The pain was getting worse, started around 7pm on Friday night. I took some Tylenol for it. I took some more Tylenol. Got home from work around 1030pm. I took some pain killers I had been prescribed for something else. Took some more about 2am. By 6am I thought I was going to die. I woke up the husband and called my mom and she came to take me to the hospital becausehe wouldratherspend time with Def than accompanyhis wife to the er.
Five shots of morphine later, a host of other stuff that I can't spell, and a big fat hospital bill later, they told me what I already knew. I have kidney stones, again, and in both sides.
Tomorrow is Monday and I have to be at the doctor's office by 730 so that they can do outpatient surgery and remove them. I don't know how long it will be before I get back to post a real post, but I will post an update so everyone knows how I'm doing.
I am very afraid, I just keeping telling myself that I'll be fine. I sure hope it's true.
TW: Abuse/SA/Language/Suicide/Death A place to put down my thoughts about my past and current place to deal with my trauma and healing.
Sunday, March 30, 2008
Thursday, March 20, 2008
What I Deserved
I had a conversation tonight that really brought back some memories for me. I am going to share some of them here in the next few days.
For those who have followed my journey I apologize for the repeat of information, but I have to give it again in order for new readers to understand.
I spent eight years under the care of the Department of Human Services. The first two in foster care and after thirty days in a psychiatric hospital I was shipped to a Residential Child Care Facility. I was, and to this day still am, the youngest “resident” that they ever had. I also spent more time in that facility then any other child before or after me and it has been over twenty years since I first went there.
Just a few weeks before I was sent to the psychiatric hospital I was in a halfway house, a place of transition, and while there, a sixteen year old boy tried to rape me. I never told anyone, I didn’t think anyone would believe me. I was a bad girl and bad girls are not to be believed. When I arrived at Western Academy, much to my horror, he was there as well.
I think that his guilt, and his fear of me telling someone what he did to me, really led to the circumstances of the first few years I spent there. In order to destroy my credibility, should I choose to tell someone, he had to paint me to be a horrible person. He told them that I was a slut, a whore, a liar and an instigator. I never stood a chance.
Kendra was the first roommate that I ever had. She was not mean to me per say, but she delighted in scaring me to death. I was terrified to sleep most of the nights. Before long I was moved into another room with another girl who frankly, I can’t recall her name, a lot of the names are lost to me now as time separates me from the memories. It is much easier to recall incidents.
I woke up cold and tired one early morning and after shuffling over to my locker and dragging out the first change of clothes I came to, I stumbled into the bathroom for a shower. Now, this was not just a simple bathroom, there was four showers (complete with a tiny cloth curtain to cover us) and four bathroom stalls all along one wall opposite of the door, and next to the door was a counter with four sinks and a mirror that ran the length above them (many hours were spent sitting on those counters shaving our legs in later years). Showers were required before we could go down to breakfast and we had to be down by eight in the morning. So I force myself under the water and leaned against the wall with my eyes closed.
I was thinking of my mother, wondering how I came to be in such a place. I felt the hot sting of tears as I wondered why she didn’t love me, why she didn’t want to be my mother anymore and why she didn’t want a daughter like me. I asked myself (as I have many times over the years) what I could have possibly done to make her turn her back on me.
I felt the cool breeze and the cloth curtain sucked in towards me and I pushed it away, it never registered in my mind that the room had grown unnaturally silent, nor did it register that as I pushed the curtain away from me that my hand had connected to something solid.
Before another thought entered my mind I found myself without water. I tried to work it out in my mind how this had happened and once more I felt the icy touch of air lick my wet skin before I felt the first blow connect. It came in hard and fast and my head slammed back against the wall and bounced back. I reached out to brace myself and found myself with my arms pinned to my side and darkness descended on me and I suddenly found I couldn’t couldn't breathe. I was dragged out by more hands then I could count, not that counting them was on my mind as blow after blow rained down on me. I tried to cry out but found myself paralyzed with fear and dizzying pain, reacting with a need for survival as I tried best I could to curl up and cover my face. It didn’t really help. When they finally walked away just as silently as the had come, I continued to lay there and it was probably an hour later when it was time for breakfast and I didn’t show up that someone came to look for me, that I was found and the pillowcase was removed from my face.
I cringed as hands reached for me and some sort of pathetic whimper escaped me as I tried to pull away. Quiet and soothing words came at me but it doesn’t really matter, I don’t want them to touch me. I deserved it, I am a bad girl. I deserve pain, I deserve to hurt, I deserve the darkness, I deserve to loose any and all good things in my life.
For those who have followed my journey I apologize for the repeat of information, but I have to give it again in order for new readers to understand.
I spent eight years under the care of the Department of Human Services. The first two in foster care and after thirty days in a psychiatric hospital I was shipped to a Residential Child Care Facility. I was, and to this day still am, the youngest “resident” that they ever had. I also spent more time in that facility then any other child before or after me and it has been over twenty years since I first went there.
Just a few weeks before I was sent to the psychiatric hospital I was in a halfway house, a place of transition, and while there, a sixteen year old boy tried to rape me. I never told anyone, I didn’t think anyone would believe me. I was a bad girl and bad girls are not to be believed. When I arrived at Western Academy, much to my horror, he was there as well.
I think that his guilt, and his fear of me telling someone what he did to me, really led to the circumstances of the first few years I spent there. In order to destroy my credibility, should I choose to tell someone, he had to paint me to be a horrible person. He told them that I was a slut, a whore, a liar and an instigator. I never stood a chance.
Kendra was the first roommate that I ever had. She was not mean to me per say, but she delighted in scaring me to death. I was terrified to sleep most of the nights. Before long I was moved into another room with another girl who frankly, I can’t recall her name, a lot of the names are lost to me now as time separates me from the memories. It is much easier to recall incidents.
I woke up cold and tired one early morning and after shuffling over to my locker and dragging out the first change of clothes I came to, I stumbled into the bathroom for a shower. Now, this was not just a simple bathroom, there was four showers (complete with a tiny cloth curtain to cover us) and four bathroom stalls all along one wall opposite of the door, and next to the door was a counter with four sinks and a mirror that ran the length above them (many hours were spent sitting on those counters shaving our legs in later years). Showers were required before we could go down to breakfast and we had to be down by eight in the morning. So I force myself under the water and leaned against the wall with my eyes closed.
I was thinking of my mother, wondering how I came to be in such a place. I felt the hot sting of tears as I wondered why she didn’t love me, why she didn’t want to be my mother anymore and why she didn’t want a daughter like me. I asked myself (as I have many times over the years) what I could have possibly done to make her turn her back on me.
I felt the cool breeze and the cloth curtain sucked in towards me and I pushed it away, it never registered in my mind that the room had grown unnaturally silent, nor did it register that as I pushed the curtain away from me that my hand had connected to something solid.
Before another thought entered my mind I found myself without water. I tried to work it out in my mind how this had happened and once more I felt the icy touch of air lick my wet skin before I felt the first blow connect. It came in hard and fast and my head slammed back against the wall and bounced back. I reached out to brace myself and found myself with my arms pinned to my side and darkness descended on me and I suddenly found I couldn’t couldn't breathe. I was dragged out by more hands then I could count, not that counting them was on my mind as blow after blow rained down on me. I tried to cry out but found myself paralyzed with fear and dizzying pain, reacting with a need for survival as I tried best I could to curl up and cover my face. It didn’t really help. When they finally walked away just as silently as the had come, I continued to lay there and it was probably an hour later when it was time for breakfast and I didn’t show up that someone came to look for me, that I was found and the pillowcase was removed from my face.
I cringed as hands reached for me and some sort of pathetic whimper escaped me as I tried to pull away. Quiet and soothing words came at me but it doesn’t really matter, I don’t want them to touch me. I deserved it, I am a bad girl. I deserve pain, I deserve to hurt, I deserve the darkness, I deserve to loose any and all good things in my life.
Wednesday, March 19, 2008
Bush Adminstration.
Tonight as I made my evening rounds of blog reading, I found myself encountering the same theme over and over again and I felt it important to weigh in on the topic myself.
The war in Iraq has taken a terrible toll on the American people and Bush continues to press forward and state that this has been for the best. I truly do not understand how he can continue to claim this unless he is simply delusional. Not only has it cost lives of American Soldiers (I won't even go into the cost of innocent Iraq citizens at the moment) but it has impacted our economy, our families at home, our standing within the world.
I had a young couple that came to work for me. The young man was barely twenty-one and his girlfriend was about nineteen. They had met just before he went to Iraq to serve for the Army. I had many conversations with them during the time they worked for me, as I like to get to know people on a personal level.
He told me that he had joined the military because he felt it was his duty to his country. I agreed that everyone has a duty to their country, even if they do not do this by serving in the military. He spoke to me of some of the things that he had been through, some of the things he had seen. Perhaps soon I will go into those, but during this time he was happy to be home and looked forward to building a life with his girlfriend. Within weeks he had saved enough money to buy her a ring and he proposed and they intended to get married within a few months.
Then came 9/11. The anniversary of the beginning of what would lead to a war built on lies. The anniversary of a day that changed millions of lives.
That day he came to work as usual, was a little quieter then normal. There were people around him discussing the date, the significance of it to them and he suddenly stood up and threw his headset down and walked away, all the way outside. Both his girlfriend and I followed him out to find him sitting on the curb. He was shaking and holding his head and as she reaches for his shoulder I put my hand out to stop her, I had seen that look before and I knew that she would be in danger even as I knew he would never want to hurt her.
She called his name three times before he managed to pull his head up to look at her fully. It was like he didn't really see her though and he stood quickly and backed up. Hurt and confusion flickered over her face and I placed a hand on her arm in hopes of keeping her from advancing on him.
He turned and walked away. He did not return to work for me, but she did. We spoke about his struggles and her difficulty in dealing with it, she begged him to get help through the VA hospital. To add to her despair, she found out that she was expecting his child and she couldn't share it with him because she was afraid he would not be able to handle the additional pressure of impending father hood.
Roughly two weeks later, I called to check on her because she didn't come to work. As soon as she heard my voice she broke down and through her sobs recounted a story that was so disturbing to me that I actually went to our Human Resource department and asked to speak to someone.
They had moved in with his mother, so that while she was at work he would have someone to watch over him constantly. He seemed to be losing touch with reality with every passing moment and she was terrified to leave him alone. He had gone to bed early the night before and after spending some time discussing with his mother a way to get him some help, she went up and climbed into bed with him.
She awoke a few hours later and found herself alone so she began to search the house for him. She found his mother huddled in the bathroom sobbing. He had gotten up in the middle of the night and found his way into her bedroom.
Through her sobs she told me every detail of what took place and I shook at the atrocity of it. My stomach turned several times and I felt that I would throw up. I can't even begin to detail the story here, but I can tell you that being over there, being a part of a war where every man, woman, and child was the enemy, destroyed a part of this young man. It desensitized him to the morals that we cling to with every fiber of our being.
Through my blog I have corresponded with several young men and women who have either served, or are currently serving in Iraq and every story seems the same to me. They are being broken down, their self worth is in shambles as they fight for their very survival against people who do not want them there, all because of a pack of lies. The news is full of incidents involving ex-soldiers who have come back suffering not only physically but psychologically as well as Bush calls the war "romantic".
I find there to be nothing romantic about pain and suffering, despair and black holes. If he thinks it is so romantic, perhaps he should re-enlist and serve on the front lines.
There has been so much stupidity in the name of Bush that I can not even begin to cover it all in one post, it would probably take me weeks, but I felt that I had to get this particular thing off of my chest so that I could sleep tonight. I will leave you with a slightly happier note.
I ran into this young couple several weeks back, they have a beautiful baby girl and went through with their plans to be married. He is currently in therapy as well as taking medication for Post Traumatic Stress Disorder and she has joined a local support group for spouses of men or women who have gone through this. They seem to be willing to do the work it is going to take to make their individual and joint lives a success.
The war in Iraq has taken a terrible toll on the American people and Bush continues to press forward and state that this has been for the best. I truly do not understand how he can continue to claim this unless he is simply delusional. Not only has it cost lives of American Soldiers (I won't even go into the cost of innocent Iraq citizens at the moment) but it has impacted our economy, our families at home, our standing within the world.
I had a young couple that came to work for me. The young man was barely twenty-one and his girlfriend was about nineteen. They had met just before he went to Iraq to serve for the Army. I had many conversations with them during the time they worked for me, as I like to get to know people on a personal level.
He told me that he had joined the military because he felt it was his duty to his country. I agreed that everyone has a duty to their country, even if they do not do this by serving in the military. He spoke to me of some of the things that he had been through, some of the things he had seen. Perhaps soon I will go into those, but during this time he was happy to be home and looked forward to building a life with his girlfriend. Within weeks he had saved enough money to buy her a ring and he proposed and they intended to get married within a few months.
Then came 9/11. The anniversary of the beginning of what would lead to a war built on lies. The anniversary of a day that changed millions of lives.
That day he came to work as usual, was a little quieter then normal. There were people around him discussing the date, the significance of it to them and he suddenly stood up and threw his headset down and walked away, all the way outside. Both his girlfriend and I followed him out to find him sitting on the curb. He was shaking and holding his head and as she reaches for his shoulder I put my hand out to stop her, I had seen that look before and I knew that she would be in danger even as I knew he would never want to hurt her.
She called his name three times before he managed to pull his head up to look at her fully. It was like he didn't really see her though and he stood quickly and backed up. Hurt and confusion flickered over her face and I placed a hand on her arm in hopes of keeping her from advancing on him.
He turned and walked away. He did not return to work for me, but she did. We spoke about his struggles and her difficulty in dealing with it, she begged him to get help through the VA hospital. To add to her despair, she found out that she was expecting his child and she couldn't share it with him because she was afraid he would not be able to handle the additional pressure of impending father hood.
Roughly two weeks later, I called to check on her because she didn't come to work. As soon as she heard my voice she broke down and through her sobs recounted a story that was so disturbing to me that I actually went to our Human Resource department and asked to speak to someone.
They had moved in with his mother, so that while she was at work he would have someone to watch over him constantly. He seemed to be losing touch with reality with every passing moment and she was terrified to leave him alone. He had gone to bed early the night before and after spending some time discussing with his mother a way to get him some help, she went up and climbed into bed with him.
She awoke a few hours later and found herself alone so she began to search the house for him. She found his mother huddled in the bathroom sobbing. He had gotten up in the middle of the night and found his way into her bedroom.
Through her sobs she told me every detail of what took place and I shook at the atrocity of it. My stomach turned several times and I felt that I would throw up. I can't even begin to detail the story here, but I can tell you that being over there, being a part of a war where every man, woman, and child was the enemy, destroyed a part of this young man. It desensitized him to the morals that we cling to with every fiber of our being.
Through my blog I have corresponded with several young men and women who have either served, or are currently serving in Iraq and every story seems the same to me. They are being broken down, their self worth is in shambles as they fight for their very survival against people who do not want them there, all because of a pack of lies. The news is full of incidents involving ex-soldiers who have come back suffering not only physically but psychologically as well as Bush calls the war "romantic".
I find there to be nothing romantic about pain and suffering, despair and black holes. If he thinks it is so romantic, perhaps he should re-enlist and serve on the front lines.
There has been so much stupidity in the name of Bush that I can not even begin to cover it all in one post, it would probably take me weeks, but I felt that I had to get this particular thing off of my chest so that I could sleep tonight. I will leave you with a slightly happier note.
I ran into this young couple several weeks back, they have a beautiful baby girl and went through with their plans to be married. He is currently in therapy as well as taking medication for Post Traumatic Stress Disorder and she has joined a local support group for spouses of men or women who have gone through this. They seem to be willing to do the work it is going to take to make their individual and joint lives a success.
Saturday, March 15, 2008
Tired
I am tired and worn out. It has been difficult trying to juggle everything in my life and I'm starting to feel the burnout of it. Before I can really explain it, I suppose I should start with the major changes that have taken place in my life since I lost blogged.
My father-in-law died.
We now own a house.
My parents have moved across the country and now live half a block away.
Grandmother-in-law lives next door to parents.
Daughter has started high school.
Oldest son started junior high.
Youngest son has been diagnosed with ADHD.
I have gone back to school.
Otherwise life is about the same. The problem is that trying to juggle all of these things, while getting my kids tot heir activities, and trying to find time to help update and edit Chris' website (which I love to do, don't get me wrong) leaves me feeling as if I have very little time for myself. So much so, that I want to simply weep most nights.
My children are the biggest issue right now. I understand that kids are going to go through a teenage "angst" period, but it seems that they are out of control.
My daughter is openly defiant, she will not bring home her homework, she does not do her chores, she is mouthy towards both Chris and I and she screams nearly constantly at her brothers.
My oldest son is a bit better, but he is often argumentative with me or his father, he hits his brother and never stops trying to goad the other kids into a fight. I have never seen such bickering between children in my entire life.
The youngest son doesn't listen, he is physically aggressive with the other kids, he is too aggressive with the animals. He uses language that is way inappropriate.
I am falling apart at the seams over my kids. I don't know how to make them listen. I don't know how to impress on them the importance of getting their chores and homework done. I just don't know. I am tired of it and something has to give.
My father-in-law died.
We now own a house.
My parents have moved across the country and now live half a block away.
Grandmother-in-law lives next door to parents.
Daughter has started high school.
Oldest son started junior high.
Youngest son has been diagnosed with ADHD.
I have gone back to school.
Otherwise life is about the same. The problem is that trying to juggle all of these things, while getting my kids tot heir activities, and trying to find time to help update and edit Chris' website (which I love to do, don't get me wrong) leaves me feeling as if I have very little time for myself. So much so, that I want to simply weep most nights.
My children are the biggest issue right now. I understand that kids are going to go through a teenage "angst" period, but it seems that they are out of control.
My daughter is openly defiant, she will not bring home her homework, she does not do her chores, she is mouthy towards both Chris and I and she screams nearly constantly at her brothers.
My oldest son is a bit better, but he is often argumentative with me or his father, he hits his brother and never stops trying to goad the other kids into a fight. I have never seen such bickering between children in my entire life.
The youngest son doesn't listen, he is physically aggressive with the other kids, he is too aggressive with the animals. He uses language that is way inappropriate.
I am falling apart at the seams over my kids. I don't know how to make them listen. I don't know how to impress on them the importance of getting their chores and homework done. I just don't know. I am tired of it and something has to give.
Wednesday, March 05, 2008
A Return
I am finally returning to the wonderful world of blogging. It has been a very long time and I find that I have missed the community, the writing, the expression, and the friends that I made here.
I have a lot of strong opinions, thoughts and feelings about things in life and I am going to give those here. If there is a topic you'd like to see me discuss, feel free to post a comment or send me an email.
I look forward to being back and re-establishing old friendships.
I have a lot of strong opinions, thoughts and feelings about things in life and I am going to give those here. If there is a topic you'd like to see me discuss, feel free to post a comment or send me an email.
I look forward to being back and re-establishing old friendships.
Saturday, December 30, 2006
Types of Sex
Recent research shows that there are 7 kinds of sex:
The 1st kind of sex is called: Smurf Sex.
This kind of sex happens when you first meet someone and you both
have sex until you are blue in the face.
The 2nd kind of sex is called: Kitchen Sex.
This is when you have been with your partner for a short time and
you are so horny you will have sex anywhere, even in the kitchen.
The 3rd kind of sex is called: Bedroom Sex.
This is when you have been with your partner for a long time. Your
sex has gotten routine and you usually have sex only in your bedroom.
The 4th kind of sex is called: Hallway Sex.
is is when you have been with your partner for too long. When you
pass each other in the hallway you both say "screw you."
The 5th kind of sex is called: Catholic Sex,
This means you get Nun in the morning, Nun in the afternoon and Nun
at night.
The 6th kind is called Courtroom Sex:
This is when you cannot stand your husband any more. He takes you to
court and screws you in front of everyone.
And last, but not least, the 7th kind of sex is called: Social
Security Sex. You get a little from time-to-time, but not enough to
live on.
The 1st kind of sex is called: Smurf Sex.
This kind of sex happens when you first meet someone and you both
have sex until you are blue in the face.
The 2nd kind of sex is called: Kitchen Sex.
This is when you have been with your partner for a short time and
you are so horny you will have sex anywhere, even in the kitchen.
The 3rd kind of sex is called: Bedroom Sex.
This is when you have been with your partner for a long time. Your
sex has gotten routine and you usually have sex only in your bedroom.
The 4th kind of sex is called: Hallway Sex.
is is when you have been with your partner for too long. When you
pass each other in the hallway you both say "screw you."
The 5th kind of sex is called: Catholic Sex,
This means you get Nun in the morning, Nun in the afternoon and Nun
at night.
The 6th kind is called Courtroom Sex:
This is when you cannot stand your husband any more. He takes you to
court and screws you in front of everyone.
And last, but not least, the 7th kind of sex is called: Social
Security Sex. You get a little from time-to-time, but not enough to
live on.
Thursday, December 14, 2006
Being A Parent
Every night I come home from work and sit down at my computer to read the news. I keep hoping for some good news, something that someone did just out of kindness or some heroic measure that someone took for another and despite the holiday season, I see nothing.
I have been following the story of two adoptive/foster parents who are being accused of child abuse for caging their children at night.
They claim that the children were a danger to themselves and to one another. They claim that this was done for their own safety. Not only did they cage the children, but they also forced one boy to sleep for eighty-one days in a bathtub because he had a bed wetting problem.
Now I have a serious issue with this. I have a child who had a bed wetting issue and here is what I did at night when she woke up cold and crying. I got up, ran a warm bath for her, changed her sheets and put on clean blankets before sweeping her out of the tub and back into bed, all the while telling her that accidents happen and she was still my angel. For almost a year this was our nightly ritual. Then, a light bulb went off and I started waking her up in the middle of the night and walking her to the bathroom. I won't say she's never had an accident since then, but they are few and far between.
Was it tiring? Yes. Was it frustrating? Hell yes. Where there times I just wanted to sleep through it? Oh yeah. But you see, this is what parenting is all about. Helping your children find a way to overcome this kinds of things, and teaching them how to deal with it if it can't be overcome.
Where the hell was the state in this case? Why did they accept more children if they couldn't handle the ones they had without putting them in cages with alarms and chicken wire? Let me tell you why, because the state needed a place to put them, and they were willing to pay.
Many people think that foster homes that do this to their charges are few and far between. Let me tell you, as I was a foster child, having lived in about fourteen different foster homes, this is the normal. I can recall being drug out of my bed before the sun came up, being given a piece of toast and shoved outside to weed the garden as a punishment for talking out of turn. I can recall having a fork poked into my elbow hard enough to draw blood because I put my elbows on the table during dinner. I can recall sitting in a corner for the three hours every Sunday that they entertained dinner after church and being pointed at and compared to a dog.
I am sure that there are some foster homes out there that love the children that come into their lives. I am sure that some of these foster parents go into it because they want to make a difference, but they are the exception, not the rule.
I am going to go up now and kiss each of my sleeping children and whisper how much I love them into their ears. Perhaps they will sleep peacefully knowing that they are loved, cherished and protected by the people they expect to do so. I am going to go up and be a parent.
I have been following the story of two adoptive/foster parents who are being accused of child abuse for caging their children at night.
They claim that the children were a danger to themselves and to one another. They claim that this was done for their own safety. Not only did they cage the children, but they also forced one boy to sleep for eighty-one days in a bathtub because he had a bed wetting problem.
Now I have a serious issue with this. I have a child who had a bed wetting issue and here is what I did at night when she woke up cold and crying. I got up, ran a warm bath for her, changed her sheets and put on clean blankets before sweeping her out of the tub and back into bed, all the while telling her that accidents happen and she was still my angel. For almost a year this was our nightly ritual. Then, a light bulb went off and I started waking her up in the middle of the night and walking her to the bathroom. I won't say she's never had an accident since then, but they are few and far between.
Was it tiring? Yes. Was it frustrating? Hell yes. Where there times I just wanted to sleep through it? Oh yeah. But you see, this is what parenting is all about. Helping your children find a way to overcome this kinds of things, and teaching them how to deal with it if it can't be overcome.
Where the hell was the state in this case? Why did they accept more children if they couldn't handle the ones they had without putting them in cages with alarms and chicken wire? Let me tell you why, because the state needed a place to put them, and they were willing to pay.
Many people think that foster homes that do this to their charges are few and far between. Let me tell you, as I was a foster child, having lived in about fourteen different foster homes, this is the normal. I can recall being drug out of my bed before the sun came up, being given a piece of toast and shoved outside to weed the garden as a punishment for talking out of turn. I can recall having a fork poked into my elbow hard enough to draw blood because I put my elbows on the table during dinner. I can recall sitting in a corner for the three hours every Sunday that they entertained dinner after church and being pointed at and compared to a dog.
I am sure that there are some foster homes out there that love the children that come into their lives. I am sure that some of these foster parents go into it because they want to make a difference, but they are the exception, not the rule.
I am going to go up now and kiss each of my sleeping children and whisper how much I love them into their ears. Perhaps they will sleep peacefully knowing that they are loved, cherished and protected by the people they expect to do so. I am going to go up and be a parent.
Tuesday, December 12, 2006
A Return
Wow, I must say I have been out of bloggerland far too long. As I sat down to sort myself out this morning, the first thing I did was to go through and visit all of my old haunts. Let me tell you, there were not many of them left anymore, those that are, seemed to have given up on me and removed me from their listing. The good news is that, I have returned, and I have completed an actual college course dedicated to writing, hopefully it will help me to tell my stories a little better.
I have been gone a long time because I became afraid to write here. It seemed to no longer be a safe place for me and every post seemed to take so much out of me. I make no promises that I won't need to take more time off, but I do intend to tell my story.
I had thought for a while that I would separate my sex life from my daily and past life so that eventually my children would be able to come here and read what I write. I think I may still do that, but it is something far in the future to think about.
Life has been busy here in my little corner of the world. I have completed my second semester of classes and am only one year away from getting my degree. I am still struggling with my bi-polar disorder and Chris is here, still loving me the way that he always has. I am working long hours at my job and trying to get ready for Christmas, which is going to be very small this year.
My mother is still a pain in my ass with her judgmental views of me, while firmly clinging to the blinders she uses to see my brothers. Everyday I pray that I never treat my children as unfairly has she has my brothers and me.
The children are all doing as well as can be expected. The daughter is nearing fourteen and my fear that she will step into my life is overwhelming. If we can get her to eighteen without a pregnancy we'll be doing well. Thankfully I know she isn't having sex yet, simply because her grades have kept her grounded to the house nearly all year long.
It is time to repack my bags and begin my journey yet again into the past. I hope that you will all walk beside me once again.
I have been gone a long time because I became afraid to write here. It seemed to no longer be a safe place for me and every post seemed to take so much out of me. I make no promises that I won't need to take more time off, but I do intend to tell my story.
I had thought for a while that I would separate my sex life from my daily and past life so that eventually my children would be able to come here and read what I write. I think I may still do that, but it is something far in the future to think about.
Life has been busy here in my little corner of the world. I have completed my second semester of classes and am only one year away from getting my degree. I am still struggling with my bi-polar disorder and Chris is here, still loving me the way that he always has. I am working long hours at my job and trying to get ready for Christmas, which is going to be very small this year.
My mother is still a pain in my ass with her judgmental views of me, while firmly clinging to the blinders she uses to see my brothers. Everyday I pray that I never treat my children as unfairly has she has my brothers and me.
The children are all doing as well as can be expected. The daughter is nearing fourteen and my fear that she will step into my life is overwhelming. If we can get her to eighteen without a pregnancy we'll be doing well. Thankfully I know she isn't having sex yet, simply because her grades have kept her grounded to the house nearly all year long.
It is time to repack my bags and begin my journey yet again into the past. I hope that you will all walk beside me once again.
Friday, May 26, 2006
Perfection
So, along with my new position at work, there comes some perks. One of them is that I have an instant messenger that we use to communicate to others in the building, however, I added Chris to my list of contacts and we chat off and on through the day. Nothing long, just short hello's, how are you, and updates on the kids.
There I am at work and I get an im from Chris. He wants to know how I felt about our daughter walking home from school with one of her friends. I wasn't there, and when I came back I returned the message asking him why said friend wasn't going to ride the bus as they've done all year. He says she can't ride the bus. Now this caused a lot of confusion because it is a public bus system. I ask him why she can't ride the bus anymore and he tells me he'll explain when I get home.
Several hours go by and I'm wondering about it as I drive home. If she got into trouble and was evicted from riding the public bus do I really want my daughter hanging out with this girl. She's always been a good friend to my daughter but getting kicked off a public bus is pretty serious thing.
So, Chris and I say hello and I settle down at the computer and he tells me that this little girl who has been such a friend to my daughter can't ride the bus because, her mouth and her.. obesity counselor... have decided she's too fat to ride to and from school.
I think my jaw hit the floor. The child is not fat. She's as tall as I am and a little thick, but by no means fat. I sat and thought of how my daughter would feel if I told her she was too fat to ride to school. My heart constricted and I felt so bad for this little girl.
What is wrong with people? Is being skinny so important that you would destroy the already fragile self esteem of a teenage girl? It made me take a long look at how we treat our daughter (who just turned 13 last month). I came to some conclusions about the whole thing. Maybe it is judgmental of me, but I've seen fat people, I'm no Barbie doll myself, and maybe some would say that I can't understand because my daughter is rail thin. However, I think if my daughter gained weight that I would have to look at myself as a parent before I looked to my child.
Isn't it my responsibility to teach my children good eating habits? Teach them to avoid junk food and use raw fruits and vegetables as snacks instead of potato chips and ice cream? Don't get me wrong, my kids get some treats, but that's what they are, treats.
My daughter is learning to cook, isn't my job to teach her healthier ways to cook? I think that the only fried food that we eat is hamburger meat. The children use it in hamburger helper, but we rinse the meat of all the grease before we add it. We make sure that they have vegetables and fruit.
If my children lack anything in their diets from the food groups it would have to be from the dairy section and even that's something that is borderline. They have milk with their breakfast, they eat cheese on their lunch sandwiches and we always have stuff like cottage cheese or cheese sticks hanging around.
>sigh<
As much as I went over and analyzed everything we do with her, I could find very little that we would change. We tell her she's beautiful. We tell her that she's smart. We laugh with her. We comfort her when she cries. We have increased her responsibility around the house, offset by the extra privileges she has. We encourage her to think outside the box and be creative in all that she does. If she shows an interest in something, we do our best to foster that interest. But does she >feel< good about herself? Does she >feel< smart, funny, beautiful, friendly? Negatives always seem to linger longer then positives and I keep asking myself if we give more positive then negative.
I can't imagine turning to her and saying "you're too fat to ride the bus"
I want to scream at that mother, I want to shake her, I want her to see that she's probably done more damage than good. I want her to see that her daughter is beautiful and bright and compassionate and loyal. I wish I could make her see that she's probably going to do more damage then good approaching it this way. I wish it wasn't so important for people to have the perfect child.
So if you have a daughter, no matter what age she is, take a moment to go and talk to her, tell her you love her, tell her she's beautiful or smart or funny. Make her feel good about herself.
My children are not perfect. My husband is not perfect. My friends are not perfect. My life is not perfect. They are however, perfect for me.
There I am at work and I get an im from Chris. He wants to know how I felt about our daughter walking home from school with one of her friends. I wasn't there, and when I came back I returned the message asking him why said friend wasn't going to ride the bus as they've done all year. He says she can't ride the bus. Now this caused a lot of confusion because it is a public bus system. I ask him why she can't ride the bus anymore and he tells me he'll explain when I get home.
Several hours go by and I'm wondering about it as I drive home. If she got into trouble and was evicted from riding the public bus do I really want my daughter hanging out with this girl. She's always been a good friend to my daughter but getting kicked off a public bus is pretty serious thing.
So, Chris and I say hello and I settle down at the computer and he tells me that this little girl who has been such a friend to my daughter can't ride the bus because, her mouth and her.. obesity counselor... have decided she's too fat to ride to and from school.
I think my jaw hit the floor. The child is not fat. She's as tall as I am and a little thick, but by no means fat. I sat and thought of how my daughter would feel if I told her she was too fat to ride to school. My heart constricted and I felt so bad for this little girl.
What is wrong with people? Is being skinny so important that you would destroy the already fragile self esteem of a teenage girl? It made me take a long look at how we treat our daughter (who just turned 13 last month). I came to some conclusions about the whole thing. Maybe it is judgmental of me, but I've seen fat people, I'm no Barbie doll myself, and maybe some would say that I can't understand because my daughter is rail thin. However, I think if my daughter gained weight that I would have to look at myself as a parent before I looked to my child.
Isn't it my responsibility to teach my children good eating habits? Teach them to avoid junk food and use raw fruits and vegetables as snacks instead of potato chips and ice cream? Don't get me wrong, my kids get some treats, but that's what they are, treats.
My daughter is learning to cook, isn't my job to teach her healthier ways to cook? I think that the only fried food that we eat is hamburger meat. The children use it in hamburger helper, but we rinse the meat of all the grease before we add it. We make sure that they have vegetables and fruit.
If my children lack anything in their diets from the food groups it would have to be from the dairy section and even that's something that is borderline. They have milk with their breakfast, they eat cheese on their lunch sandwiches and we always have stuff like cottage cheese or cheese sticks hanging around.
>sigh<
As much as I went over and analyzed everything we do with her, I could find very little that we would change. We tell her she's beautiful. We tell her that she's smart. We laugh with her. We comfort her when she cries. We have increased her responsibility around the house, offset by the extra privileges she has. We encourage her to think outside the box and be creative in all that she does. If she shows an interest in something, we do our best to foster that interest. But does she >feel< good about herself? Does she >feel< smart, funny, beautiful, friendly? Negatives always seem to linger longer then positives and I keep asking myself if we give more positive then negative.
I can't imagine turning to her and saying "you're too fat to ride the bus"
I want to scream at that mother, I want to shake her, I want her to see that she's probably done more damage than good. I want her to see that her daughter is beautiful and bright and compassionate and loyal. I wish I could make her see that she's probably going to do more damage then good approaching it this way. I wish it wasn't so important for people to have the perfect child.
So if you have a daughter, no matter what age she is, take a moment to go and talk to her, tell her you love her, tell her she's beautiful or smart or funny. Make her feel good about herself.
My children are not perfect. My husband is not perfect. My friends are not perfect. My life is not perfect. They are however, perfect for me.
Thursday, May 18, 2006
Classes Are Over
I have to let out this huge sigh of relief now. I am finally done with my first semester. I don't want to brag, but I managed to get a 4.0 with 4 classes, a full time job, 3 kids, and managing to do >most< of my recreational stuff in between. For a while I didn't think that I was going to make it.
I have not posted in a while because I had finals that I was cramming for. Thank you so much to all of you who have sent your love, support, wishes and prayers.
I love my new position at work. Not only do I feel like I am making a difference, I can actually see that difference.
When I took the team it was the "worst team" according to the other team leads. I sucked up every piece of advice that I could and began my own system. A system that has worked very well for me, and for my employees.
Two of the reps that I had on my team were nearing the loss of their job because of performance reasons. These are reps that have been with my company for the better part of 3 or more years. Their issues had been identified as "will" issues, meaning that they had the skill and knowledge, but refused to apply it and follow the rules. I realized in my first week of working with them that it was not a will issue, but a skill issue. Even though they have been with the company for a long time, they really did not have the selling skills needed. I of course, made this my personal mission and for weeks now I have been working side by side with them, giving them feedback, encouragement, and the occasional scolding when needed. This week it all paid off when they both moved up the chart we use to measure their progress. I was thrilled; it gave me a very good feeling.
I know that I was going to quit smoking. That didn't happen. Why you might ask. Because I had too much stress with all that was going on around me. I am going to take the summer off though and now that classes are over I am going to go back on the patch.
In more boring news, Chris and I have been talking about buying a house. I am so excited. With the raise that I was given we are now going to be able to clean up our credit and I don't even think that it will require us to file bankruptcy. Just a question for some of you financial wizards out there, someone told me that after 7 years a debt has to be wiped clean from your credit report even if it wasn't paid, can anyone tell me if this is true or not, and does anyone know where I can get a free credit report?
All my life, the only thing I have ever longed to >own< is my own house. My parents have been married for almost 60 years and they both say that the biggest regret that they have is that they never owned their own home besides a trailer house. For me, it doesn't have to be fancy. I want a room for each of the kids, and one for me and Chris. A fenced yard and a big kitchen. We have been looking and it is not much more expensive to pay the mortgage then it is to pay the rent. God willing we will be able to do this in the next year or two.
Coming soon I am going to go back to posting about my childhood. I know a lot of you have been waiting for an update, and I'm sorry I've been so lax about it. I promise with school out you will see me posting a lot more frequently.
Here was a site that amused me a lot. Mind you this is not a real product and was meant as an April Fool's joke. Enjoy
http://www.thedarkspiral.com/craveco/
I have not posted in a while because I had finals that I was cramming for. Thank you so much to all of you who have sent your love, support, wishes and prayers.
I love my new position at work. Not only do I feel like I am making a difference, I can actually see that difference.
When I took the team it was the "worst team" according to the other team leads. I sucked up every piece of advice that I could and began my own system. A system that has worked very well for me, and for my employees.
Two of the reps that I had on my team were nearing the loss of their job because of performance reasons. These are reps that have been with my company for the better part of 3 or more years. Their issues had been identified as "will" issues, meaning that they had the skill and knowledge, but refused to apply it and follow the rules. I realized in my first week of working with them that it was not a will issue, but a skill issue. Even though they have been with the company for a long time, they really did not have the selling skills needed. I of course, made this my personal mission and for weeks now I have been working side by side with them, giving them feedback, encouragement, and the occasional scolding when needed. This week it all paid off when they both moved up the chart we use to measure their progress. I was thrilled; it gave me a very good feeling.
I know that I was going to quit smoking. That didn't happen. Why you might ask. Because I had too much stress with all that was going on around me. I am going to take the summer off though and now that classes are over I am going to go back on the patch.
In more boring news, Chris and I have been talking about buying a house. I am so excited. With the raise that I was given we are now going to be able to clean up our credit and I don't even think that it will require us to file bankruptcy. Just a question for some of you financial wizards out there, someone told me that after 7 years a debt has to be wiped clean from your credit report even if it wasn't paid, can anyone tell me if this is true or not, and does anyone know where I can get a free credit report?
All my life, the only thing I have ever longed to >own< is my own house. My parents have been married for almost 60 years and they both say that the biggest regret that they have is that they never owned their own home besides a trailer house. For me, it doesn't have to be fancy. I want a room for each of the kids, and one for me and Chris. A fenced yard and a big kitchen. We have been looking and it is not much more expensive to pay the mortgage then it is to pay the rent. God willing we will be able to do this in the next year or two.
Coming soon I am going to go back to posting about my childhood. I know a lot of you have been waiting for an update, and I'm sorry I've been so lax about it. I promise with school out you will see me posting a lot more frequently.
Here was a site that amused me a lot. Mind you this is not a real product and was meant as an April Fool's joke. Enjoy
http://www.thedarkspiral.com/craveco/
Friday, April 21, 2006
Fire Alarms
One memory seems to follow me wherever I go. Surprisingly it is not a bad memory, but more of a bittersweet thing.
After I had been at Western Academy for a while, and after much trouble, turmoil, and students who came and new ones taking their place, I had found myself an unwilling leader.
People looked to me for advice, guidance, and sometimes mischief. I was very good at the last part. In some ways, it was a way to make me feel normal. This particular event took place on a lazy summer afternoon. We started outside, where the sun shone down on our faces and the wind carried the smell of the river up to greet us. On the front lawn we had set up the volleyball net and took turns playing.
I have never been one that enjoyed sports, but volleyball was my love, my passion. I was good at it and it gave me a great way to be aggressive without anyone getting hurt. I could hit that ball as hard as I wanted and it felt good.
So, here we were, enjoying the sunshine, playing volleyball when a fight erupted between several people. I don't remember who or what started it, the only thing I clearly recall was the outcome.
We were immediately ushered inside and placed in our rooms. I was furious. I didn't start the fight, nor did I participate in it and I was being punished. I sat around and sulked, trying to figure out a way to aggravate the staff.
I flopped onto my bed and lay staring at the ceiling, my gaze drifting over the white ceiling, thoughts zipping through my head. My gaze slowly drifted over to the fire alarm set in the middle of the room and for a long time I watched the blinking red light.
Slowly I got up from my bed and moved to stand directly below it. As anyone with epilepsy knows, a blinking light can be our undoing and I have no idea how long I stood there staring at. Tracy pulled me out of my trance by shaking my arm firmly and calling my name rather loudly. I glanced back up and with a grin began to look around.
Spotting what I wanted I moved over and picked up the sturdy wooden nightstand I kept next to my bed. Placing it right under the fire alarm I grinned at Tracy as I reached up and pressed the test button hard, sending a screeching noise throughout the entire building.
Quick as lightning I jumped from my makeshift stool and ran it back over to where it belonged and put everything back on it. As the staff rushed in, both Tracy and I did the best acting of our lives as we stood there wide eyed and innocent looking as they glanced through our room to make sure there was no fire. One by one each of the rooms were checked.
We waited about five minutes after hearing the door shut and we were up under it again, with a gleeful giggle we pressed the button, holding it down longer this time, yet not so long that we didn't have time to rush back and put everything back on it.
Time after time we did this, and each time the staff would come in demanding answers. After about the tenth time, they placed all the girls in one room and all the boys in one room.
It wasn't long before we heard it go off and with surprise we looked at each other. It was not us. We hadn't done it this time. The staff came flying in and we all denied any wrong doing, so off to the boys’ room they went. The minute we heard our dorm room door shut, we were pressing as hard as we could on that button.
As stupid as this all sounds, it was great fun to watch the staff grow frustrated, run back and forth, and demand answers that not a single one of us was willing to give up the fun.
Finally the staff wised up and the man who did maintenance for us came in with a small paintbrush and some red paint which he put over the dot, smirking at us with a knowing look he left the room.
We all knew that it meant whoever touched it would end up with red paint and therefore be caught, and we settled down to brainstorm. Refusing to allow the staff to win this round, we took a piece of toilet paper and cleaned it off before I carefully wrapped my finger in the same paper and pressed the button again. The paper was passed off and into the bathroom it went where the evidence was flushed.
Tired, angry, and frustrated beyond words, the maintenance man came back in and with a glare reached up to remove our precious toy.
We never did do that again, and I'm not sure why. It was great fun and we had finally one upped the staff. Something that would happen more and more as I became comfortable leading the group.
Now, I smile every time a fire alarm goes off.
After I had been at Western Academy for a while, and after much trouble, turmoil, and students who came and new ones taking their place, I had found myself an unwilling leader.
People looked to me for advice, guidance, and sometimes mischief. I was very good at the last part. In some ways, it was a way to make me feel normal. This particular event took place on a lazy summer afternoon. We started outside, where the sun shone down on our faces and the wind carried the smell of the river up to greet us. On the front lawn we had set up the volleyball net and took turns playing.
I have never been one that enjoyed sports, but volleyball was my love, my passion. I was good at it and it gave me a great way to be aggressive without anyone getting hurt. I could hit that ball as hard as I wanted and it felt good.
So, here we were, enjoying the sunshine, playing volleyball when a fight erupted between several people. I don't remember who or what started it, the only thing I clearly recall was the outcome.
We were immediately ushered inside and placed in our rooms. I was furious. I didn't start the fight, nor did I participate in it and I was being punished. I sat around and sulked, trying to figure out a way to aggravate the staff.
I flopped onto my bed and lay staring at the ceiling, my gaze drifting over the white ceiling, thoughts zipping through my head. My gaze slowly drifted over to the fire alarm set in the middle of the room and for a long time I watched the blinking red light.
Slowly I got up from my bed and moved to stand directly below it. As anyone with epilepsy knows, a blinking light can be our undoing and I have no idea how long I stood there staring at. Tracy pulled me out of my trance by shaking my arm firmly and calling my name rather loudly. I glanced back up and with a grin began to look around.
Spotting what I wanted I moved over and picked up the sturdy wooden nightstand I kept next to my bed. Placing it right under the fire alarm I grinned at Tracy as I reached up and pressed the test button hard, sending a screeching noise throughout the entire building.
Quick as lightning I jumped from my makeshift stool and ran it back over to where it belonged and put everything back on it. As the staff rushed in, both Tracy and I did the best acting of our lives as we stood there wide eyed and innocent looking as they glanced through our room to make sure there was no fire. One by one each of the rooms were checked.
We waited about five minutes after hearing the door shut and we were up under it again, with a gleeful giggle we pressed the button, holding it down longer this time, yet not so long that we didn't have time to rush back and put everything back on it.
Time after time we did this, and each time the staff would come in demanding answers. After about the tenth time, they placed all the girls in one room and all the boys in one room.
It wasn't long before we heard it go off and with surprise we looked at each other. It was not us. We hadn't done it this time. The staff came flying in and we all denied any wrong doing, so off to the boys’ room they went. The minute we heard our dorm room door shut, we were pressing as hard as we could on that button.
As stupid as this all sounds, it was great fun to watch the staff grow frustrated, run back and forth, and demand answers that not a single one of us was willing to give up the fun.
Finally the staff wised up and the man who did maintenance for us came in with a small paintbrush and some red paint which he put over the dot, smirking at us with a knowing look he left the room.
We all knew that it meant whoever touched it would end up with red paint and therefore be caught, and we settled down to brainstorm. Refusing to allow the staff to win this round, we took a piece of toilet paper and cleaned it off before I carefully wrapped my finger in the same paper and pressed the button again. The paper was passed off and into the bathroom it went where the evidence was flushed.
Tired, angry, and frustrated beyond words, the maintenance man came back in and with a glare reached up to remove our precious toy.
We never did do that again, and I'm not sure why. It was great fun and we had finally one upped the staff. Something that would happen more and more as I became comfortable leading the group.
Now, I smile every time a fire alarm goes off.
Thursday, April 13, 2006
I have returned.
I have returned. Thank you to every single one of you who has remained faithful in my long absence and those of you who have taken the time out of your lives to email me. Your love and support is overwhelming.
My life has been full of ups and downs, littered with bright days among the dark skies of my heart.
I am nearing the end of my first semester of school and I am averaging an A in all subjects. I am been promoted not once, not twice, but three times at my job since we last spoke. My beautiful daughter is going to be turning 13 in a few weeks. I have become a great aunt for the first time to a healthy baby boy. I have been assured though, by the nephew who is responsible for my new status, that I have always been great.
So why, with so many great things taking place in my life, am I plagued by sadness in my heart? Why must I struggle so hard to beat back the constant nagging fears in my mind? Why is it so easy for me to believe the people in my life would be better off if I were dead?
Yes my faithful and new readers, amidst all my blessings I have contemplated suicide. I sat for hours and cried, debating the pros and cons of what I wanted to do. I asked myself if a letter to my husband and children would ease the guilt that always comes to families of suicide victims. Do I have the right to do that to ease my own pain? While I eventually spoke to Chris about this, I really scared myself. I thought of ways I could do it. I thought of places I could go. I also sat and thought of what I would write to the ones that I loved. I am angry that in the end instead of feeling relief that I wasn't going to, I felt as if I am chained to this life. I can not hurt my family that way no matter how bad my pain is. I can't continue to live the way I have been and I can't end it myself, so I must make more changes.
I have already made so many changes that I barely recognize who I am anymore.
I feel disconnected from my dearest friends. For a while now I have felt disconnected from even my husband. I do not get to spend enough time with my children and that is hard for me. Chris told me the other night when I got home that my daughter wanted to write me a letter, when he asked her why, she said it was because she never sees me and misses me. I was conflicted between good and bad. On one hand, my daughter misses me and that means she loves me and values our relationship, on the other hand it means that I am not here for her enough and as a girl who is struggling to find herself as a young lady, I should be.
My boys received word yesterday that their beautiful teacher had lost her battle with cancer. The older boy did not say anything at all about it to Chris; however the younger boy was very sad. I was not here for him. This is the first time any of my children have had death touch their lives and I could not wrap my arms around him and comfort him.
I think I have missed my writing more then I had realized. I have missed pouring out my heart and letting go of it. I did better when I was blogging about my past then I ever have in my whole life. I need to get back to that. I need to start letting go. See, what happened was that I started to let go. I let go of the more minor things that took place, and while that helped me in many ways, it's also like peeling away carpet and finding out there is something worse underneath. I have not had to face these things in many years and I tremble to think of the daunting task of peeling back those layers too. I am scared. No, I am terrified. All I can do now is pray that I am strong enough to face it. God help me.
My life has been full of ups and downs, littered with bright days among the dark skies of my heart.
I am nearing the end of my first semester of school and I am averaging an A in all subjects. I am been promoted not once, not twice, but three times at my job since we last spoke. My beautiful daughter is going to be turning 13 in a few weeks. I have become a great aunt for the first time to a healthy baby boy. I have been assured though, by the nephew who is responsible for my new status, that I have always been great.
So why, with so many great things taking place in my life, am I plagued by sadness in my heart? Why must I struggle so hard to beat back the constant nagging fears in my mind? Why is it so easy for me to believe the people in my life would be better off if I were dead?
Yes my faithful and new readers, amidst all my blessings I have contemplated suicide. I sat for hours and cried, debating the pros and cons of what I wanted to do. I asked myself if a letter to my husband and children would ease the guilt that always comes to families of suicide victims. Do I have the right to do that to ease my own pain? While I eventually spoke to Chris about this, I really scared myself. I thought of ways I could do it. I thought of places I could go. I also sat and thought of what I would write to the ones that I loved. I am angry that in the end instead of feeling relief that I wasn't going to, I felt as if I am chained to this life. I can not hurt my family that way no matter how bad my pain is. I can't continue to live the way I have been and I can't end it myself, so I must make more changes.
I have already made so many changes that I barely recognize who I am anymore.
I feel disconnected from my dearest friends. For a while now I have felt disconnected from even my husband. I do not get to spend enough time with my children and that is hard for me. Chris told me the other night when I got home that my daughter wanted to write me a letter, when he asked her why, she said it was because she never sees me and misses me. I was conflicted between good and bad. On one hand, my daughter misses me and that means she loves me and values our relationship, on the other hand it means that I am not here for her enough and as a girl who is struggling to find herself as a young lady, I should be.
My boys received word yesterday that their beautiful teacher had lost her battle with cancer. The older boy did not say anything at all about it to Chris; however the younger boy was very sad. I was not here for him. This is the first time any of my children have had death touch their lives and I could not wrap my arms around him and comfort him.
I think I have missed my writing more then I had realized. I have missed pouring out my heart and letting go of it. I did better when I was blogging about my past then I ever have in my whole life. I need to get back to that. I need to start letting go. See, what happened was that I started to let go. I let go of the more minor things that took place, and while that helped me in many ways, it's also like peeling away carpet and finding out there is something worse underneath. I have not had to face these things in many years and I tremble to think of the daunting task of peeling back those layers too. I am scared. No, I am terrified. All I can do now is pray that I am strong enough to face it. God help me.
Tuesday, February 28, 2006
So Tired
I was an early bloomer. I had breasts blooming by the time that I was ten years old. It was no surprise to anyone that I looked five or six years older then I was. What ten year old has breasts, let alone a size B? It has been a curse my whole life. The following story may be convoluted, as I am trying to drag up memories long buried.
The first time I went to Horizon House was before Western Academy. I don't know how I got to Horizon House the first time. Maybe it was because I had run away from the foster home. It was after all a home for runaways. I don't remember who took me there, or any of the staff that was there, I recall, nothing except for what took place one night.
The only thing I can remember of the building itself was that when you first went in, you were in a living room that had a winding staircase. If you went farther you came into the kitchen. Up the winding staircase were the bedrooms. I know from experiences farther in the future that there had to have been at least two bathrooms and a staff office somewhere, but damned if I can remember where they were now.
I don't remember any of the routines, or any of the staff. I don"t even remember any of the other kids, except for one.
I do remember it was dark. I was on a small bed, alone in a room. I curled myself up into a ball and hugged my teddy bear to my waist. I was so tired, so afraid of what was going to happen to me. My eyes drifting shut as I felt the familiar pull of sleep. Sleep had always been my friend. Always taking me in, soothing me whenever things got bad.
I fought against the nightmare, the ties that were holding me down fast. I felt confusion lance through me, something was wrong. This time the monsters from my dreams were really going to win. I couldn't move. I couldn't wake up. I couldn't scream. My tongue felt thick and my head felt odd, but I finally managed to drag my eyes open.
I was staring straight into the face of boy named John. His face was the only thing I could see in the darkness. I tried to move, but I found his weight on top of me too much for my small frame to dislodge. He had laid his full weight on top of me. I found myself fighting, a sixteen year old boy on top of a ten year old girl. Physically I was no match.
I stared at him blankly before I asked in a very cold and detached voice "What are you doing?"
He replied "It's so hard. You looked so pretty at dinner."
Now, despite the fact that I had been molested, I had no clue what he meant by "It's so hard" and I do believe my expression mirrored that, if not, certainly my next words should have alerted him that something was wrong.
"Are you sick John?"
He grinned wickedly at me and pushed himself up, I let out the breathe I didn't even know I had been holding and felt relief flood through me. He was going to get off of me and go back to his room, or maybe find a staff member.
The fear flooded back in when the blankets were ripped from between us and I felt him struggling to get my night shirt up. A t-shirt and panties is all I had to wear to bed and it was not much covering for me.
His cold sweaty hands made me feel sick to my stomach and I started protesting. I was begging him to stop. I could barely focus. All I could think of was how it was going to happen all over again.
My body went still. I couldn't fight. What if he beat me up for fighting him? What if he hurt me? Maybe if I did what he wanted he would go away and leave me alone.
He ordered me to spread my legs. I continued to lay prone. I may not be able to fight, but I sure as hell wasn't going to help him.
I felt his nasty hands struggle with my panties, giving up when they reached my mid thighs. He was already naked and I could feel him pressing against me. Despite my resolve not to, tears began to leak out of the corners of my eyes.
He continued to whisper against my ear, talking about how hard it was, how bad it hurt, how he had to do this, how he was sorry.
I wanted to fight, to claw his eyes out, but instead, I simply laid there. I had played this game before and knew I wouldn't win. I had seen what happens on television when the girl fights back. My mind began to shut down.
I can tell you that he didn't penetrate me. He did rub himself against me until he left a sticky mess, then calmly stood up, told me if I ever told anyone that he would kill me.
I am sure at some point he walked out of my room. I don't remember him leaving. I never told anyone, until today. I wish I could say that I never saw him again but that would be a lie.
The day I walked into Western Academy, he walked back into my life.
On a side note, it was shortly after this that I began to experience night terrors. Even during all of my counseling I could never bring myself to tell anyone. It is something that I have not even told Chris. I guess there is never a good time to simply say "Oh yeah by the way when I was ten, an older boy sort of forced himself on me while I laid there."
The question becomes, if I didn't protest, is it still a violation? Does someone have to say no for it to be wrong, or is it a basic principal?
In the back of my mind I know it wasn't my fault. I know I didn't do anything wrong. Or did I? Is it my fault for not fighting back? Is it my fault for not screaming? Surely someone would have come to save me. I now know that there is a staff member 24 hours a day at Horizon House, surely I knew it then.
Ever been in one of those dreams where your mouth just opens up to scream and nothing comes out? Or maybe just a squeaking noise? I was always afraid of that. Afraid I would open my mouth to scream and nothing would come out, or I would squeak and then he would be furious and I would suffer for it.
To this day I carry a hatred for John. I wish him all the hell he inflicted on me, for this was the first time, but not the last.
I am so very tired though. I am not sleeping well. It's been weeks since I first got sick and I'm still fighting a rather nasty fever that seems to come on stronger at night. I have woken up sweating for several days now. I am groggy and disorientated. The night terrors have been back ever since I started wearing the nicotine patch.
I am tired of having to fight with life.
The first time I went to Horizon House was before Western Academy. I don't know how I got to Horizon House the first time. Maybe it was because I had run away from the foster home. It was after all a home for runaways. I don't remember who took me there, or any of the staff that was there, I recall, nothing except for what took place one night.
The only thing I can remember of the building itself was that when you first went in, you were in a living room that had a winding staircase. If you went farther you came into the kitchen. Up the winding staircase were the bedrooms. I know from experiences farther in the future that there had to have been at least two bathrooms and a staff office somewhere, but damned if I can remember where they were now.
I don't remember any of the routines, or any of the staff. I don"t even remember any of the other kids, except for one.
I do remember it was dark. I was on a small bed, alone in a room. I curled myself up into a ball and hugged my teddy bear to my waist. I was so tired, so afraid of what was going to happen to me. My eyes drifting shut as I felt the familiar pull of sleep. Sleep had always been my friend. Always taking me in, soothing me whenever things got bad.
I fought against the nightmare, the ties that were holding me down fast. I felt confusion lance through me, something was wrong. This time the monsters from my dreams were really going to win. I couldn't move. I couldn't wake up. I couldn't scream. My tongue felt thick and my head felt odd, but I finally managed to drag my eyes open.
I was staring straight into the face of boy named John. His face was the only thing I could see in the darkness. I tried to move, but I found his weight on top of me too much for my small frame to dislodge. He had laid his full weight on top of me. I found myself fighting, a sixteen year old boy on top of a ten year old girl. Physically I was no match.
I stared at him blankly before I asked in a very cold and detached voice "What are you doing?"
He replied "It's so hard. You looked so pretty at dinner."
Now, despite the fact that I had been molested, I had no clue what he meant by "It's so hard" and I do believe my expression mirrored that, if not, certainly my next words should have alerted him that something was wrong.
"Are you sick John?"
He grinned wickedly at me and pushed himself up, I let out the breathe I didn't even know I had been holding and felt relief flood through me. He was going to get off of me and go back to his room, or maybe find a staff member.
The fear flooded back in when the blankets were ripped from between us and I felt him struggling to get my night shirt up. A t-shirt and panties is all I had to wear to bed and it was not much covering for me.
His cold sweaty hands made me feel sick to my stomach and I started protesting. I was begging him to stop. I could barely focus. All I could think of was how it was going to happen all over again.
My body went still. I couldn't fight. What if he beat me up for fighting him? What if he hurt me? Maybe if I did what he wanted he would go away and leave me alone.
He ordered me to spread my legs. I continued to lay prone. I may not be able to fight, but I sure as hell wasn't going to help him.
I felt his nasty hands struggle with my panties, giving up when they reached my mid thighs. He was already naked and I could feel him pressing against me. Despite my resolve not to, tears began to leak out of the corners of my eyes.
He continued to whisper against my ear, talking about how hard it was, how bad it hurt, how he had to do this, how he was sorry.
I wanted to fight, to claw his eyes out, but instead, I simply laid there. I had played this game before and knew I wouldn't win. I had seen what happens on television when the girl fights back. My mind began to shut down.
I can tell you that he didn't penetrate me. He did rub himself against me until he left a sticky mess, then calmly stood up, told me if I ever told anyone that he would kill me.
I am sure at some point he walked out of my room. I don't remember him leaving. I never told anyone, until today. I wish I could say that I never saw him again but that would be a lie.
The day I walked into Western Academy, he walked back into my life.
On a side note, it was shortly after this that I began to experience night terrors. Even during all of my counseling I could never bring myself to tell anyone. It is something that I have not even told Chris. I guess there is never a good time to simply say "Oh yeah by the way when I was ten, an older boy sort of forced himself on me while I laid there."
The question becomes, if I didn't protest, is it still a violation? Does someone have to say no for it to be wrong, or is it a basic principal?
In the back of my mind I know it wasn't my fault. I know I didn't do anything wrong. Or did I? Is it my fault for not fighting back? Is it my fault for not screaming? Surely someone would have come to save me. I now know that there is a staff member 24 hours a day at Horizon House, surely I knew it then.
Ever been in one of those dreams where your mouth just opens up to scream and nothing comes out? Or maybe just a squeaking noise? I was always afraid of that. Afraid I would open my mouth to scream and nothing would come out, or I would squeak and then he would be furious and I would suffer for it.
To this day I carry a hatred for John. I wish him all the hell he inflicted on me, for this was the first time, but not the last.
I am so very tired though. I am not sleeping well. It's been weeks since I first got sick and I'm still fighting a rather nasty fever that seems to come on stronger at night. I have woken up sweating for several days now. I am groggy and disorientated. The night terrors have been back ever since I started wearing the nicotine patch.
I am tired of having to fight with life.
Friday, February 24, 2006
Just an update
I am still struggling, but I am also still alive. Thank you all for your great advice. It is hard to ask for help from anyone, even our good Lord above. I feel week and broken and asking for help seems to just intensify that.
My oldest boy who is 10 was suspended from school for taking a Swiss army knife to school. It was not something I would have ever bought him, a gift from my wise brother (yes, the same one who took them shooting while he was drunk). Of course, in today’s day and age, the schools just can not take any kind of chances and he was facing expulsion. I wasn’t angry at them, I understand, I would have expected no less if another child showed my boy a knife. I was however dismayed at the thought of being expelled for two years. However, at the hearing, the principal stood up for him and said that he is a model student, that this is the last person she ever expected this from, and I think that went a long way. He returned to school today.
Of course, my youngest boy was suspended for today for scratching a little girl. He swears that it was an accident. That he was trying to lift her up on to the monkey bars like she asked. I didn’t talk to the school yet because I have been so busy, I figured it was only one day, so he could stay home with me.
Why have I been so busy? Well, I was sick, and then, battling the depression, I allowed myself to set my homework aside. I was not only caught up but ahead for a while, now I am barely able to make deadlines and I am feeling rushed and stressed over it. This weekend I am going to get ahead by a week if I can. On the plus side, I am doing incredibly well in all of my classes.
The van is going out on us. It is jerking to the left, and my brother says it could be one of a couple of things, but all of them end with the wheel locking up if I try to drive it. So, my boss was kind enough to change my schedule at work so that I could ride with another girl. Sadly, it takes away one of my days off and splits up the others. Not really a good sign. I can’t wait to buy a new car. We are going to do that this weekend or next.
Well, I am sorry for taking so long to post again, anything and everything is an effort these days. Your love and support is appreciated more then I can say.
My oldest boy who is 10 was suspended from school for taking a Swiss army knife to school. It was not something I would have ever bought him, a gift from my wise brother (yes, the same one who took them shooting while he was drunk). Of course, in today’s day and age, the schools just can not take any kind of chances and he was facing expulsion. I wasn’t angry at them, I understand, I would have expected no less if another child showed my boy a knife. I was however dismayed at the thought of being expelled for two years. However, at the hearing, the principal stood up for him and said that he is a model student, that this is the last person she ever expected this from, and I think that went a long way. He returned to school today.
Of course, my youngest boy was suspended for today for scratching a little girl. He swears that it was an accident. That he was trying to lift her up on to the monkey bars like she asked. I didn’t talk to the school yet because I have been so busy, I figured it was only one day, so he could stay home with me.
Why have I been so busy? Well, I was sick, and then, battling the depression, I allowed myself to set my homework aside. I was not only caught up but ahead for a while, now I am barely able to make deadlines and I am feeling rushed and stressed over it. This weekend I am going to get ahead by a week if I can. On the plus side, I am doing incredibly well in all of my classes.
The van is going out on us. It is jerking to the left, and my brother says it could be one of a couple of things, but all of them end with the wheel locking up if I try to drive it. So, my boss was kind enough to change my schedule at work so that I could ride with another girl. Sadly, it takes away one of my days off and splits up the others. Not really a good sign. I can’t wait to buy a new car. We are going to do that this weekend or next.
Well, I am sorry for taking so long to post again, anything and everything is an effort these days. Your love and support is appreciated more then I can say.
Saturday, February 18, 2006
A Dark Hole
The darkness returns. It doesn't matter how hard I try to fight it, how hard I try to tell myself that everything will be okay, no matter how hard I try to convince myself that I am safe and loved and surrounded by people who will nto leave me.
Lies, it's all lies. It's only meant to lull me into a false sense of security. It lasted a lot longer this time then it normally does. I was blind sided, I thought I was winning, I thought that I was at least ahead.
More lies, more tears, more glass breaking. Wait, that's the sound of my heart. So much pain I can't understand where it stops being emotional and where it becomes physical.
My lesson has been learned. Keep to myself, stop loving, stop trusting, everyone leaves sooner or later. I am not worth being loved. I am broked. None of the things I do to try to better myself will make me a better person. In the end, it is my insides that are no good. I might have quit smoking, but I am too polluted for it to make a difference. Going back to school? Waste of time, I will never amount to anything. I am simply putting us farther into debt by taking out student loans.
I see a dark hole, I think that's where I am going to be for a while. Yes, I will lie here and press my face to the cold ground, breathe deeply of her earthly scent, clench her in my hands, I will not need to strain my ears to hear your happiness, your laughter. The tears will fall, turning dirt into my mud, thick and suffocating. I thought I was past this, I thought I had won. The earth, she is my friend.Yes, I think this is where I am going to be for a while.
Lies, it's all lies. It's only meant to lull me into a false sense of security. It lasted a lot longer this time then it normally does. I was blind sided, I thought I was winning, I thought that I was at least ahead.
More lies, more tears, more glass breaking. Wait, that's the sound of my heart. So much pain I can't understand where it stops being emotional and where it becomes physical.
My lesson has been learned. Keep to myself, stop loving, stop trusting, everyone leaves sooner or later. I am not worth being loved. I am broked. None of the things I do to try to better myself will make me a better person. In the end, it is my insides that are no good. I might have quit smoking, but I am too polluted for it to make a difference. Going back to school? Waste of time, I will never amount to anything. I am simply putting us farther into debt by taking out student loans.
I see a dark hole, I think that's where I am going to be for a while. Yes, I will lie here and press my face to the cold ground, breathe deeply of her earthly scent, clench her in my hands, I will not need to strain my ears to hear your happiness, your laughter. The tears will fall, turning dirt into my mud, thick and suffocating. I thought I was past this, I thought I had won. The earth, she is my friend.Yes, I think this is where I am going to be for a while.
Sunday, February 12, 2006
ID Please
So, life has continued on in Nikki's life, despite the feeling that she may die at any given moment from this nasty bug. It is finally beginning to pass and alas, I shall be returning to work soon. However, I would like to treat you to some of little things that happened while on my road to recovery.
Last night, Chris and I bundled up our youngest son, leaving the two older children at home to play video games, and headed off to Wal-Mart. Have I ever mentioned how much I hate Wal-Mart? Biggest damn chain in the world and they can't afford to have separators to keep my goods from being blended in with that of the woman behind me.
Now, as you all know, I am poor. It's as simple as that. I accept my lot in life because I am rich in so many other ways; however, tax season is one time that this poor girl gets to live it up a little, okay, to be honest, a lot.
As crazy as this may sound, I went into Wal-Mart for two main things. To buy my patches to quit smoking, and to refurnish our bathrooms with new towels, rugs, soap dispensers, garbage cans, shower curtains, and anything else I could find that matched my bathroom themes. Yes, Nikki is defiantly an odd cookie, but I love to shop for things to make my house look all pretty. So, there I was, shopping away, when three women came down the isle with me, each pushing an overflowing cart. They were loud, obnoxious and obviously felt that they had all rights to the store because they so kindly pushed my cart out of the way, without a second glance to my son. Before I could open my mouth to speak, the woman who was carrying a small whimpering boy in her arms began to shriek at him. I tried not to, really I did, but I couldn't help but stare. The woman was yelling at this small boy about how he better shut his fucking mouth because he was driving her fucking crazy and she'd had about all the shit from him that she was going to fucking take. I glanced at my watch and saw that it was nearing 11 o' clock in the evening and again I stared at her, as did my boy. Before I could gather my wits and fury enough to jump in and get the crap kicked out of me for putting my nose where it didn't belong, a woman's voice came from the next isle over, shouting at the mother to shut her fucking mouth because the rest of the fucking shoppers had had just about enough of her fucking shit. Lord help me, I was trying not to be judgmental, but I couldn't help but snicker. I pulled my cart out of the isle and moved into the next one. In the meantime, the mother from hell began to scream at the unseen woman about how she should shut her damn mouth, mind her own business or she may find herself on the floor. The woman, who was in my plain view at this time, was shouting right back at the woman, daring her to come over and do something about it. Of course the woman came over to our isle, how dare anyone question her right to shout obscenities at a baby. Her big mouth nearly dropped to the floor and the foul words coming out of her mouth died on her lips when she rounded the corner and found that it was me, and an old woman in a wheelchair in the isle. Without another word the woman stalked off and the old woman and I shared a grin. She complimented me on how well behaved my son was and I thanked her and we moved on.
So, next to Wal-Mart is a Game Stop. Ah, good old Game Stop. A gamer's heaven some would say. I had fearfully dropped Chris off there with plans for him to meet me at Wal-Mart and I would take the boy with me.
Chris, being the darling he is, decided to sneak over to Wal-Mart and buy me my Valentine's Day gift early. As I've posted before he doesn't drive so it is nearly impossible for him to actually be able to surprise me.
So, in he goes, and the mad hunt for the perfect gift is on. Now, mind you, I'm a very simple girl with very simple tastes and he is well aware that it takes very little to make me happy. Hell, I'm happy to come home to a naked husband, if that tells you anything. So, alas, he finds a beautiful gift basket, wicker of course because I have a thing for wicker, and inside this perfect wicker basket is a beautiful bright red teddy bear, which he knows I'll love because it is what I collect and the bear is holding a chocolate rose in a container that is also full of chocolate truffles. Now, to show how simple I am, I had to open that right up just to see what the hell a truffle was, but alas, I begin to digress again.
Perfect gift in hand he saunters up the cash register, sets it down carefully and whips out his credit card. The lady scans the gift basket and a blank look crosses over her features and she stammers a bit before finally getting her words out as she looks up at Chris "Excuse me Sir, may I see your id please?" of course, Chris returns the blank look and replies "Pardon me?" The young lady becomes all the more flustered and says "Well, for some reason, it is asking me for your id, there must be something in the basket, you have to be 17 to buy " even as she speaks, she has picked up the precious gift and begun to inspect it. It is wrapped in cellophane, with a beautiful trio of ribbons tying it together at the top and I do believe one look at the expression on Chris' face was enough to keep her from opening it further. "You're telling me, that a teddy bear, a box of chocolates, and a wicker basket require me to be 17?" To which the gentleman behind Chris calmly replies "Brother, look at that basket, she knows you are going to get laid and she just wants to make sure you're old enough." Chris simply grinned at him and flashed his id at the blushing clerk and made his way out to the van where he set the basket up so that when I went to put my purchases in, it was the first thing I saw.
I was delighted and surprised and full of love for my husband and just in case anyone is wondering, the man was right.
Last night, Chris and I bundled up our youngest son, leaving the two older children at home to play video games, and headed off to Wal-Mart. Have I ever mentioned how much I hate Wal-Mart? Biggest damn chain in the world and they can't afford to have separators to keep my goods from being blended in with that of the woman behind me.
Now, as you all know, I am poor. It's as simple as that. I accept my lot in life because I am rich in so many other ways; however, tax season is one time that this poor girl gets to live it up a little, okay, to be honest, a lot.
As crazy as this may sound, I went into Wal-Mart for two main things. To buy my patches to quit smoking, and to refurnish our bathrooms with new towels, rugs, soap dispensers, garbage cans, shower curtains, and anything else I could find that matched my bathroom themes. Yes, Nikki is defiantly an odd cookie, but I love to shop for things to make my house look all pretty. So, there I was, shopping away, when three women came down the isle with me, each pushing an overflowing cart. They were loud, obnoxious and obviously felt that they had all rights to the store because they so kindly pushed my cart out of the way, without a second glance to my son. Before I could open my mouth to speak, the woman who was carrying a small whimpering boy in her arms began to shriek at him. I tried not to, really I did, but I couldn't help but stare. The woman was yelling at this small boy about how he better shut his fucking mouth because he was driving her fucking crazy and she'd had about all the shit from him that she was going to fucking take. I glanced at my watch and saw that it was nearing 11 o' clock in the evening and again I stared at her, as did my boy. Before I could gather my wits and fury enough to jump in and get the crap kicked out of me for putting my nose where it didn't belong, a woman's voice came from the next isle over, shouting at the mother to shut her fucking mouth because the rest of the fucking shoppers had had just about enough of her fucking shit. Lord help me, I was trying not to be judgmental, but I couldn't help but snicker. I pulled my cart out of the isle and moved into the next one. In the meantime, the mother from hell began to scream at the unseen woman about how she should shut her damn mouth, mind her own business or she may find herself on the floor. The woman, who was in my plain view at this time, was shouting right back at the woman, daring her to come over and do something about it. Of course the woman came over to our isle, how dare anyone question her right to shout obscenities at a baby. Her big mouth nearly dropped to the floor and the foul words coming out of her mouth died on her lips when she rounded the corner and found that it was me, and an old woman in a wheelchair in the isle. Without another word the woman stalked off and the old woman and I shared a grin. She complimented me on how well behaved my son was and I thanked her and we moved on.
So, next to Wal-Mart is a Game Stop. Ah, good old Game Stop. A gamer's heaven some would say. I had fearfully dropped Chris off there with plans for him to meet me at Wal-Mart and I would take the boy with me.
Chris, being the darling he is, decided to sneak over to Wal-Mart and buy me my Valentine's Day gift early. As I've posted before he doesn't drive so it is nearly impossible for him to actually be able to surprise me.
So, in he goes, and the mad hunt for the perfect gift is on. Now, mind you, I'm a very simple girl with very simple tastes and he is well aware that it takes very little to make me happy. Hell, I'm happy to come home to a naked husband, if that tells you anything. So, alas, he finds a beautiful gift basket, wicker of course because I have a thing for wicker, and inside this perfect wicker basket is a beautiful bright red teddy bear, which he knows I'll love because it is what I collect and the bear is holding a chocolate rose in a container that is also full of chocolate truffles. Now, to show how simple I am, I had to open that right up just to see what the hell a truffle was, but alas, I begin to digress again.
Perfect gift in hand he saunters up the cash register, sets it down carefully and whips out his credit card. The lady scans the gift basket and a blank look crosses over her features and she stammers a bit before finally getting her words out as she looks up at Chris "Excuse me Sir, may I see your id please?" of course, Chris returns the blank look and replies "Pardon me?" The young lady becomes all the more flustered and says "Well, for some reason, it is asking me for your id, there must be something in the basket, you have to be 17 to buy " even as she speaks, she has picked up the precious gift and begun to inspect it. It is wrapped in cellophane, with a beautiful trio of ribbons tying it together at the top and I do believe one look at the expression on Chris' face was enough to keep her from opening it further. "You're telling me, that a teddy bear, a box of chocolates, and a wicker basket require me to be 17?" To which the gentleman behind Chris calmly replies "Brother, look at that basket, she knows you are going to get laid and she just wants to make sure you're old enough." Chris simply grinned at him and flashed his id at the blushing clerk and made his way out to the van where he set the basket up so that when I went to put my purchases in, it was the first thing I saw.
I was delighted and surprised and full of love for my husband and just in case anyone is wondering, the man was right.
Wednesday, February 08, 2006
Pride and Prejudice
So, here I am, sick enough that I've called off work. Two hours of sleep last night, my chest feels like it has a truck resting on it, my nose feels like someone has stuffed cotton up there and I can't keep anything down. My stomach feels like I have a hot poker stirring it.
I stumble down the stairs at noon, call work, let them know I am not coming in. I curl up on the couch that Chris has so graciously vacated for me and watch him play a video game. I doze off. A couple of hours of fitful rest go by and I drag myself up and head for the bathroom to wash my face and see about fluids. With fluids obtained I return to my little sanctuary called "the couch" and I decide I better get my homework done for the week. Book in hand, pen and highlighters nearby with index cards, I begin the arduous task of trying to study.
Before long the doorbell rings and lo and behold our boys are home from school. Fretting over Mommy, I now have my every whim catered to, complete with a cool rag on my forehead to reduce fever.
Doorbell rings again and oldest boy goes to door and opens it. I can’t see who it is, but a feminine voice calls out "Tell yer folks they might wanna be getting' outside, some'ting is happenin' to yer sister"
I leap up off the couch and jam my feet into my shoes and race out the door, all the while praying she hasn't been hit by a damn car. As I reach the door that leads out of the foyer into the great outdoors, my daughter appears, looking no worse for the wear.
"What is going on?" I demand while my eyes quickly race over her to see if I missed anything the first time around.
She starts to ramble, her words tumbling over each other so badly that I can't understand what she is saying. I hear the adult feminine voice reply "Those girls were trying to beat her up" So I look to my daughter who nods her confirmation.
Now I am pissed, this same girl has stalked and harassed my daughter all year. By her own account, my daughter has never said or done a single thing to offend her. This girl has on more then one occasion struck my daughter's face. I am beyond words with fury.
I step out into the blinding sun, cold wind tears through my sweater and for a brief second I think of going back in to get my coat, then I spot our apartment manager waving at me from her van. "Hurry up and we'll catch them" she yells at me and so I grab a hold of my daughter and dash down the stairs and into the waiting van with her, off we go.
Sure enough, just up the hill from our apartment there stands a large group of kids. My daughter and her friend, who for some reason was in the car with our manager, both point out the offending child.
I leap out of the van and stalk towards her. Apparently I looked pretty scary because she started to take off. Apartment manager calls out and asks me if I want the police involved and I respond with "Might as well be you that calls the police because someone is going to"
So, to make a long and rather boring story short, I'll leave out the verbal argument I found myself, two other adults, and about ten young kids in this child over whether or not she did indeed assault my child, here is what did happen.
Daughter arrives with friend. Friend and daughter see girls approaching, begin to speed up. Friend takes a hold of my daughter’s arm and tries to steer her in a direction that is not the same one the two girls are coming from. One girl rushes them, grabs my daughter's free arm and starts pulling on her, screaming obscenities at the young lady who refuses to abandon my daughter. A struggle ensues, the violator grabs my daughter’s backpack and she uses her witty little brain to slide out of the backpack and leave it behind while running for home.
So, in the end, my daughter was physically unharmed for the most part. Young violator was served with a citation and charges are now pending for assault.
I have had to put some new rules in place, and my life will, at least for a while, be complicated by the fact that on my days off I will be transporting both my daughter and her young friend home from school. The young lady who stood by my daughter's side lives not far from us and her mother will be bringing them home two days a week. The fifth day, which neither of us were able to cover as far as transportation goes, has been solved as well by Chris, he will be going to the bus stop each week and waiting for the girls to get off the bus and her friend will stay with us until her mother can come pick her up.
I don't understand why children have to be so mean and nasty to one another. While we waited for the police to show up, several of the young men from the neighborhood stood gathered around us, many of them asked my daughter why she didn't fight back, why she ignored the girl. For my daughter, the answer was simple "It takes a bigger person to walk away then it does to stay and hit someone" I felt an incredible amount of pride for her at that moment. I can only hope that this doesn't backfire in my face.
I also felt that old familiar companion of rage creeping up next to me as I listened to the filth this child was spewing. Anyone on this planet who thinks that only white people are capable of racial prejudice is simply fooling themselves. We are a white family. We have black neighbors, oriental neighbors, Hispanic neighbors, and we get along with them just fine, yet here is a child, an eighth grader, who is issuing forth the worst racial slurs I can recall ever having had directed at me. For the first time that I can ever remember, I wanted to strike a child, this child, for what she had done to my daughter. I don't like the feeling it gave me. Had she gotten in my face there is a high likelihood that I would have hit her.
I think I need to get some lessons from my daughter about walking away.
I stumble down the stairs at noon, call work, let them know I am not coming in. I curl up on the couch that Chris has so graciously vacated for me and watch him play a video game. I doze off. A couple of hours of fitful rest go by and I drag myself up and head for the bathroom to wash my face and see about fluids. With fluids obtained I return to my little sanctuary called "the couch" and I decide I better get my homework done for the week. Book in hand, pen and highlighters nearby with index cards, I begin the arduous task of trying to study.
Before long the doorbell rings and lo and behold our boys are home from school. Fretting over Mommy, I now have my every whim catered to, complete with a cool rag on my forehead to reduce fever.
Doorbell rings again and oldest boy goes to door and opens it. I can’t see who it is, but a feminine voice calls out "Tell yer folks they might wanna be getting' outside, some'ting is happenin' to yer sister"
I leap up off the couch and jam my feet into my shoes and race out the door, all the while praying she hasn't been hit by a damn car. As I reach the door that leads out of the foyer into the great outdoors, my daughter appears, looking no worse for the wear.
"What is going on?" I demand while my eyes quickly race over her to see if I missed anything the first time around.
She starts to ramble, her words tumbling over each other so badly that I can't understand what she is saying. I hear the adult feminine voice reply "Those girls were trying to beat her up" So I look to my daughter who nods her confirmation.
Now I am pissed, this same girl has stalked and harassed my daughter all year. By her own account, my daughter has never said or done a single thing to offend her. This girl has on more then one occasion struck my daughter's face. I am beyond words with fury.
I step out into the blinding sun, cold wind tears through my sweater and for a brief second I think of going back in to get my coat, then I spot our apartment manager waving at me from her van. "Hurry up and we'll catch them" she yells at me and so I grab a hold of my daughter and dash down the stairs and into the waiting van with her, off we go.
Sure enough, just up the hill from our apartment there stands a large group of kids. My daughter and her friend, who for some reason was in the car with our manager, both point out the offending child.
I leap out of the van and stalk towards her. Apparently I looked pretty scary because she started to take off. Apartment manager calls out and asks me if I want the police involved and I respond with "Might as well be you that calls the police because someone is going to"
So, to make a long and rather boring story short, I'll leave out the verbal argument I found myself, two other adults, and about ten young kids in this child over whether or not she did indeed assault my child, here is what did happen.
Daughter arrives with friend. Friend and daughter see girls approaching, begin to speed up. Friend takes a hold of my daughter’s arm and tries to steer her in a direction that is not the same one the two girls are coming from. One girl rushes them, grabs my daughter's free arm and starts pulling on her, screaming obscenities at the young lady who refuses to abandon my daughter. A struggle ensues, the violator grabs my daughter’s backpack and she uses her witty little brain to slide out of the backpack and leave it behind while running for home.
So, in the end, my daughter was physically unharmed for the most part. Young violator was served with a citation and charges are now pending for assault.
I have had to put some new rules in place, and my life will, at least for a while, be complicated by the fact that on my days off I will be transporting both my daughter and her young friend home from school. The young lady who stood by my daughter's side lives not far from us and her mother will be bringing them home two days a week. The fifth day, which neither of us were able to cover as far as transportation goes, has been solved as well by Chris, he will be going to the bus stop each week and waiting for the girls to get off the bus and her friend will stay with us until her mother can come pick her up.
I don't understand why children have to be so mean and nasty to one another. While we waited for the police to show up, several of the young men from the neighborhood stood gathered around us, many of them asked my daughter why she didn't fight back, why she ignored the girl. For my daughter, the answer was simple "It takes a bigger person to walk away then it does to stay and hit someone" I felt an incredible amount of pride for her at that moment. I can only hope that this doesn't backfire in my face.
I also felt that old familiar companion of rage creeping up next to me as I listened to the filth this child was spewing. Anyone on this planet who thinks that only white people are capable of racial prejudice is simply fooling themselves. We are a white family. We have black neighbors, oriental neighbors, Hispanic neighbors, and we get along with them just fine, yet here is a child, an eighth grader, who is issuing forth the worst racial slurs I can recall ever having had directed at me. For the first time that I can ever remember, I wanted to strike a child, this child, for what she had done to my daughter. I don't like the feeling it gave me. Had she gotten in my face there is a high likelihood that I would have hit her.
I think I need to get some lessons from my daughter about walking away.
Monday, February 06, 2006
Sick
I am so sick, that kind of sickness that makes you want to curl up in a dark hole and never come out.
Chris is taking good care of me, providing me with lots of tenderness and love as well as the food I need even if I can't keep it down.
Hopefully I will be back soon.
Chris is taking good care of me, providing me with lots of tenderness and love as well as the food I need even if I can't keep it down.
Hopefully I will be back soon.
Wednesday, February 01, 2006
Monsters In The Dark
I haven't been sleeping well. I've been sick and feverish through the night which has caused my night terrors to be worse then usual.
Last night I dreamed of the man that killed my sister. I was in a house with him and my daughter was there. I had to get her out and I could feel the old familiar panic rising. I was sitting on a couch, with her head in my lap as she slept. He sat across from us in a chair. I could barely make him out because the air was thick with smoke. Not smoke from a cigarette, but from the marijuana he was smoking. I could feel my brain beginning to buzz and I slipped a hand down to hover over her face, trying to keep her from breathing it in. he is talking to me but I can’t hear the words, just his maniacal laughter. I tell myself I have to remain calm, I can't panic.
I blink as she's gone. There is a plastic bag over my head, with a tube attached to it. I breathe in and the bag is sucked against my face and my chest hurts from the lack of oxygen. My hands shoot up, but the bag is too tight, too thick for me to tear away, my only hope is to get the tube into my mouth. I breathe in again and once more the bag is sucked against my face and I can feel the tears sliding down my face. Finally my hands find the tube and I lift it to my mouth and breathe in deeply. He is mocking my efforts. The exact words are gone now, but I know that he is challenging me to save her, to do it right, to not fail her like I did my sister.
I stumble along through a doorway. I can't call out to her, but I hear her frightened voice calling out to me. "Mommy, Mommy where are you? Mommy help me, I'm scared Mommy, please help me Mommy"
White hot rage pierces my brain and I struggle to think, to recall in my mind's eye how the house looked, trying to see when I am blinded, to find a way to save my beautiful daughter. Her soft weeping reaches my ears and I begin to move faster, my mind is too clouded to help me remember, I am running into things. It is painful, but I have to find her, can't let the monster get to her, I can't let him hurt her like he did Melody. She begins to scream.
I am in a room now, the bag is gone, and everything is red and hazy. His laughter seems to come from no where and every where at the same time. I blink several times, trying to see better, and my heart stops as I see a small figure lying on a bed in the center of the room. In the center of the blood red room. I dash forward, slipping on the wetness on the floor and I scream. I scream because I know that it is my child's blood, because I know he took her from me, the way he took Melody. I don't have the strength to stand anymore; all I can do is scramble towards the bed. My hands, my clothes, everything is covered in blood now and as I reach the tiny figure on the bed, I feel a fist closing over my heart. Her eyes stare at me, but they don't blink, they don't see me. Her beautiful blonde hair is red and her frozen expression of horror tells me I was too late to save her, to late to keep her from the monster.
When I wake up I am sobbing and sweating. I am trembling so bad I can barely make it out of my bed and I hold onto the hallway wall as I make me way to her room. The tears are real now and they are sliding down my face as I struggle against my panic as I reach for the door to her bedroom. "It was just a dream Nikki. It was just a dream" I keep telling myself over and over, yet, I can't stop the thumping of my heart, or the panicked feeling I have as I open the door. Even as my gaze lands on her, sleeping peacefully in her bed, I can't stop the panic. I pull the door shut, as to not wake her and I rush for the bathroom where the small amount of food I had for dinner comes back up with a vengeance. Once done I slump to the floor and cover my head with my arms and let myself go. Let myself sob until there is nothing more left in me.
I am so tired of the monsters.
Last night I dreamed of the man that killed my sister. I was in a house with him and my daughter was there. I had to get her out and I could feel the old familiar panic rising. I was sitting on a couch, with her head in my lap as she slept. He sat across from us in a chair. I could barely make him out because the air was thick with smoke. Not smoke from a cigarette, but from the marijuana he was smoking. I could feel my brain beginning to buzz and I slipped a hand down to hover over her face, trying to keep her from breathing it in. he is talking to me but I can’t hear the words, just his maniacal laughter. I tell myself I have to remain calm, I can't panic.
I blink as she's gone. There is a plastic bag over my head, with a tube attached to it. I breathe in and the bag is sucked against my face and my chest hurts from the lack of oxygen. My hands shoot up, but the bag is too tight, too thick for me to tear away, my only hope is to get the tube into my mouth. I breathe in again and once more the bag is sucked against my face and I can feel the tears sliding down my face. Finally my hands find the tube and I lift it to my mouth and breathe in deeply. He is mocking my efforts. The exact words are gone now, but I know that he is challenging me to save her, to do it right, to not fail her like I did my sister.
I stumble along through a doorway. I can't call out to her, but I hear her frightened voice calling out to me. "Mommy, Mommy where are you? Mommy help me, I'm scared Mommy, please help me Mommy"
White hot rage pierces my brain and I struggle to think, to recall in my mind's eye how the house looked, trying to see when I am blinded, to find a way to save my beautiful daughter. Her soft weeping reaches my ears and I begin to move faster, my mind is too clouded to help me remember, I am running into things. It is painful, but I have to find her, can't let the monster get to her, I can't let him hurt her like he did Melody. She begins to scream.
I am in a room now, the bag is gone, and everything is red and hazy. His laughter seems to come from no where and every where at the same time. I blink several times, trying to see better, and my heart stops as I see a small figure lying on a bed in the center of the room. In the center of the blood red room. I dash forward, slipping on the wetness on the floor and I scream. I scream because I know that it is my child's blood, because I know he took her from me, the way he took Melody. I don't have the strength to stand anymore; all I can do is scramble towards the bed. My hands, my clothes, everything is covered in blood now and as I reach the tiny figure on the bed, I feel a fist closing over my heart. Her eyes stare at me, but they don't blink, they don't see me. Her beautiful blonde hair is red and her frozen expression of horror tells me I was too late to save her, to late to keep her from the monster.
When I wake up I am sobbing and sweating. I am trembling so bad I can barely make it out of my bed and I hold onto the hallway wall as I make me way to her room. The tears are real now and they are sliding down my face as I struggle against my panic as I reach for the door to her bedroom. "It was just a dream Nikki. It was just a dream" I keep telling myself over and over, yet, I can't stop the thumping of my heart, or the panicked feeling I have as I open the door. Even as my gaze lands on her, sleeping peacefully in her bed, I can't stop the panic. I pull the door shut, as to not wake her and I rush for the bathroom where the small amount of food I had for dinner comes back up with a vengeance. Once done I slump to the floor and cover my head with my arms and let myself go. Let myself sob until there is nothing more left in me.
I am so tired of the monsters.
Monday, January 30, 2006
Up and Running
Well, here is the finished product, links and all included. I am excited to have it up and once more I want to thank Mija for a fabulous job done!
I was looking at my new look today, enjoying the change and it dawned on me that in the last year I have made a tremendous amount of change.
So much so that sometimes it scares me. What if I change so much that my family, my friends, and my coworkers no longer recognize me? What if I change so much that >I< don't recognize me? Is there such thing as too much change?
I have never thought of myself as a bad person, with the exception of my seriously depressed days. So it stands to reason that I wouldn't really need to change who I am. Yet, I found myself not liking who I was. I found myself wishing I was a better wife, friend, lover, sister, daughter, but most importantly, mother.
Am I becoming that? Do my kids see a change in me? I don't know, but I hope so. My kids are my life. Granted, I have a great husband, and awesome friends and that helps me in so many ways, but I can not imagine my life without my children.
In reading the news today, I saw three stories of mother's who have killed their children and I sat here in stunned silence. I read Lili's post today and yesterday, and I wanted to cry for the little boy she wrote about. (If you haven't been to Lili's blog, it's on my side bar under "Lee" and I highly recommend it.)
What the hell goes through the minds of these monsters? Do they feel anything but evil? How can anyone harm a child?
They blame it on depression, or a mental disorder. Well I have both and let me tell you my friends, I can say honestly that never once have I thought my kids would be better off dead. Sure I've thought they might be better off without me, but never would the world be a better place without my kids.
I have a lot of random thoughts zipping through my head. We filed our taxes today and that means as soon as we get them back, all three of the children get new clothes. I will have to sort through and get rid of the ones that don't fit them anymore. I hate donating to good will and salvation army because they do turn around and sell them for profit. I think I will make some phone calls and see if there is a domestic violence shelter nearby that I can give them to. A lot of those women leave home with no money and just the clothes on their backs.
I went to a domestic violence shelter once. Not because my ex-husband beat me up, but because I was afraid he would take my daughter away from me if I tried to file for divorce. Much to my shock, the house looked like any other on the block and was only four blocks from where I grew up. I remember as a kid I used to be envious of the kids that lived there because it had a huge fenced in backyard and one of those great big jungle gym type things. It wasn't until I was inside that I realized that they had so much more sadness there then I did.
My daughter and I shared a room with two other women. We slept in the same bed, her little body curled up against mine. I can remember the smell of her as I lay in the dark listening to her breath. Wondering where it had all went wrong. I was young when I married her father, and by then we had only been married a couple of years, yet there I was, hiding from the man who fathered my child. The women that were there with me were also hiding. Hiding from the monsters that they lived with. Their black and blue and broken faces told the story that many of them didn't have courage to speak out loud. Their children, fearful of going outside, fearful of the ringing of the phone, still breaks my heart to think about.
When does it all stop? When does the hurting each other stop? When will our children feel safe again? Why are more people not concerned with it? Why does it all have to hurt so much?
I was looking at my new look today, enjoying the change and it dawned on me that in the last year I have made a tremendous amount of change.
So much so that sometimes it scares me. What if I change so much that my family, my friends, and my coworkers no longer recognize me? What if I change so much that >I< don't recognize me? Is there such thing as too much change?
I have never thought of myself as a bad person, with the exception of my seriously depressed days. So it stands to reason that I wouldn't really need to change who I am. Yet, I found myself not liking who I was. I found myself wishing I was a better wife, friend, lover, sister, daughter, but most importantly, mother.
Am I becoming that? Do my kids see a change in me? I don't know, but I hope so. My kids are my life. Granted, I have a great husband, and awesome friends and that helps me in so many ways, but I can not imagine my life without my children.
In reading the news today, I saw three stories of mother's who have killed their children and I sat here in stunned silence. I read Lili's post today and yesterday, and I wanted to cry for the little boy she wrote about. (If you haven't been to Lili's blog, it's on my side bar under "Lee" and I highly recommend it.)
What the hell goes through the minds of these monsters? Do they feel anything but evil? How can anyone harm a child?
They blame it on depression, or a mental disorder. Well I have both and let me tell you my friends, I can say honestly that never once have I thought my kids would be better off dead. Sure I've thought they might be better off without me, but never would the world be a better place without my kids.
I have a lot of random thoughts zipping through my head. We filed our taxes today and that means as soon as we get them back, all three of the children get new clothes. I will have to sort through and get rid of the ones that don't fit them anymore. I hate donating to good will and salvation army because they do turn around and sell them for profit. I think I will make some phone calls and see if there is a domestic violence shelter nearby that I can give them to. A lot of those women leave home with no money and just the clothes on their backs.
I went to a domestic violence shelter once. Not because my ex-husband beat me up, but because I was afraid he would take my daughter away from me if I tried to file for divorce. Much to my shock, the house looked like any other on the block and was only four blocks from where I grew up. I remember as a kid I used to be envious of the kids that lived there because it had a huge fenced in backyard and one of those great big jungle gym type things. It wasn't until I was inside that I realized that they had so much more sadness there then I did.
My daughter and I shared a room with two other women. We slept in the same bed, her little body curled up against mine. I can remember the smell of her as I lay in the dark listening to her breath. Wondering where it had all went wrong. I was young when I married her father, and by then we had only been married a couple of years, yet there I was, hiding from the man who fathered my child. The women that were there with me were also hiding. Hiding from the monsters that they lived with. Their black and blue and broken faces told the story that many of them didn't have courage to speak out loud. Their children, fearful of going outside, fearful of the ringing of the phone, still breaks my heart to think about.
When does it all stop? When does the hurting each other stop? When will our children feel safe again? Why are more people not concerned with it? Why does it all have to hurt so much?
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