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.

family legacy

my grandmother is 81 years old. it’s not the longest run in history, but it’s a damn good one. it’s interesting to think that she was born in 1929. that was the year of the wall street crash, the beginning of the great depression, the st valentines day massacre, the opening of the san fransisco bay bridge. in the same year martin luther king jr was born as well as audrey hepburn and anne frank. (read more here: 1929)

i found out last wednesday night that my grandmother has cancer. she will not be a cancer survivor. this will be the final chapter for her. by the time they found the cancer it was beyond any treatment options. the best they can do now is give her pain meds (which she doesn’t like to take because they make her too groggy) and wait for the end.

i’m angry at the universe about this. i get that 81 is a good run, but this is NOT a fair way for this amazing woman to go. there is NOTHING fair about this. here’s why:

my grandma is where i get my rebellious streak. there’s pictures of her in college holding hands with boys. i know- doesn’t sound so scandalous until you realize she went to a college with separate mens and womens dorms. not very unheard of at the time. but then you look in the background of the pictures and you see signs about men and women not being allowed to fraternize together. pictures of her holding hands with a boy with a sign about no fraternizing in the background. there’s also a picture of her and several girlfriends standing on a wall directly over a sign that says “no sitting or standing on this wall.” she had a strong wild streak to her. granted, i’m basing this off two pictures, but they do say a pictures worth a thousand words. she was also very in love with her first husband and there may or may not have been less than 9 months between their marriage and the birth of their first son. unfortunately at that time it was not at all something that people could deal with like they pretended to do when it happened to me (minus the marriage part). it caused a rift in her family and she was (i believe) disowned due to it. if not actually disowned it caused a large rift that caused great pains later on.

my mum was born in 1955 when my grandmother was 25 or 26 (forgive me, i don’t know her exact birthday- we’ll stick with 26). a few months before my mum was born my grandmother’s husband was killed in a plane accident. i can’t even imagine. 26, baby on the way, suddenly alone. in 1955. additionally, my mum has 3 older brothers. at 26 my grandmother was a sudden single parent of 3 small boys and a baby on the way. can you even imagine? i made the choice to become a single parent at 23 leaving my marriage. granted, not a choice i really wanted to make at the time, but still it wasn’t like having my whole life ripped from me. it was damn hard with two little guys. i can’t even begin to imagine three small boys and a baby on the way. she had to scrape together a few thousand dollars to have his body railed (yes, by train) back to his family AND pay for burial costs. you’d think at a time like this her family would step in and help. remember that whole great pains? they wouldn’t help. his family stepped in to help, but still. she was on her own. talk about a hard knock. she did it though.

in 1958 she married again and had two more kids. six total. that alone deserves sainthood.

now. our family has pretty tight lips when it comes to history but over the years i’ve heard a few things consistently enough to know that there’s a strong truth to them. still, please understand that this is a generation removed and a that no one is willing to talk about what went on.

my grandmother’s second husband is a pretty horrible person in my opinion. he is the type of person that never had qualms about using brute force to get his way. my mum talked only a few times about growing up with him and it was never good. one thing she remembered was my grandmother in the bathroom giving birth while he was in the kitchen demanding dinner. she talks about how when they got in trouble as kids (which was a continual thing due to the type of person he was) he would grab whatever was handy to beat them- a hairbrush, a belt, a metal rod. my grandmother and the kids went through this- no one escaped. in addition to that demeanor, he was also very politically defiant. he has strong ties to branches of the aryan nations and different supremacy groups. it was not 6 degrees of separation to our family when things like ruby ridge happened. it was maybe 1 or 2. hell, the wingnut even started his own “church” and considers himself a minister. hand in hand with all that goes a distrust of modern medicine, resistance to “government tracking” (drivers licenses and birth certificates), stockpiling weapons and food for the end of the world- the batshit crazy just goes on and on. did you know that if you eat mushrooms and ham you’ll catch aids? and that if you snort enough cyan pepper you can cure cancer? (one snort and i would NEVER complain about another medical problem as long as i lived. kind of like the egyptian answer to headaches). he is, to the core, in every way possible, a terrible person. even now, as my grandma is immobilized by cancer he’s demanding that she just needs to get up and walk more and she’ll be better. he gets angry with her for struggling through the pain and being confused or groggy. he talked yesterday about the “good old days” and how when they would argue she would simply say “you’re the head of the household” and that would be the end of the discussion. does anyone else catch the undertone to a discussion like that?

my mum did her best to keep my brother and i away from that whole mess growing up, one thing i am extremely grateful to her for. we rarely visited my grandmothers ranch and we NEVER spent time alone there.

53 years. my grandmother has endured 53 years of abuse after losing the love of her life, having her family shun her and being left on her own in 1955 with three kids and one on the way. she stuck with it because it’s what her generation does. you stay. there is no other option.

and she still maintained the beautiful person that she is. hidden in there peeking out when the coast is clear is that rebel. the amazing woman that gave me my love of vintage books. the first person in our family to go to college. the young lady in the picture standing on the forbidden wall. the woman that i look up to for what she went through and continues to go through. she raised six kids. SIX. she ran the ranch for over 20 years with “small” gardens that would put most gardens to shame (ACRES of gardens). she provided food for countless families that passed through and stayed on the land at different times. she made (and hand tied) quilts for all 9 of us grandkids. every year since my kids started school she helped make sure all their supplies were provided. visiting her over the last week i’ve still seen an amazing sense of humor, beautiful intelligence, unimaginable strength and patience. it breaks my heart to think of how much i missed out on growing up because of what she was stuck enduring.

and i’m angry at the universe because she never got a break. a few years ago her husband was very sick and it didn’t look like he was going to last very long. i was so excited for her thinking that finally she would be away from his tyranny. she would be able to get a nice little place in town and live a few years of her life in peace. a few years away from the constant abuse. a few years with her kids who had all distanced themselves as adults. a few years with grandkids, great grandkids that had been kept at a distance. instead he’s pulled through and is in fine health (aside from dementia) and she’s in the worst possible pain, completely overtaken with cancer and no chance of pulling through. no chance of peace. no chance to have the life she deserved. no chance to be the beautiful independent, free spirited woman she once was. i’m so angry. i’m so filled with hate and rage to see the scales once again not balance out. i don’t understand how the universe works. i don’t understand why things like this happen.

i’m also terrified.

my grandmother has lived with 53 years of abuse. my mother grew up in that household. i have to acknowledge that experience and how it shaped her adult life and approach to relationships. i have no question that her marriage to my dad was unhealthy. i love my father with everything i am, but i am not blind to his faults. i know that he had affairs. i know that he was young and didn’t treat my mother the best he could have. i know they were both young and both came from hard upbringings and didn’t have the healthiest examples of how to be a young married couple. i honestly believe that my mother would have stuck with him forever if he hadn’t come home and announced he was in marriage counseling. with the other woman. if he hadn’t left, my mother never would have. she would have stuck in an unhealthy relationship because it’s what you do. how do i know this? because she’s doing it now. she’s married again to a horrible man. a man that has lied to her, mistreated her, hidden things from her, abused her kids. she is in an abusive relationship now and she is sticking with it because that’s what you do. my grandmother married a second time because she needed help raising four young children. my mother married a second time because she needed help raising two young children. both stuck out abusive marriages because it’s what you do.

i’m TERRIFIED. i’m TERRIFIED to be a third generation of this. and i KNOW i’ve already broken the mold. i was in an abusive marriage and I GOT OUT. but the fact remains that i was in an abusive marriage. i followed their steps. i did it. i married an abuser. a third generation. i did get out, but i’m TERRIFIED that i don’t know any better. i don’t know what a healthy relationship is. i don’t know how people are supposed to work together. i don’t know what the good things are to look for and it’s damn hard shopping when you’re only going off the avoid list.

on the other end i’m terrified of avoiding relationships and not trying to find someone to try to give my kids a healthy example to look up to. no example is just as damaging as a bad example. they need something good and healthy and strong to learn from and aspire to. but i don’t know how to give that to them. i only know that i want to protect them from an unhealthy one. i don’t want to fuck up a fourth generation. i don’t want my kids to look back 15 years from now and be in the same boat facing the same fears and the same bad experiences. how do you fix things like this? how do you unlearn what you grew up with? how do you change the family legacy? i don’t want to be the third generation single mother who marries for help and stays no matter what.

and so what do you do? you’re terrified to get stuck in a bad one and terrified to not have one at all. i want to break the cycle. i want to be the generation that does it right. i want to be the generation that is healthy and happy and successful in a partnership. i just have no fucking clue where to start.

my healing process

so. in the middle of everything there’s one thing that keeps coming up, one thing everyone keeps saying, one recurring theme: it will get better, i’ll heal and get back to normal. i’ll move on.

i get it. you know? i know it will happen. i know it’s inevitable. it will get better. i will begin to heal. i will eventually move on. but normal? there is no normal any more. normal is long gone. there will be a NEW normal eventually but there is no normal to go back to. nothing will ever be the same again.

NORMAL was talking to my dad every week. it was him checking about my car, asking how money was, what the boys were up to, when i was going to come see him again. it was listening to him talk about football games or golf or fifty cent taco night at the bar. normal was my dad being upset every time i moved that my house wasn’t good enough. it was grandpa showing up at every birthday or holiday with WAY too many presents- there was no such thing as getting a few things on the wish list- it was EVERYTHING on the wish list. normal was great big grizzly bear hugs and snoring that put old school cartoons to shame. normal was having a dad i could call any time for help or love or laughs. there will never be a normal again.

so what do i go back to? i guess the answer is that you don’t go back to anything- you have to move forward. but it’s fucking hard people. it’s hard to move forward. it’s hard to move. it’s hard to breathe. it’s hard to know that all the things that were so special, the things i took for granted are just gone. they’re memories now. and i’m TERRIFIED that memories will fade with time.

i don’t want to move forward. i don’t want to have a new normal. i don’t want to forget.

i know that eventually i’ll have to. i know that time and life will force me to. but for now i need to hurt. i HAVE to hurt before i can heal. i have to ask my questions. i have to be angry. i have to cry. i have to rage against the universe and curse the unfairness of it all. i have to find time to let myself feel all the different things.

i’ve been told over and over “this is the life” but i say BULLSHIT. BULL. FUCKING. SHIT. this is NOT the life. it is NOT normal to lose your brother and your grandmother and your father and your step mother all in less than a year. YES, loss happens. but holy fuck universe- give me some fucking room to breathe and deal with things. can we space these out a little more? you know...like...NEVER? and yes, i understand how unreasonable that is. i understand life and death and eventually we will lose people. but FUCK. not all at once, you know?

so. the questions really are: HOW DO I HURT? and HOW DO I HEAL? i know that i have to do both. and here’s what i’m attempting (poorly, but attempting):

talking about it: friends and sounding boards and therapy and hell, even perfect strangers are all hearing little bits and pieces of what i’m going through right now. there’s several reasons for this: #1- it validates my feelings. wait...validates isn’t the right word- it makes them real. when you’re forced to put words to things you have to know what you’re saying. you have to be able to call it by name and once you’re able to do that it doesn’t seem so big and scary. it makes me really think about what i’m feeling so i CAN say it. #2- every person you come into contact with is there for a reason and at a specific time. i believe that with every part of my being. every person is there for you to share something with or to share something with you. you never know what you will take away from an interaction, or what you may be able to give them. whose to say that the checker at the store didn’t also recently experience a loss and by my talking about mine it lets them know that they’re not alone in the shit-pile the universe is shoveling out? maybe they can tell me how they’re getting through it or i can tell them how i am. maybe it’s something as simple as making another human connection. maybe it’s an opportunity to learn something new or laugh for a minute or be reminded and one of a million things. TALKING IS GOOD.

writing about it: if talking is good, writing is fan-fucking-tastic. as much as you can talk about something there’s a sense of finality to see it in front of you. writing has always been my core self. it’s what i ALWAYS go back to when shit hits the fan. i have journals from every hard part of my life. it’s my chance to talk to myself and talk to other people without being interrupted or thrown off track or forgetting what i was trying to say. i can organize it, tweak it, work it through until i really know it’s exactly what i want to express. it also gets it out of my head- there’s something about writing for me- i can think about it forever, i can talk about it, but until i put pen to paper (or fingers to keyboard) it won’t be OUT of my head. once it’s written i can finally put it to rest. i can know i’ve said my peace. i can know that it’s there. it’s a tangible thought. it’s no longer just my own voice in my head, it’s out there- if this makes sense to you, you’re probably also a writer. if it doesn’t make sense- trust, it really helps me.

and i'm finding new ways to write. ways to force myself through it. i'm making myself write on my lunch breaks at work- it makes me get through things and feel it all without being allowed to fall apart. i tried to write at home one evening and just found myself staring at the wall and getting lost in emotions and getting NO writing done. when i write at work i have to focus, i have a time limit, i have to get it out and still be able to function for the rest of the day. i make myself write about the hard things that i know i wouldn't be able to face otherwise. it's been very helpful.

ink: i waited until i was 27 to get my first tattoo. every single one of my designs is something i picked, something that represents a part of me, something that helped me deal with a different part of my life. a tattoo on my foot for my kids. “destiny” on my wrist to remind me every day that there’s a time and a purpose for everying. the flowers growing up my calf to remind me of all the battles i’ve made it through. the vw for my brother. and now my dad’s badge on my shoulder to never forget who he was and what he meant to so many people.

i went in a week or so ago and had this new one done. and it’s my dad. it’s his badge, his badge number, hell, my artist even mixed some of my dad’s ashes into the ink for me. it’s as much of my dad as i can get and keep forever. and there’s something about the pain of getting ink- it puts a REAL pain to the pain in my heart. as i was on the table for this last one i started crying- something NOT ALLOWED on tattoo tables. you know how there’s no crying in baseball? there’s no crying in tattoos too. so there i am on the table, all of 5 minutes into the ink, and i start to cry. IT DIDN’T HURT (which was surprising given the placement). that is to say the INK didn’t hurt. but it hurt to the very core to think of why i was getting the tattoo, what it meant. it made me really face it again- you can’t deny your father is gone when his ashes are being put into your skin. you can’t say he’ll come back one day when you’re holding his burned badge in your hand for the artist to get the design from. you can’t pretend it didn’t happen any longer.

and you know that thing about talking that i mentioned? how each person is there at a certain time for a certain reason? turns out my tattoo artist was law enforcement. he worked as an EMT for years, had been recruited for the WSP, had tested for Kootenai county- all places my family of cops has been. my dad studied to be an emt back in the beginning and was a WSP. my brother started his career in Kootenai county. my artist UNDERSTOOD. he knew what it meant to put this badge on me. he had read the news and followed the story. it meant as much to him to be able to do the ink for me as it did for me to receive the ink. it wasn’t just some random person all...whatever...with the gun. we were able to talk about it through the process. he understood the tears and made an exception to the rule for me on his table crying.

and it really did help me start to heal. going through the pain, working through the meaning, making sure the ink healed right- it’s helping me heal a little more every day. i still tear up when i look at it. i still hurt when i remember why it’s there. i have a hard time explaining it to people without turning into a slobbering crying mess. but each time gets a little easier. i can’t say each day is getting easier yet. just when i think that something comes along to submarine me. but you know...eventually...right? that whole being forced to move forward and find a new normal? it will happen whether i want it to or not, right? so. welcome to my healing.