Today is the 8th anniversary of The Accident. Back in 2006 I was attending a small Christian boarding academy (high school) about 4 hours away from home. There were several of us kids from Yuma there, so the parents had worked out a carpooling system for the occasions that we came home such as holidays or Home Leaves. This particular event was a home leave, and several of us piled into the Astrovan owned by a good friend of my family, whose son and granddaughter both went to school with me. The other Yuma kid declined to go with us because he had some other plans, but a Korean foreign exchange student that was good friends with the son and on the same Acro team as the son and I joined us for the trip. He was excited, because he wanted to see more of America before he graduated and went home at the end of that school year. He couldn't stay and tour afterwards, because apparently Korea has a law that mandates all young men to do a certain amount of military service once they are done with basic schooling, and I'm also pretty sure that he didn't have that kind of money.

The stretch between Phoenix and Yuma is pretty barren and empty, but there is a town almost exactly halfway between the two, and we stopped there for snacks, bathroom break, gas, and Fred, the dad, put air in the van's tires because he thought they looked a little low. (There are SO many details that I'm omitting, but I don't feel like typing that much, and it would be a small pamphlet at least if I did.) It was not too far underway from that town that the back left tire blew out, and the van swerved then rolled and flipped several times. I was hit in the head with something flying around the interior. (I think it was the old school portable tv, the heavy ones? Or maybe it was some sort of tack because Fred hadn't emptied out the van from the last time he had been at the stables to tend their horses. I don't know; I'll never know.) The blow to the head caused me to lose consciousness and go blind for a period of time I estimate to be about half an hour, 45 minutes maybe? I was very devastated because I thought I couldn't read anymore. (A famous line/joke from the experience is when I was led to Fred after being freed from the van and I told him I was blind. I was crying about how I wouldn't be able to read anymore, and Fred comforted me by saying that he would read to me. My response was to wail, "You don't understand-- I really like to read!!" LOL)

As far as injuries go, I was blind and had a severe concussion, was having an asthma attack, had an internally bleeding mushy spot on my skull from being hit, whiplash, of course, and there was some injury to my ribs as well. Oh, and I cracked a toe. The granddaughter, A, had unbuckled her seatbelt to lean forward and grab something just as the crash happened, so when the glass window from the sliding door popped out she was thrown through the opening during one of the flips or rolls and then the van rolled over top of her. She was Life Flighted out of there (as as I) and ended up in ICU for a week with a lacerated spleen and a fractured pelvis, along with the requisite whiplash and concussion.

The two guys, J and the Korean S, had bad whiplash and S had a bloody nose. I'm not sure if they had any other injuries, but they didn't say so, and they still went to play in the tackle football game a day or two later that they had been planning on. They are both big guys-- tall, solid, lots of muscle, and sturdy-- so they were an important part of our school's team and they didn't want to let the team down by not playing. *smh* Men.

Fred threw off his lap belt when the van began to swerve and leapt into the space between front seats to help control the van, so he was unbuckled and tossed like a salad as we flipped to and fro. He also ended up in ICU for a week, but they didn't fly him out because he looked okay until after A and I flew away. He collapsed and they ambulanced him to the Phoenix hospital as fast as they could, and all I remember now of his injuries is that his spleen exploded into a bunch of pieces. SO not good. He went into emergency surgery, obviously.

When I came to after the crash itself, I was blind (blackness, everything blackness with purple lightning bolts shooting through and across in every direction) and disoriented and sooooo tired and sleepy. I tried to unbuckle my seatbelt for a minute or two but it was too hard and I couldn't do it, so I began to drift off to sleep. Turns out I was the only one in the van because A had been thrown from the vehicle, J and S jumped out as soon as the van stopped, and Fred jumped out to help as well. We landed on our side, with the driver's door on the ground, and the window beside me had broken but the blanket I was using as a pillow while I napped kept the broken glass from reaching my face or neck.

The van was steaming as it was resting and J thought it was smoke, that maybe the van was going to explode and I was still in it. Everything smelled like gas. I used to love the smell of gasoline, now I'm not so fond of it. J came in and kept me awake with talk, which annoyed me to an incredible degree, while he cut me out of my seat belts. What had happened is that Fred's lap belt got tangled up in my shoulder belt while everything was being shaken up, and I couldn't see to undo it and J felt that it would take too long. The van was about to explode, remember?! Because of my weakened state (concussion, asthma attack, shock, etc.) I was unable to lift myself out the hole above me that had been the sliding door's window, so J kicked out the windshield and took me out that way. I jokingly flutter my lashes at him and swooningly croon, "My hero!" when that story is told around him, hehehe.

There are a ton of funny and touching stories that go with all of this, and maybe I'll share a story every day or every other day this week in honor of Life and Second Chances. For right now, I'll sum up by saying that even though there were some scares and lots of camping out in the ICU waiting room, we all survived that harrowing experience with very little in the way of long term damage. It's practically unheard of! We were and are very fortunate, and that is why Fred and I like to Celebrate Life on our Anniversary, though the others (J and A) don't see the point or enjoyment of it and choose not to celebrate it. J feels very guilty because he was driving, but it could have happened to anyone. Really. A lives far away, and S is back in Korea, so… Actually, I think they are both in Korea, come to think of it! A married a military man, so…

Anyway, if nothing else at all I learned the value of every split second. We carry on as though life is assured, and rightly so I think or else we would be paralyzed by the thought of impending mortality, never enjoying a thing or being productive, but it is the realization that life and consciousness can be taken away in the space between two breaths that really gives context to the value and delicacy of life itself. For instance, yesterday was David S's birthday. My adopted dad who died of cancer last year. Yeah. The birthday of a dead man whom I loved dearly, and then the next day a Celebration of Life, another "birthday", if you will" with other people that I love dearly, who are all still here and kickin'. It's just so… puzzling. There doesn't seem to be much rhyme or reason to it, except the certainty that

Life will end. Yours, mine, your fish, the Pope, and certainly that pretty caterpillar you saw last week… our lives will inevitably cease at some point. Mine could have stopped on October 25th, 2006, but it didn't, and I'm very grateful for that. My essence, the core of who I am, my conscious soul or whatever, that could be snuffed out by any number of things even while I type this blog post. But I'm still here, so I'm gonna enjoy it and try to be a good person and make life as good as I can for those around me who are still going as well. It's as much of a goal as anything else, right?

Happy Anniversary, Life!

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'm going to be doing something a little different here for a while. I don't know how long it will last, and I will probably continue with my regular blogging habits in the midst of this (because girl gotta vent, you know what I'm sayin?), but I think it will be a fun little diversion. I felt the urge to pull out my old journals and scrapbooks last night and start browsing through them, just to see how different my life is now and, more importantly, how much I've grown and healed in my thoughts and in my heart. (Hint: it's a lot!) So what I'll be doing is posting entries from my paper journals that I kept before I started blogging, probably in no particular chronological order, just as they speak to me. I'm going to call this endeavor Blast From The Past. I hope you enjoy this little bit of time capsuley goodness. I think I will.

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.

 Yesterday was crap for both C and I. (I'll explain later.)

Today is D's birthday, or would be if he were still alive. I've already spent some time weeping loudly and rocking back in forth in grief, and it's only 9 a.m.

Tonight is the vigil.

I woke up with trouble walking in addition to the usual high pain levels. Yesterday when I practiced my song, my wrist and arm was spasming and cramping for the next 5 hours. Mer.

But I'm determined that today will be a... well.. a good day? An important day, if nothing else. I can still move around, albeit slowly, and I did most of the prep for the vigil yesterday. Yeah. It'll be ok. I'm nervous, but that's always the case when I get up front for stuff. I get nervous before hand. It's my fear of failure.

Oh, and I made the front page of the local paper yesterday with an article about the abuse that I survived as a child. Part of the publicity campaign for the vigil, and because I'm one of the speakers. When I read it, it's like I'm reading about someone else, and it horrifies me that someone should have to live through that. When I think about my own experience I minimize, minimize, minimize. But seeing it in black and white, in someone else's words? Yeah. It makes it real, and then I'm like, "Shit. I'm amazing!" LOL

So. On with the day. I'll report back... eventually. Work laptop died yesterday (told you it was crap) so I'm using C's comp again, and it's kind of a pain to boot this thing up and then sit in one position in the computer chair. I don't care so much for it.

It's the strangest thing... I was minding my own business, making a bowl of oatmeal, when I was suddenly hit with a very strong and vivid wave of grief for the babies that I lost.

I don't know why I thought of them. But I'm very sad.

I suppose in the grand scheme of things it's "better" that I don't have any chilluns right now, because life is challenging enough with just myself to take care of at this point. It would be hard on the little one, having a sick mother, and it would be hard on C, trying to provide for all 3 of us. (Or 4?)

That doesn't mean it doesn't hurt, though. Even after all these months, it still hurts.

*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'm just kind of thinking about life today... You know, 42. The meaning of life, the universe, and everything. Well, my life, anyway...

Don't get me wrong. I like my life. Love it, in fact. I've got a little house of my own, I've got a solid relationship with a wonderful man (though lord knows it took years for that to be able to happen!), my husband has a steady job that pays our bills (mostly... if I could keep out of the danged emergency room, that would help), I have health insurance, the medicines that I need to keep me alive (wish I were exaggerating on that one), I have a job that I love with an understanding boss, and we have food in the cupboards.

That being said, there's also a lot that sucks. I mean, it's hard. Really hard. Every day is a battle, and a fierce one. I'm very grateful for my antidepressant. Even just the low dose that I'm on has helped to smooth out my peaks and valleys so much... it's a relief. That was a hard, draining battle to be fighting all the time, and it was making my health struggles worse. Still, I must fend off the grasping tendrils of depression almost every single day. There are days when I wake up bright, cheery, and not an emotional cloud in sight, but... those are the invisible pink unicorns, pretty much. The purple elephants. Oh, sure, I don't spiral downward into the black gaping maw of that horrible pit that I grew to hate and yet know so well. Well, not often... but I still have those voices in my head that scream and holler at me my worthlessness, my failings, the futility of my fight or of pressing hard after anything good in my life... because really, I do have to chase the good things in my life. Nothing has fallen into my lap. I've worked damned hard for the good things I've got, and I refuse to let myself botch them up.

I've had a lot taken from me. My childhood, for one. Abuse, molestation, more abuse, dysfunctional family dynamics, playing the mother to everyone including my mother, more abuse... My family. Sibling bonds torn apart, taken from my mother on more than on occasion, divorces and betrayals... My sexual purity. I can't even be sure I was a virgin when C and I went on our special camping trip. I have no way of knowing, really, because so many of those years are lost to the blackness of my mind, willfully blocked to save my sanity. My mind. Poisoned genes passed down to me through generations of mental illness, a past that guarantees PTSD and depression, and I am helpless to resist the black tide that has washed over me for so long.

And just when I thought I had it all beat... just when I had climbed out of the fighting pit that I was thrown into at birth... I get sick. Real sick. Fuck my life. Now my livelihood is taken from me. Parts of my identity. Dreams. Plans. Hopes. Aspirations. Gone. All gone, in the span of a year. In place of my bright future, I am left holding ashes. The family that I thought I would have... gone. Two miscarriages and a diagnosis later, I am left wondering if I will ever hold the living embodiment of our union? I wanted to travel, to work for the forest service or a national park, to live in Alaska and hike Denali, to hike Mt. Whitney, to travel the floor of the Grand Canyon from rim to rim, to fly to distant lands and eat the local foods... I can't even eat out at restaurants. The past few days, I haven't been able to stand for longer than 5 minutes because of pain and fatigue. I want to see my friends, to go to movies and go out to eat and hang out at houses and go to the store or even just window shop, but I can't. Those basic, simple pleasures of life are denied me, and I weep.

I weep for the unfairness of it all. Haven't I suffered enough? Haven't I been through enough? When will it end? I was going to be a massage therapist, a mighty advocate, an outdoorsy photographer. I was going to be a survivalist, living off of the land and cutting my own wood. I was going to bear and raise children. I was going to visit every single state in the US, and other countries besides. I was going to go to Italy, France, Scotland, Ireland, England, Japan... And now? Now I lie on the couch, watching the clock and anxiously awaiting the time for my next pain pill.

So how, I ask you... how the hell am I still happy when I see my husband walk through the door at night? How am I still happy when I go to work and spend my hours tidying, filing, typing, creating, listening? How am I still happy when I create some especially tasty dish to savor, or even when I have a good cup of tea or a particularly perfect bowl of oatmeal? How am I still smiling when I see the pictures of my tall, beautiful sisters clad in pink and white and covered in flowers?

I don't know. I really don't. By all rights, and if I didn't have love to anchor me here, I would have killed myself by now. I am tempted to believe that the heart can only take so much suffering and pain before it breaks and all hope is lost, but... it seems that my heart has the capacity to absorb more suffering than I ever would have imagined. Maybe it's love that pours in to regenerate and heal the broken, bleeding parts of the heart so that it can go on? I know that my heart didn't start scabbing over until I went up north and found... love. Pure love, in the arms of a sister/mentor/friend, and in the warm circle of an honest, human, humble family. Things I had never experienced before. No, not even with C. We loved each other, true enough, and passionately. I would gladly have spent my whole life by his side, even then. But I was broken, so broken... even he, my life vest, couldn't reach the broken parts of me that needed healing. It had to be someone else, years later, when I was ready to face the truth of my brokenness.

Maybe that's why I can still smile. Because I've faced down my brokenness and I know that I cannot be conquered. All of the loss, all of the suffering, all of the agony... and I'm still here. Weeping, smiling, laid out on the couch like a corpse at a wake, but I'm here.

I guess you can cry and smile at the same time.

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 came across this list in my Facebook notes. I wrote it on February 15th, 2009. It's funny to look back at goals we set for ourselves and then kind of forget about, isn't it? I mean, I didn't forget the goals, but I forgot ever writing them out. It's also neat to see how many of them I've actually accomplished.

16 Goals

Within one year...
Be a proficient guitar player (Yes, this did happen. Since then, I've performed more than I ever dreamed I would, and in so many neat event and occasions... and I'll be performing again this weekend!)

Within five years... (That would be February, 2014. I've still got some time!)
Be at least semi-fluent in Spanish (Yep. Especially with this last Spanish class that I took.)
Have a part in leading someone to Jesus (Sort of. The boys include me as part of their conversion story, so I guess that counts.)
Know how to survive in the wilderness (I learned a lot about this in ID. I can't say that I could head out with a piece of string and a knife and survive, but my odds have definitely increased.)
Serve a term as a missionary (Sort of. My stint in ID counts, in my mind.)
See my dad accept Jesus (I didn't realize at the time that he does, actually, believe in God already. So this goal has become irrelevant.)

Within ten years... (February, 2019)
Visit 5 new states (Check. I accomplished this with my move up to ID and my cross country road trip.)
Own a python (Check. She's beautiful, too.)
Be completely debt-free with a savings account (Doesn't have to be much. It's just so much more secure...) (I'm almost there. Well, I just have to pay off my credit card, but I'm throwing everything I have at that one. Other than that, I owe no other debts, other than wanting to pay R back for all the medical bills I've incurred.)
Know basic natural healing methods (I know some now, but I could stand to learn more.)
Be able to eat wheat and soy (Okay, so maybe I am dreaming a little bit now... ^_^) (I've come to terms with the fact that this is never gonna happen.)
Own a new car (I wonder if Betsey will make it to ten years?)
Be married, Lord willing (Check.)
Sell an art work
Write a book
Save a life (I've already done this in my life, but I guess I'm ambitious and want to do it again.)

This is a topic that's been on my mind off and on for, well, a really long time... as long as I've been actively fighting chronic illnesses, that is. So... years? Don't think that my battle began with fibromyalgia, far from it!

I've always been "sickly" in some ways. Asthma as a kid and teenager, low energy levels and high need for sleep with a very difficult time getting up, leg pains throughout life... I just assumed all this was normal, and that I kind of sucked at life for not being able to soldier through as everyone else must be doing. I looked at the sporty kids in my high school, the ones that could run the mile without difficulty, and I wondered how they did it. I didn't know that there was something wrong with me, that you're not supposed to feel that way. I remember helping to plant a tree during Bible college, and just ten or fifteen minutes of the exertion of digging left me feeling cold, lightheaded, nauseous, weak, and trembling... yet I kept digging, because my partner was still digging. If they could continue, I could continue. I assumed that they were feeling the same way, but they were tougher than I was. Wrong. I didn't know that exertion isn't supposed to leave you feeling that way!

During Bible college is when I really began getting sick, and the gastrointestinal issues came to the forefront. I powered through as best I could, knowing that I was very sick in some ways, yet not knowing that I was abnormal in others, and a few months after graduation I finally found out that I was allergic to a bunch of different foods and that I had bad hypothyroidism. The next few years were a constant battle with my energy levels, my guts, and also my mind. I started working through my past abuse, all the different flavors of it, and I noticed that as I healed emotionally I also began to heal physically. But I was still sick.

I had reached a place of reasonable stability when the fibro reared its hideous head and began to drag me below the surface of functionality. I'd somehow always managed to stay afloat before, usually motivated by a fear of rejection and sheer stubbornness combined with economic necessity, but now I was sinking, and fast. Since last fall, I've found myself in a place where I require naps on a regular basis, I have a walking aid with me at all times when I leave the house, I regularly rely on painkillers to make it through a day (judge me as you will), and I still struggle with eating and digesting food in adequate amounts. And yes, I even have a handicap parking tag hanging from my rearview mirror. (Which is the bomb, by the way!)

This isn't to say that all is doom and gloom. I do see myself getting better in increments, and I think the Long, Dark Slide Into Oblivion is finally over. Now that I've recovered from the wedding stress, I feel like I'm taking incremental steps back up that figurative stairway that I had been so rapidly descending, and that encourages me! Mom told me today that for a while she began to think that she might have to move out here and just take care of me until I eventually died, that's how bleak the outlook was. (To be fair, she was also worried that I had cancer and they just hadn't caught it or something.) I assured her that I've stabilized (for now), and that I feel as though I'm improving some. I think that helped to put her at ease a bit.

The possibility of returning to my "old" self, or even better, brings me to a painful realization, though, one that I am actually quite loathe to face. It sounds kind of silly to admit even silently, much less to put into words on a page, but... I'm scared of getting better. No, really. I am.

Honestly, I've gotten used to being sick. This has become my reality, my daily battle. When it's "gone", when I'm better, what do I fight against then? What do I aspire to? Life is so simple when it is distilled down to "get better". That's what you focus on. That's the dream, the goal. It's the gatekeeper of other dreams.

I want to travel to different countries and experience different cultures.
I want to try sky-diving.
I want to have a baby and raise it.
I want to have a fulfilling job that I enjoy.

But those things (except for the job, maybe) are not things I can do right now. They would destroy me, and possibly those around me, were I to attempt them now. First things first, I must "get better".

I know it sounds like I've let the sicknesses become my identity. Like I'm saying, "Without them, what am I?" Maybe it's true. Maybe I have. I'd like to think that's not true, but I do know that as long as I'm sick, people consider me to be a fighter. People have this certain idea of me as a person, but when I'm not sick anymore... who am I? I am me, but I've lost a part of what made me "me" for a while. Sure, I can say that the fight doesn't define me, but... doesn't it? Not wholly, no, because I am so much more than a fibro fighter, or a UCTD fighter, or a hypothyroid fighter, or a depression fighter. I am Cassandra. But those different "fighters" are also a part of me, and when I'm not sick anymore, like not really sick, it's like those fighters go away, they step back into the shadows. They've been the visible forefront for so long, because this daily fight is so visceral, so intense, that the other aspects of myself can only come out solo in spurts and glimpses, or share the limelight with the fighters at best. When the fighters recede into the shadows... the stage feels very, very empty.

At least, that's how I perceive it to be. I do have visions of freedom, glorious freedom, you know-- to just do whatever the heck I want for a change?! But maybe it's like Stockholm Syndrome... you get used to your imprisonment, and you even get kind of fond of it. Humans love familiarity, even if it is a terrible familiarity. You get comfortable, and change is frightening. Even good change.

Also, when I am not sick anymore, I am then way more responsible for... everything. Cue my intense fear of failure and my unrealistic expectations. As of now, I can assuage my guilt with, "I'm too sick to accomplish _______, so it's okay." Sure, but what about when I'm not sick? Then it's just my own damn fault.

And maybe part of it is my fear of living in abundance. I come from a place of "I'm doing pretty good considering _______." I've never approached life from a place of, "I'm doing pretty good." There has always been a qualifier. Sickness is my qualifier as of right now. When that is gone, then I must face my life as it is, and the prospect of that is... scary.

That's what it boils down to. I'm scared, scared to lose my familiar cocoon of pain and symptoms and walking sticks... scared to step into the sunlight because that's not what I'm used to. Scared that "better" will let me down. Scared to be disappointed, or worse-- to disappoint.

But as I was thinking about it the other night, I realized that I'll never be 100% "better", not really. At least, not in this current place and time. They don't have cures for what I have. It's all management, really. I am beginning to view it as I view my food allergies-- if I ignore my limits and eat whatever I want, I damage myself and I hurt. I pay a price. Sometimes I pay a price for something that I don't even know the cause of! I can be as good as can be, and sometimes I still just hurt or get sick, and that's a fact of my life. (Momma C always knew when I was stressed even before I did, because I'd start having gut problems and get sick. She's the one that made that connection, not me.) I have chronic illnesses. Chronic means that they're going to be around a long time. I can choose to be good about it and manage them as well as I can, or I can be an inconsiderate dick to my body and pay the price. Even if I am as good as can be, sometimes things beyond my control will cause flares-- weather, environmental stressors, other illnesses like colds or flus, etc. Like my allergies, I can get to a place of stability, where I'm not constantly miserable... but I will spend the rest of my life being constantly aware. The fighters will be lurking in the shadows, keeping tabs on things and patrolling the perimeters. Sometimes they'll have to come back into the forefront, but the goal is to get to the place where they offer background support to the other aspects of myself that will emerge into the light, one by one.

Sure, I'm scared of what it will mean when I'm "not sick anymore", but I think it's worth at least trying. I was scared of the changes I needed to go through emotionally to heal from my past, but I would never trade this health for that dysfunction! Facing the fear and walking through it were valuable experiences... and this is just another aspect of that.

Besides, if I hate it, I know what I have to do to get sick again, right? ;)

(Please know that I'm being facetious! I refuse to play the system for my own gain. Stuff like that ruins the legitimate claims for help that people with chronic illnesses need.)

Also, Dave Walker over at From the Fog did a great post on this very topic the other day, which encouraged and inspired me to actually get this out of my brain and onto "paper". Thanks, Dave, for that kick. I needed to process through this.

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.

"So they tell me you were a Bible worker."

Ahhh, my reputation precedes me. Am I branded in my forehead or something??

"Yes, I was."

"Did you go to any particular training for that?"

"Well, I went to a little Bible college called SOULS West."

--Ensuing conversation about different qualifications for being a Bible worker--

"So you've given up Bible work, then?"

"Yes, I have."

"But not given up on the Bible?"

"No, of course not!"

And I wonder... what would happen if I told the truth about the matter, rather than just my politically/religiously correct knee-jerk response?

But, really, how do you sum up such a complicated phase in your journey in just a few words? And I don't feel like explaining all of this to a stranger... much less this kind of stranger.

I guess sometimes it's better to just let sleeping dogs lie.

So much for authenticity.

Looking back over past entries, it's almost hard for me to believe that I was once so... spiritual? So determined to find and/or please God in every shred and facet of my life.

I guess that's how the pendulum swings, huh?

Me and my ups and downs... honestly.

But what I'm going through now doesn't negate the past experiences I've had. I learned from them. I grew. I matured. I became more the person that I am now.

They were good, and I am glad to have had them.

And I am confident that, in a year or two or whatever, I'll look back on these entries and do the same half-smile and slow shake of the head.

And I will have learned from this. I will have grown. I will have matured. And I will have become more the person that I am to be, that I want to be.

As they say, life is not a destination, but a journey.

... not "haha" funny, but... just funny. Weird. Strange.
How your past can affect you so much without your realizing it.
(As my friend says, "as the twig is bent, so the tree is inclined".)

You see, C got a new video game the other day. (Actually, I'm the one who encouraged him to, which is the ironic part! He wasn't sure his reasons for wanting it were valid enough to actually buy it, but they seemed valid enough to me, so I said he should do it.) And it's not that I have a problem with him playing the games, because I don't. It's how he stimulates his mind and wears his brain out enough so that he can sleep.

It's just...

the last two nights, he seems to basically be ignoring me and just playing the game.

Well, no. It's not that he's ignoring me, it's that I feel ignored. I know that if I wanted or needed his attention, he'd give it to me, but I've been choosing not to.

But lots of people have activities that require focus and they "ignore" those around them-- like my reading, for example.

So why the intense feelings of loneliness and rejection and inadequacy?

Ahh, yes. Because of G. Because he really did ignore us, choosing video games over us kids, over his family. Even if we needed his attention, it was not there to partake of. Only if we got in front of the tv screen would he acknowledge us.

And so the old feelings come flooding back. I'm afraid that I'm going to lose our relationship to a computer game, though I know intellectually that it's not going to happen. But the fear, the insecurity, is there.

I need to talk to him about this today, and let him know what's going on with me, my feelings about the matter. I cannot just expect him to read my mind!

And, as I've been telling myself, even if he were ignoring me and rejecting me in favor of the video game, it doesn't matter, because my self-worth is not tied to C's attentions or affections. I am enough, either way. I do not need him to be happy, or to make me happy, or to have a fulfilled life. So these feelings? They have no bearing. They're there, and I acknowledge them, and I understand them, but they are not going to rule me or drive my behaviors. I'm going to rationally talk to C about this and explain my past and my position, and we'll see what happens from there. I don't expect anything negative to come of this.

It's just... funny.

I'm really glad that I'm self-aware, or else this could have really caused some problems. (It did take me a while of asking myself questions to figure it out, though...)