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Day to day thoughts and inspirations. |
| A place for me to unwind and cut loose to set the monster's of my mind free. |
| As I watch things withering away before me I am left to wonder "What is my purpose in this crazy world?" So many suggestions are being thrown at me, write a sequel to a book that I wrote four years ago, get a job, do public relations work in barter for family therapy services, start a small business revolving around my crafting abilities. None of the above are fixing the current mess that I'm in though. My husband's love for me all but gone, his lack of understanding of my diagnosis, or mis-diagnosis, depending on who you speak with. Some days it seems like my life is propelled by trauma. Yet, I don't want to live like this forever, always hurting. No, the pain isn't inflicted as a physical pain, it is emotional, which then manifests itself into headaches, stomach aches, and pure hatred for those inflicting the hurtful phrases. Help? Is there such a thing for being referred to a "worthless" and then told to get over it when it comes up later in conversation? The court has apologized as they told me they are sure my life is hell, but they can't grant a restraining order based on the emotional beat down of an individual. Divorce? Sure, but he holds the finances and won't allow me the money to file, because the problem isn't him, it's my diagnosis. How can I move forward with life as I spin my wheels looking at the "Blue Eyed Betrayal"  ? |
| This week we discussed goals. This isn’t really a novel concept, but it helped to open my mind to something more than past pains. The conversation, led by Michelle, took a turn though, “What do you need to let go of to reach your goals?” “Let go of?” I wondered, what I need to let go of to get away from past pain. Realizing the most important is to rid myself of people that are disrespectful toward me. Slowly, I etched the pains that I needed to let go of onto small pieces of construction paper. The memories ran down my cheeks in the form of tears, I could feel the pain, and I felt it fully. The past is my foe, and it has been hurting me for years, but not nearly as much as it hurt writing them out and seeing them in living color. “Now,” Michelle said, “I want you to tear them up. Tear them up into tiny pieces.” I did so, with a cathartic vigor. The muscles in my body were extremely tense as I tore them up, obliterating the past pains. Michelle led me to the blender partially filled with water, “Put the pieces in, and pick some other items to place in there with them.” I was careful in my selection of pretties to add, first and foremost being small pieces of “angel wings.” A perfect addition to helping me through this trying moment. I also added some sparkle, I wasn’t sure where this was going, but I knew that I needed pretty in my life. Michelle touched a button to start the motor of the blender, and my tears turned to a smile as I watched the whirring blades eat at my aching heart. And then, she asked me to pour the thick, pulpy mixture into a screen. With relaxed muscles I spread the mixture with a sponge, squeezing the water out, and watching the pretty, homemade, recycled paper emerge. It’s true, from pain and ugly, beauty can shine past and create something new and amazing. |
| “Where are you in terms of spirituality?” Dr. Donna asked the group. I thought for a moment, “I believe that there is something bigger than all of us out there, but I don’t think He is there for me. If He were there for me, He wouldn’t allow such horrible things to have happened in my past. I was taught that you can listen and hear His voice, but I never have heard Him; if I can’t hear Him, then He must not exist.” Dr. Donna understood my questioning the Holy Spirit, and never tried to change my mind. Her silence and acceptance of my stand allowed me to share an experience that I once had: It was the early morning hours of February 3, 2001. I had just put my eight and a half month old daughter into her crib and quietly climbed into bed next to my slumbering husband. My eyes were barely shut when my infant daughter began to cry, just like she did whenever she wasn’t in my arms. With a big sigh I returned to her crib, pulled her into my arms, and snuggled her close. And then, I returned to my bed and placed her between my husband and me so that she could nurse as we slept. The bed began to shake as my husband rolled over in a huff, “I can’t sleep when you put her in bed with us,” he yelled. I tumbled from under the sheets, pulled on a robe, and gathering my daughter I stood to exit the room. The bed clothes rustled behind me and suddenly I was being yanked backwards from the collar of my robe, “Don’t you walk away from me when I’m talking,” he shouted. Desperately I tried to explain that I was merely trying to go to the living room so that he could return to sleeping. My words fell on deaf ears as I sat our daughter down and took yet another beating. In the melee my night clothes were ripped from my body, and my daughter stolen from my arms. Every fiber of my being ached as I felt him physically slam my body into the bedroom door. I was hanging on the end of his hands, as they grasped my throat. I felt the air being removed from my body and I struggled to let more air in, and as my body went limp I noticed a separation of my physical body and my soul. Maybe I am dead, I thought, maybe the journey of devastating pain has finally ended. My soul seemed to leave my body, to sit upon the dresser and watch as he continued to beat on my lifeless physical body. A shimmering being of white robes joined me at the dresser, “You have to fight back,” this strange, yet beautiful being told me. Instead of fighting, I glided through our tiny trailer and told each of our children; his, mine and ours, “Goodbye,” for what I assumed would be the last time. As I kissed each of them in their sleep I noted that I didn’t feel an ounce of pain from the beating I just took. I returned to my lifeless body, just in time to see him draw back his foot and kick me again. Suddenly I felt every ounce of physical pain of the beating I was suffering. Dr. Donna’s eyes softened, “You had a near death experience.” “I don’t know,” I said, “when I do talk about that experience I am always told it is disassociation.” “But, you heard His voice, he was telling you to fight back. He told you it wasn’t your time just yet.” Her words validated my thoughts, and for the first time in my life I felt close to God. He really does exist, and He is the reason I am still here, He knows I am destined for some sort of greatness, which He is orchestrating from somewhere within my very soul. |
| The morning was dismal, clouds were blocking the sun and darkness seemed to stretch from West Michigan into oblivion. A big part of me didn't want to go to equine therapy, but another part of me was pressing forward with my agenda to heal. As we walked into the barn I immediately began to feel the tears putting pressure on my eyes. No, don't cry, not today, but it was too late. The safety and security that allowed my healing inside of the barn became too much to fight. Turning to the doctor I said, "I don't know what it is, but this building makes me cry." I saw her understanding portrayed in her eyes, "Are you feeling pained?" "Yes, very much so." "Feel that pain, feel it fully, and let it go. Go ahead and cry, you are safe." Then she had me write down a list of my emotions. As I was grooming Traveler I mentally went through the list and added a few more, then I taped them to Traveler's back and asked him to carry the load for me. This week, when Traveler walked away from me I felt no pain or worthlessness, I just knew that he was pulling my load and allowing me to accept and deal with the past. With Traveler helping me I know that I can fully experience the pain and suffering of the past to open a brighter, better future. |
| Standing by Traveler I realized the size of the horse, and the amazing power that he possesses. Carefully I brushed him with a scrub brush, as I took a softer brush I began to smooth his face as he started to chew. “That’s it,” the doctor said, “he is telling you that he is comfortable. Look into his eye, get lost in it.” And, there I was, noticing my reflection in his deep brown eyes. He looked away, forcing me to stoop slightly to catch and hold the eye contact again. I stood there, feeling a burden being pressed upon my soul. I’ve never let anyone get this in touch with me, I had forgotten my barrier, my titanium wall, I was open to this horse, and it was damn scary. Traveler and I stood for a while, as I saw in his eyes, all that he could see in mine. The pain, the torture of years of hiding, of secreting away the aches. He turned to go, “How does that make you feel? Have people walked away from you in your life?” “Yes, it’s part of my life, it hurts, but it’s nothing new.” “Why do you thing people walk away from you?” she questioned. “Because I am worthless,” and the tears revolutionized the pain. “Wow,” she said, “wow!” Traveler returned to my side, and I knew that things were different this time, it was my decision to walk away, or to ask him to help me heal. “Traveler, help me with this heavy load?” I asked of this horse that isn’t supposed to understand, and again our eyes met. I began to feel an opening inside my mind and heart … and it was as if Traveler was unburdening me. The tears enveloped my eyes as I tried to catch them with a tissue. The task seemed best met with more tissues than were at hand, so I gave up and allowed myself to feel the pain be stolen from me by my new best friend. “Look,” the doctor pointed out, “look at the other animals.” Three other animals had moved closer to me in a protective circle as I opened my life’s pain catapulting it into oblivion with the help of a few animals. I may have forgotten my titanium wall, but even if I didn’t, I have a sneaky feeling that those animals were determined to help me heal. And, so, the journey will continue. |
| So, she is gone, as of last night she is deceased, the inspiration for my character ("Invalid Entry" ) is no longer with us. Some may say, go ahead, write the story anyway, but I don't have it in me. How can I write about her when my best friend just died? It was supposed to be a happy story, a fun story, but I just don't have it in me. As I slide the character sketch into the darkest recesses of my mind and desk I wonder ... what will life be like without her? We were in the middle of planning a writer's camping retreat, just she and I, and now I have no one to join me in the quiet of the woods along a rushing river. What could be worse than this? I know the answer, what her family must endure as they adjust to life without her. She was a special kind of girl, and as we all are, she was taken too soon. I have left her email to me about her pending camping trip in my inbox, a due reminder of leaving behind unfinished business. A light for me to remember to stay motivated, even if it means switching gears to do so. |
| I have a to-do list a mile long; since I started a new job I'm at a loss as to how my time is to be spent when I'm not working. This is good, this is great, this is flipping amazing. Sure, I'm not using my degree, and I'm making half as much as I was making four years ago, but I'm a WORKING GIRL! The irony of this situation is that for the past four years I have been struggling with an invisible disorder; even going as far as applying for disability. Once I applied for permission to suffer it became an internal race, I needed to become an employed member of society prior to the disability determination. I signed the paperwork on Wednesday, May 13, and on Friday, May 15th I received a letter that I need to turn in some forms before the decision can be made for disability. So, rather than mess with all of that hassle, I get to call them and say, "Throw my claim out, throw it all away!" I can do this, I know that I can. Sure, my claim to disability is in trying to keep a job, because often the stress takes me beyond where my mind, body, and soul can tolerate, and for a part-timer, scoring 38 hours in a week! But it's all good. I never thought that I could be so proud to be a Sandwich Artist, but I have overcome so many trials and tribulations that I'm not bothered by my title, or hourly wage. I'm proof that I can fight my illness and win! Now, on to the list, "Invalid Item" here I come, be prepared to grow considerably over the next couple of days! |
| I'm completely baffled. So I'm working on a character sketch, and my daughter is tossing ideas in my direction. I am catching the thoughts that ring bells in my mind. she's psychic, had some hard knocks in life, she's a dreamer. Reading over my work I discover that this character fits very closely to a friend of mine, a close writer friend. As I re-read the item for the tenth time my phone alerts me to a text message, my friend is in the hospital. Four hours later I am standing over her bed, watching life support do the jobs that her body can't. I've never experienced this, and I don't want to, but here I am. Now, I am back at writing the character sketch and first vignette, and I'm frozen. What if she doesn't make it? Am I doing her an injustice by making my character with several likenesses to her? If she doesn't make it, we can no longer share our writings with each other, our dreams, our solitudes, and our planned camping trip this summer. Deep down, even though she can't respond, I'm certain she wants me to continue; and the irony of it all would not be lost on her. Hold tight to those you love, and never give up, because you never know when they will be forever away. |
| "I can't get there from here." I never thought I would say that, but with the sale of Dad's house my childhood is merely a memory. Yes, I have a home, but it's not my home, it's not the home I grew up in, or the one I lived in when two of my five children were born. It isn't the home I run to when I need guidance in my insane life. The home I have now is where I built my family, but it's still not the same. With a heavy heart I feel burdened with pain, I didn't even get to say goodbye before it sold. That was a choice I had to make, because the home I know is 800 miles from my house. I have pictures, but it's just not the same. Even so, one thing is certain, memories last forever, and as I'm learning, homes do not. I'm going to miss those four walls that encapsulated so much of my life, but I still have Dad to remember those walls with me. |
| Just recently my daughter asked if I still have a “thing” for my first love. I hesitated for a moment before responding, “Yes and no.” “It is a yes or no question,” my 14 year old daughter responded. “No,” I said, “because the answer is all inclusive. As far as I'm concerned you never stop loving a person, but that level of love changes.” “Are you saying you would leave Dad if your first love showed up and asked you to enter a new relationship?” Tossing my head back to flip my hair out of my face I took the extra seconds to calculate what I had to say, “No, I'm quite happy with my life as it is, and I'm certain so is my first love. I have found the perfect man to spend the remainder of my days with, but I will never forget my first love, and will always care about him in a deeper manner than I have for other relationships.” “What makes your first any different from your second, or subsequent relationships?” “Respect, love, the ability to cherish, his arms being a safety net in a world of trauma; he was my hero.” “And now?” she asked. “Hero status doesn't disappear. He taught me how to love me, that I was in fact worthy of love. My parents didn't think I was old enough to have a boyfriend, so we had stolen moments. I thought it was love on both sides, maybe it was just lust on his behalf, but either way, he gave me gifts no one else could.” She glared at me, “Mom, what kind of gifts could he have given you? How did you keep those gifts if you weren't supposed to have a boyfriend?” “Caring, respect for others, friendship, worthiness, strength, and love of human touch. Those gifts can't be seen by others. Those gifts are what takes a friend and makes them a life-time hero.” “This is for sex education, so I have to ask; did you have sex with him.” “Yes.” “Whew,” she exclaimed, “that's the end of the interview. I'm just glad they don't ask for more details!” Maybe it was done for her, but it sent me on to a roller coaster of memories. The first time I saw him, the disappointment when his friend asked me out instead of him. The turmoil I felt when my gut instinct of his friend proved correct and I had to break up with him; I was more afraid of losing my first love rather than his buddy that I was dating. The time we played football, he tackled me and then led me to his living room, a temporary bedroom for him. The house was silent as we explored each other. Or the time we skipped school and did things we shouldn't have done, but again, it was a gift that no one could steal from us. Or, the time he walked away for the last time and my heart shattered into a million slivers at my feet. Neither of us said that it was over, but I knew it was the end of an emotional era I would miss forever. Yeah, I still care deeply for him, but I also care deeply for my husband. This is what I learned from my hero, to love yourself as much as you love another, maybe even loving yourself a bit more. My hero was a ship, that took me off an island full of trauma and self-hatred. I wouldn't ask for one more thing from him, because he built me up for future failures, and gave me something to look for in the man lucky enough to land with me for life. |
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