Man Part II

You know that expression - "Don’t forget where you came from?" It’s a favorite of mine. Mainly because when we are able to see where we come from, I mean really get a clear, uncluttered view of where we were, it really shows us, me, how much grace has been extended. Perhaps that is what should be remembered. Not just where we come from.
But the grace that takes us from where we were, cleans us off, wipes our face, and sets us down, clothed in love and compassion.
Grace is such an amazing gift.

Sometimes, I think, we don’t know how bad off we really are.

We become so used to the turmoil, that it becomes normal to us. We get comfortable with it, learn how to manage, and then assume that is the best life has to offer.

But it’s not.

It’s been awhile since I wrote Man Part 1. It is a post so full of rage, disappointment and anger; I knew I couldn’t do that twice. There’s a fine line between getting it out and dwelling on it. Knowing when to say “enough” is crucial. Otherwise you walk away feeling worse than you did when you started.

Even though it may be necessary to regurgitate, you still need to flush it down the toilet.

However, in order to complete Man Part 2, I must finish where I left off on Man Part 1.
With my questions, and my anger, at God. Jesus. Man.

Seventeen was an intense year. I moved in with my boyfriend, graduated high school, gave birth to my daughter, and tried desperately to figure out how to be a mom and a “wife.”
I wasn’t very good at it.
It’s very painful to think of now. The insecurities I had ran deep and rough, like a ravine full of jagged rocks and black holes. That’s how I was. Jagged and piercing, scraping anyone that got too close and the black holes of emptiness ran through, devouring me. I knew the person I wanted to be but I had no idea how to get there.

And that made the blackness worse, the despair greater.

It’s a wicked cycle.

When I look back at my 17 year old self, I want to weep for her. I can see all the mindless spinning and fear and if I look a little closer, I know I’ll see the devil standing there in a corner, watching….. laughing…… patting himself on the back for being such a sly sucker.

I would lose my temper quicker than you could blink. One second I would be fine and the next, a hot rage would overwhelm me and nothing was safe. I would scream, yell, cry, throw myself against the wall, and beat my kid’s dad. I would throw anything I could get my hands on.

Each time I broke a window, a plate, a glass, a picture frame….. I knew i was breaking, shattering into pieces, this fragile life I was attempting to build.

One time I threw a frying pan with such force, the handle stuck in the wall. It hung there, waist high in the wall, the pan itself seeming to stare at me in accusation, telling me how bad I sucked.

I was so terrified. Of myself, of what was in me. I didn’t know how to fix it.

Or worse, if I was even fixable.

I would sob in front of Shaun and tell him over and over that I wanted to get better but I didn’t know how. I wasn't sure if I could. I was consumed by fear that I would wind up alone because I was so awful. Prophetic words, it turns out.
Nevertheless, the hopelessness was so tangible I felt like it was strangling me.

Shaun became friends with this guy and started going to church with him. Turns out this guy was a preacher’s kid and an aspiring youth pastor.

I had no interest in going to church.

I was quite vocal about it. I know. Shocking.

His friend would come to our house sometimes and I would taunt him, be purposefully rude, to try and get a reaction.
He would tell me that he loved me and that God loved me too.

I would tell him to fuck off and God could do the same.
Last I had checked, “God” hadn’t done much for me.

He would smile, not in a condescending way, just regular, and laugh, “ok, ok.”
He’d let me be. But I wouldn’t. I’d get in his face every chance I could. I would say things like, “I don’t need any motherfucking God or stupid ass church or any goddamn religious people telling me what the fuck to do.”

Charming, wasn’t I?

I mean, it went beyond just not wanting to go to church. I was offended by the entire suggestion that I should. Why exactly? No one knew my life, what I had been through.
Who was he, who were they, to judge me?

I could do it on my own. Just like I had been.

I was one of the most unlovable people you would ever meet. I had nothing to offer, nothing to give, except negativity and loneliness.

The only person I showed any real, honest love to was my daughter. And even that was not promising. Don’t get me wrong, I never abused her. Ever. I loved her so much I thought my heart would explode from my body.
But I found this feeling absolutely terrifying. Mostly because I was so completely sure I was going to screw it up. It wasn’t a question of if, but when, and how badly.

I don’t know how it happened but Shaun wore me down. I must have lost a bet or something because even though I don’t remember how my going to church that first time came about, I do recall that I was extremely pissed about it.

I walked into church that day with a chip on my shoulder and an attitude the size of the pacific ocean. I was wearing blue plaid boxer shorts with a white hanes t-shirt and flip flops. I was hell-bent on not trying to be “nice.” If they really wanted me, they were going to get me.
The real me.
I am pretty sure I was laughing inside thinking I was so smug. Screw those self-righteous bastards.

Thank God He knows us better than we know ourselves. I needed love. My entire soul was yearning for it. I just didn’t know what it was.

I walked in and the first person that came up to me was a little grandma that looked like she was 80 years old. I looked at her, nose up, face rigid, rebellion oozing out of my pores. She reached her hand out to me and said, “Welcome. I’m Ruby. You look like you could use a hug.”
So she gave me one.
Well, she tried.

It’s difficult to hug a board.

I walked to a seat and looked around. There were about twenty people there. More than half looked like Ruby.
They must have thought I was the spawn of Satan. Me, in my boxers. Ha.

But if they did, they didn’t show it. Not one person looked down on me. No one looked away from my glances of defiance and hatred. I’m sure it showed all over me. Never had much of a poker face.
And I did hate it. Oh yes.

I hated the singing. I hated the clapping.
People put their hands in the air and I thought they were freaks.

I hated the offering plate. Churches. All they want is people’s money.

I hated the sermon. All about Jesus and his forgiveness. Whatever. Forgiveness? Bite me.

I hated the end when the preacher offered for anyone to come up front and get “saved” or prayed for. Idiots. How about thinking for yourselves? Get saved from what?

I hated the crying and all the “Thank you Jesus!” Please. Weeping is for people who are weak.
I hated it all.

But I went back.

Why?

It was the grandmas that got me.
You see, they were so sweet. I’ve never had anyone be nice to me just because they wanted to give of themselves. When these ladies hugged me, the board, they weren’t put off by how stiff I was, or how I barely spoke to them, or the outfits I insisted on wearing. No, these ladies saw beyond what I showed them.

They looked at me with eyes of love.

They could see the pain on my face as clearly as if I had written it on my forehead with black marker.
“Look at me!
I am in pain.
I am unloved.
I have been hurt.
I have been let down.
I have been stepped on.
Please, please…love me.”

Oh yes, they saw this with their eyes. But not their human eyes. Not the ones that make judgments and condemnations and dismissals.

No, they looked at me with God eyes.

I just didn’t know it yet.

God has a way of working in our lives long before we know what’s happening. Even when we are resisting Him, pushing Him away with all of our might, He is sending people our way to show us his love, to see us, with God eyes.

To see beyond what we project, what we allow others to know.

To see past our façade and our practiced smiles.

He gives God eyes so that we can see deeper and so we can show His love.
To someone that is hurting.
To someone that has been let down.
To someone that has been stepped on.
To someone, even, that has got themselves believing everything is fine and they are ok and don’t need anyone or anything.
To all of us.

When we start to see people with God eyes, our hearts begin to break. That is good. Our hearts should break. Everyone has a story, a hurt, a fear. Everyone has that spot that needs to be filled with love.

I started going to that church every week. I marveled at the grandmas and my distrust of them, of the world, of the church, was slowly being chipped away.

God? Jesus? Um, still no. Don't Push It.

Six months later.

I was 7 or 8 rows from the front where the preacher stood. I have no idea what he preached on but at the end, I stood up with everyone and we started singing. I had grown to like the singing.
I found it very……..comforting.
As I stood there, singing, I heard a voice. No, not audible, but it very clear. I don’t know how to explain it. It was in my head but it wasn’t me.
There’s no way I would have told myself this.

Voice: “Walk up.”
Me: “No.”
Voice: “Walk up.”
Me: “NO. I don’t want to. I can’t.”
Voice: “Don’t be afraid. It’s me.”
Me: “Who’s me?”
Voice: “It is I, Jesus. I am here and I am with you.”

My eyes flew open. I looked around. My hands were clammy. I was beginning to feel sick to my stomach. Singing was going on everywhere but for me, it was as if time had stopped. Mouths were moving but I wasn’t hearing that. I was hearing him.

And I was stunned.

I closed my eyes and I tried not to cry.

But I did. I cried. I stood there and I cried.
Again. “Walk up. Don’t be afraid. I am here.”

I opened my eyes again. I wanted to say no. Part of me did. The part that had so many questions but could be broken down into just a few. Why? Why? And why?

But then the other part of me…….

I started walking. The closer I got to the front, the faster my tears began to fall. The faster my tears came, the urge to run filled me.

Then I was there. Nothing crazy happened. Lightening didn’t tear through the ceiling. A voice of thunder didn’t boom out, “Hey you! What are you doing here? I know what you did!” I didn’t drop dead when I got there.

But I did drop to my knees.

I couldn’t stand. How could I? I knew without a doubt that He was right there with me. The tears were not from fear or shame. I was being…....cleansed.

It was like my body was giving my soul a bath.

And I knew that He was holding me.
I can’t explain it but I know He was. He was holding me like a child. He filled me with an unconditional love. I felt it.
Literally.
It was like molasses moving within me, slow and steady, spreading to every crevice, not leaving anything out. Total, complete, consumption.

It was the most beautiful thing. Ever.

I have heard it said, that once you have an experience with Jesus, nothing will ever make you forget it. You will not waver because you know that you know. If someone else doesn’t know, it’s only because they haven’t met him. And if they haven’t met him, it’s because they didn’t want to.

Jesus touched me that day. I cry now as I think of it. I was never the same.

It’s funny. Sometimes I will have someone confront me and say that just because I need Jesus doesn’t mean they do. My initial reaction is to stand up and take offense, to say hey, I’m not weak, I don’t need anything.

But then I catch myself. Because I know that I do.

And that's ok.

There’s nothing wrong with being dependent. Aren’t we all? Aren’t we designed to be? We are made to interact and have contact.

Hello! We are obsessed with relationships!

If I choose Christ, the Creator, then, so what?
He is the strength when I am weak.
I know it is God who gave me the strength and the will to endure everything I have been through.

(I know this is long, I am almost done. Promise. This is the second time my laptop has been ready to die on me.)

I was arrested when I was a teenager. The first time I was in juvenile hall, I was 13. I was there for three months. In that entire three months, I don’t think I met one person who felt like they deserved to be there. Oh sure, they had committed a crime but everything was someone else’s fault.
This attitude disgusted me. It reminded me of them. All the finger-pointers and blame -hangers.
To me, if you are going to do something wrong, then at least have the balls to man up about it. Don’t cry and say it’s not your fault because something bad happened to you.

Something bad happens to everyone.

It’s what we do with it that makes the difference.

Right then is when I learned the lesson of taking responsibility. I tell this part of my life because, you see, I had blamed God for so long for actions that had nothing to do with Him. I realized i couldn't hold God accountable for my grandfather any more than those teenage girls could blame their moms, dads, friends or enemies for that matter.

We are all responsible for ourselves.

I can’t say it any better than C.S. Lewis did so I will quote him.

“God created things which had free will. That means creatures which can go either wrong or right. Some people think they can imagine a creature which was free but had no possibility of going wrong; I cannot. If a thing is free to be good it is also free to be bad. And free will is what has made evil possible. Why, then, did God give them free will? Because free will, though it makes evil possible, is also the only thing that makes possible any love or goodness or joy worth having. A world of automata – of creatures that worked like machines – would hardly be worth creating.” - Mere Christianity

I can’t say that I trust men now 100% and that everything is just peachy.
I’m a Christian – I don’t lie. Or blow smoke.
I do still have trust issues and yes, sometimes I am still angry.

But I can say that the trust has improved exponentially.
I can say the anger is decreasing consistently.
I throw things less and less.
I am human. I will not always be a great example. I will make mistakes. I will be the one that lets someone else down, or hurts them, or steps on them.
But I will try to make it right. I will be sorry.
And I will see – with God’s eyes.
And I will love.
And I will forgive.
Even a man.
Even that one. I'm still working on it.

I know that at the end of the day, I have to be right with God, with my own choices and all the consequences that surround them.

Being angry isn't helping.
Neither is hating men.

Letting go - is.

Firecrackers and scars

It's been months. What can i say? There has been so much to write and yet, the words would not come. My thoughts - broken. I just feel like i can't get it together. I still do really. That hasn't changed. What has changed is that i am feeling so urged - so pushed - to write. So here i am, cross-legged in my bed, laptop perched on my lap, fingers flying. The way i figure it, the words will just come.

Waiting.

I'm not really sure where i want this blog to go. yes, i can continue to write so much about THAT but........... I feel like that road is blocked right now. A big "X" with flashing lights and a railroad crossing. Which way to go?

Waiting.


Ahhh. This way. (deep breath)

A few months ago, maybe 4, 5, 6..... my best friend and i broke up for a time. It was one of toughest things i have had to endure for awhile. There was just too much... with her, with me, trying to grow together... words misunderstood, intentions lost, it was horrible. So we stopped talking for a bit. To breathe. To see. Sometimes when we are right in the middle of something, we can't see at all. That one GIANT thing is right in front of our eyeballs, blocking the view to everything else.. and that's about the time the not being able to breathe thing starts to happen. A sort of panic sets in and you can feel yourself twisting and turning each way, trying to get a glimpse of light, an out, and all the while it is only getting worse. This is what happened.
So we broke up.
I have to say that BF break ups are far worse than any man break up - EVER. If you have ever had one, you know what i mean. It is heart-wrenching. Truly it is your best friend that holds your heart in their hand. They know it all. We've given them it all - the good, the horrible, the shameful, the hopeful, the fears, the love..... Best friends stand by you anyway, even when you act like an assjack. They cheer you on, laugh at your idiocy, and cry with you when they know the world has let you down. Then they feed you when laughing and crying isn't helping anymore. This is true. It is in the Best Friend handbook.

So yeah - it was hard. I cried. A lot.
I questioned things about myself. Maybe i wasn't a very good friend. Maybe i said things without thinking. This wouldn't be too shocking. I do have a very big mouth. I am not very sensitive. I have tried to get better since then.....
The toughest thing? I don't really know how to fight. You see, to me, when there is a major disagreement and "I'm sorry" just isn't cutting it......well, i just cut it off. It hasn't been my experience that there can be a disagreement, especially a very big one, and then things will get better. To me, for me, it was the cue to walk away. To keep moving. To let go and not look back.
And this is what i did. I let go.
As soon as i did it, i knew i was wrong. I knew that i did not want it. However, i didn't know how to fix it or take it back.
That's the crazy thing about words - they are like firecrackers. They shoot off into the direction you pointed, setting off little explosions along the way. Mostly they are very pretty. But every once in a while, you get a dud. One that goes a little ... off course, it's full of smoke and you can't do anything about where it's going except watch, and it just spreads in a different direction. Spreading. And then at the end - pop. Not always the loudest. Or the brightest. But somehow, still the most noticeable. It's not fun. There is no hand-clapping. It's a disaster. No matter how many firecrackers are shot after that, full of beautiful colors and shapes, even happy heart ones, that dud - it remains. It will always be there.

She pointed out to me my tendency to walk away. To give up. I never really thought of it as giving up. That sounds so weak and petty. I always looked at it as self-preservation. A much nobler term.
Ah, perception. Our messed up, jacked up, one-sided perceptions.
They really bite us in the buttocks.
I was offended when she said this to me. I felt a little pissed-offness. As she cried and told me i was throwing her out like trash, i closed my heart. You see, I was keeping score of who was the most wrong. Accepting what she said as true would definitely put me in the lead. I had no desire to lead this race. I shut down and slammed the door.
It didn't last long. Got me through the day but my insides squirmed and struggled every time i thought of her and what happened. It was uncomfortable. Nauseating. I didn't like it at all.

It was through this though, that led me to do one of the craziest things i have done in a really long time. I decided to look up some of my family. I was not going to be what she said i was. I wanted her to be wrong.

And if she was right, I wanted to be different.

Facebook is a crazy thing. Some have a love/ hate relationship with it. Overall i just love it. It keeps me in touch and i don't feel rude about being busy. Aren't we all?
So here i am, all alone one night.
Just me and my thoughts of inadequacy. And a computer.
This may drive some people to drink. Not me - no, self examination is always in order.

Scalpel - check. Suction - check. Anesthesia - um no sorry. We don't give that for self-exams. It is a requirement to feel every ounce of pain there is. It is necessary, yes vital, to recovery.

Fabulous.

There i sat, staring at the "search" field. Breathing. Hard.
I typed in the first name. Nothing.
Second name. 500 or more listings. Yeah. Right. Pass. I'm surprised I'm doing this in the first place. Search through 500 people? I don't think so.
I sat and thought and suddenly, two names popped into my head. My cousins. Both a few years younger than me. Bam. Found them both on the first try.
Now what? Ah yes - snoop. Scope out the enemy. Thank goodness they aren't worried about privacy and any freak can check out their page. This time the freak was me and i checked it thoroughly. Who else was on there? Anyone i would want to avoid?
I felt anxiety creeping up on me.
Would they even know who i am?
Would they remember anything?
Do i want them to see my pictures, my family?
And the biggest question - would they tell him? Would they show him?
I closed my eyes and prayed.
Nothing fancy. Nothing profound. Nothing earth shattering.
Just, "God, please help me. Is this right?"

I quickly typed out a message and hit send - with a friend request.

I received both messages back with friend acceptances within the hour. I read them and it was well...................very anti-climatic.
Nothing crazy. No accusations or questions. In fact, they were happy to hear from me, to "see" me. It was so, so, so....... normal. This almost freaked me out even more. How could it be so normal? Do they even know? Don't they care? Do they talk about me? Is it like it never happened???? All of these questions - spinning, spinning, out of my head, out of the universe, out of control .... until God spoke to me.
"Stop. Stop it now."

So i did. I stopped. I accepted it for what it is.
What is it exactly?
It's me. Being normal. It's me - not punishing the entire world for what one person did. It's me - wrapping duct tape around a tree branch that was thrown to the ground to rot and be hidden among weeds a long time ago. It's me - finding some freedom in the last place i thought it would be.

I've received other requests since then that i have not accepted. I am ok with that. I am healing. I am mending. In doing that, it doesn't mean i jump into the ocean with my eyes closed wearing a seal suit and hope i don't get eaten by a shark. No, I don't have to give anyone the opportunity to hurt me and make me bleed.
Instead, i can wade in, at my own pace, to the depths that are comfortable. I can choose to keep going, to stay where i am, and even to walk backwards a bit to the shore if the water is looking a little too unfriendly for me.

It is my choice. But i have to say, God does have a funny way of working things out. Of taking broken glass and super gluing pieces back together, one at a time. Perhaps it won't be the huge vase it was before. Maybe now it will be something else. A candle holder instead. But out of ashes, something beautiful always happens if we get out of the way and let it. That's what God does. He is in the beauty-ash restoring business.

This also happened with my bestest friend. We cried and we laughed and honestly? I think that is the glue that put us back together. Glue made from tears and laughter, wrapped in honesty and love is the best glue in the world.

I went into surgery.
God started cutting away the scar tissue. That tough stuff that builds up and doesn't do anyone any good anymore. It bled a little, it hurt like hell. That was all suctioned out though.
I needed to feel all the pain.
Sometimes anesthesia does more harm than good. The pain is what lets us know how much we really care, how fully we really love, and it motivates us to change, to make it better, to repent and go in the opposite direction.

Pain reminds us that we are alive. And that we are not meant to be alone.

Rage, Rage, Go Away

I'm getting tired. I'm so tired of him, them, me.

I just want it to be over.

That sounds familiar. Haven't I always just wanted it to be over?

My anger has been getting the best of me. Not completely, not always, but more and more lately. I'm not sure why. Time of year maybe? ha - time of month? No, that would belittle it. Not time of month but maybe time of year. I think summertime has always been the hardest.... I think...

I saw my therapist almost two weeks ago. I have avoided thinking of this for two weeks. I also haven't slept well for two weeks and have been incredibly snappy. At everyone.

My dreams have been keeping me from sleep. I haven't dreamt about him, everything but him actually. Work, the kids, Jeff's ex-girlfriend, cake.... random.

Been restless. I feel better when I work out. But if I can't, i feel enraged. I felt it tonight. There wasn't any reason for it. Jeff did nothing wrong. If anything he was being thoughtful. I didn't care. But I didn't lash out as much as I wanted to. I wanted to scream. I wanted to kick a hole in the wall and rip the curtains down. I wanted to hear something break, see it shatter... I wanted to feel better.

I can still feel it. My anger. It's down there, bubbling, waiting, bubbling, waiting....

I purposely did not call my kids tonight. Because I feel so much anger.

Two weeks ago on a Sunday, walking to church with Jeff and the kids, I felt this rage. I recognize it. I can see it coming and sometimes I can avoid it, like a guy on the street that looks like he might want to rip you off. hurt you. slap you in the head and take your purse and run. If you turn in a different direction, maybe that guy will go after someone else. But lately, I have not been able to avoid him. He walks right up to me and pushes as hard as he can.

"Do you see me? I know you can see me." push, push, shove. "you think you can ignore me? you think you can make me go away?" Slap, shove, kick. "well guess what you little bitch, you can't. you hear me? YOU. CAN'T."

And he's right. I can't.

I can feel him, running through my veins, faster and faster, until I'm afraid to look down at my arms because I think i will be able to see it moving and this will just scare the shit out of me. It's bad enough that I can feel him, that I can hear him, I don't want to see him moving in me.

Where was I? Ah, yes. We were walking to church. It was nothing really, what set me off. You see, our church was collecting food for the food bank. I had a bag and I was taking it inside. Halfway there, Jeff turns to me and says he thinks we're supposed to drop the food off in the parking area. Rational Shables thinks, no biggie. I'll take it back to the car. Rational Shables even thinks, I'm pretty sure that's not right but I'll still take it back to the car. They wait for me while I go.
On my way back to the car, Rational Shables leaves and Rage comes in.
I pass a guy on my way, also carrying a bag of food. I notice and I think to myself, Jeff's going to see him too and he's going to know he was wrong.
My Rage smiles.
I keep walking. Within seconds my cell phone rings. It is Jeff. I know why he's calling. I don't want to answer. I'm almost to the car. I answer anyway and sure enough, he saw the guy with the bag. No worries I say, I'm already here. I put the bag in the car and walk back.

There is now a war going on inside me.

Rational Shables has come back. She's speaking very calmly, very rationally, about the situation. There's nothing to be upset about. It's so minor, it's almost laughable. Really. Let it go and enjoy the day. Your family is waiting for you.

Rage won't have it. It's reverse psychology with Rage. he's impersonating Rational but doing a piss poor job of it. Still. it works. Yeah, what are you mad about you freakin idiot? Your husband is trying to be helpful and you're freaking out. Pretty standard for you eh Shabes? You've always been like this. Making a big deal about everything. You suck you know that? You suck. And one of these days He's going to see it, just like that last one did. And then what? You'll be alone again. Like you should be. No one can love you. You ruin everything.

I am walking in front of Jeff and the kids. I am in the middle of a war. And I am losing.

Inside. Up the stairs. One, then two, and three. Kiss, kiss, bye, have fun. Walking down the aisle, to our seats, purse down, sing, clap, sit. Breathe. focus. But I can't. Rage has come over me and I am shaking. Rage and Rational are both speaking to me and I can't think. I want to cry, I want to make it stop.
Instead I say to Jeff, "I am so mad at you right now."
The look on his face kills me. It does. It kills me. I am such a horrible wife. He looks like I slapped him. The hurt I made him feel is reflected all over his face and now I can feel it too and I just can't process it. The Rage intensifies because now I am so furious at myself.

I want to push him off the balcony.

I want to throw myself over.
Of course I do neither. After all, it is church. jeez. get a grip.

And then I do.

The Rage leaves. God is there and even though I feel like the cruelest, most insane person in the room, I can feel God next to me. I grab Jeff's hand. He looks at me and smiles. I feel horrible again but not in the way that makes me want to hurt, but in the way that makes me want to make it better. When service is over I tell him I am so sorry.
And then he apologizes to me. what? why? because that's the kind of guy he is.
I wanted to cry. Again. Instead I tell him he did nothing, nothing. It was all me.
I'm forgiven.

Grace extended is the most amazing feeling in the world. It makes you want to lay down and weep but also jump up and shout with joy, with victory, because there is no guilt in grace. It is a gift of freedom. You have been let off the hook for being an ass-jack. It's just beautiful.

I tell my therapist.

She does not look surprised. Apparently it is typical for those that have been abused. Fabulous.

But actually, it kind of is. It used to be so much worse.

"Have you ever been a cutter?" No, I was never a cutter. I had never heard of cutting when I was a teenager. Maybe if I had I would have been. No, not a cutter. I was a hitter. I would hit others but so often, I would wail on myself. It almost seems funny, in a hysterical sort of way, I mean, who hits themselves? But I did.

Rage would come and i had no where to put it. Drugs didn't help like I thought they would. Sex, well, sex would be ok if I didn't have such contempt for boys. God, I thought they were so stupid. I smoked cigarettes. that would help sometimes but usually after I hit.

Rage. I would grab my face and pinch and pull, and claw at it. I'd take my fist and smash it into my face. I'd pound my head into the wall as hard as I could. I'd grab my own hair and try to rip it out.

And I would scream. and scream. and scream. Until there was nothing left.

I would wish I was dead.

And then I would wish he was.

I'd picture his funeral. His grave. everyone standing around crying, mourning, clutching each other for support.
Everyone except me.
I would stand there, off to the side, alone, leaning on no one. I'd stare at them all. I wouldn't shed one tear. I would be the pillar of strength and they would be crushed under me. They wouldn't be able to look me in the eye, not one. Because they would know they are wrong.

This is what I would daydream. And it would make me feel better.

And then I'd go smoke.

I haven't done that to myself for a very long time. But I've wanted to.

It's incredible to me - where God meets us. where He comforts us. Right in the middle of our slimy, dirty, degradable, shit. At the exact moment I feel I may go crazy, He is there.

I used to wonder why He let it happen at all. then i realized one day how stupid that question is.

It would be easier I guess to blame God. To say he could have stopped it because i guess, technically, he could have. He could have struck him dead or miraculously put s force field around me or called down from heaven in a deep voice or.....or..... or.....

But that's not the way it works.
The only ones that I can blame are the ones that chose to do it....

....... and the ones that chose to do nothing to stop it.

Their jacked up choices, their sick desires, that's what put me here. Everyone has to take responsibility for themselves. Everyone will be accountable for what they did or didn't do. We will stand alone.

and that's when I'll be vindicated. When no one is there to protect him, when no one can shield him, when he's alone and on his knee, trembling and terrified. That's when I'll be vindicated. It is a horrible thing, to fall in the hands of the Living God. And it will be horrible for him.
God is the mirror.
Everything he should be, will be reflected. And then he will see everything he is not.
All of those emotions i wish he felt now, he'll feel then.

And he won't be able to stand.

Until then, my anger, my Rage, it will still come. But I'm hoping, I'm praying, fewer and farther between. I've already come so far. The mountains are behind me now. In front, these are just hills. I can do those. I can.

With God's help, and my family's patience, I will get there.

Rage tells me this is impossible. It will never happen, peace, it will never come.

I'm telling Rage to shut up. To stick it. To go away. I'm not playing this game anymore. I know who Rage is and I know what he wants. To rob me of my life, my joy. To kill me and my sanity. To steal away my family and my love. To make me blame God so I'll hate Him too.

Rage - he's a liar. A good one, the best even. But I'm not believing him anymore.

I know who wins.

Ode to my Mother

Our lives are like a worn patchwork quilt with bright, cheerful, splotches of love and laughter stretched next to limp,defeated rags of heartache and anger. These are all bound by the threads of our family; gray and white and red, all twisted together in fragile but stiff cords, like floral wire, as if none of our emotions could blend or be neutral. No, they all clash and slam against each other, leaving us damaged and bewildered, tied yet straining to be apart, wondering what to do next.

Mother's day is a bittersweet day for me. I love spending time with my kids, reading their homemade cards while I blink back tears, and listening to them laugh at me. It's the best feeling in the world, knowing how much you are loved and appreciated. I think the older I get, the older my kids get, the more I appreciate it all. There have been battles and tears and silences and confusion and laughter and wonderment, as my kids morph into teens and try to become their own person. I feel so honored and privileged that they have been entrusted to me. And it is because of this joy of my own children that i also feel such sadness. A "constant mourning" is what my therapist calls it. And she is right. A constant mourning for my own mom who is not in my life.

I could have sent her a card. I could have called. But what would be the point? then what? There's nowhere else to go and constantly saying "no" and "goodbye" wears on my soul with its repetiveness.

My therapist suggested I send her a phantom card. What is a phantom card? It's pretending to send a card. I can write it out and pretend to put it in the mail to her. I laughed at my therapist. Um, that's crazy I say. What kind of lunatic writes out a pretend card and sends it in the mail? I imagine it would end up in the same post office as all the tooth fairy and Santa Clause letters. but in this instance, some cheery little elf with his pointy little ears, or even more realistically, a gray-haired grandma with a soft smile on her gently weathered face full of love and wisdom, is going to get a lot more than they signed up for when they opened my phantom card. Who needs that kind of pressure?
Instead, I have chosen to think of my mother and our life for the past three days. I have pondered. I have smiled. I have choked back sobs that came on suddenly and took me by surprise. But I wanted to think of my mom in a positive light. There are so many fantastic things about her and i feel that this rift, this deepening chasm, is drowning all of the quirkiness in her that I love with all my heart. I can't do that. It's not fair - to her or to me. So here it is, the ode to my mother. It is not a phantom, it is not a secret and even though she will probably never read this, I feel incredibly relieved and heartbroken that I am able to write it.

My mom is..............
Vivacious. A quality I envy if i can be completely truthful. Who else would actually think of changing their name to Carre' Star just because she felt like one?
Captivated. My mom is able to stop and enjoy the little things. A bird singing in a tree. A seashell on the shore. A perfect flower in her garden. The smell of the ocean. All of these things receive her undivided attention and scrutiny and joy. She always stops and takes the time to appreciate and enjoy them.

Funny. I don't know how else to say it. She's funny and fun to be around. She dances and sings and hugs you with abandon, not caring who is watching or what they think. She does things and buys things and creates things, because they make her happy. That's it. Her laughter can fill a room.

My mom instilled in me an appreciation for great music like Carole King, The Supremes,Bob Seger, and Fleetwood Mac. I dance around the living room and sing at the top of my lungs all the same songs she did. Way over Yonder, Love Child, and Stop Draggin' My Heart Around..... I see her, swaying with her eyes closed, hands clutched at her heart, while she faces up, the words coming out like an offering.

Thoughtful. I buy cards almost every time I go the store and have a basket collection of them so i can send them out whenever I want, to whomever I want, at a moments thought. Just like my mom. Except she has a drawer. i love getting a card or a magazine in the mail because it makes me feel special and loved. I jump up and down and rip it open like I'm five and expecting a $10 bill to fall out on my birthday. Just like my mom.

Fashion queen - she thinks. My mom rocks a style all her own. Cowboy boots with dressy shorts. A leather jacket with pearls. Anciently old OP shorts and a t-shirt. A pair of pink jeans with faded purple flowers on them. I think she finally got rid of those but she wore them often. And she looked good. Red lipstick. Always, always, lipstick. A jeweled clip for her hair even if she was in sweats. There is always something about her that says, feminine, all the time.

Fortitude. My mom worked three jobs at one time for a few years. I didn't see her much but she did it so we could live in a decent neighborhood and i could go to a good school. I'll never forget when she got her job at UPS. It was a seasonal position. Christmas. She walked in, no interview, but in my mom's true form, she acted surprised that her name was not on the interviewee list and they gave her one anyway. They asked if she could drive a truck and she lied and said yes and then proceeded to do it because that was part of the interview. She got the job.

My mom had balls. About so many things. My mom had gumption. In all things but one.....

I admired her. I catch myself sometimes, saying something exactly like she did or I'll get a glimpse in a store window and see her face glancing over at me. It's unsettling.

I read something that captured how I feel about my mom so perfectly that I have to put it here. It is not my words but I certainly felt as though someone opened the door to my heart and and scribbled down what they saw there. I read this today at lunch and I started crying in the break room........

"I was able to ache for her, for all that had been so impossible for her to bear, for the bad cards she had been dealt. Yet I could forgive her only about half the time. I was struggling to learn the little things she forgot to teach me - that I was beautiful, and of value, regardless of how well or poorly I was doing in the world - and was mad that she had given me a lousy owner's manual. I saw her as the foil, and believed that I had grown to be the woman I was simply because of how hard I had to work to defend myself against turning out like her." Grace (Eventually) - Anne Lamott pg. 88 (underlined in my book with a big squiggly line down the page just in case I missed my notes next to it.)

Ironic that touched me so much when I see so much of my mom inside me and in the things I do. I guess i obtained my objective though. I didn't want any of the bad stuff. None of the anger. None of the sickness or denial. None of the hatefulness.

It's hard because I know now that my mom is sick. It's hard to be mad at her when I want to hug her and help her and tell her it will be ok. If she'd just do what she's supposed too..... But that's the thing isn't it? Unconditional love is a bitch. It's so hard to love and reach out when you know a back-handed slap is coming your way. It sucks that I can't just pick up the phone to tell her I love her because I know the storm that comes after that is just not worth it.
I picture my mom, on mother's day, going about her day but listening with one ear, for the phone to ring. Going out to the mailbox to see if a card is there. I picture my mom feeling a slice of disappointment and then pain, knowing no one is going to call when the end of the day is near, as she gives a a small, tight, smile to her husband and looks out the window with tears that she won't shed. I picture this and it hurts me, it kills me inside. I want to protect her. Like a child. I want to hold her tight, whisper to her that no one is going to get her, and protect her from herself. But I can't. I can't protect her and me. I can't protect her and my family at the same time. I have to choose. She made her choice and I also made mine. But that doesn't make it any easier. It doesn't lessen how much i miss her. Because I do, I miss her so much.

I was asked how I would feel if she died. Would I feel like i had done everything I could? Would I be sad?

I know I have done everything I can except agree to be a part of the cycle. I can't agree to that. Ever. Would I be sad? I'm sad now. i mourn now. I cry now. I don't think death would make it any harder. This is worse. Knowing there should be an opportunity to make it better but there isn't.

I used to sing to Bre when she was small. You are my Sunshine. That is my song to her. I'd sing it when she was crying, hurt, sad, or sick. She has a pillow on her bed that has this saying stitched on it. She knows it is her song and hers alone. She doesn't share it with her brother or sister. It's especially for her.

It was also my song. I don't know if i ever told her that. Maybe. Maybe not. My mom used to sing it to me too.

You are my Sunshine.
My only Sunshine.
You make me happy,
when skies are gray.
you'll never know dear,
how much I love you.
Please don't take my Sunshine away.

I love too mom. More than you know.

darkness......and Light

It's been weeks since I had my "man - part 1" breakdown. I keep thinking to myself, with an intro like that, what the hell am I going to write in Part 2? The answer is, I don't know yet. I've gotten glimpses, little whispers of words, but no complete thoughts yet. Not on that subject anyway. So for now, Man part 2 is on hold. I'll write about that when I'm ready. I've got other things on my mind.

Things like trust, and hope, and faith, and love. Just writing those words seem to shine a light on a blog that is very dark. I like the light. Have you ever noticed how light can kick the shit out of darkness without even trying? The light doesn't need to sneak up on darkness. It doesn't have to strategize, plot or plan. It doesn't have to arm itself. The only thing light has to do is......well, show up. Walk into a dark room and flip a switch. Watch the darkness run. It can't scoot into a corner to catch a breather. The darkness can't hold up it's smoky finger and call time out. When the light comes all the darkness can do is leave. Good riddance.

i lived in the darkness for a long time. Not physical darkness of course. I haven't resided in a hole somewhere, but the darkness in my heart, in my soul, in my mouth; it consumed all of me. I have to be honest and say that for a very long time, I was comfortable in the darkness. Shit, let's not play games Shables - I loved it there. All the anger, bitterness, jealousy, and hate ... it was my fuel and gave me the strength to survive things that most people wouldn't want to wake up to. But to me death seemed so, so, so weak.
I tried it once, the whole suicide thing. Swallowed a bottle of pills and locked the door. About the time my legs grew shaky and my eyelids drooped is when the door opened. Needless to say, I wasn't very good at suicide and all I got for my troubles was a stomach pumping that left me feeling like i had puked up my asshole and a bunch of cops in my face. I'll pass.
Not only that, if I died, who would remind them? Who would be the one to point the finger? Who would stand up and say, yes that really happened? Dying would give him exactly what he wanted - peace. And I sure as hell wasn't willing to see that happen. No way. Until he takes his last breath, I will be in his face, in their faces, and I will not back down.

It has taken me along time to realize that I can stand up for myself without destroying myself at the same time. Because let's face it - he continued living his life with his family right there with him. I was the one that stood alone. So it was my choice. Would i stand alone in the damp darkness of my mind and rot from the inside out or would i walk into the sun?

The sun beckoned.

And who can argue with such a force? I couldn't and I didn't want to.

I was cold and I wanted warmth. I was lost and I wanted a home. I was lonely and I wanted to be loved. I was scared and broken and I wanted to be safe and complete. I wanted light to shine on my face. I wanted laughter to flow from my mouth. I. Wanted. Freedom.
Freedom may seem odd but to someone that has been held captive by memories and fear, freedom is like water to a plant that has wilted from scorching heat and neglect. It soothes the soul and perks up the spirit. It gives us a fighting chance. Because no matter how great our life looks from the outside. It's a joke if we are still in bondage. And I was. for so very long.

Breaking free is similar, I think, to what it would feel like to peel your own skin off. The first layer, the protective shell, well that takes guts to tear it off. And tear it off you must. There's no such thing as gently peeling away this kind of crap. It takes tugging, and cuts, and snags, and sometimes even a ripping so hard and so brutal that a scream will erupt from your throat from the agony. But now the protection is off,we're shivering, and holy shit, we're exposed.

Fear is next. fear. The fear of telling. The fear of rejection. The fear even of being happy because you have no idea what that feels like. You've seen it. But you've also seen foreign movies and guess what,that doesn't mean you can speak the language. Fear. It is your enemy, but it has also been your friend. It has told you when to hide, when to run, when to stop crying, and when to yell out. But fear is just fear. It doesn't know any other way, so it has to go. Peel it off.
Once the fear is gone, there is some liberation here. It's almost intoxicating when you realize you've survived and the word "victim" isn't stamped on your forehead anymore. That came off when fear was pulled away. But fear's big brother is here now. And he's a mean SOB. His name is ANGER.

Anger is the house guest that turns into your roommate and before you know it, your landlord. Instead of you inviting Anger in for awhile, now you owe him and he's laying down the law. There will be no more shit-taking when Anger is around. Anyone that oversteps their bounds, says the wrong thing, or, God forbid, looks at you the wrong way, is going to get the crap kicked out of them pretty quick. And at first, this feels so incredibly satisfying. Who can blame you right? Look what your life has been. All you are doing is taking care of yourself. And this is true....to an extent. You see, Anger doesn't come to stay all by himself. Nope, he doesn't travel alone. He's a pack man. Along with Anger comes Pride and Bitterness. You've really got to watch these two. They've got the good-cop/ bad-cop act down. But it's a scam. Neither of these are good. They will tie you up worse than fear if yo udon't get rid of them.
You see, once we've taken off that protective layer and done away with fear, the anger flows through and we are so damn excited that we aren't being abused anymore, that we are handling our business, that we become full of Pride. Pride tells us we can do anything. Pride tells us we are entitled to do anything. And if anyone tells Pride no, Bitterness steps in and puts that person in check with a quickness. bitterness brings up all the bad things that happened and makes everyone see how stupid and wrong they are for getting in your way. The only catch though is that for Bitterness to get your back, you have to be willing to let him eat up some of your heart. This may not seem like such a bad deal. But here's the thing - our hearts pump our life's blood in and our of our body. So when we let Bitterness come in and eat some of it, well, we are choking out our own life. We are basically killing ourselves. Yep, Bitterness is a mean bitch.

Getting rid of Anger, Pride, and Bitterness is only hard in the beginning. It's those first steps that hurt. Granted, they can hurt so bad it would seem easier to rip out our own intestines and strangle ourselves with them but if you can make it past that, it'll be alright. You see they can only feed on us if we let them. Once we make the step to cut them off, they are done for. Sure, they put up a fight at first but it's only because they know the battle is lost.

What's needed to kick out Anger, Pride, and Bitterness?

Forgiveness. Know what forgiveness is? Letting someone else off the hook for your happiness. Stop waiting for them to apologize. they aren't going to do it. Stop waiting for an apology to make you whole and happy. It won't anyway. It won't be enough. It's not enough. so let it go. Let them off the hook and quit holding yourself hostage to them. Period.

Cry. Our bodies are designed to cry.When we hurt or feel sad, tears come naturally. We don't wish for them or work at it. It just happens. Let them flow. So many times we blink them back. Forcefully. Angrily. Why? Well I know why. Because we think it makes us weak. We think it lets them win. That's what I've thought and still do sometimes. In my head. But in my heart, I know that isn't true. When I hold in my tears, I choke off all the emotions that want to be free. When we eat something bad, our body expels the offensive crap by hurling it up. This works the same way. When we've swallowed an injustice or hurt, our body is expelling the badness in it. Cry. Weep. Wail. Throw your self on the bed. Scream in pillows. Stand in the shower and let them roll down your face. no one will know. If you're a complete control freak, prepare yourself and set the mood. Candles, melancholy music, a locked door to avoid interruption, and a box of kleenex. Just get it out. It wants to be free. Let it.

Joy. Joy and happiness are not the same. Happiness is based on circumstances. Joy is based on truth, faith, love. Even when our circumstances are bad, we can still feel joyful inside because we have hope. We can watch the orange, pinks, and reds of a sunset, or walk through a field of blooming flowers, or sit on a swing and listen to children laugh and feel overwhelmed with joy. The hope that is all around us, that everything is going to be ok and that we are NOT the center of the universe. Thank God! There's more going on than the horrors I have inside. Feel it. smell it. See it. It's all there for the taking. To make our souls light. Joy.

This is not to say, there won't be moments when it comes back, when it gets dark. It will. But the darkness cannot overcome the light. ever. Just flip the light on. And watch the darkness run.

Man Part 1

To say I have issues with men is an understatement.

I use the word "man" not as a noun, but as a verb. It is not only to me what someone is but what they do. And whenever it is something stupid, unethical, trashy, sleazy, sexually perverse, crass, idiotic or rude, I automatically equate it with being a man. Of course, I have a complete double standard here that I am very much aware of. I understand completely that women can behave this way as well. But I hold a special contempt for men and choose to use the verb just for them. To me, it has always been what they are. I expect this behavior and when they perform as I expected, it is with self righteous indignation that I gloat over their obvious failures. Because yes, they are such men.

Looking back over the men in my life, i am quite positive that the contempt I feel for them was birthed from a multitude of hurts, beginning with my grandfather and winding it's way up and through my life on a shaky, metal staircase. Going up this staircase, that squeaks and groans, it can barely support me as i come across all the men that have huddled on a step, attempting to block my path, refusing to move and not allowing me to push them down.
My grandfather is the king of all the hideous men. Short, white, portly, average male with gray hair and glasses. He doesn't look threatening at all. But these are the worst aren't they? Because we expect them to be different from what they are and when they show their true colors, the sickness that runs in deep angry oranges and reds, mixed with suffocating blacks and numbing grays, we are confused and shocked. The picture defies the reality and this is how we get caught. The danger is realized much too late.

Up the staircase a little futher to meet a biological father that was never there, didn't want to be, and I didn't miss him. However, he chose to come back in, pretending to care, when really he was being led by his pitiful weenie trying to find it's way back to my mother. How pathetic to be so stuck in life, that you'd try to recapture something that happened twenty years prior. The obviousness of the entire situation made me want to puke but instead I told him to stay away from me.

Moving on to the endless string of my mother's boyfriends that didn't bother to disguise their blatant intentions with her, - how many times did I wake up to find a new man in the house sneaking out the front door while i was getting ready for school? More than I'd care to remember. Once, I woke up as my mom was having sex with a boyfriend on the same bed I was sleeping on. I laid there, terrified and sick to my stomach, moving with them and listening to all of their animal noises. I finally gained the courage to get up and leave the room only to be reprimanded by my mom for making him feel uncomfortable, and then was forced to go in and meet him. As he laid on the bed with a cigarette in one hand while reaching out to shake my hand with the other, all I could think was what a sick pig he was. He just screwed my mother and now he's shaking my hand as if we are meeting over lunch? I wanted to take the cigarette and shove it deep into his eyeball. I hated him and constantly made fun of him until they broke up. I called him "shaky butt." I asked my mom once if he was gay because he shook his butt when he walked more than anyone I had ever seen. This really pissed her off, which of course, made me very happy.
My own marriage that ended in divorce. A "perfect" marriage that was ripped apart by adultery and tore my heart into pieces. It took a long time to glue those pieces back together. For months I felt like i was walking around with a gaping hole in my chest, with all my intestines hanging out and my hand clutching my heart, trying to shove it back inside but mostly, I was trying not to drop it again.
Throughout my life men have based all their decisions on one thing and one thing alone - their desires. Specifically, their sexual desires. As if their desires are the end all - be all for everyone in the universe. It's no wonder Alanis Morissette became one of my all time favorites. Finally a girl that belted out everything my soul screamed - men sucked. We see through you. We know. We're walking right through you. Fuck you. Men.

Men were never esteemed, nor respected, or ever feared again once the 8 year old girl disappeared. They were never trusted. An ulterior motive is always suspected and anything that is ever said is only with the sole purpose to benefit them.
This is what I think of men.
They think with their hard on. When can they use it, where will they get it, how often and with how many people? For most of my life I have come to know men as the most selfish people I have ever seen.
To be honest, I'm surprised I never turned lesbian. That's how much I hated them. But I guess I love their hard ons just as much as they do.
I'll never understand why it is that because they are stronger, they believe it is their right to yield that over someone else who is seen as weaker. The quest to dominate is disgusting. I'm not a believer in evolution but the only time I would even consider it is by watching men. It's as if I can hear the animal grunting inside them, and I swear the chest beating is only seconds away. Of course, they can only act this way if their boy parts are covered, even with only a leaf, because if the whole world saw the size of their ding-ding for real, well then, I guess the jig would be up. Most of the men would be out of the running and women would take over the world. After all, deep down we know our balls are bigger where it counts.

But see, this is the exact type of men-hating that I must get control over.
I do have a son. He's ten and I would never want him to think this is how I view him now or in the future. It would break my heart if he ever thought I loved him less than his sisters or that I would hate him when he grew older because he's a man. As it stands right now, I think he is the coolest little man I have ever met and I am honored that I get to be his mother. It is a privilege, a gift and I will do my best to make sure he does not turn into one of those men. In doing so, I hope he doesn't become gay either.

I also have a husband and I don't hate him. If I did, I'm pretty damn sure I wouldn't be married to him. That's not to say that he has never hurt me. He has. But I also know how much he loves me and that the hurts he has casused me, have also caused pain in him. So see, there is hope, not all men suck.

My therapist is helping me with this one. She seriously rocks. There's none of that touchy-feely crap with her. No, "so how do you feel?", while I lay on a dingy brown couch with drapes drawn and a tired clock ticking the minutes away while i sweat with dread. When I ask a question, I normally get an answer because let's face it, if I knew all the answers why would I see her in the first place? A little help please. And she delivers. My homework? I am to catch myself every time i have a bad man-thought. It's been two days since I have seen her. I've now caught myself three times. That may not seem like much but it is. Three times in the past two days I have thought that men are completely stupid and my man-hates have risen to the surface. Although my feelings are very real and I'm sure no one will argue with the validity of them, the direction in which they are flowing is wrong.

To generalize all men because of the jacked up actions of a few is unfair.
To judge them all according to what my grandpa, my biological father, and my mother's shitty boyfriends did, is ludicrous.
How can I hold all men accountable for that?

I can't.

Sometimes I want to. In my past, I have. But I can't continue to do that. The ones that have wronged me, i can hold them completely responsible. But to hold men accountable just because they are men? I have to let that go. Otherwise, it is going to eat me up and I will end up being the one to suffer. A part of me will be lonely and missing a chunck of my own joy because in hating them, I am giving away that space in my heart.

I remember saying that if Jesus was God and God walked the earth as a man, who would be Jesus, that I would never, ever, EVER, serve God. I would never ever ask some man to forgive me. Forgive me for what exactly? For trying to survive in a world where everywhere I turned some man was going balls out trying to screw me over? Is that what I should be forgiven for? Should I be forgiven for running away and fighting back? Should i be forgiven for doing everything i could to escape my life?
No way.
If anything I felt that God, that this Jesus man, owed me a few explanations. Like, where were you when I was giving my grandpa blow jobs? Hmm? Where were you when it was nap time and I had a pillow over my head so he didn't have to hear me scream and cry? Where were you when my mother told me she'd rather have a child molester for a father than a daughter like me? Oh and hey Jesus,. what's so wrong with me anyway? How come you made me so defective? You know, if you're God and all? Do you think you can answer that for me?

To say I have issues with men is an understatement. One that is not going to be solved in two weeks worth of homework and one night's blog. Nope. This.... this is going to be painful. I can feel it. I can feel the scab breaking away and the blood and pus is starting to ooze out. I am choking on it. The hard part is going to be not choking it back down, but to instead puke it up and get all the bad shit out.

I just wonder how long it's going to take.

Broken glass

Why? The question that is forever asked and never answered. It holds me hostage. Keeps me firmly in place. Stuck. Immobile. It is flaunted in my face; mocking me. Why? It laughs at my pleading and my anger, my desire to break free and move. A last stance. His last showing of control. The one thing he'll never give up.

I 've asked this so many times.
Why did you do this to me?
Why did you let him?
Why didn't you protect me?
Why did you leave me there?
Why don't you defend me?
Why don't you love me?
Why don't you believe me?
Why do you hate me?
Why? Why? Please.....God....... please, tell me why.

I've come to realize asking "why" is a form of self-inflicted punishment. Each time it is asked I give a piece of myself to them. A piece of my pride, my well-being, my peace, my sanity, my heart. Each time I ask, the darkest, most secret places of my soul are opened, exposed, laid out bare and they start to bleed. It bleeds for me.
For the girl that used to play with dolls and sing Strawberry Shortcake.
For the childhood that was stolen in the shadows of his bedroom.
For the girl that opened her mouth to show her mom freshly brushed teeth before going to bed, and was slapped across the face because she thought I was trying to kiss her.
For the girl that was told I love you, I hate you, I wish you were dead; in the same breath.
For the girl that slept on a mountain because the police were looking for her and she couldn't go back.
For the girl on suicide watch in juvenile hall and was not allowed a blanket with square corners.
For the girl that preferred living in trucking yard and showering with a water hose than being at home.
For the girl that sold produce on the side of the road after school so she could eat.
For the girl that enrolled herself in school even as a runaway because she knew somehow she was going to have a better life.
For the girl that had no clue what a mother should be even when she became one .......
i bleed for her.

Each answer to my "why" is a joke.
What can be said? What answer can be given? What will satisfy my heart? what response is there that will allow me to say, "ohhh, well NOW i get it ." There isn't one. Any excuse given is a mockery of my horror and the road I traveled. I am asking for validation from all the people that stole it from me in the first place.

The only answer that can be given, really, is so simple, so clear, and so unimaginably cold and heartless that my head wants to scream at it in denial. To yell and shout, " That isn't good enough! Give me more." No, it's not. But there it is anyway. I might as well face it because it's not going to change. The answer to my why ......

Simple.

Because he wanted to.
Because she is sick too.
Because she doesn't know how.
Because she chose to.
Because she can't even defend herself.
She does.
She does.
They do.

Even now as I write this, I shudder with anger and I gulp back tears because the answers to all my whys are so, so.............. not enough. I want to argue with myself, to scream out, but I have to remember what I am dealing with. I am expecting the sick and perverted, the perpetrators and the enablers, to react the way I would react. The way the healthy and sane react.
But I can't get caught up in what should be.
I can only be in touch with what is.

A grandfather that molested his daughter and his granddaughter.
A grammy that knew.... and did nothing.
Aunts that knew.... and did nothing.
A mom that knew.... and did nothing.
A family that turns its back .....and denies.
A daughter that runs, fast and far, and then stops running, choosing instead to turn and fight.

It is what it is. I can't make them any different.
I can only change myself and the lives of my children.

I've been told that when something like this happens to us, it is like swallowing glass. It goes down, ripping us apart and leaving our insides with huge, gaping wounds that can't be patched. Our insides are in pain and we start to die.

In making the choice to live, to be free and whole, I have to throw the glass back up. It is still glass. It rips and tears. I fling myself open, arms stretched wide and let it pour out, through all of me, to the tips of my fingers and out of my mouth.
It hurts and I bleed.
But I am not silent. I am not denying. I am not running. I am not turning my back.

I am healing.

And one day, I will be complete.

Stand

Does anyone care? Does anyone care? a mantra. a song that's set on repeat. It ends. It starts again. Does anyone care? Does she? Does she??

It was Thanksgiving. I was in my early twenties. My girls were still small; in car seats. I was still married to their dad. Life was life. It moved along and I went with it. Bouncing along on the tide that swept me through changing diapers, doctor appointments, cleaning the house, making hamburger helper for dinner, hating the way I looked, and living in Levi's and Hanes white T-shirts. It could have been any one's family. Just trying to make it. It was Thanksgiving. A time when families come together whether you liked each other or not because, well, that's what families do.

My relationship with my mom never fully repaired from the day I told. We wouldn't talk for months, years, and then I'd get a card in the mail. A blinking light on the machine. A hand held out, inviting me to take it, walk with her for awhile, and maybe this time would be different. Maybe we'd be able to see each other, hang out, laugh, shop, talk about the kids and our husband's, drink coffee or even a margarita, and give each other advice. You know, all the things moms and daughters do together when they've both become grown-ups.

Key word being "grown ups." I'm sure both of us would point the other finger as far as we could in the other's direction to make sure everyone else knew who the grown -up wasn't. Of course it was me. Of course it was.

It was Thanksgiving. We were at my mom and step dad's house. They live in a really nice neighborhood, full of sophisticated beach houses, nicely landscaped lawns, dogs that wore sweaters and gem-studded collars when their owners walked them. They lived in the neighborhood where the women would wear shorts and a t-shirt but somehow you could tell their t-shirt cost $80 while yours only cost $10. It wasn't silk and diamonds but it was obvious they had more money than you. It was in their attitude, the very steps they took resounded with green colored class.

My mom didn't come from money. She's be the first to say that it isn't important to her and in the next breath explain that she only buys items on sale while at "Nordy's" or "Neiman's" - never full price. This was supposed to help me realize she was an everyday gal just like me even though I was hitting the clearance rack at Target. I don't begrudge my mom money - not one bit. In so many ways, she earned it. The chance to take it easy a little. There was a time in my life when she worked three jobs. I can never say my mom wasn't a hard worker and knew the value of a dollar. She was and she did. I just think that after a while, when you've become accustomed to things, when the norm is slipping into 600 count Egyptian cotton sheets every night, you start to forget where you came from.

This kind of forgetting, it's a death of convenience I think. A death of who you were and what things mean. A death of compassion and empathy.

It was time to eat. My mom was very excited and sort of, well, nervous. Like she was entertaining strangers and wanted to make a good impression. She told us where to sit, filled our water in "pretty" glasses, and set all the food at the table. I sat directly across the glass table from my step-dad. My mom was next to him. She faced my husband at the time, and he had one of our kids on each side of him. We all held hands and my step-dad prayed.

As we began to serve ourselves, conversation drifted towards Christmas. Would they see us? Of course, I answered. Oh, how exciting. What fun Christmas would be, all of us together. It had been such a long time and Christmas was a time for family. A time for love and forgiveness. A time to come together.
My stomach began to knot. I watched my mom. I recognized the tone in her voice. She was too excited. Her eyes were wide and bright. Her words were too high pitched. She was talking too fast. She was laughing too much. She wouldn't look at me.

I tod myself I was imagining things.

But I wasn't. I know my mother very, very well.

She suddenly became very calm and told me in a nonchalant voice that her parents would be visiting for Christmas.

My nonchalance matched hers. Poker voices.

Neither of us willing to show any specific emotion just yet. Just feeling each other out.
"Oh yeah? That's cool. That will be nice for you to see them." Set down napkin, pick up bowl of mashed potatoes, take a scoop, put bowl down, put napkin back in lap. Do not make eye contact. Motion, motion, motion.
"I thought it would be nice if we all had Christmas together." My mom is not following the same rule of motion that I am. She is like a statue, watching me. I felt Shaun stiffen next to me, felt him glance over at my face. I glanced back at him. Looked away.

"Hmmm. I don't know. Christmas is really busy for us. We'll see." This is the closest I can come to being diplomatic aka blow smoke up anyone's ass. I knew, Shaun knew, even my mom knew, that wasn't going to be something I would consider for even a second. But in true mom style, she kept going anyway.

"Well, I think it would be nice for you to see your grandparents. It's been a really long time." Still staring at me. Not a statue anymore though. Now she's wringing her napkin in between her hands in her lap. I could see them clench and unclench through the glass table.

Be nice for me to see my grandparents? It's been awhile? Is she f*cking serious?? My mind began to race. My heart started to pound. The whole fight or flight thing - in full force. I knew I could only squash it for so much longer. Breathe. Breathe. Breathe. Okay. Now.....exhale....and answer.

"Sure, I'd love to see Grammy." Now, I looked at her. Poker voice still in full effect but uh, I've never had a poker face. Everything I feel is on my face and right now my face read, Push me. I dare you.

We stared.

Shaun and my step-dad have stopped eating. It is dead silent.

My mom pushed, "Well, I'm not going to have my mom and dad here, and have my dad feel uncomfortable. I'm not going to leave him here while you just see my mom." There. She said it. As unbelieveable as it was, she made her move and her allegiance painfully clear. Check.

My mind raced full speed ahead. I passed thoughts and expletives at 100 miles an hour. What?! She doesn't want him to feel uncomfortable? She wants to make me see him? She wants to force me to do something I don't want to do?? Isn't she my mother? Who am I to her? How come what I feel isn't important? What. About. Me??? Hmmm Mother? What about me?

I took a deep breath and laid it out. "Well Mom, that's not going to happen. I'm not going to see him. I don't want to see him, ever. If that means I can't see Grammy either then I won't."
And then what really mattered, "What about how I feel? I can't believe you're worried about making him feel uncomfortable. I am your daughter. Shouldn't my feelings matter?"
Poker voice is gone. My voice is getting louder. I am starting to shake. I can feel tears in the back of my throat and I am getting pissed. There's no stopping me now.

I continued.

"Can't you just see my side? Can't you take my side for once? I am your daughter. He is a child molester!" I shouted. Anguish and anger echo throughout the dining room. Shaun tocuhes my arm. "Let's go." He is starting to get up.
My mother freezes him and propels me with her next words.

Dripping with hate and disgust she states, "I would rather have a child molester for a father than a daughter like you." She wants to hurt me and she succeeds. It cut me to the core. Check mate. I come unglued.

I lunged at my mom. I was out of my chair and halfway over the table before Shaun or my step-dad could move. The sound of my hand whipping across her face is the loudest sound I have ever heard and I was ecstatic about it. I felt vindicated. If she wouldn't defend me, I would defend myself. If she wanted to hold me down and force me in a corner, push me into being a player in their sick act, I would fight back. If she wanted to be his stand in, she would get everything he deserved.

Within seconds Shaun was up, grabbing the kids and putting them in their car seats. My step dad tried to hold my mom back and push me away at the same time. Everyone was shouting. Shaun, " Get in the car. Let's go RIGHT. NOW!!" My step-dad, " Get back. Get back! What the hell are you doing?!" And my mom, " You fucking little bitch! You fucking little bitch! I hate you, I hate you. I wish you were dead. You make me sick, you fucking little bitch!!!"

I took a step back and now I was calm. I looked at my mom and I laughed in her face. "Oh mom, please. Don't you have anything new? I've heard all these before." I goaded her as I grabbed a vase, held it up, and dropped it to the floor. "Oops, there goes your vase. This is all you have left, right mom? Your money, your things, and your child molester father. Tell me something mom, do you still suck his dick?" I taunted her. She let out a blood curdling growl and came for me.

By now, Shaun had the kids in the car and came back for me. He blocked me from her as he hustled me out the back door and into the car. He jumped in, backed out the driveway and we drove off into the darkness.

I was in a trance. It was a few minutes before I realized Shaun was talking to me. "Are you ok? Are you ok??" I looked at him and realized I was shaking uncontrollably. I started sobbing. Hard, gut-wrenching sobs. Snot ran out of my nose and dripped onto my upper lip. I didn't care. All I could hear, all I could focus on were her words. She did hate me. Of course she did. She preferred her sick father to me. what had I done? What had I done to deserve any of this?

"That's it. This is the last time. I can't watch her do this to you again. I can't risk the kids seeing something like this again. She's done. She's out. You don't need this shit and neither do I. You're better off without her." Shaun looked at me, grabbed my hand. "Do you understand? That's it. YOU are okay. SHE is fucked up. Okay? Okay?"

This was the last time I saw my mother for a very long time. Years in fact. She tried to apologize. She sent cards. I tore them up. She called. I refused to call her back. It was like everything I had built, all my sanity and rightness with the world, she did her best to tear down. With her words, she made it happen to me all over again. Every time i rewound and played it in mind, I was victimized over and over and over again. I felt defeated. She was my mother. But she didn't know what that meant. She doesn't know how to do it. Even now, it eludes her.

I refuse to get sucked in. I can see what happens if I did. I'd be my mother. Catering to a man that had stripped me of my innocence and childhood. Continuing to let him walk around in my life as if he deserved to be there. Suppressing my own feelings, my own innate sense of right and wrong so he won't feel bad. I won't do it. I won't be her. I won't let him visit and then be afraid to take a shower in my own house. I won't talk to him about the weather and ignore the voice that whispered to me, "They'll never believe you. They'll hate you." I won't. I refuse. I have drawn the line. I am not the pawn anymore.
I am the Queen in this game and I will knock them all down. I will win.

Jump

My mom. I love her. I've hated her. I long to hear her voice. I don't care if i ever hear it again. I want her acceptance. Her approval isn't needed. She loves me. She hates me. She's proud of me. She wishes I was dead. This has been our relationship since I was nine.

I ran away when I was 12.

I smoked pot when I was 12.

I did crystal meth when I was 12.

I lost my virginity when I was 12.

I tried to commit suicide when I was 12. The day after I lost my virginity.

I was arrested and went to juvenile hall when i was 12.

It was a big year for me.

I turned 13 in a group home.

I turned 14 with my foster parents.

I turned 15 on the street again.

I turned 16 back at my mom's.

Then I got pregnant. Then I was kicked out. Well, in fairness to her she did give me a choice. Have an abortion or leave. I left.

I turned 17 and graduated from high school four months pregnant.

Pregnant. I was terrified. I didn't know how to be a mom. There was no way I wanted to be like my own mom. Or my mom's mom. Who would be my example? Terrified. You see, my mom had screamed and shouted at me that I would be a terrible mother. That I would screw up my own kid, that the baby's father would never stay with me, that no one really loved me because I was unlovable. "A piece of shit" to be exact. That I would end up alone, with a kid, and on welfare.

I remember telling the baby's dad when I was still pregnant I was afraid to give the baby a bath. I was afraid that when I bathed her, I might touch her the wrong way and, and, and, ....
I would be Just.Like. Him.

When she was born, I didn't give her the first bath. He did. I watched.But he told me I could do it, that i would never hurt her and when I was ready, he would be there to help me try.

I gave her the second bath.

And I cried.

Because I knew the moment I washed her little tiny foot, and held her tiny fingers in mine, that I would never, never, ever, hurt her. I felt this release inside. This heaviness, this fear was lifted from my heart. I could almost see it detaching itself from me. It wasn't contagious, the sickness that ran through my family. I didn't catch it. It didn't live in me. I wasn't like him or her or any of them.

I was still the one that got away.

And another part of me was free.

That was the worst feeling in the world, you know. Wondering if you would hurt your own child. If you could, in fact, turn into the very monster you hated. I suppose it happens to some people. The cycle turns and spins, all the lives blend together like the colors on a sit-n-spin. It just moves faster and faster, and you feel like you can't get off or get away because you think you're all one - all the same. I don't feel like I'm special because I didn't continue the cycle. I don't feel like I am better.

I just feel........


grateful. blessed. relieved. and hopeful.

The cycle can be broken if we want to.
It is scary.
It makes us feel small.
It makes us feel 8.
But if we try really hard and we start to let go, one finger at a time, yes we are still spinning. And yes we're afraid we're going to fly off and get hurt. And we might. We might fly off.

But then guess what happens?

We land.

And we realize we weren't really that far off the ground. We stand up and dust ourselves off. Nope, no broken bones. Maybe a skinned knee or elbow but that's all.
All of the fears we had, those were all lies. All lies that we believed because we trusted them. They were supposed to be safe. They were supposed to protect us, to love us. They were supposed to believe us.

It's not our fault they didn't do what they were supposed to.

But I can't get stuck on "supposed to". It's just as bad as "what if." They both suck. It didn't happen that way so forget it.

It happened the way it did.

It's my choice now. I can stay on the ride, I can keep spinning.

Or......

I can jump off, skin a knee, scrape an elbow, and give my daughter a bath.

because I am normal. I am sane. and now, I am not afraid.

If you want to destroy my sweater.....

Oh, what a tangled web we weave!....My mom used to say this to me if I ever went to her with some story of malice or deceit that I had heard of. She never finished the phrase. Would let it hang in the air, suspended with mystery, then let it blow away like a lost letter making its way to the earth and landing in the gutter. I guess she would know. She was an expert. They all were. My family. Web weavers. Deceivers. Liars. Deniers. Enablers. Part-time perpetrators. Co-conspirators.

What happens to the tangled web when the weave starts to fray? It starts small doesn't it? Like a small thread on a your favorite sweater. The one you wear when it's time to be cozy and warm. Comfort clothes. That small thread hangs at the seam. You give it a gentle tug, thinking this infinitesimal piece will fall out and the rest of the sweater will remain intact. But the next thing you know, the sleeve starts to unravel, then the bodice. You begin to panic and think, oh no, it's my favorite st sweater, when will it stop? I'm getting cold. Can it be saved? Before you know it, you're standing there all naked and exposed. Bare. There's nothing to hide all the blemishes, all the stretch marks and scars. It's just you. And if you are the web weaver - where do you turn? Who do you blame and really, how can you blame anyone? Those web weavers though, they are a feisty bunch. They don't go down without a fight. Oh no, they will chip at you, insult you, degrade you, shame you, until you want to scream out, "STOP! I'm sorry!!", when there is nothing for you to be sorry for. Web weavers. Watch out for them. If you get into the ring with a web-weaver, be ready to knock them out. Otherwise, they will beat you to a pulp, take your sweater, and walk away as if they never knew you.

I'll never forget the day that I told. We weren't living there anymore. We had our own apartment finally. I had just gotten out of the shower and there I was, standing next to my Barbie Dreamhouse, dripping wet hair and in a towel. My mom was shouting at me. I was in trouble but for what, I don't recall. I do remember standing there, looking at my mom, and thinking, tell her. Just tell her right now. It's my mom. Tell her. So I did.

"Grandpa's been touching me." I blurted it out while she was still mid-sentence. She froze. She stared. Her eyes were wide and she took one step closer and asked, " What did you say?"
"Grandpa's been touching me. Down there." I stared back at her, huddled now in my towel.
My mom, she looked like I had slapped her. Hard. She couldn't speak, couldn't move. Her eyes were giant O's and her mouth hung open. She looked....stunned. Hurt. Angry.
But you know what she didn't look? Surprised. I did notice that.

What happened afterwards was a whirlwind. I only remember parts but what I remember is enough. I've had therapists offer to "take me back" so I can remember everything but I've declined. If my mind has chosen to block some of it out, I'm going to trust that thank you. After all, it is me that protected myself from that point on. Why wouldn't I trust myself? Everything I do recall is enough.

My mom crying, my grammy crying, my grandpa crying.
One of my aunt's, " You lying little slut. I don't believe you. And if that did happen, you must have asked for it."
Sure. I must have. Because all little girls dream of sucking off their grandfather. Right.
My dad went over there and pulled a gun on my grandpa. Told him he wanted to blow his head off. I'm glad my dad didn't because his life shouldn't end because of him but I have clung to this at times. As the years passed, this was really the only stance that was taken for me. And I am grateful for it. It shows me that someone wanted to defend me. Someone wanted retribution. Someone wanted him to pay.
Yes, after the dust settled and everyone else got around to feeling better, I was hung out to dry.

I was nine. And I was alone.

I think it's funny (not in a comical way but in one of those, sick, twisted, "look how f*cked up life can be" ways) that "we" (society) have the mantra, "If something happens to you, tell an adult, someone you trust. They will help you." In a perfect world, this would be true all the time. And really, what other choice do we have but to say those things?
But my world wasn't perfect. But then again, if the world was perfect, I guess it wouldn't have happened in the first place.

Do you want to know what happened to my grandpa? Nothing.
He didn't get arrested. He didn't go to jail. He didn't lose his job. (He was an instructor at an all-girls private school. That probably got him off more than once.) He didn't lose his position in politics (councilman). He didn't lose his position at his church (deacon). Nope. not one damn consequence came up to slap him in the face and tell him he was wrong. Only a nine year old girl did that. Because guess what? He didn't lose his family either.

But I did.

Some because at first, they wanted nothing to do with me. And later, because I wanted nothing to do with them.

I have two daughters now and a son. It is my goal, my determination, to make sure they are self-sufficent. I refuse to let them feel powerless or suffer at the hands of anyone else. I have told them that yes, if something happens to you, tell someone. For God' sake - tell me. But I have also taught them to take shit from no one. No means no. If some little bastard can't figure that out, go ahead and teach him. I will back you 100%.

If only someone would have done that for me. Backed me 100%. I wonder how my life would be different. If I would trust easier, if I would be more open, if I would be less willing to bring a man to his knees with either my words, or my hands, if needed. Because I can be hard. I will only be blunt. There is never any question of how I feel, it is known from the start because silence only means permission.

Web-weavers. They are experts. The web started long before me. You see, my grandpa molested my mom too. This I know for a fact. She told me. The others, probably. But none will ever say it.

A web of denial. A web of twisted trust. A web of secrets.

Me. I was the thread that destroyed the sweater.

And I'm proud of it.

The window

His office had a window. Nothing fancy. Just a square piece of glass with brown curtains. His office was on the second story, the first room at the top of the stairs. In it were all his mementos of military service, plaques on the wall announcing what a superb human being he was, a desk that was neat but not clear, as if to show that he was important but not overwhelmed. Along the far wall was his couch bed, directly under the window. I would stare out this window, into the blue sky, drifting, lost, and imagine that the clouds floating by would let me hitch a ride to wherever it was they were going. Anyplace other than where I was. You see, every time I looked out this window, I was flat on my back.

Well, every time but one.

"Let's go take a nap." This was his code, his inside joke if you will. He'd sit and look at me, waiting for me to ask where we were taking our nap? What a sick fuck. So manipulative. As if me asking where we were going implied I wanted to. As if I had a choice. As if I could say no. It was always either their bedroom or his office.

This particular day I went up the stairs, sat on the couch bed, and waited. I was nervous this time. Not because this was the first time or the second time or even the fifth time. No, I was used to this already. I knew the drill. I was nervous because we weren't alone. I didn't understand how we were going to "nap" without being seen. Perhaps it was this incomprehension on my part that allowed me to speak up this day. Part of me thought that maybe he forgot we weren't home alone (although I didn't get how he didn't already know that) and so maybe I would be granted a last minute reprieve when I reminded him of this. I guess some part of me thought he would smack himself on the forehead as if to say, "My word! What was I thinking?!" We'd both chuckle a little and then I could leave. I felt......hopeful.

Silly, stupid girl.

He came in and began to unhook his belt. My confusion grew. My hands sweat ed. I remember gripping the blanket, rubbing my thumbs back and forth over the material. Back and forth, back and forth, oh my God, oh my God. He looked at me and told me to take my pants off. I was frozen. What? We weren't alone.

I told him I didn't want to. I told him we couldn't. Not today. He took his belt off and looked at me. "And why not?" he asked. I fumbled, stuttered, stammered, gripped the blanket, and then looked out the window. He followed my gaze and looked down into the backyard with me.

My brother was playing in the leaves with their dog, Mickey.

He leaned over, his face just inches from mine,looked me straight in the eyes and smiled. Not a happy smile. Not a comforting smile. Not an "oops - I goofed up" smile. No, it was a smile that reeked and dripped of slime and horror. An eager smile. My stomach knotted and became queasy. I started breathing hard. His smile grew.
He could tell I didn't get it yet.

"But......????"

"Well now, we're going to do this right now. We need to be quick." Then he looked back out at my brother and back to me. "You don't want me to go get him..... do you?"

Then he just stared at me and patiently waited for me to answer.
Sick fuck.

I stared back. I stared at the lines on his face. Deep grooves, valleys that gave the illusion of wisdom and comfort. I stared at his gray hair. I stared at his glasses. I stared at everything that showed he was my grandpa. Then I looked down and stared at his pants. They were already undone. He was already out.

It's amazing how the mind works. I'm not a pysch major or highly educated. But yes, I know how the mind grasps for a way to cope in order to stay sane and retain the ability to think and function. It was almost like I could feel my mind doing this. Situating itself, creaking, turning this way and that, so that I wouldn't go mad. And yet, still, at eight years old, make a decision to sacrifice myself however was necessary, all while staring at his thing.

It was at that moment that I became my brother's protector. I didn't hesitate. My brother was two years younger than me. Only six. At eight I knew that I would never, ever, want him to live through what I was doing and what was being done to me. Wasn't it bad enough this was happening to me? But to know my little brother would be next if I didn't try stop it, well, that was an easy choice. If someone could have prevented it from being done to me, I would hope they would have.

I almost threw up. But I didn't. I just cried. Silent, hot tears of defeat and courage ran swiftly down my face. It was when he kissed my face, kissed the very tears that he caused, that my throat broke open and i began gasping for air. Trying to stop crying, Trying to be quiet, trying now to get it over with so that i could go back downstairs to where my brother was playing. I was hysterical and desperate..... and then I was silent because I heard him.

The glass slider had opened and then closed. My brother yelled out my name.

He got off me and pulled up his pants. He yelled down to my brother, "We'll be right there. Just a second." But my brother was six. He didn't wait. I heard him running to the stairs and start to come up.

I knew I needed to move quickly but I felt like I was drugged. I couldn't move fast enough. He threw my panties at me and told me to get dressed. I'll never forget the way he looked at me or how his voice sounded when he said it. Like he was repulsed by me. Like I had done something that disgusted him. Like I was the twisted one.

My brother was almost to the top of the stairs.
He went out of the room and laid down on the landing so my brother couldn't see that his pants were still undone. And then, to my horror, he pushed my brother back down the stairs. He pretended like it was a joke, like he was playing with him. He laughed. I heard my brother yell out and fall back down.
I felt near hysterical again. It was my fault. It was my fault that he had been pushed. I wasn't fast enough getting my clothes on. I wasted too much time crying like a baby. And now my brother was at the bottom of the stairs. It was all my fault.

I got my pants on and I ran out of the room, past him, and down the stairs. I asked my brother if he was ok and told him I was sorry. He came down and told my brother not to cry like a baby and then he went to his room.

My brother doesn't know that happened. I never told him. It would only hurt him if he knew. The way I see it, there has been enough pain. Pain that has nowhere to go. It sits. I've learned to live with it, to manage it. It sucks. Why pass it on?

From that day forward, I have always been the one that has stood by my brother. I would step in front of a bullet for him if I thought it would save him. Like a mama bear protecting her cub.

Except.... I'm not his mama. I'm just his sister. His mama, our mama, was unable and unwilling to protect us. She could have. She should have. But she didn't.