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. 

What does done look like ?

 

Once upon a time, in a fairy tale, I believed there would come a time when I could once and for all put a pretty bow on all the things that had happened to me and move on like nothing ever happened. For a really long time, I truly believed that. Honestly, a part of me still holds onto that hope, if even a little, even if I know it is impossible in my head. Over time and tears, I am learning it will never be the case.  I know that I have come a really long way, I know that I have worked my ass off to get to where I am.  Now I have to learn that there is no end date, no final solutions. Some things will always affect me, always be a part of the person I am, and how I live my life. 

I worked so hard on little Callahan, that innocent five-year-old part of me who just wanted to be loved. That little innocent girl who would have done anything just to be special and to be kept safe and sound. She was something else, always looking for the little things, those little glimmers of life. She saw the smallest ant and the most amazing rainbows. She had a light that refused to give up and give in. Instead, she looked for even more light. Sometimes I wish I knew where that came from; in all that happened, she never lost what made her special. From her earliest memory, she felt different, out of place, and always observant. She noticed everything all around her all the time. She knew when people were off; she knew so many things beyond her years. Today, she is free; she no longer carries the weight of the things she survived. She has never forgotten, but she knows those things were not her fault.  She plays today like she should have all those years ago. She is special, and I will forever cherish her for helping me survive and believing in the good things in life when she was only hurt. She has gotten me here today, and I am forever grateful. 

Then there is spunky. I have worked so very hard, and yet she is still sitting on the couch outside of my therapist's door. She is still more than afraid and blames herself for so much. She is brave and strong and doesn't believe it yet. She wants to be close and belong, but she is still filled with everything she thinks she has control over. She blames herself for so much and is afraid of the unknown. She sits on that couch, afraid to breathe, move, and truly be. She was made to feel at fault, like something was defective about her. I know she has come an exceptionally long way; she is more a part of me than I ever imagined, yet sometimes I feel like she is a million miles away. She is afraid of being a burden and a bother; she was told she was too much of everything her entire life. She bears a story inside of her that is unimaginably heavy, that she doesn't know how to release; she tries in bits and pieces, she does. How does a person share that kind of horror? Her story makes her feel so much less than, and it's easier for her to blame herself than hold those accountable for doing the right thing and taking care of her when she needed them the most. 

I fear she will never be in the place Little Callahan lives. There is a different kind of weight in her soul that I struggle to find words for. Spunky has a knowing that Little Callahan never had. She was aware and felt so much in so many ways that there were no words for. She lives where words don't fit, and the intensity of what she feels is enormous.  Words seem empty for the depth of the things inside of her. She is afraid and alone, and she questions her role in everything all the time. Sometimes it is more than challenging to talk about her, because I don't know what to say or where to start. She lives in this panic, where she isn't good enough and never will be. She is in a place where things that happened play on repeat, and often, she is stuck in that cycle, trying to figure out what she could have done differently.  

I can't even focus on breathing because it is too much. Breathing and focusing on my breath brings a specific awareness I am not ready for. Sometimes I sit in my library when I can breathe, but not for long. That panic sets in, and I literally stop breathing. It's like if I stop breathing, no one can see, and I can't be hurt. I mean, it's crazy. Breathing is a necessity, but that is it. When I focus, there is this need to get away, because it's too intense. Sometimes, even in my writing, I find myself having to take a deep breath because I realize that I have stopped breathing.  If I stop breathing, there is a part of me that just doesn't exist, and if you don't exist, nothing can be taken away from you.  

So today, I am doing all that I can to try and figure out Spunky so that she can get off the couch and stop blaming herself and stop trying to figure out the things that there are no answers for. I think that done for us is going to be her and me, arm in arm, taking on the rest of the world. There is no safe place for her, no going back to something; she has to start from the very beginning, and that has to start with me.  I have said it before, and I will say it again, she is in the middle of everything I am doing right now. Everything I am doing is for her and others like her so they never have to live in silence. 

At this moment, sitting here in tears, I can't answer the question of what being done looks like. Being done is a moving target; when I get to a place I thought would be the end goal, things change, and I want more. Maybe there is no end.  Maybe there is no being done. I do know the place that I want to get to in order to be able to say I am in a place where I will no longer need my Wednesday at 5 o'clock. That thought is terrifying, and it is closer than it has ever been. I am not saying I am ready this month or next month, I don't have a date. But, I also know it's not forever.  I know there will come a time when Spunky and I are arm in arm and prepared to conquer the world. I am in a place, learning and growing, until that day when Spunky and I can be together, making a difference, and standing up for others. I know that when we are done, we will walk through those doors, both strong, brave, and so very capable of changing the world.  We are not done, but we are well on our way. She is me, and I am her; she got me through, now it's my turn to get her through.  

                

                      I heart your heart.