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.

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.

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.

small, then slightly bigger

As I was driving home I thought of myself. Well, the smaller me. I'm not sure i know her very well. I've always avoided her. I'm not quite sure what I would find there and so I leave her alone. I've written a few poems in the past and I feel like I got a glimpse... of what she feels like but it was too much, then, so I put my pen down and put my notebook away. Tucked inside a drawer, hidden, in the dark. I don't like the dark much. She doesn't either. I do know that.

I was 8 when this all went down. Eight is very small.
I wore my hair in pigtails then. It was long.
I didn't have my two front teeth for a very long time.
I liked wearing those plastic high heel dress up shoes. The ones if you started walking too fast you could hear them, click, click, click, just like a grown -up.
I remember getting a 3-story Barbie Dreamhouse. I had a lot of Barbies.
I loved Starwberry Shortcake.I had a Starwberry Shortcake record even and my Grammy made all the dolls for me. I had them for the longest time. I don't know where they went.....
I remember fishing with my Grandpa.
My Grammy used to read me bible stories.I was fascinated by her. My mom didn't wear make up much back then. She was plain with long, dark hair, and well, was kind of hippie-ish. But my Grammy, wow, she was so glamourous to me with her bright pink lipstick that covered her lips so thick that no matter how many Diet Cokes she drank, the pink stain on the can never faded. Her hair was always done and her skin was so soft. She worked at the cosmetic counter in a department store so she always smelled good; a heavy,woody, smothering scent but I liked it. My Grammy always called me "Darling" but she would say it all draggy and high-pitched,
"Daaahhh-ling", and then she'd throw her head back and laugh. She was like a movie star to me. I loved her.

I haven't seen or spoken to her since I was 11.

Eight is very small. Very small indeed.

Amazing that all these memories include them, her, him. I lived with my grandparents then. Well, my mom and I both did. It was a big house, two stories with five bedrooms and an attic upstairs. It was a brick house and it had white pillars in the front. (Funny, I just realized how much I hate pillars on houses. I do. I hate them. I think they are pretentious and fake. As if the white pillar signifies how rich and grand the people inside must be.) The house had a large backyard with a garden, and a large oak tree that held a swing made of a wooden board and two lengths of white rope. There was a birdbath. And lots of leaves. This is where I lived. In a house that looked like it was the home to a stable, noble family. But it wasn't. It was a house full of nightmares and secrets and lies. It wasn't just my house of horror. No, this was passed down from another generation. I wasn't the only one. I'm just the only one that wanted to leave.

It took me a little bit but I did. I left. I only went back once. Not to that house but I realized it's not the house that brings the badness. No, the people that live in it get all the credit for that. The second house wasn't any better, even when I was promised it would be.

Eight is very small. Eleven is only slightly bigger.

Funny how age doesn't really seem to matter. When the fear is there, it grips so tightly, so completely, that it squeezes the... movement... right out of you.

Yes, eleven is only slightly bigger. Fortunately for me, it was big enough.

It was the one time I didn't protest. I didn't say no. I didn't cry or scream. I just sat there for what seemed like an eternity but really was only seconds. I stared at him, part of me unwilling to believe it was starting to happen again, and the other part of me not surprised at all. That part was shouting, yelling, stomping her feet at me to, "GET UP! You knew this would happen, you knew he would not change. You knew it! Don't just sit there, GET UP!! You are not 8! We are not 8!" And the kicker, "No one else will help you." That's when he kissed my mouth. With his hand up my shirt. While he apologized and said he would never hurt me.

I got up. I didn't just get up, I jumped up and out, away from him so he could not touch me. I ran to the kitchen and I grabbed the knife.

It was a very big knife.

Just the kind of knife a girl at 11 may need to keep herself safe.
Because she knew no one else would help her.
And I did. I kept myself safe that day and each day since. I have been safe from him. From them. They cannot touch me. Not physically anyway.

The rest of it... well, I'm working on it.

I cried while I wrote this and thought of my Grammy. I haven't thought of her in a very long time. I don't know how the 33 year old me feels about her just yet, but the 8 year old me, she loved her. Very much.