I was going to use today to post about rules, but, I think I will also go into the routines that we had since they are all closely tied together.
We got up at 6 every morning. We had until 7:15 to be ready to go downstairs. That meant that we had to fight for the showers, blow dry hair, get dressed and get our rooms cleaned.
Our rooms were required to be immaculate at all times, and they never cut us an ounce of slack on it. Beds made, the clothes in our lockers shelves had to be lined up flush with the edge of the shelves as well as with each other. The clothes that hung had to be neat and orderly.
Getting a shower could be a real pain and it seemed that no matter how early I got up, for about the first two years of my life there I was always the last one allowed in. Of course, I was also too small and afraid to stand up for myself, but there was a good reason for that, we’ll get to that later too.
Once we were ready we would line up in front of the door that leads to the main hallway. We were not allowed to open it because our door had an alarm on it that resounded throughout the entire building.
After filing downstairs we would go by the window of the kitchen and pick up our food. If you were lucky, you got kitchen duty and then you could hang out with the cook. The only cook I remember the name of was Jimmy and man that guy rocked. He used to take us outside the door right next to the kitchen and let us smoke with him.
We would move into the dining room which, was had eight picnic style tables that we all crowded around to eat. Once we were done, we dumped our tray and moved over to one of the two couches that sat on the far end of the dining room around a small television. The only one in the entire building.
Once everyone was finished eating, which, we had to be by 745 we would head into the classrooms. Here we learned everything a blossoming teenager needed to know.
We didn’t really have authentic teachers, rather, just more staff members who acted as teachers. Still, we had books and I enjoyed learning even then.
At some point during our day, yes, every day, we would be pulled out one by one for our therapy sessions.
At 1215 we would line back up and grab our lunch.
School was over by 430 and at that we set about doing our chores. Cleaning the bathrooms, vacuuming the hallways and stairway. It never took long because there were so many of us and then we would be herded into the Rec Room for a bit of relaxation time. Twice a week, those of us who had been raped or sexually assaulted went in for group therapy.
After Rec time we would again line up for dinner, which was served by 530 sharp, never late, never early. After dinner, which ended at 615 we would go into the Rec Room and hang out for roughly an hour. This was the point where most people got into trouble.
I recall heading upstairs around 730 where we would go to our rooms and get ready for bed and then spend the next hour and half hanging out in the dorm hallways. Lights out was 900.
Our behavior was measured in levels. There was “trust”, “honor” and “graduate”. Each level had 4 weeks to it and we had to carry cards around with us at all times for the staff members to mark at the end of each activity. Your card clearly marked your level and your week up at the top such as Trust Week 1, and so forth.
Each level gave you more privileges. If you reached Honors, you were able to keep a radio in your room and since chores were picked from highest ranking to lowest, you did well to obtain higher levels.
This was so hard to do though because it consisted of many things. Chores had to be done perfectly the first time. You had to participate in therapy to the satisfaction of the therapist. Of course, you could not swear or fight or any of the other mundane rules that normally accompany such a place. If at any time a staff member felt that we were not up to our potent ional at a task, they would write on the back of our cards. They went over them at the end of the week to decide if we were worthy of moving up.
The lowest level was “Probation” which meant you had a serious infraction. Running away, fighting, outright refusal to obey an order, getting restrained, getting caught with contraband were just a few of the many things that got you knocked down to probation immediately.
The first three days of probation were the hardest. All students were forbidden to talk to you and getting caught doing so was an infraction. You lost all privileges and had to sit alone for meals.
I don’t remember all of the little rules, or even all of the little things that came with each level of the point system. It wasn’t very often that anyone got to Honors let alone Graduate.
I did do it though and, that set of a chain of events that made me realize how dependant I had become on living in this kind of environment.
TW: Abuse/SA/Language/Suicide/Death A place to put down my thoughts about my past and current place to deal with my trauma and healing.
Monday, October 31, 2005
Friday, October 28, 2005
The Upper Floor
Heading upstairs was like moving into another world. Whereas the downstairs was a place of quietness, other then our Rec Room, the upstairs was full of loud voice, laughter, the occasional shout from a staff member to pipe down.
The first door that you came to, was another office. This consisted of one desk, two chairs and two large metal cabinets that housed files and medication. It also housed the alarm system for the entire building.
Right across from this was another room. When I first came, it was actually a bedroom that contained 4 boys. After a while, they decided that 4 angry teenage boys all together in one room was just too much so they converted it into a punishment room of sorts. I’ll go more into that later.
In addition to this, there were three more doors on that side of the wall that housed the boys.
There was a single door on the other side, about halfway down the hallway that led to the girl’s dorm. That meant that it was a massive wooden door that opened up and you had to actually go inside in order to access our rooms.
When you stepped through this door, you were facing one of the bedrooms; on your right was bathroom that had 4 stalls and 4 showers; on your left was a short hallway that led to two more rooms.
I would eventually end up living in all of these rooms at some point, but, I started out in the middle room.
Now, each of the rooms were different, by quite a bit. Size and setup played a big part in this difference. However, there were some things that were standard.
The windows were one of those standard things. Every single room upstairs, with the exception of the office had windows that faced outside. The biggest room had 4 and the smallest room had 3. The windows, in whole, were huge. Eventually I will get to posting pictures, when I find them, but, for now I will try to describe it.
There were two portions to the windows. Top portion was huge plate glass that was about 6 feet in height, the bottom part was maybe a foot and a half, but, then again, that is just a rough number and I really suck at measurements. The lower portion of the windows could open. You just had to have a crank, which, we didn’t because they had all been removed. You know the ones I’m talking about, you turn them and the window slowly creaks open.
From the outside, all the windows looked like upside down crosses. That always struck me as sick humor since the building used to be a church. None of the windows had any kind of coverings on them.
Also inside each of the rooms, each student had a “locker”. They were made of wood and painted white. There were no doors on them, open completely. As you looked at them, there were 4 shelves on the left and the right had a closet bar with a longer shelf just above that.
We each had a single bed and for the life of me I can’t remember what color the bedspreads were, but they were all the same.
The best thing that I can recall about the rooms was the window sills. Each window had them and we always put our stuff that didn’t fit in our lockers there, neatly of course.
That was one of the many rules that we had. Which, I will go into in my post for tomarrow.
The first door that you came to, was another office. This consisted of one desk, two chairs and two large metal cabinets that housed files and medication. It also housed the alarm system for the entire building.
Right across from this was another room. When I first came, it was actually a bedroom that contained 4 boys. After a while, they decided that 4 angry teenage boys all together in one room was just too much so they converted it into a punishment room of sorts. I’ll go more into that later.
In addition to this, there were three more doors on that side of the wall that housed the boys.
There was a single door on the other side, about halfway down the hallway that led to the girl’s dorm. That meant that it was a massive wooden door that opened up and you had to actually go inside in order to access our rooms.
When you stepped through this door, you were facing one of the bedrooms; on your right was bathroom that had 4 stalls and 4 showers; on your left was a short hallway that led to two more rooms.
I would eventually end up living in all of these rooms at some point, but, I started out in the middle room.
Now, each of the rooms were different, by quite a bit. Size and setup played a big part in this difference. However, there were some things that were standard.
The windows were one of those standard things. Every single room upstairs, with the exception of the office had windows that faced outside. The biggest room had 4 and the smallest room had 3. The windows, in whole, were huge. Eventually I will get to posting pictures, when I find them, but, for now I will try to describe it.
There were two portions to the windows. Top portion was huge plate glass that was about 6 feet in height, the bottom part was maybe a foot and a half, but, then again, that is just a rough number and I really suck at measurements. The lower portion of the windows could open. You just had to have a crank, which, we didn’t because they had all been removed. You know the ones I’m talking about, you turn them and the window slowly creaks open.
From the outside, all the windows looked like upside down crosses. That always struck me as sick humor since the building used to be a church. None of the windows had any kind of coverings on them.
Also inside each of the rooms, each student had a “locker”. They were made of wood and painted white. There were no doors on them, open completely. As you looked at them, there were 4 shelves on the left and the right had a closet bar with a longer shelf just above that.
We each had a single bed and for the life of me I can’t remember what color the bedspreads were, but they were all the same.
The best thing that I can recall about the rooms was the window sills. Each window had them and we always put our stuff that didn’t fit in our lockers there, neatly of course.
That was one of the many rules that we had. Which, I will go into in my post for tomarrow.
Thursday, October 27, 2005
The Bottom Floor
Western Academy. Two words that left a major impact on my life. This was not your typical lock down facility. It was a “Residential Child Care Facility” or RCCF as I will refer to it later if need be.
To say I was unique is an understatement. Not only was I the youngest student to have ever gone there, being only 10 years old at the time of my arrival, but, I spent more time there then any student before or after. Almost 6 years of my life. Also, I was the only student who lived there who had not been in trouble with the law.
I can’t be bothered to make up names and trying to remember what all of the codenames would be. There were a lot of people that lived there with me over those six years and I am sure that I will not be able to tell it in chronological order either, but, it is the stories that matter rather then the timeline.
Living at Western Academy, time seemed to have no meaning. It was one day after the other.
How they managed to convince anyone that turning an old church into a RCCF is beyond me, but they did it and, it wasn’t so bad, at least, not as far as I was concerned.
Downstairs, as you entered the building from the front, was a couch and a couple of plants. Straight ahead was a stairwell that disappeared upstairs and an office that was tucked back and to the left side of the stairwell. The office belonged to Clair and Bill, they were the owners, though very very seldom there. It was always a treat, at least for me, to have them there as I adored them almost instantly.
Immediately to the left of the entrance, was a door that led to an office. This was John’s office and he was head of operations. Not the owner, but, the man in charge. A few steps past this was a hallway to the left and a huge set of doors to the right.
Beyond those doors was my favorite place in the whole world. At least, it was when I was 10 years old. We called it “The Rec Room” which of course was short for Recreation. The moment you step in there was a hard green floor. Not tile, but, a flat all one piece green floor. Separating two sides of the room was a volleyball net. Further in was a pool table and not far beyond that was a stage. This was used as a podium obviously because just behind it was a boarded off area that, even in my time, held the baptismal font. On either side of the stage were doors that when opened up, held a storage area and a set of stairs that led into this baptismal font. The doors were kept locked almost all the time. The left side contained our sports equipment, as well as the pool sticks.
If we were in the Rec Room, there was a volleyball game going, a pool game going, and those who were involved in neither were settled up on the stage having whispered conversations or writing letters usually.
Once you step back out of the doors leading into the Rec Room, you are facing a long hallway. If you go down this hallway you will encounter the main office on the left and directly across from that was the counselor’s office. They shared an office and at any moment of the day there was someone in there having all the problems of their little world solved.
Right next to that was the laundry area, one washer, one dryer. Next to that, a room that I became way to familiar with that we will explore later.
Continue down and you came to the first of two classrooms on the right hand side. Nothing fancy, simply a classroom with a chalkboard and individual desks set up in rows of 4 and columns of 3.
Turning left at this point would take you down another hallway that led to the bathrooms. At the end of this hallway, on the left was the kitchen and on the right was a doorway that led to dining room. If you kept going, you would wind up outside again.
If you continue on instead of turning left past the first classroom, you came to the second classroom, same setup as the first. A few feet farther was another doorway leading to the outside.
That was the extent of the lower floor of Western Academy. With the exception of the room between the laundry room and the first classroom.
That was the “The Time Out Room”. It, like most of the walls in the place, had brown paneled walls, and a greenish blue carpet. It had a massive oak door that creaked when I was shut and the sound echoed throughout the room. There was no handle on the inside, at all.
This is where they tossed us when they felt we were “out of control”. I can’t describe the helpless feeling of being forced into a room and having the creaking of the door echoing in the small chamber, knowing that I was in there until someone else decided for me to let me out.
I hated that room with a passion. Sometimes they would put people in there and leave the door open, but, more often then not, if you were in there, you were alone, closed off, and for added punishment, they would turn off the lights and you would be left in the darkness with only your thoughts.
Have I also mentioned that I am also claustrophobic? Is this a coincidence? I do not think that it is.
I am tired of living my life suffering for the past. I know many people who have had it worse then me, if you haven’t, you should check out the links on my page and read some of their stories. They have turned out with happy lives, full of love and laughter. I need to find a way to do this and I am hoping by exploring all of this, putting it down where I can look back and see the things that were done to me, see how they effected me, I can change how I look at this, and how I let them effect me. I am tired of living in fear from the shadows and darkness. I am ready to battle it head on.
To say I was unique is an understatement. Not only was I the youngest student to have ever gone there, being only 10 years old at the time of my arrival, but, I spent more time there then any student before or after. Almost 6 years of my life. Also, I was the only student who lived there who had not been in trouble with the law.
I can’t be bothered to make up names and trying to remember what all of the codenames would be. There were a lot of people that lived there with me over those six years and I am sure that I will not be able to tell it in chronological order either, but, it is the stories that matter rather then the timeline.
Living at Western Academy, time seemed to have no meaning. It was one day after the other.
How they managed to convince anyone that turning an old church into a RCCF is beyond me, but they did it and, it wasn’t so bad, at least, not as far as I was concerned.
Downstairs, as you entered the building from the front, was a couch and a couple of plants. Straight ahead was a stairwell that disappeared upstairs and an office that was tucked back and to the left side of the stairwell. The office belonged to Clair and Bill, they were the owners, though very very seldom there. It was always a treat, at least for me, to have them there as I adored them almost instantly.
Immediately to the left of the entrance, was a door that led to an office. This was John’s office and he was head of operations. Not the owner, but, the man in charge. A few steps past this was a hallway to the left and a huge set of doors to the right.
Beyond those doors was my favorite place in the whole world. At least, it was when I was 10 years old. We called it “The Rec Room” which of course was short for Recreation. The moment you step in there was a hard green floor. Not tile, but, a flat all one piece green floor. Separating two sides of the room was a volleyball net. Further in was a pool table and not far beyond that was a stage. This was used as a podium obviously because just behind it was a boarded off area that, even in my time, held the baptismal font. On either side of the stage were doors that when opened up, held a storage area and a set of stairs that led into this baptismal font. The doors were kept locked almost all the time. The left side contained our sports equipment, as well as the pool sticks.
If we were in the Rec Room, there was a volleyball game going, a pool game going, and those who were involved in neither were settled up on the stage having whispered conversations or writing letters usually.
Once you step back out of the doors leading into the Rec Room, you are facing a long hallway. If you go down this hallway you will encounter the main office on the left and directly across from that was the counselor’s office. They shared an office and at any moment of the day there was someone in there having all the problems of their little world solved.
Right next to that was the laundry area, one washer, one dryer. Next to that, a room that I became way to familiar with that we will explore later.
Continue down and you came to the first of two classrooms on the right hand side. Nothing fancy, simply a classroom with a chalkboard and individual desks set up in rows of 4 and columns of 3.
Turning left at this point would take you down another hallway that led to the bathrooms. At the end of this hallway, on the left was the kitchen and on the right was a doorway that led to dining room. If you kept going, you would wind up outside again.
If you continue on instead of turning left past the first classroom, you came to the second classroom, same setup as the first. A few feet farther was another doorway leading to the outside.
That was the extent of the lower floor of Western Academy. With the exception of the room between the laundry room and the first classroom.
That was the “The Time Out Room”. It, like most of the walls in the place, had brown paneled walls, and a greenish blue carpet. It had a massive oak door that creaked when I was shut and the sound echoed throughout the room. There was no handle on the inside, at all.
This is where they tossed us when they felt we were “out of control”. I can’t describe the helpless feeling of being forced into a room and having the creaking of the door echoing in the small chamber, knowing that I was in there until someone else decided for me to let me out.
I hated that room with a passion. Sometimes they would put people in there and leave the door open, but, more often then not, if you were in there, you were alone, closed off, and for added punishment, they would turn off the lights and you would be left in the darkness with only your thoughts.
Have I also mentioned that I am also claustrophobic? Is this a coincidence? I do not think that it is.
I am tired of living my life suffering for the past. I know many people who have had it worse then me, if you haven’t, you should check out the links on my page and read some of their stories. They have turned out with happy lives, full of love and laughter. I need to find a way to do this and I am hoping by exploring all of this, putting it down where I can look back and see the things that were done to me, see how they effected me, I can change how I look at this, and how I let them effect me. I am tired of living in fear from the shadows and darkness. I am ready to battle it head on.
The Past Begins
I want to go back to talk about BPI a bit more. This is the short name for the Psychiatric Hospital my mother dumped in that was in a previous post.
I really thought that I was done with it, but, over the last week I have thought a lot about what I wanted to post about and my train of thought led me back to this place and I made several startling discoveries.
I've always thought of it as a stepping block. This wasn't a place I spent a lot of time in. Matter of fact, I completed a 30 day evaluation and that was it. Just 30 days.
During those 30 days however, some things happened that I think now, set the building blocks for the foundation of my life.
I recall that they ran a lot of tests on me. I do mean a lot. Head scans, x-rays, blood work, along with all the regular tests that you think of when you think psychiatric testing.
Ink blot tests stand out in my mind. Other then that, not many do with this one exception.
It was late at night, perhaps even early morning, when a nurse came into my room and roused me from my sleep. In my tiredness I followed along pretty quietly, my eyes glancing around the empty hallways.
Her shoes made that click click sound as she walked and it echoed in the dimness. I had to squint to cut through the shadows to make sure no one was lurking there.
She led me over to a chair and instructed me to sit down. It was like one of those old fashioned school desks that have the swiveling arm. She pushed it in front of me and instructed me to place my arm on it and so I did and she tied the tirniquit.
I stared at the blue and white stripes on my standard issued pajamas and after a minute she pushed the desk arm away and laid my arm on my own lap, giving me stern orders not to move. I glared at her, simply because I had not moved in inch that she herself had not facilitated.
In went the needle and I watched the tube on the end. I was used to having my blood taken and knew that once the bottle began to fill up I was almost done. Only problem was, is that the tube was not filling up.
I shifted my gaze further down to the needle and I watched as she pressed harder into my arm, then harder still and I don't recall the words, but I know I mentioned that it hurt and she told me to shut up. After about 2 minutes of this the needle began to come out and I let out a relieved breath, only to suck it back in as she shoved it back in without ever fully pulling it out.
I watched the blood begin to trickle down my arm and I tried to pull my arm away and the woman hissed at me to hold still and gripped my arm with an iron grasp. The trickled turn into a steady stream and I began to panic.
The blood seeped down into the pajama bottoms creating a rather large circle and for a moment I stared at it in horrified awe as it spread out before I found my voice. A colorful string of words insulted her, though I think she was more pissed because I demanded that she stop and I had the nerve to suggest she didn't know what the hell she was doing.
This one single incident, has left me with a life long fear of needles. I don't mean just, I don't like needles kind of thing. I mean a deep fear of them that sends me nearly a panic every time I have to have blood drawn. I cry and shake horribly.
The second and third things are tied in with each other and even know I can't recall exactly how it all went.
I do recall running into my room and slamming the door shut. My roommate Lori looked at me as though I had lost my mind even as my frantic gaze moved around the room. The closet, no, too obvious, under the bed, again, to obvious. The desk though, under the desk isn't somewhere they would look and so I crammed myself under the desk.
This set another life long habit, one of hiding from bad things. For the next several years, this resulted in a literal manifestation. I would climb into cabinets under the sink, or in little cramped areas and spends hours there. It was my sanctuary. I felt safe. No one could find me. More then once they had to write up a runaway report and call the police. As an adult, I shut myself down, hiding within my own mind. Many times I will refuse to talk when I get upset, I hang my head and let my hair fall over my face to shield me from the world.
The third thing is tied in because when they finally did find me, they drug me out from under the desk and I fought and screamed and kicked back at them. In the end, the only way for them to settle the situation, was to let me go, or hold me down and I can assure you that a bunch of overpaid assholes were not about to let a little girl get away with screaming at them without some form of punishment. They must have held me down for a good three hours.
I was sweating and crying, fighting until my body just couldn’t fight anymore. This to has affected me as an adult. Many times when I begin to loose control Chris will try to take me into his arms. More often then not this results in me slapping him away. I can’t stand to be touched. I become furiously enraged.
Even during our playful times, if ever, I feel pinned, I get panicky and he has to stop or it results in me breaking down in tears. We’ve learned not to wrestle anymore.
This leads me to wonder. Is bi-polar genetic, or is it life circumstances? Had I grown up in a normal childhood, would I still be like this? Would I be able to have a normal life without the darkness always lingering? Would I feel like everyone is against me when all they want to do is help me and love me?
People are constantly telling me what a great family I have. How lucky I am and how perfect my life is. These are people I never let in, never let them see the darkness and I wonder what they would think of me if they knew.
Over the next couple of weeks, I am going to be delving into my life at Western Academy, which is where I lived from the time that I was 10 until I was almost 16. It is one of the most influential chunks of time in my life and I feel the need to go back and take a deep look into it.
There was a lot of bad stuff that happened, but, I can’t say that it is all bad. I found a lot of love within the confines of those old brick walls and sometimes, I find myself thinking about the people I lived with there, asking myself if they are all right, if they are happy now, if they have good lives. I may never know those answers, but, I think it will help to tell these stories.
I really thought that I was done with it, but, over the last week I have thought a lot about what I wanted to post about and my train of thought led me back to this place and I made several startling discoveries.
I've always thought of it as a stepping block. This wasn't a place I spent a lot of time in. Matter of fact, I completed a 30 day evaluation and that was it. Just 30 days.
During those 30 days however, some things happened that I think now, set the building blocks for the foundation of my life.
I recall that they ran a lot of tests on me. I do mean a lot. Head scans, x-rays, blood work, along with all the regular tests that you think of when you think psychiatric testing.
Ink blot tests stand out in my mind. Other then that, not many do with this one exception.
It was late at night, perhaps even early morning, when a nurse came into my room and roused me from my sleep. In my tiredness I followed along pretty quietly, my eyes glancing around the empty hallways.
Her shoes made that click click sound as she walked and it echoed in the dimness. I had to squint to cut through the shadows to make sure no one was lurking there.
She led me over to a chair and instructed me to sit down. It was like one of those old fashioned school desks that have the swiveling arm. She pushed it in front of me and instructed me to place my arm on it and so I did and she tied the tirniquit.
I stared at the blue and white stripes on my standard issued pajamas and after a minute she pushed the desk arm away and laid my arm on my own lap, giving me stern orders not to move. I glared at her, simply because I had not moved in inch that she herself had not facilitated.
In went the needle and I watched the tube on the end. I was used to having my blood taken and knew that once the bottle began to fill up I was almost done. Only problem was, is that the tube was not filling up.
I shifted my gaze further down to the needle and I watched as she pressed harder into my arm, then harder still and I don't recall the words, but I know I mentioned that it hurt and she told me to shut up. After about 2 minutes of this the needle began to come out and I let out a relieved breath, only to suck it back in as she shoved it back in without ever fully pulling it out.
I watched the blood begin to trickle down my arm and I tried to pull my arm away and the woman hissed at me to hold still and gripped my arm with an iron grasp. The trickled turn into a steady stream and I began to panic.
The blood seeped down into the pajama bottoms creating a rather large circle and for a moment I stared at it in horrified awe as it spread out before I found my voice. A colorful string of words insulted her, though I think she was more pissed because I demanded that she stop and I had the nerve to suggest she didn't know what the hell she was doing.
This one single incident, has left me with a life long fear of needles. I don't mean just, I don't like needles kind of thing. I mean a deep fear of them that sends me nearly a panic every time I have to have blood drawn. I cry and shake horribly.
The second and third things are tied in with each other and even know I can't recall exactly how it all went.
I do recall running into my room and slamming the door shut. My roommate Lori looked at me as though I had lost my mind even as my frantic gaze moved around the room. The closet, no, too obvious, under the bed, again, to obvious. The desk though, under the desk isn't somewhere they would look and so I crammed myself under the desk.
This set another life long habit, one of hiding from bad things. For the next several years, this resulted in a literal manifestation. I would climb into cabinets under the sink, or in little cramped areas and spends hours there. It was my sanctuary. I felt safe. No one could find me. More then once they had to write up a runaway report and call the police. As an adult, I shut myself down, hiding within my own mind. Many times I will refuse to talk when I get upset, I hang my head and let my hair fall over my face to shield me from the world.
The third thing is tied in because when they finally did find me, they drug me out from under the desk and I fought and screamed and kicked back at them. In the end, the only way for them to settle the situation, was to let me go, or hold me down and I can assure you that a bunch of overpaid assholes were not about to let a little girl get away with screaming at them without some form of punishment. They must have held me down for a good three hours.
I was sweating and crying, fighting until my body just couldn’t fight anymore. This to has affected me as an adult. Many times when I begin to loose control Chris will try to take me into his arms. More often then not this results in me slapping him away. I can’t stand to be touched. I become furiously enraged.
Even during our playful times, if ever, I feel pinned, I get panicky and he has to stop or it results in me breaking down in tears. We’ve learned not to wrestle anymore.
This leads me to wonder. Is bi-polar genetic, or is it life circumstances? Had I grown up in a normal childhood, would I still be like this? Would I be able to have a normal life without the darkness always lingering? Would I feel like everyone is against me when all they want to do is help me and love me?
People are constantly telling me what a great family I have. How lucky I am and how perfect my life is. These are people I never let in, never let them see the darkness and I wonder what they would think of me if they knew.
Over the next couple of weeks, I am going to be delving into my life at Western Academy, which is where I lived from the time that I was 10 until I was almost 16. It is one of the most influential chunks of time in my life and I feel the need to go back and take a deep look into it.
There was a lot of bad stuff that happened, but, I can’t say that it is all bad. I found a lot of love within the confines of those old brick walls and sometimes, I find myself thinking about the people I lived with there, asking myself if they are all right, if they are happy now, if they have good lives. I may never know those answers, but, I think it will help to tell these stories.
Saturday, October 22, 2005
A Good Deed Gone Bad
I used to work at a gas station. We had hotdogs but it wasn't an all night thing. I would close up and part of that was cleaning everything up. One night a young couple came in and just sort of stood there staring at the hotdogs counting some change between the two of them.
I knew instantly that they didn't have enough money for each of them to have one and when they approached the counter I smiled at him and placed my hand on my back, which, at this point in time was constantly in pain and I told him they could just have it. He shook his head and put the money on the counter.
I pushed it back towards him, realizing I was risking hurting his pride and I looked to the girl and said "I'll tell you what.. If you let me borrow your man for some quick manual labor you can have whatever you want from the hotdogs and I'll even throw in a couple of sodas."
She tossed him a look, obviously leaving it up to him and he sort of paused before he once more shook his head no. "Please, I have to fill the ice machine by hand and it seriously kills my back?" I put forth my best pleading tone and looked as pathetically as I could.
I'm not sure if it was hunger, or, my pleading look but he nodded and walked towards the back as I did and I directed him to the ice machine and bucket while she scooped the change off the counter.
They left after clearing out all the hotdogs and grabbing a fountain drink to share. They returned every night for almost a month.
It was long before I learned their names. Their story. At least, that's how it seemed to me.
My mother always said, and Chris says it now, that I have a thing for strays, not so much animals as people. I am always extending a hand out to those who are down.
The girl was only 22, she had two kids who had been taken by her mother and then her mother had decided to turn them over to the state. She was fighting for them in court, but things were hampered by the fact that they had no where to live.
He was a bit older, almost 30, and was looking for work. They had been living with some friends, but, one day while.. we'll call him Mike.. was at work.. the male friend they were staying with decided to push his luck with.. let's call her Tammy. When she refused, he started busting up the place and threw them out.
One night, a summer storm hit and they came in to the store dripping wet, looking like a pair of soggy kittens.
I didn't have any hot dogs left and in a moment of weakness, I asked them if they would like to come back to my house for a real meal and showers.
Kids were at my ex-husbands and my parents lived right next door. I wasn't too fearful.
They came in, ate, showered, we talked for a while, simple things about life. He offered to fix a door that I couldn't get to stay totally upright and she insisted on doing the dishes.
At this point in my life, I was a pretty lonely little girl. I had just walked out on my marriage and was working full time at the gas station. I had no friends, literally and this was before my days of internet or Chris. All I had was my family and my kids.
I brought out some blankets and they bunked down for the night.
I woke up to the smell of breakfast the next day. After the second day I sat down with them, realizing that if the man was going to get a job so that they could get themselves a place, he would need a place to shower, an address, and all natures of that sort.
I explained to them that my kids would be coming home, that they could bunk down on the floor if they wanted, and that my rules were simple. I don't party, no drugs, no drinking while my kids were there, and never hit one of my kids, not even for a spanking, that was my job.
They agreed and life went on.
My older brother was planning on getting married in June, in New York. I had long ago bought my plane ticket, a fact I was very proud of since I did it with my own money and for a single mom, it was quiet a feet. The day fast approaching I was a bit nervous because I had never left my children before. I was leaving them with my ex-husband though and he was even going to come stay at my house so that they would feel more comfortable, I was going to be gone for 10 days.
By this time, Mike and Tammy had been living with me for about 5 weeks. I had grown close to Tammy and Mike was awsome. He had found a job and was working long long hours. Since I worked and Tammy didn't she had decided her job was to be taking care of the house.
The day came to get in the car and drive to the airport to go to New York. I cried as I said goodbye to my babies and Tammy and Mike hugged me and reassured me that they would watch out for the kids too.
I wasn't too worried. That was back in the days where my ex was still trying to be my husband and actually tried to impress me. I was pretty sure that he wouldn't let anything happen to our babies. My younger brother would also be there for another week and he was more protective of the kids then my ex. I left with the confidance that they would be well looked after.
Indeed a week later my younger brother joined us and we attended the beautiful wedding of my older brother and began our journey back. We arrived back at the Salt Lake air terminal and my brother pulled me to the side.
His head bent low and his face flaming with shame he says "I need to tell you something" and I stared at him with my mouth agape. We didn't keep secrets from each other and I knew that whatever this was, it was pretty big.
"Remember when you talked to me on the phone.. and asked me how things were going and I said they were fine?" I nodded stupidly. "I lied"
I felt a buzzing in my ears and when I spoke my words sounded as if I was being strangled "Did something happen to one of the kids?"
He quickly shook his head and his voice dropped a bit more "No.. but.. Tammy, Mike, and Jeff and I.. we.. sort of did meth"
I felt myself swoon slightly and my heart constricted tightly. I had known my ex-husband for almost 8 years by this time and he had never, in all that time, shown any intrest in any kind of drugs. Not to mention the fact that I wasn't even aware of the fact that Tammy and Mike did drugs. My kids were in a house where everyone was on meth?
I think I drew a bit of attention to myself as I shrieked at him "WHAT?!" I took a few steps back and he reached his hand out towards me and I slapped it away. My Dad moved over with a look of concern on his face "Everything all right?"
"Just peachy" was the curt reply I gave before spinning on my heels and walking away.
The rest of the trip was a blur, I do remember details, but, they are not conducive to the topic so I will spare you them.
When I arrived home, I went into the house and what I found shocked me to my core. The house was a mess, my children were dirty. I moved through the house in a daze and I realized that the door in my room that led to the water heater looked different. The bathroom looked like a hurricane had hit it. The ex was the only one there with the kids.
I sent them over to my parents and I turned my fury on him full force. He had no recourse and I'm sure the neighbors heard every single word I spewed at him. I demanded answers to why the house was in such a shape and he said that while I was gone Mike and Tammy had taken over my bedroom. There was some kind of fight and a hole was punched in the door, so they took it off it's hinges and turned it around so I wouldn't know. There was also a fight in the bathroom where Tammy had been bathing and Mike went in and in a fury he flung everything off my counters onto the floor.
I stomped out and began to gather up their things, cramming them into plastic bags, tieing them together and tossing them out the door as I went.
My ex followed me around the whole time, telling me how unfair I was being, how everyone deserved a second chance, and who was I to judge.
"I am their mother! They betrayed my trust. YOU betrayed my trust. >THEIR< safety is the most important thing to me and it is very clear that it didn't matter one fucking bit to the lot of you. I refuse to allow people near my children who are doing illegal drugs. If you had been caught, I would have lost >my< kids. Don't think the police, or Social Services gives second chances you self rightous bastard, now, you can get the fuck out too!"
He sheepishly headed for the door just as Tammy and Mike came back. He was in a full fury as soon as he spotted their stuff on the lawn. Screaming at me that I had no right to kick them out, that this was their house, and a ton of other rot. I was having no part of it and I screamed right back at them.
Eventually, someone called the police and they showed up. The ex had stood next to me on the porch the entire time and I was to furious to notice. As soon as the police car pulled into our trailer park, Mike took off in one direction and Tammy took off in another.
The officer approached me and I told them exactly what had happened. I looked to the ex-husband expectantly and he glared at me but told them the truth.
I'd like to say this was the end of it, but, for me, my nightmare was just begining.
The phone calls began. At first it was just hang ups and I figured they would tire of that soon enough. At the time, I was too poor for caller id.
At the begining of July, my cousin came to stay with me, her and her two boys. We had a great visit that was overshadowed only by the phone calls. Still, just phone calls, I can ignore those right? It got so bad that I had to disconnect my phone at night because the calls would go on all night long. I switched jobs because they kept coming in and the police kept getting called.
It didn't take them long to find my new job at the grocery store. I had to give up my car because three times they slashed my tires.
The police would do nothing. They said I had no proof who it was. But I knew.
While my cousin was there, the threats began. They called and told me how they were going to kill me. They were going to cut me open and jerk my insides out and make me watch myself bleed to death.
I was terrified. Even with my parents next door, after my cousin left, I was too afraid to sleep at home at night. I began spending nights with my oldest brother and his wife. My children curled up on either side of me on a pull out couch.
During all of this, I got my first computer and met Chris. He encouraged me to stay with my brother until we had this sorted out. So I continued to go to my brothers at night. The nightly phone calls from Chris the only thing keeping me sane.
It took them two weeks, but eventually they did somehow get my brothers phone number and the calls began there too. My sense of security shattered and I sobbed in my sister in laws arms. I was so tired of being afraid all the time, fearing for my kids, my family. I just didn't know what to do.
We tried calling the police again, now we had a number to give them, they said that it was from a Subway near my house and so it could be anyone. No matter the fact that Mike worked there.
My brother, in a fury, called the owner and spoke to him. He gave him times of the phone calls, which, lasted way into the night and offered to have the man come up and check the caller id box if he didn't believe him. He said he did believe us, and, instead of going to the police, his solution was to fire Mike.
This.. did nothing.. to help the situation. It only made it worse. Now, not only was it my fault they didn't have a place to live, but, they had no jobs either.
I finally decided that I had imposed on my brother long enough. I had spent every single night there for nearly a month and it was nearing Christmas time by now.
Yes.. this had been going on for almost 4 months.
I went home, spent from exhaustion. Praying that just this one night, I would have some piece.
I tucked the children into bed and I checked the doors and windows again. The silence cut short by the shrilling of the phone and tears welled into my eyes as I picked it up, not even having a voice to say hello.
I shuddered at the voice on the other end. "I know you're there. I saw you come in" I felt a tingle shoot up my spine and I moved towards the big bay windows and peered through the slits of the blinds. Out in the darkness, in the shadows of the big oak tree near the enterance to the park, I could see him standing. "Yes, I see you. I see you watching me and guess what? When you fall asleep, I am going to set fire to your house and I will watch it burn. I will laugh to hear the screams of your kids as the flames lick at their bodies. I am . ."
I slammed the phone down and picked it back up. I couldn't get out any kind of coherant words out and my mother didn't need any. Within seconds both my parents were at my door, my mothers arms around me as soon as I opened it.
My dad turned to peer into the darkness as I managed to spit out "He's out there right now" and my mother dragged me in and headed for the phone.
The police showed up and, sadly, when my mother wants to, can be quite fierce. She demanded that the do something. When they said they had no proof, my mother's retort was "Does he have to kill my daughter and grandchildren before you fucking do something?"
My dad quietly explained what had been said and that they had been leaving these threatning messages, but, that this was the first time they had threatnened my children and there was no choice, it had to stop or my dad was going to step in to stop it.
Both my brothers showed up as well as my ex and they all stood around furiously demanding that something be done.
My younger brother left on foot, telling the cops that they could arrest him later.
Soon two more squad cars arrived to try to calm me and my family down. During the retelling of this story, one of the officers stopped my Dad and said "You have messages?" and that made them all stop and stare.
He said we did and they asked to listen to them, so I took them in and punched in the numbers for my voice mail system and put it on speaker phone.
They listened in horror as Mike and Tammy took turns leaving graphic messages about how they would kill me.
I sobbed and dropped to the floor with relief when the officer lifted up his radio and ordered an APB on the immedaitly.
It took them two days to find them, but during that two days, I had a police officer with me at all times.
They were both charged and when we went to court the truth about these two came out. They were both drug addicts, she had lost her children due to neglect and abuse. They had gotten kicked out of their last place because of similiar circumstances, only, that man didn't fare so well and spent four days in the ICU due to the beating that Mike had given him.
They were convicted for a slew of accounts, including stalking, child endangerment, harrasment as well as assault. Just for what they did to me. After that they were convicted of attempted murder for the assault on the other man.
This was probably one of the most terrifying things I went through. Sometimes, I still find myself looking over my shoulder.
I knew instantly that they didn't have enough money for each of them to have one and when they approached the counter I smiled at him and placed my hand on my back, which, at this point in time was constantly in pain and I told him they could just have it. He shook his head and put the money on the counter.
I pushed it back towards him, realizing I was risking hurting his pride and I looked to the girl and said "I'll tell you what.. If you let me borrow your man for some quick manual labor you can have whatever you want from the hotdogs and I'll even throw in a couple of sodas."
She tossed him a look, obviously leaving it up to him and he sort of paused before he once more shook his head no. "Please, I have to fill the ice machine by hand and it seriously kills my back?" I put forth my best pleading tone and looked as pathetically as I could.
I'm not sure if it was hunger, or, my pleading look but he nodded and walked towards the back as I did and I directed him to the ice machine and bucket while she scooped the change off the counter.
They left after clearing out all the hotdogs and grabbing a fountain drink to share. They returned every night for almost a month.
It was long before I learned their names. Their story. At least, that's how it seemed to me.
My mother always said, and Chris says it now, that I have a thing for strays, not so much animals as people. I am always extending a hand out to those who are down.
The girl was only 22, she had two kids who had been taken by her mother and then her mother had decided to turn them over to the state. She was fighting for them in court, but things were hampered by the fact that they had no where to live.
He was a bit older, almost 30, and was looking for work. They had been living with some friends, but, one day while.. we'll call him Mike.. was at work.. the male friend they were staying with decided to push his luck with.. let's call her Tammy. When she refused, he started busting up the place and threw them out.
One night, a summer storm hit and they came in to the store dripping wet, looking like a pair of soggy kittens.
I didn't have any hot dogs left and in a moment of weakness, I asked them if they would like to come back to my house for a real meal and showers.
Kids were at my ex-husbands and my parents lived right next door. I wasn't too fearful.
They came in, ate, showered, we talked for a while, simple things about life. He offered to fix a door that I couldn't get to stay totally upright and she insisted on doing the dishes.
At this point in my life, I was a pretty lonely little girl. I had just walked out on my marriage and was working full time at the gas station. I had no friends, literally and this was before my days of internet or Chris. All I had was my family and my kids.
I brought out some blankets and they bunked down for the night.
I woke up to the smell of breakfast the next day. After the second day I sat down with them, realizing that if the man was going to get a job so that they could get themselves a place, he would need a place to shower, an address, and all natures of that sort.
I explained to them that my kids would be coming home, that they could bunk down on the floor if they wanted, and that my rules were simple. I don't party, no drugs, no drinking while my kids were there, and never hit one of my kids, not even for a spanking, that was my job.
They agreed and life went on.
My older brother was planning on getting married in June, in New York. I had long ago bought my plane ticket, a fact I was very proud of since I did it with my own money and for a single mom, it was quiet a feet. The day fast approaching I was a bit nervous because I had never left my children before. I was leaving them with my ex-husband though and he was even going to come stay at my house so that they would feel more comfortable, I was going to be gone for 10 days.
By this time, Mike and Tammy had been living with me for about 5 weeks. I had grown close to Tammy and Mike was awsome. He had found a job and was working long long hours. Since I worked and Tammy didn't she had decided her job was to be taking care of the house.
The day came to get in the car and drive to the airport to go to New York. I cried as I said goodbye to my babies and Tammy and Mike hugged me and reassured me that they would watch out for the kids too.
I wasn't too worried. That was back in the days where my ex was still trying to be my husband and actually tried to impress me. I was pretty sure that he wouldn't let anything happen to our babies. My younger brother would also be there for another week and he was more protective of the kids then my ex. I left with the confidance that they would be well looked after.
Indeed a week later my younger brother joined us and we attended the beautiful wedding of my older brother and began our journey back. We arrived back at the Salt Lake air terminal and my brother pulled me to the side.
His head bent low and his face flaming with shame he says "I need to tell you something" and I stared at him with my mouth agape. We didn't keep secrets from each other and I knew that whatever this was, it was pretty big.
"Remember when you talked to me on the phone.. and asked me how things were going and I said they were fine?" I nodded stupidly. "I lied"
I felt a buzzing in my ears and when I spoke my words sounded as if I was being strangled "Did something happen to one of the kids?"
He quickly shook his head and his voice dropped a bit more "No.. but.. Tammy, Mike, and Jeff and I.. we.. sort of did meth"
I felt myself swoon slightly and my heart constricted tightly. I had known my ex-husband for almost 8 years by this time and he had never, in all that time, shown any intrest in any kind of drugs. Not to mention the fact that I wasn't even aware of the fact that Tammy and Mike did drugs. My kids were in a house where everyone was on meth?
I think I drew a bit of attention to myself as I shrieked at him "WHAT?!" I took a few steps back and he reached his hand out towards me and I slapped it away. My Dad moved over with a look of concern on his face "Everything all right?"
"Just peachy" was the curt reply I gave before spinning on my heels and walking away.
The rest of the trip was a blur, I do remember details, but, they are not conducive to the topic so I will spare you them.
When I arrived home, I went into the house and what I found shocked me to my core. The house was a mess, my children were dirty. I moved through the house in a daze and I realized that the door in my room that led to the water heater looked different. The bathroom looked like a hurricane had hit it. The ex was the only one there with the kids.
I sent them over to my parents and I turned my fury on him full force. He had no recourse and I'm sure the neighbors heard every single word I spewed at him. I demanded answers to why the house was in such a shape and he said that while I was gone Mike and Tammy had taken over my bedroom. There was some kind of fight and a hole was punched in the door, so they took it off it's hinges and turned it around so I wouldn't know. There was also a fight in the bathroom where Tammy had been bathing and Mike went in and in a fury he flung everything off my counters onto the floor.
I stomped out and began to gather up their things, cramming them into plastic bags, tieing them together and tossing them out the door as I went.
My ex followed me around the whole time, telling me how unfair I was being, how everyone deserved a second chance, and who was I to judge.
"I am their mother! They betrayed my trust. YOU betrayed my trust. >THEIR< safety is the most important thing to me and it is very clear that it didn't matter one fucking bit to the lot of you. I refuse to allow people near my children who are doing illegal drugs. If you had been caught, I would have lost >my< kids. Don't think the police, or Social Services gives second chances you self rightous bastard, now, you can get the fuck out too!"
He sheepishly headed for the door just as Tammy and Mike came back. He was in a full fury as soon as he spotted their stuff on the lawn. Screaming at me that I had no right to kick them out, that this was their house, and a ton of other rot. I was having no part of it and I screamed right back at them.
Eventually, someone called the police and they showed up. The ex had stood next to me on the porch the entire time and I was to furious to notice. As soon as the police car pulled into our trailer park, Mike took off in one direction and Tammy took off in another.
The officer approached me and I told them exactly what had happened. I looked to the ex-husband expectantly and he glared at me but told them the truth.
I'd like to say this was the end of it, but, for me, my nightmare was just begining.
The phone calls began. At first it was just hang ups and I figured they would tire of that soon enough. At the time, I was too poor for caller id.
At the begining of July, my cousin came to stay with me, her and her two boys. We had a great visit that was overshadowed only by the phone calls. Still, just phone calls, I can ignore those right? It got so bad that I had to disconnect my phone at night because the calls would go on all night long. I switched jobs because they kept coming in and the police kept getting called.
It didn't take them long to find my new job at the grocery store. I had to give up my car because three times they slashed my tires.
The police would do nothing. They said I had no proof who it was. But I knew.
While my cousin was there, the threats began. They called and told me how they were going to kill me. They were going to cut me open and jerk my insides out and make me watch myself bleed to death.
I was terrified. Even with my parents next door, after my cousin left, I was too afraid to sleep at home at night. I began spending nights with my oldest brother and his wife. My children curled up on either side of me on a pull out couch.
During all of this, I got my first computer and met Chris. He encouraged me to stay with my brother until we had this sorted out. So I continued to go to my brothers at night. The nightly phone calls from Chris the only thing keeping me sane.
It took them two weeks, but eventually they did somehow get my brothers phone number and the calls began there too. My sense of security shattered and I sobbed in my sister in laws arms. I was so tired of being afraid all the time, fearing for my kids, my family. I just didn't know what to do.
We tried calling the police again, now we had a number to give them, they said that it was from a Subway near my house and so it could be anyone. No matter the fact that Mike worked there.
My brother, in a fury, called the owner and spoke to him. He gave him times of the phone calls, which, lasted way into the night and offered to have the man come up and check the caller id box if he didn't believe him. He said he did believe us, and, instead of going to the police, his solution was to fire Mike.
This.. did nothing.. to help the situation. It only made it worse. Now, not only was it my fault they didn't have a place to live, but, they had no jobs either.
I finally decided that I had imposed on my brother long enough. I had spent every single night there for nearly a month and it was nearing Christmas time by now.
Yes.. this had been going on for almost 4 months.
I went home, spent from exhaustion. Praying that just this one night, I would have some piece.
I tucked the children into bed and I checked the doors and windows again. The silence cut short by the shrilling of the phone and tears welled into my eyes as I picked it up, not even having a voice to say hello.
I shuddered at the voice on the other end. "I know you're there. I saw you come in" I felt a tingle shoot up my spine and I moved towards the big bay windows and peered through the slits of the blinds. Out in the darkness, in the shadows of the big oak tree near the enterance to the park, I could see him standing. "Yes, I see you. I see you watching me and guess what? When you fall asleep, I am going to set fire to your house and I will watch it burn. I will laugh to hear the screams of your kids as the flames lick at their bodies. I am . ."
I slammed the phone down and picked it back up. I couldn't get out any kind of coherant words out and my mother didn't need any. Within seconds both my parents were at my door, my mothers arms around me as soon as I opened it.
My dad turned to peer into the darkness as I managed to spit out "He's out there right now" and my mother dragged me in and headed for the phone.
The police showed up and, sadly, when my mother wants to, can be quite fierce. She demanded that the do something. When they said they had no proof, my mother's retort was "Does he have to kill my daughter and grandchildren before you fucking do something?"
My dad quietly explained what had been said and that they had been leaving these threatning messages, but, that this was the first time they had threatnened my children and there was no choice, it had to stop or my dad was going to step in to stop it.
Both my brothers showed up as well as my ex and they all stood around furiously demanding that something be done.
My younger brother left on foot, telling the cops that they could arrest him later.
Soon two more squad cars arrived to try to calm me and my family down. During the retelling of this story, one of the officers stopped my Dad and said "You have messages?" and that made them all stop and stare.
He said we did and they asked to listen to them, so I took them in and punched in the numbers for my voice mail system and put it on speaker phone.
They listened in horror as Mike and Tammy took turns leaving graphic messages about how they would kill me.
I sobbed and dropped to the floor with relief when the officer lifted up his radio and ordered an APB on the immedaitly.
It took them two days to find them, but during that two days, I had a police officer with me at all times.
They were both charged and when we went to court the truth about these two came out. They were both drug addicts, she had lost her children due to neglect and abuse. They had gotten kicked out of their last place because of similiar circumstances, only, that man didn't fare so well and spent four days in the ICU due to the beating that Mike had given him.
They were convicted for a slew of accounts, including stalking, child endangerment, harrasment as well as assault. Just for what they did to me. After that they were convicted of attempted murder for the assault on the other man.
This was probably one of the most terrifying things I went through. Sometimes, I still find myself looking over my shoulder.
Monday, October 17, 2005
The Journey To Inspiration
The following was written by Chris as an assignment to his English Lit class he took last semester. Until then, I had never really thought of what it was like for him to watch me go through my pregnancy and the birth of our son. I remember it as very bittersweet as I suffered alot during the pregnancy, developing diabetes. I went through many trips to the hospital because of early labor. When I read Buffalo's post about the first time he saw his daughter, I asked Chris permission to post this and he graciously said yes. I hope you enjoy it as much as I do.
The Journey To Inspiration
So she’s pregnant. That’s what she told me. And that’s the only thing that I can really focus on at the moment. I place a hand against the wall, fingers curling slightly as if to seek purchase. I close my eyes and draw a deep breath, and when I look back to her, I see fear coiled in her dark eyes. She thinks I’m angry. I’m afraid. I should say something, but whatever nerve relay carries words from thought to action seems to have hit a roadblock in the back of my throat. I force a smile, and that only seems to reaffirm her concern. Finally I give up on being articulate and simply extend an arm to her, pulling her to me and tucking her small frame against my chest. I breathe in the scent of her hair and ask quietly, “Have you told the father yet?”
She bounces her fist off my shoulder but doesn’t pull away and we both laugh. Knots within come undone and the fear is momentarily dissolved in the wake of other emotions. The situation lends reality a dreamlike quality and the moment crystallizes in my mind, leaving us frozen in that instant, clinging to one another.
Four months have somehow disappeared. The reality sets in as we watch on a black and white video screen. They show us hands, feet, nose. A tiny heart beating looks like the fluttering of wings. Our midwife says that it is the baby’s heartbeat are hearing. I could have sworn it was mine. Even with the image on the screen, it is hard to imagine exactly what he will look like when he is born. He, yes, it is a boy, my son, my legacy.
Six months pass and the novelty has worn off as the concern begins to overshadow everything else. It seems cheap to say I can properly understand what this is like for her. I know the pregnancy has been troubled, painful. Our constant runs to the hospital tell me that much. Her health deteriorates and the 2am trips I’m making to the store seem to be a small price compared to the balance she’s leveling. I’m prepared, anxious even. I’m ready for my son to enter the world. I felt him kick today. He managed a soft thump in the palm of my hand. “See?” I say. “He’s ready, too.”
A month to go and the doctors begin to share my impatience. He’s growing too fast and that’s putting her health in serious jeopardy. He’ll have to be taken early. His name, his future. As if these weren’t enough, now I have to choose his birthday.
The day has arrived. February 3rd. I step out onto the slick porch, and the chill in the air takes my breath away. I adjust my sweaty grip on the handle of the bag at my side and help my wife down the stairs and to our car. The trip to the hospital is fast, wound with strings of tension strummed by exchanged looks into a melody of nervous laughter. We arrive, greeted by a good sampling of her family as we step into the reception. Plaster angels watch our progress to the desk and the overly cheery woman seated behind it. I hate the smell of this place. The air is a palate of sickness smeared with a coating of chemicals to disguise it. Shouldn’t babies be born in a better environment? Next to a roaring fire in a rustic cabin, all of us waiting outside the door, speaking in hushed whispers as we await the good news. Anything is better than this.
We’re led to a room, and the labor is induced. No turning back, now. We hurry up and wait. I walk her through the halls for a small eternity, accompanied by the steady tap of my shoes on the tile and the swish of her gown. We’re followed doggedly by a silent chaperone in the form of a silver hat tree on wheels, linked to her wrist by a tube. Eventually we reach a room containing a large tub. I half-fill it with steaming water as she disrobes, and I’m struck once again by her beauty. The swell of her abdomen, the source of that proverbial glow, doesn’t diminish her appearance in the least. It heightens it, for what is more undeniably feminine than a mother-to-be? An almost tangible aura of serenity surrounds her, buffering a temperament that leaves no doubt as to the fate that would befall any that sought to harm her unborn child. She catches my look, my faint grin, and assumes I’m gawking. I help her into the tub and don’t bother explaining myself. I can’t make her see through my eyes.
She settles back into the tub, dipping her head momentarily under the water. I tear my eyes away from her and turn my attention to the room itself for the first time, my mind working on another argument over the value of one name over another. Her hand tightens around mine, crushing large callused fingers between her slender ones, and she comes sputtering to the surface. Before I can make my concern verbal, she answers the question forming in my mind with a single word. The contractions have begun. I smile in a way I hope is reassuring and brush her hair from her face. Suddenly, crouched next to the tub, staring into her dark eyes wide with pain and fear, framed by long red hair plastered to the sides of her face, I’m struck by an image. A memory of a cat dropped into a similar tub, struggling to remain afloat, huge eyes screaming of panic. I laugh and receive a face full of water and a wet shirt as punishment. I got off light. I’ve been informed many times since that laughing at a woman in labor has a very low survival rate.
I help her to her feet; dry her with a scratchy white towel that once again reminds me how unnaturally clean this place pretends to be. Then, after helping her into her gown, I lead her back to her room, gathering her family and the midwife on the way.
As they begin, the air is more than charged with emotion, there is an actual mist. A tangible thing I can feel closing in around me. Her hand tightens around mine, and the pain brings my vision back into focus. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I’m afraid I’ll have to learn to write with my left hand after this. The midwife tells her to push, and she does. I watch the beads of sweat spring into existence on her forehead, band together, and then retreat from sight into the safety of her hair. I’m compelled to look away from her by the midwife yelling at me, telling me to lift her leg. I look up slowly and see the nurse on the opposite side hurrying to obey a similar order. We lift, and I hear screams. Muscles writhe beneath my fingertips with the effort of pushing. She pushes once more and all the sound gathers into an incessant buzz in the back of my head.
Silence greets my son’s entry into the world. Fragile, still, and covered in gore, it’s hard to believe such a thing can be beautiful until you see it. The midwife lays him gently across the abdomen that contained him, and I will him to breathe. After an eternity of buzzing silence, his small face seems to crumple, forehead creasing. I know that look; I’ve felt it on my own face on cold mornings when I’m not ready to get out of bed. The silence is rent by a tiny cry that is, perhaps, the loudest, most wondrous sound I have ever heard. It is at once an indignant and pleading sound. I laugh and choke back a sob, then look down to find that I may be squeezing her hand a bit too hard now. I release, my hand trembling, knuckles white, then reach out to touch the damp, silky black hair that crowns the infants head.
My last memory of that day is walking through the halls of the hospital, my wife in a wheelchair beside me, holding our son. I didn’t mind this place anymore. The smells were different now. If life and the struggle to live have a scent, you will find it in a hospital.
Looking down at my son I know I am forever changed. Each day, each moment, will be spent trying to improve his life. He has become my inspiration in everything I do, from something as complex as going back to school, down to something as simple as which music I should play to help him sleep.
The day our son was born, they had induced me two weeks before my due date. He weighed in at 9pds and 14oz and was only 1 inch shy of being 2 feet long.
The Journey To Inspiration
So she’s pregnant. That’s what she told me. And that’s the only thing that I can really focus on at the moment. I place a hand against the wall, fingers curling slightly as if to seek purchase. I close my eyes and draw a deep breath, and when I look back to her, I see fear coiled in her dark eyes. She thinks I’m angry. I’m afraid. I should say something, but whatever nerve relay carries words from thought to action seems to have hit a roadblock in the back of my throat. I force a smile, and that only seems to reaffirm her concern. Finally I give up on being articulate and simply extend an arm to her, pulling her to me and tucking her small frame against my chest. I breathe in the scent of her hair and ask quietly, “Have you told the father yet?”
She bounces her fist off my shoulder but doesn’t pull away and we both laugh. Knots within come undone and the fear is momentarily dissolved in the wake of other emotions. The situation lends reality a dreamlike quality and the moment crystallizes in my mind, leaving us frozen in that instant, clinging to one another.
Four months have somehow disappeared. The reality sets in as we watch on a black and white video screen. They show us hands, feet, nose. A tiny heart beating looks like the fluttering of wings. Our midwife says that it is the baby’s heartbeat are hearing. I could have sworn it was mine. Even with the image on the screen, it is hard to imagine exactly what he will look like when he is born. He, yes, it is a boy, my son, my legacy.
Six months pass and the novelty has worn off as the concern begins to overshadow everything else. It seems cheap to say I can properly understand what this is like for her. I know the pregnancy has been troubled, painful. Our constant runs to the hospital tell me that much. Her health deteriorates and the 2am trips I’m making to the store seem to be a small price compared to the balance she’s leveling. I’m prepared, anxious even. I’m ready for my son to enter the world. I felt him kick today. He managed a soft thump in the palm of my hand. “See?” I say. “He’s ready, too.”
A month to go and the doctors begin to share my impatience. He’s growing too fast and that’s putting her health in serious jeopardy. He’ll have to be taken early. His name, his future. As if these weren’t enough, now I have to choose his birthday.
The day has arrived. February 3rd. I step out onto the slick porch, and the chill in the air takes my breath away. I adjust my sweaty grip on the handle of the bag at my side and help my wife down the stairs and to our car. The trip to the hospital is fast, wound with strings of tension strummed by exchanged looks into a melody of nervous laughter. We arrive, greeted by a good sampling of her family as we step into the reception. Plaster angels watch our progress to the desk and the overly cheery woman seated behind it. I hate the smell of this place. The air is a palate of sickness smeared with a coating of chemicals to disguise it. Shouldn’t babies be born in a better environment? Next to a roaring fire in a rustic cabin, all of us waiting outside the door, speaking in hushed whispers as we await the good news. Anything is better than this.
We’re led to a room, and the labor is induced. No turning back, now. We hurry up and wait. I walk her through the halls for a small eternity, accompanied by the steady tap of my shoes on the tile and the swish of her gown. We’re followed doggedly by a silent chaperone in the form of a silver hat tree on wheels, linked to her wrist by a tube. Eventually we reach a room containing a large tub. I half-fill it with steaming water as she disrobes, and I’m struck once again by her beauty. The swell of her abdomen, the source of that proverbial glow, doesn’t diminish her appearance in the least. It heightens it, for what is more undeniably feminine than a mother-to-be? An almost tangible aura of serenity surrounds her, buffering a temperament that leaves no doubt as to the fate that would befall any that sought to harm her unborn child. She catches my look, my faint grin, and assumes I’m gawking. I help her into the tub and don’t bother explaining myself. I can’t make her see through my eyes.
She settles back into the tub, dipping her head momentarily under the water. I tear my eyes away from her and turn my attention to the room itself for the first time, my mind working on another argument over the value of one name over another. Her hand tightens around mine, crushing large callused fingers between her slender ones, and she comes sputtering to the surface. Before I can make my concern verbal, she answers the question forming in my mind with a single word. The contractions have begun. I smile in a way I hope is reassuring and brush her hair from her face. Suddenly, crouched next to the tub, staring into her dark eyes wide with pain and fear, framed by long red hair plastered to the sides of her face, I’m struck by an image. A memory of a cat dropped into a similar tub, struggling to remain afloat, huge eyes screaming of panic. I laugh and receive a face full of water and a wet shirt as punishment. I got off light. I’ve been informed many times since that laughing at a woman in labor has a very low survival rate.
I help her to her feet; dry her with a scratchy white towel that once again reminds me how unnaturally clean this place pretends to be. Then, after helping her into her gown, I lead her back to her room, gathering her family and the midwife on the way.
As they begin, the air is more than charged with emotion, there is an actual mist. A tangible thing I can feel closing in around me. Her hand tightens around mine, and the pain brings my vision back into focus. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I’m afraid I’ll have to learn to write with my left hand after this. The midwife tells her to push, and she does. I watch the beads of sweat spring into existence on her forehead, band together, and then retreat from sight into the safety of her hair. I’m compelled to look away from her by the midwife yelling at me, telling me to lift her leg. I look up slowly and see the nurse on the opposite side hurrying to obey a similar order. We lift, and I hear screams. Muscles writhe beneath my fingertips with the effort of pushing. She pushes once more and all the sound gathers into an incessant buzz in the back of my head.
Silence greets my son’s entry into the world. Fragile, still, and covered in gore, it’s hard to believe such a thing can be beautiful until you see it. The midwife lays him gently across the abdomen that contained him, and I will him to breathe. After an eternity of buzzing silence, his small face seems to crumple, forehead creasing. I know that look; I’ve felt it on my own face on cold mornings when I’m not ready to get out of bed. The silence is rent by a tiny cry that is, perhaps, the loudest, most wondrous sound I have ever heard. It is at once an indignant and pleading sound. I laugh and choke back a sob, then look down to find that I may be squeezing her hand a bit too hard now. I release, my hand trembling, knuckles white, then reach out to touch the damp, silky black hair that crowns the infants head.
My last memory of that day is walking through the halls of the hospital, my wife in a wheelchair beside me, holding our son. I didn’t mind this place anymore. The smells were different now. If life and the struggle to live have a scent, you will find it in a hospital.
Looking down at my son I know I am forever changed. Each day, each moment, will be spent trying to improve his life. He has become my inspiration in everything I do, from something as complex as going back to school, down to something as simple as which music I should play to help him sleep.
The day our son was born, they had induced me two weeks before my due date. He weighed in at 9pds and 14oz and was only 1 inch shy of being 2 feet long.
Friday, October 14, 2005
Bikers
Have I ever mentioned that I love bikers.
I am facinated by their lives, envious of their carefree approach to the world.
I also have a unique insight into this by way of proxy. You see, my sister Melody once lived with the Hells Angels in LA. It was during a time in her life when living at home wasn't an option for her anymore and she wasn't old enough to move out on her own legally. So, she ran away.
I had heard stories from her, just snippits really. I heard her often say that she missed them, that, she wanted to call, but, was afraid of what they would do to her husband for his abuse.
I recall that at her funeral, we were just starting when the church doors open and the room immediatly began to overflow from all the men and women who spilled in. Long hair, short hair, tatoos, clean cut, leather jackets, all walks of life strolled in the door with their hands mostly clasped together in front of them.
The service paused and all eyes turned towards them, there were a few smiles amongst those I knew, but, more nervous whispers than anything. My oldest brother squeezed my hand and then slipped his arm around me.
After it seemed that everyone was there, the service began again. I was awed by their presense. They were very respectful and full of reverance for their surroundings. Many of the women cried silently and more then once I saw one of the big burly men reach up to wipe a tear away.
When I say big burly men, don't think that I believe all bikers are big burly men, but, I was only 12 and so pretty much everyone was bigger then me.
At the age of twelve however, I expected all of them to light their ciggarettes and pull out their bottles to toast her for a final time right there in the church. I kept one facinated eye on them the whole time.
I can't say that anything unusal or spectacular happened during the service. It was after that I was left speechless.
The roaring sound of a hundred bikes flaring to life at almost exactly the same time sent my heart racing. They waited until the funeral procession began, sliding themselves in right behind the family. In our town, every single funeral procession has a police escort and I was raised that you never ever, turn your vehicle into said procession. You wait through green lights until it is passed, a sign of respect for the dead and their grieving families.
Most funeral processions are silent, but not this one. This one had music that played and played loudly. About half of the bikes had a little boom box tied to the back and in unison they began to play pre-recorded tapes. I remember two songs. One was "Tears in Heaven" by Eric Clapton. The other one was "Jack and Diane" by John Couger Mellencamp as he was called back in those days.
At the graveyard service as she was lowered into the ground, I looked around and they were all holding hands. At that moment, I felt so alone. Next thing I knew, a soft hand wrapped around mine and I was gently pulled into the brace of a rather portly woman.
After that, I was passed to a gentleman, and so on and so forth. Each of them whispered something into my ear, to this day I could not tell you what a single one of them said, but, I do recall the smell of leather and old spice on the men. Each of them women smelled a little different, but not bad. If I had to describe the smell, I would say it smelled like.."Safety".
Anyway. I am digressing, that wasn't the point of this post. I wanted to share with my readers something that happened a couple of weeks ago. October 3rd to be exact.
My boys and I jumped in the van and ran up to the grocery store to give dad a few minutes of peace and quiet. The store nearest the house sits on one of our busiest roads and I pulled in just in time for the dinner rush. Driving all the way to the end of the parking lot I was in no hurry and when we saw the first bikes go by, I pointed them out to the boys.
We watched for about 3 minutes, mesmerized as the bikes continued to come and I thought that they must be heading for the river, then, I realized it was too late in the year for that. The honking of a car behind me reminded me I was still in the way so we parked and got out to watch.
The bikers were not stopping for the light, even as it turned red and this caused my eyebrow to go up. Growing up the way I did, I thought that surely they must be laying a friend down to rest and the boys and I sat on a sloped hill to watch the procession.
After a few moments, a cop arrived on the scene and I cringes, thinking that this was not going to bode well. He got out of his squad car however and stood in the middle of the street, keeping any and all traffic from going by or interupting the line. Two by two the bikers went by. An endless column of was streaming down over the hill. There literally was no end in sight.
Then I began to notice something else. Each bike had a stuffed animal tied to the back. Upon closer inspection, I reliazed that it wasn't just stuffed animals, there were all kinds of toys. Strapped to the back, the sides, in their pouches.
Just about the time two guys side by side rode up wearing Santa hats, I had figured it out.
This was the annual Toys For Tots run.
These men and women. Who have reputations for being bullies, drug dealers, and trouble makers in general, get together every single year here and make a run for Toys For Tots.
If you don't know what that is, I will explain quickly. Toys for tots is a program that allows people with low incomes to go and get toys for their children at Christmas time. No family is turned away and it is done in conjunction with the National Guard.
I felt tears burning at the corners of my eyes and my heart constricted tightly. They were waving at my boys, each time sending my youngest into a fit of giggles. They returned our whistles and shouts with their own shouts, or beeping of the horns.
We sat there for nearly 45 minutes. Yes, 45 minutes it took this convoy of bikers to get past us, even without having to stop for the lights. By the time it was all over, there were people lined up and down the streets cheering them on, many of them, like me, wiped tears from their faces.
Perhaps they do not know how much they touch people. I doubt any of them have ever had the pleasure of seeing one of recipients open these presents and see the look of pure joy on their faces.
But I have. So, for all of those nameless, faceless children, I can say thank you. For my own children have once or twice, recieved from them. The love, the generosity of them, is an overwhelming thing.
Every year, my children and I go down to the dollar store, and they pick out three toys each. We take them down and donate them to the program so that some other child can enjoy what my children enjoyed.
With Christmas right around the corner, I urge everyone, to take a few minutes, and buy a little something to donate. Trust me, even if you don't see it, it brings joy that would otherwise be absent for many of these kids. If you are not sure if you have this program in your area, contact the local Head Start, or the National Guard in your area.
I think it's time we head over to the dollar store ourselves.
I am facinated by their lives, envious of their carefree approach to the world.
I also have a unique insight into this by way of proxy. You see, my sister Melody once lived with the Hells Angels in LA. It was during a time in her life when living at home wasn't an option for her anymore and she wasn't old enough to move out on her own legally. So, she ran away.
I had heard stories from her, just snippits really. I heard her often say that she missed them, that, she wanted to call, but, was afraid of what they would do to her husband for his abuse.
I recall that at her funeral, we were just starting when the church doors open and the room immediatly began to overflow from all the men and women who spilled in. Long hair, short hair, tatoos, clean cut, leather jackets, all walks of life strolled in the door with their hands mostly clasped together in front of them.
The service paused and all eyes turned towards them, there were a few smiles amongst those I knew, but, more nervous whispers than anything. My oldest brother squeezed my hand and then slipped his arm around me.
After it seemed that everyone was there, the service began again. I was awed by their presense. They were very respectful and full of reverance for their surroundings. Many of the women cried silently and more then once I saw one of the big burly men reach up to wipe a tear away.
When I say big burly men, don't think that I believe all bikers are big burly men, but, I was only 12 and so pretty much everyone was bigger then me.
At the age of twelve however, I expected all of them to light their ciggarettes and pull out their bottles to toast her for a final time right there in the church. I kept one facinated eye on them the whole time.
I can't say that anything unusal or spectacular happened during the service. It was after that I was left speechless.
The roaring sound of a hundred bikes flaring to life at almost exactly the same time sent my heart racing. They waited until the funeral procession began, sliding themselves in right behind the family. In our town, every single funeral procession has a police escort and I was raised that you never ever, turn your vehicle into said procession. You wait through green lights until it is passed, a sign of respect for the dead and their grieving families.
Most funeral processions are silent, but not this one. This one had music that played and played loudly. About half of the bikes had a little boom box tied to the back and in unison they began to play pre-recorded tapes. I remember two songs. One was "Tears in Heaven" by Eric Clapton. The other one was "Jack and Diane" by John Couger Mellencamp as he was called back in those days.
At the graveyard service as she was lowered into the ground, I looked around and they were all holding hands. At that moment, I felt so alone. Next thing I knew, a soft hand wrapped around mine and I was gently pulled into the brace of a rather portly woman.
After that, I was passed to a gentleman, and so on and so forth. Each of them whispered something into my ear, to this day I could not tell you what a single one of them said, but, I do recall the smell of leather and old spice on the men. Each of them women smelled a little different, but not bad. If I had to describe the smell, I would say it smelled like.."Safety".
Anyway. I am digressing, that wasn't the point of this post. I wanted to share with my readers something that happened a couple of weeks ago. October 3rd to be exact.
My boys and I jumped in the van and ran up to the grocery store to give dad a few minutes of peace and quiet. The store nearest the house sits on one of our busiest roads and I pulled in just in time for the dinner rush. Driving all the way to the end of the parking lot I was in no hurry and when we saw the first bikes go by, I pointed them out to the boys.
We watched for about 3 minutes, mesmerized as the bikes continued to come and I thought that they must be heading for the river, then, I realized it was too late in the year for that. The honking of a car behind me reminded me I was still in the way so we parked and got out to watch.
The bikers were not stopping for the light, even as it turned red and this caused my eyebrow to go up. Growing up the way I did, I thought that surely they must be laying a friend down to rest and the boys and I sat on a sloped hill to watch the procession.
After a few moments, a cop arrived on the scene and I cringes, thinking that this was not going to bode well. He got out of his squad car however and stood in the middle of the street, keeping any and all traffic from going by or interupting the line. Two by two the bikers went by. An endless column of was streaming down over the hill. There literally was no end in sight.
Then I began to notice something else. Each bike had a stuffed animal tied to the back. Upon closer inspection, I reliazed that it wasn't just stuffed animals, there were all kinds of toys. Strapped to the back, the sides, in their pouches.
Just about the time two guys side by side rode up wearing Santa hats, I had figured it out.
This was the annual Toys For Tots run.
These men and women. Who have reputations for being bullies, drug dealers, and trouble makers in general, get together every single year here and make a run for Toys For Tots.
If you don't know what that is, I will explain quickly. Toys for tots is a program that allows people with low incomes to go and get toys for their children at Christmas time. No family is turned away and it is done in conjunction with the National Guard.
I felt tears burning at the corners of my eyes and my heart constricted tightly. They were waving at my boys, each time sending my youngest into a fit of giggles. They returned our whistles and shouts with their own shouts, or beeping of the horns.
We sat there for nearly 45 minutes. Yes, 45 minutes it took this convoy of bikers to get past us, even without having to stop for the lights. By the time it was all over, there were people lined up and down the streets cheering them on, many of them, like me, wiped tears from their faces.
Perhaps they do not know how much they touch people. I doubt any of them have ever had the pleasure of seeing one of recipients open these presents and see the look of pure joy on their faces.
But I have. So, for all of those nameless, faceless children, I can say thank you. For my own children have once or twice, recieved from them. The love, the generosity of them, is an overwhelming thing.
Every year, my children and I go down to the dollar store, and they pick out three toys each. We take them down and donate them to the program so that some other child can enjoy what my children enjoyed.
With Christmas right around the corner, I urge everyone, to take a few minutes, and buy a little something to donate. Trust me, even if you don't see it, it brings joy that would otherwise be absent for many of these kids. If you are not sure if you have this program in your area, contact the local Head Start, or the National Guard in your area.
I think it's time we head over to the dollar store ourselves.
Wednesday, October 12, 2005
A butterfly emerges
Sometimes, I liken myself to the caterpiller. It is ugly and fat and moving slowly. I spin myself into a cocoon, allowing the darkness to take over.
Some people think of a cacoon as a safe place. Hiding you from harm. For me it is a place to hide from everything. It seals out those that I love, those I trust and those who love and trust me. It leaves me without a voice, without my sight. I am tightly within something I have created myself, unable to move, struggling to breathe, searching for a way out.
Suddenly there is a spot of light and I strain towards it. My mind, my body weak from the darkness. But I see it anyway. I struggle to move towards it. The darkness continues to hold me, trying to coax me with it's twisted sense of safety.
I hear voices, whispering of love and support, calling down into the darkness, urging me to fight my way out. It becomes confusing and I am torn.
I hesitate, sometimes, for so long that the voices become just one or two voices, still speaking of love, happiness, good things to come, continuing to urge me towards the light and hope flares inside me as I realize how cramped it feels. How lonely I am in this darkness.
So begins my descent out of darkness. Towards the light. Towards the warmth of the sunshine. It is almost blinding as my face begins to push through, and now that I feel the sunshine warming me, I know this is where I want to be.
Desperately I press forward, my eyes adjusting to the outside world again and I can finally smile. I see things clearly now.
Suddenly I am without the cacoon. The pressing darkness trapping me within is no more. My heart soars, as my wings unfold and I begin to see the world around me with clarity.
I feel beautiful. I feel free and unhindered. I feel happy as I float on the words of love and support that linger on the wind.
I know that butterflies do not live long. That eventually I will be reborn into another caterpiller and the process with begin again. I know too though, that there will be those who will help me out of the cacoon to become the beautiful butterfly, no matter how little time I will have to fly.
Thank you. For loving me. For being there for me. For encouraging me to never give up. For reminding me of all that is good in my life. For being my friends.
Thank you for helping this butterfly soar.
Some people think of a cacoon as a safe place. Hiding you from harm. For me it is a place to hide from everything. It seals out those that I love, those I trust and those who love and trust me. It leaves me without a voice, without my sight. I am tightly within something I have created myself, unable to move, struggling to breathe, searching for a way out.
Suddenly there is a spot of light and I strain towards it. My mind, my body weak from the darkness. But I see it anyway. I struggle to move towards it. The darkness continues to hold me, trying to coax me with it's twisted sense of safety.
I hear voices, whispering of love and support, calling down into the darkness, urging me to fight my way out. It becomes confusing and I am torn.
I hesitate, sometimes, for so long that the voices become just one or two voices, still speaking of love, happiness, good things to come, continuing to urge me towards the light and hope flares inside me as I realize how cramped it feels. How lonely I am in this darkness.
So begins my descent out of darkness. Towards the light. Towards the warmth of the sunshine. It is almost blinding as my face begins to push through, and now that I feel the sunshine warming me, I know this is where I want to be.
Desperately I press forward, my eyes adjusting to the outside world again and I can finally smile. I see things clearly now.
Suddenly I am without the cacoon. The pressing darkness trapping me within is no more. My heart soars, as my wings unfold and I begin to see the world around me with clarity.
I feel beautiful. I feel free and unhindered. I feel happy as I float on the words of love and support that linger on the wind.
I know that butterflies do not live long. That eventually I will be reborn into another caterpiller and the process with begin again. I know too though, that there will be those who will help me out of the cacoon to become the beautiful butterfly, no matter how little time I will have to fly.
Thank you. For loving me. For being there for me. For encouraging me to never give up. For reminding me of all that is good in my life. For being my friends.
Thank you for helping this butterfly soar.
Saturday, October 08, 2005
Locked up
Once more I am swallowed by darkness. I am chasing the light out of my life and I don't know how to stop it.
I finally reached a point where I was willing to allow the darkness to swallow. I was welcoming it, encouraging it to suck me down into it's depths, a familarity in it that was almost a relief as I relaxed and allowed it to begin it's smother.
Despair and I are old friends. Or nemisis. Whatever.
We are connected, intertwined in a way that very few people can understand fully.
He comes to visit me and we wrestle for control of my heart, my mind, even my soul.
I am tired of fighting him. I don't know how much longer I can do it. It is so much easier to just let him win.
I know I need help. I can't get it. I can't go to a doctor and explain why I need medication that is stronger. I can't go to a therapist. I just can't.
They will lock me up. They will say I am a danger to myself and to others. Maybe I am, but, Chris will keep the children safe from me. Keep them from seeing how consumed I am with Despair right now. I can't go back to being locked up, I just can't. I can't lose my kids. It would kill me. I know alot of people think that it won't happen, but, I know the system, I know how it works. I spent 8 years in the system, being abused in every way possible, at least I have enough love for my children not to hurt them, no matter how bad I get. They won't believe me though. They never do, because they don't want to. They want to keep me locked up and I just.. I just can't.
I do need to apologize, for anyone who came across the post I deleted. I know that at least one person read it and was scared witless. I am okay. For the moment, I have Chris and he won't let anyone lock me up. He will keep me safe.
I finally reached a point where I was willing to allow the darkness to swallow. I was welcoming it, encouraging it to suck me down into it's depths, a familarity in it that was almost a relief as I relaxed and allowed it to begin it's smother.
Despair and I are old friends. Or nemisis. Whatever.
We are connected, intertwined in a way that very few people can understand fully.
He comes to visit me and we wrestle for control of my heart, my mind, even my soul.
I am tired of fighting him. I don't know how much longer I can do it. It is so much easier to just let him win.
I know I need help. I can't get it. I can't go to a doctor and explain why I need medication that is stronger. I can't go to a therapist. I just can't.
They will lock me up. They will say I am a danger to myself and to others. Maybe I am, but, Chris will keep the children safe from me. Keep them from seeing how consumed I am with Despair right now. I can't go back to being locked up, I just can't. I can't lose my kids. It would kill me. I know alot of people think that it won't happen, but, I know the system, I know how it works. I spent 8 years in the system, being abused in every way possible, at least I have enough love for my children not to hurt them, no matter how bad I get. They won't believe me though. They never do, because they don't want to. They want to keep me locked up and I just.. I just can't.
I do need to apologize, for anyone who came across the post I deleted. I know that at least one person read it and was scared witless. I am okay. For the moment, I have Chris and he won't let anyone lock me up. He will keep me safe.
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