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.