one too many times. I said no, I don't get rest, I have clients every night, and I have three classes. I usually don't eat dinner, because after going all day, when I get home at 8:30, there is nothing left of me to cook or clean. So, please, for my sanity, could you stop telling me to get some rest? Then there are those people who come into my classroom, ask how I am, smile, then walk out like they never heard my words ! DO NOT walk in here, see what is going on and then do nothing. Do not smile at me after I have told you the situation and pretend that everything is fnie, I am about as far from fine as a person get right now. I even asked a co-worker today, like I am not making myself clear. what else should I be saying for them to understand the situation ? So over it, and barely keeping my head above water.
There is this feeling of being on edge all the time, and it's not a fun place to be. At the moment, I don't know how to make it better. I know everything will get done, I always do, but at what cost? It's only the first week of September, and I have nothing. Work isn't at all helping the situation. It is nothing like last year, and we are barely getting by each day. What they want us to do is simply not sustainable, and I am unsure where that leaves me.
I hope this is just a phase and that I will soon snap out of it, get into the groove of this new phase of practicum, school, and work. I need to find a balance, but right now, there isn't one. I even tried to ask for Mondays off, and she said Oh, but you don't want to lose your office space. I have yet to determine when the assignments will be completed. I'm not sure where to fit them in. I just don't even have time to breathe.
I find myself so looking forward to Wednesday and getting to just be, no pressure, no deadlines, no judgment. There are so many things, and I don't feel like I am doing any of them well. I just don't understand the sadness, when I am in a place with all that I have ever wanted.
What a first week of the semester! There are so many thoughts, so many emotions, and I am hanging on by a mere single little thread. I started experiencing a sore throat late Monday, and it worsened over time. Fever by the end of Tuesday and finally gone Friday, but still achy. And eating, who has time for that, because there is not just the cooking but the cleaning as well, and who has time for that? Can I survive like this for 16 weeks? I am not sure if I can really, and that worries me. The number of times I have gotten dizzy today is too numerous to count. Today is an extra day, a holiday, and yet I still don't have enough time to accomplish all the things I need to do. I'm not sure exactly where that leaves me or what my next steps are. But tonight I am in tears because there isn't enough, and a list feet long of things that still need attention.
Work well, it is awful. The year has not started off well, and I am overwhelmed. Nothing is as it was said it would be, and there is nothing they can do. I have already said that they are purposely pushing people out, and it is working. They will not have any staff left to cover the two rooms if they continue at the current rate. I tried to be as positive as possible going back this year, and each day, each hour, there are more and more mountains to climb, with insufficient help and resources. I am tired of staff members coming into my room smiling, as if everything is fine, and as a teacher, I am barely treading water. They are ok with that, and that is the reason I am on the way out. So many appointments for people coming to observe, but we are forgotten. They arrive at times with few students and tell us, 'Wow, look how well you are doing.' No, we are in survival mode, trying to care for our little ones. We are doing what we do, and we are burnt out, and we are four weeks into school. We all look around, asking the question, Can we make it through this year? Often there are no words, we just look at each other with a knowing, wondering what the day ahead will bring?
I have started seeing clients, and I am excited; however, I also feel an overwhelming sense of responsibility. That I wasn't sure that I was prepared for. There is a sadness, a lack of hope that is so heavy. I do love it, this is what I have wanted, but this isn't the place for me. It will be fine. In 16 weeks, a person can accomplish almost anything, right? School is crazy, my practicum teacher gives little information, and I am struggling. There is no syllabus, no direction, and I don't know if we are having class tomorrow on campus or via Zoom, because there is zero communication. I need to know what is expected of me, what needs to be done, and when I need to complete tasks. None of that is being shared.
Even as I sit here writing, I am more than overwhelmed. I am just going to bed, and let's see what happens tomorrow. A job that I no longer love, where the expectations are just not doable. A class with no communication. I am hungry, but too tired to make anything and then clean all over again, so I am going to read some Yalom, find the why I want to do this, and try to breathe. Tomorrow has got to be a better day. It has too. But I have little hope that it will be, and I am going to do my best not to cry.
I've been feeling the day coming for some time, and it's really heavy this year. Tomorrow is the day. 22 years ago, I got pregnant with my children, my greatest joy and everything that I never knew I needed. I find myself more than angry, feeling so affected, upset, and sad that I feel anything at all on this day. I feel like Amelia adds a certain sweetness, and I still wonder how I can be heartbroken. Without this day, there would be no Amelia. I am in a place where I am so unbelievably hurt at what I went through and incredibly grateful that I got to be a mom and now a grandmother. The struggle between the grief part and the celebration is something that I struggle to balance. I feel guilty that there is any sadness at all because, in the grand scheme of things, I would do it all over again to have my children and get to be their mom.
The sadness I feel is incredibly intense. The kind that stops a person in their tracks, like you are supposed to be somewhere but just can't. The kind of sad that sucks the air out of the room, and you're frozen in all the things you remember or don't remember and can't change. When I think about that day, I realize I just wanted to be normal, to belong, and to mean something to someone. Goodness, I was so excited getting ready, and I get so frustrated with myself that I was excited. There had to be a part of me that knew something wasn't right, but I couldn't see past my excitement of being normal. He included me, and I was going to do something normal, which felt really good. I feel awful that I get so sad, because really, I just went away. There came a point where I knew what was going to happen to me, and it was like this switch. I didn't feel a thing. He wasn't violent, yet I write that and think, how hard is it to rape a girl who knows what is coming and flies away to a place that is safe and far away. The last thing that I remember was that green pillow. In my head, I created this story that made things less awful. Somehow it fell directly on my face. There was a time that made sense. I'm really sure he put it there; he knew exactly what he was doing. A pillow doesn't just fall on a person's face. I just needed him not to be a monster, and if it was my fault, then I was to blame. I didn't catch any of the signs, and I wanted to be normal for even a short time.
I am struggling to wrap my head around the fact that he raped me, but I felt nothing and remember so little. In my mind, I know what he did, I got pregnant, but for there to be a blank space is utterly confusing. I have no clue how he took my clothes off, and how his came off. There were no bruises, no fighting, no pleas. I kept saying, "We are supposed to go shopping," but he seemed to forget we had plans for lunch and that I was going to help him get what he needed for his trip. How can I be so sad about something that didn't hurt? How can I be so sad about something that I didn't feel and don't remember? I shouldn't be sad; I have my beautiful children.
I do wish that there were easy answers. I wish there was something, anything, that could bring my heart some peace. I wish that there were another mom like me to talk to. With all the grief and heartache about what happened to me, there are a few things that I know for sure.
I know that I am so very grateful to be Vincent and Mariska's mom. I love them more than I have words for. I am so thankful for each and every minute that I have with them, and I would not change a thing for them to be mine. I know that someday questions will come, and I hope that we can talk about them together. My experience, their experience, and our experience together. I know that Amelia has brought our little family together in ways that I never imagined. Someday she may have questions, and that is ok too. The three of us have come a long way, and I look forward to all the amazing things ahead.
My Vincent and Mariska, you will forever and always be the air in my lungs. You amaze me all the time with your care, your strength of character, and your heart. I hope that I make you proud, and that someday you can understand why I did some of the things that I did. Someday, I hope you will understand the significance of this day, August 22. I love you I love you I love you.
My Ms.Amelia, I love you so BIG. You have brought a light into our family that I don't have the right words for. I love every moment with you and look forward to so many firsts. You, sweet girl, are a first-generation Callahan who will know a good, kind, loving dad who will protect you with his whole heart. You have so many people who love you, and I hope someday you can understand where your poppy has come from, and all that I hope for you in this big world. Because of you, your mom, and your dad, my heart is bursting at the seams.
Oh my family, I heart your heart with all that I am.
I presented at a trauma conference, and one of the sessions was about psychedelics. And I don't think that I ever felt so free in my entire life. I have never truly spoken about my own experience, maybe mentioned it casually, but not in totality. I have never expressed what my experience with psychedelics was like, and what a freeing experience that it was for me. This is a much-needed intervention, and for the first time in my life, I am going to share my experience and the feelings that I was able to feel for the very first time. I wasn't afraid of anything, and that is something that trauma survivors rarely get, and I think maybe yes, it's about time that I did talk about it. So here we go.
It was just as my case was going to trial. We finally got a date, and it was set. I had spent close to two years talking to attorneys and detectives, trying to keep his stepdaughter safe. It was never a question of pressing charges on my father because I knew that I had to keep her safe. My only choice was pressing charges; there was nothing else. I was not going to let any other little girl suffer under the hands of my father. Doing it all on my own, I was exhausted. In the end, I just wanted the case over. I never imagined how hard the entire process would be on me; I just knew that it was the right thing to do.
A few weeks before court, the entire family was asked to come to the Da's office. I am not sure what they were trying to prove, or what their intentions were, but I was made to feel small and insignificant. They had my brother, Mother, and me all sitting in the same room. And she asked me a few questions about the abuse. My family is sitting right there in the room. She was asking me about the oral sex that I had to give my father. I felt like I was shrinking, and neither of them was in the room. I answered their questions, and don't really remember much else. But I left feeling like I was the one who had done something wrong. There was no care or concern, just a girl forced to recount the evil things that had been done to her. There were trips to the advocacy center, where I had to read my statement and answer more questions. I felt like there was no care; I felt like a bother. I felt like I got in the way, and they didn't understand my need to do this and keep Angela safe.
Then there was the trip to the courthouse. I was terrified; everything seemed so much bigger when I was that afraid. I needed some care and concern at the time, and none was given. The DA walked me into the courtroom, where we would be, and showed me where I would sit and where he would be. She showed me a small, closet-like room where I would sit when I couldn't be part of things. I can remember the panic; my heart was racing, my legs felt like rubber, and I couldn't say a single word. I know that she was talking, but I don't remember her words. She was talking at me not including me. I wanted to take the room in to be prepared, but felt rushed and unseen. We left that courtroom, and she saw other attorneys, who were more important, and she said the exit was that way, and I was left on my own. I don't remember any words of encouragement or that things would be ok, I didn't feel like a person at all. I can remember my mind swirling with a million different questions, walking faster and faster past all the police, attorneys, and criminals. I couldn't get out of that building fast enough. No one bothered to ask how I was or what I was feeling. I am pretty sure I got sick once I got to my car, and the tears started on the way home. The entire world was going to know the things that I had to do for my father, and I felt like I was the one who had done something so terribly wrong.
So I was asked to go to a rave with a co-worker. Without a single second thought, without caring about a thing, I said yes. I wanted something normal, something that didn't have to do with the court system, court houses, DAs, or police. I was a bit nervous. I was a good kid, and drugs were never something that I ever entertained. I just needed some relief, something to not have to think about what was ahead of me. I even joked that I would be the one to get arrested, and he would go free. They gave it to me, and I thought, "This isn't going to do a thing; I will feel nothing."
I was witness to all of those around me, having their own experience, and yet I felt like an outsider. They kept asking how I was, knowing it was my first time. I would shrug, saying that I was fine, and they would smile, telling me to give it time. Then in a single second, I leaned against the wall and slid to the floor. The absolute rush that came over me. It was like the world lifted, and I had never felt so light. I sat there for who knows how long, feeling like there was not a care in the world. For the first time ever, I wasn't afraid of the people around me. I didn't really care what anyone thought. I was free, I was there in the moment, fully present. It was the incredible sense of calm that I have ever experienced. I eventually got up and was able to walk around. I can remember seeing a group of people smoking, but they were all unable to find their mouths, and I thought how strange it was. For me, my experience was one where I felt normal. The fear that I woke up with and went to bed with was gone. I felt so much lighter. I was able to be in an environment where people were just people and not monsters. I had such a feeling of freedom. I can literally remember thinking, "This is what it must feel like to be normal". Every sense was so heightened, and I took it all in. No overwhelm, no dread, no panic. For the first time ever, I was experiencing the world with a calmness that I didn't realize ever existed. I listen to music and feel everything, and this was even more intense. I can still hear the music in my head Children by Robert Miles in true trance fashion, and I was there in the middle of it all, listening to the music, dancing without a care in the world. I made my way to the DJ, and I was just present, feeling each beat to my core, and I wasn't a victim in those moments, just a girl dancing, enjoying the music.
I didn't see the people I was with for the rest of the night. The great thing is, I wasn't even looking for them; I was safe in my own skin. No thoughts of anything that had ever happened to me. Just there, free, thinking I never want this feeling to end. There were a few moments, and I ended up sitting in a chair, and a few of my brother's friends saw me. They were tripping hard, and I said hi. They were a bit confused to see me there, and were actually pretty funny. I will forever be grateful for that night. On the way home, everyone was under the influence, and I find it hard to believe that we made it home safely. I had my head lying on the window, watching the street light go by, my thoughts drifting to what a little girl must feel when she doesn't have a care in the world. We made it back to his house and watched some trance music that created different screen images. Such an open freedom, it was now early morning, I could see the sunrise, and I felt the effects wearing off. The sadness began to fill my heart, my shoulders once again tightened, and I could feel the fear creeping in, worried about what others were thinking, worried about all the things that I had no control over. I eventually made it back home and to my own bed. I was sad; I wanted the experience to last longer. There was a sadness to experiencing something I didn't have. I have held on to that experience my entire life. I am grateful that for that time, I had an understanding of what it must be like not to be afraid, and to be glad to be alive. That night at the Ridglea Theatre was everything and more than I ever expected. I didn't get arrested, and my father was given a plea.
I hope that in the future, I can use something like this as therapy to help with the most challenging parts of my story, and that in the process, it can help reduce the intensity, allowing me to truly heal. I have not done it since; the memories of that night have stayed with me, and I am grateful to know that feeling normal, not being afraid, is possible. I felt like just another girl in the world, and that is a feeling I will never forget. Maybe someday I can have that, a sense of true freedom that is all mine just because I am a girl living her best life.
I just watched the Movie: Bob Trevino liked it, and I am kind of a mess. I would love to have a Bob Trevino in my life. Someone who sees me, who hears me, and goes out of his way to make sure that I am taken care of. I need someone to be a fill-in dad for me, to understand what I didn't have, and maybe fill in those gaps. Someone who cared, someone who wanted me to succeed, who was there to help, who was there to teach me all the things that I never learned. A person to hold my heart when it feels like the world is against me.
There have been times when I thought I found that person, but it just never worked out for me; I am just too needy. Everyone has their own families, but I have just always been the girl who doesn't have one. I thought I was close to having someone like that when I went camping with a family, but I was sadly mistaken, and it crushed me. One of those moments when something you have wanted seems so close, and then that moment you realize that that thing isn't meant for you at all.
The kids and I were putting up our tent in the dark. I had never truly been camping and had no idea what I was doing. I was so tired and really struggling. I didn't have the right equipment, and everyone around me did. It was so dark that the ground was uneven, and we were starving. We managed to get the tent set up and were trying to get the air mattress in the tent. I was laughing, but only because it was better than crying. But not a single person there came over and offered any kind of help. They were all sitting down in their chairs around the fire, laughing, enjoying themselves as we struggled on our own. I tried to make light of it, make it all fun and games for Vincent and Mariska, but I was heartbroken. I do remember how we laughed, but I was heartbroken. They didn't have a clue; all that I was feeling, I was just going to make it an experience for them. How does a person see someone struggling like that and not offer some help, or even a way to try to make it work? How does someone not say, "Are you okay?" Do you need any help? No, they were all just onlookers, and I was left out of place, wishing that I had never gone on that stupid trip. I can remember looking over at everyone, already done setting up, and seeing the person who I thought was my person, my Bob Trevino, and not a single hand was lent, not a single word was spoken. They saw the struggle and did nothing. I wish it didn't take me so long to realize that they were my people, but I was never theirs. There is an ache there that doesn't go away, because I gave them access to so much of my heart.
I watch this movie and think about how amazing it would be to have someone help with household repairs, answer life questions when I'm clueless, make me laugh when I am sad, or hold my hand when I am afraid. Someone to offer life advice when I have a big decision to make. Someone to share with, someone to care. Someone to stay and make a difference. Someone to celebrate with, and hold me when I cry.
This movie was gut-wrenching for sure. I will always be looking for a person like that for me. I know I will be ok, I know that I have people who care and believe in me, but this is something different. I want someone who is mine. I know I keep going because I always did, and always will. I just want my very own go-to person, where I am included and a part of their life. I just want that so badly; even at 50 years old, it's what I want most of all. Maybe someday. So I keep looking, keep hoping. But I am also aware that I may never get it, so I will watch movies like this and be grateful that others have their Bob Trevino to make their lives a little brighter and less lonely.
I still find it pretty unbelievable each and every time that I prepare to speak. I have worked so hard to develop my voice that when I get to use it to make a difference, I think my heart does a little dance. I am always grateful for the opportunity, and each time I present, I hope to become better and better, making a difference for other survivors like me.
This year was different; I almost canceled. I was closer than I ever thought I would. There were so many things going on, and I wasn't sure that I would have an impact. I received an email about me crying, which threw me off for a few days, maybe a week or two. I responded and didn't hear anything back. I had a feeling that I had done something wrong, and my tears were a problem. I thought, "But this is me." I feel everything so deeply, it doesn't mean that I am weak or not ok. It means that I was affected. So there was that, which made it really difficult to overcome. But in my heart, this is what I long for: to speak to make a difference. So I marched on. I was nervous but confident. I spread all the artwork on the tables and had everything set up. I was ready. I am getting more confident; I am who I am. Some people will like how I present, it will make them think. It will not be for others, and that is ok.
There was a most amazing lady named Levetta that sat next to me for the keynote. She has left a mark, that I will carry forever. She had a spirit that I didn't know I needed. She was everything kind, encouraging and such a breath of fresh air. She has been in the field a long time and still loves it. Her words and how she spoke, she loves helping and caring. She was such a bright light for me. How she spoke about the field, was a mirror for just how much that i love this journey I am on to becoming a counselor. She encouraged my big dreams. She had this spirit that is hard to put words to but makes you feel comfortable right away. I have to believe it is no accident that I got to meet her, and I hope with all that I am that I can keep in touch, and remind her all that she meant. Even my picture for the conference is different, I am laughing and it's more me than any picture ever. She saw me and noticed, she said oh no it's perfect, it's so you. She made my heart smile, it kind of felt like she saw me and celebrated that I was different. oh, I heart her heart.
I was a little worried; the room seemed to have many empty seats, but as time got closer, the room began to fill. And fill and fill until there was standing room only, with a few people sitting on the floor. I worry that I focused too much on the slides, and the stress before the presentation affected me, taking some time to let go. I was aware that I spoke too fast, so I would slow down and then speed up again. I think my point was still heard, and my message was delivered. Just need more practice. I need to learn to stop letting what others think get in my way.
People came up to me afterwards, hugs were offered, and I was thanked for my story. One guy who was sitting in the front said that he was worried he was going to say the wrong thing. It made me smile that he was worried; I was confident that he would be everything kind and gentle. There was a presence he didn't want to acknowledge, fearing he might say the wrong thing and cause more harm. I thanked him and said that he would be amazing. I knew in that moment that he had taken my words to heart and would be more mindful and do things differently. It's those interactions that I do this for. To make others think. I remember the clapping at the end, and yet I felt very far away. There were a few moments when everything went on automatic. I wanted to be so present, and sometimes that just isn't an option.
I have realized that there is a particular kind of sacredness in dealing with trauma that has to be respected. As soon as it was over, it was like everyone was moving on. There needs to be a kind of sacredness when dealing with trauma and people's stories. I am trying to figure out what it means to me and how I can make it happen. It's essential. There is a sacredness to the story, to the tears, to the pauses for breath. All things that wouldn't be possible without survival. I don't know, it's a lot to think about, but something so very important that I feel in my bones. Like, you need to hold space and really think about what I said. You can't just keep moving; you have to let it in. More about that later.
There were many fabulous sessions that I got to attend. I am really looking forward to learning more about sandtray therapy. There was a session about psychedelics, and another on Psychodrama.
Sometimes I am caught in the middle, not yet a therapist, and still healing. I find myself in a place between merely surviving and truly thriving. There are so many things that I want to convey as a survivor and as a therapist. It's a balancing act.
I got home and Mariska had gotten me flowers, she was fully present, excited for me listening to my experience. She looked at the conference schedule with me, she asked where I was, she was excited for me and it felt really good. She had an amazing dinner, and was just everything I needed that night.
I look forward to all that is ahead. Exploring more, discovering my place in the world of trauma, and learning how to teach others and help them understand. There is a great need for people to understand our hearts and where we are coming from. I will be presenting in December on the impact of Family Violence. Lots of Law Enforcement, Medical, and teachers, along with a new audience, new perspective for sure. I start seeing clients in a few weeks, and I'm excited about it. This time next year, I will be taking my exams and becoming an LPC-Associate, which is really exciting. Good things ahead as I continue healing. I know there are so many more things to write, but goodness, my brain is tired. Summer school grad classes, presenting, and teaching Summer school. There's only one day left of summer before I am back in class. All good things ahead, with so much to look forward to. I would love to hear from those who were there and see if anything I said stuck with them or made a difference.
The only rapes that I was there for and remember are the ones when I was in elementary school. I had no idea what was happening to me. I only understood later, maybe in third grade, what was happening to my little body. I am not even sure that I connected the pain to what was not supposed to be happening to me. By the time I hit fifth grade, I was well aware and knew what was happening: my father was having sex with me, and so was Albert. My parents would leave the door open and I knew that was what they were doing, and I would get so angry. I can remember the puberty talk and sitting there with my mother. All the other girls were thinking, How gross and giggling and laughing. I didn't have that response; I was terrified. I sat there motionless, hoping not to be noticed, wanting to crawl in a hole. I knew what they were talking about, and I knew what was happening to me. There was this massive sense of shame that I knew so much that I wished I didn't know. By that time, I was getting better at going away to protect myself. I remember parts and pieces; Sometimes the pain waited for the morning. Feeling it in the moment would have been too overwhelming; the moments when I felt it as it was happening were the most excruciating.
When I hit 13, I already felt like a slut. I knew that if others knew the things I had to do, I would surely not be welcomed or included. By the time those rapes happened, there were pieces of me long gone. They happened, the rapes but before the pain and the anguish, I went far away, and Spunky took over. I remember some of the pain especially from the gang rape, when it got to that point of being overwhelmed everything went black. By the time Charles arrived, I knew what to do and had already gone away, so I couldn't feel a single thing. All of this at 50 years old, and I'm still trying to wrap my brain around it. How does a person know what is happening to them and be so removed they feel nothing. I understand, and that is where so much feeling and pain lie.
Sometimes I think it would have been easier for me to feel things; then I wouldn't have to come up with excuses, and well, it wasn't so bad, I mean I didn't even feel anything. Often, I didn't feel it in my body at all. But I feel like I do today. And it's more than confusing. It was all that bad, and my heart is broken. Poor girl, and it makes me more than angry, that no one cared enough to love and keep her safe. What in the fuck was wrong with these people, to leave me alone!!! I was literally dying inside.
The best depiction of what happens was in a movie that I recently saw. The crowded room, it was a lot to take in , very heavy and more than triggering. But there is one part where the little boy is going to be abused and his so called twin, who isn't really there steps in, and takes the abuse while the real little boy stays outside and catches a lightning bug . There are no words that can do that scene justice, but goodness for someone like me to understand that scene, is something crushing. Just to have a scene as a representation that when things were so unimaginable, another part of you says let me to save you, it's something heart breaking, yet amazing.
It allowed me to see Spunky differently, there is a gratefulness for her, a different understanding; it's always been there, but this scene helped me see her different. I feel that is where that so sad soul of mine comes in, that feels so heavy and untouchable. Sometimes my life feels so crazymaking. When I feel that pain today, I want to scream, it makes me want to live anywhere but inside my own skin. Those moments are still alive in me, and I have to figure out how to let them go. If I can just get over this mountain, I feel like the road ahead will be so doable and then maybe finally I can lay down all of the gross and disgusting that I hold in every cell. I hate the things that have happened to me. I don't want to wear that tattoo anymore. I am not even sure that this makes sense. Somewhere in my heart, it gives me that piece of hope that soon Spunky will be in my heart, and out of that place that feels so far away. This is one of the hardest parts of my journey that brings my greatest sadness.
I don't want to be just another victim with a tragic story. I want to be the one who has found her voice, saying this is me, and we need to do things differently. I want to be the one who says these things happened, and I still feel them in my bones, but I am so much more than the things that have happened to me. That is what I want, but sometimes that is not what I feel at all. When I am working with Spunky, trying to heal her, I feel like a victim. I feel like I failed. I feel this tremendous sense of overwhelm at just how different she is. She experiences the world in a way that is vastly different from how anyone else perceives it. She is terrified most of the time. She wants to scream, but remains silent; she doesn't feel like she has a right to speak. Her words are too heavy, too full of truth. Sometimes she wants to communicate and tries, but her words come out either as silence or so loud that no one hears her. Other times, her words don't seem to make any sense at all. How does a person explain the fact that they have been to hell and back more than once? Somehow, the things that happened to her make her feel so incredibly worthless. I speak to give meaning to all the things that happened to me, and yet this part, Spunky's part, is more than complicated. I have worked so very hard and feel like I should know how to do this. I feel helpless in these moments and feel like the word Victim should be placed on my forehead to warn everyone to stay away. I want to be in a place where I can throw my arms in the air, cry, and laugh, knowing just how far I have come and be ever so proud of myself. I long for that, I need that to mend this battered heart of mine.
The sharp edges are the things that scare me into silence. The sharp edges are the things that make me less than. Those sharp edges are what my nightmares and flashbacks are made of, and I am terrified that somehow those sharp edges will take all the progress I have made and smash it into millions of tiny pieces. So many times, I can't even get the words out, but I can when they are far away and there is a purpose for someone else. When I think of Spunky, all that little girl had to endure, it's on a level that is hard to comprehend. I know she is me, and I am her, but I don't feel like she is a part of me yet. She is something other than which lives outside of me. Sometimes it feels incredibly strange, talking about her as if she were someone else. In my brain, that is just what made sense. I know it was me, I know it happened to me. But my brain had to put it all on her for us to survive. The sharp edges are staring me down right now, as if to say, 'Here I am; what are you going to do?' I try so hard to move on, I have come so far, and this feels like a battle that I am not strong enough for sometimes. I say that, and I know I will be okay, but sometimes it just feels so much bigger than me. I often forget how far I have come, and that it's already happened and can't destroy me anymore. However, that fear is still present and very much alive. I don't fully understand it. On the one hand, I know it has already happened; I am still here, still breathing, and I can't be hurt by it anymore. The other part is still terrified by all those little sharp edges that make up that time; that feels crushing. I know it's over, but for that part of me, she is still trying to figure them out. Trying to make sense, wanting to understand. She would do anything to make it go away. All the things that I know and how far I have come, this is something I just don't know how to do. This part of my story is screaming at me, wanting something, and I am not sure what to give.
I have been in this strange place, it's sad and angry, overwhelming, and I feel like it's time that I had an easy button. Not for long, but just so that I can catch my breath, and then keep going. Maybe this is the time when all that I run from catches up with me and hits me for a few days. I have done nothing today, and it's 5 pm. No homework, no cleaning, nothing but trying not to think. I have cried, done puzzles on my phone, flipped through Facebook, and put things on Netflix that I don't have to think about. These are the days when I wonder if those sharp edges will win.
Just so much hurt, for a girl who just wanted to be 13. Still so much pain for a woman of 50 and all that she missed out on. She didn't want to be mature; she didn't want to have all the answers. She just wanted to be a girl who was appreciated for being the sweet person she was. Nothing more, nothing less, just to be cared for and thought of. She wanted someone to look at her and think Wow, how lucky am I to know her. There is such a great loneliness right now that it is hard to find words for. I think I have been alone for most of my life, and it's come to a point where I no longer want to be. There are so many things about me to share: the things I am passionate about, the things that excite me, and the dorky side of me, which finds the strength in the smallest things that you would think are so insignificant. Those are the big things to me. Searching for Amelia's first rainbow was so precious.
A text from Vincent saying he loves me and asks if I need anything. Mariska saying Hello on her break at work. I worry all the time that the 13-year-old part of me makes me unlovable, and that she won't ever find peace. I am scared to death that those sharp edges will haunt her forever. She will eventually be beside me; she has to, because I will never stop fighting. But I want her to truly live; I want her to let the things she sees fall away and know that she deserves the best. It was just that those around her couldn't care for and love her the way she needed. Someday, I want someone to love her so fiercely that she will never look back and will know just how truly lovable she is. Someday, Someday.
I am learning that there are different types of sadness. It's hard to explain, but what I'm feeling lately is more than different from anything I've ever felt. That moment when you realize there was never really anyone on your side, and that feeling of being alone was because you were always left to your own devices to get through whatever happened to you. If you had asked me a few weeks ago, I would have always held some kind of hope that my mother loved me and, in her own way, cared for and wanted the best for me. With the shattering of that little piece of hope I had held onto, things are very different; there is a sadness like nothing else I have ever experienced. It's a sad experience on a soul level, one that's so deep and heavy, I find myself clinging to every little moment around me. I find myself thinking about the girl that I was at 13, and just how terribly she was treated, and she just kept going. I have blamed her for so long, and with that no longer an option, there is a profound sadness in the way she has had to live her life. That she never received any care, that no one ever understood her heart, is truly painful. I am doing things so differently from how things were done in my life growing up, and I am ever so grateful. In living life so very differently, there is a sadness that I never got to experience the same care, concern, and unconditional love. It's a different kind of sadness that I'm right in the middle of, and it's really hard. I am tired of being alone. I am tired of constantly reaching out and still feeling alone. It's an emptiness, never being seen, never receiving that long hug that holds a person together. You don't have people, celebrations, or a place where you can just show up and have someone sit with you, make you a cup of tea, and put on your favorite music. I have never gotten that experience. Everyone has their own family, and all I have is me. I have my children, but they are growing, have their friends, and are creating their own families, and I feel out of place. I don't know how it's possible for a person to miss something so much that they have never had. I have never had people. I have never had forever, and at times like this, the weight of that is crushing. There is so much to share with someone, and no one to share it with. Even in the things that will happen in the next few weeks, even after I present, I wish there were warm arms to rush to, to hold me, let me share my experience, and just be with me. I will present, come home, like any other night, fix pillows, probably clean the kitchen. But it's not like any other night, and I will still be alone. Someday, I hope it will be different for me.
She was a cool kid who never had a chance, and it's time that she took a breath, spoke all that she holds in her heart, and felt the entire world that has been waiting for her. You know I always say that I wanted the world to stop until we felt better, and you know what. My world did stop, and I have been waiting for her my entire life. I have been keeping her safe, and I am here now to take care of her. It's time that she laughed, she cried, she gets so fucking angry that the walls shake. She deserves that, and I am the only one who can give it to her. She has suffered so much heartache and pain. She has lost so much of what should have been given to her. She lost her childhood. She lost herself. She lost her voice and her worth. She lost so much before she even knew that she was supposed to have it. Yet there were some things that were never taken and never touched by the hands that tried to break her.
She always kept breathing and never stopped being brave. She wanted to give up so many times, but thought just one more day would be enough and things would be ok. And another day turned into a week, which turned into a month, which turned into years, which brought her to this place today. She always smiled, appreciating the little things in life. She marveled at the little bird that found a puddle. She always stopped to catch a rainbow. She took care of others because it was the right thing to do. She felt the sun on her face and the breeze in her hair, and took it all in. She had a way about her that was never nurtured or appreciated. She lived life in a place between hope and the hell she knew. She believed that someday, somehow, someway things would be different. She spent her time alone; it was safer that way. That is when the tears flowed, and she held on to her stuffed animals and spoke about the horrors of her life.
She had a heart of gold that wanted more for those around her. Whales saved her; gave her hope, and a connection that she had never experienced. It was the animals that she called her friends. They never hurt her, and they listened to her every word, and licked her tears when there was no one to hold her heart.
This sweet girl was something so amazing, and no one saw that. She was everything Spunky, and wanted nothing more than to share her heart, be loved, and be seen as the amazing little spark that she was.
She never knew any of that and is struggling to believe she is worth anyone's time and effort. She feels like a bother; she needs more than you can imagine. It's hard to give a 50-year-old woman all that a 13-year-old never got. She still tries to understand all the things for which there are no answers. She carries so much blame that was never hers to carry, and she can't figure out how to let it go. But it's not even that she needs to let it go. It's intertwined and attached to every fiber of her being. Some parts are just as attached to her as she is to them. She wants to reach out, to belong, but she is terrified; there is a belief that her fragile heart wouldn't make it through anymore hurt. I believe her. Her heart is so tender, and oh so delicate, even the little things are swords to her soul, and that is how she lives.
Yes, I am still here waiting for her, preparing my heart for that part of myself that is so overwhelmed by life. As I move forward into following my dreams, I need her with me. She is a part of me that helped me survive, that kept breathing when we wanted to die. She forever saw the light in the darkest of the dark. I owe it to her to keep going, keep fighting. Someday, I just know she will be beside me, and I can give her heart the kindness it longs for and that safe place she has never known.
So many thoughts, feelings and emotions. She was my mom and things should have been different. In the last week I have cleared my house of every turle. I have posted each and every thing, and each time that another one of her things has left the house, there is a lightness that fills the air. Finding her letter that she wrote as a goodbye to me has affected me more than i would like, and at the same time just gave me a great deal of information. There was a part of me that felt more than guilty that I didn't miss her, that I didn't wish she wasn't dead. I was glad she wasn't here and relieved that I felt like i could finally breathe free. I had feelings about her passing, the sadness that I felt was for my son and my brother. There was not a single single piece of sadness for myself. My tears for myself were of relief and a sense of freedon. My tears were all the tears that I could never cry with her. My tears came from a relief that I never knew I so desperatly needed. I think that the letter she wrote left me with some questions, that I will never have the ansers for. I wish I knew why she hated me so, the things that were said in that letter were so very hurtful. For her to still have them, that tells me that she meant them, with all of the passion and hate that she wrote them with. Reading her words are heartbreaking, all I ever wanted was a mom who loved me no matter what. I just wanted to be loved for the child, girl and woman that I was. I think the letter that she wrote, toke what little hope tha I had, that maybe I meant something to her. I think that the sadness comes from never having that unconditional love and support. I guess maybe there is some work to do, I don't understand why she hated me so. Even though I was not sad, her words still more than hurt.
That letter was closure to a chapter that I didn't even realize that I needed.
I am sure this is one of those things that will forever and always be the most unimaginable, most evil experience in my entire life. I thought I was going to die that day, and there were moments that I thought I did. There were times that I heard them and was very far away, somewhere safe, somewhere anywhere but in my own body. There were still other moments when I wanted to die; I just wanted the turns to stop and for one of them to end my life, finish me off because I could not survive anymore. There are times when I sit, and that day plays over and over in my mind, thinking about what I could have done differently. Fought harder, screamed louder, ran faster, and all the questions didn't change the outcome at all. Memory is such a strange thing; there are things that I remember so very clearly. Yet, other things just go black, and there is nothing, no memory, no feelings, just nothing.
I have spent so much of my life running from those things because there are still times when they are terrifying. I have already survived them, and yet sometimes it feels like I won't. I know that I have said all the words I told them as if it had happened to someone else, not as if it had happened to me. As if they all happened in some kind of global sphere, one that I have some insight into but am not a member of. It's in my heart and mind that I experience them as if I am trapped in that globe, and there's nothing I can do to get out. I experience brief moments where I realize it's me from the outside, but I don't linger there. That is where that 13-year-old part of me is. She is there in the globe, trying to gain some sense of herself back.
Trying to gather herself, her thoughts, her heart. She knows it's over, but some moments feel like it is still more than real. There are still moments when she sees things that happened to her and feels them in her bones. There are moments when the memories are so real that she freezes and has to remind herself to breathe. There have been numerous times in the last few weeks that I have literally been thrown back into certain moments, and all I want to do is crawl into a hole. Sometimes, I get lost in the fact that I did survive. Somewhere in my brain, there is this thought: if it was really that bad, you wouldn't have made it out. I know in my heart that I made it, and I know in my heart that it was that bad. My brain sees all the pictures, wants all the pieces, and wants to connect all the dots, and somehow, it won't be this huge, terrifying thing that could swallow me alive anymore. If I could figure out a few pieces, then I could move on. Even if I could have all the pieces I do have in one place, then I would be ok. I know I have talked about it, and I don't understand why there is this fear that if I talk about it, feel it, and let it out, it will absolutely consume me.
In my head I still repeat their names, don, chris, steve , mike and andy. don, chris, steve ,mike and andy. Over and over. So many times, I repeated that in my head, anything to focus on something other than what they were doing to me. Don was the most evil; he would try to make me cry, absolute evil, wanting them to do worse and worse things. If any of them had taken my life, it would have been him. I believe he tried, a few times, when it was a few of them at a time, hurting me.
I will never understand why he didn't just use the gun if he hated me so much. He only used it to rape me; I wanted him to shoot and kill me, then I would never have to speak about what they had done, and I wouldn't have to remember. Andy was different; he would tell them to stop. I felt that when I saw him, he was a person, not a monster. The other three all run into each other; I'm not sure I could even point them out if I saw them. Andy was always last; he wasn't like the others and often didn't take his turn. In that hell, I have to believe that his kindness saved me. He didn't hurt me when I had been moved into the bedroom, he helped me, he cleaned me up, wiped my face. He was present.
There is so much unknown about my Bella. I remember so little, yet what I do remember is so very clear. I think that is a piece that will always hurt, a forever kind of ache that I am not sure there will ever be words for. Maybe years and years down the road, but now it is entirely too painful, and I can not add anything else to my plate. Then I become more than angry at myself that, all this time later, it is still that painful. She would be 37 37 years old, and I still remember those same pieces, but others are gone like a black hole. What happened to her? Why didn't anyone talk to me about it? There is no reason to go digging trying to find some information that is long gone. The people who did know are no longer alive, or I am not willing to speak to them. I will always wonder who knew what happened to her, and why I was not given any care. To have that tremendous loss at 13, on top of the gang rapes and the other times that Don came to my home. It's no wonder I was quiet, withdrawn, and scared of everything. I had been taught my entire life that I was going to get hurt, and no one was going to do a damn thing about it.
There is this pain and dread, that the feelings that I have about the gang rape will always be. I think that the little 13-year-old girl inside of me will find her place in the world fighting for others, but there is a huge pause after that. She will always know the danger and violence that happened to her. She will come closer to me, she will learn to breathe, but there is something lost that can never be found. Her peace will come when others are helped, and don't have to suffer like she did. Each time I speak, it is a moment when her voice is heard, and others realize they need to do things differently for survivors. Even as a 50-year-old woman, that day takes my breath away. That day still holds power, it still evokes terror, and it still has the capacity to stop me in my tracks. I will always fight for the pieces of me that were taken, but I am also very aware that this day is different. This day is something I don't have words for, and I am unable to articulate all the feelings. It would be more of an agonizing moan, constant while simultaneously the scariest silence a person could ever experience. I feel like the outside world was so loud and brutal, so inside I went away, making everything silent, because even when I thought I was screaming, no noise came out. Those screams were lost, and maybe when I can find those, then that spunky little girl can be free. Free to live, free to laugh, free to be safe in her own body.
I wish that I had an understanding, a reason why. I see it all the time as a teacher. Those kids who are picked on when they are little are often the same ones who continue to be picked on and perceived as different throughout their entire lives. I have seen it so many times, and it's sad. It's sad, and I understand this more than I wished because I am one of those people. I think about it more on special occasions and holidays. I am not invited or included in special celebrations. There is always that, why? What is it about me that makes me uninvitable? I have always understood that people have their own lives and families; I get it. Well, it's just my little family and me; we don't have anyone else. Never, on any holiday, are we included or invited. Never once on a holiday does someone think to ask if we are ok. We do all of them on our own. Christmas, Thanksgiving, Easter, and the Fourth of July. Among all the special events throughout the year, there is just us.
It was less noticeable when the kids were small. I made each and every one of those days special, and I made sure that every holiday was celebrated to the fullest. Special meals, special decorations, big dinners. Now that they are getting older, Vincent has his own family, and things are more than different. Mariska works most holidays, Vincent is with his family, and then there is me. Not a single person checks in, and there is no hello. There are no picnics or barbecues. There are no big dinners, with lots of laughing and sharing. There are no invitations for any kind of celebration, and it makes my heart ache.
What is it about those people who are picked on and seen as different that makes them so hard to include? I know I am different; I get quiet, I have strong opinions, and I see the world differently. My differences have never been celebrated. My differences have never been a good thing. I even got a picture in Hobby Lobby that is perfect for this situation.
Being excluded can be hard, and it becomes especially so as my children grow up. Over the last few years, things have been changing. I don't want to make these huge dinners for two people. I don't want to get all excited and be the only one who is. So it's complicated and challenging. And I am so tired of doing things alone. I will take Mariska to work, then come home on this Fourth of July and clean up around the house, do some homework, scroll through my phone, and wait for the day to be over. I am tired of being the one who always reaches out; it would be nice for others to reach out, check on me, and invite me sometimes. I may not be that person. I just wish that I knew why.
I hear the chime of my phone going off, and I look; it's just another notification for some kind of Fourth of July sale - nothing about happy Fourth, how are you, or are you doing anything? I just need to turn it off; I don't need any more reminders. I don't need any reminders that it's me, just me, on this day.
.webp)
.webp)
