Blanket Party

Two days after Krista left and I still didn’t have a new roommate. There were whispers that a new girl was coming in and they were talking about putting her with me. I knew it was because they thought that maybe I could finally make a friend if she was given the chance to know me before the other girls.

More importantly though this was the night of Lorie’s first weekend pass and she was very excited. She invited me up to her room to talk to her while she packed. She told me of her boyfriend back home and I was actually very surprised. I knew that there was a romantic relationship between her and one of the guys there, his name was Brett. I think it was the first question I had actually ever been able to ask her about herself and it just sort of spilled out of my mouth.

“Don’t you love Brett?”
She gave me a highly amused look and asked me “What makes you think that?”
”Because you were kissing him”
”You saw that?”
”Lorie, everyone saw that”
”How did everyone see that?”
“He looked like he was choking you with his tongue”

This seriously cracked her up and she laughed for a long time over it before she tipped her head ever so slightly, her blue eyes narrowed at me, as if looking for an answer to something before she calmly stated.
“You really >are< that young aren’t you?”

This made me mad and I scowled at her, which, seemed only to amuse her more. She was still grinning at me when she asked me “Are you a virgin?”
I was pretty sure I knew what that meant, but I wasn’t one hundred percent, so I fired back at her “Are you?!”
She shook her head at me “No, not for a long time” she looked almost sad as she said it.
“Well neither am I” of course, I still was, but, I wasn’t about to tell her that and I squared my shoulders back and watched her carefully for the sign that this was the secret code to get into this club I had been excluded from for so long. Maybe they just hadn’t gotten around to asking me yet and this was my chance.
She stopped in the middle of what she was doing and stood there watching me with a shirt hanging from her fingertips, I bravely held her gaze and I began to hear that all to familiar buzzing in my ears, telling me something was going to happen now. I watched as she carefully lay the shirt that she had been about to pack down on the bed, I blinked but refused to look away or show any sign of weakness least I fail this test, whatever it was.

She reached out and tried to put her arms around and pull me into a hug. I remember her voice was softer then I had ever heard before and my entire body was on high alert. She was either going to bring me into the fold, or beat the crap out of me and I still wasn’t sure which one yet.
“Nikki, you don’t have to pretend to be something you’re not and you don’t have to hide who you are, just be yourself”
My hands shot out and I pushed her away from me, my voice rising “I don’t want to be me! No one likes me! It is easy for you, you are pretty and smart and the other kids like you! They hate me!”

She was shocked at my outburst; I could tell by the way she just stared at me with the blank expression on her face. I didn’t care; I wanted someone to hurt as much as I did right then, right there.
“I like you” is what she said. I didn’t want to hear that. I didn’t want her to like me. I wanted her to hate me to. I didn’t want to have to have a friend and I didn’t want anyone else to rely on me. I wasn’t capable of taking care of myself, I absolutely did not want anyone else coming to me, yet, a small part of me ached to be this girl’s friend.

It was an ache deep inside my chest that began to spread and only seemed to get worse when I looked at her, her arms held out to me and for a brief moment, I thought of how it would feel to let someone hold me, comfort me, really be there for me. The ache changed to a gnawing hunger and I could feel myself softening towards her as the tears slipped down my face, my hands trembling even though I was digging my nails into my arms. I choked back a sob, knowing that once the damn was broken, it would all be over for me, I would never be able to stop the flow of tears that were just hovering there, threatening to destroy me. I thought for a second of what it would be like not to have the pain anymore and I took a step towards her, my eyes still locked onto hers.

The door opened and a staff member stepped in “Lorie, your ride is here”
“Just a minute” she said but, we both knew at that moment it was too late.
The moment the door opened the spell was broken and she could see in my eyes that the wall had just slammed down again, more firmly in place then ever before, cutting off the chance we had, the chance >I< had.

I still wonder, if I had taken her hand, if I had let her take me in her arms and allowed her to comfort me, would it have changed anything? Would it have made a difference? I think maybe, in a small way it would have. I think that maybe I wouldn’t have felt so alone and maybe I would have felt as if I was worthy of being loved.

The sad fact is though, that I didn’t take what was offered and Lorie was off for her weekend pass with a quick pat on my shoulder and a host of giggles as she ran downstairs.

I headed back into my room to study. I didn’t have homework, but studying passed the time away from the other kids. I stretched out on my stomach and lay with my head in my hands, staring at my math book and began to do the problems for the next day in my head.

I must have dozed off, because I certainly didn’t hear the door open, or the group of girls who entered my room, at least not until it was too late.

The blanket came down over the top of me and my face was immediately pushed into the bed tightly, to keep me from screaming. Pain shot through my back at the first punch and again through my side as I was hit there. I tried to turn over, it was like being caught in an iron grip, my head was forced into the bed, and my arms were pinned. I tried to kick at them, my mind screaming as I fought the red haze that offered right there on the verge of my vision. It came closer as more pain poured down on me from above. My lungs were burning, I couldn’t get enough air. I tried to lift my head with everything I had, just to get one more desperately needed breath of air and was rewarded with a blow to the head that left me reeling. The fight went out of me and I knew that it was almost over when I began to see small white spots floating in the distance. My muscles relaxed and I let my eyes close on their own.

I felt myself being turned over and I could hear them breathing but not a one of them said a word, more blows fell, this time on my face, my stomach, my arms, and my chest. I can’t say in reality how long the beating lasted, it seemed like a very long time to me.

The pain had been so intense that even after they left, I didn’t have the energy to pull the blanket off of my face for quiet some time.

When I finally could move, the blanket had stuck to the blood and wounds on my face and it hurt to peel it off. I was so cold and I shivered violently as I tried to make my mind tell me what I was meant to be doing. I stumbled off the bed and onto the floor. I lay there, wanting to cry, but, unable to find it in there anywhere. I hurt so bad, inside and out, physically and mentally.

Finally, I scooted under the bed and that is where I lay. In the darkness as I thought of all the bad things I did. I went over all the teachings in my life, searching for an answer, one particular thing I did that was so bad that I deserved to be punished. I prayed for a sign that it would soon be over and I would be forgiven and that maybe one day my mommy would love me again.

There were no answers that night. Just a lonely broken little girl who grew up into a broken woman, struggling to fit herself together again so that she can be worthy of the love that has finally been given to her.

To this day, I still flip out if blankets are drawn over my head.

Krista

Sometimes I have so many things in my mind that I can’t keep them all straight. Sadly, most of my thinking is done at work where I have no access to a pen and paper to jot my thoughts down. It leaves me feeling very scattered and without resolution.

Despite Lorie’s best attempts to stick up for me, there was only so much one person could do against all of the others. One huge stumbling block was that I did not want to be labeled as a tattle tale or a sissy, so I often kept the little things to myself.

Like how someone came in and toothpaste in all of my underwear, or how I would get up in the mornings to find that all my carefully hung clothes had been ripped down of my hangers. I didn’t tell anyone about how they shut the lights off on me while I was in the shower, plunging me into darkness, sometimes, just for added fun, they would set the dirty laundry basket right outside my shower stall so that when I pulled back the curtain and step out, I’d fall over it.

Harmless crap really, but the pain it did to my self esteem is everlasting. I have still, not learned to trust people completely and I have learned there is no better place to cry then in a darkened bathroom, preferably in a hot bath.

During all this time, I tried to get to know people. Most of the avoided me very openly, but, if I could manage to catch one or two of them alone, such as in the bathroom, or in the hallways at night, I could get them to talk to me.

I learned a lot about Krista during the first couple of weeks. We would talk in the darkness about her life. It was always her life because mine was just not open for discussion. It was all still to raw, still to fresh for me to want to go over in casual conversation.

Krista was seventeen when I arrived there. She had been there from the opening six months earlier and was in the process of making arrangements for when she left. Her birthday was sometime in the first week of October and she would be eighteen, which meant that legally they could not hold her there anymore, no matter where she decided to go after she left.

When I asked her why she had been put there she said it was because of her religion. I was a bit baffled by this and it became the first time that I was introduced into a Wicca lifestyle. She said that her parents had accused her of being a devil worshiper, said that they were afraid that she would harm herself or another person. She went on to tell me about how her father decided one night to” beat the devil out of her”. In trying to purge his daughter of her “sins” he nearly took her life, she spent the next five months recovering in the hospital. She became addicted to pain pills and from there it progressed into other drugs until she was a sixteen year old drug addict who would do anything, including selling her body, just for the next high. Of course, the drug addiction lead to stealing, at first, it was just for something to eat so that she didn’t have to spend her money on food, then it went into things that she could sell for money so that she could get more drugs. She said one of the biggest money makers was to go into a store and buy something for thirty of forty dollars and then go in and steal the exact same item and return it for the cash. Back then, a lot of stores didn’t require even the receipt, just a small form filled out with your name and address and of course, you can put any name you like on it, so it was easy to get away with. She was picked up a couple of times for petty theft, but nothing major. A cop found her overdosed in an alley one night and that began her recovery.

She had come to terms with all that had happened in her life. She never bullshitted it or sugar coated anything. Her parents were rotten human beings who should not have children, in her opinion, but since they did and she was it, she was not going to let them ruin her life. In the short few weeks I knew her, I grew to respect her a lot for that.

Krista left Western Academy and I never heard of her again. I don’t know how her life has turned out, but in my mind, she would have grown up as a very successful career minded woman. I also see her as continuing to practice Wicca in her long flowing dresses. Really, she should have been born in the sixties so that she could have experienced the flower child era. Somehow though, I think that Krista brought it to life wherever she went, she was just that kind of girl.

As the days approached to Krista leaving, I was filled with a new fear. I would soon be getting a new roommate and I had no idea who it would be. The staff was always very tight lipped about things like this. In the last week before she left, I was in a near panic every time I went to bed. I would lay there for hours, trying to picture myself with someone new in my room. I tried to make my mind fit the pieces together of a puzzle that just didn’t have all the pieces to it. I didn’t know who had been doing these things to me and I was terrified to trust anyone. I prayed and prayed that it would be Lorie, in a small selfish way, I prayed for it because I knew that she would protect me from them.

Krista’s leaving took place with very little fanfare. She waited in the lobby until the car that was to take her way arrived and then she came into the classrooms to say goodbye to all of us. There were a few tears shed by the other girls who knew her better, they would miss her, the tears that dripped down my face were born out of self pity though, knowing that I would be alone in that room tonight. As Krista hugged me goodbye she pressed something cold into my hand and when she walked away I looked down to see one of her bracelets. I smiled and slid it onto my wrist. To this day I have no idea why she did it.

I arrived at Western Academy on August 31st and I can count on one hand the acts of kindness that were shown to me by my fellow students that year. It is something I held onto dearly.

Krista, if you ever read this, know that the simple parting of a bracelet gave one little girl something to hold on to. It got me through some long months. Thank you for that.

My 11th Birthday

Well, now that the break is over. I am going back into the depths of my mind to recall what order things went. It has been nearly 20 years, so I’m liable to mess this up at some point.

My birthday was one week after I arrived. Since I was a new arrival and all of my paperwork was still being processed, it was overlooked. Two days after my birthday, when a small box from my mother arrived, they finally realized it. By then it really was too late to do anything about.

Inside the package was a single item. It was a white shirt with a Mountain Dew emblem on the right hand side just above my chest. Now this might seem like an odd gift for a little girl turning eleven, but, it was my favorite drink and at the time, their emblem was much cooler then it is now.

Of course, being the good girl I was, I took it up and promptly put it into the dirty laundry. We had a large garbage can type container that sat in the upstairs girls’ bathroom and we all put our clothes into it. Each night, the third shift staff member, of which there was only one, would haul it down to the laundry room and wash, dry and fold it all. In the morning, we awoke to clean clothes outside the hallway that we sorted ourselves and put away.

The next morning I rushed out and gathered up my clothes and slipped into my freshly washed brand new shirt. I went in to wash my face, comb my hair and brush my teeth.

Then we all headed down for breakfast. It was Monday morning, which meant that coffee would be served with breakfast.

Have I mentioned that at this point in time, Western Academy had only been operating for only a short while, less then a year, which meant that we were still the test subjects.

I still had not made any friends and the loneliness always seemed worse in the morning because everyone would gather into groups, fighting over who was going to sit next to who and I always ended up sitting alone, picking at my food. This morning was no exception.

I did not partake in the coffee. I have never been a coffee drinker and I’m still not. It was just one more thing of many that set me apart from the rest of the kids.

I finished up what I could stomach of my meal and began to carry my tray over. I should have noticed how quiet it got before I even stood up, only a few hushed whispers. I was too busy poking at my food and thinking of something that at the time was really important to me.

Rick appeared in front of me, cutting me off before I could make it to dump my tray. I looked him in the eye and I saw a slight smirk appear on his face before he lifted up his hand and the aroma of coffee hit me. Before I could step back, he poured the entire contents of the cup down the front of me. My skin felt the flash of fire before it went numb and for a long moment I just stared at him. I would not give a single one of them the satisfaction of seeing me cry so I moved forward quickly and dumped my tray into the garbage, tray and all and walked with as much dignity as I had left to the bathroom.

This was the first time that I discovered what great little hiding spot there was in the cabinets. I pulled one open and just stared into it for the longest time, then climbed in, curling myself up tightly by wrapping my arms around my knees and burying my face into my lap.

I sat there and went over in my mind all the things I had done in my young life, trying to pinpoint a place where I might have noticed that my mom stopped loving me. Then I tried to go back to see if there was any love at all.

I found no answers in the depths of my mind. I found instances where my mother would scream at me about what a rotten bitch I was. Yes folks, by the time I was about five I can remember my mother calling me a bitch, when my breasts started to come in early, then I became a whore to her. She would scream these obscenities at me while raining blows down on any part of my body she could reach. This didn’t happen very often but each moment of each time was burned into my mind.

The hardest part was that she wasn’t always like this. She would have periods of great generosity. Not money wise, but, with her words, she would tell me how beautiful, how smart, how sweet I was. She would make me feel like a princess just by taking me in and showing me how to make something in the kitchen. It was this that confused me. I never could understand how someone that loved you so much could hurt you so bad.

I think I fell asleep because the next thing I remember was hearing some of the girls come into the bathroom. They were laughing and talking about what a baby I was, about how I had run away because of a little bit of coffee. My chest and stomach burned still and I closed my eyes and put my hands over my ears in hopes of drowning out the voices, the words. The tears fell down my face anyway and I defiantly decided to stay there forever.

They laughed some more, making general snotty comments about how short my hair was, how I looked like a boy. The door opened and I held my breath as the water from the sink above me turned on, when it turned off I heard Lorie’s voice.

“Not be so mean to her, she’s just a kid and she really doesn’t deserve to be here. She’s not like the rest of us; her mom just didn’t want her.”

The other girls gave her some ribbing about being nice to the reject and her voice went soft and held a dangerous tone “I was her roommate at BPI, I know what kind of pain she is going through and I don’t care what you guys think of her, if any of you pull another stunt like today’s, you’ll understand exactly why I was locked up”

I shuddered a bit even as my heart swelled for the one person who had the guts to stand up against the masses on my behalf. I knew that she was in the system because she nearly beat a girl to death for sleeping with her boyfriend. She had told me that much at BPI. The girl had some serious anger management issues, but it seemed she had a soft spot too.

I don’t think Lorie ever realized exactly how much her actions effected me. She was never big on words and touching was not something she did freely, at least, not in a gentle manner.

All told I was under that sink from breakfast until just shortly after dinner. I was starving when I came out and slunk upstairs. I was immediately put on probation and sent to my room where I feel asleep with my stomach growling. Not a single word was said between me and any of the other girls.

I knew that things would not be getting better any time soon.

Tag

Angel tagged me and I don't normally do this, but I really needed a break from the stuff taking place in my head for the blog right now. Thanks Angel.

1. Were you named after anyone?
My first name was after my father's very first girlfriend, my middle name was after his ex-wife. No wonder my mother hated me.

2. When did you last cry?
A harder question would be when was the last time I >didn't< cry. I have no idea when that was.

3. What is your favorite lunch meat?
Hmm.. Spam.

4. What is your most embarrassing CD?
All 264 of my Cd's were stolen, now I have MP3's.

5. Where is your second home?
The Rocky Mountains. How I miss the Aspen trees.

6. Do you trust others too easily?
On a surface level yes. Deep down, no.

7. What was your favorite toy as a child?
Honestly, I don't recall any toys.

8. Would you bungee jump?
Hell freaking no way. I have a serious phobia of high ledges, not to be confused with a fear of heights.

9. Do you think that you are strong?
No.

10. What are your favorite colors?
Yellow. Blue. Black.

11. What is your least favorite thing about yourself?
The way that I demand to much love and attention.

12. Who do you miss most?
My sister.

13. What was the last thing you ate?
A cookie.

14. If you were a crayon, what color would you be?
Invisible

15. What is the weather like right now?
Cold and rainy.. and dark outside.

16. Last person you talked to on the phone?
The guy who answered the phone at the video game store.

17. Do you wear contacts?
I wish.

18. Last Movie You Watched?
The begining of Hotel Rawanda. Does the begining count? I was really tired and I am going to watch it.

19. Favorite Day of the Year?
Any day where I feel safe and content.

20. Where Would You Want to Go on your Next Vacation?
Well.. if I could afford to go anywhere in the entire world, it would be Australia. In the states, Florida, to meet my best friend.

21. Favorite Smells?
Sex. Strawberry.

22. What's the furthest you've been away from home?
Vermont.

Pass on to . . . Well. . . If you haven't done it, now is a good time and say it's because I made you.

>eyes dart<

My First Night

When I left BPI it was with the understanding that I would be going to Western Academy in one week. Not really something that I was looking forward to, but it was, inevitable.

When we pulled up my heart stopped. The place looked huge from the outside. I knew I did not want to be there.

My mother climbed out of the car and cheerfully announced that we had arrived. I shot daggers at her and resisted the urge to point out that I was young, not stupid.

I didn’t notice the grounds so much as I noticed the lone house next to my new home. It was a farm house and I closed my eyes and for a moment I pretended that I was going in there to a warm loving family that actually wanted me.

The feel of my mother’s hand gripping my arm pulled me out of the first fantasy I had about the house next door, but it would not be the last.

She tugged on me and I tried hard not to, to be brave, but my eyes welled up with tears and I lowered my head so that my long hair slipped down into my face, creating a shield between me and the world I was about to enter.

As I trudged along the side walk, I felt like I was a convict walking down the corridor to the gas chamber. I felt deep in the pit of my stomach that this was going to change my life forever.

We stepped through the doors and was greeted by John. He was the one in charge of everything and he took us into his office. It was a small room and on one side of the plain brown desk there was his chair, on the other, there were two more chairs where we were directed to sit.

I later learned that John was an alcoholic. He would leave work and go to the pub in town. This was a terribly small town and everyone knew that if he was needed after hours, he could be found there at the bar.

He was an older man, if I had to guess, I would have said he was in his fifties. However, I have learned that alcoholics tend to look far beyond their years so his true age is a mystery. He was short and scrawny in physical size. The man had one of the most commanding presences I have ever come across. You know when he spoke, you better shut your lips and listen.

He went over the rules and the system and assured my mother that I would be well taken care of. Years later I would learn that this was just a formality and it didn’t matter at that point whether or not my mother felt I was safe there. She had already turned over custody of me to the state.

I was lead up to my room and I was happy to see on my way there that my old roommate from BPI had also arrived at Western Academy. A short lived happiness I can assure you, but at the time, I thought that I had an ally already waiting for me.

My room was the middle room, and, the smallest of all the rooms. I was introduced to a young lady named Krista who was going to be my roommate.

I wish I could remember all of the names of the students who where there when I arrived, but, there were literally hundreds in the years I spent there and often it blends together in my mind.

Krista was probably one of the most beautiful girls I had ever seen in my life. She hand long blonde hair and perfectly straight teeth. She dressed in long flowing gowns and whenever she moved she jingled from the throng of colored metal bracelets that dangled from her wrist. She was on honors working towards graduate status.

My mother left soon after and I stood in the window of my new room just watching her go. I would like to say that I got used to my mother’s abandonment, her rejection of me, but to this day it is not something I have ever been able to let go of. It leaves me full of self doubt, asking myself what it was about me that was so unlovable to her. I was not an only child, but, at this point, I was the only one she had given away. It also left me wondering how anyone would ever be able to love me if I was so bad that my own mother could not love me. Aren’t mothers supposed to love their children no matter what they do?

That night I climbed into my bed, and lay there whispering in the dark with Krista. She told me about the staff members. Then she began to tell me about herself. She was a white witch she said, she had a ouija board and could speak to the dead. She told me how the building used to be a church and that they shut it down because several people were killed there.

I never did learn if that was true or not. My adult mind tells me that it was done to scare me, but, then again, later down the line when I began to make friends with the kids that lived in town; I learned that they told the same stories.

If it was designed to scare me, it worked. I was scared to death and my ears strained for the sound of any angry ghosts that might be after me. Krista had a soft and soothing voice and I was nearly lulled to sleep when I heard the first thump. It was coming from the wall directly next to my bed and I gritted my teeth. My skin tingled and as always when I feel any kind of intense emotion, my ears began a slow buzzing in them.

The tears fell and a suffocating feeling came over me but I was not going to utter a single word of fear. Krista chattered on as if she had heard nothing.

My first night at a place that would become the first home I had ever had was spent with tears streaming down my face. Something that would become common place within my life, I learned how to cry in silence. Some times I still do.

Routines and Rules

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.

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 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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

A whole week?

I really should not ever go a full week without blogging. Blogging helps me to see things in a much better perspective.

The last almost week has been very busy and I've not had alot of time to dwell on issues.

Our youngest boy has had some difficulty adjusting to kindergarten this year and we are working hard at assisting him in this transition.

I was frustrated and a bit angry at the school as we made contact with them on several occasions to try and arrange a meeting.

Several times this week he was sent home with what they call skills, these are little notes that tell the parent when a child is sent to the "skills" room, which is basically a time out room.

I have no problem with the system, with the fact that he was put into time out, or the fact that he was given a "skills" to bring home.

My issue came when, in talking to our son, he indicated that before each of his offenses, he went to a teacher to help him solve an issue with another of his friends and the teacher pretty much blew him off, they say they "encourage" the children to work things out for themselves.

Now, mind you, I'm not talking about another student verbally mocking or insulting my son, one such incident involved another student kicking my son. He went to the teacher and she told im to use his "I words" which translates into "I don't like that". He did that, and still the child continued to kick him. So, my son spit on him.

In no way do I condone spitting on another person. Ever. It is nasty and disgusting, and he was punished for it, not only at school by being sent to the skills room, but, as well as at home. I simply will not tolerate disrespect from my children, not even aimed at another child.

So, the problem came when I tried to explain that my son is feeling as if he has to take things into his own hands because he is not being assisted by a teacher. I didn't expect the teacher to run over and punish the other child. She could however, have went over and stood there while my son used his "I words" to ensure that the other child was using his listning ears. Or, better yet, she could have stepped in and explained to the other child that we do not physically hurt our friends.

In trying to explain this, the teacher involved became very defensive. I tried again to explian that our son does have social issues, this is his first year around a group of children, that we in no way doubt that what she says he did, he actually did. Nor do we think that what he did was right. Nor will he go without punishment.

Even that didn't seem to satisfy her. She was still convinced that we were trying to get our son off the hook. Nothing could have been farther from the truth. I refuse to allow my children to dump ownership of their actions onto someone else. I don't care what another child does, he does NOT deserve to be spit on. No child should have to go to school afraid that someone else is going to hit them, or hurt them, or call them names, and I refuse to allow my children to become the bully.

I guess the problem comes because so many parents are more concerned with their own image. If their child does bad things, it makes them look bad right? Well, most parents can't handle that, me, I can handle that I'm not perfect, but the school is so used to defending themselves I guess that they can't accept it when I say "I know he did wrong, but, there were other factors and we need to correct this, not just him, but the other factors as well"

By other factors, I mean that when he went to a teacher, she should have stepped in. I think it sends a bad message to a five year old when he goes to a teacher, she refuses to help, and then he is punished by the same teacher only a moment later for what, in his mind, is defending himself. Again, his reaction was wrong, but, there is bound to be a reaction when someone is kickinig you. Also, my son is bored. Horribly. Acadmically he is about two grades higher then his peers. He reads, he writes, he does math, knows colors, shapes and sizes. The teacher I understand has other children to teach these things too, but, he is bored. Idle hands make for trouble.

>sighs<

So, meeting too place. I think we understand each other now. They are going to test his iq and reading and math to see if he should spend some time with the 1st graders so that he can be challenged academically. We do not think our son is perfect, and he will be punished for the things he does at school and they will call us if there is an issue that can't be worked out. They will take the time to listen to his words and help him find better solutions to problems.

On a better note, my oldest son is doing fabulous in school and despite a disability, has nearly caught up with his peers. We are so proud of him.

Chris has been invited to join a frat and I just can't help but giggle at the thought. Frat parties would never be the same once he attented.

Well, I will try to post more tomarrow for now I am heading to bed.

Accountability

I wanted to let you all know that I am feeling better. Still not great, but I am working on it. This post is going to jump alot because I have so much stuff swirling in my head that I need to get out before it drives me over the edge totally. If I ramble so much that something is not clear, just leave me a message or email me about it and I will try to clear it up later.

Last night one of my dearest friends and I had a long chat about motherhood and insecurities.

I realized that I was letting my fear of being a bad mother; keep me from enjoying myself as a good mother.

I have been letting all the crap from my past weigh me down, worrying about if I am a good mother or not, concerned with all that I am not doing, that it has made me shy away from my kids at a point when they really needed me to come closer to them.

That is what I am going to try to do. I am going to try to come closer to my kids instead of shying away. It will not be easy, as most of you already know, I tend to shy away when I go through the depressive state. Maybe that is normal, maybe not, but, this is a new of looking at things and I'm going to try it

I have spent alot of time reflecting on myself the past couple of weeks. I tend to do this whenever I get depressed but this time, I had alot of support from people I have known for a very long time, as well as some people I have met through my blog. I will not mention names, for they know who they are.

When I get depressed, I tend to think that the world is against me. Even the lady at the gas station is against me and it makes me almost impossible to death with. I am snappy and bitter and I tend to take everything said to me the wrong way. This has alienated a lot of good people in my life. I am so lucky to have a few friends who can see this pattern and get past it. To curb this, I normally shut down and lock everything inside of myself until I can't contain it anymore.

It erupts and heaven help the person who is in my path at that time. It is like a white hot fury that just spills out of me and man can I be hateful and nasty. I have struck Chris with my hands, I have destroyed things in our home, I have seen my children cry with fear.

Yes folks, I have issues. Serious ones. It would be easy for me to blame my mother, she is the one who lied to me and locked me away, she is the one who stood there and called me a liar because she couldn't face the facts of what her father had done. I could blame the system that I was placed into because it failed me, and man did it ever fail me, I could blame alot of people but that would all be a bunch of crap.

I recently spoke with my mother because my younger brother appeared at her home at 2am and dragged my father out of his bed by ranting and raving. What was he freaking out about? Well you see, the oldest brother in our family is a pervert, the one I won't let my children be alone with, and, well, he offered my younger brother three dollars to suck him off. FIFTEEN YEARS AGO! The younger brother said no and even by his own admission, that was the end of it. Now, I understand, that might have hurt him emotionally, but, to go over to my parents, walk in, and in a drunken rage, start spouting garbage about how they didn't protect him, how they should have know, yadda yadda yadda, at my dad (who, you might remember has a heart condition and is diabetic, oh, did I mention an insomniac who only sleeps about 4.5 hours a night) out of bed was just utterly infuriating.

So, anyway, I've digressed. You see, my mother called me to tell me this. I already knew because the older brother had also called (younger left my parents and showed up there banging in the door and screaming about how he would get a gun and kill him). So, I listened to my mother cry about what a crappy parent she was, how she wrecked all our lives, how her children hate her.

I really struggled through this portion of the conversation because I do believe my mother sucked at being a parent. I do think that the choices she made has left scars on us that will never go away no matter how hard we try.

I do not however, see my mother as responsible for my actions. I am a grown adult. Like her, I am capable of making my own decisions. I can choose to drink and use drugs and make life hell for my family, or I can choose to face my problems head on and deal with them. I don't need a weekly session with anyone, I don't need to take thirty thousand medications (one works just fine thank you very much) I don't need to blame others for my issues.

Like me my brother has chosen to get married and have a family. He has 4 children, the oldes of which is only recently turned 6. He has no job, and hasn't for about 4 years. His wife works her ass off to support them, but, he blows it just as quickly as she gets it. They have not paid my parents a dime in rent since they moved into the trailer next to my parents. The electric was shut off a few months back because they didn't pay the bill, and, if any of you reading this live in Idaho, you know how stupid this is, for the rest of you, Chris and I were paying 50 dollars a month during the hottest months when we ran our swamp cooler day and night. The bill reached 500 dollars and they cut it off. So, instead of paying it (his wife makes roughly 17 dollars an hour) they waited two months and she went down and had it put in her maiden name. The electric company then assumed that the old tenants moved out without leaving a forwarding address and have attached this 500 dollars to my parents bill. My brother and his wife both have made it very clear that they are not going to pay them a penny for it.

Now, I know that my parents sucked, but, as we have become adults, they do try to make things better. Besides, there is a fundamental difference between what happened to him and what happened to me. Let me see if I can make a clear graph of it.

HIM
1. Asked for sex
2. Death of sister
3. Placed in foster care for 6month
4. Blamed for nothing
5. Would never lie

ME
1. Raped
2. Death of sister, witness
3. In and out of places for 8years
4. Blamed for everything
5. Always lied

Now, as little as this list looks, these are some major differences in my opinion. He was ASKED for sex. Man, I'm a married woman, I get ASKED for sex all the time. I was raped and molested. Not just by my grandfather, but, my one brother, my foster parents, a group of boys in Denver, not to mention my ex husband on a semi regular basis.

Now, trust me, I am well aware of how the violent death of a sibling can impact you, but, imagine being a child waking up one day to find out that your oldest sister was dead. The man she loved killed her. Why?! I don't understand. Or, like me, you could find out that after beating her severely for several years, he finaly did the worst thing imaginable. Knowing that maybe, just maybe I could have done something because unlike the youngest sibling, I KNEW he was abusing her. I SAW him abusing her.

My younger brother could do no wrong. Ever. He was not punished as a child. I was horribly punished for things that the boys did because together they would blame me and of course two voices were better then one. Even now, instead of holding my brother responsible for his garbage, my mother is making exscuses for him. It's her fault, it's my fault, yes people, I did say it was my fault. How can that be you ask? Well so did I and the answer astonished me. Seems it is my fault that my brother is drinking himself stupid (I married an alchoholic in his formative years and took him in to live with me rather then allow him to go to Foster care) Why does he do crystal meth? Well, of course it is because I am a recovering coke addict. Why is he addicted to antipsychotic pills that were prescribed to his friend? Well, damn, don't you know, it's my fault because I was addicted to pain killers. Why is it he hasn't had a job in nearly four years? Why it was because Chris quit his job 6 weeks before we moved from Idaho. WAIT! Why did he quit school (both times) because >I< quit school (never mind that *I* did go back and get my GED on my own while he had to be nagged on every single day for months) Damn, I hadn't realized it, I have no idea how she can blame herself, everything is so obviously my fault.

He also is the epitomy of honesty. He would never cheat on his wife, go back to drugs, steal from her. No no, when he says he's clean it's the truth, he's not like me. How can I make up such things about him. How can I make up such horrible things about what was done to me as a child? Oh yeah, I remember her reason now, I had an overactive imagination. The bruises you say? Where did they come from? Oh, well, you know, I was a very delicate child, due to a blood disorder, the one that went away after I left home, I bruised at the slightest touch.

>stares<

Damn, no wonder I am so messed up. Hmm, blaming, yes, I blame them for what happened to me THEN. For not protecting me when it was there job, but guess what, now it is MY job to protect me. If I choose to surround myself with people who help me with that or not is up to me, but, in the end, it is up to me to protect myself. It is up to me to answer for the things that I do. To hold myself accountable. That is one of the reasons I write this. So that I can put down the things I do so that I can hold myself accountable for them. So I can go back and reflect and try to figure out where I went wrong so that I can avoid that from happening agian.

Damn, the world needs more people willing to be accountable. I wonder if it will ever really happen.

Don't give up on me.

I am still here. I am still struggling.

Thank you all so much for your kind words, thoughts and prayers.

It isn't just the money though. I wanted to make that clear. Matter of fact, the money is only a means to an end.

I have been poor my whole life. It is how I was born and raised, and I have done alot better for my children that was done for me.

I remember a time when we had to eat our goverment cereal with water because we couldn't afford milk. My children have never had to do that. We might not eat steaks and caviar every night, well, never caviar, yuck, but, the point is our children are well fed and it will always be that way.

You see, I'm so tired of fighting. I have had to fight all my life for things that should be basic things for most people. Food, respect, love, and safety. Now I have to fight to give those things to my children.

I do not want them to grow up telling stories about how poor we were. I want them to remember their childhood as a happy time. A time where they were loved, protected, and provided for.

Love, protection, that I can provide. For the rest of it, money is what it takes. It sucks, but, that is the bottom line of it.

If we don't have money to get the van fixed, I have no way to get to work, I lose my job, and Chris can't make it to school.

Thankfully his family has stepped up to help us out. As painful as the story is, the van is being worked on and with a little bit of luck and the touch of an angel's wing, it will run properly, or, more to the point, stop properly. They have been picking up Chris and taking him to school because his dad went on a terrible rant saying that there was no way in hell that he was going to let Chris drop his classes after all that we've done to get him where he is.

Even though things are looking up, the darkness lingers. It is part of my bi-polar and it is something that I have to struggle with for the rest of my life. I have no sex drive, hell, I don't have the drive for anything right now.

I have turned to those who have supported me in hopes of finding my way out of this. I hate this feeling. I hate the suffocation. I want to laugh again, I want to smile and stop being so paranoid.

Tonight at work, I almost walked out because my nerves were so shot, my hands were shaking and my heart was thumping in my chest. I talked to my supervisor and I told him I needed some extra breaks for the night and he told me to do what I needed to do. I went into the bathroom and cried for a long time.

Please don't give up on me. I know I've not be consistant in my posting, and what I have posted has been depressing and probably not a lot of fun to read, but, honestly, I am trying as hard as I can to get back to a better place.

Again, I want to say thank you to those who have supported me. You know who you are and my heart constricts when I think of how lucky I am to have such wonderful people in my life. Thank you from the bottom of my heart.

Stench of Sorrow

No matter how hard we try, nothing seems to go right.

We recently had to borrow money from a dear friend of ours just so that we could cover bills. We had sat down and worked out plan to help us get back on track, having had one bad thing after another happen. We are totally tapped out, but things were looking up.

We had planned out taking our van in at the end of the next week to have the brakes looked out. They were recently replaced by a family member. Remind me to never fucking do that again.

I skated home on a wing and prayer tonight. Meaning, the brakes on one side went out completely. With my heart in my throat the entire way, my hands gripping the steering wheel and driving 15mph in a 45 zone I made it home.

We have no money. No way to get any more without asking another friend of ours for help. I don't want to do this because I know he will help. I am so sick of having to borrow money. I'm sick of not being able to do the mundane crap that everyone else does.

My 30th birthday was on the 6th. The 9th, was our Anniversary, and today is Chris' birthday. He doesn't even get to sleep in because we have to find a way to get me to work, not to mention how we will fix the van.

It's a never ending sucking darkness. It's been lapping at my feet for several weeks now and I'm getting too tired to fight it anymore.

I don't give a fuck. I work my ass off and we still are barely scraping by. I've worked as much overtime as I could and still, it does me no good.

I have not seen my daughter in four days because of our schedules, I see my boys only about 20 minutes a day. Oh, well, except today, when I had the pleasure of dragging my baby out of school to take him down and have his arm stabbed with sharp needles so the school would get off my back about his fucking booster shots.

It's like a suffocating darkness. It sucks you in, overwhelms you, makes you completely helpless.

I know that I'm over reacting. I know my bi-polar is kicking in. I can feel myself hovering on the edge.

I feel like the whole damn world is against me. I don't feel like I have anyone to turn to. I can't complain to Chris because he lives this shit too. I hate dragging bad shit back up when I know that none of us can do a fucking thing to stop it, or make it better.

My hands are shaking even now. I fight back the tears. My skin is tingling. I feel a crushing weight bearing down on my chest. I am afraid. Afraid I am going to fail in my role in this family. I am supposed to provide for my children, for my husband. I am not doing that.

I can't even desribe properly how it feels. As close as I can get to is, is to compare it to tar. It slowly sucks you in. You know it's going to happen. You are stuck, you can't do anything to get out. The smell of sorrow begins to overwhelm you as it begins to close over your head, filling your nose, your mouth, covering you in the fifth of depression.

I hate this fucking illness. I hate myself. I hate what I do to my family and my friends. I hate the failure I've become. I've even managed to let down the few friends I have.

There is no end in sight, why fucking bother. I feel like my children would be better of without me. I know what it was like for me growing up with a mom who was crazy. I do not want that for my children.

If Chris did half the things to me that I've done to him, I would have left him. Yet, he has always put up with me.

I hate myself.