Making Sense of the Mess

As statute of limitations becomes an ever-pressing issue, I find myself thinking more and more about what this all means to me and why I would consider moving forward with a lawsuit. Initially, much of it was the physical aspect. I had a bulging disc in my lower back prior to this entire incident and it already caused me a significant amount of pain. This incident aggravated my pain to levels I couldn't even fathom.

My father portrayed me as a threat to society and when the two state troopers arrived in my driveway and handcuffed me, they were less than gentle. The one was clearly afraid of me and was particularly rough. The ride to the ER with my hands cuffed behind my back and seatbelted was excruciating and I asked the officers several times to please pull over and switch the cuffs to the front. I explained my back issues, but to deaf ears. By the time it was all said and done, the pain in both my wrists, my back and neck were absolutely unbearable. I was terrified for months, after the police incident, that I would never kayak again or enjoy a "normal" life. For several weeks, I was confined to my bed in pain that I didn't know was possible. Almost two years later, I still suffer from wrist, back and neck issues.

These things should have never happened.

Tonight, I find myself thinking about my life at that time and I look back in absolute shock. How did I survive that, emotionally???

The terror started in February 2010--well, much earlier, if you consider when I was living with the PFA boyfriend (March 2009--November 2009) and when I initially left him Thanksgiving of 2009--but the feeling of being terrified of him coming to my home and hurting me probably started increasing around mid-February 2010. It became bad enough and I had enough evidence that it was occurring that a friend encouraged me to seek a PFA. That started on April 1, 2010 and we had our official "date with the judge" on April 22, 2010--during which time, the judge felt there was enough reason to grant me a three year PFA.

Looking back at the terror I was feeling by April, I was often terrified to leave my house, I was afraid to sleep many nights and woke up to the slightest sound due to his frequent threats to come in on his own, if I was unwilling to talk. Easter was April 4th that year and I tried talking to my father about my fear, the PFA, and begged him to help me. He, too, turned a deaf ear and told me that it was between me and my ex-boyfriend. April 10th was when my father came to my house, harassed me himself and again, refused to listen when I tried to tell him what was really going on in my life. Many people told me to seek a PFA against my father after that event, but that seemed ridiculous.

By the official PFA hearing date of April 22nd, I was an absolute mess. I felt terrorized and harassed from so many directions that I could no longer leave my house without having people with me--for grocery shopping, to get my mail--simple activities were now so fraught with terror that I could barely function. Yeah, my father was right. There was something VERY wrong with me. But I needed his support; not for him to add to the horror.

I remember being terrified to even enter the courthouse that morning. I hadn't had to deal with the ex-boyfriend face-to-face since the last week of March (and those events were driving factors in obtaining the PFA), so the idea of sitting in the same room with him were almost beyond what I was capable of. If it hadn't been for the fact that my "defender" was there to support me, I couldn't have done it.

What I didn't expect was to have my father show up there, attempting to persuade the judge to have me committed to a state hospital. He was there in uniform (to show his authority and power) and frequently came into the room I was waiting in, with his own anger and threats. Again, how I survived this, I am not sure. Thankfully, the judge ignored my father's requests and still granted me the PFA.

Several hours after this, I was in my yard and my father called me. He demanded that I meet with a crisis worker and when I discovered that my father was also in the town I lived in, I immediately went inside and locked my door. There was no way I wanted a replay of the antics he displayed on April 10th--I knew that trusting this man and calling him father was no longer possible. Thankfully, he didn't call back and he didn't come to the house.

Shortly after, I had to take my vehicle to the garage. It was as I was returning home and pulling into my driveway that I looked into my rearview mirror to see the state police car behind me. I didn't even have my vehicle shut off when they approached me. And so began the rest of that journey--wrestled, handcuffed, escorted to the ER and the rest of the evening spent there. By far, one of the worst days of my life.

These things should have never happened.

To start the day with a PFA hearing and terror--midday, to have the police remove you from your property as a common criminal and the terror of not knowing why (they didn't tell me why they were there or why they were doing what they were to me)--to end the day, attempting to prove your sanity and the terror that knowing because of all of these events, sanity is quickly waning...

Yeah, these things should have never happened...

No crisis worker ever called me or came to evaluate me. They took my father's uniform as enough evidence that his statements were true. He lied all through the report he gave--information he knew was not true--but this is what happens to disobedient children, right? Never mind the fact that they are 36 years old and a therapist, themselves? As I mentioned before, the crisis worker my father met with was a woman I had fired several months before that--I was her supervisor. Some conflict there, perhaps? So many areas that this entire situation was just wrong.

Making sense of it... I still struggle, nearly two years later. I wonder if I ever will?

To File or Not to File

As I approach the two year anniversary of the PFA/police fiasco, I wonder about the decisions I have made.

Originally, when the threats were occurring, I was told that if my father made good on his threats, the lawsuits would be so huge I would never have to work again, that I would not only own my hundred-acre woods, but my own island. I suppose that in part, people were just trying to reduce my anxiety level; but I think overall, none of us really believed that he would do what he did.

The one gentleman was my father's friend for many years and was also my defender through the PFA process. When my father came onto my property and made his threats, I finally had enough and called this friend to talk to my father. My father's response was, "Well, he was a good man at one time. I haven't seen him for many years; who knows what he is now." And the harassment continued.

The other gentleman was my employer and knows the mental health system forward and backwards. He was also my ride home after the police delivered me for my "evaluation." He continued to assure me that the lawsuits would be massive; he was as outraged and upset by the situation as I was. He was privy to the entire PFA situation and the issues with my father, so when my father initially called the agency attempting to start problems, my employer put him in his place. "I can not disclose if she works here or not. If you would like to know where your daughter works, I suggest you ask her." Case closed. After the events, he also introduced me to his attorney and explained the situation and mental health laws to him, with the potential for a case.

Perhaps most outstanding about my employer was how he stood by me through the situation. He offered a shoulder for my tears. He assisted me with finding the humor and laughter in the situation. He offered me time off work until I was back on my feet--physically and mentally. He became a spiritual father during my time of need. He helped me in so many ways, above and beyond what most people would have done and he also assured me that employment was still available when I was ready and able to come back. He's been my employer since 2006 and it is a choice I believe was made well.

The lawsuit never came to pass. If I have not done anything with it by April 22nd, I lose my right to. Good old statute of limitations. There is part of me that still wonders if it would be possible to win. My own island? Good lords... Who doesn't dream of such? Financial security for the rest of my natural life? It would be sweet. My father being forced in a court of law to admit he lied and used his uniform and influence for ill towards his own child? I don't know. I don't think he is capable of admitting defeat or being wrong. I think it would just lead to more of the same and more statements from him that would crush me. After all, the main reason it went as far as it did was because I was disobedient and he felt he needed to reestablish his control over me. What levels would he go to if he discovered that I intended to make it all public?

I guess, too, more troubling to me is how my grandmother would handle such. She struggles so hard to keep the family together and it would be devastating to her on so many levels. I know it wouldn't sit well with my brothers either--they see much good in my father and believe he only acts in the manner he believes is for the best of the universe. Some of the other family members may find humor in the situation, pity or disbelief.

Not that the lawsuit was going to be against my father--much like suing the Red Cross, there are some things that just aren't right (but looking back, I do regret NOT getting a PFA for him, as so many recommended).

The lawsuit would actually be against the agency that allowed all of that to happen. They made so many mistakes--unbelievable screw-ups occurred to even permit the situation to take place. For one, crisis never evaluated me. They took my father's word for it that I was suicidal, homicidal and so many other pleasantries. For two, the crisis worker that my father met with was working for crisis because I was previously her supervisor at our agency and had to have her fired. Slight conflict of interest, but I am sure she enjoyed every minute of my father's sordid tale.

Funny, when I was required by the attorney to contact the faulty agency and obtain my records, I got a huge run around and the story that "they now train their employees better, so that similar situations do not occur in the future." As if that made everything alright and I should laugh it off and praise their new procedures to train their so-called crisis workers. Several months ago, when I again attempted to obtain my records, mysteriously--no record of me existed. Seems to be the case all over when my calls about this situation are placed. That, I believe is the definition of FUBAR--when no one wants to take any responsibility or even admit that the event occurred--sweeping it under the rug at its best.

Admittedly, THOSE things do make me want to continue forward with a lawsuit. What happened to me should not have happened--it involved gross negligence on many, many ends--and by not doing anything, the system wins. It will continue to consist of major screw-ups and by not doing anything, similar situations can occur to other people. If I moved forward, fought it, and won--I am betting that training for crisis workers, police officers, and many others would be a bit different. Not to say the system would now be perfect, but I am betting a lot of changes would occur. Sweeping it under the rug simply adds to my frustration with all of it. It just makes me even more determined to make the proper parties accountable for their actions. As it is now, they breathe a sigh of relief and know that they got away with a major fuck-up unscathed. But revenge is not the right answer, either.

Would I emotionally be capable of surviving the lawsuit? Facing my father and his "love" for me? It already breaks me. Even now, talking about the situation often leads to anger and tears. I don't know that I will ever be able to entirely put it behind me. I guess the biggest question: is it worth the additional pain that I would be subjecting myself to? Or am I better off dealing with it as I currently am and hoping that time will heal the wounds? I suppose there will never be an answer and no matter which path I choose, I will always wonder how the outcome could have been different. There are no easy answers, I guess...

A Brief Update

Guess it has been a while since I have posted. Many drafts have been saved, but none have made it into the cyberworld--many reasons for this; but alas, I shall not bore you with the details...

Overall, January has been an absolute bear. December faded out with a quiet that chilled to the bone; January followed with a silence that pierced and froze the soul.

My nephews returned to my life the last week of December. It was the first that I had had any communication with them since Thanksgiving of 2010; a week was not near enough time and waiting another year seems a million lifetimes from now. It is so difficult to not see them regularly...

Tonight, my brother left. I know that this is the next chapter for him and a good one about to begin, but it is still difficult to watch him go. I am grateful that amends were made and that we are close again, but it does make this harder. He's been living here the past seven or so months and I have gotten pretty used to him being here. I guess I worry that the promises to keep in touch will eventually fade and as with my other brother, contact every five years will become the norm.

January 10th marked 19 years since my mother was murdered. Half a lifetime with her and now half a life without. I try to remember her voice, her laugh--they are gone now. I know at some point, I need to begin a journal of memories--for my brothers, for my nephews, for my niece, for me. The memories slip away, even though I never believed that could happen.

My father's birthday is days away. Funny how that plays on my mind and has become a day of sorrow in itself. I still have gifts for him (and his wife) from years ago--tucked in the back of a closet. Disadvantage of shopping ahead, I guess. I received a Christmas card from him this year (one of those many drafts that remains unposted) and am sorry to see that he still doesn't get it. If I ever let him back into my life, I am aware that I must accept that he is not capable of understanding me and that he will never see me for who I am. As of yet, I am not ready to bow. Stubborn, maybe. Hurt many times, yes. How many more times can I bear?

Troublesome also and leading to many tears this week is a local murder trial that began this past Monday (1/17). A husband and wife murdered in April 2010. Hits home on many levels. The day they were murdered was the day that my father came and harassed me. When I went to their funeral later that week, my father had one of his friends follow me and harass me through the funeral--sounds crazy, yes--but this man didn't even know the couple--at any rate, it is a tale for another day...

This murdered couple left behind four adult sons and several grandchildren. Not only were they dealing with the shock and horror of having both of their parents murdered, they were also suspected of having committed the murders and forced through police interrogation. I remember what I went through with having my mother murdered, but I also had some small blessing in knowing who did it and that they were in police custody. What this family went through, I can not even fathom. As the trial is occurring, I know the grief of being forced to relive all of the details--how impossible moving forward and healing are when you forced to repeat it, over and over again.

The son that found them was a friend of mine for many years. I can't even begin to imagine. What he saw, what he has lived through, and what he is going through with this trial. I spend each evening praying that he remains strong, praying that he is alright, praying that he has the support needed to survive the trial and the events ahead. I give him a silent hug each night in my mind and feel my own tears flow for him and his family. It is a horror I know a bit about, a grief I have tasted on my own level, a nightmare that one never awakens from. My hope is that he finds the support my brothers and I lacked through our own nightmare--hope that he survives--hope that he heals and is able to find his own peace.

I think sometimes we forget how short life truly is. How quickly a day can change your entire life and rock your faith in humanity. Sometimes we see our own struggles and forget that there are others going through trials beyond our imagination. Life is a strange, quickly fleeting ride and we never truly know when or where that ride is going to end. But mostly, life is the blink of an eye and the flutter of a butterfly's wings. Grasp the good times, cling to those that bring you joy and laughter, hug the ones you love and let them know how much they mean to you. Second chances are never guaranteed. Live without regret and love with all of your heart--life is too sacred not to.

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...