I wonder how things could have been different

 

These past few weeks have been more than emotional for me. I feel like everything and nothing is wrong at the same time. Things are going well, and then this sense of dread comes out of nowhere. There have been a few nights when I get home and just want to go upstairs and get into bed. Exhaustion is a very real thing right now. It's the end of the year at school, 5 more Mondays to be exact. I am working on completing my internship.  And there is life that just keeps lifeing. A house that needs to be taken care of, laundry to be folded, shelves to make, just so many things, and not nearly enough time to get them all completed. I feel like there are so many things begging for my attention, and I am not sure where to start. The other night, as I got into bed, the tears came so fast that all I could do was cry myself to sleep. That so deep ache that is looking for some kind of release. 

Professionally, I am growing, learning, and doing all of the things that I have dreamed about for so long. There are times when I still can't believe it and want to pinch myself and make sure it's really real. I am making a difference, I am helping others, and it makes my heart oh so happy. Even Mark, the other week, asked about me noticing my accomplishments, and I shook my head, saying things like I'm just me.  I do what I do, and I love every second of it.  Then he said, " Maybe you get that satisfaction and reward from helping others, from seeing them succeed and thrive, and I thought, yes, that's it.  So much of what is under and behind my fight is wanting better for others. I want others to never have to feel the things that I have felt. And it isn't that I can fix anything, but I can be there, listen, and help them feel heard. 

Personally, I am really ok. Most of the time, I am fine, but there is that ever-present lingering ache. There are some rough patches, when the weight of what has happened feels like a million oceans smashing against my chest. That deep sadness that keeps rearing its ugly head, is something that I wish would go away. We are talking about things that happened 38 years ago, that often feel like it was just last week . That questioning myself, that mode that makes me so angry, that there are things that I just don't remember. I feel like something has been tapped into, and I have to adjust all over again to a new kind of normal. There are things that I just don't want to be true, and no matter how hard I want things to be different, there are things that I can't change. There are times that I can't go back to and understand or make them any different. I think I have hit a very deep sad that I think a lot of the sad comes from. Having to survive so much on my own and never getting to be sad, never being cared for and never having an understanding of all the things that I was having to deal with.Maybe it's just all catching up. There is so much joy and light in my everyday, to have this kind of sad be so big and have such a looming presence is really hard for me. 

Those what if questions are appearing, and I feel like with each one brings more questions that there are no answers for. What if this, what if that, and some of those answers challenge everything that I have always believed. There are so many things that I don't want to be true, that I have to face, and it's terrifying. All the things that I wonder, What would things have been like if I didn't loose Bella.  What would that have looked like? Would I have said something about my father, would I have gotten to keep her. I wonder how I would have been treated. Would I have been believed , Would I have been cared for ?  Would Bella have been cared for, how would that trip to the emergency room turned out different ? Would CPS have gotten involved would my mother have stood up for me ?  Would I have gotten the help and support that I needed all that time ago ? Would I have been able to be a mom? Would my father have hurt her as well ? Would anything really change ?  In the end, I onlt have small facts that my mind holds onto for dear life. I keep gathering scattered pieces, hoping one day they’ll fit the empty spaces I carry.

Often I wonder what she would have been like ?  This year she would have been 38. 38 years old, and it's more than hard to believe that I would have a daughter that old, that those things that happened still have a hold on me,  there are still nightmares. That there are still questions that I go over and over in my mind, trying to create some kind of sense of them.  I punish myself for the vanished moments, that happened that are still somewhere in my mind. I forget that a crime was committed and I wasn't the one who did anything wrong.  It is carved in my bones by the words that I heard and the actions around me, I didn't deserve care, understanding or warmpth of any kind. My skin holds echoes of  those moments I never asked to relive, shadows that return without warning. I move through the world with memories, feelings and thoughts that no amount of water could ever wash away. The things that I carry , that i have carried since I was 13 are so overwlelming, so unthinkable.  The mere fact that I survived sometimes takes my breath away. 

I want there to be a pease, a calmness, a resolve that I did the best that I could as a 13 year old girl. I want to place the shame and the hate on all of those around me who failed that little girl who never let her grieve, never acknowledged what had happened to her little soul. I found her and I am doing everything I can to being her back to a place where she can stand tall with me and know that she was just a girl who survived unimaginable things and yet continues to change the world with the woman that she has become. I will keep fighting for her and for me as we continue to make a soft place in the world for others just like us. 

I heart your heart. 

Open Wound

 

Oh my heart. I think that there are so many things that need to be said, and yet I am struggling to find the words. There is still a certain disconnect between Spunky and me. I know more than I ever have, I feel closer to her in so many ways, and still, there are pieces that are missing. She is still sitting on a couch outside the room. This week, for the first time ever, I thought of Spunky as a mom. Just a kid, just a girl, and it broke my heart. To survive something so important in silence without a single soul to console her. I was asked about Amelia and if it made me think of Bella. I wanted to respond without even taking a breath, but I am sure it does sometimes. I know that it does, all the time, and it's heartbreaking. It brings back all the who's, what's, and Whys; all the could-have, should-have questions. All of the things that I still don't have answers to. The question was asked how much I think about her, and it kind of stopped me in my tracks. Honestly, I think about her all the time. When I hear the name, when I see it as a store, when there is any combination of those letters, B E L L A, I think of her. When I hear others open up about losing a baby.  At random times, when I think about how old she would be.  While in the car the other day, I heard a song and my first thought was, " Wow, she would be 38 years old this year." Yes, I still think of her after all this time in my everyday life. I even opened Facebook, and the name on a ring was Bella. 

 I am sure going to the Dr. Alan Wolfelt conference made me think about so many things, and opened up that so tender spot where Bella resides. The place where anything was possible, and Bella and Spunky were going to conquer the world together. So many hopes and dreams are held there. I was never allowed to mourn her; I just had to keep going.  I was never allowed to even speak about her or what she meant to me. I know that there were people in that room who knew what happened to me, what happened to Bella, and yet I was never spoken to. I never received any kind of care following the loss of her. So many thoughts and feelings that I don't allow myself to feel. A place that I generally avoid at all costs. It is one of those things that is there with every breath I take and a part of me through and through. It's a soul sad, the deepest kind of sad that there is, and I carry that.

It's more than difficult to think back to that time and imagine all the things that Spunky must have been thinking and feeling. She was terrified, and at the same time, she was going to be a mom and believed that somehow everything was going to work out, and things were going to magically get better. 

I am going to write for a moment as Spunky because if I don't, things get so confusing. For so long, she has been in a different place, and with all that I am, I know that she is a part of me, but sometimes that is just too completely overwhelming. She has survived an unimaginable hell that I often still struggle to wrap my head around. I find myself sitting here shaking my head. She was 13, just thirteen years old, she had the whole world in front of her and didn't even know it. It's more than hard to write because I am not sure that Spunky has ever been given a voice. Maybe today is a start. 

Wolfelt says that we must say:

 hello before goodbye, 

We must see the dark before the light, 

And we must go backwards before we can move forward.  

For Bella, for Spunky, for little Callahan, for the woman that I am today, that is my goal for all of us. 

Let me begin with a Hello. Her Name was Bella 

B.E.L.L.A

Bella was everything. She was hope, she was purpose, she was everything true and innocent. She was everything good in this world. I am not sure that there was a realization that I was pregnant for some time. I don't remember the moment I knew or how I found out. Somewhere in my mind, it's almost like she was always there. She and I lived in this world that, because of her, everything was going to be better. She was my reason to keep breathing when all I wanted to do was die. I can remember thinking that I hoped Andy was her dad. He was not like the others; he didn't hurt me like they did. He tried to help, and at times he made them stop.  I believe he is the reason that we even made it out of that day alive, and that kindness was what I needed to believe was a part of Bella. There was never a time when she wasn't Bella, never a time when I called her anything else; that is who she always was, and was always meant to be. I was so happy being pregnant with her. I think I knew fairly fast and can remember feeling my belly, and talking to her all the time. Nothing else mattered in the world; it was her and me in everything. We held this belief that somehow, because of her, everything was going to be ok. There was a happiness like nothing I had ever known. There was a peace; I felt like I was keeping her safe and sound. I was sure that I was going to give her all the things that I never had. I was with Calvin the first time that I felt her move, and I grabbed his hand. I wanted him to feel her and be as excited as I was. I can remember his smile.  I am not sure what was said, if anything at all, it was confirmation and hope that things were going to be ok for me. Losing her was so very painful. Physically, there was so much pain. I was always able to endure anything, but this was something different. I was in so much pain, and the longer that I waited, hoping that it would just go away, the more that I started bleeding. I was more than afraid and just wanted everything to feel better. When it got to the point that the pain was unbearable, I called Calvin. I was so grateful to see him; he always watched out for me. I knew that he would know what to do. I so looked up to him. I just melted in his arms, and he scooped me up and carried me to his car. I knew that something was very wrong, and I was terrified. The next thing that I remember was the bright lights of what I assume was the emergency room. The pain was excruciating, and the tears just flowed. I was so alone and terrified of being touched, and I wanted someone to just hold me and make everything better.  I didn't understand what was happening or why.  There wasn't a thought about anyone finding out, because I was sure that, because of her, everything was going to be better. I still do not know who was around the bed; people were around, but I was so alone. My heart was breaking. And he said the words; I am sorry you have lost her. I think those words were bouncing around my heard unable to find a place to land that made any sense. But I loved her, we were going to make things better, I was going to keep her safe. I begged him for it not to be true, I thought if I were just better, if I were just this or that, then everything would be ok. Even now, I feel his hand on my leg, the only comfort I received, as I lost my daughter. My everything, my reason for living, my sweet Bella. I had lost Bella, and I had my hope in everything. I still feel that pain at times, and I am not crazy, just grieving. I still miss her all the time. Spunky was a bereaved girl before her time, experiencing a sorrow of her very soul. From that moment on, nothing would ever be the same, and I am still so sad. It was all so confusing. I thought I was doing all the right things, then I believed that I must have been some kind of awful person to have lost her. That moment in the hospital is the last moment that I remember and the only time that she was acknowledged. She was not celebrated, she was not remembered, and I was left alone.  And still I sit alone, terrified of moving, breathing, or living again. In a single second, everything can be gone that matters the most in this world can be gone. 

So my Bella, my sweet girl, who brought me so much light. Here is your Hello to this world, you matter, and you are so important, and wherever you are, you are still making a difference. 

I heart your heart. Love Mom

Plumb: Damaged 

Poverty

 

Such a small word with such huge ramifications for so many. I don't think that many people have a clue about the extent or what it is that people experience when they live in poverty. Maybe that is why working at the Samaritan Inn means so much to me; I can absolutely relate to what they are experiencing. I walk into my house today and think, I am so, forever, beyond grateful to be where I am today. I am standing in a place that doesn't happen for everyone.  I have had to scrape the bottom of the barrel. I have been so mistreated, and today I stand in a place where all my bills are paid, and I even have a small amount of money in the bank.  No one understands who hasn't truly lived there. I have, and I have been ashamed. I have not had a place to live, and I have been made to feel like a burden when I did. Everyone is always willing to judge, yet no one takes the time to listen and to understand. I have been on food stamps, and I have received TANF. I have had to walk out of stores because there was no money on my card. I have been there in those offices, speaking to people who were making big life decisions for me, and yet didn't hear a word I said. 

I can remember Vincent and Mariska not even being a week old, I was so happy being their mom they were everything perfect. The worker who did the interview threw a pen at me from across the table because I couldn't give her the father's name.  I remember sitting in the waiting room and my mother making comments about the dirty chairs and telling me not to put my children on them. I still distinctly remember them arguing with me about the formula because they were twins. I vividly remember everything about that day and don't believe that I could have felt any smaller. After that appointment, I went to the car, and the tears started flowing as I tried to nurse my sweet baby.  Not one person acknowledged my beautiful babies or me. I always dreaded that call every three months, same questions same answers and still treated like a piece of trash. 

They were still newborn and there was a crisis pregnancy center. I could not bring myself to go after what happened at Health and Human Services so my mother went. Once again, I was made to feel small and so very insignificant. They gave her clothes that were beyond old and more than stained. I was sitting on my bed, trying more than hard to be grateful.  Soon, the sobbing started, and I asked how I was supposed to put my precious babies in those clothes. I cried because I was grateful for what I was given, yet heartbroken because they deserved better. And of course, they put a bible in with everything, like someone who thought that was going to make everything better. I think my mother went back once or twice. Once they argued about diapers for twins, and then the last time.  They gave us a highchair with mold on it and said that we just needed to wipe it down.  That chair was thrown in the trash and we never went back. 

I was more than grateful, but people don't understand what it is like being in that situation. I didn't deserve less or any better than any other single mom, yet I was looked down on and treated so unkindly by so many. There were a few people who said I should just be grateful, and they had no idea just how grateful I was. I did everything. I was grateful that my mother let us live with her. I was grateful for it all, and I always felt less than and so unimportant. 

This week, there were many moments that reminded me of just how far I have come. I often think back to when they were babies and toddlers, and my heart smiles. I loved every second, and I never missed a single moment or a first with them.   Goodness, I didn't have two cents to rub together, yet they always had everything that they needed. I look back at some of the pictures and wonder how I managed to make it all work. There were many reminders, given that it was Amelia's Birthday week.  She was able to be so celebrated; there are so many people who love her so. I was able to buy everyone lunch on her actual birthday after our trip to the park, and doing that brought me such joy.  I may have to cut something somewhere, but I wanted to do that.  I brought balloons and necklaces, and all the things to the park.  It's the best feeling when they notice you from across the park.  She has a life so different from her dad.  Even coming to my house she has all the things that she needs and more, she can never wear all the clothes in her closet, or play with all the toys but they are all here for her always. She is growing up so very different than how my Vincent grew up.  That family that supports that kind of love that I didn't have when the kids were small. All of us celebrate all of her milestones and accomplishments and cool outfits. For my children, there was just me. Sometimes my mom, every now and then my brother, but I was the constant. Always grateful to be their mom and make sure they knew just how special and important they were.   

Finishing school and beginning my career as a teacher was a struggle, but they always had everything, and I see where I am today, getting to be a poppy and do the things that I have only imagined for my granddaughter. 

Once again, I have an understanding and a perspective that few have.  I have crawled my way out of a place that few do.  The determination that I never lost wanting so much better for my children than I ever had. I apologize that this post is everywhere all at once, but this week was very emotional.  I think there was a longing for things that I never had. I wish there were celebrations and acknowledgments for my children by someone other than me.  I am ever so grateful that Amelia is so loved and supported in all that she does. In so many ways, the things I can share with Vincent and his little family bring the circle back to where it began.  Those full circle moments when pieces all come together, and good things happen. I feel truly, truly grateful that I was able to climb out of that poverty and into a place where I am continuing to make a difference and do things better.  I also understand what it takes to do that; I have a true understanding of that struggle, and sometimes my heart breaks.  

I wish that I had been treated differently when I was struggling. So I treat others the way that I wish to be treated. We are all on this journey, living life, and we all have a story that has gotten us where we are and will lead us in the present and maybe even push us further.  We can't ignore these things; we have to do better. We have to do better and treat people better. We have to acknowledge that we are all just people doing the best that we can. I will never forget all I have experienced and where I have come from. I will always always care from the bottom of my heart about you exactly where you are in this moment. We have to talk about and acknowledge the hard things so together we can make a difference that is so needed by so many. 

I heart your heart.

Touch

 Touch is a strange thing. Lately, my reactions seem extreme for a situation. Even with my students, when they do things that I am not expecting, it's like this jolt of electricity goes through my body, and my insides feel like the insides of a pincushion; each movement sends stings to each and every cell. But it lasts and takes hours to go away. It's been happening more lately, and it's exhausting. Sometimes I find that the closer that Spunky gets, the more sensitive I become to any and all touch.  I wonder if that will go away or if that is something that will always be.  It is something different. Generally, I am not one who doesn't like touch, but lately, every touch feels more intense. I was thinking back, and maybe there was a time, when I was working on little Callahan, that the same thing happened.  Maybe we just went through so much that the thoughts, the memories, are still living in our bodies. It's strange to think that in so many ways and have so few words.  Many of the things that happened, I just left. Left my skin, my bones, my body. There were those single seconds that I knew what was going to happen, or things became too intense, and I knew to go away until things were safe again. 

It's strange I can remember some of the most brutal moments and yet other things, it's just a feeling or a sense that I knew and was far away from where I was physically.  The nature of the beast TRAUMA. The things that it does to a person.  The lasting impacts and ways it continues to show itself.  I know that I have come such a long way, but when I have a reaction so intense, it reminds me I have a ways to go. 

I heart your heart. 

The most unimportant thing in the world

 

I have been terrified of this moment for as long as I can remember. The thought that I might break his heart is devastating. I fear how he will view himself, and I worry how he will see me. I am scared that he won't have questions, and I will just have to fill in the pieces. The thoughts of the last few days have spun around and around, and it would be so much better just to say I was a slut. I do not know how to even get the words out of my mouth and into the air. I don't know how to do it.  

When Shelbi came over on Sunday, it was so awesome.  I took her upstairs and showed her Amelia's Room.  We were just there present with each other. We were laughing, talking about everything. And the conversation turned to Father's Day, early in her relationship with Vincent. She said she asked him if he was going to do anything for Father's Day, and he said no, that he didn't have a dad. She said, but he was upset, and she said that she was sorry that she didn't know.  She said that he didn't even want to celebrate this past Father's Day as a first-time dad; he just wanted the day to go away. 

Listening to her talk broke my heart. I think that not having a dad has greatly impacted him, and he doesn't talk about his feelings. The ache in my heart hearing her talk made me more than sad; it broke my heart, and that is the last thing that I ever want for Vincent. I think that not having a dad has had a greater impact on him than he realizes, than even I have realized.  I don't have a clue what to do about that. I would do anything to take this pain away from him, and yet I can't. 

For a moment, while talking to Shelbi, I wanted to tell her, to explain.  I want her to have a deeper understanding of who Vincent is as a person and of all the things he has had to deal with in his life.  Is that my place to tell Shelbi?  Is that a conversation that I should open with Vincent first? I feel like he doesn't have a support system to even process that information, and that is not something he needs to keep to himself.  So I am left not knowing what to do. 

Should I bring it up to him, or wait until he asks?  Do I keep the silence, knowing that it stands like a huge weight between us? How do I say those words to my son, one of the best things that has ever happened to me? I would do it all again to get to be his mom. I want to have that conversation to ease his heart and mind, help him understand that I love him more than the last breath in my lungs. I want to find other moms who have been through similar things and learn what worked for them and what their children needed or longed for.  I have so many questions and not a single person to ask. 

What happened to me is the most unimportant thing in the world because I got to be his mom. I got to feel both of them move and grow and turn into the most amazing humans.  Being their mom has given more than I could have ever imagined, and that is something that I want him to understand.   

The fact is, something terrible happened to me. A man put a pillow over my face and took what he wanted.  Was I devastated, yes, yet another man using me, and I was almost accustomed to it, just go far away, pretend that you are somewhere else. The fact is that I get to be your mom.  The fact is, I would do it all over again to be your mom. I love you more than words and more than you could ever imagine. 

I heart your heart 

I will tell you everything

Sometimes there are moments when things become so clear. Last week was one of those moments for me. I felt closer to spunky than I ever have, and honestly, the feeling hasn't really left. I feel like we are on each side of the wall, extending our hands and holding on for dear life. Who knows what the journey ahead of us is, but together, there is a knowing that we can accomplish anything. I have this picture in my head of what it looks like, this old, broken, crumbling wall, one of us on each side, but we are both reaching for each other. We can't look each other in the eye not yet but there is a connection that is strong and undeniable that has never been there before. 

She is scared of me, and I am scared of her yet we both know that we need each other on this journey. I know that there are things she holds and there are things that I hold. I do think that there are times, we wonder if we will make it. I know that that there are things that she doesn't have words for and that is ok.  Piece by piece little by little I am sure that she will tell me everything, and I will do the same. The parts she remembers are horrific and the things I remember are just as bad but together, with all that I am we can tell each other everything and still be ok.

There are pieces of us that have been hiding in the dark our entire lives, and I know that we are both incredibly tired of hiding, of becoming small of shrinking because our story is different. We have pieces that have never been seen for fear of being hated, being seen as something other than, as something that doesn't really belong. 

In a sense we don't belong, the lives that we have lived few can imagine and yet here we are. We have built our own way. We have suffered, we have lived, I have even found joy in the unimaginable, and it's time that she do the same. So here we are.  At a space of great change that feels more right than it ever has. So for this time, this place this moment. This just this. 

The Wall Between Us

There was a wall — not built, but born from all the words we have never said. It cracked with silence, crumbled with time, but still it stood.

I reached for you through every jagged breath of broken stone and memory. Your fingers, just a breath away, trembled like mine.

We touched — not skin, but sorrow sadness and immense pain. Not warmth, but the echo of it.

The wall did not fall. It watched. It remembered. It holds all that we can't say. It held the shape of our longing like a wound that never heals.

And though we are finding our way, we are moving on, though the seasons changed, people left that wall still remains — a monument to almost, to what could not be, to the ache that still reaches in all that we do.

But we have each other, closer than ever

I promise to tell you everything, even if it keeps you awake

                                               Mumford and Sons: I will tell you Everything. 

Ghosts don't apologize

 

I heard these words today, and they kept repeating in my head. Ghosts don't apologize.  One of the worst things I have ever read was my mother's words. That long letter my mother wrote, in a sense, told me everything I did wrong and everything that was wrong with me. All the ways that I did things wrong, and I was blamed for my reactions to what happened to me. I was supposed to be quiet and keep smiling. All the ways that I was holding on to the past, and just needed to get over it. Her words were cruel and uncalled for, and broke my heart in ways that I never imagined. 

 She said, " All of my ghosts haunt me. I lived in a haunted house that she refuses to visit. " Oh, those words. She didn't want to visit the house that she created for me. 

Yes, all the things that have happened to me haunt me sometimes. I was hurt so deeply by the people who were supposed to love me.  I could say that the house I grew up in was haunted by a man who used his own daughter as his wife. I could say that my mother chose to look out for herself rather than protect her daughter. I could say I lived in a house full of secrets that everyone was comfortable keeping. I could say that she made me that way, and yet I was blamed for being so hurt. 

Today, when I heard the words "ghosts don't apologize," I immediately thought of the letter she wrote and thought, "She is the ghost that will never apologize." I will never hear an "I am sorry" for the things I didn't know. I am sorry for the ways that I didn't protect you. I am sorry for not being there and letting your father hurt you. I am sorry you went on that weekend. I am sorry you were brutalized. I am sorry you suffered the loss of your girl alone. I will never hear any of those things, in any form.  She is a ghost that will never apologize. She is a ghost who never saw me for who I truly am. She was a ghost when I needed her and a ghost when I stood up for what was right. She was a ghost when I was left alone, trembling in my own bed. She was a ghost when I found my voice. She was a host when I took the stand to testify and save another little girl.  She was a ghost that refused to see the damage she had done and blamed me for her shortcomings. She was the ghost who chose to look the other way as her daughter suffered. 

There was a different realization today that I will never get the love that I longed for. I will never get that I am so sorry for all the things that have happened to you. I will never get that I am sorry that I didn't protect you. I will never get the experiences that a daughter is supposed to have. She could never acknowledge what happened to me or the damage it caused. At this point, I truly believe that she was not capable, and that feels like a million thorns on all the hurt places. I truly don't believe that she was sorry. I was someone who refused to remain silent, and she just couldn't understand that. She didn't want me to survive and thrive; she wanted me to survive and become the victim like she had done her entire life. I wanted more for myself, and she never ever understood that. She missed out on so much of who I was. She will never apologize for how she treated me. I will never ever hear those words. Some days, I don't even realize that those are the words I long for. Hearing those words today made me realize that I would give anything to hear them and be acknowledged. Someone to be sorry that things were so hard, so violent, and so gut-wrenching. She is a ghost, and she will never apologize.  She was very wrong, though. I do not live in a haunted house; I just sometimes have to visit there to continue healing, and I am so ok with that. 

I heart your heart. 

You can't take away my thoughts and dreams

 

There are just times that Spunky becomes more prominent, and it weighs heavily on my heart. Pieces are slowly coming together, and I am grateful.  The fear is ever-present and so intense. Somehow, I am going to end up like Probst in K-Pax. The fear is that time and place can somehow destroy all that I have worked so hard to achieve. Things were just that terrifying.  I have come so far, and she is such a huge piece of who I am as a person, and I so want her with me on the rest of this journey. She is still sitting in Mark's waiting room, taking it all in. I think she is trying to see beyond what was done to how she feels and what she thinks. All the people around her blamed her, and she is trying to undo everything that still plays in her head. She is trying to move beyond the gross and disgusting to that place where she was just a scared girl who needed so much care. I think she often puts on a front that she doesn't need anyone or anything, and yet I know she needs so much. There is just so much loss that I think it could swallow her whole. I think when a person has had to keep it all together for so long, that step of letting someone in, even if that someone is me, is a huge step. 

I think so much of that deep, deep sadness that I often speak about comes from her and what she had to experience. I have worked so long finding the right words, and I still struggle to find words for her. The kind of aloneness that she endured feels like that last leaf holding on for dear life before winter comes. Everyone has moved on, and yet I am always the last one hanging on.  

I was talking to a friend the other day, and she said that when her husband got into trouble, his parents took everything away. All his toys, his favorite show on Tv. He would go sit on his bed and say, " Fine, you can take all those things, but you can't take away my thoughts and dreams. How beautiful is that? Spunky had everything so violently stolen from her. Her sense of who she was, her womanhood, her soul was shaken to the core, and still, she always kept going. She always found something to fill her heart, taking care of others, watching the sky, and believing in the kindness of whales.  I do think that, deep down, she always believed she would someday make a difference for others, and that she held onto for dear life. She has had to fight her entire life, and finally finally, I don't think she is fighting anymore. I think she is resting. She is watching and waiting for that moment when she feels confident she won't break when she finds the words for the thoughts and feelings she has always had to hide.  

I think sometimes she sits there on that couch with that trauma mountain in front of her and is trying to find the best option to make it over the top. I personally think she is further than she thinks she is, but I understand the terror. The couch in the waiting room is the safest she has ever felt, and I know the moment is coming when she will stand, take a deep breath, move through that door, take my hand, and we will finish this journey together, doing all the things we once could only imagine. 

I heart your heart. 

For those who are still whispering

 I saw a post on Facebook, a part of a poem, that stood out to me. No, I take that back, it was more like screaming at me. There are still times when I feel guilty for sharing my story or wanting to speak about the things that have happened to me. There are times, even in conversation, that I would love to speak up and say my truth, to talk about the things that I have had to face, yet that silence sits on our chest, and we keep our words and thoughts to ourselves. The things many have experienced are kept in the dark and overlooked. The things that have happened are things that are looked down on and judged, but I am here to stay forever and always true to who I am. From my very being, I want to shine a bright light on those awful things as a path for others to heal. Even today, after all the work I have done, there are moments I find myself shrinking, becoming small, and I look forward to the day that  Irise higher instead of shrink smaller. I look forward to the day when I don't have to hold my story back for fear of what others might think. I look forward to the day that I am able to hear, " Thank you for sharing your story for speaking up, because in that, I found my own way." 

I promise it's not this look at me kind of thing, it's a quiet strength, a courage, a hope that things could be so different for others. I am tired of people having to whisper and pretend that their hearts are no longer broken, or that the ache of trauma is all gone. It may ache forever. That has to be ok, but as time passes, edges smooth, we grow older, we see things differently, and sometimes we can sit and hold our hand on our heart and know just how far we have come. If we can come this far, we can go the rest of the way, and we will come out on top, feeling lighter, with a peace that we never ever imagined. 

In counseling my clients I sometimes hear myself and think, wow look at the things you are able to see in them but are unable to hear. I tell them how brave and strong that they are how much worth that they have but those things in me are often a whisper. A whisper I am working on but still a whisper. 

To all those still whispering including myself, we deserve to have a voice and for it to be heard. 

I heart your heart. 

Look for the windows

 This semester is going to be amazing; I have a professor who values who we are as people. We are seen and genuinely heard. He speaks to us as the counselors that we all hope to become. He wants us not only to be better for ourselves, but for our clients. He tells stories, many of them more than once, but each time he tells one, I see it differently and consider its impact on a client. He may tell the story more than once, but I see it differently each time. Today, he was talking about seeking windows that let us gather more information and gain insight into our clients' world. They are going to give us those windows; it's about recognizing them and doing something with them. What one person may see as a window and fly through, gaining so much, might not be seen by another. Each window is an opportunity to learn more, do better, and gain a deeper understanding of where a client is at any given time. 

I think maybe this is true for all of us. We are all just hoping to share something of ourselves and to make a difference for others. We are all looking for that just-right person to come along who can hear our song, see our heart, and gently touch our soul. When that happens, we can open our window and share a deeper part of who we are. I hope that I am that for my clients: I hope that I catch those open windows and hear them in the right places, in the ways they need it most.  

So often in my life, there have been people who have either ignored those windows, chosen to look the other way, or not even cared that they were there in the first place. Today, that makes me so sad.  So many missed opportunities that no one took the time to see. I truly think that is one of the things that makes me, me. I notice those windows; I notice the little changes, the differences, and I acknowledge them. That is something that I will always always do. 

I heart your heart. 

Are you the girl ?

 

So many dreams and nightmares lately. Last night was no different.  I went to someone's house, which was huge, and lots of people were there. I am not sure why, but it felt like everyone was there for me. And then one guy, someone's dad, was talking to me and came right out and asked, "Are you the girl who was raped?" There was a feeling of shock, and I said yes. But there wasn't a sense of shame at all.  He said he was sorry, and someone brought out a huge stuffed animal for me. I think it was a Snoopy. This guy gave me a hug and said that he was sorry. I just cried. It felt like everyone in the room was there to support me. People were asking questions and supporting me in ways I had never known. Experiencing something like that, even in a dream, is a feeling that is so unfamiliar. To be able to speak and say yes, those things happened to me, but it finally felt like I wasn't the one who had done something terrible for the first time ever. That feeling that I had being in that room, being able to say yes, and then not feeling like I was something disgusting or less than.  The way that I felt in that room was the way that I felt after my documentary with Neil, Val, and Jim. I could have fallen over, and they would have caught me.  It was such an amazing feeling to have that kind of love and support.  I woke up and didn't want to; I wanted to stay right there and hold on to the feeling in the dream forever. 

And I think I am 50 and just had that dream, that would have meant the world to me when I was 13. Feeling like I was worth something, like I wasn't the one to blame, I wasn't the one at fault. Just to feel like I wasn't all alone in the world would have meant more than words. My heart hurts, and I have been teary-eyed all day. I think there was a part of me that wanted to go back to sleep, longing for that feeling.  That even with what happened to me, I was still loved and respected. I don't want to be 50 and still crying; it was such a long time ago, and yet the feelings are so raw. Today I felt like that scared little kid, afraid of the world and all that it couldn't give me.  Today it felt like it was yesterday, and I was as alone as ever. I haven't felt like this in a very long time.  If I could have just crawled back into that dream just to capture that feeling and bring it to 2026.  I would give almost anything to make that happen. To feel like I am more than the things that happened to me. To feel like someone gave a shit and cared enough to give me a hug and make sure that I was ok.  I think I would have given anything for someone to ask Are you the girl who was raped. and then to respond with such kindness. Such love, to even give her a hug. 

I often talk about how attached those things are to me, but in the dream, after he asked about me and offered care, there wasn't the same kind of attachment. I think sometimes I see myself as all those things that happened, I see the gross and disgusting, I see the marks, I feel the hands.  I still feel the pain in the worst of the nightmares. There wasn't a moment of blaming myself; there wasn't a moment that I felt gross and disgusting in that dream. There was just the fact that it happened, and I deserved the same love and respect as anyone else. 

Haven't had a day like this in forever. It felt closer than ever, and I just want to close my eyes and imagine all that I felt in the dream were things that I wish Spunky had at 13. 

I heart your heart.

My body still doesn't know its over

 

As far as I have come, there are still things that pull me back. Back to the place that I still fight so hard to recover from.  The nightmares, flashbacks, triggers, and bruises at night are still there for a good deal of the time.  I can go for some time without them, and then out of nowhere, they come back with a vengeance with no rhyme or reason. So much of me is still fighting all that happened to me. I am in such a different place in my mind.  I have learned to take things as they come and keep moving forward.  There are still days that the memories kick the shit out of me, and I become one very messy, complicated human. The morning's that I can't even brush my teeth, and the anger that I feel for myself is intense.  The mornings that a shower feels more like a memory chamber than anything peaceful and calming. The days when I lay down to sleep, and I still see the fan, and without warning, I repeat their names as I did all those years ago. The things that have happened to me live in every cell of my body. I have come so far, and I have so far to go. 

There are just things that I don't understand, and I am not sure that I ever will.  How the mind works, how trauma is processed and remembered. The insignificant things that stick out, and the big things that are not even a clear thought.  I can remember a therapist telling me once that the nightmares and flashbacks were a choice. I took that to mean that it was something that I was purposefully doing, and I think that I have held on to a part of that. It's me, I am the problem, I am keeping these thoughts and memories alive. It's not like that; there's a part of me that cannot let go of the most haunting things. There are pieces of me that are just trying to make sense of the things that hurt so much. Somehow, someway, I should be able to stop those things in my sleep, stop those intrusive thoughts, and just move past them, but if it were a conscious choice, I would have stopped them a long time ago.   

There are things that live in my skin, even on my skin. Sometimes even a kind touch can wake the memories, and instead of something loving and kind, it turns dark and heavy.  Some words, songs, even tone of voice, and my heart skips a beat, I am thrown back to a time that was more than dangerous. Sometimes I hear a song, or remember the beat, and I freeze even after all this time. And it's more than hard to understand, because those things just happen, literally in my skin, there is a reaction sometimes before I even have words for it. Last week, I wrote about breathing and how hard that is. When certain things happen, there is no response; it's a level that happens before I am even fully aware of it.  There are times, even after a counseling session, I can't catch my breath because literally sometimes the things that are spoken take my breath away. Sometimes the thoughts and reactions that I have become so automatic that even though I am aware today of so much, and have worked so hard on healing, there are things on a different level where there are no words that I am working so hard to unravel, unpack and truly understand.  The nature of trauma is such a beast in every sense of the word. 

I heart your heart.

Reactions

 

I always think about how things could have been different for me if someone cared, if someone held my hand and let me know it wasn't my fault.  I wish someone sat me down, listened to me, and given me space to talk about what happened, and didn't blame me. I had a moment the other day, and I thought, what if I had known Mark back when I was 13?  I was half awake, half sleeping, but the thought of someone caring and reacting appropriately made me cry. For that girl who just wanted to know she wasn't so awful. That girl was drowning under all that she was carrying, and each person looked the other way. In that space between sleeping and awake, Mark was walking away from everything that was so awful and was carrying me in his arms.  He was carrying Spunky far away from everything and everyone who was unkind.  It was the warmest feeling in the world. I was holding on, my arms around his neck, grateful to feel some safety and some peace.  Crazy as an adult to need that kind of care. I was who I am, just watching and grateful. It felt like one of those scenes where a firefighter is carrying someone away from the flames. Same feeling, just a differing situation.  

It's not just what happened to me at 5, or at 13, or in my 20's; it's all of those things together that I have experienced that make up the person I am today. I am strong, and I am ok most days, but those things have affected me forever and always will be a page in my story, the worst, the tragic, and the unimaginable. There are going to be things that come up on all the days of my life that I will have to sit with.  Some things I will hold my heart and wail at the devastation, and just try to breathe through the moment. Other things will feel crushing, and I will be angry that they still bother me. Then there will be things that there are no words for, that just need someone to hold space until I can catch my breath, and know that I have come so far. Always the journey, there will never be a moment when what has happened to me is finished. It sounds awful, but trauma is something that will forever and always have an impact. Sometimes small and other times huge, still an impact all the same. 

I wonder what others have done when they have found out their mother, daughter, or sister has been assaulted. I wonder what their thoughts were, how they treated them, what they were thinking, and what help they offered. Did they hold them, let them cry?  Did they ask questions? Did they ask them what they needed? Did they make sure they got medical care, did they ask them if they wanted to call the police. If they were not yet of age, did they make them feel loved? Did they explain that what happened to them wasn't ok, and that the police need to be notified so there can be some kind of justice?  Were they treated with respect, and their thoughts honored and heard?  I want to know about those things and what others have experienced. 

There is a woman that I know, who I have picked up parts and pieces of different stories.  Maybe I am just thinking too much, but I believe that her daughter may have been assaulted. She has spoken about how the world has not been kind to her and about her choice to put animals before people. There was a conversation about driving to counseling, and the music she listened to, and the idea of rape culture was brought up.  Maybe I am looking into it too much, but there is a gut feeling. Even today, I can feel the care for her daughter, the desire to understand, and the desire to understand where she has been in the world and why she sees things the way she does. Even the other day, I was sharing that I wasn't smart enough for the Ph.D program, and she said that her family has always participated in counseling and would choose me, hands down.  That meant the world to her, and I was moved to tears.  To know that someone would trust you with their family, their heart, is a really big deal. The kindness she showed her daughter was exceptional, and I hope that someday I gain a deeper understanding of her situation and get some insight into her thoughts and feelings about what happened. 

I even watched a special about Elizabeth Smart.  And she said that the rapes really weren't talked about. She felt terrible and didn't know how to even talk about it.  She didn't know the difference between consent and love, and the things that happened to her. That was astounding to me, to have parents be so understanding, and yet a huge part was looked over and never acknowledged, and not because there wasn't love or concern, maybe they just didn't know how. But the impact that had on her was huge.

And I think about that, and my heart sinks. For me, I am not sure that there is a difference. For me, it's all violence, assault, and harm.  I am not sure I can imagine making the choice to purposely have sex; I just go away. I have had sex since I was five years old. There is a certain weight to the things that i carry, that are entangled in every piece of all that I am.  I knew I was hurt; I didn't really understand what was happening. Yet, when I did, I felt like I was something terrible, awful, and I was the one who had done something wrong. When I think about a relationship, or maybe getting married someday, I think, how could I do that to a man?  Sorry, I am used goods, I will love you with all that I am, but please don't expect me to be anything sexual. Not something that I have to worry about today, but sometimes I feel like that piece is broken.  I wonder: if I ever did get into a relationship, how would my past impact it? Would they be angry? Would they be ok on those days I just want them close and to feel safe? Would they be okay with not knowing some things, or would they want to know to understand the woman I am? So many questions. 

I think of my children, and someday, if they ask more questions or have concerns, what will their reaction be towards me? Will they think of me differently?  I so badly want that open communication to know their thoughts and feelings. They know my heart, what I have done, and how I want to make a difference. Still, things are not openly discussed, and I wonder if they ever will be. Will Amelia have questions about why there is no grandfather? What will her thoughts and reactions be? So many questions.  Some things are not in my everyday, some things are not in my year, but then there are other things that are my everyday, and I want others to understand that. 

The reactions we have, how and why we have them, matter. They matter for survivors and how they interpret the world around them going forward. I will always be forever grateful to Mark for not giving up on me, for always making time and creating space for me to heal, to recover, to become the woman that I was always meant to be. He took the time and has cared for little Callahan, giving her a safe place and time. He has cared for spunky, validating all that she feels and never pushing her to do or be anything other than who she is. And for me, to make me laugh when that's the last thing I want to do, for encouraging me when I am so done, giving up feels like the best option. For his belief in me and knowing that I have what it takes to continue moving forward and make each of my dreams come true.

Reactions matter to a person in the moment and in every moment of the rest of their lives. 

 I heart your heart. 

Breathing

 You know, you would think that something so necessary to life would be easy, but the truth is it's not. Breathing is hard for me most days. Often, I have to remind myself to breathe. When someone tells me to breathe, I get this panic that makes my breathing even harder. I wish I had the just-right words to describe everything that goes on inside me when I am asked to focus on my breathing. And then being asked to close my eyes and breathe feels like something so dangerous and life-threatening.  There is this automatic response that makes me feel like I am fighting for my life. 

People often say to stop and focus on your breathing to calm down, but for me, that does the exact opposite. That stillness, that quiet, is dangerous, and a person has no idea what can happen in those moments. Focusing on my breathing for some reason brings me to the exact thing that shook me to my core. I can't take the time to breathe because for me, my very survival is at stake. I wish I had better words.  When the breathing does come naturally, when I am holding my granddaughter, when I am in a session with a client, breathing is normal and natural. When I have to focus on myself, terror creeps in, and I want to run. Focusing on my own breath brings a sense of impending doom, and it feels like I am not working hard enough to keep myself safe. 

Part of breathing brings me back to thirteen, and trying to focus on the little things just to survive.  In the most awful parts of the day, as they each took their turn and I just watched the fan, thinking each time would be the last, I am not sure I was really breathing. I know, in my head, physiologically, I had to have been, but everything in me was just trying to get through second by second. Everything was happening so fast around me. So many of them were coming at me, wanting me to do such horrid things that even breathing became something secondary.  For me, sitting with my own breathing brings me to that time, and I wish that I totally understood why. I don't think I know why, and maybe it scares me to find out. If you just pretend that you aren't breathing, then you don't exist, and if you don't exist, then those things really aren't happening. I would have given anything not to be there under that fan. I would have given anything not to be so hurt, so brutalized and disgusting. 

I heart your heart

13,522 days ago was 1988

 

Wow, in one breath that feels like forever, and in another breath it feels like it was yesterday. 1988 was such a long time ago, and yet there are things that still live in my bones. Recently, I learned that a woman who was incredibly unkind to me when I was 13 and truly needed help had passed away. The joy that I got from that kind of scared me. I saw the news, laughed, and was excited.  There was this little part of me that felt so much relief, like finally that little 13-year-old had some acknowledgment that things should have been so different for her.  As I continued to look for information, people posted about how wonderful she was and the fond memories they had.  Yet, for me, the memories I had were not good ones, not warm and kind; everything was completely the opposite. I try so very hard not to think about that time, because it hurts that much, but there comes a time when a person just can't ignore things anymore. Maybe, just maybe, 13,522 ago is a time that needs some light. The little girl that I was back then was more hurt by this woman who passed away than I would ever like to admit. Her name was Joan Lux and I hated her, I hated her with all that I am or ever was.  With her no longer on this earth, maybe it's my time to breathe and take back all the things that she made me believe about myself.  

Talking about that year, that time is so burdensome. I feel the weight of that time each and every day; I carry it with me like some kind of coat. Something I can't take off or send to a recycling bin. I carry it still, feeling like I have something to prove.  Somehow, if I could just prove my worth, just understand, just have someone to help, I could let it go and watch it slide down my shoulders and onto the floor, and I could keep walking, never looking back. The thing is,  its as attached as I am to that time, it is just as attached to me as I am to it.   It creates so much anxiety and pain in my heart, and after all this time, I can close my eyes and be back there in seconds. My chest starts to tighten, and it's like I am almost forgetting to breathe. In my head, I know it's over; it already happened, but somewhere I am still more than terrified. I am so afraid that somehow that time is going to swallow me whole, and I will lose everything that I have ever fought for. 

Even sitting here and writing about all those days ago, there is a rage, a fire like a volcano that is seconds from exploding. My chest hurts, and I don't even feel my fingers anymore. My throat feels like it's closing, and I know I am in my own skin, but it feels like a place that I just don't want to be. There is this ache in my body, and my shoulders, instead of feeling capable and strong, feel like boulders. Even thinking about talking about that time feels like I have done something terrible.  There are these automatic thoughts that make me still feel small and weak.  Like if I were just stronger, I would have already healed from this. If it were that bad, I would have more visible scars, and people would have helped me.  I know that those things are not true, but somehow they still thrive. 

When I did reach out for help, it was Joan that I wanted to tell first.  I wish I could remember what I was thinking, why I wanted to tell her. For some reason, I had to believe that she was safe; little did I know how wrong that I was.  I couldn't even speak the words, so Calvin did.  He told her that I was raped. There was no care or comfort, no checking to see if I was ok.  I was just the chubby, unpopular girl who would want to do that to me. Even writing those words, I can't believe how cemented they are to my very being. There was no presence with me; I was more alone than ever. Calvin came back into the room, and I just grabbed onto him. I can remember being worried about all the questions they would ask.  No one asked any.  I think there was a part of me that wanted them to, so that I didn't have to carry it alone anymore. I was 13, just a girl carrying the weight of the world, and Calvin was the only one who seemed to care. He was there, just holding me. There was so much commotion going on around me, but everyone seemed to be worried about themselves and not me.  I can still feel the heaviness in my chest. I felt like I was the one who had done something wrong.  I felt guilty for telling someone, guilty for involving Calvin.  There is supposed to be this relief when someone finally knows and can help you, but I never got that. And after all this time, I still feel the weight of being so alone. Maybe this is where that deep aloneness that I so often feel comes from. It's a kind of sad aloneness that I have yet to find relief from. I think maybe that is part of the reason that Spunky is glued to that couch; sometimes it's better to be alone and risk more hurt. As much as I can tell her that I am here and ready for anything, it just takes time. She went through hell, and she did it basically alone. That kind of thing takes a lot to get over. 

Joan's husband was the one who took me home, still showing no care. I don't remember the care ride.  All I remember was him sitting next to me on the couch in my living room, telling me how different things were going to be.  No one asked how I was.  NO one asked about my heart. NO one held me, told me that it was going to be ok, I did what I knew how to do, you just keep going, trying to figure out what you did wrong to make all these things happen. They didn't help carry my burden; they just added to it. I was drowning right before them, and no one cared. I was the one who was at fault. I don't even remember my parents getting home that night. Still so many holes. The things I do remember feel like they happened yesterday, and then there are others that I still don't understand how I could not have known or remembered. Such dark times, that time was just as bad as the rapes, because I felt like everyone was looking at me like something so gross and disgusting, the same way that they made me feel. And they didn't even know the whole story, but that didn't matter.  I was just a slut. 

Even the days that followed after Calvin told them, "I was talked about and not to." I was crushed and felt like I was the one who had done something so terrible. After all these days, I still carry that. All of their words were like knives, and no one cared that I wasn't ok. It's crazy that even after all this time, this is more than hard to write about. These are the things that are wide open wounds that don't seem to want to heal. That time still creates so much pain; it feels like my heart is being ripped in two. I know I have spoken about this time; it's just that each time it feels so close, and I am overwhelmed with guilt.  I have worked on this post for a week. I write a little, then have to leave. It seems exceptionally close, and I don't like it at all. 

I get angry that it still bothers me so much, even after all the work I have done. This is a piece that has a hold on me. As much as I can't forget, it seems to want me to remember. Songs come on and the feelings well, and I change the song as quick as I can. There is more connection than ever with Spunky, and it's really terrifying.  All these things were something that Spunky had to deal with. Yes, she did, but that saying that often takes my breath away comes crashing in, "You are her and she is you." I think, ok, she went through all that and survived, me, I think I wasn't strong enough or brave enough, and she kept me sane. I know that we are connected; I know all the things, but my heart struggles; there is that fear that, somehow, when the full realization hits, I am going to end up in a dark place back in time. I wish I could explain it clearly, like that, somehow, truly facing it would crush me.  I can't tell you how big that fear is.  It just hurts, and I want to be ok.  I know I have so many amazing things ahead of me, and I fear the things that have already happened the most. Somewhere in my brain, I don't believe that it is over, even though I know with every part of my mind that it is.  It was so many days ago, and it feels so current.  I just want to be able to say, this was a piece of my story, and yet here I stand today, and sometimes I am just not sure how to get to that place when Spunky is no longer afraid. Because I know that I am still terrified.  

I just want to be Free

I heart your heart. 

.