Slut

It's amazing sometimes the things that I still think.  I don't remember the exact conversation or what was being discussed. My first thought was, well, I danced with him.  I did this, and I did that. I was the one who had butterflies.  I was the one who liked the attention, and I thought that I mattered and that he cared.  And the thoughts start rolling, and the next thought is, well, I was just a slut.  These thoughts are more than automatic; they are truly what I experience to the very core of who I am. Some can say something, and before anything kind about myself, my go-to is, well, I was a slut. I danced with him, and I could give you millions of reasons why I am an awful, terrible person. I don't ever remember a time when I didn't consider myself a slut; that was just who and what I was. I do not remember a day in my life when I have known anything other than being a slut.  That word has literally attached itself to me like gorilla glue. I was a slut when I had butterflies; I was a slut that I danced with him, kissed him, and even liked the attention.  All those things made me a slut in every sense of the word. Once a slut, always a slut.

I think even as far back as five, that was what I was; I was a little slut.  Really, I could never have known what that was or all that it implied.  All I knew was that was what I was. To my bones, I felt like I was a slut.  I was a slut standing there picking out one of his tee shirts.  I was a slut when he would grab at my mother and look at me.  I was a slut when they would go take a nap on the weekends. I was a slut when I had to take the evidence to the trash in my bare feet. It really didn't matter the situation; I was the slut; I was the one that was something terrible and grotesque.  I was the one who was sluttish to my very core.  I was ashamed of everything about me.  I don't remember a time ever liking something about myself or being comfortable with who I was. I was hurt because there was something wrong with me.

I have been ashamed of myself my entire life.  I don't remember feeling anything different.  As time passes, I think it has lessened; it never really goes away.  That feeling of being a slut, of being a burden. All those times being a slut makes you a burden.  I always knew that no one wanted to be around me, and I always turned that around and made it all about me.  I always had chicken arms. My feet were ugly and terrible, and let's not even talk about our toes.  Shame was a constant for me because I never did anything right. There was always just something inherently awful about me, no matter what I did. I can remember my father's anger when I didn't do things the way that he wanted. Even when I had to hold his cross so it didn't make any noise. I was the one that was doing something wrong. 

There is a brokenness that comes with the word slut.  It's something that I don't even think that I have thought about or fully understand; it's just something that I am.  To this day, this is something that holds me back and makes me different. That is something that people just can't put their finger on, but it's there all the time, all day, every day. 

Today for the first time in fifty years, I learned that slut is not something that comes from a five-year-old or a thirteen-year-old.  Slut is something that is told to them. Slut is something that is told and reinforced over and over. I was made to believe that is just who I was, a little slut, always asking for it, looking for trouble. I was made to believe that was just who I was.  I will be 50 in 5 months and never ever knew that. I don't know who actually said those words.  I can make a pretty good guess that it was my father.  Honestly, I don't remember him speaking to me much. I knew so much by his actions. All that I knew, even at 5, those feelings and words were engrained, and I took them to mean that is who I was. When my mother would say I have to go make him happy, And they went to the bedroom, I took that on; I was the slut, I was ashamed of myself because of them. Somehow what was happening to her was my fault. 

I even tried to look up a picture of slut that would convey my feelings. I scrolled and scrolled; the pictures I found could never fit the little girl I was. I am so ashamed of all I knew and how I felt like I did something wrong when my parents were sleeping together. It's hard to even give it words. That utter loss of innocence.  Something that I want so badly that will never have.  Even trying to describe the feeling, knowing that my parents were going to have sex and the guilt I felt, the shame that I was doing something wrong. I was a slut for all I knew and all I did. I was even a slut for all the things that I didn't know.  So, anyway that I looked at it, I was a terrible, awful person who was at fault for everything. How unfair to a 5-year-old.  How unfair to a 13-year-old.  How unfair to any child.  Even me. 

I heart your heart.

Three Years

 It's hard to believe that it's been three years today. I read the post I wrote a few days after her passing and realized that not many things have changed. I still feel like she broke me.  I thought that there was a part of me that somehow was going to forget the hurt and the pain because she was my mom. Three years later, I think that that hurt is even more intense now than it was then. This year is hitting differently; it seems there is a deeper sense of loss, a different sadness that she disliked me so much. This is the first year that Everything Christmas is going up, and it feels really good.  I am doing all the things that make me happy and highlight the season's spirit.  With that comes looking through boxes of things that used to be hers and deciding what to do with them.  Do I keep them, toss them, and ask the kids if it's something they want?  I find it feels rather liberating to throw things away that are not me. I have filled the trash with broken things, things that we got together, and things that used to be ours.  It feels good and gives me the energy to clean out things that no longer suit me or who I am. 

I struggle to understand the depth of her hate for me.  I wonder what that exact moment was when she decided I was no longer worthy of her love or being included in her life insurance. It felt like I was no longer her daughter, and that hurt the most. What moment was that in her mind to make my brother the sole beneficiary.  Goodness, I couldn't care less about the money; it wasn't anything life-changing.  For me, it was just reinforcement that I meant so little to her.  Months before she passed away, she pretended like it was this huge secret.  So after she passed, Chris mentioned it, and I said I already knew, and the look of shock on his face was something astonishing.  In true mom fashion, it was about being between us and keeping secrets, trying to play us against each other. Amazing that even in her passing, there are times when I feel like she is still doing that. Not from my end but from my brother's and his inability to see things from anyone's viewpoint besides his own. 

After her passing, my brother was very vocal, telling me to be careful with what I said and who was around.  I wasn't allowed to share my feelings of relief, hurt, and alienation.  Everyone was allowed their feeling, but since mine were different, my experiences were too intense and real for anyone to be able to hear them.  

Even when I found the letter saying that my brother had been noted as the sole beneficiary, he could not understand the pain that that caused.  I called him and left a message crying and received no response. He said he didn't know, but by connecting some of the dots, I believe he knew.  Not to any fault of his own, but he knew.  Even after he knew he could not see the other side of the coin. He talked about everyone who surrounded him, brought dinner, and gave him money.  He talked about all those things, and I was on my own.  He connected with all of her friends like he was once again the big hero.  Such a crazy place to be and an incredibly difficult spot to be in. So much for me was reinforcement that I was worth little to her.  And even though he had power of attorney, it was I who had to make the decision to stop the medicine that was keeping her alive. I was the one who had to stand there and see the line go flat and hold my children as she passed.     

The other day, I realized all her messages had disappeared from my phone. During those last few days, I never got a response to the messages I sent her.  Maybe she was too sick; I will never know.  She was worried about some food subscriptions that she got.  And I was pretty matter-of-fact and cold.  When someone is sick and complaining all the time, it's hard to take things seriously.  This, like all the rest, I did not take seriously.  The text said that she was going to the emergency room and that she was going by ambulance.  Then she didn't even tell me what hospital she was in; I was in a panic calling around.  She was able to text and tell Vincent where she was. Since it was COVID, we were not allowed to see her, so all we had were texts. All I had was nothing, really. I can remember speaking to her Dr and he said her lungs looked like a snow storm, and I knew it was serious.  The prior few days were conversations about how she couldn't wait to come home and be with the three of us. She didn't have nice things to say about my brother and said how she just wanted to be home.  At this point, looking back, it is unbelievably sad just how many faces she had.  It depended on who you were and what face you would get.  I talked about it last week, and it's like looking at that picture with your nose to the painting.  You are not going to get a clear view of all these things.  As I step back, more and more things become clear, and I am able to see so much more of the picture.  Maybe that is the part that affects me so much.  When I am able to step back and see things as they were, it breaks my heart even more.  

So today, it has been three years, and my heart is still broken.  For the mom I didn't have, for the support I never received, and that I was made to be the villain in her story. But at the same time, I am clearing out and making room for things that make my heart happy.  My brother still refuses to speak to me because of a conversation with my cousin.  He chose to listen to someone else rather than speak to me and hear my heart.  I talked about my thoughts and feelings.  The cousin thought it was his job to tell my brother how not ok things were, and in the process, my brother decided I wasn't worth speaking to either.  Anyway, you look at it; I am the one who was left hurt.  I even tried telling my brother those were his opinions. I didn't and don't care about the money. The entire issue was the hurtfulness of not being included, and he could never understand that. I still don't know what my cousin said, but the damage that his words caused was great.  I sent messages and tried to reach out for over a year, but with no response, I was tired of getting nothing in return, and I just stopped sending messages.  I spent so much energy and then wondered if I would get a response.  I was no longer willing to do that anymore.  The ball is in his court.  He had to figure things out; he didn't really like the person that I was and thought he knew all about me, but really, he didn't have a clue about the person I was.  He constantly commented about who he thought I was, and I would remind him that wasn't who I was at all.  What he knew of me were things my mother told him; he chose to believe. We live on two totally different planets in different universes, and for now, that has to be. 

So that leaves me. 1095 days ago, my world changed. my mother passed away, and it was the biggest relief I could have ever had.  Many people don't understand that, and many never will.  This is my story and my truth, and they don't have to. My mother hurt me more than words and failed to protect me in so many ways. She made me the villain of her story because she didn't understand who I was or how I got that way. She never listened to my heart or heard what I could not say.  There is that saying that basically says you don't get to treat me like shit and then complain about how I respond.  The quote I am thinking of says it so much better, but it means the same thing.  There is another quote: Nobody apologized for how they treated me; they just blamed me for how I reacted.  I was never understood. I am not the bad guy.  I am a terribly hurt daughter who was treated in many unkind ways and who is finally finding her way in this world. I can not make this day anything other than what it is,  I can not change the facts.  All there is to do now is move on and become the person I have so desperately wanted to become.  All there is for me is to hold my head high and make all my dreams come true in spite of everything.  I don't have a mom, but I didn't have a mom even when she was here. The sad thing that I face is all the things that were missed out on because she was unable to be present for me. It was a few weeks before she passed, and she came into my room wanting to take a trip with me. The kids' senior year of high school, and she didn't see an issue leaving them home alone.  I had no desire at all to go anywhere with her and wondered where this came from.  Her presence in my room was not welcomed, and it felt like she was an intruder in my space. Just as she would always look at me, there was this stare, this blank look of disapproval, no matter what I was doing. 

I have to believe that there was a time when she loved me just because I was hers. I have to believe that there was a time when I meant everything I have always dreamed of to her.  Maybe someday, all that she did or didn't do won't hurt so much. This year, this day, it does hurt, and my heart is tender. I don't have a mom, and I don't have someone who loves me unconditionally, no matter what. I will make it through, strong and brave, because that is what I do. I will make it through this day knowing that I am moving in the right direction because I am the person that I have chosen to become. Wherever she is, I hope she knows how she was loved and how hard I tried to make things work and to make her happy.  She will always be my mom, and I loved her so much.  But I was unwilling to lessen myself to stay who she thought I should be. 

I heart your heart. 

Come so Far

There are so many things that are coming up. There are so many very important things. My professor played this song in class, and the tears started, and they haven't yet stopped.  I have to be the best; I have to make a difference. I have to become the care that I never got it.  There is a gratefulness where I am today that I don't have words for. There is just an ocean of tears. I am not sure where all the tears are coming from or what they mean, but they are there in full force, and nothing that I can do is going to make them stop. A huge part of it is just the place that I am in, becoming a counselor something that I have dreamed of for so long. This is one of the most important things that I have ever done.  This gives meaning to everything I have overcome to get here to this place. I am not saying I am here because of what happened.  I am here despite all those things that have happened, and working towards making a difference.

  This week, it was work, home, school, and all of the above. Last night, I got home from work and was just sitting in a place of being.  The Christmas tree was on, and  I let everything I should have been doing disappear. I was just there, fully present.  I can remember a time when I would dream about a moment like this.  When I would be in my very own home with all the lights on, and all was well with the world, if even for a few short minutes. I am here; I am really here.  

I find myself feeling needy during this time. I need lots of love and kindness, and I need so much understanding. I feel this need to spread my wings, yet at the same time, I need someone flying right beside me to make sure that I am ok in the world.  

Maybe it's finally about the appreciation that I have come so far. I have done the work, I have struggled, and I am creating the life that I want. There are so many good things, and yet the tears keep falling. Maybe there were just so many years that the tears couldn't fall that I am finally able to let them flow. Someday, they won't come out in waves; someday, it will be a gentle stream because I will just never forget where I have come from in this world.   

I heart your heart 

 

Like it was yesterday

 The last few days, I have felt like what happened to me at 13 is very clearly present and very heavy. My heart hurts for that little girl who just wanted to belong, and my heart hurts for me because I still have to work through this.  I am trying to figure out my feelings and thoughts, and it's a lot. It's a kind of sad that is bottomless.  It's a kind of hurt that aches to the very bone.  It's feeling less than human and wanting to be anywhere but in your own skin. It's feeling like your insides are screaming, and people just keep looking at you and smiling.  It's that smell that you can't stand that you can never forget. It's all of those things and more. It feels like I am in the fight of my life, wanting more than I ever imagined and wanting to forget the hell that has happened. 

I am trying to remember that day was long ago—lifetimes ago. I am trying to remember that I am strong and safe today. I am trying to remind myself of all those things. I am trying to be present in the moment today. I know it wasn't yesterday. But it's frustrating at almost 50 to feel overwhelmed about something I had no control over. 

There are feelings that I can't quite put my finger on, but they are strong and, on the surface, seem so untouchable. All I can explain is the day after, I had to tell and was lying in the back of the car.  It was chilly, but the sun was out, and there was a warmth. My whole body was still so bruised and hurt I was just lying in the back seat.  I felt the sun and was grateful, the smell of the happy meal took me to a much simpler place, when my world was even a little safer. I can remember just wanting to lay there forever in the back of that Nissan Altima.  I wanted to forget all that was happening around me and just be. I can close my eyes and feel that sun.  I had no idea what would be ahead of me that day.  I just wanted to disappear and pretend that I had never said a word.  Leave me alone, let me heal, and like I always do, I will just keep moving.  That is what I wanted more than anything. 

For those first few days after I told, things seemed to move in slow motion.  There was all this commotion around me, and simultaneously, my world slowed down.  Everyone expected me to react and feel something, but they never understood that this was just what happened to me.  This is what I was used to, yes this was more violent there were more of them, in so many ways it was different. But in many ways, it was the same people taking things that were not theirs to take.  People hurting me, I wasn't even a person anymore.  The 5 of them treated me as less than human, and the people around me were doing the same things in a different way. I was dying inside, and no one saw me.  I was behind in life, going through the motions, a puppet playing by their rules.  Just like that two days later not another word was spoken, I was left to fend for my own heart and soul. 

It's crazy that all this time later, I could close my eyes and be back in that car that day; in those moments, I focused on the sun, my happy meal, and the little bird that got one of my french fries by the car.  I was all alone, in so much pain, and everyone had their own agenda.  There were two days of everyone trying to cover their tracks, and nothing changed for me.  Everyone just moved on pretending I wanted attention, I was just the unpopular chubby girl who would want to do that to me.  So in my head, I became a liar and a slut and somehow knew that I asked for it. Someone would have taken care of me if it was that bad. 

This is the heaviest weight that one could ever imagine.  I am moving on, trying to become the person that I was meant to be.  The chains of this time are strong and have a grip that I don't understand. It's frustrating, all that I am accomplishing now, if I didn't have these thoughts and memories on reply just imagine all that I could accomplish.  I am working so hard, so hard.  It's just extremely painful and so hurtful that no one cared enough to be with me. 

                                                                                  

  I heart your heart. 

Mother

 

I can feel the date approaching.  It's a looming darkness that I can not escape. It's almost been three years since she passed away. I have thought about her so much the last week or two; my hurt hasn't lessened. There are moments that I still feel guilty because the sad people speak of when they lose their mom is something I have not experienced.  It was sad for my son and brother, but it was a relief for me.  A relief that even I don't understand. She hurt me more than words. She hated the person that I was and the person that I was becoming. A mom is supposed to be there to encourage and understand.  A mom is supposed to be your soft place to fall, but I didn't get that. All of the things I knew on my own were bad enough, but the things I learned after were even worse.  So much that was just so unnecessary. It was a month before she died that she made my brother the sole beneficiary.  I do believe that he knew. The fucking money had nothing to do with it.  The mere fact that I meant so little to her was the worst kind of jab.  It did not come as any kind of surprise to him.  I know from his actions and his words that even if he never speaks to me again, I know.  

I gave up the place that I loved the most for her.  I will never be more grateful for her having the down payment on a house that was big enough for all of us payment.  But I didn't want to move; I loved my perfect place in Anna.  I was truly happy there, my own home where no one could ever make me feel unwanted. For a time, our relationship grew until it didn't.  I wasn't enough.  She got between my children and me. She made me the bad guy in her story and told everyone about it. She was unkind to Mariska and befriended Vincent. She put a wedge between the two of us, and I will have to spend the rest of my life trying to repair it. 

I sit here in silence, the hurtful things that she said and did running through my mind. It amazes me how she wondered why I was the way that I was.  The time that she changed the locks on the house, the time she would buy toilet paper, the things of mine that she gave away.  The letters that were written about me were left out.  On Christmas, I was a substitute trying to finish student teaching.  I can remember buying her pillows in a thrift store.  We had close to nothing.  I remember her opening them and saying well, I can wash them.  I was crushed and not sure what she was expecting. When she said she wanted to read my blog books, I told her that was my room and she had no right to be in my room. She always talked about her, the kids, and me taking a trip to Alaska, and she went with my brother.  When she got bak and asked if I wanted to hear about it, I said I was hurt that she had always talked about doing that trip with the kids and I, as tears rolled down my face.  She said she was getting older and that I should be happy for her. Not a single word was said about my feelings. Looking back, I should have known from people's reactions that something wasn't right, but I never expected the kind of treatment I got from her.  Martha was a perfect example, even after she passed away she didn't want to go to any kind of ceremony if I was going to be there. She brought my brother a check, but I was never spoken to. She didn't even want to share a room with the same air. My mother made it all about her, and I was just an inconvenience.  When she had weight loss surgery, it was so secretive, and all of a sudden, I became the dirt under her feet.  I was everything ugly that she despised, and I felt that in my bones. Even after she passed away, I found a letter that she wrote about surgery, saying that she was doing it to prove to her morbidly obese daughter that it could be done.  That cut like a knife. Somewhere along the way, I became the ugliest monster in her story, and she made sure everyone around her knew it.  It had nothing to do with her surgery; it was how I was treated in the process. She broke my heart.  She stepped on it, smashed it into millions of pieces, and never looked back. 

It is hard because there were a few times that she was there and supportive.  There were a few times, but it was never unconditional.  She got between my brother and me; she could never be nice to both of us at the same time.  There were Christmases spent at Disney; I was not invited.  It was once again her, my brother, and my grandmother.  I was never included in things.  Was I standoffish often I was because my heart was so hurt b the things I had experienced in life and they could never understand any of that.  They wanted me to shut up and pretend that I was fine.  I did that for a long time until I couldn't anymore.  

No one ever talked about the life that I had to live; I was never ever loved unconditionally. There were always conditions.  Kind of crazy I often feel that I don't belong, writing this I am realizing I didn't fit anywhere even in my own family. I was just never one who belonged or had a place. So much hurt from someone who is supposed to love you through and through.  I always felt that my brother was a favorite.  One of those things when you know you know. 

I wonder if I would do anything different this time, three years ago.  I remember after her trip to Alaska, she came into my room.  I was annoyed, her bedhead getting on my nerves.  She wanted the two of us to take a trip.  It was the kid's senior year.  I told her that, which was more of an excuse I didn't want to go anywhere with her.  Sometimes I wonder if she knew something.  I am not sure she wanted to be alive anymore.  My brother talked about her, saying how much she missed her mom.  Three years ago, there wasn't a connection by this time.  I was someone that she didn't like.  I didn't like the person that she was.  We were in the same story but never on the same page. It was the Monday or Tuesday night before she passed, and she was sitting in her chair downstairs.  I was talking about my day, and there was nothing from her.  No feeling, no real conversation, and when I realized that, I just stopped talking, and by Friday, she was gone.  So fast, so very fast.  

I think about her today, and it still stings.  I feel the disappointment, the disregard, and the dirty looks that were a part of my everyday.  The last Thanksgiving, she was sick with Covid and My brother was in the hospital.  I made a huge dinner and brought it all to the Hospital.  It was a disaster; needless to say, none of the last few interactions that I had with her were good.  Each and every one of them left me feeling worse than the one before. 

My brother had power of attorney, and yet I had to make all the final decisions.  Her body was shutting down only the medicine was keeping her alive. Covid had come and destroyed.  Almost instantaneously, when they stopped the medicine, she had no fight left. Dr's were coming and going, but I saw the flatline.  I asked if she was already gone, and he said yes.  When we got back there, she was not there, just a shell of a woman that I could never make like me.  The nurses turned off all the machines, and just like that, it was over. the world keeps spinning, the tears keep flowing, and all the things I ever wished for and held hope for were never to be.  I was sad for those around me, but oh, the relief.  The relief that I still feel today.  She didn't protect me growing up.  She didn't protect me and love me exactly where I was.  She could never see my hurt or even acknowledge its existence. 

Everyone else's feelings were always okay, but mine never were.  I was told to be careful, that I was too harsh on everything, but yet their feelings were all okay.  I was not sorry, and there was a loss, but for me, that loss had been going on for so long. There were times I tried to explain things to my brother, but he was never able to hear. So today, it's been almost three years, and I think I have been waiting for that time to miss her, to be sad, and it just hasn't come.  There is a part of me that believed she had to love me sometime, but she was never able to show it in what I needed.  She never held my heart when it got heavy.  She never told me I wasn't a burden; her actions said that I was, and I have carried that for as long as I can remember.  This year feels different and harder, and I am not sure why.  Maybe it's just a different realization of how little I meant and how little I was understood. Maybe there will always be pieces of my broken heart that will forever be connected to her. 

I heart your heart. I heart your heart mom, wish you hearted mine. 

Two choices

 I was at a loss tonight. I kept saying over and over I don't know, I don't know, I don't know!! I am working so hard, and I feel like I should know, I should have words, and be able to move beyond this.  What happened to me at 13 is unimaginable. I hold it in this faraway place as some kind of proof that it happened. I hold it far away for fear that it will destroy me. This thing still feels like it has the power to destroy me. I am and will do everything I can to help that spunky, sweet 13-year-old girl. I feel like there are 2 choices. Letting her sit and catch her breath, I hold this swirling, violent sphere of darkness and everything awful. I spend all this energy trying to keep this blackness away from her; if I hold it as something precious, it allows her to breathe easily, but does it really help her?  In my mind, somewhere letting it go. It feels like it doesn't matter like she was just a little slut begging for attention. I wish there was a way for me to understand why I hold it the way I do and why this untouchable, all-ending thing that has already happened still has the capacity to destroy me? 

It's this heavy chain that is attached to everything. It's the same in so many ways and so different in so many more. I don't understand it or the power that it still has over me. It terrifies me.  I always talk about the ending of KPAX, and I am terrified that sometimes breaking that bubble and bringing it closer will destroy me. As strong as I am, to this day, those people still have the control to take everything away that I worked so hard for.  We have already survived it, and somehow, it feels like we won't. I worry all the time, that this is the thing that is going to break me, that is going to prove to be something too big that it just going to have to stay far away.  There is a numb feeling because feeling brings it closer, and bringing it closer feels like a darkness that I would not survive. 

I got stuck in a place trying to heal this piece and wanted to just move on.  I crave the freedom of it not being important anymore, and at the same time, there is so much doubt that is even a possibility. I worry all the time that this may be a piece that will remain an open wound. It could be one of those things that is too deep and too dark to be able to find a place of freedom.  I am in a place where I want to fight, and I am also in a place where it seems insurmountable that I will ever be free. I know I am not there anymore, but my body and mind remember as if it were yesterday.  I am struggling.  I want so much to move on, and to do that, I can't leave this part of me behind.  Do I keep fighting, or do I accept that this is one of the unhealable things? It could be entirely too big.  Maybe I just care for Spunky in all the ways she was never cared for and hold on to that tiny hope that someday she will be ready.  If that is the case, I hope that as I continue to move forward, I will be in a place ready and willing to help her when she is ready. I will forever be there for her and never leave her behind.  There also comes a time when I have to move forward.  There are things in this world that I never imagined that are right in front of me.  I must move on, and I need her to accompany me. I need her to be a part of the me that I am today, and that has come so very far.  We, her and I, have to do this because we both deserved so much better than what we got. 

Where are you?

 

The media has been screaming at me for the last couple of weeks, and it's getting really old. So much political fighting and unkindness wares on me.  There is so much debate about abortion, and these politicians are bringing up these heavy things as if they are feathers.  For those affected, they are very heavy boulders that they know nothing about.  There was a statistic being thrown around about the number of pregnancies that have resulted in rape.  I want to scream at the world, where are you because me too, and I need someone to talk to.  How do you deal with it? Where are you? I want to find you because no one talks about it, and far too many think that it doesn't happen.  My children are the most amazing things to ever happen to me, yet from something so awful.  I try with all that I am to keep them so separate, and sometimes it just melts together, breaking my heart. Where are these children, and where are their moms.  Do they struggle with some of the same things that I do? I want to know what their thoughts and feelings are.  Do they cringe when they hear those statistics on TV?  Do they have support? Did people believe in them?  The questions that I have could go on for pages.  I often feel like the only one, and it's not even something that a person can bring up in conversation.  I don't get to share about so many aspects of my life because they are tied to this one piece.  It just cuts so deep.  How have their children been affected?  How have they dealt with that?  So many pieces of a puzzle that only those who have lived it could understand. There is still so much shame and humiliation.  I still feel guilty that I just wanted to be normal. I just wanted to have lunch, go shopping, and feel like I was a normal person. I will never stop searching for them. Those who can understand my heart and hate what happened to them but love the result so deeply. Somedays it is ok, it is not a thought in my mind.  Other days it is a thought, and it aches and makes it hard to breathe. I don't know if my children will ever speak to me about it.  I don't know if I will be able to speak.  I just hope when that time comes, I will have just the right words to soothe their heart and help them understand. It's more than heavy; it's a kind of heavy that doesn't go away.  A heavy that ebbs and flows but is forever present. 

Where are you? Where are you? There are so many things to say! 

I heart your heart.