That's right-- I pierced my nose! Did it last Tuesday while in Wisconsin. And I got the next set of lobe piercings. Eventually I want to be pierced all the way up to the top of the ear, but that'll take time. I have to baby my nose ring, because I'm so prone to infection and it is catching a slight infection, but I'm not worried. I'm treating it real good.

I have so much to write about, but I need to fall asleep about 2 hours ago, as I'm working the final day of this season's gun show in a few short hours. Buenas nachos, all. Just wanted to commemorate my bad-assery. ^_^

…now you don't.

I feel like I'm losing my mind. There's no other way to describe it as accurately and succinctly.

April was a hard month. Lots of pain that just wouldn't be budged, increased sleep walking, further weakness and increased discouragement and depression… and all that after getting my wisdom teeth out the month before. I cannot pinpoint a specific time that things turned for the worse, but that's always the case isn't it?

Nothing, though, nothing could have prepared me for the experience of this past week. I have trouble when I'm particularly weary with full body muscle spasms that jerk me around like I'm having a seizure, and I also have a tendency to fall into a half-sleep that's deep enough to dream a little but not awake enough to know that the situations are fictitious. I end up with these conversations I've had with other people, but they turn out to be one-sided. It's quite embarrassing, actually.

This week, I've had a lot of fantasy conversations, but more than that… I've begun hallucinating again. Auditory hallucinations are commonplace for me, and have been my whole life. I tend to hear music playing that no one else can hear but me, wherever I'm at. Visual hallucinations started as a child as well, because I remember distinctly having to take naps in my step-grandparent's spare bedroom on Sabbath afternoons, but I hated nap time so much because I was at least 6 or 7 and I wanted to be up and reading or something! The walls were covered with portraits of family members throughout the years, as bunches or singles. As I lay there in the afternoon half-light that filtered through the drawn curtains, I had nothing to do but stare at the photos and watch as they talked to one another. Their lips would move, heads turning, facial expressions would change; full blown conversations were going on, but I didn't know to read lips so I couldn't follow along. There was no way I could tell anyone about that, ever, because I knew that it would sound super crazy and the line of success/dysfunction that my family crept along was tenuous, at best. I didn't want to be made fun of or told that I was crazy, so I kept it to myself. I finally told my psychiatrist this past year, though.

And now we come to my current dysfunctions, the ones that are giving me so much trouble and leaving me questioning my own senses. In truth, the problems are much the same, but now they're the adult version, having apparently grown up alongside me.

One of the big problems with my diseases is the fatigue. Sometimes I deal with insomnia, but more often than not I sleep more than the average person is supposed to need to. When my mind is fuzzy with fatigue it is much easier to space out, but when I come to I remember snippets and snatches of conversations… or thought sequences… or were they dreams? Yeah. Dreams. That's gotta be it. And so it goes.

What will happen is that if a friend says something, I will formulate a response in my head, and then they'll answer, and I build the experience on the back and forth that comes next. Only… lately, I've been actually hearing what before used to be just thoughts in my head. And when that conversation is playing in my head (the one that stopped being relevant about 20 seconds prior) I join in with my retorts and comments, of course! To the other person, it seems as though I'm just spouting gibberish and nonsense, which, to be fair, is the truth when you can't hear the other side of the conversation. For instance: Drogo was playing a computer game he purchased through Steam called Elite: Dangerous. It's about space, but it's really well done and I love watching him play it. Yesterday, however, while I was watching him attack another ship in the particular solar system he was occupying, I noticed that there was some kind of theme music that seemed to "caption" each shot he laid on the other ship with a funny taunt laid out to a simple tune. (I don't remember any of this, just a few moments here and there.) I laughed at the awesome lyrics and said something about how I loved the captions to his shots, and he looked at me very strangely. I was like, "There is a song playing right now that emphasizes the shots your getting off… right?" Well, no. No there wasn't. And throughout this past week I have been hearing more and more things that aren't there.

I'll hear Corey say something and without really processing it my brain will formulate a response that just tumbles on out… and makes, like, zero sense. It's a lot like playing "Telephone", except that the other person has no idea that they're playing or indeed what they said in the first place! Often I'll jerk myself awake out of a doze because my body is trying to physically imitate what my shallow dream has me doing, like eating ice cream maybe, or handing a stack of paper to someone, petting the cat, whatever. The physical action has loud noises or words that accompany it, and the combo of those will jerk me awake so that I can try to play it off as myself coughing or rolling over or something hide, but a split second later and I'll be off chasing the White Rabbit again. Even if I'm awake, I can find myself grabbing for whatever is bothering me without realizing I've even done it yet, or suddenly breathing hard and blinking rapidly to jerk myself out of doze mode and back to the present.

The visual hallucinations, well, it's that moving picture thing again for certain. There are no portraits on the walls of my home, but there are plenty of other things to distract my eye. Generally, it is the movement of stationary things, like shadows scooting across the floor or at the outsides of my vision, sometimes right in front of me; spots of dirt or some-such, even the natural patterns in the walls or tile take on movement and writhe like small insects. There doesn't even have to be a pattern to it when all of a sudden a dark blot of movement streaks by your thigh, and  by the time you look over it's already long gone. Or how about seeing the blankets themselves move of their own volition right at the back corner of your vision, only to find them stationary when you whirl to look. Let me tell you, it is freaky when all of a sudden you think you're surrounded by bugs! Ticks and ants and other creepy crawly things! Aaaaugh! I'm always relieved to see the truth of that one. Another common one is thinking that I see one of the cats walk past and then be obscured by the table, but when I go to look at that corner there, it's empty. No cat there. Gahhh. Y'know, maybe I'm not crazy. Maybe my cats are just ninjas!!! Occam's Razor. Yep. That's got to be the answer, then. :P

Yesterday was bad. Like, bad bad. I was very actively hallucinating, more than I ever have before, visually, audibly, and with sensation on my skin as well. That one is common, but it never ceases to be startling when you suddenly feel drops of scalding water or ice water flick against your skin for no reason, or when you are positive that there is a bug crawling on your arm/leg/toe/face/etc. I am definitely going to be bringing this up to my psychiatrist tomorrow, but there are some other physical symptoms that I feel are connected somehow and are giving me just as much trouble as the hallucinations but are more alarming. My eyes… for some reason, they'll just stop focusing, and everything gets blurry, especially anything from the end of arm's length toward me. Can't read, can't write, can't tell which pill bottle is which sometimes… It's terrifying. Each time I wonder if that will be the time it lasts, that my vision won't revert. I don't know what to make of it at all. Frequently I will be struck with what I have dubbed "eye seizures", which is where my eyes won't focus right, but they're still mostly in focus. My vision simply shakes from side to side and prevents me from latching on to a more distant focal point. Eye seizures are for further distance, and the unfocusable eyes are impossible for

The next problem I'm having is that my legs will just collapse beneath me. As I mentioned before, I do sleepwalk, more and more intensely these days, and it has been while sleepwalking that I've noticed the most collapsing. More so this past week, however, Friday being the worst of it, I have a split second's warning that my legs are about to give way when I feel this pulsing throb of weakness that shoots through my entire being. As the spasm of weakness passes, my legs buckle after the apex and I must clutch something, anything to keep me upright. Even then it's not pleasant, for my heart is pounding, I feel weak and exhausted in every inch of me, and my chest is tight while my heart hammers away. Sometimes there's chest pain, sometimes no, but always it feels like a dark balloon expanding within my chest, and once it pops a thick, sludgy wave washes through me and pulls me to the floor. Dizziness explodes behind my eyes and the room swims around me in crooked, clumsy laps.

Even as I type, I am struggling with some of these things. The dizziness, the throb of weakness and pounding heart, the rapid drift back into dozing only to be woken up again and again. I snap awake, limbs shaking and heart pounding, eyes blinking rapidly and looking around for context clues as to where I am.  My lungs pull in the sharp, short breaths of one who has forgotten to breathe just a bit too long. My head jerks around, the ratchet movement keeping me awake for the moment, my outstretched hands moving likewise, rapid but aimless, as I find myself trying to grasp for a literal lifeline. The searing moment of clarity is driven into my skull like a railroad spike, but I know that all too soon I will be adrift upon the shallow, troubled waters of this unsatisfactory sleep.

Also, as a side note, I just want to mention that my mouth is all kinds of ulcerated and painful on the inside; sores on my tongue, roof of the mouth, cheeks; abrasions and tender and inflamed areas that leave me clenching my jaw in pain when anything other than water passes through my lips. My glands have been swollen for a week or more. I cannot feel much in the skin from my cheekbones down to my collarbones. It is cold, and it is numbed, though I know not how. My memory is absolutely shot. I lose track of sentences while I am speaking, fumbling to a stop because I'm not sure how I wanted to end it, much less what the idea I was trying to convey was. I finally got my first menstrual cycle since December, which had me freaking out and hoping I wasn't pregnant and that the tests I took weren't faulty. I think I really scared Corey yesterday with my inability to remain standing and the severity of my hallucinations. Sometimes I can play it off like I'm talking to the cats, but usually not so much.

Oh! I broke my phone last night. See, the twitches aren't just about my legs jerking around as if they'd been hit with the rubber reflex mallet. That's part of it, but another, much bigger problem is that I will be holding something normally, say a mug of tea or a bowl of cereal, but suddenly my entire arm with jerk wildly and I now have hot tea all down my front, or a puddle of cereal and milk in my lap. It sounds funny to read, I know, but in actual practice? It sucks. Do you have any idea how many times I had to start the washer recently?! Too many. Anyway, yesterday I picked up my phone from the couch, and bam! Arm and hand jerked, my (admittedly ghetto) phone flew to the tile flooring in a very direct manner, and it broke in half, exposing the guts. Later that night I figured it out (still not sure how, really), and while I'll need another phone, I still have this one… even if it is being held together with black electrician's tape ;)

So that, my friends, is what is going on with me right now. I don't know where the boundaries of reality and fantasy intersect anymore, and I genuinely feel like I might be losing my hold on reality. Seriously… how scary is that?! All I know is that I keep resurfacing, gasping for breath and shaking my head rapidly to clear it. It works for a few microts, but it's scary as hell because down, down, down I go as soon as I'm not actively forcing myself awake. Even so, there are times that doesn't work either. How can I trust anything anymore when I can no longer rely on my 5 senses to guide me? Funny how the brain is so powerful, but not powerful enough that it can escape when turned upon itself, eh?

I found this coat today on a website that I like to browse, dresslily. I'm slowly coming to terms with the fact that most of their products are made for people smaller than I. (I'm still not used to being an XL with a double-digit bosom!) It's a shame, really, because they have some adorable things!

This coat, silly as it is, really appeals to me. I like bright colors and fun, unexpected accents. I love fur trim. I love old-fashioned looking things, and this is reminiscent of the late 19th century to me. Did I ever mention that for most of my childhood my greatest ambition was to be Amish? I used to actually spend hours scheming about how to be taken in by an Amish community, since they're pretty exclusive.  The simplicity, honesty, and hard work of their lifestyle really appealed to me, and it was all cloaked in the romanticism of childhood fancies. The dream died when my mother informed me that all the Amish were allowed to read was the Bible. Being the bookworm that I was and am, this was an unacceptable compromise, so I sadly parted ways with my fondest wish. (I've since learned that this is not true.)

I had a vibrantly sky blue coat while I was at SOULS. I got it at a yard sale put on by the church we were staying at my first summer in MI. It was a pleather trench coat, dappled in shades of sky and pale blue so that it looked like a pleasantly clouded sky. It made me sweat since there was no air flow through that material, but it was certainly handy for rainy days. GM hated it, I later learned, because it didn't match with anything that I owned or wore it with. I am of the opinion that you don't have to match at all, ever, unless you want to. I also firmly believe that coats are exempt from any outfit matching rules and can be whatever color or style you darn well please.

I finally did part with my blue trench coat, but I think back on it with fondness. It was my way of hanging on to my individuality and the sparkle of my persona in an atmosphere that, while not explicitly demanding conformity, encouraged a sort of bland sameness. Once there I didn't have much to work with anymore-- no unnatural hair colors, no jewelry, no crazy haircuts… Just modest shirts, long skirts, and cute flats. To counter that, I wore shawls, blue trench coats, neon sweaters… anything that was still me I clung to in the lukewarm sea of conservativism. I wasn't the only one. JP had his crazy knee-high socks and his sling, BH had a red track suit he wore in off times, LP always maintained her classic, fun style with grace and ease and lovely scarves, and JR would forego the demand for "propriety" in favor of the leafy embrace of the nearest tree.

Over time, though, I even gave up the bright colors, heeding very literally the counsel to not draw attention to oneself through dress or appearance. I regret that now. I entered the world of conservative Christianity during a (long) period of my life when I was struggling to find myself, to figure out who I was without the clutter and debris of friends and hobbies and expectations and excuses. I became what I thought I was supposed to be, but that was a trick I picked up at a very, very young age. If you are what you're supposed to be, act the way you're supposed to act, etc., then you curry favor with those in power and make yourself less likely to be noticed. A handy trick for abusive and dysfunctional situations. It's taken years, though, to shed that habit and slough off the accumulation of personas cultivated over decades.

I'm finally figuring out me, letting my true self shine out bright and bold… and I think the true me would like a coat like this.

I've been turning this around and around in my head and heart for the past few days, and I need to just get it out on "paper" so I can think through it... or at least feel it less... or maybe feel it fully. I dunno.

Saturday night, my youngest (bio) sister J called me in tears. She said that she was breaking down and that she couldn't stop crying and she didn't know who to call 'cause Mom wasn't answering her phone so she called me. I was honored, but concerned. As it turns out, she was having a PTSD flashback attack, being assaulted by memories that she had previously been repressing, and she didn't know how to deal with it or how to stop the memories. I talked with her through it and managed to get her calmed down, and we talked for about 2 hours. She didn't want to talk specifics at all, which I totally understand, but she said that she had memories of bad things happening to her. I guess that I just couldn't absorb what she was telling me, so I assumed she was talking about physical abuse and went with that for the rest of the conversation.

R called me in a panic an hour or two later (well, as panicked as he gets, anyway) saying that J had texted him in the course of a text convo they were having that the same thing that happened to me had happened to her. After our conversation and my piecing together the big picture from context clues in our conversation, I fb messaged her and asked outright, "Those memories that are troubling you... are they sexual in nature?" She responded that they were.

Dear god.

Here's the kicker... we share the same molester.

He's her father. Her biological father. I mean, how sick is that?! One thing that I've clung to all these years is that, "Well, at least he was only my step dad." 

She's been disclosing to family members and calling people involved the past few days... trying to make sense of the whole thing, I think, and also to validate her memories. She doesn't trust herself fully, so she needs someone to confirm that she was, in fact, abused and that she's not making it up. We've been in close contact since that night, whether it be through phone call, text, or Facebook chat. I am so glad that I followed the impulse I had recently to reach out to her and establish a deeper bond and to make myself available to her via regular phone calls. When she needed a support and someone to turn to, she had someone who was there for her.

Although I hate the situation with a passion, it did help to boost my professional confidence that I handled her crisis so well. I had no idea that I knew so much! I'm pretty much terrified of dealing with my girls when they're in crisis mode, and I have avoided giving out my phone number for that very reason. Besides my own trepidation, fear of somehow bungling it and damaging them further, and feelings of inadequacy, I know that it takes a lot of energy to deal with someone in an emotional crisis and I don't always have anything to give. I am selfish, I'll admit it. When I'm home, I don't want to be bothered with someone else's problems most of the time. Now, though... my perspective has changed. I realize how much I know, that I can help someone through a crisis... and I feel like my heart has been opened towards my girls a little more now. I have more love for them. It's hard to explain. But I'll be handing out my card with my phone number on it tonight to all of the girls, and I started a Facebook group last week just for them. I'm glad that I am involved in the teen/tween group again. It's not like it was last time when I was drowning, untrained and casting about on my own while battling my own demons without any weapons. I'm in a much stronger place emotionally, the turmoil of my romantic life has died down, and I've gotten some good counseling and experience under my belt. I've also gone through the program myself for a while, and that was worth more than anything in terms of training and learning.

So back to J. R called me while I was traveling the other day, and we urgently hammered out some of the details for me to fly back and be there with the folks for a few weeks next month. Mom will be having a hysterectomy and will be physically out of commission for a while and J needs a good support system more than ever right now. (She was hospitalized for suicidal ideations again last week.) She and I have really, really clicked and connected, and being a survivor of the same kind of abuse from the same abuser puts me in a unique position to minister to her. She sees that my life is good, that I have not only survived but thrived (HJ mission statement plug, lol), and I think that will give her hope. The beginning is hard, but the healing is even harder, and she's got a lot to work through. K was very abusive to her while they were growing up and it has affected her in dramatic ways. I'm trying to convince her to move here to Y with me for a year or two at the least after she graduates high school this year. I think that going through the HJ program with girls her age that are also wonderful, strong, empathetic survivors would hep her avoid a lot of heartache, pain, and dysfunction in the future.

Those are the facts. But the feelings? I guess I'm just numb still. I'm shocked, disgusted, sorrowful... but it's all kind of muted, far-off, tamped down. It'll probably be really intense while I'm there with her. I had restless sleep last night and woke up feeling all gross inside and I know it's because of this. I guess I've just written G off to such a degree that I can't feel anything about him right now, not yet. But I guess the biggest thing I feel is relief. I am relieved that I can do what I've been doing my whole life and rush in to take care of my family and help make things better, make them run smoother. I don't feel so helpless because I was there for J in her hour of need, I had the experience and training necessary to help her through the critical juncture, and I'll be there physically to be a support for her. I'll be there physically to help take care of my family's physical needs while Mom is out of commission (and even while she's not-- I've had reports that she's overwhelmed right now and not doing so well). I can do something, I already have, and that relief trumps everything else. I can't fix it; I know that. But I can help set the bone and make sure the fracture heals clean while the healing takes place.

I guess that I just never thought he would hurt his own kids, you know? Me, obviously. K, maybe. But his kids? They were obviously his favorites. I can't believe that even after all he did to me I still accorded him some measure of decency. Guess I was wrong. I would do a lot of things to make sure he never sees the light of day again... not for me, but for my baby girl, my sweet little sister. God. I can't even assimilate this. How could he? I don't have english words strong enough for my sense of outrage and repulsion. He is her father. I just... I just... I don't know. My heart is broken and inflamed all at once. My baby... he hurt my baby.

When it was just about me, it was excusable. (I know, I know, logic says it's not, but this is what the inner voices say, ok? I'm working on it. Give me a break.) I took the hit so the other kids would be safe. I took care of them, you know? But then when we were all taken away, when they were out of my care, he hurt her. He did bad things to her. There's nothing I could have done to stop it; I know that. But I spent all of these years believing that I had somehow saved the rest of them... that I had done my job as Second Mommy and taken care of my family to the best of my ability. But now I realize that I never could. I was just a kid, and he was a sick adult bent on draining the life and livelihood of those around him for his own selfish purposes. He never cared about us. It was always about him, only about him. This is proof.

There is no "I should have been there", because there is no way I could have been. The situation was out of my hands. I was too busy trying to take care of K and myself, and then Mom when we got back to her. The kids were with their Gramma and Grampa, so of course they were safe! They were taken care of. I didn't have to worry. Because, I mean, of course he singled me out... I was the oldest. The blonde one. The one that looked different. They were his. He doted on them. He'd take care of them, even if he despised K and I.

I was wrong.

But I can take care of her now. I can help. I can't change what happened, but I can change what happens from here on out... and I'm going to take care of my baby.

Hell hath no fury like that of a woman whose loved ones have been hurt.

*POSSIBLE TRIGGER WARNING!!*

I discuss my abuse in this post, not in a graphic nature, but it could be triggering for some folks.

So next week (if the gov't shut down doesn't interfere), I'm going to be giving a talk on domestic violence at the Marine base here in town. I haven't been in a domestically violent relationship myself, but I was raised in a dv home setting, so it definitely affected me. I'd like to share my talk here, complete with pictures, because C doesn't want to hear it. It's not that he doesn't care, it's that it upsets him too much to hear the actual story. I've told him everything, and he's compartmentalized it away, but he doesn't want to hear it again. It makes him very angry, and there's nothing he can do about it, so it's better to just not say. (That's not to say that he doesn't listen when I need to talk, but outside of that... I pretty much keep "work" away from our conversations, except in a general sense.) I'm really proud of him for coming along and supporting me during the trial. It was very hard for him to hear all the sordid details and to actually see G, to see me up on the stand and to watch me get cross examined by The Snake. He's such a good guy. Fun fact: he saw G at work while he was in the county jail waiting to be transferred to the state prison, and had to ask to be transferred to a different unit to work. Conflict of interests, you see. He might pulverize the guy. Heh. (Not that any of us would have minded, but they generally frown on that kind of behavior from officers...)

So anyway, here's the talk I'll be giving next week. It's not word for word, really, but I wrote down the story.

Recently married, co-running non-profit agency. Emotionally healthy and stable, have many fulfilling hobbies, a solid support system, and several close, meaningful friendships. Also have two cats. Looking at me, you’d think I am a happy, successful young woman with a bright future, and you’d be right. This was not always the case.

Teen years and early twenties: intense depression, uncertainty, paralyzed by fear of failure, low self esteem, delinquency, risky behaviors, suicidal thoughts, escapism, no sense of self, directionless. Felt responsible for family and mother, yet a failure. Codependent, dealing with PTSD unaware, zero boundaries, unrealistic expectations for self and others.

Very few safe people in life, one of them being now-husband, C. Met at 15, began dating later that year. Kept me safe and on the straight and narrow as far as he could- got me to work and school, kept me from drinking and drugs, from unsafe situations and friendships.

Another safe person E, met after disclosing childhood sexual abuse at age 17 and pressing charges. She was my victim advocate and maintained a friendship with me after my abuser received a conviction and the case was closed. It was while preparing for trial and telling the details of my childhood to her that I first began to realize that what I and my family went through was not normal, and was in fact a terribly abusive situation.

 Some of earliest memories are of being physically abused, but by a different man, my younger sister’s father. He was extremely abusive to my mother as well, and almost killed her at least once. One incident I remember clearly is the time that he placed me inside of a heated oven, resulting in burns on my back that required a doctor’s attention. Another time, he tried to force me to drink urine. On multiple occasions and for reasons I can’t remember, my mouth was stuffed with wadded socks. I was somewhere between 1 ½ and 3 years old. He was not the only abusive presence in my life- physically and I suspect sexually abused at day care, and in one abusive temporary home after being removed to foster care when the domestic violence situation with mom and my sister’s dad became apparent.

Mom got custody of me back and we moved to Y, where my younger sister K was born. We had a year or so of peace until my second abuser entered the picture. I was afraid of him from the beginning, as something about him triggered an innate sense of wrongness. Nevertheless, Mom got pregnant with my younger brother and married him.

I do not recall seeing him beat her the way he beat me after a while, but he did make her life hell in many other ways, such as forcing her to pack and move all of the household goods and furniture right after she got out of the hospital from delivering my brother and was suffering from a severe kidney infection. He refused to go to work frequently so my mom worked as much as she could to keep us in food and clothes, but he took most of her money to spend on his own hobbies. She had a secret stash of money for groceries that only she and I were privy to. He ignored us kids unless he was high or wanted to impress someone, and he pretty much ignored mom as well. When mom was working and he was supposed to be caring for us kids, the duties fell to me and I became the secondary mother of the home. 

This role was exacerbated even more when he began coming to my bedroom around age nine and molesting me. Years later, when I confronted him via phone call, his excuse was that he and mom were “having problems”.

His parenting style was erratic and wildly unpredictable, often meting out excessive punishments for trivial offenses that hadn’t been offenses previously. I bore the brunt of this, being the oldest, and the punishments ran the gamut from isolation to beatings (excessive “spankings” that brought heavy bruising and bleeding welts) to food deprivation. He acted as a grown child, with petulance and unrealistic demands of all the members of the family, favoring or ostracizing on a whim. 

In one instance, he returned from a trip with the three younger children and announced that he didn't like my younger sister and never wanted to take her on a trip again. I believe that she internalized this message, as her previously loving, outgoing nature changed drastically from that time on and she became sullen, withdrawn, and painfully unsure of herself. She has spent her dating years emotionally promiscuous, dating younger men who tend to idealize her and put her on a pedestal but who have serious emotional problems themselves and required her affection to fuel their self worth. She was in a long term domestically violent relationship (unbeknownst to the rest of the family) that resulted in the first grandchild.

As for myself, these formative years in such an emotionally, mentally, physically, and sexually abusive environment seriously warped my sense of self, my perception of healthy relationships both romantic and non, and my ability to cope with life stressors. In many ways, I was still the toddler and the child who did not know how to handle life or relate to the world around her, because I was denied the opportunity to learn these things. Instead, I was taught that I didn't matter, that what I said had no value or weight, that the mistakes I made while learning something new were to be punished and thus to be avoided (so trying new things was to be avoided, for fear of making a mistake), that words and promises are not to be trusted, and neither are actions. I learned to mistrust and fear authority figures, to accept violence and manipulation as a part of everyday life, and to believe that women and children are inherently inferior to men, especially men in positions of authority. I learned to keep secrets, to keep quiet and clean up the messes of my dysfunctional family rather than seek help for genuinely distressing situations. I learned that I do not have the right to say no to anyone, no matter how outrageous the claim or the imposition on me. I learned that I was helpless, always helpless. I learned to give up before I even tried. I learned that I was only as good as my contribution, that my acceptance or rejection depended on it. I learned to be a piss-poor member of society.

This is one of the great problems with domestic violence; it doesn't just affect the women or men in the abusive relationship. It fundamentally changes the children who witness it, who live with it day in and day out. Society is built on the backs of the family unit, as it is the family unit that produces the citizens who make the world go round. When the children are taught false and damaging “truths” about themselves and their relationship to those around them, they will grow up to act in negative, damaging ways. They will not respect laws or those who make them. They will not treat people with courtesy and respect. They will not build up, but they will tear down. Why? Because that is what they are taught is “normal”. That is what they see as being the basic model of the world.

I  was raised to be a victim. I didn’t go out and hurt others, but I was the one that allowed myself to be hurt. I was part of the perpetual cycle, because wolves only survive if there are prey to devour. I didn’t understand why I always felt so burnt out, how I kept getting screwed over and hurt, why I felt so paralyzingly guilty that I couldn’t say “no” to anyone. I didn’t know why I felt like such a fake all of the time, why I didn’t know who I was or felt that I was always pretending. I didn’t know what a personal boundary was. Literally, I didn’t know.

It wasn’t until I moved to Id and lived with a family there for several years that I began to understand how a healthy family functions. They had struggles and flaws, like any normal family, but they truly were a healthy, functioning family unit. It took quite a bit of adjustment on both our parts to get used to the arrangement- I didn’t know how to relate to a real family, and they didn’t know what to do with a girl who didn’t know how to be in a family! But we ironed out the wrinkles, and as I began going through counseling and intensively focusing on healing from my past of abuse, I began discovering emotional health and, more importantly, the real me. 

I grew and I thrived within the cocoon of that family, but the time did come for me to leave. I moved back here to Y, supposedly temporarily on my way through to CA, but I ended up staying as I got involved with The Healing Journey and in a relationship with my husband. I’ve continued to intentionally heal from the abuse that I suffered and grew up around, and part of that is using what I’ve learned to try to help others. I know that there are people in the world who make bad decisions. That’s not going to change. So I know that there will continue to be people that abuse other people. What I hope to do is help those who have already endured abuse to heal and become stronger, as I have, and in the process remove some of the people from that pool of possible offenders. 

It’s more than just working with The Healing Journey, though I adore my job, as hard as it is. To me, the most important thing I can do with my healing is to help my family. My ex step dad is behind bars, and I’m proud to say that I put him there. He deserves every year of the prison sentence that he got, and some more on top of that. But my mom was also abused, by him, by my sister’s dad, and by her parents and others before them. She is broken, too. My siblings grew up in the same household that I did, and they are broken. Through my urging, they’re all getting counseling now, and I share with them what I’ve learned when I can. When I go home to visit, we talk, and they can see the growth and healing in me. The ways that I interact with them have changed. The ways that I respond to them have changed. The way I think about things has changed. But most importantly, the thing that gives them the greatest hope for their future is my marriage. 

They’ve seen my mom go through one bad relationship after another, and, like I was at one point, have become cynical about the possibility or reality of a truly happy relationship. They see that C and I have done it, we’re making it, and we are genuinely happy despite the different setbacks that we deal with. I’ve had conversations with all of my siblings, and even my mother, at one point or another regarding my marriage, and they all express hope that they can have something like that someday. Even our friends say that. I make sure to emphasize to them that what we have is possible because we both insist on being happy and healthy within ourselves first and foremost, rather than looking to the other person to fix us or make us happy.

I think the thing that makes me the happiest is knowing that my children will never, ever have to experience what I did, or even my husband to a lesser degree. My children will not live in uncertainty and fear, will not nurse bitterness and hatred within themselves over very real injustices. My children will grow up in a steady, safe home filled with loving discipline and genuine acceptance. I honestly don’t know what they’ll turn out like, because nothing in my experience has prepared me for knowing the outcome of living in a home like that, except for my few brief years in Id. But I do know that my kids will also be very aware of the issues of domestic violence and sexual abuse, and that they and all of their friends will know that our home is a safe place for anyone to come to. So maybe my ex step dad tried to destroy my mom and our family, but it is possible to take destruction and turn it into a gift, if only we are brave and just plain stubborn enough to do it.

I really think the antidepressant I'm on is helping me. It's a low dose, to be sure, but I just needed that little edge, that advantage over my biological inclination toward depression. The environmental stuff, that I can work with. That's where self-talk and positive thinking and working to free myself from the wounds of the past come in. But the biological? I've been at its mercy for far too long. Since going on the antidepressant, I've noticed that my mood doesn't fluctuate as widely as it did before. I didn't realize how much I did that, or how much effort I had to put into being positive, until it became easier. Not to say that I don't still struggle with discouragement... because the pain has been changing again lately, I think due to getting off of all of my fibro meds for one reason or another. At least I know that they were helping some, even if I was still not to the level of functioning that I would have liked. Unfortunately, the gabapentin makes me twitch (still having problems with that, though I haven't been on it in close to a week), and the Savella is too expensive. We just can't afford it right now. But hey... at least I'm not depressed about it ;)

C had the day off yesterday and friend M took him/us suit shopping. C got a very nice black suit, and I can't wait to see him in it when we go up for the wedding. I'm going to have to beat the girls off with a stick! Back off, ladies-- he's spoken for. In the evening, C helped me hang pictures and a decorative shelf up in the living room, so it looks a lot more cozy and homey now. I don't think I've mentioned it lately, but I love our little house. Now that the major stuff is all unpacked, it feels like home. I smile when I walk into our little kitchen because it's so cozy and clean and full of our useful little knick knacks and cast iron skillets and such. In the living room, our comfy couch is draped with soft blankets and every corner houses a plump, cushy pillow. The low table is situated at the perfect height to reach over for a mug of tea or a glass of water, and the couch is large enough to sprawl or cuddle, however the mood strikes.

I went for a walk this morning. Took my walker out and pounded the sidewalk for about 15 minutes, a 2 block radius. I was ready to be back home by the time our house came into view, but I'm happy that I got out and into the sunshine and fresh air. I've been longing to do that for the past week or so, but been in too much pain. I'm hurting today, to be sure, but it seems more bearable this morning.

I've been going through things in my craft room, finding the things to hang up in the living room and just generally trying to get it organized. (I also set up a bunch of my knick-knacks on the top of our "dresser"-aka snake cage- and it ended up looking like a pagan altar! It was completely unintentional. I just collect a lot of rocks and natural things... and daggers... and such. It's pretty and I'm leaving it the way it is, but it's just funny how it totally looks like I practice the old ways or something.) In going through my bins, I came across a lot of things that invoked waves of nostalgia. For instance, this picture:

That's me and my grampa. I am about four here, maybe five. Grampa has worn button-up shirts like the one in the picture every day of my entire life. (I have never seen the man in a t-shirt. Ever. He doesn't even own undershirts, I don't think.) So when I was growing up, I would measure my height by the buttons on Grampa's shirt. "I'm up to the third button now!" "I'm up to the fourth button!" I couldn't believe it when I ran out of buttons and started hitting shoulders, or his nose... and now I'm taller than he is. He's still a giant of a man, though, in spirit. A true father figure for me, and a safe haven in troubled times. When Mom moved down to Y and had K, we lived with Gramma and Grampa for a time before she met and married G (the one I put in prison), and Grampa and I developed the habit of taking walks in the desert together. It was on those walks that I was able to casually divulge details of the abuse I had suffered at the hands of K's father. (Also G. Same name. Must be a bad name.) Grampa was furious, but he contained himself because he knew that as a young child I would interpret his anger as being directed at me. When he talks about that now, I realize what a truly safe, caring, and gentle man he is... and I'm so grateful that I have had that influence in my life. He's like D in a lot of ways, which is maybe why I got so attached to D. 

I pulled out my guitar yesterday and began playing through my songbook, but when I played "Mountaintop", I lost it. I made it all the way to the last chorus before the memories of playing guitar with D, watching and imitating his chords, came vividly to mind. C came in and held me while I cried, told me it was okay to miss him and to be sad. I said I know... I just miss him so much. But I am glad to have known him. It is worth it to have lost, because it means that I loved... and he was so lovable. 

I am dreading the day that I lose Grampa. He's getting older, and has had several health problems in recent years, so I know it's coming, but... I don't even want to think about it. There's no point in worrying about it. I know it's inevitable. I just focus on enjoying him and Gramma while I still have them here.

When I was a girl, I had a black cat named Autumn. Before her, though, I had two zebra finches named Donny and Marie that I bought by pooling all of my birthday money one year. I bought them from the mother of my friend that lived down the street, and I realized very quickly that I should have bought a lovebird instead. Zebra finches are not "people birds", but more for just having around. I tried, though. The bratty little girl upstairs opened the cage the day after I got them and had them sunning outside in their cage so Marie escaped, but I replaced her with a pure white female named Sarah. (Sarah also later escaped. Same kid. Same story.)

One day I forgot to bring Donny and Sarah back indoors after I'd had them outside that day, and it had already gotten dark. My sister K said that she heard a cat meowing outdoors, which made me think of Donny and Sarah, potential snacks for any prowling passers-cats. When I went out to get their cage, a young black kitten was crouched beneath the weight bench our neighbor had set up under the stairs. Somehow we coaxed her indoors and tried to feed her, but we had nothing on hand, not even milk or canned fish. (Did I mention we were poor?) I found a can of condensed milk that I thinned out with water, and she went nuts for the stuff. Poor baby must have been starving.

She slept in my room that night, and I set up a cardboard box for her down on the floor by the end of my bed. The problem was that she wouldn't stay put! She kept jumping out of her box and curling up with me in my bed. From the get-go, we were kindred spirits that adopted each other. I don't remember how we decided that I was allowed to keep her, except that she just kind of became a part of our lives. She was an indoor/outdoor cat right away, which goes to show how quickly she claimed us as her family. From time to time, she'd get into the crawlspace under the apartment building if the screen was loose, and I'd lure her out with pieces of cheese.

She couldn't have been more than a few months old when we found each other, but it wasn't long before she was pregnant. Being such a little kitty, her belly was absolutely huge by the time her due date rolled around. Even as a roly poly mommy, she was still lithe and graceful, though, with soft flowing fur and luminous golden-green eyes. 

The morning she went into labor, I was sleeping on the floor of my bedroom for some reason. I'd made a nest of blankets on the ground, and Autumn crawled into the nest with me and curled up by my feet. She was acting strangely, so I checked on her every few minutes. I remember yelling for Mom, but she was getting ready for work and was too distracted to deal with me. I finally got her attention when I yelled that Autumn had a grape coming out of her butt, which is what it looked like when she finally started delivering. (Kids. I tell ya.) Mom helped us set up a birthing box in the living room and we moved her gently. After some time, and much observation by us kids, she gave birth to three teeny tiny jet black kittens. I was honored that of all the places Autumn wanted to be when she brought her babies into the world, with me was where she chose.

Autumn never got pregnant again that I know of, but she raised her babies well. It was so much fun to watch the kittens grow and begin to stumble around, to watch their eyes open, and to see them romp and play together. I remember when she began weaning them and how concerned I was, but Mom explained the weaning process to me. Her kittens were about as old as she was when I found her that us kids got taken away and Mom pretty much stopped living at the apartment, so they were left to fend for themselves outdoors and went feral as far as we know. We did run across her only boy kitten, Panther, when we lived at another apartment complex in a nearby neighborhood. He hung out with us for some time, but was still mostly independent. It's funny, but it never really occurred to me when we were taken away that I'd be losing Autumn. I think I was in too much shock over losing the little kids and being separated from my mom, and by the time everything settled down Autumn was gone, and Jade, Jasmine, and Panther with her. I don't remember if I ever grieved over losing her, but I'm sure I did. She was a very special part of my life towards the end of a quite traumatic chapter, and I felt like we were just kind of meant to be together. She loved me unconditionally while still maintaining her independence and sass... much like Juneaux. Come to think of it, I don't think I've ever purchased a cat from a pet store. I've always found them... or vice versa, depending on how you look at it.

I'll always have a soft place in my heart for Autumn, and I'm grateful for the time that she was a part of my life. She was way better than those dumb old zebra finches.

I just finished mopping the entire house, all by myself. It wasn't all at once, of course-- I broke it up into segments. I did the kitchen before C woke up, then I finished the rest of the house just now. (It's a good thing we have such a little house! lol)

C was very pleased to see that I'm feeling well enough to attempt housework again. He does worry about me, in a "non-worrying" kind of way. He cares about my well-being, let's put it that way, and it pains him to see me very ill. He also knows what pride I take in a clean house and in being productive, so he's happy that I'm happy.

It got me thinking about when I was a kid, and how much I hated housework. It wasn't that I hated cleaning, per se, it's just that Mom didn't have any sense of regularity in chores, so our home would end up looking like an episode of Hoarders (I wish I were exaggerating...) before we launched a marathon cleaning session. I remember having the fatigue issues even as a kid, so I hated those cleaning sprees. They lasted forever, they were boring, trying to make a dent was overwhelming, I didn't feel good, and what was the point anyway because none of it would even stay clean?! It got better as time went on, but I do remember those binge cleaning sessions with mixed fondness and dread. The good? We listened to the original cast recording of The Phantom of the Opera or Franki Valli and drank sweet coffee with lots of cream while we cleaned. The bad? Coffee makes me tired.

I remember one particular time that I was vacuuming around the barstools in the dining room, and Mom was in the kitchen tidying up. (This was during a routine day, not a marathon cleaning session, btw.) She gave me a tidbit that helped to shape my work ethic tremendously, which was this: However you do things now is how you will do them later. If you learn to do good work now, you will do good work later. And who knows where you'll be later? You could be vacuuming for the President of the United States, and do you want to do a bad job? No! So do it well now, and then whatever situation you end up in, you'll be prepared to do good work.

That memory flashed back to me vividly one day while I was on the outdoor work crew at SOULS. We students teamed up with the camp that our campus was located on to earn our keep a bit, and I loved working the outdoor work crew with the kinda gruff but totally lovable camp custodian R. You know, one of those white haired old men with a little bit of a limp that have a bazillion experiences fixing things with whatever's on hand, can make anything run, and have fantastic stories to boot. He used to be a teacher, actually. Anyway, I have the highest respect for him, and I loved working with him, especially when I worked hard and he acknowledged it. (It was from him that I learned how to plane logs and break trails.) One day our team was out raking pinecones, and I was raking with a will and a vengeance, because that's what we were supposed to be doing, you know? I'm not at all opposed to having fun while you work, but everyone else was kind of goofing off more than I wanted to be, so I was keeping to myself and raking. R came up to me with his own rake and asked, "Who taught you how to work?" "My mom," I replied. "Well, she did a good job of it." That was it, but it was an affirmation that I prize highly to this day.

Now that I'm not able to do everything that I used to, it's even more important for me to do what I do well. If I can only do one thing, it's going to be done to the best of my ability! The key to my sanity is realizing what is actually my best and what is an unrealistic expectation. So, no. I didn't move the couches to mop underneath them. I did move the coffee table and pick up the rugs, though. Because, I mean, who knows? Someday I may be mopping floors for the President. :P

So. The weekend.

The morning that I was supposed to leave, I got a call from the car rental company about half an hour before R and I would go pick up the car. Apparently they were all rented out and had no cars available. I called R and told him what happened, and he showed up on my doorstep to pick me up and go see what we could scare up. Thus began a two hour hunt for a rental vehicle. Apparently there really aren't that many rental cars in Y, and the ones that we could find, well... we kept hitting snags left and right. For one reason or another, two places weren't able to rent to him, which would have saved us, oh, an hour and a half, but... it was a fun/interesting time of riding around with my new father in law and getting to know him a little better. It's not like we talked about anything deep, but it was just... enjoyable. I'll freely admit that I've been intimidated by him in the past, not because he's scary but because he's so... robotic. (Wonder where C gets it from? LOL) I am naturally pretty good at making friends, but in the past he just didn't really engage, so it was unsettling for me. Now that he and C's mom are divorced, though, he's actually happy, and that makes all the difference in the world. So despite the frustration of delays, it was a rather enjoyable time.

I finally got on the road during the heat of the day, which made me SUPER grateful that I wasn't in good ol' Shenadoah, because she's already running hot. I ended up with a Mazda 5, which was sweeeeeet! I've never driven that nice of a car. *sigh* It makes me want one of those new-fangled fancy new cars. The drive itself was uneventful. I stopped at a rest area with nice grass and trees to eat my lunch of watermelon, and I needed to stretch out my aching limbs so I ended up doing some yoga right there on the grass. Funny thing was, I didn't even care if anyone saw me! I used to be so self-conscious about so many things, but I find that as I gain confidence within myself and just do what I need to do, I worry less about what others will think. This is a gift that chronic illnesses and healing from abuse have given me-- learning how to do what is needed for me and not worrying about others unduly. I need to follow my own healing journey in my own time. Of course, there should always be a basic respect for those around you. I'm not advocating narcissism, here! Just a healthy sense of boundaries and self-confidence.

Upon arriving at the hotel, I brought my bags up to the deserted room (C and the girls were at a pre-service for D that I missed because of the timing of my trip, thanks to the car snafu) and proceeded to crash for three hours. Apparently driving wears me out more than it used to. I'm not surprised. I doubt I'd be able to pull off the 24 hours straight trip to Id anymore. When I woke up from my nap, I read a book (A Game of Thrones!) until C and the girls trickled in. They were exhausted, both from their long trip down and from the emotions of the service. We all got ready for bed while chatting among ourselves, and let me tell you, it was so good to be around them again! It was easy to fall back into the routines and rhythms of getting ready together.

That night, however, was a loooooong one. I could not sleep. I dozed fitfully now and then, but sleep was not forthcoming. Early in the morning I took a hot soak in the hotel's deep tub, which relaxed me enough to finally sleep for an hour before everyone was up and getting ready for the day. Surprisingly, I made it through the whole day and into the afternoon before getting dizzy and lightheaded from fatigue, at which point I napped in the church sanctuary until it was time to leave.

I'll be honest and admit (again) that I've felt pretty isolated during this whole process of grieving D. It seems that not many people know or understand that the S's thought/think of me as part of the family, so I'm just that girl that lived with them for a while. Even the P's, who know me and visited the S's multiple times while I was living there, completely left me out of the list of grieving family members in their tribute, opting instead to include the girls' boyfriend and fiance. Um, hello? I've been a part of the family for just as long or longer than both of those guys! Aaaaaaanyway... nope, no bitterness here! lol So in addition to being ignored or marginalized, there is no one down here that even knows D. BJ met him once, in passing, as did my grandparents, but that's it. J knows them better, but she's all the way across the country (well, halfway right now, anyway), so I've pretty much been left to mourn alone. C has been fantastic about comforting me and listening to my stories of D and the S's, but again... he doesn't know D. It's not the same. He talked to him for a few moments on Skype once.

The man who performed the service, though, made it a point to include me. It may not have seemed like much to him, but it is something that will stand out in my mind and which I will always be grateful for. When we introduced ourselves, he said, "Oh, I know who you are. I saw you in the S's pictures." Then he asked if I'd like to give a tribute during the family time, which of course I jumped at. I just really appreciated the inclusion. In addition to that, I had let C know how important it was to me to sit with her and the girls during the service itself, and that was accommodated, which I appreciated an unspeakable amount. K and I cried together during much of the setting up hour, and I cried on J's shoulder several times throughout the service.

As much as I hurt for me and the girls, though, it was C's loss and pain that struck me the most forcefully by the end of the service. Now that I have C, I can't fathom losing him. The pain would be almost unbearable. Yet here is a woman who shared 30 years with the love of her life, and now he's gone and she's alone. The loneliness... would be unspeakable.

It got me thinking about life, and love... and whether it's all really worth it, you know? Because really, when you love someone, you are opening yourself up to the inevitability of loss. People die, and unless you and your spouse both die at the same moment then one of you will have to face the incredible pain that comes with that loss. Is it worth it? I was thinking about that, and wondering... but then I think about C and D, and how much I learned by watching their love lived out in their lives and in their family life, and I realize that it's greater than just two people in love. It touches and affects the people and community around those two in love. It is because of C and D that I really felt okay in moving forward with marriage, having the assurance that yes, a healthy marriage and family is actually a possibility and not a wild goose chase. And even when one of those two is gone, or even both of them, their love has left a legacy and a mark on the world around them that is worth the inevitability of pain and loss.

I also thought of C, my C, and when I thought about him I concluded that whatever time I have to know and love him is worth the pain and loneliness that will come when he's gone. Maybe it makes it even a little sweeter, knowing that there is a shadow in our future that nothing can prevent. What I took from my conversations with C about her loss and loneliness, though, is that it was also worth it for her to have known and loved D, even though he's gone now.

Love is a special thing. I'm glad that I have so much of it in my life. I am truly grateful for the abundance in my life, as I tell myself frequently... and I find it fitting that even after passing away, D is still influencing people in a positive manner. His life was such that it cannot be silenced, even in death. I only hope that I can live that well. It would be an apt tribute to a gentle giant of a man.

M's memorial was last night. It was hard, but it was good. I cried a lot. It was the "goodbye" that I never said. If M's memorial was any indication, I'm going to absolutely lose it at D's memorial. I won't be able to stop crying, I'm pretty sure. It's going to be ugly.

I just wish that the event hadn't been tainted by pushy people trying to guilt me into coming back to church. I literally had someone tell me that God was speaking through them and that God wanted me to do a certain thing for the church. I told them that I was pretty sure they were the ones that wanted me to do it, and that I was not committing to anything. Then I shut my mouth and focused on my watermelon.

In any event... M is at rest now. All we can do is remember him, and let his life inspire us to lead better ones, because he really was an inspiration.

I found my Never Shout Never cd, and I've been listening to it today. Isn't it funny how a certain cd or song can evoke such a strong memory of a certain time, or a set of emotions? I first heard the cd when I was home this last Christmas visiting the folks, and I listened to it incessantly the whole time I was there and for the next month or two.

What comes to mind is bravery. My friend L had just begun another very aggressive battle against her cancer, and Mom and I really got into the Bring the Bling thing to encourage her. I drew a lot of inspiration from her and her fight, because I had just been diagnosed with fibro the month before, and I was still reeling, trying to figure out my new life and this addition to my identity... not to mention struggling with intense pain before I ever got painkillers.

I was full of bravado, hope, and optimism, despite my fear, uncertainty, and pain... and that's what comes up when I listen to this cd, especially this song.

Incessant pain has a way of wearing you down over time. I was brave then, but I hadn't lived with this for as long. I'm still brave, but in a different kind of way. The fresh young soldier is filled with vigorous bravado; the weathered veteran has a worn, hardened bravery. Neither are wrong, but they are very different.

I'm still trying to figure out how to live with the pain and the host of other symptoms that accompany it. It's a day by day process, and sometimes I don't want to do it anymore... like today. I wanted to give up, get out somehow... but the only way out when pain is your life is to quit life altogether, and while I may be desperate enough to contemplate it, I'm not desperate enough to carry through. There is too much that I love holding me here. Too many people that I love, to be specific. If I weren't selfishly hanging around to take in all that love, I could still say that I wouldn't want to betray their love and trust by leaving of my own volition. Either way, I've gotta keep going, if only for the sake of the love and support that is showered upon me on a regular basis.

I spent a good portion of this morning crying on the couch, defeated and discouraged. After some time, I crawled back into bed with C, who partially woke up and wrapped me in a sleepy embrace. He just held me for a very long time, and it was what I needed to calm down and stop sobbing silently. I realized (again) that he does want me here, he does love me... I am valuable to him, even in my current condition.

So, tomorrow is a new day. Here's hoping I'm brave enough to face it with a smile on my face.

Perceptions.

I hate how they're so relative.

And yet, I cherish it at the same time.

It's part of what makes life interesting, after all. C and I have different perspectives on a great many things, though we most always manage to find a bridge between the two, or we find that they link together perfectly.

I read an article a while back (I linked to it somewhere in some post, but I'm not going to bother finding it again) about how we're not actually living in the present like we think we are, and how our memories change every time we remember them. That's part of why I like to blog-- it captures a snapshot of what I'm feeling and thinking at a given moment in time, so that later, when I've changed my mind (wait, I never do that! ^_^), I can go back and see what I thought/believed/felt/hoped for at that certain point.

It made me think more deeply about the nature of reality, and perception, and differing viewpoints. Think about it. (They use this argument in favor of the authenticity of the Gospel accounts, by the way.) If something happens, like an accident or a robbery, and several people see it, each person will have a slightly different account of what happened. They each bring filters to the situation that kind of determine what they will notice as important, what will stand out to them, and what will have an emotional impact. Same situation, different perspectives. Are they each wrong? No, not at all, but they certainly won't be a video-recording of what actually happened.

It's interesting that our modern world has gravitated so much towards the clear and unbiased reporting of fact, yet is still so stridently insistent that each person's perspective is unique and right and okay, all the while pressuring us to conform to a certain perspective. It's a mess. But interesting.

Probably as long as there are more than two people on this planet, someone will be "right" and someone will be "wrong". It happens. I don't think it's right (see?), but it happens.

And I know just as well as anyone else that I have my own filters that affect my perception of events. They can skew my understanding of a situation faster than you can say "Jack Robinson". (Although I don't know why you would say that...)

I have crazy filters and responses when it comes to situations with father figures. The situation with B really, really screwed me up. Trying to figure out my place in the S home and my relation to D (and his biological daughters!)... that was a mess. I think I did pretty good, but it was still stressful. I know that my perspective is subjective, and I know that my dealings with dads are greatly, greatly affected by my past history.

Take, for instance, the situation with R.

Yeah, remember that blog post that I never wrote? It was about R.

All that junk went down, and I flipped out. Old wounds and roles and complexes and coping mechanisms just sprang up out of nowhere, and I was lost.

I also admit that I was wrong.

To a point.

What happened, happened. It wasn't as bad as I had initially thought, but it was still... bad. I guess. Inappropriate? I mean, if C responded to situations in the same way that R does, I'd be gone. No doubt. I couldn't live with that in a partner.

Ahh, but R's not my partner. He's my dad.

And he is. Really. He's my bona-fide father, at least in my eyes. He's been the best father I've ever had, one of the few men that I can look up to and actually respect (Grampa being the other one that comes to mind, although I can't literally look up to him, since I'm taller). I ask him for advice, and he comes up with the most amazing things. He knows how to talk straight to me, yet comfort me at the same time. He rescues me over and over again and doesn't think twice. (Yeah, it hurts to swallow my pride and let him, but I'm supremely grateful for it.) He's just... I mean... he's a good man. And I love him. I'm actually tearing up as I write this, because sometimes it just hits me how good it feels to know that I have a dad, after all these years, you know? Someone I can trust, a protector, a strength... someone who will take care of my family because I'm not there to.

He's also human. He has his own filters, his own wounds and roles and complexes and all that. We all do. And so I understand why, in an intellectual sense, he sometimes throws down like he does. I don't like it, I don't like it one bit, but I get it.

But when K called me, when I heard what had happened (the highly emotionally charged, abbreviated version, of course! lol), it felt like I had lost my dad. It felt like the R I know and love had been whisked away and G had been planted right there into the scenario. It felt like I had failed to protect my family, but it also felt like gut-wrenching betrayal, because I'm not supposed to have to protect them from someone I trust?!

It felt like I had lost R, and G had come back again.

And what happened at Christmas the other year, that was inappropriate. I don't agree with how he responded at all, and I refuse to minimize it. It was abusive behavior, and it was wrong. You shouldn't treat the people you love like that. Does that make R an abuser? Not necessarily.

I know, I know, dichotomy. But I truly don't believe that R is abusive. I know I freaked out at first and thought that. I've changed my mind. My perspective changed. And that's okay. He does act in ways that are abusive sometimes. That's true. But he, as a person, as a father, as a husband... he's a good man. A good man with faults and wounds of his own. And he makes mistakes and bad calls and yeah, we suffer sometimes when that happens. But my dad is not an abuser.

Good grief, I'm glad to be able to type that.

But at the time when this "domestic dispute" or whatever went down, I felt like I had lost R. I had lost my dad. Again. F**K! Why does this keep happening? How could I have prevented this? Why did I ever trust him? Why did I ever love him? I should have seen this coming! Etc. etc. etc.

Truthfully, I was scared to talk to him. But... he called me (what was it, like a week later?), and... he was still R. He was still my dad. Still the same guy I know and love. And you know what? He brought up what happened, and we talked through it. I got his perspective, which I hadn't heard before. It helped me see the big picture more clearly.

Nope, it wasn't as bad as I had thought. Also, my emotions weren't as high then. Also, I was coming back out of the depression I'd been in, so I wasn't as emotionally high strung. Heh.

But no. It was still R. I hadn't lost my dad, after all.

After that conversation, and further conversations with Mom, my perspective did change. I thought R was an abuser for a while. I don't anymore. I still don't think that they've got all the wrinkles ironed out, and I think that there are definitely still some dysfunctional dynamics floating around that household, but considering where we all come from, can you really expect otherwise?! I also believe that the family is the healthiest now that it has ever been.

I really have a good deal of hope for my little family.

I wish I had blogged this a long time ago, actually. But the concepts were just so huge, and it was all still so emotionally charged... I just never could bring myself to do it. I didn't know how to wrap my mind or my words around it.

So... summary?

Bad stuff happened. I didn't have all the facts, and I was influenced by my past, and I freaked. I calmed down, R called and we talked, and I realized my error (while still maintaining that bad choices were made-- I'm not absolving anyone of responsibility, here!). Relationship restored, life moves on, and here we are several months later. (Also, since then Mom has had some perspective changes that have domino-effect changed my perspective. Like, how he and she approach money? He's not a miser, she's a big-time spender with no concept of how much money they were actually bringing home. Do you know how glad I am they worked through that?! It's been a source of contention for foreeeeeever.)

I love my dad. He's going to walk me down the aisle. He's going to be a stellar grandpa here soon. And I know he's trying really hard. And I also see the progress he's made, and I'm really proud of him.

So... I guess that's what I wanted to say about R.

Just wish I'd thought to say it sooner.

C's old roommate L is in town briefly. I really like her. Good news- she really likes me, too! :)

Anyway, they (L and her friend, L) came in last night. I ended up going out to the college with the two L's and S to drop S off for rehearsals and for L to be swarmed by people. (She's very loved by a very many folk.) We spent the evening hanging out, swapping stories about C. She loves him dearly, as do I (but in different ways, of course!), and she has insight into him that I don't have, because she knew him when I wasn't around.

The picture I got was just... awww. He's such a good man. He took L in when she was in a bad situation, even though she was just a friend of his then-girlfriend AJ. (AJ, apparently, was just using him for the economic benefits. He's told me that before, but L emphasized it.) After AJ left, L stayed, and that's how I met her.

She told me that he used to tell L and her girlfriend C (who moved in later, and whom I also met when I came to visit C) stories about us, about stuff we would do together... and his face would kind of light up. She would ask, "Well, why don't you/didn't you do that with AJ?" "Well, she didn't want to..."

Apparently, I set a high bar, and while C has said that before, hearing it from an outside source is super affirming. L says that with AJ it was a kind of "I'm trying to move on, I think I'm over her... wait. Nope. Well, oh well." thing. But it was like he didn't really care. And he's told me that, too. Like he just didn't have it in him to care as much about any other girl.

So I guess L and C heard about me a lot before I ever showed my face. L says that when C would talk about me, sometimes he'd get "The Love Face", and she was just floored. Apparently I must have been something special, she thought. She called me "The Ex". (In a good way! Like, the ex of all exes. Um.. it is a good thing. lol. But I guess it took some time for him to finally refer to me as his ex. He stumbled over the word far too often.)

It's just funny... how neither of us could be totally free of each other over all those long years... how we both still loved each other... and how now we're back together...

I remember the first time I saw C again after all those years, when I came to visit him at his apartment. (That was the day I met L and C.) I was so nervous! And he played it so cool, I thought he was totally unaffected. Not so, not so! L says that after I left he was super restless... wandering around the house, not sure what he wanted. (Go into the kitchen, turn and walk out 'cause he's not thirsty. Approach the bathroom, turn and walk away because he doesn't have to use the bathroom. Pacing. "You guys want to go out to eat? We're going out to eat. ...I need to drive.") Ahh, and he was giddy approaching the event.

He still liked me!

I mean, it's obvious now. (We're engaged, for crying out loud.) But the novelty of realizing that the latent love was not going unrequited like I had thought is just... It kinda gives me butterflies, you know?

It was really cool to be able to gush about C with someone else, to share fun, silly, sappy stories about him and to hear the same in return. (L does a dead-on impression of C, I'm telling you!) We just kind of reveled in what a good guy he is and how much we love him. It was awesome :)

I'm happy he had The Love Face when he talked about me. It makes me feel special.

Oh, and for the enjoyment of all involved, I got a picture of him doing a silly dance at me today.

Aaaaaand... a couple more. :)

Today, I worked on pricing all my wedding details and creating a running total. I've literally priced every single detail, down to the charcoal for the grills and the water we're going to drink. And the ice cube trays. Etcetera.

Anyway, the only things I have left to price are the cards for inside the guest book and the food itself (i.e. how much the meat will cost, how much the pomegranate juice for the tofu will cost, etc.)

So far, the running total for the wedding (without the cards and the ingredients) is $1,357. It seems like a lot, but... it's really not. Not when you think about how many, many of the items I'll be purchasing will continue to be re-used and repurposed throughout their lifetime. And also when you consider that the average cost of a wedding in this area runs between $17,000 and $28,000. (Goodness gracious, really?! I could get my bachelor's degree with that!)

I suppose that it seems like much more to me because I am a partially unemployed student with no savings to speak of. Wait, wait... I believe I have $5 in my checking account. And $3 in my wallet.

Yep. I remember panicking when I dipped below $100 in my savings/checking account. Well, those days are long gone. I haven't had triple digits in my bank account in months.

I didn't get the job I was hoping for because my class is at a critically inconvenient portion of the day for the employer. That's okay. I know it will all work out... HJ is picking up, and next month our grant money comes in, so I'll actually be getting pay on a regular basis. That'll be keen. Also, the hopeful employer extended the offer of babysitting in lieu of the nanny job, so I'll take that. Not to mention the "writing gig" that I'm trying out for. (You know, if only I could donate plasma, this would be a whole lot easier!!)

This week was really good for me in regards to balance. My mindset has shifted somewhat dramatically, and now I am trying to be intentional about acknowledging and rewarding the work I've put in throughout the day, as well as learning to break my tasks up into manageable chunks. Rather than trying to clean the whole house in one day (in addition to doing all my homework from all my classes), I'm breaking it up. Living room one day, kitchen the next, bathroom another day, vacuum another day, etc. I can still tidy things up, sure, but the in-depth doesn't have to happen all at once. Especially if I'm feeling tired.

Oh, maybe that's where the shift came from. I've given myself permission to take naps.

Anyway, this week went so well that I was thinking, Yeah. Maybe I can take on another job! I mean, it's part time... This could work. This could really work!

Tonight showed me just how fragile my system still is. *sigh* False confidence. Oh, well. I did really good this week, and I'm proud of myself. I'm just not invincible yet.

I watched a movie called Bastard Out Of Carolina. It's about a young girl's experience with abuse. I'd heard from so many ppl working with the HJ that I needed to watch it, so I finally borrowed it from E.

It was like reliving my childhood in a span of 2 hours.

It's grotesque how closely my experiences mirror hers.

I really don't even want to talk about it, suffice to say that, should you decide to watch it, you will be disturbed. Probably not as much as I, but maybe even more so. It depends on where you're coming from.

But it was hard. And I'm paying for it now, physically. Eating food sends my intestines into cramping spasms, and I know I ought to be sleeping, but I'm... restless. Wired.

I had to stop the movie several times, go into the room where C was, and just cry and talk stuff out. It was good in that it got us talking very in depth about methods of child-rearing, our philosophies on punishment and its administration, etc. (Again, we're still tracking right along together.)

He's going to be such a good daddy. No joke. I wish I could have been raised by him. (But then I wouldn't get to marry him, so I'll be content with my lot.)

There is a rape scene towards the end of the movie, and my reaction surprised me. I'd already been experiencing the same emotions as I did throughout my childhood... the fear, uncertainty, tension, disgust... the gnawing uncertainty is the worst, I think. You never know from day to day, from hour to hour, what you'll find. Inconsistency is a hard thing to endure as a child when all you crave is stability.

Anyway, back to the rape. I just... sometimes things come up that make me wonder if something didn't happen somewhere in my life that I have blocked out... if I wasn't raped in some way? Because my thoughts upon seeing it were, Oh, yes. That. Not, "Oh my goodness, that child! Someone stop that monster!" but rather, "Huh. Yeah. That's what that feels like, alright."

How do I know?

I don't know. I have no idea. But I just... I don't know.

It doesn't matter, I suppose, because even if it did happen, I don't remember it. And right now, I'm just trying to deal with what I remember... and it's not good. (Comparing notes with C... apparently my childhood was even more screwed up than I realized. I am so sad for the little girl that was me. It's not right, what happened. Even if G had never touched me sexually, the way he treated me--us?--was not right. Children should not have to live in that kind of environment.)

I'm sad about the past, and angry, too... but I'm looking forward to my future in a fresh, new way. Something about an impending wedding really helps you focus on the future, on your goals... on what life has to offer.

By the way, I'm super glad I'm American. I really am. Because it means that I can have goals, that I can strive for something better, rather than just suffering with my load in abject silence like so many women must. I am glad for the chance to heal, and glad to be in a country that supports this.