In the breeze

 

Yesterday was one of those February days in Texas where the weather was everything perfect and warm, and it felt almost too good to be true.  Sometimes, those days are tough for me. There is that warmth, the sun is shining, and there is that ever-so-faint gentle breeze. The sky is the bluest blue and so bright.  The birds are singing, and it seems all is well with the world. Sometimes, it's those little things that can remind us of some of the things that we want to forget. It's like for me, on days like that.  I can still remember so clearly what happened, where I was, and exactly what the weather was like.   Those first few days of a changing season when all is well with the world. Only I had no idea that things were going to end so badly. 

I have worked on this so much, and I guess it more than shocked me to still see things so clearly. It doesn't hurt like it used to, but there is an ache that I had to go through. I was so innocent, so unaware,  just a little girl.  Strange to have something so usual shake your world a little. That day seemed so far away, and a small thing like the weather brought it all back.  

In these moments, I realized that no matter how much I talk about it and heal, there are going to be times when, out of nowhere, that page opens, and it's there, clear as crystal. Today I look and experience it different. I saw the little innocent girl that I was, and I no longer beat myself up for not being able to save those tadpoles. Today, different things stand out. Just how small that I was.  Struggling to walk because my body hurt. It is unimaginable that my first thought wasn't to ask for help. There was no thought in my brain of having someone care for me.

I already knew I just had to clean up and move on. No wonder I was not an outgoing, active kid. I think that my little body was in pain a lot of the time. Another piece of the puzzle. The smaller you become and the quieter you get, the less chance there is for you to get in the way and get hurt. I knew that at 5. I guess writing this is just a way for me to honor that little girl who lived through so much. I know that part of me no longer carries the burden of all that was done to her. I know that she is free, she will never forget, but she has found peace. Hopefully, in time, the pictures will become less clear for me; with my whole heart, I hope to find that someday, just like little callahan. I guess maybe she carried it for so long. This is my piece to mourn for. 

I heart your heart 

Between Sleeping and awake

 

Sunday is the only day that no alarms go off, and there is nowhere to be.  A day when you can stay snuggled in the covers before starting the day and completing all that needs to get one. It's a cloudy day and darker than normal, I must have dozed off and dreamt of sitting my children down and telling them about what happened to me.  

There were hearts everywhere, and the room was bright and inviting. They are the age they are today. The room was comfortable, but nothing that I knew. I asked them to sit down, and the words literally came out of my mouth that I had never imagined saying: Do you have any questions about your father? There was this strange kind of calm. I was prepared for whatever they needed to say or ask. 

Vincent spoke up first and simply asked.  What happened. 

I said that I had met him online and we were going to go shopping. He was getting ready to leave the country.  I said that he had come, but he had never had any intention of shopping.  I said that he put a pillow over my face and raped me.  Once those words came out of my mouth, tears started streaming down my face, but I was no longer able to hear any words that either of us were saying.  

I woke up unable to breathe. No one should ever have to say those words. I don't know if a person can ever be prepared for such a conversation. These kinds of conversations are things that happen when the other person is ready or has a longing to know.  For those like me, there is no right time or right way.  There is no way to make the words anything other than the violence that they are.  So that is how the day started. 

Later, I watched the documentary Sugarland.  It was heartbreaking and often painful. It was about the schools that many native Americans were sent to that were run by catholic priests. One of the women who grew up there said how she always felt dirty for being an Indian. Heartbreaking.  Abuse was everywhere, and of course, no one knew a thing or did anything when there were rumors of terrible things happening to those children.  It follows some as they try to heal their story. Those who are still fighting, those who want answers, others who want justice, and others whose hearts are still brutally broken.  A huge piece of this work was the girls who became pregnant because of what happened to them.  Many of the babies were born and thrown into the incinerator.  One of the men who was followed in the documentary was one of the only men who had a different fate. He was one of the only children to survive. He tried to speak with his mother, wanting some gaps filled in his birth story; she cried that soul cry, unable to speak about what had happened to her, how her son came to be, and how he ended up in a trash bin. It was done beautifully, raising awareness of the atrocities that occurred. 

I find myself watching things like this, thinking this happens often, and no one speaks about it. This happens, and people want to pretend that it doesn't. What happens to these children? How do they deal with the facts of how they were conceived? I wonder all the time if those are things that my children think about. Do they have questions? Do they wonder what happened? I do not ever want them to feel sorry for me or think differently.  I hope that they would have a deeper understanding of the person that I am today.  It has only been spoken about once, and I don't remember much of it.  At the time, I told them they were in middle school, and in my mind, I was still just a slut. 

I don't think of it much anymore; my thoughts stay with my children, for whom I am so grateful. They are my world, so I focus on that. That keeps most of the pain away, and I keep breathing. But every now and then, I want to know where the other moms like me are.  What are their thoughts? Do they think some of the same things?  What is their relationship with their children, and how did they tell them? 364 days a year, I am just another mom in the world.  But on that 365th day each year, on August 22, I have my day.  I still often wonder how things could be different.  Not that I wouldn't have my children, but the fact that I wish someone had asked questions. I wish that someone had noticed the hurt. I wish that there was more care and less judgment. I wish on that day, there was an acknowledgment that from that moment forward, nothing in my life would ever be the same. I will forever and always, until my last breath, say I would do it all over again to have them.  But my heart breaks for the girl who just wanted to be normal that day. Days like today, I realize just how affected I still am even when I wish with all that I am that it didn't. Someday, I hope my children will speak to me. Someday, I hope they will understand.

I heart your heart.

Violence

 

For me, Violence was just another word.  Well, it was just another word until yesterday. A word that I could read, that I heard, and it was literally just another word. Violence is just another word in the human language.  A word that I think of when I see and hear about terrible stories.  A word that I think is something that isn't ok.  I have never thought of that word as it pertained to me.  That changed yesterday, and it was a feeling that made me want to run.  

I was in counseling, and he used the word pertaining to the things I had been through.  As soon as he said it, there was recoil in my very being, and I wanted to get away.  If I could have sunk into the couch, I would have. If I could have dug my heels into the ground any harder, I would have pushed myself through the wall behind me.   It was a reaction that I didn't expect and am trying to understand.  All the times I speak and share, I am even part of a conference Titled Women of Violence!   But to have that word applied directly to me, is something I just have never ever thought of. 

I wrote that more than two weeks ago because I just couldn't go there. Somewhere in my head, I know that there is an understanding that the things that happened were violent.  But in that same breath, I brush it off. It's really hard for me still to comprehend and get my head around just how violent those things were. There are pieces of my brain that still want all those things to somehow fit somewhere in a nice neat box.  A box that looks like any other thing besides violent. I think that for me if I say that things were violent, it makes me feel like a victim in a way. I hate that more than the word itself. I feel like if I say that the things that happened to me were violent, it feels like, oh, poor me.  

I do wish that I could call things what they were without wanting to protect everyone else around me. I know I do that in counseling all the time. That dance around a word that I know fits is correct, but hearing it come out of my mouth makes it more real. I say the words to help others, so there is somewhere that I know they fit. But to say them in my safe place, where it's safe to feel, is something entirely different. 

I want to be able to say these things happened and feel proud of myself for how far I have come. Most often, when I say them, I feel shame, second-guessing myself that I was the one who did something wrong.   

It is Valentine's Day next week, and I find myself trying to avoid the day and all that it means. I can finally see that I was just a girl.  The struggle still lies in all the things that others said to her.  Really, if it was that violent, wouldn't someone have done something differently?  Wouldn't they have cared for her? I make excuses for Valentine's Day because I opened the door.  I make excuses because that is easier than the truth.  I was just a girl who wanted little girl things. I wanted to be seen; I wanted to be loved and cared for. I did not ask to be raped. I did not ask him to show up. It was the night of the Valentine dance at school. Just in 8th grade, I was 13. Still a girl. I say that, and still more questions?  Did he know it was the night of the dance?  Another question I will never know.  Middle school, I was in middle school. I was shocked and so excited to see him. Those fucking butterflies, I was glad to see him even.  I knew very quickly he was not the same person that I had met. I know he was talking, and I can see his mouth moving in my mind, but I can not remember a word that he said. I tried to fight; I tried to tell him no. He was big, and I wasn't going to win. He was so rough. Part of me just went away; I knew I was fighting a losing battle. He raped me, and I went somewhere far away. It's amazing that something so terrible can be happening, and your mind just does what is necessary. I remember looking to my left and seeing my little hand.  I wish that I didn't have an understanding of what he was doing to me.  I knew and felt disgusted at myself. It wasn't him that I thought was a terrible, awful person. It was me. I sit here, and the pictures are so very clear, I see it like a movie, only that is me.  I don't know what to do with the thoughts, I hated what he was doing. In my little brain, there was this disbelief like, is this all I am good for? 

I have a hard time calling this violent because I was so far removed from my body.  I don't remember feeling anything other than him pinning my arms down.  In the beginning, when I was fighting, I fought really hard. I can remember his weight on me, the pressure on my arms. His weight on me.  Once I gave up knowing what he was going to do, there was a part of me that was just gone. I can remember asking once if body memories were real.  As I remember, I see it like a movie with no sound.  Somewhere, my cells know, my body feels it, and it's the most terrible, awful feeling. To be so used and degraded, like you mean nothing. I do believe my body remembers, and I have the pictures, but never both at the same time.  I just can't put them together in my mind, because that is where that word.  That terrible word violence would come into the picture.  Once those two things collide, there is no pretending that things were not as awful as they were. He was violent, I was hurt, and I will forever pay the price and fight for that 13-year-old girl who just wanted what everyone else her age wanted. Literally breaks my heart. I am so very sorry Spunky, so so sorry. You were a good girl. He was just another evil man. 

I heart your heart

Crisis Class

 

This semester, I am taking an Individual and Family Crisis Class.  I am a little shocked at how overwhelmed some of the students are with the discussions.  For me and the house that I grew up in, Crisis was something that happened on a daily basis, so when some are so shocked by things, I am not.   Sometimes, I forget that not everyone lived in a house like mine. Growing up, that was all that I knew, of course, but there was no other way for me.  I think it was when I was a nanny that I finally realized that not every house was like the one I had grown up in.  I can remember being in my room, and the dad came and started vacuuming my room.  My mouth was wide open; I was shocked.  I had never seen a man vacuum before. And I was in my early 20's.  It's more of a continuum, I think; little by little, I knew that houses were not all like mine, but when that is all you know, it's hard to imagine things differently. 

Taking a class like this is a reminder of just how crazy things were for me growing up. With that comes the realization of just how far I have come.  Growing up in a household where there was crisis day in and day out, I literally learned to take care of the things that needed attention and just keep moving.  There is also this grief because of the things that people should have done for my family growing up, and everyone looked the other way. I could give pages and pages of examples.  

There are a few that come to mind that literally take my breath away.  First and foremost, when dealing with a crisis, you want to make sure that the person is safe and their needs are met.  But for me, after I told that I was gang raped, no one made sure that I was safe no one tended to my basic physical needs. Mentally, I was not ok; physically, I was not ok.   I don't feel like I mattered at all.  Everything was all about the adult's reactions and the chaos around me.  It was everyone saving their own ass, and I was left to figure things out.  There was no attention to what I needed at all.  I think of that counselor who sat there with all of her turquoise jewelry, her legs crossed in a knot.  She sat there letting my father scream, berate, and blame me for the entire session, then said maybe we should do this separately. Where was the care and concern in making sure that I was okay?  So much of what I am learning is things that I never received.  Things that should have happened. Ways that a girl who had been gang raped should be cared for, I never got those things. Things happen. You clean up and keep going.  You pretend that you are fine because the things that happen to you are things that happen to pretty popular girls. The things that happened don't happen to girls like you.  You just want attention; you are just lying. 

I was failed in every possible way. I know it was a long time ago, and things have changed. Laws have been created, and there is greater awareness. That doesn't help that 13-year-old girl that I was, who needed to be cared for. There is still this longing to have the things that I didn't get.  That is crazy to be almost 50; I would give almost anything to go back and be able to give her all the care and attention that she needed.  I guess that is why I always say I am going to become the care that I never got. 

I heart your heart. 

If Only you knew

 If only you knew

Would you still treat me the same

If only you knew

Would you still want to be my friend 

If only you knew 

that every day I wake up scared and afraid that this might be the day that I crumble

If only you knew 

that I take all your words to heart, would you be a little kinder

the bad ones more than good ones just so you know

If you only knew 

the pictures that I still see and the hands that I still feel 

Would you still be my friend 

If I said I wasn't fine, would you just be with me 

The nightmares and flashbacks feel like they are in the here and now

would you run, if I told you? 

would you Sit and listen?  talk to me like before? 

Can you handle my dark?  NO really!! I need to know

If you only knew just how dark it gets, would that matter?  

Would you take the time to listen if you knew just how not ok, that I felt sometimes. 

I heart your heart. 

Satisfies my soul

 

Oh, my heart. We watched this video today in my research class, and the tears started flowing.  Grad school is a place that I never imagined that fills a part of me that I didn't know was empty. Grad school is something I wanted before I even knew why I wanted it. This is a calling, a passion. It's something that is so far beyond any words that I have. Someday I hope to find the words, they may come later after I have received that doctorate. Yet they may come before. They may come at a time when I least expect it, but I know they will come. I have come so far in this world, and as heavy as my heart still is at times, there is this desire to help people change and understand trauma and its impacts. I want to help others see the things that they can't even begin to imagine. There is this purpose, this meaning that grad school has given to the terrible, awful things that life has thrown at me. Life was not kind nor understanding.  My life was cruel and unimaginable, yet I held on to the smallest speck of light for dear life. People survive life each and every day.  Some just do it and move on. Some decide to scream at the world that we can do things better.   I will write, I will share, and I will never stop speaking. People deserve better. Grad school satisfies a space in my heart that somehow soothes some of the pain.  I will cry, find joy and feel every moment of this journey. There is nothing more that I want in this world, and nothing that will stop me. 

                            I heart your heart

Just Sprout

 

Just sprout

You have come so far

Far from that dark place and still so afraid

Just a small girl who wanted to love the world

13 years, so much you could have never known

but evil had a different plan

This way and that

Up and down

Evil was all around

at home, at school, at church

No one to help

No one to care 

They all watched a drowning girl and called it God

I am so sorry you were not seen, believed or taken care of

You learned to doubt your worth and believe in their cruel words

you become smaller and smaller trying not to be seen

But there was always you 

I saw you

that girl who believed in dandelion wishes

that girl who noticed the sway of a branch and 

the softest song of the smallest bird

you who just wanted to be loved for who she was

A girl who loved the little things and wished for a soft place to fall

So many tried to steal your spark

but you held on with all that you had 

I know you are tired, your heart feels heavy

I know that for you the entire world is terrifying and unsafe

Still today after all this time

I have to tell you

JUST SPROUT

You are no longer alone

I have fought many battles and I am fighting for you

You deserve to be loved

You deserve to be safe

You deserve all the love and space and time 

to be exactly who you are

You amazing you is why I have to make a difference in the world

you deserved so much more

You try to stay so quiet, 

But you have a voice and it's ok to use it

You have a voice that I want to hear

You have a voice that is important and true

I am always here for all the words that are welling inside

Cry, feel , feel all that is inside, fight, do whatever it is you need

Always here and so proud that you are a part of me

I am you and you are me

I will always heart your heart.