Category Archives: Coping skills

Forgiveness is easy for the emotionally invincible.

August 27, 2016Coping skills, Essay, Faith, forgiveness, growth, Judgement, principlesHycaeit

I often thought myself a fool for forgiving so often because people thought I was naive, or full of self doubt, or even that I had been dishonest about events that I claimed had caused me to separate myself from those I chose to leave behind.

It seems to me when someone such as myself refuses to trouble themselves with self preservation-spawned explanations because my self worth and value don’t rely on outside opinions, people tend to fill in the blanks in my silence with their own assumptions.

Their assumptions are often very wrong.

They see a weakness in my forgiveness because they can’t understand how I could do it.

Until a few years ago I didn’t even understand how I was able to do it.

How is it so easy to forgive?

First I had to understand that forgiveness doesn’t mean I’m unworthy of justice for the harmful things that have been done.

I just don’t have a need to seek retribution for myself.

Forgiveness doesn’t mean things go back to the way they were.

Some broken things can not be fixed.

Forgiveness doesn’t mean that the bad things didn’t happen.

I remember them clearly. Vividly. Painfully.

Forgiveness is a tool of freedom.

It allows me to empty the tightly packed spaces in my mind and spirit where resentments and anger grow and thrive like bacteria, infecting my consciousness with bitterness and hate.

Bitterness and hate are like poison. They infect my attitude, actions, and mentality. They pour out in words and behaviors on everyone and everything I encounter.

I choose not to allow that type of sickness to live inside of me and I certainly won’t allow myself to harbor it and infect anyone else with it.

Not even by accident in the form of displaced anger.

I don’t forgive because people deserve it. I forgive because I deserve to be happy, joyous, and free.

It helps to see people as they really are.

Making monsters out of men makes the world a scary place.

I don’t believe in bad people and I have never met an evil baby. Most of the “bad” people are just badly broken.

Some will die behaving badly, though.

Some really don’t change.

But I won’t deprive someone the benefit of the doubt.

I won’t deprive someone the opportunity to learn and grow.

They don’t need to do it with me, near me, or at my expense. But I try to avoid an attitude of judgement at all costs.

I was lost once.

I found my “self” was always in me.

That’s the one thing that never leaves and being okay with who I really am is what made the world worth living in and made me worthy to live in it and be a part of all of its beauty.

Some people are never going to be okay with who they are. I won’t make it harder for them by being hateful or holding grudges.

I truly believe most “bad people” are just in pain, in fear, or lost somehow.

Something I picked up in my religious studies is an idea that no one’s life or sense of comfort is more valuable than another’s. This is why I must set limits while helping others so I don’t allow myself to be destroyed because my life and comfort is valuable, too.

I’m really strong, though.

Damn near invincible when it comes to spiritual fortitude.

Indomitable.

I also have an incredible sense of who I am and what my value is.

So, forgiveness is easy.

I feel no need to make people like me.

I feel no need to save face.

I feel no need to be vengeful.

I feel no need to repay suffering.

I feel no need to be right in the realm of public opinion.

Forgiveness is easier for those reasons, too.

Religious philosiphies and spiritual teachings often repeat themes throughout centuries and sects.

One of these is that it is an enlightened person’s spiritual responsibility to teach others the path by showing them the way with their actions.

The Dalai Lama said, “We should not seek revenge on those who have committed crimes against us, or reply to their crimes with other crimes. We should reflect that by the laws of Karma, they are in danger of lowly and miserable lives to come, and that our duty to them, as to every being, is to help them rise toward Nirvana rather than sink to lower levels of rebirth.”

So I forgive them for their harms.

I move forward on my journey toward enlightenment, fortified by my good deeds.

I show them kindness.

In my kindness they can breathe for a moment.

In that breath they may find rest or peace.

In that moment of calm their chaotic mind may unfold.

In that clarity they may find the way forward.

I forgive because it is my duty to myself and to the world.

I forgive because it strengthens and soothes my soul in the way that vengeance and anger briefly satisfies some who may not feel connected to their spirit, or their consciousness, or whatever it is that they believe it was that created them.

I forgive because forgiveness is helpful.

I forgive because forgiveness is good.

Leave it to the Swedes. This is beautiful.

August 14, 2016Coping skills, depression, Empowerment, growth, Inspiration, Judgement, Personalization, perspective, Self esteemHycaeit

A lot of people can see the moon.
Most see it as a light in the night sky.

Some go to the extent of seeing it as it is. A planetary object circling the Earth. Dusty and gray.

Not many go as far as to see themselves upon it.

Not many try to experience it as if they were there, in the fine particulate, smooth between their toes.

Not many see themselves there, imagining the exact sort of smile that would spread across their face when they realized where they were.

Wondering wildly.

Kneeling down in that soft sand and inspecting it’s color and texture. Looking over their shoulder through the black sky to the moon sized Earth in their peripheral then out to the stars so clearly seen in the absence of an atmosphere.

When you are a person who has a mind meant for more, this universe is more to you than the majority and the majority of those you meet will inevitably call you crazy.

I was lost in it for awhile.

I felt more.

I tasted more.

I smelled more.

I experienced more in everything than most could even imagine.

Personalization + overactive imagination = PAIN

It was lonely, it still can be.

There was no one to teach me how to travel here because they couldn’t possibly show me a way they could never understand.

Their way wouldn’t work for me and they couldn’t see or feel as I did. They couldn’t pave my road.

So, I learned to fly over them.

The world as most know it wasn’t designed for my comfort.

Majority rules.

I turned inward, then outward, then every which way.

I’m comfortable now. Like an alien adjusting to a foreign atmosphere. Like a fish out of water that somehow survived.

I learned to live in my own skin and mind and morals.

I learned my limitations and strengths.

I’m lucky I got to learn it all. Many like me don’t make it here.

Judgement. Persecution. Ridicule. Because “they” don’t understand.

They can’t.

That’s ok.

It all hurt. All of it. Good and bad because it was too much for awhile.

Imagine living in this world and seeing the bad and actually putting yourself there and inside of them. Becoming the mother of a starving family or a child living in war.

There was pain every minute.

There were bombs shaking me in the night.

To harness the gifts I was given was a struggle.

To learn how to feel and sense and survive with this mentality was pain in the purest form.

I grew into it.

I outgrew a lot of it.

I’m growing into more.

I’m going to keep going. On my own terms. In my own time. By my own volition.

The will and wishes of others seemed too small for me. Their world is too small too.

But, here’s the beautiful thing, I don’t need it, or them. Not anymore.

Mine is brighter, bigger, fuller, and, I’m comfortable here.

Finally.

Persecution

July 21, 2016Coping skills, depression, Empowerment, Essay, Faith, Humor, Inspiration, Judgement, Self esteem, TraumaHycaeit

The mentally ill or those who are assumed to be, have suffered under unfair persecution since they started diagnosing people with mental defects. A good portion of them are just people who think in a way most “normal” people couldn’t hope to. Or folks who feel emotions in a way that your typical person doesn’t understand. It takes a good bit of time to learn how to harness that kind of power. Warning, you’ll probably get locked up in the process.

A friend of mine was recently put into an asylum because he said some things on social media that his paranoid parents didn’t understand. He had been in mental health units before so, each time they attempted to put him back in, his previous visits made it much easier to accomplish that. Unfortunate. This is how most get trapped.

Google a list of reasons someone can get locked away in the state you live in. I did. What I learned is that we should basically all visit a behavioral medicine unit to be evaluated at some point. We are all absolutely insane based on the lists I’ve been browsing. And, if at any point in time you have taken an anti depressant or any type of psych med you are GOING IN THE NUT HOUSE. All it takes is one person to do it in some places and they require absolutely no proof of their accusations to stick you in there. What. The. Hell. Man?

I had depression when I was younger. It was trauma based, situational, never a chemical imbalance. I was too young to understand what had been done to me and what I had been through and what is still happening unfortunately. One doctor said I was bipolar for a minute. Turns out that, according to most psychiatrists I’ve spoken to, it was highly unethical for him to drastically change my previous diagnosis from years before just a few weeks after my mom died. F****d my life up, big time.

After seeing me for as little as five minutes he decided I needed to take handfuls of pills that my brain didn’t really need. I didn’t lose my mind, though I should have, after having someone stomp on it with pharmaceuticals for nearly a year. As it turns out he is known around town for being the “go to guy” to get benzo prescriptions.

Why did this happen?

Plans. Plans I didn’t understand until now.

Some were drafted by men while other plans were typed up by God himself. I’m just gonna go with it.

Some people won’t let you escape some situations. They’ll do everything they can to drag you down with them. I don’t understand these people. I don’t understand modern psychology. It’s no mystery at this point in our evolution that, we as a society, REALLY like pills. That’s enough of that now, people. It’s been said out loud by millions of people billions of times and it is still happening.

Compare it to this scenario if you will; suboxon and methadone don’t make you not a drug addict. They make you addicted to suboxon and methadone.

I understand folks with severe mental illness do need a little chemical leveling with the help of some of these medications but, holy hell, how did every bored housewife get a prescription to Ativan and Xanax? What is happening?

It’s become the answer. It is far from the solution. Especially in young ones. I was 16 when I was diagnosed with depression after I met 3 requirements on a vague 10 question checklist. They put me on Prozac. That was one of the only prescriptions the medical doctor who prescribed it knew of. Ahhhhhhhh. Run away, young me! Run awaaaay!

In all honesty I was struggling with childhood trauma. And I wouldn’t tell anyone about it. I didn’t mention a word of it to anyone until I was 17. It spilled out of me when I was drinking. Had I just been honest about the issue and open to discussing it I could have avoided years years years of misfortune. Most recently at the hands of some people who have decided to use the unfortunate incidents of my past to make themselves feel better about some stuff. I won’t go into detail about them. They aren’t important.

I have encountered this story before, though. I recognize a few familiar faces in the stories I find myself relating to during this trying time. They are out there in great numbers. Most have good intentions but, some don’t. They use your history of mental instability to keep you unstable. To get out of trouble by making a case against you to cast doubt in a judge’s eyes or in the community opinion pool and make you look insane. They do it to gain control. Sometimes they want control because they are legitimitely afraid of you. Sometimes they overreact and fear that because you are capable of feeling strong emotions that would topple and cripple them that you will hurt yourself. Sometimes they just want to get out of trouble and your imagined insanity is a pretty good excuse. No amount of evidence after the fact would do once they have painted a picture of you as a crazy person. Not when what you’ve been through is seen as a defect by most. Guess who was crazy. Van Gough. Dude cut his ear off and stuff. He died poor and now he is seen as a visionary genius. I know that isn’t commonplace. I’m not saying I am him or like him. I don’t think I have what it takes to cleve off my own body parts. Ears are important. I’m keeping both of mine.

Sensitive and traumatized folks need to be careful of the company they keep, though. It’s no mystery that a good portion of the people we meet are up to no good. I’m not being paranoid. I’m not an idiot, though. I see them. I avoid them. Or I fall in love with them because apparently I’m an idiot. I’m gonna save them! Ha! Nope. Doesn’t work. Moving on.

Some will use your supposed weakness to try and keep you weak. They don’t realize how much strength you had to have to make it out.

Some are burned by the fire while others are fortified by it.

Mental illness of the past just became a weapon in someone’s hands. Good thing I made it through that “illness” because I gained a very special skill set and strength that folks like them will never know. They couldn’t hold the weight of what I’ve learned if they raised an army to help them hoist it.
Show me your army. My two marines and myself should do just fine against them. Ooh rah.

Huh?

Rah.

My friends used to call me Rah. Makes sense now.

I dislike the injustice. Guess what! Justice doesn’t truly exsist here on Earth. We developed systems of order. We did that. Humans. Those systems are made up of people. Peopley people. There are some REALLY peopley people out there. Depending on all of the variables, sometimes those people fail to see the truth. Or they do and they can’t do anything about it because of the way the system that people made is designed and the limitations of the people in charge of it or the circumstances and quality of the people who represent other people. Etc. Blah blah blah

People.

They’re fallible.

That means they make mistakes.

Good thing this isn’t the plain of exsistence I’m concerned with. My spirit has much further to travel. I fear for those who limit themselves by conducting themselves in a way that the really humany humans have told them they should. It’s like they can’t even feel the souls they carry anymore. They certainly don’t hear them.

Don’t call me crazy for speaking of talking souls. Some call it your conscious. I have my own ideas. Having my own ideas and having a place to speak about them without being told I’m insane before I can explain is really nice.

I like it here.

I wanna live in this blog.

People like me fear our emotions and our thoughts like that. We have to carefully monitor what we do and say. We know how easy it is for you all to stuff us in a padded room because we make you uncomfortable. Or because it is just easier to ignore us. Or because you want something and if you make people believe we’re insane no one will listen to us.

I never had a desire to kill anyone or myself. But my emotional capacity scared people who weren’t capable of withstanding the emotional currents I had to force my way through. Those stormy seas were difficult to navigate and to survive.

People like me are taught not to trust. They call our avoidance of people “social anxiety” or something like that. Pfft. Honestly, hun. I was usually just afraid of many of you because of what many others have done.

“Normal”. Yuck. “Popular”. Eeewwwww. “Sane”. Like anyone even knows what that means anymore.

I didn’t like to run with the herd. When you join a mob of anything you’re not allowed to use your brain anymore. You have to start thinking and doing and eating and wearing and talking about and WHATEVER WHATEVER WHATEVER! Not my thing. I gave it a good try but that crap got me in trouble. I wasn’t in the “wrong crowd” either. All crowds are the wrong crowd for me, to be honest. Too many rules that don’t make any real sense. I like what I like. I like who I like. If I get fat at some point I can hide until I’m cool with my new skin and adjust to my newly super-sized and awesome self and no one misses me in the meantime. It’s pretty awesome.

We learn to live without flocks of friends and followers. We don’t need approval. We don’t need to be told we are right. We develop clear and powerful internal moral standards and compasses. We stand alone often because mob mentality doesn’t make any man or woman right. And it is downright dangerous, historically speaking, to think like that. So, we avoid the mobs. They ask us to think like they do and we can’t. I won’t.

When a person like me finds their way out of the pain that once pinned them down in an overwhelmed and panicked state, getting through things that would cripple most humans seems easy and almost effortless. Just allow me a moment alone to let myself feel what is natural. Let the waves roll. I don’t fight against them anymore, I ride them to safety.
Then it’s done. The pain is there in a smaller sense but it’s not as bad as pain I once lived in for years on end. It’s not as bad as it was when it began. Shortly, it goes away completely because, at some point, I realized that pain does pass.

When I was younger I didn’t know that. When people kept telling me I was sick I thought the pain would last forever.

“I have what now? An invisible disease in my brain that may or may not require medication that could possibly make me want to kill myself even though the only reason you’re prescribing it to begin with is because I’m sad? What? The f**? Sense? My brain wants my body to die? What? This person says my brain wants my body to die. There’s a demon in me. This book says that’s basically what’s happening here. I drew that conclusion. Yes. That is a summary of my own, but, you read the literature and tell me that’s not what they’re saying, friend in 10th grade. We will figure this out together. We are soooo much smarter than alll of the adults. There is some type of mythical beast inhabiting parts of my brain that doctors and scientists don’t understand and it’s possibly gonna be there until I die. Soon probably. Based on these statistics. F***ing gnomes up there or something. Sh** is unbelievable. I thought I had PMS but apparently I was mistaken because the medical doctor who knows very little about brains wants me to take a pill that could possibly make me want to kill myself. I guess if it’s one type of beasty up there it gets weaker with the pills but if it’s the other kind of beasty it is going to, like, hijack my synapses and do some type of pod people sh** and I’m gonna wake up covered in blood and have no idea how I got to the couNtRY OF CHINA! WHAT THE LITERAL F***.”

El fin. That was fun. Thanks for playing.

I was a child. A traumatized one. The trauma was my secret. Then ALLLLLLL of that pubescent nonsense rattled around in my immature brain like a barbed bouncy ball, ripping squishy magical brain bits to shreds. I wanted to give up but I never could. Today I learned why.

People are people and they’re not perfect. They make mistakes. Sometimes it isn’t fair. Sometimes you suffer and no one seems to care. Even if they do care, sometimes, they just don’t have the power to do anything about it.

Most people are afraid. Mostly of what they don’t understand. To protect themselves they pretend to know everything and only listen to those who agree. Such is life.

I’m not focusing on fair anymore. It is absolutely exhausting. And what people think is of no concern to me. Those who do know me, the important people, they know what’s real and what’s not.

Most importantly, I know. Every moment of excruciating sadness served a purpose. A sense of self without limitation or expectations. Without the need for approval or a single soul to agree. My goal is not as near sighted as it once was. I can see into the distance now. The world is HUGE. The universe is even bigger. God only knows what is out there and beyond all of this. I feel strongly that a true judge is watching. He/she/it knows. Knows every damn thing. Men are too easily fooled. By men I mean humans and not specifically things with penises.

Every single thing mattered. I absorbed it all with my eyes, heart, and mind wide open and humility and awareness to help me accept some facts about the world that taste bitter and feel cruel. Can’t taste the sweet without the salty, though.

Ah, the yin and the yang.

I’ve been pinned down for some time now. The struggle isn’t over. Most of the pain I felt earlier today was selfish and naive. It took only hours for me to heal my wounded heart by recognizing the true source of my emotions and allowing myself to feel what I felt was appropriate under the direction of my moral code.

Writing this has helped. Talking at my sister always helps. Being reminded of what is in the distance helped. Realizing my strength helped.

Perspective. Hard earned maturity. Conquer over greater tragedies strengthened me for this. It doesn’t take long for me to find order in chaos. Mostly because I refused to give up when many would have, and many did. Knowing myself well enough to give my good qualities the steroids and to tell my bad qualities to sit down and shut the hell up has become extremely useful.

I knew I would have to fight harder. I’m outnumbered. My history has scars on it. I don’t catch breaks. That’s exactly what made me strong enough to do this.

I long for the day when the science of psychology improves. When they realize that medicine makes some people worse and that therapy isn’t enough for some and all of that helpful stuff that lies in the middle somewhere.

Etc. Etc. Etc.

For now, we are guinea pigs. How could anyone take a face like that seriously? I got off of the wheel and out of the cage, though. I’m just trying to find a way to safe pastures before a snake eats me.

I’m a woman with faith in action. My Higher Power will get me where he needs me and I finally have the self worth and sense of self to be confident that I know what I am and what’s best for me. I fought through a lot to gain that knowledge. I’m keeping it because I earned it and I deserve it.

I’m sure this post will be widely misinterpreted by a few lawyers in particular and entered into evidence, too. Hi there.

If you don’t know me and you are reading this, I’m writing this for you, not them.

The one thing that helped me out of the cage was realizing my true nature, accepting it, owning it, building up the good and working to turn the bad into more good.

I know my super power now. All of us “crazy” people have one if we live long enough to develop it.

Mine is my protective nature. Anyone who really knows me knew that about me before I was able to admit it. I wandered along looking for someone to protect me for too long. Instead of giving me what I wanted, my Creator taught me how to protect myself and reminded me again today, when the man in the black robe did what he was required to do by giving someone he didn’t know the benefit of doubt. I was swiftly reminded of who I am really here to protect. And it’s not myself.

Justice for me doesn’t really matter. I don’t need it. I was upset at first but not because of the obvious. My brain doesn’t work like that. I hated the smug illusion that was created at that moment. But, I was quickly reminded of what was really important. That something isn’t me either.

I’m important. Don’t get me wrong. But I matter to a larger thing now that I don’t limit myself to accepting and craving the Itty bitty thing a lot of people are obsessed with fitting into and obeying. That infinite thing showed me we’ve all got a cozy little spot somewhere. We all matter. At different times, different places, different ways, etc. That won’t make sense to some. Those of you who do understand it have probably seen some sh**. And I’m glad you made it out. Keep going.

I started writing this to work out the clutter. My mind is like an enormous library. At one time all of the books were on the floor. They’re on shelves now. I’m still trying to organize them. This is one section of my life’s collective knowledge that I have dusted and alphabetized.

With every word I write here I explore another chapter and I let you read it too. I hope you benefit from it. If I had read words like this when I was young things may have been different for me.

There were no blogs back then because I am, indeed, a dinosaur according to you young people.

Just kidding I’m 32. So I’ve seen some really cool stuff happen. Really bad stuff too. When I was originally diagnosed with depression the internet had only just begun. Encyclopedias gave clinical definitions. I didn’t relate much to the elderly male psychiatrists I encountered so I didn’t trust them to know the whole truth which is why I’ll say what bears repeating.

My struggle is something I will continue to share with any and all of you. Every bit of it will come out in time. It would be selfish of me to keep it all hidden in fear or shame as I know that all I needed when I was young was something to relate to.

A word, a face, a poem, a book.

Something happens when you feel unusual, outnumber, overwhelmed, and alone. In those times we are most likely to give up. People have a lot to learn about folks like me. They could learn a lot FROM folks like me too.

We’ll get there. You’ll get there. Maybe I’ll get there too. In the mean time, my faith is in myself and my Higher power because people are full of faults and often fail. We’re made that way so people are just a silly thing to have faith in.

I stopped asking them to save me long ago. No one will fight harder for me than I will. At one point I just didn’t care enough about myself to do that but now, I do, that has made me unstoppable.

There are bumps. BIG ONES. That sh** will HURT! I learned today that as long as I don’t turn those bumps into mountains I was meant to climb and not carry, I will make it to the other side.

I heard that saying for the first time this year. “These mountains you were carrying, you were only meant to climb.” Najwah Zebian

Today it made sense in every possible way that I am currently capable of understanding.

I hope I can explain what I mean by that someday but I need you to take from it what you need to go further.

Someday people who call themselves normal and sane and even the ones who look good on paper but behave like beasts behind closed doors or when you get in their way will have as little power over you as they do over me at this point in my life.

The battles are long, exhausting, and you will lose sometimes. You will also lose people you really love. But, if you give up at any point it takes longer. If you give up completely you won’t get there at all.

Don’t let it all out in front of anyone you don’t trust. Don’t trust anyone that you are suspicious of because your intuition knows things and somehow sees beyond the lies they tell and walls they’ve built. The key to that particular super power lies somewhere in the magical squishy brain bits that haven’t yet been explored and defined. Maybe. Or maybe that’s what our appendix is for. Who the hell knows really?! Not me! That’s for sure.

Someday we’ll know more about the brain and trauma. Mostly because they experimented on us. Some of us have had to pay dearly, over and over again. Some of us lost our lives.

It is getting better out there, though. I can see it improving even within my own limited lifetime. I think it’s because we aren’t hiding anymore.

They have to feel they understand us to be comfortable. I feel safe airing it out now from here, on the other side of the pain. If you’re still in it, anonymity is necessary at times but in the safety of a legally bound psychiatrists office let them know every piece. I wish I had.

I hid for too long. Gave one doc a bit, another got a different portion, etc. By denying a trusted and qualified and intelligent professional the whole picture I only prolonged my sadness. They wouldn’t have thought as negatively of me as I did of myself. They wouldn’t have called me crazy like I had feared they would. They would’ve known the problem and the way to help me through it. A few moments of discomfort at the beginning would have remedied and prevented decades of discomfort and desolate pain.

So.

That’s done.

Bye

The traveling memorial

July 7, 2016Coping skills, Death, Empowerment, Essay, Grief, Inspiration, Trauma, Veterans, VietnamHycaeit

Something amazing happened today. My dad took me with him to the traveling Vietnam memorial wall.

Last night I couldn’t sleep in anticipation. I was certain I’d lose it entirely at that wall, watching my dad read through names. I imagined him finding someone familiar. I imagined him feeling things he hadn’t felt in years. Turns out the old man is a good bit tougher than I am. Or far better at hiding his feelings.

I cried like a baby when I saw the length of that wall. I tried to be discreet and the wind did help, blowing hair over my wet eyes repeatedly.

Then we reached this spot.

This section, July of ’68. That’s when dad arrived in country. From that spot onward, I struggled with my composure.

That’s when I really felt it all as my father searched for names he knew. The meaning in the wall was crystal clear.

I read a lot. Lists of names and words in print tend to lose some meaning as time passes and I grow used to the sight of the letters and lists. But here, with him, lists sprung to life.

Each chiseled letter made out a name. Each name was once attached to living, breathing human. Most were young. Dad was 18 when he got there.

The wall came alive with faces I’d never seen. They were flashing through my mind. Sweating, smiling, filled with courage and honor and a sense of duty. Filled with hope and a hell of a lot of fear. I tried not to get into the dark reality. I would have collapsed where I stood had I allowed my mind to imagine it. All those young souls. All gone. I erased the blood from the memories I’d just created.

What lies in the picture below took the breathe from me. I gave it to their memories so they could breathe once more as they appeared before me just then.

Do you see the flags above the wall down the way? One is yellow.

Those flags flew dead center atop the long wall. They mark the end of my father’s time in that place. Not the end of his service, though. He had forest fires to fight when he got back, after all.

I started thinking some thoughts just before I snapped this photo. The names on that wall, as the height of the list gradually increased to plateau in the center to be feet higher than my head, were names of service men and women who had died while my dad was there with them.

I nearly threw up.

There were so many. It was nearly half of the wall. My mind was spinning.

All of that loss of life. It was happening within miles, feet, inches of him. I don’t know. He doesn’t talk much about it. That magnitude of suffering, fear, the last moments of so many; the death must have hung heavy upon the humid air.

That tragic effect of war must change the atmosphere of a place. I bet you could taste it. I imagine the energy there was stifling and soul smothering.

I wont ask him to describe it. Though I’ve always been curious, we learned not to pry.

Once, when I was in elementary school, I had a project to do. I had an assignment. I was to ask someone who had been to a different country about their sensory experience there and he was the only person I knew who had ever been outside of the United States. Well, there were some who had been to Canada. But, Minnesota and Canada are practically the same thing. I didn’t think anyone would be excited to hear about that report.

He agreed to it. We did just fine with sight.

Jungle. Trees. Lots of green leaves.

I bet.

We were still good at taste.

He described some type of soup with fish eyes in it.

Yum.

Sound was where I noticed some agitation. I don’t recall what he said exactly. I remember his answer being related to something loud.

But, smell is where I stopped. I stopped mid word while I wrote.

After I asked he paused. Then he simply said, “Rotting vegetation and bodies.”

I closed my notebook and walked away. After thanking him of course.

I remember peering back at him in his recliner from the end of the hall. He seemed sad and slightly angry. As an adult I now know that I have no idea exactly what he was sad about or who he was angry with.

I didn’t ask things for a long time after that.

I learned more today than I have in the last 32 years of my life about his time there while visiting that wall.

This war thing is something no one can understand unless they’ve lived it, but is often described as the most painful and cruel experience a human being can withstand. And each war is unique. Each battlefield is different. The jungles of Vietnam must have been sheer terror as so many veterans of that war in particular refuse to recall what occured.

Or maybe it was the treatment they received upon coming home. Shameful words of hate. No parades. Pure torture.

He read some names aloud and I honestly couldn’t bear to think he’d known them. He knew a few it seemed. Some from boot camp.

The section of the wall in the photo below signifies the end of my fathers time there. November of ’69. Nearly every name on the wall before this spot, aside from a couple of short panels, were soldiers who lost their lives while my father shared that soil.

Upon additional research I discovered he was there during the deadliest years of occupation. The numbers varied slightly by source, but only slightly. In 1968 around 16,800 American soldiers lost their lives there. In 1969 around 11,780 died. The year 1967 was heavy in losses as well.

These are only the numbers for the American military members who died there. So much death in such a brief period of time. And he was there to feel it all.

Tears flowed forth. I tried to hide them. Dad was talking. Then he tilted his head down so he could look up at me from the top of his happy blue eyes, and he smiled at me.

I patted him on the back and we walked on.

On to honor the rest. Reading unfamiliar names and letting those strangers live in our hearts if only for the moment.

He answered more of my questions. How many people a platoon was comprised of. How hot it usually was.

His best friend there was Azel, from Chicago. They had a lot in common. Azel must be an awesome fellow.

He was also close with a T. C. and a Bobby. One from Arizona. The other he wasn’t sure.

He recognized a name on the wall. A guy from boot camp who loved to smoke. He frequently got caught smoking when he wasn’t supposed to so he would often be seen standing outdoors with a rifle hoisted high over his shoulders until he could no longer hold it there with drill Sargent’s yelling, all so he could get a puff.

To think that he was gone.

I wonder what stories his fellow soldiers would tell about my father if he had landed on that wall.

I kept thinking of a picture he had once shown me. He was standing with two young Vietnamese boys under his arms. They were all smiling. They were all so young.

58, 307. Conflict. Something about that doesn’t sit right with me.

We walked out eventually. We walked past a chopper. He said he’d been in one of those.

I asked if this was the one they hung from and jumped into the jungle from. He said, “No. Those were bigger with men jumping from the tail end.”

We were driving out and he mumbled something about a deuce.

A two ton truck. He drove lots of those. With jet fuel for downed helicopters, land mines, explosives, etc. All of it rattling around in the vehicle with him as he sped through rough jungle roads. No wonder they threw men like him into forrest fires in California when he got home. No one was crazy enough to go into the blazing inferno where they freely drove knowing one much worse was behind them.

He was 17 when he enlisted. 18 when he went. Stayed over a year there. Came home and bravely battled on to protect and serve for many others before his contract with the Marine Corps was over.

His oldest daughter was born the month he deployed.

He sold his uniform when he came home.

Many pictures he had sent home were destroyed while he was still away.

I grew up knowing hardly a thing. I learned more today than I have ever known. I always knew one thing, though. I’m proud to be his daughter.

I always was. I always will be.

He doesn’t have to tell me one thing about that war. His behavior and actions every day that I’ve known him are more than enough proof of his honor, sense of duty, and his selflessness.

What he’s seen. What he’s been through. Only those who served alongside him will ever know about that. I just know he came home and rose above. He fought on. He didn’t let the unthinkable destroy any part of him. I’m sure he was lost for awhile. He was so young. But, the man I’ve always known has served me with a dignity, integrity, and intelligence that is truly uncommon in this world.

Thank God he isn’t on that wall. Thank all of you who ended up on it for sacrificing every piece of yourselves.

He said one thing to someone who thanked him for his service while we were there that I won’t soon forget.

While many men walked the street with veterans hats and even uniforms, my father felt no need to let anyone know who he was. I made mention of his service to a man who handed me a pamphlet to see if there was a way to find military members from Minnesota. As he walked away and thanked my father, dad said one simple thing that truly changed me.

He said,

“I would do it all again.”

Ride the wave

A great lie

June 5, 2016Abuse, Body image, Coping skills, Empowerment, Essay, Inspiration, Relationships, Self esteem, TraumaHycaeit

That’s me. No filter. No make-up.

I was never the girl who couldn’t wait to wear make-up. Nor had I been one who wanted to shop for trendy clothes and look like all the others. I remember wondering why women wore that stuff and all of the boys and men got to continue being themselves. I was in the 9th grade when I realized how superficial standards would drastically effect my life.

9th grade. Still hopeful. I was only just beginning to feel the weight of what I grew to believe the world expected of me but it hadn’t yet begun to choke the fire and life out of my young soul yet. It was after I grew out my awesome nerd ‘fro that the other kids started to take notice of me in one way or another. Late into middle school I was basically forced into one of those supremely awkward and speechless “relationships” that were common during that age in the mid 90’s.

A “cool chick” I knew who eventually became a pretty righteous homecoming queen suggested my dorky behind be girlfriend to the jock type’s less brawny friend. He was a stellar freckly faced ginger boy, adorable, skinny, and according to the other’s we would be just oh so cute together. Okey doke. The problem was he and I were both as shy as anyone ever had been in the history of time. Ever. In all of the years that man had existed.

We never spoke. NOT ONE TIME from what I recall.

I remember he and his friends called my house once. I basically just let his more extroverted friends speak at me. Occasionally I would interject a one word answer in response but, I still don’t know what my first boyfriend’s voice sounded like.

That relationship dissolved amicably enough. We just stopped being together. I didn’t want a boyfriend anyway to be honest. We never held hands or kissed. There was no physical contact whatsoever outside of the one time we slow danced at school. It seemed to be a huge deal for everyone but the two of us. They even made sure to take a photo of this magical moment in prepubescent awkwardness and put it in the yearbook.

I remember that we were both so sweaty that we could barely hold on to each others hands. That’s right. Hands together, the other hand on the shoulder. I’ve always been a classy broad. I had seen that sh** in the movies and I assumed that was how this was done. I felt gross, we both smelled bad, and it was the quintessential depiction of puberty in all it’s bumbling glory. That was enough romance for me, thank you very much.

The next year things changed even more and with an even greater sense of dis-ease and discomfort.

I’d been an awesome nerd all of my life. Tomboy through and through. I spent my early formative years in the library at least once a day. It was only a few blocks from my house and there was a kick ass park outside of it. My friends and I always sported scraped knees from bicycle accidents and playing “War” in the yard with my walkie talkies. I had a bag full of nail polish but my favorite thing to do with it was to chip it off after it had been applied. I played the clarinet in a marching band, man. I had not been what most would have considered “cool”.

Hitting high school was rough. I was skinny and short in middle school but grew several inches the summer before my sophomore year. I wasn’t waddling around on my size 9 duck feet with a 4 foot frame anymore. Boys who’d never seen me before from the grades ahead of me began to take notice. Soon after the popular type, male and female, began to take notice, as well. I’ll never forget the day when “they” sent one of their henchmen to my locker.

She told me, and I’m paraphrasing here, “You know, you could be so cool if you just dropped all of your geeky friends.” Gulp… I’ll never forget those words or the feelings they made me feel. Invisible was comfortable. Being noticed was terrifying.

Her words angered me greatly, though I know it wasn’t her fault. They weren’t really her words, after all. Those “geeks” were my best friends. So I simply stated, “If my friends are geeks I guess that makes me a geek too. ”

My friends were awesome. They still are. Individual, kind, good people. They were all a part of the positive force . I love them dearly. They were, and still are, incredible people. These flawless creatures were being talked down about by girls who were cool because years ago someone decided that they were cool. I honestly don’t know how we all came to that conclusion. I denied their offer and “They” had it in for me after that.

My school was very “cliquey”. Some of the chicks in the cliques were nice enough. Some had been friends of mine when we were small. They were kind, sweet, good people. But, some were insecure, cruel, vain, and vicious. Those b****** and I had words from time to time throughout high school.

Having someone say those words to me got into my head. I wasn’t any different than I had been when I was younger. At least not at that point. I was brainy, wild with my friends and reserved around strangers, kind, always willing to stick up for the underdog. The only thing that had changed was my hair, clothing, and the powder I had started wearing on my face. Suddenly, like some kind of s*** out of the Devil’s Bible, a spell had been cast and pervy old dudes were harassing me left and right.

Sophomore year was f***ing hell. A senior boy liked me. A senior boy who had been dating the same girl for 3 years, nonetheless. He’d pop up in the windows outside of my classrooms to make strange faces at me. He’d leave notes in my locker. He stood outside of the door of his classroom that was on my way to choir every day just so he could say hello. I had been to his house once with friends and he talked my ear off all night, told me that a boy in my grade asked him to put a good word in for him, all while he flirted his ass off and in return only received a shy yes or no answer to his millions of arbitrary questions. He even fooled me into thinking there was a “Hug a Senior Day”. I hugged him, he giggled, I felt stupid.

I worked at a pizza place at the time. He worked there too. I honestly can’t remember who got there first because his employment there was of little importance to me. My best friend worked there and they had no problem hiring a 15 year old. One night he took me on a delivery with him so he could talk to me. He told me he felt he’d led me on, I said nope. I told him we were cool. It didn’t turn out to be so cool though. After he graduated sh** hit the fan. Hell got even hotter.

His girlfriend was a senior now. She. F***ING. Tortured. Me. And the b**** was merciless.

Junior year while working one night she and the entire softball team she was part of, all in the cool kids club, took turns yelling sh** like home-wrecker, slut, and b**** back into the kitchen through the buffet line. I cried because of their cruelty. It didn’t end there. They harassed me at school and sporting events, anywhere I was and anywhere they saw me. They keyed my car. They would park so closely to it that I couldn’t open the doors to get into it unless they moved their vehicles. They spread rumors and smeared things on my locker. Ripped pictures in my locker down and stole from it. They were relentless.

I’m a nice girl, forgiving and empathetic. I knew what she thought had happened so I didn’t retaliate.

In the meantime I decided to take up drinking to numb the pain of all of this bullying and to take a break from thinking about the identity crisis I was trying to find my way through.

Boom. I was immediately great at it. I was praised for the volume of booze I could tolerate. I was a gold medal Olympian in the sport of intoxication. Why not do it as much and as often as I could? It shook the shy right off of me. I could finally corner all of the scary b****es I hated and scream obscenities at them during parties. I never actually remembered doing it but I heard plenty about it at school the next day. Jesus. I quickly lost my sh** altogether.

Shortly after turning 17 I started dating a dude. He was cool and all, but romantic feelings were never really in my nature. I submitted to his persistent requests to date him because he was funny, sweet, and, well, persistent. We broke up every 2 weeks for one reason or another. He’d get me flowers and we’d date again. My favorite thing about him was his patience. He was a good guy. At that point I had never kissed a boy and he was never pushy about it. He continued to treat me like a valuable individual despite the absence of affection. He waited without making me feel pressured. But, while he waited it seems others were plotting. His best friend stole the first kiss. What a jack ass.

One night after work we were all drinking and his buddy decided I needed a shoulder rub. Sure. Why not? Just as long as I can move my arms so I can drink copious amounts of this lime flavored vodka. When I had had enough, I turned around and thanked him. He said, “You owe me more than that.” Mother F*****, I don’t owe you SH**. These words were bouncing around between my ears but before I could open my mouth to say them aloud, he kissed me. On the lips. My very first time.

I ran up the stairs and told my boyfriend what had happened. He punched a hole in the wall. I cried under a table in the dark all night. We didn’t date anymore. Men were too much f***ing work. They were also terrifying beasts with carnal urges I simply wasn’t willing to fulfill. See, all the while those girls were calling me a slut, their boyfriends were calling me a prude. What the f*** was I? Good God, I was confused.

It wasn’t long after that I experienced something that further solidified my idea of men and what they thought my purpose was. I had developed an idea of this as a child. After being molested, bummer, I repressed the memory of the event but all of the concepts and feeling lingered. Men were dangerous. Men were beasts. Men were expecting things of me I wasn’t willing to give. I had high defenses and, to me, men were all the same. Every man I didn’t know well or trust was to be treated as a suspect. A dangerous predator. One got by me, though. He snuck right by security and did some damage on the inside.

I’m going to need to explain something here. I no longer hold any bad feeling for this boy anymore. I am, by NO means, excusing his behavior. But, to be fair I feel I need to disclose that in that time acquaintance rape and date rape were hardly discussed. Even now the laws regarding this matter are being debated and reformed. As it stands in most states now, a person who is incapacitated by drugs or alcohol are not considered able to give consent.

I got wasted with a person I thought was my friend one night. I don’t want to smear this man because he is a man now. Not a boy. He is no longer who he was then. But this event deeply impacted my life so I feel the need to speak about it. I remember telling him I wasn’t interested in “fooling around” before we started drinking, but, with each drink he pushed further past my boundaries and when I woke I was no longer a virgin. I don’t remember much about it. Only flashes. And at the time it was pretty common for people to get their date “loosened up” with alcohol. He was just a kid. But so was I. When he denied that it had happened when my friends asked about it, I felt he was ashamed of me, not of what he’d done.

I felt at that point that I was just a conquest, a prize, a trophy on a mantle, a plaque on a wall, something to be looked at and used up. Further and further down I went. “F*** being cute”, I thought. This make-up. These jeans. Nothing but trouble. Who the f*** was I? Am I a slut? Am I a prude? Am I an angry belligerent beast on a crusade for justice like I am after 12 beers or a liter of vodka, or am I a shy and nerdy introvert like I am when I’m sober? What the f*** am I and where do I fit?

Years and years and years of struggling with my identity, my purpose, and my traumas went by. I barely made it out alive. The added torture of recalling bits and pieces of my childhood rape while blacked out felt like a rotten cherry atop a sundae made of vomit and dog sh**.

Based on what I had seen of the world, what most of the folks around were showing me, I had one purpose. To be a toy. To be viewed for pleasure and not heard or referred to with respect. As they say, my insides didn’t match my outsides but every time I dyed my hair brown and wore glasses people called me a poser.

When I started putting that make-up on I started hiding the most valuable parts of me. It was a literal mask I felt left a film no astringent could wash clear. When I put on the make-up my true sense of self was concealed and I allowed it to smother my soul for decades.

There was a discord between what I thought people valued in me and what I actually valued in myself. I had no chance at happiness. No shot at comfort. Inevitably, I had no desire to live.

It took a long time and a hell of a lot of pain, but, at 200 pounds I finally realized that my outsides were only there to protect what lies within. The skin protects the flesh beneath it. The flesh protects the bone. Bone and flesh protect the organs that create and use the fuel that carries my precious soul through this particular plane of existence.

All of it will rot. All of it will change constantly and decay eventually. The only thing that will last for eternity is the spirit I carry inside. I know that for a fact because, as confused as that part of me was for all of those years, it stayed essentially the same. Brave, kind, forgiving, solicitous, empathetic, impetuous, wild, humorous, emotional, hot tempered, sensitive, etcetera.

New behaviors can be learned and bad habits can be broken but I have to be who I am at the core in order to feel a necessary sense of self fulfillment. That is what seems to drive me forward with stability and a sense of safety as I’ve seen all of that that is external waver and flicker in and out of my personal existence.

I have been lucky. I’ve had some incredible friends who are truly angels on Earth. The difference between the one’s who’ve stayed and the one’s that went away was an unconditional appreciation and acceptance of who I REALLY am. Some walked away, with great difficulty, as they were watching me destroy my true self. No one should be forced to watch that. But, when I returned, there they were, waiting for me to return.

People I’ve been desperate to keep around, people I was convinced were good for me destroyed me slowly to bolster their own survival. They fed on me and siphoned my energy. When they were taken away I was made free, one piece at a time so long as I was willing to do the work to reclaim what I’d lost.

Then there were those that I lost but truly needed. With their departure they left me great gifts. In the wake of their loss I learned I was more than I had previously thought. I inherited parts of their spirit that I now honor by allowing it to live inside of me and in my actions, words, and mindset.

The great lie I once lived has been proven false by circumstance, experience, and triumph over cruel turns of fate. I have realized I need to maintain my sense of self. I fought for it. I’m keeping it. I will nurture it. It would be selfish of me not to. Harming myself to suit the needs of others will do no one any good. If they truly need me and I’m not truly me I am lying to them and dying inside. No one can benefit from such an arrangement.

I knew who I was and then, I forgot. 32 years old and I’m back. I’m finally able to be a real benefit to those I encounter, confidently aware of my assets, humbly recognizing my weaknesses, and, most importantly, unafraid to let everyone see it all in it’s entirety without the illusion of that worn out old mask. Ready, willing, able, and unafraid to let some go or let some in because, within myself, my spirit is whole enough again to live without the ones I lose and strong enough to stand tall in the presence of any other.

All I need, I find within myself.

I will never quit

May 22, 2016Abuse, Coping skills, Empowerment, Essay, Faith, Inspiration, Self esteem, TraumaHycaeit

I was once a quitter. Overwhelmed with anxiety and sadness, I gave up on myself constantly. I didn’t value my own life enough to fight for it. I begged God to get me out of it or to make it better. The work it would take to repair damages done seemed insurmountable so I had a tendency to give up before I had even begun. No attempt to improve was made, as I felt completely helpless and terrified.

God took care of it for me though. My Creator gave me a reason to fight in the form of innocent’s that needed guardianship and unconditional love.

At first I began to live for them only. Soon I found that life could be more than just being a mommy as I began to learn my value as they grew, proving myself capable of determination, diligence, and dutiful selflessness. I proved I was a better person than I had ever given myself credit for when He/She gave me a job I couldn’t quit.

When I was younger the pain made no sense, it just hurt. It hurt so tremendously that pain outweighed any type of pleasure and I felt as if I’d suffocate beneath it as it was a stifling and ever present, debilitating nightmare I woke with and dreamt of every day, every second of my life. I felt it would last forever, never realizing that life itself was temporary.

I am one who searches for reason. A logical explanation was nowhere to be found. I hurt myself physically to put a face on the pain inside. I tried to take my own life once or twice. But, when I was given the charge of taking care for these defenseless young souls, all became clear and my pain washed away in bits and pieces. Their birth was a baptism of sorts for me. My sins and the sins of all of the others that had stained my skin for decades detached one by one and floated away with the current in a river, fresh and clear.

I wasn’t able to quit living, even in my darkest times. I would attempt to meet my end and immediately regret it. I saved my own life a few times. I somehow knew there was more ahead of me. I somehow knew my time in this realm was not yet over. I somehow knew there was a job to do and hope for me to fulfill my purpose someday. In those indescribable inklings I found hope. Hope. It’s a powerful thing.

I think my searching for explanations for the tragedy and trauma was what kept me in such incredible pain. I needed answers and solutions and was constantly frustrated with the lack of justice and fairness. Living in that mentality kept me lost and lonely. I was living inside of the moments that tormented me, unable to move forward and heal.

I realized something when necessity for triumph found me. I realized something that changed my life.

All of the years of dwelling and depression, searching for a savior and waiting for someone to pay for what they’d done, I was allowing them to hurt me continually. What they had done had lasted only a few hours of my life in total. Once they finished, their part in the damage was done. Though their deeds were dirty, all of the years of terrible pain that followed was something I was causing myself. I was allowing my abusers to abuse me everyday, over and over again, every minute of my life by refusing to let it go.

I set myself free, not needing an explanation or repayment. I let myself live when I decided to move on.

I will never give up on myself or my life again because now I have realized my power and have gained the humility to also recognize and conquer my weaknesses, turning them into assets and character strengthening traits.

I will not quit. I may falter and I may fall, but I can’t stay down. My Higher Power sent me down this path, one that required no outside salvation. When I search for my heroes inside of my memory, the one most frequently seen is the one that appears in the mirror before me because she made the decision to gwt up and go on.

I won’t give up. It does no good. Brief rests are taken during the struggles and I see myself sitting on a log in the forest, climbing a mountain trail during those times. But the climb continues, always. I won’t lay down and die just to pass whatever pain I feel on to those who love me.

I will never give up. I will never lose hope. As long as I have the breath in my lungs and the ability to breath it, I will continue on.

Losing a mother.

May 17, 2016Cancer, Coping skills, Death, Essay, Grief, Inspiration, Parenting, RelationshipsHycaeit

I’ve never experienced pain like I felt when I lost my mother. People who haven’t experienced it will not understand until they feel it themselves.

A mother is special. A mother is irreplaceable. That bond. There is nothing to compare to it.

I knew my mother before I was born. She is deeply set in my memories. Her heartbeat and muddled voice were the first sounds my developing mind ever heard. She held me in her belly before anyone had the chance to place me in their arms. She was the only familiar one I met when entering into my new life. The only one that needed no introduction. The only one I had ALWAYS known.

It was her voice singing me lullabies. Her face peering into my crib hour after hour, night after night. She woke repeatedly to feed me, change me, bring me comfort if she could figure out how.

I was a fussy baby so this bond was very strong because she had to spend extra time holding, bouncing, swaying, rocking, singing, patting, burping, feeding, smiling, crying, breathing calmly while she wept furiously in exhaustion so I wouldn’t sense her fear.

She continued to grow in patience, strength, and love as I grew in inches, pounds, and feet. No matter where I wandered or wondered, her watchful heart was with me. No matter what I said or did, she loved me openly, loudly, without conditions.

She was the one who did the most so she was the one who took the most blame. When my rowdy teenage years hit, this woman who was in charge of figuring me out, well, she just couldn’t. So, of course, in my desperate state, I blamed her. I blamed her for not fixing me. I blamed her because I was broken though she tried every possible thing to mend my broken heart.

I couldn’t see how much love was in every gentle nudge and hard shove that led me in the right direction until I became a mother myself. Looking down at my baby who was crying in that crib, I’d wondered if she felt the same. The overwhelming amount of affection and protection that are born in a mother when given a child to care for. She had it, I have it, we bonded again. This time as mother’s, the two of us.

Then I moved away to try to keep my family together, for the first time my hard heart missed someone. Not my hero, my daddy. Not my best friend, my sister. But the woman I was just starting to know as she really was. My mother. I missed my mother.

I remember the first time that missing someone brought me to tears. I got sick and used chest rub and the smell overwhelmed me. Euphoric recall of some sort set in. I felt like a child. I remembered the soothing sense that came as my mother rubbed it on my chest and sang over my bed. I finally missed her. I finally knew her. I finally appreciated her as ALL of the memories flooded in.

Then the bad news came. I was desperate to keep her. Desperate to be with her. It just wasn’t possible. They said she had 6 months. I was on my way to the airport. She died before we got on the plane.

I felt shame and guilt like never before. Impossible for my softened heart to bear. I felt like I’d hurt her. I owed her my LIFE, literally. I was supposed to be there. All of the years I had struggled while blocking out her voice must have felt like torture.

I heard that as she lay dying she hallucinated about me. About myself and my children being in that room. That thought killed me inside knowing how badly she wanted me and sadly, I wasn’t there. Later on, I reflected, I felt grateful for her imaginings. To her, we really were there.

The most powerful thing I inherited from my mother was not money. I got her fire and strength. And as I battle real demons, as I fight for my own, I intend to use it. Without hesitation.

She’s with me when I need her still. Butterflies and red birds appear every time I feel weak. Every lesson she taught me flooded back to me.

Her words have been uncovered, once buried in my subconscious, no longer lost under resentments and fear.

I miss her every day. I will never be able to thank her. No one with a great mom can truly repay what’s been freely offered. The sacrifices, the hours, the damage to her body, the exhaustion on her spirit, I cannot repay. But, I can do my best to be as loving as she was with my babies whom she loved as much as she loved me.

I’ll repay her by being the woman she raised me to be. I’ll repay her by making her proud one more time by being her reflection, using the lessons and gifts she gave me to make the lives of her grandchildren great. By making the life of her baby girl great. By being happy, joyous, and free as I was when she rocked me in her arms as a child. Because, as a mother I know, that is our one greatest desire. For our children to be whole and happy as I finally am. Because of her.

Even as I sit here now without her I realize, she gave me everything I need. She protected me by teaching me how to protect myself and anyone else that I feel needs protection. I suppose she did as I have done. Whispering promises into an infants ears. I won’t fail because of her. She never failed me.

I was crying on the steps as a blue bird came near. Honestly. It sat close by. Closer than a wild bird should. It looked at me. It stayed still. Then I smiled and said, “I love you” outloud. THAT is when it flew away.

Thank you, Momma.

Darker than the darkness

May 15, 2016Abuse, Coping skills, Empowerment, Essay, Inspiration, Poetry, Relationships, TraumaHycaeit

Silence woke me today. The darkness became even darker and jolted me from my sleep. I looked outward, pillow in my peripheral, still and silent. Afraid to move.

The feeling of oppression lingers. Heaviness that labors my breathing lays atop my chest. It feels like my heart is barely beating at times, then it begins thumping wildly. It’s about to burst. I can hear it pounding in my ear drums. I can feel it’s frightened rhythm banging on my brain.

There’s a shadow in the pitch black and it stares at me. I feel it and wonder when she’ll leave me as I lay petrified there, in shock.

I recognize her essence, lonely-dark and angry. She’s fearful, lost, and worthless. Broken without bandage.

Her eyes, they never open, though they’ve seen it all. All terrifying, awful-dark. Like a black hole absorbing light.

She’s trapped within her memories. Too afraid to peer past the lids of her eyes. Afraid to make any more.

So much evil from out there has entered her. Her hatred can’t be contained. She doesn’t want to hurt anyone but unfathomable cruelty left ugly stains on her, inside of her tiny soul.

She’s confused and locked inside that space. Desperate for freedom but unfamiliar with it. She wonders if what she is used to might be safer than the new place.

I’d like to tell her what sunshine feels like when it rests upon her shoulders but I can’t explain her out of there. She’s hiding for a reason. We’re all liars who can’t be trusted. We’re dangerous and she’s afraid.

We need to stay away from her so she can learn to break the shadows that swallowed her. They’ve been chewing her up but she’s one to savor. There’s no gulping her down as she keeps changing flavors. She won’t give up her fight.

I could never leave her there, but over time she’s needed less of me. As I grew she used my energy. She stepped back and further away. Wishing me the best as the distance grew between us. I’ll never say goodbye. I refuse to chase her away.

Her presence still alarms me as she appears inside these desperate nights. But, now her visits are brief and haunting, meant to remind me of things inside of me that I left behind and despise.

She’s going to be hiding in that corner, in my shadow as I walk away. But, I’ve outgrown the need for her company, and she sees her future in what I have become while she’s visiting from that other plane. Her view of me now may be the only reason that I never did give up.

I’m sad when I see her over there. I’m afraid I’ll let her in. But she doesn’t claw at my feet anymore or beg for me to hold her. She doesn’t cry when I won’t pick her up and allow her to cling to my skin.

I think she’s here tonight so I’ll remember. A warning. A memory. A ghost that lives beside me.

Beside me, outside of me, resides with me, alongside of me. No longer inside of me where she doesn’t belong.

That shadow, darker than black, that used to rush toward me. She stands still now sending me forceful feelings but no longer impresses, only refreshes the stalwart soul we share.

I still want her to open her eyes so that I can see the gray and green in them, but history and this story would change completely if she did. We like how it is here now.

Even with her lingering there, longing, lonely, and lost. We like it here, with her sightless gaze upon me, wordless. She’s too sleepy for those but her exhaustion never applied to her emotions. They are effortlessly expressed between the two of us.

She’s quiet. My aura silenced her. My eyes closed as I felt hers opening. We smile together as I rock us both to sleep using the hope that we divide.

There she goes. Here I am. Neither of us know where we are headed. Only one of us knows where we’ve been. Both glean necessary strength from the other in weakness. Both living parallel and separate lives. Completely connected. Absolutely independent.

Now, I slip back into the space between awake and asleep where I am able to clearly see every part of me. I wish I could hold a pen in this place. I wish I could remember all I see before I fall in too far. But the feelings I gather while visiting there, they leave a lasting mark.

The dark little me in the corner and I, we’ll meet again, another day. She always sensed she was needed though she never knew by whom. Now she realizes clearly, though, as she falls back to sleep, here, in her room.