I Feel nothing but hurt

 

I think that this quote sums up what it was like living with my mother. 
I think I am realizing more and more just how much she hurt me but how much she hurt my children in the process. She hurt them in very different ways, but the damage that she created is something I will never get over. I see her pictures and I literally feel nothing, there is this ache but nothing more. How she treated Mariska, so unkind. Her being a tattle tale almost. Nothing that she did was ever enough. She made Vincent her everything, making sure to drive that wedge between the two of us. I was always the bad guy, and she made sure to tell him that Mariska was always the favorite. I was the parent, but she led him to believe I was holding him back and not letting him grow. I can't imagine the things she fed him, but she did and it breaks my heart. 

This Mother's Day was just hard. Mariska worked, I didn't hear from Vincent till later in the afternoon, there were many many tears. I tried to keep myself busy, but there was a heaviness to the day. A part of me wishes that I did miss my own mom, but it just isn't there. I found a post from my brother, with a picture of him and her and the flowers that he got her one Mother's Day. I saw the picture and just stopped.  I can remember her saying that she liked the other flowers better. And yet here he is, years later posting that picture, like look at me and all that I did for my mom. It made me angry.  She was always playing both sides, she could never be nice to us at the same time. When she got home from the cruise, she called and said that she couldn't wait to get home to the kids and I that it was a long trip. And it was in the same month that she made him the sole beneficiary. Just so many questions and not enough answers. He was the hero of her story; Always.  He was unable to hear the true version even in her passing. My words were too much for him to hear.  He could gush and share, because that was his reality, the importance of the male.  I was being cold, and unable to share my reality of the situation. I can remember the relief that I felt that day and every day since, I could not imagine living the way that I was. The growth that I have made since that day, is just extraordinary. 

She was unable to see the woman that I was and refused to take responsibility for anything that happened in my life. I was the angry one the one holding grudges, not once was there ever an acknowledgment of what I had been through in my life. Makes me think of the counseling session where she said Well at least he wasn't in bed with me. That makes my blood boil. How dare her say that out load in a room full of people, if that was too my face what did she think when I wasn't around. This mothers day there was this feeling of intense anger, that I don't miss her, and that she was not kind to my children.  Mariska and I are able to talk, and vent and share how we saw things and what our experiences were.  My mother put Vincent in a bubble feeding him all untruths about me and his sister and my intentions.  She got in the middle of us whenever she had a chance, and all of that came to the surface on Sunday. I ended the day just going up to bed and crying myself to sleep. I felt terrible for both of my children and the situation that they were in. Since Vincent becoming a dad, he is opening up, it is going to take time. She did a lot of damage, and for a long time he believed her lies, I hope as he watches me with Amelia, he will learn who I truly am and the intentions that I have always had, wanting the best for them always. 

It is a little scary honestly, that I don't feel more for her.  The hurt is so deep and that it affected my children so profoundly is not ok. Mariska and I are open and talk about what it was like. Vincent is slowly peeking his head out, in time I hope we can have those conversations and he will be able to heal and see that I love him with my whole heart. 

I heart your heart

She Doesn't Breathe

 

For homework last week, I was asked to think about my breathing. I laughed, but I will never forget my homework or just not do it. Breathing is one of those things necessary for life. For me, breathing is being seen, which is not good. Often, I realize that I stop breathing. When I stop long enough to focus on breathing, the panic that sets in is something so overwhelming that I could run laps around any Olympic runner. I am terrified to breathe and be in my own skin.  I realized recently that I don't think Spunky breathes at all. I am pretty sure that she stopped breathing because that was just the easiest thing for her to do. It's easier to stop breathing than to acknowledge what is happening to you. I can't talk about it because I don't have the breath to get the words out.  The words require air and deserve the light, but for Spunky, there was no air or light. It is unbelievable to me that I sit down to write and have to take an intense breath because I have forgotten to just breathe. 

There is a presence to breathing that I have to work on for Spunky. If I want her to walk in that door and sit beside me, I have to be prepared to breathe through whatever it is that she needs to say or feel. She has often been called a tough cookie and I have to say that I agree. She is gentle, she is brave, she longs for safety and a place that she can feel like home. She has never belonged anywhere even in her own skin. She is scared to take up space, scared that she is a burden and terrified that if she does trust she will eventually be left again. She is fragile in a way, that is precious.  Her heart has been shattered and each and every time she gathers the pieces trying to make it whole again. There is a realization, that some pieces are never going to fit or have a place but that doesn't make her any less then. 

I am trying to be more aware, I am trying to focus more on the breathing, but it's terrifying in the worst ways. I have worked so hard to find my voice but am terrified of hers. Maybe she will be stronger than me, maybe she will speak with such clarity and resolve, that I will be speechless.  I want the world for her, and am working on it. I will continue to work, to focus on what she needs and what I can do to make her comfortable, make her safe and make breathing something that she is no longer afraid to do. 

I heart your heart. 

I hate special days

 Its Mothers day. I am laying in bed and I can't stop crying. I picked Mariska up from work at 8 pm , I just grabbed laundry and went upstairs when we got home. No dinner no acknowledgment, just nothing. Just another ordinary day alone doing the laundry cleaning and doing all the things that need to get done.  Mariska got flowers yesterday and balloons, she had a special gift. I don't for a second want to disregard that. What she did was wonderful. I even said to her, I wish she could stay home. I knew I would be alone and doing all the normal things I have to do on Sundays. She made breakfast before I had to start the laundry for the day, this morning. Once she went to work, it was just another normal Sunday. Me alone doing all the things that have to get done.

I can't even tell you how much I hate special days. Days that are supposed to be special be different. So many special days I end up hurt and disappointed. I wish I could just throw any and all expectations out the window when it comes to days like this. I dread these days more than you could imagine. I reach out, telling everyone to have a great day, saying all the things that I wish someone would say to me. I get some responses, I am not one that anyone reaches out to. I hate that it even bothers me, I just wish I was thought about, the way that I think about others. I texted Shelbi and she said they would be coming soon. That was before noon. I heard nothing from Vincent until late afternoon saying they were doing dinner at 8. I was hurt. After all day, there isn't consideration or making things special or any kind of acknowledgment for me.  I said maybe Mariska would want something. Then silence. I asked if they were still coming. It was already 8:30 and he was still in Mckinney. I have work tomorrow, there is no telling what time he would have showed up.  So I folded and put away, and went to bed crying. I just hate these stupid days, its just more heartbreak for me and that's the Last thing I need. I hate celebrations, I hate special days, for me they aren't special, and I end up heartbroken. 

SO ANGRY

 

I am beyond angry to the point that my hands are shaking, and I can't even see straight. It's the end of another semester, and I put my heart and soul into everything I turn in and every required response. One big final paper, a 20-pager, was one that I wrote and re-wrote every word so that there was an understanding.  They wanted an autobiography talking about stages and theories of the entire life span.  I poured my heart and soul into this paper.  I looked this after noon; they had been graded, and I received a 100. Great right? NO, not great.  There were no comments, no thoughts, no nothing.  I don't know what I was looking for, but I got nothing.  I would have rather gotten a 50, and at least had comments as to why. I wanted a thank for your honesty, I wanted a thank you for being transparent and for showing up.  I wanted something to know that my professor had read and understood a part of me and why I am here. I wanted an acknowledgment that she saw the heart and energy I gave that paper, yet I got nothing. It takes nothing to give someone a positive comment about something that obviously means the world to them. 

That is one part of being in this graduate program that doesn't make sense to me.  They say how vital Trauma and Grief work is, yet when I bring it up, they tell me I am not competent enough. I found a fantastic article, but they say I am not ready. I share from my heart why this work is just that important to me, and I am shut down at every turn.  I understand that this is not a Therapy session, I know that this is a place of learning. That is precisely where I am coming from, a place of learning. I have so much knowledge that I want to share, but they are not willing to let me share it. I want all of these therapists in training to learn and do things differently. If we can't learn from real Trauma and what that is, what in the world are we doing? They have no idea how competent I am, and how dedicated I am to making a difference for trauma survivors.  Yet, every chance I am shot down and silenced. A graduate program is one place where silence is the enemy.  So you teach us all these things and expect us to keep going.  They fail to see that we are humans coming into this program with Trauma histories and things to share that are important for others coming into the field to hear. I am not bringing my trauma into the program; I have lived the trauma, I am healing, and I have a lot of things to say about how we should be treated. I understand that there is a great deal I don't know; I have a long way to go.  But this program is missing all that I have to offer and the knowledge that I have because of the life that I have lived. Once in my very first semester, my very first class, actually. There was an acknowledgment of who I was as a person, an acknowledgment of me and what I have been through. We were speaking about different client populations, and I commented that I would not work with offenders. I was a little hot-headed. Maybe a little too loud.  That is a population that I would not have a connection with.  I was almost infuriated at the entire conversation, really, I expected to work with a population that wounded others.

After class, I was working on my work, and my professor was in the room. I asked him a question. I don't even remember what it was specifically, but it had something to do with the offender population and how I could do that. How could I be a good therapist for them? He looked at me and asked if I had experience with that. I stopped for a second, the air leaving the room, tears running down my face, and I said yes. He told me to look up wounded healer and let him know my thoughts. I did find research articles and emailed him with all that I found, but there was no response; however, there was an acknowledgment of where I was coming from.  I know that he said other things, but there was an acknowledgment, he saw ME. I have not been given that since.  I researched, looked it up, and found a place where I fit.  I didn't expect counseling; I have my own therapist. 
I was just sharing from exactly where I was, and he saw me. 

In my group counseling class, I asked what we would discuss.  She made a snide remark that this wasn't a processing group for any kind of Trauma.  I never said it was, I was just asking about topics and parameters. If graduate school isn't a place where you can speak about trauma and its impact, where can we talk about it?  It feels like this hush-hush topic is off limits, but it keeps getting talked about as something so fundamental.  It can't be both ways. You can't keep telling me how important this work is, yet expect me not to share the voice I have worked so hard to get. 

This program has filled a hole in me that I didn't even know existed.  It has filled me with things that I have been longing for. They need to make a difference and do things better for others. I have come further than I ever imagined.  I am doing this because it matters and is more than important to me. I come to each and every class and give my whole heart to them, and these are more than just classes to get me to graduation. These classes prepare me for clients I will meet who need someone to walk on their journey with them. 

I need my professors to see my passion for this work. I need them to see who I am and why this is so important. I want them to see and know me.  I want them to understand me as a person. This degree is more personal than anything I have ever done. I am not going to let them steal the passion that I have for trauma. I won't let them keep pretending that this is something that we can't speak about.  As counseling professionals, this is something that we should be loud about; we should be screaming from the rooftops, so that when trauma comes up, it is not shoved to the side but acknowledged and valued.  The insight that I have, that they are trying to conceal, is heartbreaking. I understand that I am a counselor in training, but I bring to the table experiences that they don't even want to understand. The insight I want to share is bursting from every cell in my body!!! This is more than a class, more than a grade, more than a means to an end. This is a drive and passion to make the road easier for others like me. 

Maybe it's time we stopped walking on eggshells and did the right thing. Be a little kinder, move beyond what is right to say, and just say what needs to be said. Just talk about the things that need to be talked about. 

I heart your heart. 

What does done look like ?

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

                

                      I heart your heart.  

Not everyone makes it

 

Today, there was a huge realization and sadness for me.  I woke up to the news that Virginia Giuffre, who was victimized by Jeffrey Epstein and Prince Edward, had committed suicide. I read the news and was heartbroken; it reminded me that the damage is done, and recovery often can take a lifetime.  She stood up for herself, she used her voice, she made a difference, and yet she ended her own life.  Of course, there may have been a thousand other things going on, and there are things that we don't know about her life. 

For me today, it was just a different kind of sadness because not everyone who fights or strives to do the right thing comes out on top. I often get more than frustrated with myself, that I am still so affected by what happened to me. I can acknowledge that I have come a really long way, but there are times when I am so tired of the hurt, the pain, the replaying of the past, the pictures, and the way that I am still so affected. I still have moments where I am thrown back to that time when I was a terrified 13-year-old who would have done anything to survive. I hate the dreams that make me feel I was raped yesterday, and I hate the memories that I see every detail of.  I replay what people said to me, and it still breaks my heart every single time. I question myself and wonder if it was really that bad.  Was I making a mountain out of a molehill?  Was I really that innocent?  I repeatedly play people's words in my mind, and think, did I really mean that little? 

In my heart, deep down, I feel that I am a survivor. I am not, nor have I ever been, a victim. I have fought my entire life. I always roll with the punches and keep going. For my healing, things have gotten piled and piled, and life happens, and more gets piled, and I am forever and always trying to dig myself out.  I have done the hard work, and there is less digging. The fact is, digging is digging, and sometimes, I just need a break. I look at Virginia, her strength, courage, and willingness to do the hard and right things; she is a light that the world no longer has, and I am heartbroken.  What made us so different? Why do I keep fighting?  Why did she decide she could not fight anymore? I know I will never stop fighting; I have to fight for the girl I was at 13. That girl who so badly wanted to be loved and belong.  I will forever fight for her, and someday we will be arm in arm, fighting together, ensuring that those who come after us know that life can be better.  We will keep fighting until each girl, boy, woman, and man can stand in their truth and be proud of themselves for surviving. 

Virginia's death is a reminder that there were times I could have made a different choice, even on the days when I didn't want to go on, there was something that kept me going. There will always be something to keep me going: my children, my granddaughter, and the clients I will have in the future. Spunky will keep me going because she deserves so much more than she ever got in this life.  Together, these things keep me fighting. To make a difference, the drive and passion that I have are something that I just can't control. There is a hole in my heart, but fighting fills that hole, knowing I can make a difference for others. Virginia, I want to give you this huge hug and make it better, but I can't do that. So I will keep fighting for you and for all of us, until the world is a much safer place for all of us. 

I heart your heart.  

Where to begin

 

Today was the first day since last Thursday that the tears slowed down. Today, I am overwhelmed and heartbroken. I am terrified to sit and start writing because I fear the tears will begin again. Life has been a whirlwind since last week, and I need some kind of playbook, some direction, and some answers for what I am supposed to do. I am so tired of being left out, left behind, and never considered. 

I knew that something wasn't right when the baby bassinet showed up, but I didn't get an answer. Then, not coming home for two straight days and seeing that Vincent was at the hospital. Vincent finally came home Thursday evening, and he came and sat on the couch in the library, Something he never does. I asked him what was going on, but he said nothing. I told him how much I loved him, but he just shook his head, saying nothing. He could not speak the words. I asked him, Vincent, are you a dad? and he said yes and started crying. There were so many things running through my head. I wanted to know everything: was it a boy or a girl, what her name was, and when she was born. I wanted all the details. She was born on Tuesday, March 26, at 12:22, weighing 6'4 and 18 inches long. Her name was Amelia May Ann Callahan. I was a grandmother and had already missed out on celebrating her first moments. My heart was everywhere and nowhere and bursting all in the same second. I wanted to understand why Vincent never told me, never let me in on this part of his life. In those seconds, I was just literally crushed.  I was a grandmother and didn't even know it. I missed gender reveals, baby showers, and all the things that I would have been so excited to be a part of.  I missed it all. I wanted to know when I could meet her.  So I went and picked Mariska up at work, and Vincent took a shower and got more clothes.  I followed him there; she literally lives not even 5 minutes away. 

I went to pick Mariska up at work, and we got home, waiting for Vincent to be ready. There were so many thoughts, and the weight in the room was great. I would be meeting my granddaughter for the first time. I was a nervous wreck, and I just could not get there fast enough. I walked in, and her dad answered the door. I said hello, gave him a hug, saw her mom, and gave her a hug. And there they were sitting in the recliner. My grandaughter Amelia May-Anne.  She was everything perfect. She had Vincent's nose. Of course, there were so many tears. I had only met Shelbi one other time, when we went out to dinner. I told her parents that I didn't know.  I kept saying that over and over; I just didn't know. Shelbi offered me to hold her right away, and I was more than grateful.  I cried, and I held her, pouring my heart into her.  I couldn't even sit down; I just stood there looking at every little detail, taking all of her in.  

Then I asked Shelbi's mom if I could see her first pictures, and she pulled out her phone and scrolled through screen after screen of pictures, and my heart broke. I was thinking about all the things that I didn't get the chance to be involved in. I was already more in love with Ms.Amelia and was heartbroken that I never got to celebrate her. I didn't even know about her until a few hours ago. I walked into that house and felt like such an outsider.  Even Mariska had known for months, since October.  Her Grandfather saw her in Walmart and asked why she wasn't at the gender reveal or the shower.  She had no idea what he was talking about until he said You know, for Vincent and Shelbi.  That is how Mariska found out. So many things that I missed out on, getting to be a part of.  Maternity pictures, showers, sonogram pictures, just all of it, that I never got to be a part of.  

I hold her, cherishing every second, and then that ache is still there. Of course, there are the thoughts that once outsider always an outsider. I am sure that all of her people have thoughts and wonder where his mom is and why she isn't around. Once again, so many much-missed opportunities that are just heartbreaking and seem to be a major theme in my life.  

I don't know how to do this and be a grandmother and see her and do all the things. There is no manual for this, and I so want there to be. I want to see her all the time and be so involved, and since they are living at her house, that is more than hard. I can not come over anytime that I want, I can not be there and love on her just because that I want to I have to ask and make sure that it is a good time, that it's ok, so many things to experience and I want to be be there for every single one of them. I have to figure out all of those pieces.   Vincent said in a text about coming over any time.  I texted back, letting him know that wasn't an option, I can't do that, I don't get to see her when I want.  I get to see her when it's ok with everyone around her. So much is so complicated.  

For me, a lot comes up, Vincent's genes and my assault, and do they know that? Have they ever asked him about his side?  What about Amelia? Will she ever ask what I will say? Will what happened to me ever be a topic? I just don't know. So many unknowns, and my heart is heavy and exhausted. 

He is such a good dad. He is so very gentle with her. He holds her and gets close to her little face. He is gentle with her socks, diapers, and everything little. How he holds her, the kindness- pretty amazing to watch. 

So many things to figure out. So much to learn about how all of this is going to work. I want to be there all the time, and that just isn't an option for me, so I am there every second that I can, that he wants me, that he invites me. I love her with my whole heart, with all that I am from the second that I found out. Ms.Amelia ,there are so many things that I can't wait to do with you. I already have great plans for her room, for pictures for a bed, I have books, and animals and so many amazing beautiful things that I so look forward to sharing with her. 

Mariska is awesome with her, I am in awe watching how she speaks to her, how they interact. She loves her with her whole heart.  She is going to be the most amazing aunt ! 

Lots of new things, so many things to figure out and find meaning for.  It has only been two weeks, and it's still all sinking in. I hope her mom Kayla and I can do lunch; I feel like there are so many things to talk about. Since Shelbi is her daughter, I feel like so much rests on her little did she know, I am more than happy to help carry the load. I hope in time we can get to know each other better. Her first texts were amazing and welcoming, telling me I am a part of the family. That is hard to hear. I want to believe it, but only time will tell.  I am not a part of the family; I am not one of their people. I want to jump all in, believing it, but I am the one that will be left alone, and I can't do that.  I have to see what happens as time goes on and relationships are built. 

I am proud of Vincent and love Amelai more than words. There are so many things that can't even fit in the post. Some things just can't be spoken. Amelia, I heart your heart. Vincent, you mean the world to me. Shelbi, I hope you can let me in and be the grandmother that I so long to be. 

I heart your heart. Here's the very first picture I took the night that I met her. 

My whole heart