Ponderings

There are so many things I wish for but don't know how to obtain. I worry that he isn't happy. I worry that he regrets choosing me as a mate. I look in the mirror and wonder if he sees the same person that I see. What does he see? How does he feel? I really don't know. When I ask, I feel like it is lip service--just his opinion of what he thinks I would like to hear. Have I always been so filled with doubt? I do not know. Mayhaps.

I know that he would like me to laugh and smile more. Sometimes I think I do not know how. I am sure that he would like to hear joy in my voice as opposed to the constant drone that I am. I wish these things for myself, also. I know that I struggle with depression on a daily basis and that I am often flat. It is hard to live with; I face my own reflection.

I would love to be smiles and rainbows, but it feels false when I try. I guess sometimes I find her, hidden in the gloom--but it is a side he rarely gets to glimpse. She lives in water and moonlight; she emerges when exploring new territory; she is mother nature's child and is not likely to be glimpsed within man-made walls. If perchance she does emerge, it is with mischief and pranks, a side he seems to curl away from.

Despite our compatibility, we are still very different. He is very intellectual, which my soul has craved and begged for in a man since day one of my existence. Yet, I fear I let him down on my end. He is up-to-date on current events and such. I am so far removed that I could not even tell you what is playing in the theaters at the moment and if you tried to tell me, I wouldn't know who any of the actors or actresses even were. He is video games and technology. I have bonded with my wii fit; but otherwise, beyond the original Nintendo I never stepped. He is loving and giving of himself. I belong on a deserted island with my books.

Yet I hear in him, some of myself. I know he has been wounded by love, but he still openly gives again and again. I will, at times, ask him questions seeking an honest answer and he pauses and chooses his words as one who has fallen into word traps in the past. Other times, he responds as though my statement was only to entice words of love or praise from him. From these little things that he is most likely unaware, a pause here, a break there--I feel his scars under the surface. I seek no games. Yet he treads as if expecting landmines. Have I caused this damage or is this his own carry-over? I can not quite tell.

Communication is such a difficult task with any human, it seems. So often, I have felt as though my words have been twisted and misused, tainted by interpretation in brains expecting different messages or preferring different ones than I set forth. Truly, we speak expecting to be understood, but how often is our message truly received as we intended? 75% of the time? 50% of the time? I guess much depends on the individual on the receiving end. Some of my friends understand without me uttering a word; others, no matter how I spell it out, seem to speak a foreign language.

I must confess, this was not the direction that I set forth on. It is odd how I begin these with something on my mind and finish with something entirely different when I look back at it. I came on here with praise and love for my current fellow. He amazes me day-in and-day-out. He is patient beyond any other I have ever met. He is perfect for me in so many ways and I never fathomed that I could love a partner as I love him--but yet I worry. Do I please him in return? Is he happy? And if I were a good partner, would I not know the answers to such?

I fear that I am selfish to his selflessness. I fear that I am melancholy to his sunshine. I fear that I am steampunk to his cybergeek. I fear that I am the wind and the trees to his walls and floors. I fear that he must be frustrated. I fear that he must regret this union. I fear that it is not possible to love me. I fear loving him and being hurt. I fear losing him. Daily, I fear. What if he is in an accident? Would he know how I felt about him? Would I ever be able to move on without him? I know it sounds sick, co-dependent, just wrong on all levels.

I am independent. I am a hermit. Destined to be a spinster without the cats. How did he get in? How is it that I worship the ground he walks on? How is that healthy? How do I not let it freak me the heys out? I don't feel worthy of someone like him. Too good to be true. That scares me, too. I think mayhaps we grow accustomed to love hurting and breaking us--or mayhaps we become accustomed to life pulling the rug out from under us as soon as we feel comfortable.

Not to say that it is all sunshine and roses, but well, on this end, it truly mostly is...

How do I compete with that? How can I even be half of what he is to me? I never dreamed that I would find someone like him. Now that I have, how do I step up to meet him? Is this part of finding one that fits? An aching desire to be the best you can be? Don't get me wrong, I regularly attempt to better myself and strive to reach my full-potential in life--but this is on a different level. These are parts of myself I thought were okay--but now, I am not sure.

I guess it changes when there is no ability to retreat--to heal and gain energy--he sees me in all states--there can be no mask. No facade. He's sees me as the naked, vulnerable human that I am. Day-in, day-out--he sees me. In my irritability. In my waves of confusion. In my sorrow. In my many moods; he is there. How can one not feel intimidated when they are beside one that seems strong as a rock? I pray that I can be the better person that I aspire to be--for both of us. I pray that he can ride out the wave I am until then...

Trust

I know we aren't supposed to blame our current partners for things past partners have done, but how do we freely give trust and of ourselves when so many have crushed and manipulated us in the past? I really could use an answer here.

For six years, I lived with one who hit me on a regular basis. He also had difficulties with being faithful. He would simply leave out little details--"Oh just the guys and I tonight, I know you have lots of schoolwork, so I'll catch up with you later. Love you." Later, I would find out that he omitted one simple piece of the equation--the other flavor of the week. Sometimes he wouldn't come home for days. Sometimes he would call and there would be giggling in the background. Sometimes he would have scratches on his back and other odd places--"Oh, those must be from when Bill got his Jeep stuck." It wasn't that I was stupid. It wasn't that I didn't know he cheated on a regular basis. I didn't have proof and he denied cheating.

My two year fellow, that ended with a three year PFA, was even worse. He would blatantly flirt with any other female in our presence and cut me down the entire time. That was my fault; I should have never tolerated such treatment. But he was flirtatious by nature and I tried to get used to it, much as it hurt. And with that alone, maybe I could have eventually adapted. What stung the most was the ex-girlfriend that he claimed was still "just a good friend." He even persuaded me to befriend her since she was such an important part of his life and "such a good person." Good people don't befriend the new girlfriend while still sleeping with the boyfriend they cast away--or do they? I don't know anymore. That entire relationship was a web of lies. But again, he denied cheating and convinced me that I was paranoid.

Not that they were the only ones that cheated. Many of my relationships ended because of such. Often, the "other woman" was one of my friends. So I guess there is a double slam there and extra added trust issues, but it is reality, is it not? I know we all have our battle wounds here. So again, I ask, how do we freely give our trust? Especially when we started out trusting the others and ignored the little voice telling us that something wasn't right? How do we trust when the little voice is no longer intuition but just lingering residue of badness?

Emotional scars are the worst, in my opinion. It seems they never truly heal. Perhaps that is because the new people in life, more often than not, not only tear open the old wound but add their own fancy design to the work. I want to trust. I want to relax and not make myself crazy. But it is so much easier said than done. The fortress around my heart still exists, no matter how much I try to melt it. I don't believe this one would hurt me, but I didn't believe it of the others either...

Boulders in the Fertile Ground

It was the day after Thanksgiving, two years ago, that I made my escape. That day triggered the events that led to a downward spiral that I never saw coming and still struggle with moving beyond.

My mother had a stroke with her final pregnancy. She was diabetic, had high-blood pressure and had lupus. Not only did my father want her to get an abortion (for alternate reasons), but the doctors highly recommended it. She decided against this and she suffered a minor stroke when she gave birth to my youngest brother. It primarily affected her short-term memory but she lost other pieces of her memory also.

I am not sure what happened to me, mentally, in some pieces of my life two years ago. Is a stress-induced stroke possible? I feel like my ability to speak suffered and sometimes I am sure that part of my brain is blocked, locked or simply gone. At the time, I felt like I had to relearn everything--simple, everyday things that I had always taken for granted before. I can't explain since I really am not entirely sure what happened. All I know is, I now struggle greatly with my memory--both short-term and surrounding many of those events. Some of it is the blocking/mental protection that surrounds trauma--some of it I can't logically explain. It is as though some of the doorways in my brain have shut and struggle as I may--I cannot figure out how to open them again.

Two years later, I am almost functioning as a "normal" person again. Leaving that relationship was the best thing I could have done for my self-preservation. The events that transpired due to my leaving, however, were almost my destruction. After my father made the choices that he did and the people in my life that I loved, became bent on my destruction--my sanity waned. At the time he had the police come for me, I felt that my life was in a better place that I was healing and liking the new "more positive" me so much better. I had been given a new lease on life and I was eager to make each day the best that it could be. My family decided that this "change" did not suit them--that I should be sad that the relationship with my ex was over--that my happiness and new found laughter was the work of the devil, drugs, or insanity. They decided that they knew what was best for me and a "family" vote determined that commitment to a state hospital was in my best interest.

My father took the steps necessary to have me committed. Police, handcuffs, evaluation by my colleagues. What he didn't realize, despite me repeatedly telling him, was that I wasn't doing anything wrong; I knew my rights; and he had no ground to stand on. I don't think he realized that I would be able to access a copy of his 302 report. As a therapist myself, and years in the mental health field, I did know my rights and immediately obtained a copy of the statements he made in an attempt to have me put away.

Devastating enough were the events that occurred prior to obtaining my PFA against my boyfriend. Devastating enough were the pleas to my father to listen; to help me. I was scared. I only got the same answer each time, "that is between you and ....." He added his own special flavor of terrorizing me to the mix and called it love. Before the day of handcuffs, I was sure I would be okay. To be taken from my own property against my will and without reason pushed my mental capacity beyond its limits. How could I possibly feel safe again when there was no way that ever should have been permitted to occur?

When I sat in that hospital bed waiting for my drug tests to come back negative, when I read the statements that my father made about me, how could I not feel betrayed? To learn what a parent thinks of us, to know that he didn't know how to properly spell my name, did not know my actual age, did not know my birthdate--yeah, jacked up. To learn that your parent either lied in all kinds of crazy manners in an attempt to have you put away for the remainder of your life or worse, actually thinks and believes those accusations--what does that do to the self-esteem?

I am not sure which pieces led to my breaking. But broke, I did. I could no longer do simple tasks. My brain quit. Simple things: routine shower habits would end with me not remembering if I washed my hair or getting out of the shower to find I hadn't shaved; getting dressed, would lead to an hour of standing in front of my closet not sure what I was doing; simple functions were no longer simple. I wondered about dementia. I wondered about a stroke.

One of my closest friends stepped in and flew me to see her for a month. I think she knew that I was on the verge of collapse. I remember just even trying to pack for that trip and not being able to figure out what to do. The fear that I wouldn't be able to successfully make it through the airports and that I wouldn't be able to figure out the plane transfers--a trip I had done so many times in my life. Even there, with her support, I felt fragmented--a hollow shell--like my inner-essence was gone. I couldn't start simple conversations, I couldn't hold conversations--broken. Simply broken.

I no longer felt safe anywhere. I couldn't do my own grocery shopping. I would park in the closest spot I could find to the entrance and then spend an hour in my vehicle crying and watching over my shoulder. As spots nearer the entrance opened, I would move my vehicle to within dashing distance--I would go in, grab a few essentials and then sit in my vehicle crying for another hour until I had gathered enough strength to drive back home. I was terrified to have vehicles driving behind mine. I would pull over until they all passed me and start over when the line regrew. I couldn't go anywhere without taking my dog. When my father came to my house, she knew my fear and his anger--I knew she would protect me after that.

"Normal." I was always so independent. I thought I was strong. I found out that that can all be taken away so quickly. It has taken me so long to return to a functioning state. But I still feel like my brain hasn't entirely returned. Absent-minded? Memory lapses? I am not sure how to describe it. It was like moving through a thick fog and taking one tiny step at a time. Or maybe trying to swim through a pool of black sludge would better define it--not being able to tell if I was swimming to the surface or swimming towards the bottom--but desperately running out of air. I am much closer to the person that I was prior to the day of handcuffs than I was then, but the brain still hasn't opened completely back up.

Two years later, I still sort out the pieces. I try to make sense of the events that occurred; try to let go of the pain and try to reestablish trust and faith in others. This, unfortunately, is not occurring as easily as I would like. I still struggle with anger at the individuals in my life that I trusted at that time--I struggle with the choices I made that granted them so much influence in my life--I struggle with the manners in which I let myself be taken advantage of--I struggle that I have never confronted those people and struggle with my still wanting to confront them when I know I should just let bygones be bygones. I regret so many things that I know I just need to let go of and move beyond. It is difficult though when I examine the nature of those relationships and realize how stupid I was in my trust and faith.

I guess we all have those situations in which we trusted, loved and gave of ourselves to the wrong people. Some of the people I trusted with my heart and I am still deeply scarred by those wounds. Some of them, I miss who I believed that they were. I recognize now that my faith in them was generous and should never have been given and that is my error. But it doesn't seem to diminish the pain involved with their betrayal--it only makes me question my own judgment in the people I allow in my life.

Some of those people are still in my life and I struggle with wondering if I should ever confront them. Is it better to let them question why we now have distance in our relationship; for them to wonder why I keep them at arm's length when at one time they were within my essential circle of life? Does it hurt them? Anger them? Do they even notice? Perhaps they believe that I am just too busy for them or have allowed other parts of my life to eclipse our relationship. Should I grant them the opportunity to make amends, to share why they chose to make the decisions that they did? Or would idle excuses simply increase my anger? I know that some of these are bridges that I do not wish to burn--that the relationships will never return to their former innocence and love--but will evolve into some form of simpler relationship. Some of these people are simply now a part of my past--a lesson learned.

I am not sure how to understand. I have not yet mastered forgiveness. I still wonder how to make sense of who I am now and wonder if these pieces of my past will eventually shape into positivity. I wonder when the doors will reopen. I wonder if I will ever feel normal or safe again. I wonder when these boulders will be gone and if I have the strength to remove them...

EDICIUS

When I look back at all of my own failed attempts, I realize that I survived for two reasons.

First, I am able to relate to the feelings that many of my clients carry--the hopelessness, struggling to face each day, and trying to overcome depression that crushes the spirit. I, too, have walked in those shoes and know that just "putting on a happy face" does not make it all go away. I think that having lived through those emotions makes it much easier to sympathize with what my clients face.

Second, I help many people that have lost others to suicide. I work with families and individuals that have lost loved ones to suicide. Sometimes they are unable to understand what drives another to such lengths. I do know. My own losses and surviving also enable me to offer ways to cope and proof that it is possible to move forward again. I know that there is no timeline for grief and my own pain and tears may sometimes surface when working with families, but also assures them that I have been there and do not take their pain lightly.

Sometimes life does not feel possible. Sometimes grief is overwhelming. All that I can do is use my own experiences to ease the pain others are suffering through. Sometimes it is all any of us can do. It isn't always easy to see the positive when we are in the middle of the heartbreaks, but time does heal and if we can use these sorrows to help others, then we are doing what we were meant to. So much of the human experience is reaching out and guiding others when they fall. While my own heartbreaks have been many and at times seemed impossible to move beyond, I am still grateful that those life lessons help me to be a better person and that I can use them for good.

We had a young man commit suicide in our community, this week. He just turned twenty and touched so many lives in his short time on Earth. I remember him from working with other kiddos in his classes when he was in fourth, fifth and sixth grade. I remember him as being quiet, polite and overall, a nice kid. I ran into him again this past Halloween and didn't realize it until after he committed suicide. It is so hard to make sense of.

I dreamed about him the night it happened. I dreamed that I took him to visit his younger sister and they were hugging, smiling and posing for pictures together. From there, we went to his memorial service. He was on a stage, singing, but the other visitors were unable to see him or hear him. The song was beautiful and he explained what drove him to suicide and at one point, John Lennon joined him in the singing. Johnny Cash was also involved in the memorial. I woke up shortly after and found myself unable to back to sleep.

I don't know his family. But I do know many of the other lives he touched, some briefly--some deeply. I wonder if he knows how many people he touched?

Tonight, I worked with one of my families touched deeply by suicide. I watched one of the daughters come home from the viewing and watched as her mother held her and cried. I watched the pain from this suicide rip open their own wounds from the one they are struggling so hard to move past. So many in our little community over the past few years--how they unleash past pains and add new ones. Suicide is so hard to move beyond. The personal guilt, the loss of the loved one, the violence witnessed--good lords. How to move beyond it. I don't think one ever truly does.

I think of my Ken. How many years has it been now? Fifteen? Somewhere around there. Sunday, I cried for him and my mom. Ken hung himself over a girlfriend. I didn't find out until several years after the fact--we had lost touch in my multiple moves. I still cry over him on a regular basis. I still think of him when certain songs come on the radio. I still open the books he gave me and smell them. I suppose that may seem sick and I can hear my father in the 302 report stating that I cry over my mom and people that have passed like it is some disease worthy of committing me to a state hospital. But the truth is, these things help me cope. I don't see it as a sin to still cry and I am okay with still missing them and never wanting to forget them. They were a part of my life; I will always miss them. This makes me human. Grief has no time lines. I know and accept this. Some days are better than others; some days still hurt deeply.

Suicide was a path I tried many times. For some reason, I am still here. I look at the young man, this week and my heart breaks for his friends, his family, and for him. My own attempts occurred between the ages of fifteen and early twenties. If only I could go back and show the girl I was then, the life I would later have. Not to say it has been all sunshine and roses, indeed--nowhere close. But there have been so many amazing moments, moments that I stopped and thanked the Gods that I am still here, that I am still alive. I look at the families that I work with and know that I am a part of their recovery. If only, if only...

You never know what tomorrow holds. Sometimes the pains of today do seem as though they will be forever; that it is impossible to move forward. But we must move forward. One foot in front of the other, no matter how difficult.

I wonder, for him, what his future may have held and it breaks my heart.

If only we could be given a glimpse into the pain that we put our loved ones through by committing suicide... Would it even be possible to inflict such pains if we knew?

R.I.P., K.A.--may you find the sunshine on the other side; may your friends and family find comfort in each other and your memory...

Even Angels Cry

Sometimes there are no words. Sometimes the heartache strikes you blind. Sometimes reaching out to the ones hurting can only be done in silent gestures--hugs, offering a shoulder to cry on, listening.

Sometimes we wonder why. Sometimes the "answers" don't make sense. Sometimes it seems as if the Gods look down upon us and laugh. Sometimes the pain overwhelms.

There are no words. Nothing can ease the pain. The grief can't be removed with "It will get better." "They are in a better place." Some pains destroy more than others.

Sometimes the heart breaks and nothing can heal it.

Why???

Always Daddy's Girl

That saying slays me. Literally hurts. "Every girl is a princess in the eyes of at least one man: her Daddy." For so many of us this is a total lie and hurts beyond belief. Daddy's girl. What is that? Who is that? Why can't that be me?

For some, it is growing up with multiple surrogate fathers. Some may be lucky enough to find one that treats her as his own and loves her as a good father should. I envy them, too. For some of us, we willing would have traded our fathers in for any number of the ones that we found within our friends' homes. And in return, mine frequently asked why wasn't I as good as his friends' daughters. Trust when I say, he let me know he would trade me for any of them.

Nothing was ever good about me in his eyes. Even as an adult, I strove to change this. I stumbled blindly believing that at some point he would recognize his mistake and I would win his love and approval. For years, I floated along on this fabricated adult relationship in which I knew he wasn't proud of me, I knew he didn't respect me, but I still had hope that someday... someday... he would come around. Just one more accomplishment... just one more success... but they never amounted to anything in his eyes and so they were never enough for me, either.

It took so much forgiveness just to reach that facade of an adult relationship. It never quit being fragile and in danger of blowing away like dandelion fluff. So many times, even through the adult years, I gave in and forgave. Over and over, through hurt after hurt. And here we stand. A year and a half since speaking. Some say I need to forgive and embrace or I shall never be happy. I ask, have you tasted my life? Some say that he is old-school, stubborn, set in his ways. I ask, since when do such people have free-reign in my life? Has he ever offered me an apology? FOR ANYTHING?

How about the constant put-downs even after our mother was dead and in the ground? Wasn't her murder painful enough? Hadn't we lost enough without him still cutting her down? Of course, he swears to never do any such thing. But they have heard him, too. How he constantly picked fights with me, taunted me, and said hateful things; only to grow angrier and angrier with my tears and refusals to fight back. I, too, am old-school. I believe in respecting your parents. I was incapable of fighting back. How that fueled his rage and made him lash out at me more.

My brothers see him as a demi-god. Funny, how the past is sometimes shielded from memory. Funny, how often his voice emerges from the youngest's throat--sometimes word for word. Sometimes, it is like he was directly programmed by our father to give the responses he does. Yet he does not hear it. He has no clue. I do not point it out.

His mother is sure he will achieve sainthood. He is a wise man of such infinite wisdom and value. He is and always will be her precious baby boy. There can be no fault.

I do not wish to take that away. But I sometimes wish they could see it from my side, too. Suppose he had done to any of them what he did to me? Funny, I am imagining they may also choose to avoid. I am wondering if they would have even been capable of forgiving before that last event. So many scars--so many years--so many times returning with open arms and forgiving. Not forgetting, not being without pain, but allowing him to be a part of my life after the hurts.

I can't do it. This time, I can't. There are some wounds that I can't paste a Band-Aid over and say "Ha! It's all good! I am fine!" Because I am not. He broke the part capable of letting him back in. Were he any other person on Earth, I would totally fucking hate him. But he is my father. What do you do with that???

I realize now the myth. Daddy's girl. Daddy's princess. I don't remember smiles. I don't remember feeling like a star in his sky. I don't remember feeling special. All I have are the frowns, eye-rolls, hurtful words, mental scars and emotional turmoil. "He tried his best." Yeah, you know what? Good for him. That's great. But it needs to be recognized that I am also trying my best. My best to survive and see myself as a good person. He doesn't exist in that world and I have to be okay with that.

The truth is, he is never going to apologize. He is never going to view me as anything or anyone. He is never going to be proud of me. He is never going to be that dad that I wanted or hoped for. Princesses are only found in fairy tales and I need to recognize that what I see and want is just another part of a fairy tale that will never happen. Otherwise I keep the key to my happiness in his pocket and it never belonged there in the first place.


***After rereading, I hear the angry voices saying: "Oh! You believe in respecting your parents? How can you post such blogs and call that respect?" "He is never going to be proud of you? Well, no kidding! Have you read this junk?" And the question: "I wonder what would happen if your dad ever read your blog?" The truth is, even when my father was in my yard--shaking me and trying to make me confess to being on drugs--I still didn't yell. I was angry, I was hurt beyond belief; but I did not raise my voice, I did not swear. I did not hit him when he grabbed me. I was not raised that way. Is this blog disrespectful to him? Probably. Oh hells, I am sure of it. But none-the-less, I am sharing it. I have to. Yes, I could just keep it in a private journal and trust me when I say there are volumes upon volumes of them. Many years of heartbreak exist within notebooks, on floppy-discs, and on flash-drives because yes, much of it is too personal and hurts too much. I choose to tell some of it because I recognize I am not alone. My story is my own and unique in many ways, but yet I have discovered my feelings of loss, hurt and betrayal aren't unique. Many have painful relationships with their parents, their children--many have suffered as victims of abuse in the name of love; many have hurt others and thought it was love. Simply, many of us hurt, for one reason or another. This blog isn't to glorify that pain or say, oh woe is me--it is with hopes that maybe people will find some spark of truth--become more aware in their own lives--make healthier choices--maybe even just feel not so alone. All I can do with what happened is try to make sense of it and turn it around to some positive. And I hope somewhere in here, you find it, too.

Dia de los Muertos

Something a little different, today. In honor of Día de los Muertos, I wanted to reach out and share a bit of my mother's story, for she has her piece here also. The above box was painted by her, most likely, before I was even born. My mother was a very unique individual--an artist, creative by nature, nearly genius-level intelligence and could transform any house into a beautiful home. She was warm, loving, giving and touched many lives in her years on Earth. For many years, I took gifts, delivered letters and lit candles at her grave on November 2nd. This year, I said a blessing and touched a few of her personal items that still remain, while hoping maybe she could hear.

I lost her in 1993, to her second husband. She was a victim of Domestic Violence also--but her story didn't end with escape to a new life--it ended with him murdering her. She loved him and believed she could help him. She believed that his love for her would protect her from damage beyond the bruises, constant humiliation, and past attempts to seriously hurt her. She believed that by showing him love, she could change his life.

Funny how often sensitive, loving people believe that the amount of love they contain can balance the lives of those that have "damaged" backgrounds. How often this leads into abusive relationships. I watched my mom do it and later did the same in my life. "My love will fix them." "I am strong; I can endure the hurt they hit me with." But it eventually takes a toll on one's self-esteem and in my mom's case, it eventually cost her her life.

I never understood why she stayed. It hurt me that she chose him over her own children. Years later as I went through similar relationships, I finally understood the guilt, manipulation, and pleas that they use to keep you there. I finally understood believing their lies that you can't survive without them, that nobody else could possibly love or want you. I understood the vicious circle that keeps you trapped and afraid to run. And I guess that is part of my learning to forgive her for leaving us. It is part of forgiving her for making me an orphan at nineteen. It is part of forgiving myself for not being able to save her.

At any rate, some believe today the veil between worlds is thin; that this is a time to honor and celebrate the lives of those passed; that on this day, the deceased are permitted to visit with their loved ones and vice versa. I like to take November 2nd each year and celebrate her life. I understand better now than I did then and while the pain is still there, the cut is no longer an open wound. For today, I thank my mother for being the beautiful person that she was and I honor the beauty that was her inner-light and spirit. Thank you, Mom. R.I.P.

Survival

It has taken me many years to reach the semi-healthy state I am currently in. While some of those in my life may be shocked to even know there is a healthy side here, I am well-aware of it. And unfortunately, there have been many setbacks over the years that have demolished many of the prior accomplishments. Such is life though; at times it is hard to move beyond three steps forward and two back--this is beyond our control.

However, had you met me as a child, you would have met the shy, frightened child that was convinced that I was a horrible person. During my teenage years, the shy, frightened youth was still convinced that I was a horrible person but now my acts more often reflected it openly. During young adulthood, I struggled with the loss of my mother and the guilt that I was to blame for that as well; plus the added grief that she was gone and I was alone.

I am not entirely sure when I began to recognize that maybe they were wrong. I suppose this was a gradual process--accomplishments such as obtaining my Bachelor's Degree, my Master's Degree, becoming a homeowner, moving to the top at the company I worked for--these things surely contributed to counteracting the earlier promises that I would never amount to anything, that I would be pregnant and on welfare by sixteen. I think even more important were the few people that believed in me and had faith in me. How much influence their words carried, and still do.

My fourth grade teacher spent more time with me than anyone in my life ever had--circuses, horseback riding--quality time! Something foreign in my world. To her, I had a name and value. She was the first to reach out. I had another teacher, my senior year, that spent time with me and pushed me because she knew I was capable. She took me to Chinese, allowed me to ride in her convertible and took me to her house. I marveled at her treasures from her travels. It gave me hope that someday I could have a similar life.

Their were other adults that stepped in. When I was fifteen, I volunteered for a woman that ran a dog grooming business. She became a big sister, a confidant, shelter from many storms. When I was seventeen, I had an actual "Big Sister" that spent time with me and took me under her wing. Sometimes it was friend's mothers, sometimes it was neighbors, but there always seemed to be a guardian stepping in to catch me and help me along. I remember them all and am thankful for their guidance and support.

I think they are also the reasons that I have worked with teenagers through the years. It is such a difficult time to begin with, but when you are the family scapegoat, come from poverty, and have been bullied all your life it can be overwhelming. I was an angry child underneath the shy, quiet exterior--I became an even angrier teenager. Outwardly, depression was what showed--behind it, blind rage. Rage I had no idea how to control or even why I carried it. All I knew was that I hurt and I was mad as hell.

Life didn't get better. It got worse. For many, many years, living was my challenge and one that I did not want. Life did not get better until 28. It still wasn't always sunshine and roses, but it was my first taste away from oppression and truly being on my own. I left the abusive relationship of six-years somewhat before that, but it took some time to heal and feel human after that. Much as my last relationship knocked me through a loop that still sends me into a downward spiral from time to time; much as the interactions with my father last year pushed me even further down. Life sometimes takes an emotional toll that we can't always quickly recuperate from. But like physical illness, we can often recover from emotional illness with time and rest.

Day by day, I heal. It is a slow process and I often get angry with myself that I am not further ahead emotionally. But sometimes I must stop and look. I must stop and look at the child I was. I must look at the teenager that I grew into. I must look at the young adult that tried to quit so many times. For any of those three to look ahead and see where I am today--none would have believed it possible. They may have seen the interactions with my father and said "Well, duh! How could you NOT expect that???" Yet the 36 year old me was shocked and mortified that such a thing could happen; that a "successful" adult could be treated in such a manner, that he still treated me as he did the child, teenager, and young adult. That he still used fear, intimidation, and his authority to attempt to control my behavior. That he still sees physical force as a way to overcome me and force me to do as he says. But I have been free of him since that incident--I am feeling safer than I did last year at this time. I move on; I heal.

At some point in life, I began to realize that their labels didn't define me; that I could prove them all wrong by doing what they least expected... succeeding. I know that there are still stumbling blocks. I know that I will continue to fall more than I like. But I have come so far--so much further than any of them would have expected. Further than I ever even thought possible. 28 started a better life for me. The best years of my life were not childhood or my teenage years--I don't know who came up with that myth! But my point is, life can change at any moment. Sometimes for the better. 38 exceeds 28 and I never expected that! Especially after the heartbreaks and destruction of the last two years. It was as painful as early adulthood and again, almost impossible to survive--but I did. I continue. Again, I move forward.

Perhaps most important this time around were my friends. You have carried me, reminded me of my worth and each acted as guardian angels. A few of you knew my struggles and you acted as the family I needed. I thank you and hope that someday I can repay the love you gave me. Without you, I couldn't have continued. You are the reason I am here. Sometimes I am not sure that any of you truly realize how lost and broken I was--how hard it was to not give up. Thank you for believing in me and not giving up on me. Thank you for not allowing me to give up on myself. Thank you...

Why Not the Nice Guy?

Nice guys always complain that women prefer to be with assholes. It often does seem true--good women being treated like crap by their boyfriends and likewise, nice guys stuck with women that treat them horribly. We have all seen it and wondered why? Do we have to treat our significant others poorly in order to get a good one? I think maybe I have finally figured out the phenomenon.

My last one was about as far from a nice guy as you can get. He would regularly scream at me that I was crazy, that no guy in their right mind would want anything to do with me, that I was lucky to have him because nobody else could possibly ever put up with me. I was ugly, fat, a joke of a therapist--the list goes on and on of the daily put-downs and self-esteem shatterers that I lived with.

After him, I vowed that it was nice guys from here on out. I vowed never to be hit again after the six year relationship of black eyes and bruises on a weekly basis and twelve years later, I am still free from abuse at a man's hands. It came close to crossing that line more than once with my last one but I managed to leave before it moved beyond him grabbing me in anger.

Since him, I have exclusively dated and spent time with nice guys. Now that I am in a "healthy" relationship with a nice guy, I am baffled. I find that I am now the bad person in the relationship. I have mood swings, I am unpleasant to be around, I am all of the things the last one said I am. I don't know how to fix it--it's horrible. I love this one so much and am terrified of losing him, yet I feel myself sabotaging it no matter how I try not to. Is it that I feel I don't deserve to be treated well? I think that is a major piece of the puzzle.

All of my life I have been told how horrible I was. By my parents, my father's family, eventually boyfriends--it is a script that runs in my head and is extremely difficult to escape. A part of me knows that it isn't true. Part of me knows that I am a good, worthwhile person but over thirty years of being told otherwise does not vanish overnight. So what happens when you are with someone that treats you well and has faith in you? It goes against everything that you have been taught. I feel like I am deceiving him. I feel like eventually he will see how horrible I am and he will leave me. I will be hurt worse than ever because he is worth keeping.

Does this mean I like being with the abusers? Good lords, no. But it is where I belong. My nice guy belongs with a nice girl. I keep waiting for him to just not come home, to find someone else, to discover it has all been lies. The others all did that, too. I don't know that I have ever been with a boyfriend that was faithful. Surely that too, was because of how horrible I am? The last one beat that into my head, also. Of course, he even convinced me to befriend his ex because she was still such "an important part of his life." How great it was discovering the extent of his life she was a part of. Perhaps one of his best lines: "There are three people being hurt in this relationship--you, me and her." "Why am I here then?" Funny, when he finally ended it with her (or so he said) he told me that I won. Like he was some great prize. I knew he wasn't by that point. Wow... sorry for the tangent there...

My point is, as someone that has been told forever that I was horrible, isn't it awfully damn selfish of me to be with a nice guy? Shouldn't I stay away from them? They deserve better than the likes of me. I think I have always came across as the nice girl with an asshole simply because they were beyond nasty. Anybody could look nice next to them. But in essence, they were most likely right--I probably did deserve their treatment. I sure don't feel like I deserve the nice guy.

Gods, how I hate this. I know I need intensive therapy--probably ECT, a lobotomy or such. Positive thinking works for a while, but the voices of parental units and ex-boyfriends seem to be much louder. While I pray it works out with this one--I pray he is strong enough to ride this out--my faith is slipping. What is there here to be worth working for?

So yeah, message to you nice guys that wonder why we don't pick you--maybe you should be glad? Maybe we are saving you from something you don't even realize is bad. Maybe it is just that "the grass is always greener" deal. Whatever it is, consider yourself lucky...

I Love You; But I Don't Like You...

How many times have I been in that boat? "I still love him--but liking him is no longer possible." When it crosses the line that you care about them as a human and do not wish to see them in pain, but you no longer like them as a person--the love fades rather quickly.

Sure, there are times when we may not care for our partners all that much, I think that is normal; but when it predominately is an issue, the end isn't far off. Yet how many people let the relationship continue when the feelings are gone? Sometimes it is in hope of regaining lost feelings, sometimes it is due to not wanting to hurt the other person, sometimes it is our own fear of change. How sad to live the lie, for both partners.

Just a random thought...

Grasping Bootstraps

Why the deep sense of injustice? Why blog about events of the past that are probably better off forgotten? Is this just some pathetic pity party; an attempt to elicit sympathy?

There are some events in our life that are immobilizing, crippling, demoralizing--they shatter our very sense of who we are--our self-esteem and faith in the world are never the same. We struggle to understand what has happened; why it has happened and we fight to pick ourselves back up. We fight to return to some semblance of normalcy and we fight with hopes that it never happens again. This is one of those battles.

I am trying very hard to move forward and to save myself from future pains. I am struggling to make sense of it all in the best way that I know how. My other hope is that perhaps other people in similar situations will benefit from this or prevent themselves from similar traps. In short though, this is part of my healing. This is my personal therapy; welcome along on the journey...

Forgiveness

I think line #3 is the most important, for me, at this time. "Forgiveness doesn't mean that what happened was OK, and it doesn't mean that person should still be welcome in your life." It is possible to forgive without allowing that person back into your life and it is much better than carrying that heavy stone everywhere that you go...

Always the Outsider

When you chose his side,
You cast me out.
While I was forbidden to be a part of the family,
He was embraced into the fold.
When you said that you knew he would not do those things,
You in turn determined that I was a liar.

When I needed your support,
You added to my pain.
When I saw myself through your eyes,
I realized the truth.
You were never my family,
But my destroyers.
It was never love you peddled,
but guilt, manipulation and pain.

Control is all you understand.
Fear underlies your anger.
Should I continue to play your games?
Continue while wondering how much longer until you pierce me again?
Forgive, forgive and forgive again.
It has always been my way.
Pain has always followed.

Funny, how even now you still blame me.
Surely, you have noted you error;
Yet pride, denial and hate keep you where you are.
How can I love myself and keep you?
How can I call you family and heal?
If I bow, you continue to kick me while I am down.
This, too, is self-preservation.

Am I to forgive? Why should I?
Would you, were the situation reversed?
I would have been crucified--made an example of.
You tried to hang me--for not choosing your path.
My mistake--trying to show you who I am.
Trying to help you understand.
Now I understand--blindness--an inability to see.

The picture you have always painted of me,
Can no longer be what I cast in the mirror.
I am not that person.
Somewhere, you know this, too.
But this is not my duty to prove.
I owe you nothing. I am not yours.

You have no more control; than the control I permit.
I think this is just as it was meant to be.
You there; me here.
I choose to let you go.
Keep him. Keep yourselves.
Wallow together in your hatred.
I choose me. I choose love.
I choose freedom from your oppression.

That Was Then...

He treats me like a queen. It is so foreign to me. When I look back at relationships I have had with significant others, this one is so alien. Not to say they were all bad--some more so than others, some left deep scars, some still bring smiles--but they all seem to have a common thread: I gave; they took.

I feel equal footing with this one. I am free to be me. He does not condemn or criticize. There is give and take. There is balance. Most importantly, I feel good when I am with him. This, too, is foreign. It makes me feel sappy how much love I feel and how eagerly I await every moment with him.

I loved my other ones, too--don't get me wrong. But more often than not, loving led to pain.

"I do love you and I am happy with you; you dumb fucking cunt" was followed by "I don't see how you can be a therapist as fucked up as you are. I've never met someone as fucked up as you. I stay because I am happy but I want you to know I could get fresh fucking pussy tomorrow if I wanted it." Why do I know these word for word? Because my last one regularly spewed such lovely sentiments and then would tell me I was crazy the following day. He NEVER said any such thing. So every now and then as he was in his tirades, towering over me, screaming and spitting; I would record it. Not that it did much good... I always seemed to misunderstand what he was trying to say. He just meant he was happy and loved me. Why did I have to twist it into negativity? Because eventually I, too, believed him when he said I was crazy and was twisting things into negativity. Emotional manipulators are great at convincing you that it is all you.

My six year relationship was battering of a physical nature. Black eyes, bruises; hats pulled low. Apologies and tears following the events; promises that it would never happen again. Me always hoping that it would be the last time; but add alcohol to that one and fists were bound to connect with my face. It has been twelve years since that one ended and I still love him. We are able to talk like old friends when we run into each other. I still talk to and spend time with his family. But I never should have spent six years hoping it would change. It doesn't. And while I still love him and he admits that he messed up and wishes he hadn't lost me; I love myself more than that. I didn't deserve it then either, but I saw the good in him and allowed it to be enough. Never again. And that's why I only lasted two years with the last one--I know I don't deserve that. Nobody does.

My last one always told me that the problem with our relationship was that it lacked passion. I didn't know how to fight and how could we have a good relationship without fighting? But I don't play like that. Did I have horrible come-backs and hurtful things that I could have said in return? Hells, yes. Plenty of them. But two problems with that: I don't like to purposely hurt people and would it have fueled the flames enough for it to have crossed into physical abuse? Quite possibly. His argument eventually was that he only said these things to encourage me to fight back (he knew it would make me feel better). Much as his regular put-downs about my physical appearance were for my own good (to motivate me to lose weight) and his rages about my lack of abilities were to encourage me to try harder. Emotional manipulators convince you that your best interests are all they care about (as they destroy every last shred of your self-esteem).

So how did I end up with a good guy? With so much history of drawing in the negative, hurtful "gentlemen," how did I come out with one that listens? One that holds me? One that kisses away my tears? One that not only tolerates my weak moments when insecurity washes over me, but picks me up and tells me that I am better than that? How did I break the cycle?

I spent a year attending domestic violence meetings once a week, a minimum of three hours a week. I poured out my story, shed numerous tears and listened as other women shared their stories. Some weeks, it was the only time I left my house and I had to force myself to go. I never hit a spot in my life like I did after the PFA/police incident. I still bear more scars than I would like to admit. I can honestly say that the person I was prior to that day is so far removed from who I am now, that it confuses even me.

I have shared my story with many others, including at a "Take Back the Night" event where I shared my story while standing behind a podium, with a microphone in front of me and a roomful of strangers listening to the most painful parts of my life. It was worth it when a young girl came up to me after my speech and explained that she was going through a similar situation, thought she was alone and she didn't know where to turn. I was able to use the events that occurred in my life to ease someone else's pain and guide them. My story has also been shared in domestic violence newsletters.

How did I break the cycle? By admitting that I have made bad choices in relationships. By examining the qualities these men have in common. By examining what draws me to them and why I stayed when so many women would have left the abusers. By recognizing that a lifetime of experiences made these men seem like logical choices. By believing that I deserved it. That was the big one. I was raised by a man telling me that I was worthless and would never amount to anything. Why would I believe differently? When you are not worthy of a parent's love, how on Earth can you love yourself? When your own family sees fit to take any route necessary to control you and make you obedient--isn't it natural to seek out mates of the same nature?

So, really, how did I break the cycle? I would like to say it was good choices and wisdom that led to me being with my current partner. The truth is, I don't know. I feel like life decided that my past heartbreaks were more than one person could possibly bear and the universe decided to smile upon me for once. In truth, he is amazing in so many ways and I feel blessed to have him in my life. I never believed that I would find someone like him and it amazes me when I look at my past relationships and look at what I have now. I didn't know this was possible.

We don't fight. We talk. Sometimes he has to bang his head against my walls and ask if I am okay. When I am not, he listens. I don't feel foolish, degraded, or stupid with him. And sadly, it is still so difficult for me to believe that I deserve him. He seems too good to be true. I am afraid of being this happy. Foreign. The little voice of the past creeps in and asks "what on Earth can he possibly see in me?" "Why does he stay?" "When is the other shoe going to drop?" It is so hard to let go of the preconceived notions and just allow myself to be happy. It terrifies me. What if something happens and I lose him? Daily, I remind myself that I need to live in the moment and just enjoy my time with him. Daily, I count my blessings. Daily, I look in the mirror and say "It's okay. You have fought long and hard to be here. Enjoy it."

But it is still so damn hard...

Familiar Ground

I trod over this ground, not sure if I am falling or lifting myself back up.
I look behind and see where I have stumbled and fallen so many times.
I remind myself, this is a new path. It may not have the same stones.
Yet I brace myself and stumble due to my own movement.

Fear of past pitfalls.
Fear of past boulders.
Fear because I am in the dark.
Fear because I am afraid to see clearly.
Fear that this is not truly a road.
Fear that it is a circle.

Trust.
I try.
I have.
I am.

Forgive.
The past.
The players.
Myself.

Love.
Unsure.
Frightened.
Hurt.

I cannot blame this one for the others.
I must look beyond these doubts.
Is anything else even similar?
Is there just cause for this?

I will never move forward unless I try.
So simple, yet absolutely maddening.
I profess to be here and now.
Yet, where am I?

Love Doesn't Always Hurt

I guess it is only fair to mention that there are positives in my life, currently, too. I don't want this to simply become a bitchfest or a place where I spill my anger. Even though there will most likely be a bit of it here, simply because I don't know what else to do with it. I attended Domestic Violence meetings through Crossroads for over a year and I tend to choose physical activity now when my anger becomes extremely overwhelming--but writing is still one of my favorite vents. And truthfully, I am still pretty angry about many of the events over the past few years. I don't wish to become bitter and resentful, so I need to get through these issues, in order to get passed them.

Anyhoo, back to sharing a bit of the positive. I have been in a relationship now for a while that I am fairly certain could be considered healthy. I can't say for absolute sure simply because I have witnessed very few (if any) healthy relationships and I have had very few myself and they were very, very long ago. Not sure exactly how this one happened, but I know I would not appreciate it nearly as much had I not had all the bad ones prior.

I must confess that there has been a distinct pattern to my relationships of past. I have been with many alcoholics/users; mostly angry, controlling men that tend to have one main focus during the relationship--destroying my self-esteem. Attacks upon my physical appearance, my intelligence, my abilities as a person--not to mention the black eyes, bruises, and general violation upon my physical being. No, it doesn't start like that--would I really choose that? No, they are generally charming, fun to be with, exciting and the other side doesn't come out until the relationship is well under way. It is a gradual process and often I have reached the "Oh hells! I am trapped!" point without even realizing it. By the time I realize I am dating a Jekyll and Hyde fellow, I have usually developed an attachment to them and believe them when they give their apologies and swear that it will never happen again. My faith and trust in other humans overrides my common sense from time to time...

So what makes me think this one is different? Yeah, that question scares the bejesus out of me, I must confess. Especially when I recognize how much of it is still based on faith and trust. For one, there are no insults or put-downs, even in a joking manner (since that is usually how they begin). The jealousy, the need to control me or my actions, the attempts to change me (from attire, which has been overwhelmingly common to changing my behaviors), attempts to reduce my activities with friends/family/anyone other than them; the common threads that later lead to evil, simply aren't there.

He is giving. He thinks of my needs. He knows when I am upset, encourages me to talk about it and doesn't become angry with me. He has never yelled at me. Period. I feel safe with him.

To me, he is one of the most beautiful people I have ever met--inside and out. I was at a point in my life where I was content. I was enjoying my time with friends, had rediscovered my focus and was stepping forward in life--something I hadn't been able to do for three years. The last thing I expected was someone walking into my life and me being able to let them. How to explain? It was like not knowing I was cold, until somebody handed me a coat. I had no clue that he would bring the things to my life that he does--I look back and wonder how I functioned before he entered my life. I know that sounds horribly unhealthy, and as I mentioned, mayhaps it is--but again, what do I know of healthy relationships?

Repost From a Friend:

We need to teach our daughters how to distinguish between a man who flatters her and a man who compliments her .... a man who spends money on her and a man who invests in her .... a man who views her as property and a man who views her properly ..... a man who lusts after her and a man who loves her ..... a man who believes he is God's gift to women and a man who remembers a woman was God's gift to man.

Insult to Injury

Last year, when I was going through the harassment, the PFA process and all of the other issues, I had some wonderful people on my side helping me through it. One being an ex-state police officer that knows the ins and outs of the legal system. Through out my father's threats of having me sent to a rehab, state hospital or just sent away in general, he kept reassuring me that it couldn't be done and that if anyone tried to take me away, it would end in a law suit big enough that I would eventually own my own island.

I believed him. I didn't think they could take me away. I thought I was at least safe on that end. So as my father came with his threats and sent other family members with threats, I stood my ground, explained that I knew my rights and I was not going to be signing myself in anywhere. I explained that I would gladly submit to any blood tests they desired but otherwise, I laughed it off.

Even the day of the PFA hearing when my father showed up at the courthouse, in his WCO uniform, and tried to persuade the judge to have me committed, I thought I knew my rights. When he called me later that day and told me that he wanted me to go talk to someone; again, I told him that I knew my rights and requested again, that he leave me alone.

Even when the Pennsylvania State Police arrived at my house shortly after, I thought that I knew my rights. As the two police officers approached me, I asked what I did wrong. I explained that I knew my rights, that they couldn't take me. Yet the two of them handcuffed me, took my purse from me, frisked me and placed me, with handcuffs behind my back, into the back of the police car. I thought I knew my rights. But apparently, this was acceptable because my father decided that it was and went to whatever lengths he felt appropriate. The truth is, my rights never existed.

Throughout the ride to the ER, I kept begging the officers to pull over and switch the cuffs to the front. I explained that I had a bulging disc in my lower back and was in significant pain. They told me it wasn't that far and that I needed to just deal with it. I explained that they apparently had never ridden in the back of a police car with a bulging disc, handcuffed behind the back and strapped in with a safety belt.

I arrived at DRMC in handcuffs, escorted by a police officer on either side of me. I was led through the hospital in this fashion and was then requested to lie down upon a bed, with the cuffs still behind my back until the doctors and therapists on call could perform a mental health assessment, draw blood and a urine specimen could be given. When the police finally removed the cuffs, I asked if I could keep them as a souvenir of what the PFA process leads to--they denied my request. They also refuse to provide you with a ride back to your home; they leave it up to you to figure that one out.

I went through the processes; the doctors and therapists apologized and again, I was asked why I didn't get a PFA on my father while I was getting one against the ex-boyfriend. They didn't fill out paperwork on me because they said the situation was too insane and they didn't even know where to begin with it. When I explained that I didn't have my wallet or insurance card, the doctor said that I would not be billed because it would only add insult to injury and I had already been through enough.

They sent me home because:
A) I wasn't on drugs.
B) I wasn't starving myself.
C) I wasn't homicidal.
D) I wasn't suicidal.
E) The 302 papers that my father filled out and signed were ludicrous.
F) There were absolutely no grounds to send me to a rehab or have me committed to a state mental institution.

My father was at the hospital as I was subjected to the evaluations and testing. The doctor stated that he didn't blame me when I stated that No, I did not wish to see him and please keep him out of my room.

This is what I got for refusing to obey my father's authority. This is what I got for obtaining a PFA on a man that wouldn't peacefully allow me to go on with my life--a life without him.

A false 302... including the discovery that my father did not know how to spell my name, did not know my birthday, did not know how old I was--plus all the delightful statements he made about me. Funny; the large, bold face notice:

"IMPORTANT NOTICE: ANY PERSON WHO PROVIDES ANY FALSE INFORMATION ON PURPOSE WHEN HE COMPLETES THIS FORM MAY BE SUBJECT TO CRIMINAL PROSECUTION AND MAY FACE CRIMINAL PENALTIES INCLUDING CONVICTION OF A MISDEMEANOR."

...this statement apparently doesn't apply if you are a WCO and have your own badge and name tag. If you are friends with the police, I guess ordinary laws no longer apply?

I got tossed around like some violent, escaped criminal--as a 115 lb female, you would have thought the officers were terrified of me. I got to wear shiny bracelets and was touched all over by two men at once. They took my bag and broke my things as they threw it in the trunk of their car. I got a ride in a police car, escorted by two officers sworn to serve and protect. I got to be a spectacle as I was marched into the ER with my cuffs and escorts. I got to answer a bunch of ridiculous questions to prove my sanity. I got to have tubes of blood drawn and I got to pee in a cup. When it was said and done, hours later, I got to arrange my own ride home.

You know what though? Somewhere, along the way, I was told that I had rights. That if they tried to violate my rights, that if anyone came onto my property and tried to take me away, there would be hell to pay. That if they forcibly took me off my property, there would be a lawsuit so big that I would own my own island and would never have to deal with the likes of them again.

So where in the heys is my island???

All I have are the memories, the scars, the added physical pain, a father that still insists he did what was right and he knows that I was abusing drugs, and this damn stack of bills.

Remember when I said that I explained that I didn't have my wallet or insurance card and the doctor said that I would not be billed because it would only add insult to injury and I had already been through enough? Yeah, not only did I rack up a bunch of bills as a result of the events from that day, but they still made me pay for that event, too. Justice, such a beautiful thing. Personal rights, freedom. Yeah, I almost believe in those also...

Questions

Sometimes I can't help but wonder why? What did he hope to accomplish? Did he satisfy himself? I'm sure it was easier to blame it all on me. But still, what the heys??? It is sad that my family thinks so little of me that they believed him--but I realize now that the ones that fed into that are better removed from my life and that they were not the people that I believed them to be.

One, I realize was never the friend I thought her to be and while I still sometimes miss the illusion of who she was--I recognize that she was a slow poison saturating my life and I should have known better than to trust her in the first place.

One, has mended but I am not sure I will ever feel the same love and trust that I once did. Love much, I still do and is still one of the most important people in my life--but words and actions can never be taken back. Calluses and scars remain, which I believe will probably always be the case. I am not sure that I will ever be able to look at that one quite the same.

One, I love but hate at the same time. It has been well over a year since we last spoke--I avoid family functions because that one hurt me most of all. There is no justification. There is no excuse. And while some of the others may believe that it was all done in innocence and love, they weren't there for any of the interactions, they don't really know. They have not walked in my shoes nor had the pleasure of having had 38 years worth of these interactions. I know what I can handle and what I can't. His lies hurt most. There comes a time when walking away is the sanest action.

His family. I still miss them. Can't imagine that will ever change. It hurts, but I understand. Was there ever a day that he wasn't coddled, given in to and had someone to cover up for him? He has never had to be accountable for his actions and it was horrible of me to challenge that. Of course, they hate me now. And lords only knows what he has told them. How skillfully he turned my own family against me when they have known me always--his only knew me for two years--what might I expect?

Most of all, I wonder if he took any lessons from it? Does he recognize now how it turned into the jacked up mess it ended as? Does he look back and wish he would have accepted parting as friends? Or is it just easier to hate and blame? Does he at least recognize the places that he broke us? Has he learned enough that he is capable of being decent to future ones? Does he make an effort to refrain from those mistakes? I am sure that somewhere deep inside he knows the truth, but does he still just drown it out and choose anger, self-pity, and denial?

Funny, but I still don't hate him even after everything that happened. I just want to be safe and free from further damage. I don't think that is much to ask.

Always in the Name of Love

When she refused to be a victim,
when she decided that her life was her own and she was reclaiming it,
when she realized that she was free of his grasp,
free to be happy, free to be who she was...

This is when they lost control and put up the greatest fight,
this is when they sought hardest to rein her in...

With silver badges and matching cuffs,
with a father's promise of truth,
more lies were spread,
her spirit broken further...

Isn't it funny the lengths a man will go to,
to break down the spirit of a woman,
when she is his property,
when she disobeys his command,
when he loses control?

As one's soulmate,
the one he could not live without...

As one's daughter,
and a claim of concern and love...

The two conspired and found a common thread,
one evil female that needed broken,
that needed to be taught a lesson,
too headstrong, too independent,
not the things a good woman should be...

Together, they pleaded with the judge,
one for freedom from scrutiny,
the second, much the same...

Protection From Abuse granted,
asylum denied,
she thought a victory won...

Uniform, badge and "father's concern,"
not one used to being told no,
not one willing to look the fool,
the one whom is always right,
and always knows best,
continued forward to break her...

The wrestling, the cuffs,
the humiliation, the added pain,
"she's too tiny, twist them farther"
the scars now hidden and yet still showing...

Hurt because they lost control,
hurt because of their fear,
hurt because women shouldn't be strong,
hurt because this is how men break women...

One more day in the life,
one more day broken by men,
two that claimed love,
two that claimed duty,
none willing to admit folly...

And so it stands,
these deeds of love,
she was still in the wrong,
for they all say so,
they all know best...

She is to accept, forgive,
and love again,
to trust again,
to extend her hand and say please,
please return to my life,
please continue this love....

Please continue to break my spirit,
to shake me with false hugs called love,
to tell me that you know what is best,
convince me I deserved it,
convince me it is love,
convince me I need this love of yours...

As your love has always been so freely given.

Moving Forward

Lock the door?

Feel safe?

Carry the stone?

Trust again?

"Trust is letting go of needing to know all the details before you open your heart." ~Author Unknown~

"You can as easily love without trusting as you can hug without embracing." ~Robert Brault~

"One must be fond of people and trust them if one is not to make a mess of life." ~E.M. Forster~

Difficult in so many directions.

The wall is too high.

Yet not high enough.

Can't go over.

Can't go under.

Must go through it.

Three steps forward. Two back. I guess I must expect this. Truly, it didn't go so bad. But why am I still so shaken? And how long does this go on???

I still want to lock the door...

Tonight, An Encounter

A year and a half after the initial PFA, I run into him. Beyond the drive-by fingers that I get, beyond passing his vehicle at work and cringing, beyond the looking over my shoulder and praying that it isn't him...

Not a big scene, though I held my breath and stayed long beyond planning because I was still a bit timid... I didn't know he was there. It looked like his car, but it was dark and as I always do, I reassured myself that it wasn't. But it was.

He made a tiny scene. I don't know who spotted who first; thankfully, there was no eye contact. It lasted a grand total of ten minutes. Ten minutes... that if I could have run I would have; but I have come too far for that. He took enough from me--I refuse to give him that, too.

600 seconds. It shouldn't feel long, but it did. Long enough for him to make a point that he couldn't be there. Long enough that I felt every eye upon me. Long enough that the jukebox played three songs. Black Hole Sun. Ring of Fire. An unknown country song. But I heard and felt everything else in the room around me.

Have you ever been paralyzed? I was. The eternity for him to get a six-pack and leave. Good lords. But I survived. No flattened tires, no smashed windshield, no words between us. He didn't touch me. He did not speak to me. No more words, no more screaming, no more hostility. I survived. And it was a small victory. But much larger than anyone could imagine.

I still was frightened every time the door opened. I struggled with walking back out to my vehicle. A year and a half. Did I want it this way? No. Do I wish we could have parted as friends? I tried to give him that option. He chose this. Not me.

I know his family hates me. He blames me. My family took his side. But they don't know. Well, some of them did; but they painted a different picture. Two years with him. A three year PFA. A good judge that saw through him, saw through my father, saw through it all. Three years. He still has a year and a half to go.

I am still struggling tonight. I was scared again walking into the house. I was scared as I opened the door to come in. But this is no longer a daily occurrence. Most nights I can walk outside without fear. I can sleep without fearing every sound is him. This is victory. One night, one encounter--I must remember I am safe.

I am safe. He cannot touch me. Tonight, I won. Tonight, I survived.

Will I sleep? That is another question all of it's own...

Further Thoughts on Families

A main piece to this blog is to serve as a journal for my thoughts and experiences. For my own sake because writing has always been a way to clear my mind, vent and bring clarity to situations that I am struggling with. But to also share with others that are living through (or have lived through) similar situations realize that they aren't alone, realize that they can survive or maybe even serve as a motivator for individuals that are currently living in abusive relationships to take those extra steps necessary to personal freedom. And certainly, this is for the many individuals out there that don't understand domestic violence and what makes us stay with someone that hurts us. I was one of those women for many years, too. And then I lived through it, not only once, but twice.

For me, this is purging and healing, but as I discovered last night, still very painful. My post, yesterday, led to many hours of crying and feeling frustrated that my prior relationship led to the loss of my family, his family, and my path in life. My family not only took his side but pushed me out of their lives. I was kept from my nephews, I lost my brother/best friend, my father attempted to have me committed to a state mental hospital--I damn near lost my sanity through it.

Leaving an abusive relationship is very difficult to begin with--especially when they do not let go. As I was going through the horrendous process of obtaining a PFA; I had the added bonus of my family taking his side, deciding that I was on drugs (why else would I leave such a charming fellow?), and threatening/harassing me on top of what I was already getting. I actually entertained the idea of getting a PFA on my father, too. But that just seemed too crazy--who gets a PFA on their family?

Had I know then what the future held, I would have called the police and had my father removed from my property as opposed to trying to deal with it myself. With a PFA in place, he would have been forced to stay out of my life. He wouldn't have been able to show up on 4/22/10 and harass me as the PFA hearing was occurring against my ex-boyfriend. He would have been held accountable for making false accusations resulting in two state police officers wrestling me in my own driveway, handcuffing me and transporting me to the local ER for testing. But hey, it's just our tax dollars at waste. There is nothing wrong with father's treating their 36 year old daughters in such manners. Oh, hindsight. What a beautiful thing...

When Our Families Hurt Us

Sharing a response that was made to a friend that has been hurt repeatedly by her family:

Family sometimes consists of the people that we love, collect and decide are worth keeping in our lives. If those related to us cause us pain, they aren't worth keeping. Just because they are "family" doesn't make them good people or mean that we are obligated to keep them in our lives. If they are toxic to us, it is better to walk away and never look back. It hurts, but it also heals in the long run.

Sometimes our families hurt us more than anyone else--they are supposed to support us, stand by us and help us through hard times--sometimes, though, they are the creators of our hardest times. I have found that there are many of us out there that feel alienated from our families and at times, that pain can truly be overwhelming.

Holidays, birthdays, times that people traditionally gather with their families can be the most difficult. I have collected those friends and we have created our own holiday celebrations to help ease the pain. Zombie Christmas was perhaps one of my favorite "nontraditional" experiences. We cooked a turkey and celebrated by watching George Romero films. I also have several "adopted" families that I share holidays with. Too often, it is easy to sit home on those days and tell ourselves that we don't care, that we don't need them, that it doesn't hurt--but it does. Sometimes the best way to prevent that pain is getting out and being around others. Laughter and creating good memories are fantastic ways to move past the pain of having a hurtful family.

I think the best way it was explained to me, years ago, was this:

"Your father is a man. He is human. Giving him the title of Father doesn't make him any more special than a stranger you pass on the street. It doesn't make him right and it doesn't give him the power to dictate your life. Would you grant that power to just anyone? Should you grant that power to ANYONE? You must base your self-esteem on your own worth--not what he believes or thinks of you--don't give him that power. And honestly, if I were you, I would put that power in the hands of a stranger before letting your father influence any more of your thoughts about who you are."

They were right. My father doesn't know me. He has never known me. He has never taken the time to discover who I am and has no interest in seeing the good in me. For so many years, I tried to stand out in his eyes--tried to please him--tried to make him proud of me. Sadly, it didn't work and the things that I did to please him lost their value in my eyes, too. A 4.0 in graduate school? First person in my family to even attempt college? Still invisible in his eyes. Compliance supervisor and third in command at the agency I worked for? He can't even tell you what field I have been in for the past twelve years. I allowed his disinterest to affect my own feelings of self-worth. Accomplishments that I should have been proud of no longer meant anything to me either.

How often do we do this to ourselves? Allowing someone else to determine our self-worth is a painful way to live life. Recognizing our own value and being proud of ourselves is the first step to healthy self-esteem and a happier life. Whether it is a family member or our entire family that causes us pain, once we recognize this is occurring we need to step back and re-evaluate our lives. If your family hurts you, causes you pain or destroys your feelings of self-worth it IS acceptable to remove yourself. Self-preservation is essential in life and removing negative influences is a key piece in leading a happy life. Don't allow others to decide who you are. Decide for yourself.

A Visit From the Sleep Fairy

It was suggested to me, Saturday, that I begin blogging again and share my story here. I didn't think too much more about it. Tonight, as my dreams of the ocean slowly changed to hiking up a stream so as to float back down to walking down a rural town street and searching for a computer to share some thoughts about domestic violence--suddenly, I realized that I was wide awake and sleep wouldn't return until I began. Such is the creative brain, at times... *sighs*

My initial sleeping thoughts were about how frustrating it is that so many parents are afraid to correct their children or implement consequences due to the potential for their children claiming that they are being abused and the police or child services becoming involved. Somehow, this correlated to my sleeping thoughts about my own childhood and our family pattern of "women belong in the kitchen, women care for their men, women are subservient." Confused by the correlation? So was I at first, but it was enough to wake me up and get me started.

My father's family was the only extended family that I had growing up. My grandmother was very religious and lived by the bible to the best of her ability. That included obeying the husband--completely. My grandfather was a domineering alcoholic. Perhaps not the best example for how to run a family, but not uncommon, either. They had three children together--the eldest, a son (my father) and two daughters. Not surprisingly, their children also adopted these beliefs and patterns. Women are meant to serve and care for their men--they cook, clean and make babies--they don't talk back, argue, or have views of their own--should any of these notions be challenged, necessary methods would be employed to put the woman back in line.

Childhood. The pecking order. Dad yells at mom, dad hits mom--mom yells at child, mom hits child. Early on, we learn that you listen to your man and do as he says or you get hit. Conditioned early that it easier to be quiet, do as you are told--avoid physical and mental pain. Is there a correlation? Maybe. Maybe not. This is just my story.

Before I get anyone's feathers in a ruffle, let me explain that I have my Master's Degree in the psychology field. I have worked with children, adolescents, and their families since 2000. Often, this is to assist the children and their families with behavioral and emotional issues. I have also done outpatient therapy with adults and adolescents since 2007. I believe that children need consequences to help curb negative behaviors. Sometimes that comes in the form of losing privileges; but as a toddler, a swat to the behind, may at times, work better. To some that is child abuse and never okay--a time out is the only way to go. Many of my colleagues have argued the point that hitting a child leads them to believing that hitting is how you get what you want. There may be some truth to that, I can't deny.

And such were my early morning thoughts. I was calmly walking upstream looking for a happy place to enter the water and float back downstream. Next thing I know, that stream is now a paved road and I am walking back down that hill looking from house to house for a computer. I have the perfect opener for this blog (which unfortunately I lost between sleep and awaking--instead you are left with this mess). All I remember was that the great opener started with children being conditioned to listen or get hit and perhaps for some of us, that is how we end up in situations of domestic violence. My cousin once told me, "It is no wonder we can't make decisions for ourselves--we were never allowed to growing up." She is a product of the same grandparents--her mother, my father's sister. She has found controlling men throughout her life that make the decisions for her--she never learned to. Attempts to change the pattern have led to her going back because she is afraid to be on her own.

My own story? True, enough. That is why I am here at 3:30 in the morning instead of dreaming of the ocean and floating in streams.

For six years, I lived with a man that physically abused me whenever he was drunk, yet was my best friend sober. Many years later, I had a two-year relationship with a man that I would eventually have a three-year PFA (Protection From Abuse) granted by a judge smart enough to see that not all abuse is physical. After a year plus of domestic violence counseling and much heartbreak related to those past events, I have picked up the pieces enough to share my story and hope that it helps people understand how domestic violence enters our lives (no, we DON'T like being hit) and to let other domestic violence victims know that there is hope. The patterns can be broken; there can be a happy future; there can even be healthy relationships in the future.

Mayhaps, this will follow the path of my other blogs... I type, share my story, it floats somewhere in cyberspace--unknown, unread. I am okay with that, too. This is also part of my healing and moving past those hurts. But if perchance you stumble across this blog, feel free to comment and leave feedback--positive hopefully, but feel free to share your own thoughts, experiences or stories.

As for me, this was just to get that ball rolling... Hopefully now I will be permitted to sleep. Until next time, blessed be! :)