all the pieces

one of the problems with prolonged or repeated trauma is the inevitable blending together of memories and your brain hiding some of the worst ones from you to protect yourself. into the little tupperware container and into the back of the mind they go.

then one day, you’re getting ready for work on a random wednesday morning and a news story pops the seal on that little tupperware container and all the memories come back out, separate, individual, all the small pieces that make up the bigger label that went on the container.

this particular box is a pretty dusty old one. one would think the layer of dust would mean the issue has solved itself. undisturbed means it's fine, right?

apparently not.

this morning on the news, october 21, 2026, since the headlines change by the minute and even a big news story slides into obscurity in the length of an egg timer, a female is running for an elected position. her male opposition ran a tv ad featuring the woman’s estranged mother stating the female is a liar.

sure. whatever. political theater. family issues. not the first time it’s made the news.

this story though. this story.

WHY was the mother estranged? her husband was convicted, not accused, CONVICTED of rape. of the female running for office. when she was a child. the state stepped in. the children (there was a sibling) were removed from the home. the mother stayed with the husband. all this information has all been forced into public knowledge as the result of this ad. the mother in question? has been estranged since the incident. the “liar” the mother refers to in the political ads? her own 12 year old daughter who was brave enough to speak about the abuse.

this woman, YEAR and YEARS later is still clinging to the fact that her own daughter must be a liar instead of admitting a man, convicted by the courts multiple times for being a rapist piece of shit, is indeed, a rapist piece of shit. enough to put that fucked opinion into a television ad.

the woman running for office faced the assault, the betrayal of her mother, the life changes that resulted from the loss of her childhood, and now, again, is being assaulted and attacked using the same abuse all over again. every shithead news pundit with some shitty hot take. every extremist nutjob with no conscience. every fuckhead abuser trying to protect themselves or another abuser.

what does this have to do with my wednesday morning and the tupperware spill?

my abuse is old. my mother has been dead to me for years. i’ve sorted and worked through and dealt with all the pieces in this container…all…but

well…fuck.

i forgot about a few pieces.

why does everyone know about this news headline? the woman’s opponent used it against her. everyone now knows about the abuse because another man used it to abuse her with.

the same thing happened to me.

i clearly remember the LAST time i told my mother about what happened. i haven’t talked to her since.

a few weeks ago, i remembered the first time someone else said something- my mother had been called to the principal’s office in jr. high because friends had reported concerns. i wasn’t allowed to be friends with them anymore after that. 

this morning i remembered the first time i told my mother about what happened, and further, WHY i had to tell her.

i was already out of the house. well past jr. high. i was already away from all of it. no one needed to know.

i only ever told one person about everything. i was married. i trusted my husband. right?

then we separated. i was pregnant with my second kid. my husband told me the only way we could live together again is if i told my mom everything.

he used it against me.

i had to choose: my husband or my mother. the family i was building or the family i had.

i told my mom. she said, “what do you want me to do about it, it already happened.”

i didn’t know. i didn’t have an answer for that. but it satisfied the requirement for my husband and we moved back in together (which lasted one more year before i left for good).

i stuffed it back down. i did my part. i spoke up. i had told people. they didn’t know what to do. i didn’t know what to do. so nothing got done.

years later, divorced, single parenting again, i had moved to a bigger city, my kids were growing. things stayed in tupperware boxes. life went on.

one day i got a call from daycare about my youngest son.

the problem when nothing happens is people think they got away with it.

my son had started showing behaviors and saying things about, “...well, papa said…”

THE FUCK YOU SAY?

i had very, very many unkind things to say to my mother. her response, “...abusers don’t change sexes. it doesn’t make sense if he abused you that he would go after a male now.”

ARE. YOU. FUCKING. KIDDING. ME???

i cut contact. i tried to be kind to my kids: you know when the teachers and the doctors tell you if anyone is bad or mean to you or touches you in a way they’re not supposed to? papa is one of those bad people. we have to stay away from him. i didn’t want to make it scarier than it already was.

my mom called me a liar. still tried to contact my kids. i spent years sending back christmas presents and birthday cards. it is, to me, extremely inappropriate for a child to get a gift or card from a pedophile. i know, me and my extreme takes.

i was disinvited from family events. i was disinvited from holidays. i was being too rigid. i was being too extreme. my dad and my brother are cops. they will make sure nothing happens. why am i being so stubborn and rebellious?

TOO. FUCKING. LATE.

then my dad died.

i only had one parent left.

maybe i was being too rigid. maybe i was being too extreme. it’s my mom. she’s all i have left.

so i went to a therapy session with her.

she told the therapist, “...do you hear her? she just makes stuff up in her head.”

the therapist looked at her, “Do you understand what you just said about your own daughter?”

i told my mother that day she’s dead to me. in the parking lot of the therapist office.

“I need you to understand, I understand the full weight and impact of the words I am saying. I just lost my father. I have no mother. I am an orphan from this day forward. You are dead to me.”

so she added my kids on facebook. and bought them plane tickets to go see her. she told them how crazy i am. what i liar i am. about how the abuse that had happened to me had actually happened to them and i was just lying about it. she got both my kids to turn against me.

she can’t *actually die* fast enough.

she continued to run a home daycare for years. they hosted numerous foreign exchange students.

after the last time i confronted her, her husband went before their church to confess his sins. then they changed churches. to a church in a different town. then they moved across the country.

over time her story went from “it happened, what do you want me to do about it,” to “you make up stories in your head.”

my ex-husband used it against me.

my mother used it against me.

the abuse is one thing. you think you got away from it. you think you mostly recovered as much as you can from it.

then these fuckers come along and just double down. and that part is the part that my brain tried to hide for a long time.

as usual, i don’t know the point. maybe just putting all the pieces together in order for the first time. seeing all of them, in one place, in order.

it’s breathtaking when you recognize the full scope.

the healing struggle makes a little more sense.

spitball take: working through it as we go, what if finally being able to see all the pieces as one whole picture is what it takes to finally let that go? get that tupperware box out of storage, stop taking up brain space?

i can look at the whole thing. all the ugly pieces. all of them. yeah, it was that bad. for that long. yeah, they are that mean. yeah, they are that terrible. no, it isn’t just you. no, there’s nothing you could have done to deserve it, you were a child. you were right to protect yourself. you were right to protect your kids. you didn’t know what to do, but you tried to do something.

be who you needed: this is one more piece of why i believe women. this is one more reason why i will stand with a woman ten toes down when she needs me. i will stand in a hospital room with you. i will stand in a courthouse with you. i will stand in the damn uhaul rental office with you while we get a truck to get away. i will hug you and listen to you and cry with you and BELIEVE you. 

and now i can throw that tote away. i can see the bottom. it’s emptied. i know it. that’s enough for me.

tonight i’ll burn a candle. i’ll let out the tears i’ve been holding since this morning. i’ll release it all. maybe, finally, for the last time.

not as healed as i thought

did you ever have one of those days/moods where you feel like you could (and you really want to) make every person you come into contact with just absolutely break down in tears and question their very existence on earth?

i promise, i’m working on my healing journey.

back in the day there was a little less restraint.

back in the covid days, there were some mean, and i mean really, really mean emails to property management. years before that, i told a car dealership i would drive my new car through their front window if they didn’t fix a financing mistake (fuck wells fargo, i stand by that one). much, much further back in time, i went toe to toe with a principal demanding teacher discipline and/or removal (i stand by that one too: if you’re not a doctor, don’t tell me my kid needs medication). a few standouts on the highlight reel of “Not My Best Moments.”

there is a vicious, mean, calculated, stunningly precise beast of destruction and degradation that lives deep in my soul.

maybe it’s being a virgo. maybe it’s being a protective parent. maybe it’s being neurodivergent with an astoundingly strong sense of justice. maybe it’s being a female who spent 20+ years in construction/industrial jobs. maybe it’s all of them. maybe it’s just me.

i’ve been working on her.

some days are kinder than others.

today is a day i’m glad i have a desk away from everyone because…oof.

my new utility bill arrived and it’s over $100. AGAIN. even though i’m rarely home. fucking slumlord apartment manager. i would scream like a feral raccoon in his face for an hour if i saw him today. that slimy fucker really lied to my face about this fucking apartment. disgusting kitchen walls that drip gods only know how old nicotine blood down the walls anytime you attempt to cook anything. a shower that takes a seinfeld long time to get hot water. fake hardwood floors that not only make everything so fucking cold all the time, but they also remove all sound dampening so EVERYTHING is loud. and, the real punch in the gut, floorboard heaters that not only barely work, they run constantly, even when turned off, so your bill is over $100 every month.i specifically talked to him about needing reliable heat when i was apartment hunting as my then home had been without heat for a month.

“this will be such an improvement,” he assured me. “we work really hard to maintain the property. just let us know any time there’s a problem and we’ll fix it right away.”

if by fix it you mean delete the maintenance request, then yeah, they totally fix things.

it’s to the point where my neighbor is the one cleaning the grounds, fixing signs, doing what the property management should be doing.

awesome neighbor. shitass fucking property manager.

downed tree branches from storms in december? still blocking sidewalks.

plants and shrubs? overgrown, infringing on public walkways, and mostly dead.

lighting along sidewalks for not only residents, but the community at large since we’re a bus stop corner? as burned out as a 45 year old neurodivergent woman.

one fucking slumlord to the next.

i’m not the only one. my partner has a property management firm equally as bad.

property management in general is so fucking terrible and incompetent, i swear most managers are only one sexual assault accusation away from being nominated for a cabinet position in washington d.c.

yeah, i know, i told you i’m working on that healing thing. some days are two steps forward, some days are just screaming into the void. at least i’m not screaming at people any more. progress or something like it.

but man. she’s right there under the surface. that feral raccoon. she still screams, “...why don’t you try using your head? you know, that lump three feet above your ass!” but at least now it’s an inside my head voice, not and outside where people can hear voice.

 

maybe it’s the weather. maybe it’s because i forgot to eat lunch again. i’m just so fucking fed up with…well…i mean…anyone alive right now gets it.

it’s hard to be kind and have empathy right now. in a world where the bad guys keep winning. when all the assertions of “that’s illegal” only work if there’s someone to enforce the laws. listening to all the “he can’t do that” being repeatedly drowned out by people doing whatever the fuck they want. laws broken. lives destroyed. communities gutted. rampant abuse uncovered. we’re surrounded on all fronts by all the most absolutely vile, putrid, rotting decay, festering abscessed wound, blindingly incompetent, unquestionably worst of humanity on full display.

boy, did i pick a great time to be working on my healing.

i’m holding on by my freshly manicured nails (raspberry pink this time) and a 528Hz healing frequency playlists on spotify.

but at least i’m still trying.

i’m working on talking to people when there’s a concern instead of just blowing up a bridge and walking away. i’m working on giving space and empathy before assuming the worst. i’m relying heavily on the “incompetent over intentional” perspective of human behavior.

i can zoom out and understand i’m not the only tenant with issues. i’m not the only person offended by things in the world. i’m not the only one having a hard time in this dumpster fire of existence. people have bad days. things happen. the shit storm is *rarely* specifically aimed at me and more just bad timing and unfortunate proximity. i can understand: we’re all broke, over worked, under loved, over taxed. we're all running on restless sleep and too expensive coffee. i can understand that i am but a little teeny tiny blip in the overall existence of humanity on the small scale and of existence as a whole on the large scale. i can understand that kindness is always the better path, because it’s what feels right in my core. i can understand SO MANY THINGS.

but also, don’t be a shitass, shitass. do your fucking job. be true to your word. do what’s best for humanity, not just yourself. work to leave the world a better place than you found it. don’t fucking piss me off.

i’m really trying here.

the first time i was raped

 so, if the title wasn't clear enough, this will be about rape.

if you have experienced rape, please be cautious reading this post, please protect yourself and your mental health. some of this things may be triggering or cause flashbacks if you've been through a similar experience.

your safety is the most important.

i've never told this whole story to anyone before. i've told parts of it. but stories deserve to be told in their whole. you can't acknowledge the truth without acknowledging the WHOLE truth. when you leave out or dismiss parts, say they're not as important, it makes that part stay there and hold on still waiting to be seen and heard.

so. here it is. in the whole.

the first time i was raped i was 18 or 19. i don't remember exactly when, i already had my son, but hadn't moved for college yet. it must have been late 1999, early 2000.

my brother had graduated from community college and taken a job as a sheriff deputy a few hours away from where we grew up.

one weekend he invited me to come stay with him and his roommate. a rare weekend away for me, the closest thing to a vacation a single teen mom could get.

the night i stayed, my brother ended up getting called into work, so he got his roommate to agree to take me to dinner so i wouldn't be stuck just sitting in their apartment with nothing to do.

the roommate and i drove and hour over the 4th of july pass for dinner. it was a fairly nice restaurant. i remember it was all wood walls, like, logs of wood, and maroon table cloths. any place with a table cloth was fancy to me.

i had never met my brother's roommate before this. he was a regular dude, early 20's. nothing particularly stood out about him, i don't even remember his name. his dad was the sheriff so that's how he had met my brother and they ended up roommates i guess? never really new how that happened.

the guy was super intense right from the beginning. during dinner the conversation somehow turned to his plans for marriage and how he wanted to get married and settle down right away. it was a LOT. i remember my antennae perking up and being annoyed right away. being a teen mom, i had very quickly come to recognize what i called "white knight syndrome" where guys would try to "save" me or "rescue" me from my perilous plight. it was incredibly insulting. i was in college, had my own apartment, i was raising my son. i didn't need RESCUED. i didn't need SAVED. i wasn't baby daddy hunting to get some guy to take care of me, I WAS TAKING CARE OF ME. 

it had happened a few times before and i already knew very well how angry guys could get when you have to break the news to them that you're not a damsel in distress and you're not particularly interested.

this time was just a little more tricky since we still had to drive an hour back to their apartment FOR THE WEEKEND

i knew how to be polite but not answer questions, change the subject, try to avoid the inevitable awkward conversation of "no, thank you."

by the time we got in the car to head back over the pass, the guy was saying that i was the perfect woman and i was a perfect mother and would make the perfect wife. it was so incredibly uncomfortable. i had known this guy for 2 hours: one driving, one dinner. and he was telling me i would make his perfect wife??

i was creeped the fuck out. i was so uncomfortable but had no other way to get back to my brother's apartment and no way to get home and no way to...anything. i don't even know if i had a cell phone then. or maybe did but it wouldn't have had much reception. there was no uber, no lyft, i had to ride back with this guy so i just tried to keep as quiet as possible.

on the drive back the guy "suddenly remembered" that he had promised friends that were out of town he would feed their dogs for the weekend, it was on the way.

i don't know where we were. we turned off the highway and he drove 20 minutes up a dirt road into the mountains to a cabin.

any alarm bells that had started to go off were quieted when we got to a really nice big cabin/house. lights were on, inside was very nice. very country cabin, big kitchen leading to a great room with a nice couch in front of the fireplace to the left, and a kitchen table/chairs to the right. he went right in, all the alarm bells went away, this was ok. it was a real house. these were real dogs. it was ok.

 i sat down on the couch while he fed the 2 huge dogs, shepards i think, and he offered to pour me a soda (i wasn't 21 yet). it tasted weird to me, but it was a ginger ale and i didn't like the taste anyway.

but it turned. something started to seem odd. he was too familiar with the house, moved around like he was comfortable in it. it was a regular country house. i had several friends that had grown up dirt roads in beautiful cabin homes. i was a city girl through and through. but country homes were always so beautiful and elegant to me. but he was too comfortable...it felt like...like he had home court advantage.

things get hazy from there. i remember starting to feel not right. there was a bedroom to the right of the couch and there was a bed straight ahead as you walked into the room.

i did NOT want to have sex with this guy.

i had *just* had a baby. sex was traumatic and scary and life changing for me. i did NOT want to get pregnant again. i was also still very religious and conservative back then. i was not into casual sex with someone i had JUST met.

also, i didn't like the guy. i had no plans on ever seeing him again, ever. i just wanted to get back to hanging out with my brother for the weekend then home to my baby and work and school.

it didn't go that way though.

i told him no so many times.

i remember "just the tip" and "just a little more" and not much else.

i don't remember leaving that cabin.

i don't remember going back to my brother's apartment.

i don't remember much else of that weekend.

there was a cave in at the mine where the roommate worked and he was stuck underground the whole day, keeping me safe away from him until i left to go home.

i tried to tell my brother.

he assured me his roommate would never do that.

i somehow reasoned that the roommate breaking his leg and being stuck in a landslide was enough of a swift karmic punishment that i should just stuff it down and pretend it never happened.

because i thought i deserved it.

i mean, i was a teen mom. i was damaged goods. i had baggage. i was trash. i had sex outside of marriage before, obviously it meant i was "that way." i was LUCKY someone like him would even take me out to dinner. i was LUCKY someone "didn't mind" that i had a kid already, i was LUCKY someone didn't care that i was damaged goods.

these are the things that lived in my head. these were thing things people whispered that they thought i didn't hear. these are the things the ladies in the church said to try to be reassuring. this is the way my mom treated me. hell, my own brother didn't even believe me. he believed some roommate he'd had for a few months over me, his sister.

i was LUCKY any man was willing to sweep in and rescue me and that very thing infuriated me more than anything.

i've spent a LOT of years with those voices in my head. i was admittedly a bit quick on the eject button any time a date talked about taking care of me. being fiercely independent and PROVING i didn't need someone to take care of me became my main focus.

hell, it still is.

i've been trying to prove to everyone for 20 years that i don't need someone to take care of me. ESPECIALLY with someone who would treat me like that guy did.

well, i did not see that coming.

there's an old writing legend of the story taking a turn even the writer didn't see coming.

what do you know, that's a real thing.

i'm really struggling with control right now. it's been a month of unemployment and i've been on a few interviews but have yet to land anything.

i'm scared. i'm fucking terrified.

and i'm going to have to ask for help.

i'm going to have to say i can't do it on my own.

i knew that was going to be hard because i don't like to give up control, who does?

but it's been more than that. there's a looming sense of failure. there's a fear of needing rescued.

this feeling that saying i need help now somehow means i deserved to be raped then.

whew. that's a hefty one to unpack.

that's what happens when you stuff trauma down for 20 years. i doesn't go away. it just hangs out waiting for you.

i've been carrying that around for 20 years. that feeling of: if i fail it means i deserved it. i should have been grateful. i did need a white knight. i should have been glad someone was willing to tolerate my damaged, less than self.

whew.

but here's the thing.

it doesn't matter how "damaged" i was. it doesn't matter how much "baggage" i came with. it doesn't matter ANY of it. it doesn't matter how lucky some people thought i should feel.

I DID NOT DESERVE TO BE RAPED.

full stop.

i said no. i did NOT want to have sex.

end of discussion.

anything happening NOW, twenty years later, does not change that.

needing help now, in the middle of a global pandemic and record unemployment and record deaths and political and social unrest and unexpected unemployment does not mean i deserved to be raped then.

needing help anywhere between then and now would not have meant i deserved it.

time to let that one go.

...and counting

it's been six weeks since my oldest son moved.

it feel like a lifetime. it feels like a few days.

it feels like the world has completely stopped. it feels like everything is on fast forward.

i've had a fuck of a time writing lately. there's so much hurt and anger and sadness and worry and gut wrenching sickness.

but i still get up and go to work.

i still meet up with friends.

i still make sure my youngest son has a good birthday.

i still try like fuck to hold it all together.

that's the real reason i haven't written.

i can't fall apart.

there's too many things to do. i can't write at work because i can't let them see me cry.

i can't write at home because there's dishes and dinner and grocery shopping and all the things i'm supposed to be doing (but can't because i'm just frozen).

i can't think about it. i can't fall apart.

i've lost my son. for probably a long time. i hope not forever.

but i can't think about it because i still have another son that needs me.

i'm so worried. everyone says he'll come back around. he won't hate me forever. he didn't really mean it when he told me he never wants to see me again.

i shouldn't read into him avoiding phone calls, stilted text message conversations. i shouldn't focus on the anger and blame during the few phone conversations that have happened.

i've taken my time thinking over the last few weeks. i can't say it's all been good thinking. i've used (and quite possibly abused) my sounding board friends. i've tried to look at things from all different angles, all different options.

i still haven't found another option that would have been better. i know this is the way it needed to be. it hasn't made it any easier. even weeks out.

i have so many questions and theories and ideas of why it all happened the way it did. i'm still working through them. i know i may not have any answers, ever. i'm working on being ok with that. some of the questions i'm still working up the courage to ask the right people and hope that they're willing to give me an honest response. i've been realizing half truths and passive destructions and undermining that go back years. it makes me think i'll i honestly never get real answers to my questions. it makes me think i've never gotten any honest answers from some people.

people ask how i am. how i've been doing. i answer politely but vaguely. i'm battling. it's true. i don't say it's a bloody, ugly, mean, horrible battle. i just answer politely and move on as quickly as possible. i feel like i've become adept at distractions- ask people questions, keep an arsenal of current events handy to change the topic, know ways to move on as quickly as possible. 

speaking of which.

i had a huge realization last week with the small spawn aging one more year: i'm the same age now as my mum when she got married to her second husband, and the small spawn is the age as my brother (and then me, three years younger).

it's hard to imagine my mom at 27 dating and...being young. hard to imagine her being the age i am now getting married to have someone help her raise her kids (her words). she's always been old to me. i never remember her being young or going out or anything. i remember one time in seattle she showed us she could change lanes without hitting the turtles in the road (the raised lane markers). i remember she had one gal she worked with that we would occasionally go over to their house on the edge of town. i think that was it for the extent of her friends and the extent of activity. she, to this day, has never had a drink of alcohol. she would go to work parties during the holidays but only stay a half hour because she didn't like being around people "like that" (drinkers). we went to church and i'm sure there were people there...but i dont remember her having a social circle. to this day i have NO CLUE what she would do during spring break and our two weeks in the summer my brother and i spent with our dad. we usually came home to rearranged furniture and her with a fresh perm. that's it.

it makes me wonder how my kids see me. i try to take them places and do things- movies, baseball games, hockey games, vacations (well, just one of those). i have a good circle of friends. i take time for myself and go out with said friends, attend theater, tweet-ups. i have friends over for dinner parties and bbq's and movie nights and just hang out nights. i've attempted dating (as well as that's gone...ugh). i've tried to make life LIFE. i've tried to show my kids conflict and resolution. i've tried to show them how to have a good time but still be responsible. i've tried to show them all the things that were hidden from me as a kid because they were grown up issues (never too early to learn budgeting and being money wise to me.)

i don't want my kids to look back on their childhood and only vaguely remember stories associated with pictures but draw a huge blank for the rest of it.

i'm 33. my youngest is 11. my oldest will be able to drive in a few months. life FLIES BY. i want them to remember it and love it.

on another track- i look at how my mom felt like she HAD to get married to have someone help her raise her kids. while i don't agree with that in any way shape or form, i also realize i've gone almost too far in the opposite direction shunning anyone that offers help (especially those that tried to force their help or tell me how it should be done). i'm so afraid of being like her- not being strong enough to do it on my own. i'm pretty sure i'm able to do it on my own. at least i have been able to for 15 years. pretty sure i don't have anything to prove to anyone at this point, so i need to just cool my jets and stop being so...harsh.

it all comes back to balance. i want someone willing to help, but not someone that thinks i NEED help. i'm not some fucking damsel in distress. i'm a damsel- maybe more of a dame. but i'm not exactly in distress. i've kept the lights on and the cupboards filled just fine. i want a partner, not an asshole knight on a horse that is going to shit all over my lawn (the horse. not the knight. well, maybe both). BUT. to get someone willing to help, i have to be willing to LET them help. i have to quit being so worried people will think i'm weak.

i have to quit being worried about people in general.

yeah. that's the biggest part of the equation. people are always going to have their own opinions. i can't control that. i'm sure no matter what someone out there is going to think i'm baby daddy shopping. someone is going to think i needed rescued. someone is going to think i'm with a guy i don't deserve. someone is going to think i could do better. someone is going to think i'm a fucking beached whale. someone is going to think i have soft movie cuddling enhanced plushness.

i have to quit worrying about others and worry about me. i have to look for what i need. what is important to me. what is best for my little core that's left.

IN OTHER NEWS:

i've said it before and i'll say it again: tattoos are my form of healing/working through things. i PLANNED on finishing up my second half sleeve before venturing out into any other tattoos, but gene had other ideas.

i've already introduced gene:

 well, gene needed a friend.

so.  meet anita:

she helps take care of gene. she's there to ice his injuries, mend his broken little heart. sweet little pigeon-toed anita.

together they're kind of AMAZING.

i know for sure i have gene in me. i've taken my hits. i've had my heart broken. i've been knocked around pretty good over the last few years but i'm still going.

but i also have anita in me (i know it's not a proper sentence. shut it.) i'm a fixer. i'm a helper. i want to make things better and take away what pain i can. i want to help put things back together, be there when someone needs me...especially my own damn self. back to that balance thing. admit my hurt, but also my own power to heal. like gene and anita. they go together. i'm going to keep taking hits over the years. and i'm going to keep fixing over the years.


so. 

six weeks. six weeks and counting.

i have plenty to say. i've been taking notes. i just haven't been able to get it out.

i'm trying to come back around. i'll get there.

six weeks is a lifetime and a blink. i'm getting there.

raising the warning flag

 

if you don’t let people know there’s a problem, they can’t help you find the solution.

there isn’t a problem.

yet.

i’m filling the sandbags and preparing the emergency packs just in case.

i’m being honest, i’m being truthful, i’m trying like hell to head the stampede off at the ravine.

i’m terrified of the month of august. hell. i’m terrified of july thru october. there’s so much that just- i can’t really prepare for it, i just have to be aware and recognize and say when i need help.

it’s been three years since we lost tyra and baby roman. if you’re not familiar, tyra was my oldest sons step mother. she was a BEAUTIFUL young lady. the best thing to happen to my sons father. she was a pure, sweet soul that impacted everyone she knew in only the best and most positive ways. she passed away due to complications during childbirth and baby roman was only here long enough to be baptized before he went to be with his sweet mother.

as that was happening my brother steve was in a severe accident that left him in a medical coma for several days and started the path to his life ending a few months later in october 2009. august was the month we watched him struggle in the hospital. september we watched him go through rehab and thought he was getting better. that year was the first time he had ever called me on my birthday (ours were just a few days (and years) apart). october we lost him to suicide.

two years ago this august i lost my dad.

my kids will be leaving this sunday for a MUCH NEEDED mommy vacation. i love my children. i can’t imagine ever not being with them. but i need a break. there is no tag team parenting here. there is no wednesdays/every other weekend off. this will be the longest time EVER that i will be without my kids. EVER. in the last 14 years. i’ve had a week off here and there. i’ve even had two weeks off-ish (with a day in between transfers). this will be three full weeks without kids. it’s great. i need time to refresh and rebuild.

BUT.

that’s also a LOT of alone time. during the hard months. i know i haven’t deal with 80% of the grief. i’ve been busy, distracted, head in the sand over the last two years. i’ve avoided and held it together because i’ve HAD to hold it together. i’m more than a little worried that there will be too much “thinky thoughts” time during the next three weeks. i’m worried that known triggers will get to me. the autism cruise scares me because it was the next day i woke up to the news about my dad. the cruise didn’t cause it, it’s an illogical association, but it’s associated.  when i got the news about tyra, steves accident, my dad- my kids were gone staying with someone for the week. now they’re going to be gone staying with someone and i’m already on edge worried about what news will come this time. my kids being gone didn’t cause anything to happen. same as the boat cruise didn’t start my dad’s fire. but it’s there. it’s a reminder, a trigger.

so. here i am. asking for help. i’m getting pretty good at watching myself and recognizing things for what they are. doesn’t mean I won’t slip or that someone else won’t catch it faster than  I will. We all know how it’s easier to see things in others than ourselves.

broken pieces

i've had writers block since this summer. i've known exactly what was causing it but haven't wanted to face up to it. i've had the words. i've known what i wanted to say a thousand times over in a thousand different ways, but i just couldn't say it. and when you know there's something you need to say but you're being stubborn about saying it, well, it makes it really hard to say anything else.

i'm ready now.

i'm broken. i have a hard time in relationships so i avoid them. i thought i knew why for a long time but this summer there was a flat, bold face, plain as day answer given to all the things i've thought over the years. it's ugly and it's dark. but i know what it is now. what i don't have is a solution for it or a way to move past it yet. maybe finally saying it will help.

ok. so maybe i'm not ready to say all of it. part of the writing process you can't see: i've typed and deleted several paragraphs trying to decide what to include and what to leave out to get to the main point of this post. readers digest version that i'll get back to at some point when i'm more ready: my mom is married to a pedophile. her husband was inappropriate towards me growing up and i found out after moving away from small town USA that he had also been grooming my youngest son. i told my mom about it at one point when it was just me, and again when i found out it was happening to my son.

i'm sure you can imagine how much more is packed into that one paragraph if it was allowed to unfold itself.

when i told my mom about my experiences she looked at me and said: "well, what do you want me to do about it? it's already happened." when i told my mom about my son she told me that i was just projecting my own experiences on him and there was no way it could have happened.

perhaps now it's making a little more sense to some of you why my mom and i don't have the best relationship.

it's been really hard for me over the last few years to see her stand beside this pedophile at the expense of a relationship with my kids and i. as long as he is anywhere around, we won't be. my older brother has taken her side. he doesn't believe there's a problem and i'm just being the stubborn kid that i've always been for no reason. after losing my dad and my younger brother, it's unspeakably hard to not have any connection to what blood family i have left.

the biggest thing over the last few years: i felt like the one who was wrong. i felt like maybe i was being a little harsh or maybe it was all just in my head. maybe THAT was the reason i was so broken: i made things up and i was unreasonable.

this summer my mom asked me to go to therapy with her. she'd been trying to work out why she and i don't have a relationship and her therapist suggested that maybe i should come in to talk over some things. a mom is a mom and there's countless studies to show that no matter how bad things get, our primal instinct is to call out for our mothers. i want my mother. i do. so i decided to go. maybe we could work it out. maybe she would see my side and understand why i was protecting my kids. maybe she would say she loved me and chose me for once.

we sat in that office. i talked about what it was like growing up. i talked about why i had separated myself from her. i talked about how it felt having her chose a pedophile over me, her daughter. the therapist heard me. she pulled together my pieces with the things my mom had talked about. the therapist, a trained professional looked at the whole picture and i was honestly, truly shocked by what she told me: i wasn't crazy. my experiences were real. my decision to protect my children was the right one. knowing what she had worked on with my mom and then hearing my pieces, it made sense and fit together and i wasn't being the unreasonable terrible daughter i believed i was. the therapist flat out said if she had known the whole story from the beginning her work with my mom would have been totally different. she believed me.

i can't tell you how powerful that moment was. someone validated me. validated the things i knew to be true. feelings and experiences i'd been wanting someone to believe. the things i though made me crazy and broken weren't right. things i've hated about myself since i was a teenager weren't my fault. i didn't ask to be treated the way i was. i didn't cause things that happened to me. it wasn't right that i had been ignored. it wasn't right that i was made to feel bad for protecting my kids. the therapist told me i was reasonable and level headed and the things i was doing were on the right track and i shouldn't waiver or back down. it was so powerful to have someone on my side. there. in the same room as my mom. my mom HAD to hear it. she HAD to know. she HAD to see it and acknowledge it and it would be different.

but just as quickly, i lost that moment. just as quickly my mom looked at the therapist and said i was crazy and heard voices in my head (she literally said exactly that). that i made things up. my own mother said that none of my experiences, none of my memories are real. she was so scared of the truth that she flat denied it and just shattered me. she looked straight at me and said nothing i remember, none of my experiences will ever be right or true. ever.

THAT.

THAT MOMENT. that is the real reason i'm broken. as powerful as the moment before it had been of someone believing me and validating me had been, THAT MOMENT was a thousand times more destructive. my mother doesn't believe me. she doesn't think i'm worth protecting for fighting for. i'm not worth loving. my mother would rather protect a monster than love a daughter. in that moment she threw me away. my own family rejected me. my family thinks i'm broken and damaged and not worth fighting for. i am not loveable. i am not good. i am not worth anything.

and if my own family, my own flesh and blood feels that way, what hope is there of ever finding a partner in life to accept me?

NOW: I KNOW. i know i have friends that love me and accept me. i hope there will eventually be someone on the life partner level that will feel the same way. but there is a whole fucking canyon between hope and belief. and before i can even begin to cross that canyon i have to have even the smallest confidence that it's even possible. and i don't have that. i don't have even a small piece of that confidence. not even a sliver. the feeling of rejection is so ingrained in me that anyone who tells me they love me must lying. it's an instant deal breaker for me. they want something. they're using me. it CAN'T be true. it's not physically possible for it to be true. i wholly believe that. i know. fucked up.

so there it is. my broken pieces: what's left of my family has rejected me. i truly don't believe i'm loveable. i don't believe i will ever find someone that wont go away or let me push them away. i don't believe there will ever be someone to fight for me and with me.

there are my pieces. now. how do i fix them? how do i teach myself that those pieces aren't right? how do i teach myself that i am loveable and that someone will want me? how do i believe what that therapist saw? how do i teach myself not to destroy chances at good things because they're foreign? how do i make pieces that are right and put them all together?

i recently tried my hand at a true, talked about it, put a name on it, give it a shot, relationship. it didn't make it very far. among several of the red flags that i filtered through, the biggest one was that he dropped the love bomb on me. after only a few weeks. and i INSTANTLY shut down. instantly. something must be wrong. it couldn't be true. now, there was more to it. there always is. but i don't know if it was real. i don't know if he really did love me or if it was because we had a small argument and he thought it would make things better. i don't know because i didn't give it a chance. like i said, there was more to it, but i couldn't even look at any of the more because i was DONE. that moment i fully shut down, completely shut off because there was no way it could be true. he must have been lying because no one can love me. people who have know me my whole life can't love me. how could some one that's only known me for a few weeks say that? and so i destroyed it. it's done.

how do i NOT do that? how do i not shut down? how do i not instantly want to call someone a liar? how do i start to unbelieve that bad and really believe the good? i have to start to believe that i'm loveable. i have to. the hard part of that is i don't know where to start. and i don't know if i ever will believe it. i don't like that. i don't like that i'm questioning it before i've even started the process. it's going to be a helluva journey. there's a lot of damage to undo.