Sadness of the Soul

 

Sara McLachlan: Better Broken 

I am learning that there are different types of sadness. It's hard to explain, but what I'm feeling lately is more than different from anything I've ever felt. That moment when you realize there was never really anyone on your side, and that feeling of being alone was because you were always left to your own devices to get through whatever happened to you. If you had asked me a few weeks ago, I would have always held some kind of hope that my mother loved me and, in her own way, cared for and wanted the best for me. With the shattering of that little piece of hope I had held onto, things are very different; there is a sadness like nothing else I have ever experienced. It's a sad experience on a soul level, one that's so deep and heavy, I find myself clinging to every little moment around me. I find myself thinking about the girl that I was at 13, and just how terribly she was treated, and she just kept going.  I have blamed her for so long, and with that no longer an option, there is a profound sadness in the way she has had to live her life. That she never received any care, that no one ever understood her heart, is truly painful. I am doing things so differently from how things were done in my life growing up, and I am ever so grateful.  In living life so very differently, there is a sadness that I never got to experience the same care, concern, and unconditional love.  It's a different kind of sadness that I'm right in the middle of, and it's really hard. I am tired of being alone.  I am tired of constantly reaching out and still feeling alone. It's an emptiness, never being seen, never receiving that long hug that holds a person together. You don't have people, celebrations, or a place where you can just show up and have someone sit with you, make you a cup of tea, and put on your favorite music. I have never gotten that experience. Everyone has their own family, and all I have is me. I have my children, but they are growing, have their friends, and are creating their own families, and I feel out of place. I don't know how it's possible for a person to miss something so much that they have never had. I have never had people. I have never had forever, and at times like this, the weight of that is crushing. There is so much to share with someone, and no one to share it with. Even in the things that will happen in the next few weeks, even after I present, I wish there were warm arms to rush to, to hold me, let me share my experience, and just be with me.  I will present, come home, like any other night, fix pillows, probably clean the kitchen. But it's not like any other night, and I will still be alone. Someday, I hope it will be different for me. 

I heart your heart 

She was such a cool kid

 She was a cool kid who never had a chance, and it's time that she took a breath, spoke all that she holds in her heart, and felt the entire world that has been waiting for her. You know I always say that I wanted the world to stop until we felt better, and you know what. My world did stop, and I have been waiting for her my entire life. I have been keeping her safe, and I am here now to take care of her. It's time that she laughed, she cried, she gets so fucking angry that the walls shake. She deserves that, and I am the only one who can give it to her. She has suffered so much heartache and pain. She has lost so much of what should have been given to her. She lost her childhood. She lost herself. She lost her voice and her worth. She lost so much before she even knew that she was supposed to have it. Yet there were some things that were never taken and never touched by the hands that tried to break her. 

She always kept breathing and never stopped being brave. She wanted to give up so many times, but thought just one more day would be enough and things would be ok. And another day turned into a week, which turned into a month, which turned into years, which brought her to this place today. She always smiled, appreciating the little things in life. She marveled at the little bird that found a puddle. She always stopped to catch a rainbow. She took care of others because it was the right thing to do. She felt the sun on her face and the breeze in her hair, and took it all in. She had a way about her that was never nurtured or appreciated. She lived life in a place between hope and the hell she knew. She believed that someday, somehow, someway things would be different. She spent her time alone; it was safer that way. That is when the tears flowed, and she held on to her stuffed animals and spoke about the horrors of her life. 

She had a heart of gold that wanted more for those around her. Whales saved her; gave her hope, and a connection that she had never experienced. It was the animals that she called her friends. They never hurt her, and they listened to her every word, and licked her tears when there was no one to hold her heart. 

This sweet girl was something so amazing, and no one saw that. She was everything Spunky, and wanted nothing more than to share her heart, be loved, and be seen as the amazing little spark that she was. 

She never knew any of that and is struggling to believe she is worth anyone's time and effort. She feels like a bother; she needs more than you can imagine.  It's hard to give a 50-year-old woman all that a 13-year-old never got.  She still tries to understand all the things for which there are no answers. She carries so much blame that was never hers to carry, and she can't figure out how to let it go. But it's not even that she needs to let it go.  It's intertwined and attached to every fiber of her being.  Some parts are just as attached to her as she is to them. She wants to reach out, to belong, but she is terrified; there is a belief that her fragile heart wouldn't make it through anymore hurt. I believe her. Her heart is so tender, and oh so delicate, even the little things are swords to her soul, and that is how she lives. 

Yes, I am still here waiting for her, preparing my heart for that part of myself that is so overwhelmed by life. As I move forward into following my dreams, I need her with me. She is a part of me that helped me survive, that kept breathing when we wanted to die. She forever saw the light in the darkest of the dark.  I owe it to her to keep going, keep fighting. Someday, I just know she will be beside me, and I can give her heart the kindness it longs for and that safe place she has never known.

I heart your heart. 

All the turtles are gone

 

So many thoughts, feelings and emotions. She was my mom and things should have been different. In the last week I have cleared my house of every turle. I have posted each and every thing, and each time that another one of her things has left the house, there is a lightness that fills the air. Finding her letter that she wrote as a goodbye to me has affected me more than i would like, and at the same time just gave me a great deal of information.  There was a part of me that felt more than guilty that I didn't miss her, that I didn't wish she wasn't dead. I was glad she wasn't here and relieved that I felt like i could finally breathe free. I had feelings about her passing, the sadness that I felt was for my son and my brother. There was not a single single piece of sadness for myself. My tears for myself were of relief and a sense of freedon. My tears were all the tears that I could never cry with her. My tears came from a relief that I never knew I so desperatly needed. I think that the letter she wrote left me with some questions, that I will never have the ansers for. I wish I knew why she hated me so, the things that were said in that letter were so very hurtful. For her to still have them, that tells me that she meant them, with all of the passion and hate that she wrote them with. Reading her words are heartbreaking, all I ever wanted was a mom who loved me no matter what. I just wanted to be loved for the child, girl and woman that I was. I think the letter that she wrote, toke what little hope tha I had, that maybe I meant something to her. I think that the sadness comes from never having that unconditional love and support. I guess maybe there is some work to do, I don't understand why she hated me so. Even though I was not sad, her words still more than hurt. 

That letter was closure to a chapter that I didn't even realize that I needed.

I heart your heart. 

When there were 5

 

I am sure this is one of those things that will forever and always be the most unimaginable, most evil experience in my entire life. I thought I was going to die that day, and there were moments that I thought I did. There were times that I heard them and was very far away, somewhere safe, somewhere anywhere but in my own body.  There were still other moments when I wanted to die; I just wanted the turns to stop and for one of them to end my life, finish me off because I could not survive anymore. There are times when I sit, and that day plays over and over in my mind, thinking about what I could have done differently. Fought harder, screamed louder, ran faster, and all the questions didn't change the outcome at all. Memory is such a strange thing; there are things that I remember so very clearly.  Yet, other things just go black, and there is nothing, no memory, no feelings, just nothing. 

I have spent so much of my life running from those things because there are still times when they are terrifying. I have already survived them, and yet sometimes it feels like I won't. I know that I have said all the words I told them as if it had happened to someone else, not as if it had happened to me. As if they all happened in some kind of global sphere, one that I have some insight into but am not a member of. It's in my heart and mind that I experience them as if I am trapped in that globe, and there's nothing I can do to get out.  I experience brief moments where I realize it's me from the outside, but I don't linger there. That is where that 13-year-old part of me is. She is there in the globe, trying to gain some sense of herself back.

Trying to gather herself, her thoughts, her heart.  She knows it's over, but some moments feel like it is still more than real. There are still moments when she sees things that happened to her and feels them in her bones. There are moments when the memories are so real that she freezes and has to remind herself to breathe. There have been numerous times in the last few weeks that I have literally been thrown back into certain moments, and all I want to do is crawl into a hole. Sometimes, I get lost in the fact that I did survive.  Somewhere in my brain, there is this thought: if it was really that bad, you wouldn't have made it out. I know in my heart that I made it, and I know in my heart that it was that bad.  My brain sees all the pictures, wants all the pieces, and wants to connect all the dots, and somehow, it won't be this huge, terrifying thing that could swallow me alive anymore. If I could figure out a few pieces, then I could move on.  Even if I could have all the pieces I do have in one place, then I would be ok. I know I have talked about it, and I don't understand why there is this fear that if I talk about it, feel it, and let it out, it will absolutely consume me. 

In my head I still repeat their names, don, chris, steve , mike and andy. don, chris, steve ,mike and andy. Over and over. So many times, I repeated that in my head, anything to focus on something other than what they were doing to me. Don was the most evil; he would try to make me cry, absolute evil, wanting them to do worse and worse things. If any of them had taken my life, it would have been him. I believe he tried, a few times, when it was a few of them at a time, hurting me.

I will never understand why he didn't just use the gun if he hated me so much.  He only used it to rape me; I wanted him to shoot and kill me, then I would never have to speak about what they had done, and I wouldn't have to remember.  Andy was different; he would tell them to stop. I felt that when I saw him, he was a person, not a monster. The other three all run into each other; I'm not sure I could even point them out if I saw them.   Andy was always last; he wasn't like the others and often didn't take his turn. In that hell, I have to believe that his kindness saved me. He didn't hurt me when I had been moved into the bedroom, he helped me, he cleaned me up, wiped my face. He was present. 

    There is so much unknown about my Bella. I remember so little, yet what I do remember is so very clear. I think that is a piece that will always hurt, a forever kind of ache that I am not sure there will ever be words for. Maybe years and years down the road, but now it is entirely too painful, and I can not add anything else to my plate. Then I become more than angry at myself that, all this time later, it is still that painful. She would be 37 37 years old, and I still remember those same pieces, but others are gone like a black hole. What happened to her? Why didn't anyone talk to me about it? There is no reason to go digging trying to find some information that is long gone. The people who did know are no longer alive, or I am not willing to speak to them.  I will always wonder who knew what happened to her, and why I was not given any care. To have that tremendous loss at 13, on top of the gang rapes and the other times that Don came to my home. It's no wonder I was quiet, withdrawn, and scared of everything. I had been taught my entire life that I was going to get hurt, and no one was going to do a damn thing about it. 

There is this pain and dread, that the feelings that I have about the gang rape will always be.  I think that the little 13-year-old girl inside of me will find her place in the world fighting for others, but there is a huge pause after that. She will always know the danger and violence that happened to her.   She will come closer to me, she will learn to breathe, but there is something lost that can never be found. Her peace will come when others are helped, and don't have to suffer like she did. Each time I speak, it is a moment when her voice is heard, and others realize they need to do things differently for survivors.  Even as a 50-year-old woman, that day takes my breath away. That day still holds power, it still evokes terror, and it still has the capacity to stop me in my tracks. I will always fight for the pieces of me that were taken, but I am also very aware that this day is different. This day is something I don't have words for, and I am unable to articulate all the feelings.  It would be more of an agonizing moan, constant while simultaneously the scariest silence a person could ever experience. I feel like the outside world was so loud and brutal, so inside I went away, making everything silent, because even when I thought I was screaming, no noise came out. Those screams were lost, and maybe when I can find those, then that spunky little girl can be free. Free to live, free to laugh, free to be safe in her own body. 

I heart your heart 

left Out

 

I wish that I had an understanding, a reason why. I see it all the time as a teacher. Those kids who are picked on when they are little are often the same ones who continue to be picked on and perceived as different throughout their entire lives. I have seen it so many times, and it's sad. It's sad, and I understand this more than I wished because I am one of those people. I think about it more on special occasions and holidays. I am not invited or included in special celebrations. There is always that, why? What is it about me that makes me uninvitable?  I have always understood that people have their own lives and families; I get it.  Well, it's just my little family and me; we don't have anyone else.  Never, on any holiday, are we included or invited. Never once on a holiday does someone think to ask if we are ok. We do all of them on our own.  Christmas, Thanksgiving, Easter, and the Fourth of July. Among all the special events throughout the year, there is just us. 

It was less noticeable when the kids were small. I made each and every one of those days special, and I made sure that every holiday was celebrated to the fullest. Special meals, special decorations, big dinners. Now that they are getting older, Vincent has his own family, and things are more than different. Mariska works most holidays, Vincent is with his family, and then there is me. Not a single person checks in, and there is no hello.  There are no picnics or barbecues.  There are no big dinners, with lots of laughing and sharing. There are no invitations for any kind of celebration, and it makes my heart ache.

What is it about those people who are picked on and seen as different that makes them so hard to include? I know I am different; I get quiet, I have strong opinions, and I see the world differently. My differences have never been celebrated.  My differences have never been a good thing. I even got a picture in Hobby Lobby that is perfect for this situation. 

Being excluded can be hard, and it becomes especially so as my children grow up.  Over the last few years, things have been changing. I don't want to make these huge dinners for two people. I don't want to get all excited and be the only one who is. So it's complicated and challenging. And I am so tired of doing things alone. I will take Mariska to work, then come home on this Fourth of July and clean up around the house, do some homework, scroll through my phone, and wait for the day to be over. I am tired of being the one who always reaches out; it would be nice for others to reach out, check on me, and invite me sometimes. I may not be that person. I just wish that I knew why.

I hear the chime of my phone going off, and I look; it's just another notification for some kind of Fourth of July sale - nothing about happy Fourth, how are you, or are you doing anything? I just need to turn it off; I don't need any more reminders.  I don't need any reminders that it's me, just me, on this day. 

I heart your heart.  

Ever Present

 

I don't know why I've felt exceptionally vulnerable over the last few weeks. It's like the past has made itself a resident again lately. I have become a pro at shutting it off, but I just can't for the life of me do that right now. There is a part of me that feels incredibly guilty, like, haven't I moved past this already?   I'm not a fan of feeling like I'm stuck.  I am working really hard and trying to do everything in my daily life that is necessary, but the overwhelm in my everyday life is very present. Finding that letter from my mother, to being asked if I am ok because of my tears, has taken a toll. Those things seem so insignificant, but somewhere in my head, they are not. Things that I have worked so hard to overcome, and yet there is another layer of 'Oh, crap, am I doing okay?' These little setbacks have become bigger than I imagined. In this, I am trying to accept that there will always be things that come up that bother me, that take me back for a few days. Just because that happens doesn't mean I'm going backwards or not doing well; it simply means I'm still affected. 

Sleeping has been extremely difficult, with so many nightmares.  I remember some of them, and yet others I don't know, but the feeling of being hurt is still there, and it feels extremely weighty in the morning. I wake up around 2 or 3 each night and barely get back to sleep before the alarm goes off for school. Sometimes it's terror, other times it's dread; either way, they are disturbing and awful. Sometimes it's actually me who is being hurt; other times it's a threat that I can't escape from. It's running a marathon with no finish line; you're told to just keep running, and maybe with some kind of luck, you will make it. I wouldn't know what to do with a full 8 hours of restful sleep.  I have not known that for my entire 50 years of life. I guess it's something that I should get used to by now. 

Then there are the flashbacks. Some of them stop me in my tracks and take my breath away.  They are so real and everything that I would like to forget. Sometimes I freeze, I know what's happening to me, and I feel far away. Other times, it is me, and those are the ones where I do anything to distract myself from remembering.  I will scroll through my phone or Netflix for hours, looking for something to make the things I remember less painful, hoping that the scrolling will make me forget. There are tears, and I can't believe the things I have lived through. I was just a girl, a little girl who carried so much. Music seems to be the thing that is bringing up so much. But I love music, and it makes me angry that even something I love is so affected by what was done to me. I hear songs and know I was abused during them. The music was my happy place when things were unimaginable. Living knowing that is really hard sometimes. My skin feels more sensitive than ever, and the slightest touch makes me cower. 

It is sometimes extremely hard being in the field that I am in. I get frustrated that I still have to deal with these things, like someone who is becoming a counselor should make these things easier for me.  I have done the hard work and will forever be healing, and sometimes that is more frustrating than anything else.  I am slowly coming to the realization that no matter how far I come in life and what I accomplish, my past will always be my past. There are going to be times when it rears its ugly head, and I will just breathe, put it to the side, and do what I was meant to do, dealing with my own heart later. I'm happy that I'm good at that, but sometimes I wish I didn't have to. It's hard sometimes, feeling like a fake because I still have work to do. We all have work, and perhaps I should be gentler on myself, but the areas I need to work on are those that bring me the most passion. What is that saying that your passion comes from your deepest wounds? I believe that with my whole heart. That doesn't make the personal side of it any easier. Healing while my heart is breaking. 

The things that have happened to me are here to stay. I can not change them, make them into anything different. I can say the nicer words make them sound prettier, but they are what they are. They were horrific, and they changed me forever. Maybe that is why they seem so overwhelming the last few weeks.  With finding that letter my mother wrote and much of that guilt fading away about my reaction to her death, maybe that gives me space to truly work on healing Spunky. There was always something holding her back, scared of breathing, terrified of being seen, being believed. Afraid to use her voice to express herself. I am not sure if she has ever been able to speak, not truly. Maybe now this is her time. For me, there seems to be this anger that I have never had before. That I was surrounded by people who should have stepped up and didn't. Everyone was out to save their own ass, over protecting me. Everyone was worried about their own needs, and what I needed was of little importance to them. Realizing that my mother played a role, played just as significant a role as my father in my abuse. Looking the other way, ignoring, pretending all things that added to my sadness and pain. I have fought for the tears that I can cry today. Someone questioning them brings a feeling of weakness, and my truth is that it is tough. I hate living with the trauma that I have lived, but I am no longer willing to let it control me and the person that I have become. I will use those things and help others. I will forever and always continue to fight so that other women don't have to sit at their computer spilling their soul with all the words she was never allowed to speak. I will keep fighting with every breath that I have to find that happy that I was never allowed to have. 

I heart your heart 

This moment

 

At this time and place, it feels like I am fighting to breathe. I have so many good things going for me, and yet the pull to the past can sometimes be so powerful. The nightmares pull me back, songs from the '80s pull me back, those moments of panic all pull me back. I am working so hard moving forward, and there are these ties that I can't seem to break. There are some chains that I hope will give me some slack; they come in waves, and this is a wave. A massive wave.  I was just listening to the TV today, and it was like song after song, there was this emotion welling up, this panic. I shut it off because I remember enough as it is, and I do not want to remember anymore. I have come to terms with the fact that there may be more that I don't remember, but that's okay with me. I remember enough as it is. 

It's frustrating when even listening to music is a trigger. I love music; when I don't have words, there is music. When I am happy, there is music; when I am sad, there is music; when I can't find words, I can find a song. It's hard to explain; a specific song will come in, and there's this void, almost, like I completely freeze. I hear the words of the song, but they are far away, and I am there, but I am not. I hear the words, and nothing else. It's like being in a dark room, and things are happening, yet it's too much, so you just focus on the music.  I know there are things in those moments, and I just want them to go away. I just need them to go away. There is no need to remember another thing. And I get more than angry at myself. I hear James in my head when I was really struggling, and he basically said that if nothing else had happened to me, then I should be fine. I hear him telling me that the nightmares and flashbacks are basically my choice.  So when these things happen, there is a bit of come on, Callahan, aren't you done yet? What's taking you so long, and why are you dwelling on things? So many good things are happening; let it go. If it were just that simple, shut the switch off on all your trauma. 

That may be the nature of the beast.  Perhaps, there will always be things that are attached to me. Maybe there will always be moments when it will rear its ugly head, and I will be stopped right where I am. With a history like mine that lasted so many years, with so many things overlapping, and twisting together, triggers are just something that happens. Believe me, if there were a switch, I would have found it, used it, and made sure it was no longer in operation. Nice thought, but we all know it doesn't work that way.  So I keep breathing, keep moving forward, just another step in my healing. 

I heart your heart.