Monday, January 22, 2024

That Thing You Did



When you have amnesia, you have puzzle pieces in your life that are swimming around, blank. They might have phrases wrapped around them, but they no experience inside of them. 

There's this one puzzle piece that has been swimming around for a long time, that has mystified and haunted me. 

The only words wrapped around this puzzle piece is: "Remember That Horrible Thing You Did at the Daycare."  

What did I do at the daycare?

What did my mom mean?

How is it that she has brought this up so many times over my life, and I've never understood what she meant?

And the energy with which she said I did this particular thing, well. I was scared! But I didn't know what she could possibly be referring to. 

And why didn't I ever ask her?

The same reason I never asked about anything terrifying. 

The same reason I immediately erased anything that felt like it threatened my life.

If it felt terrifying, it went right into the "That's Too Terrifying To Process" file in my brain, and it seeped into permanent oblivion. 

Until I felt safe enough to remember, that is.

I'm safe enough to remember, now, after five years of living with my partner and his family. For the first time in my life, I'm safe enough to remember puzzle pieces in my life that were previously blank.

And now I can start fitting those pieces together. 

Well, I remember doing a lot of things at "the daycare." 

You see, she's talking about the time I worked at a particular daycare, from the ages of 19 to 25. 

Geez, I could have done anything there. 

But there are a few particular incidents that I remember with an odd mix of both clarity and fuzziness that belong only to nightmares that you wake from in terror at night and hope desperately it was simply just a dream and nothing more. 

But I remember driving home after each of these incidents, and people don't drive home and eat dinner after a nightmare. 

Although I tried to tell myself that I did. 

If you tell yourself something happens the way you want it to have happened enough times, you can make it so.

But now I know it wasn't a dream. 

It happened.

I remember now, Mom.

I told everyone at the daycare that my parents were trying to kill me. 

Oh hey, Mom, I remember. 

I mean, I didn't mean to blurt it out. 

It started with a migraine and pre-seizures. My muscles became incredibly tight, spasming and contracting, yanking on the nerves on my spinal cord in my neck and back, yanking me about like a jerky marionette puppet. The spasms were excruciatingly painful, but the motions kept coming uncontrollably, causing more spasms in repetitive waves, again and again over hours. 

After awhile, I slid immobile like limp, wet jelly to the floor.  I had no ability to control my muscles, no ability to lift my arms or legs, and was in an altered state of consciousness. Floppy, but frozen in a fallen form on the floor, unable to move. I heard people talking, but I couldn't speak back. I heard their voices, but didn't understand what they were saying. It sounded like voices were coming through a tunnel, echoing from far away. 

They locked me in the director's office. Two of the other staff were in there. The director was going in and out. I was extremely dizzy, crying, having a severe migraine, in severe pain, and in severe emotional distress. I remember saying that I couldn't control my body, which was pinching the nerves in my neck and causing severe pain, and I said I wanted to die. 

I remember saying that my parents were trying to kill me. I had glimpses of knowing and remembering that the father figure had been trying to take my life since age 5, and my mom had done nothing to stop him. So in my mind, in my state of pain, she was culpable too. And in my state of not being able to articulate well, in spilling my guts, I told anyone in the room who was listening. 

I didn't know what kind of diagnosis I had back then at 19. I had never been to a doctor. I assumed I was ill because my "father" had been poisoning me with toxic gasses my whole life. I remember smelling toxic gas smells all the time as a kid and teen, and I told my coworkers that as well. 

My eyes were flickering but wouldn't open, and I kept falling on the floor. Then passed out. 

I was 19 the first time this happened at work. 

They gave me a form for child abuse, since they said I had applied when I was 18. 

They tried to get me to fill it out and sign it before I left.

But I was so dizzy and didn't know what had just happened. 

They didn't think I was well enough to drive home, but I had rested, and I was determined to drive home, and I did.

I pulled the paper out of my bag and gave it to my mom after dinner that night. I was confused. I didn't know what it was or where it came from. I thought it was work related, like a W-2 or something. 

She gave it to the father figure. 

They questioned me. They weren't happy.

I didn't understand the correlation of the events that conspired next, but my pet rabbit disappeared. I heard squealing above the garage one night when I was in bed, and my brother said, "He's killing your rabbit. You'd better go get it." 

I instantly put it out of my head because it was too dangerous. 

He couldn't be. 

If he was doing that to my bunny, what would he do to me. 

My brain refused to let it register that my brother said that.

I went to bed.

A week later, my mother told me that the neighbor dog had caught my bunny and killed it, and that it was dead on the side of the road, and did I want to go with her to see if it was him.

I said yes, and I walked with her. 

I saw it was Thumper, but I knew someone had just cleanly sliced off his head and left the body. 

I felt tears sprout on my face, but I had never cried from emotion in front of my mom before. I quickly turned away from her and walked away, back home, and up the hill towards his empty cage, but I wouldn't look at it. 

Instead I looked towards the neighbor's house and calmed my face until I felt normal. 

My bunny was my dearest and only friend at that time. 

But it was too dangerous to grieve.

To feel was to let myself get too close to the truth, which was understanding that my life was just as expendable as my bunny's. 

I wasn't ready to grieve my bunny's death or my own.

But I told my coworkers, because they were safe. 

And now I feel safe enough to remember that I told them.

Not just once. But often. 

Each time happened like the first time they locked me in the director's office. It was when I was in incredible physical pain, doing myoclonic jerks and was in an altered psychological state. Meaning, I couldn't control what I was saying, and I was in severe psychological pain as well. 

I felt like it was a nightmare, like I was in an altered state of consciousness. 

The second time, they helped me down to the basement into the break room, and showed me how to tuck a chair under the door of the break room door handle, since there was no lock on the break room door. When I came to, I had been rolling around on the floor and saw a chair tucked under the door and wondered who had done that, and thought I had dreamed it. I also saw two candy bar wrappers on the floor, and wondered who had littered. 

During the next staff meeting, the director lectured the staff on the break room snack box being two snacks worth short. The snack box was on an honor's system pay policy. I had an immediate flash of guilt but didn't know why, but one of the other teacher's volunteered to cover it. 

Then months and years later, I kept having nightmares that it was me who did it.  But I brushed it off as just that, nightmares. 

Then the director decided to move me from the toddler side of the daycare to the preschool side, since I decided to go to college for elementary education and started working at the preschool part-time while I took college classes. The director asked me to write up a little introductory bio about myself and maybe draw a few things, since she knew I liked to draw, and she said she would photo copy it and pass it out to the parents of the preschool children. 

So I waited until one night at home when everyone had gone to bed and I felt safe. I was feeling creative, drew a few things, made a crossword puzzle with nifty factoids about myself, and then suddenly... I remembered. 

I remembered that my parents were trying to murder me. Should I put that in there too?

Why not?

I figured that this might be my only chance to get someone to actually help me. This was a community of people with small children, and they were good people. Surely it couldn't hurt, right?

So I did. 

The director thought it was a fine idea. I thought for sure she would think it at least a bit odd. But she thought some of the jokes I put in were light hearted, creative and funny, so at least that tipped the scale in at least the whole thing not being completely dark and macabre. 

So it was distributed, and life went on.

But there was a glitch in the matrix. 

In the form of a girl named Krista. 

She was working at a preschool with my sister Louisa, and was in the process of possibly transitioning to the daycare where I worked. So she was sitting in for a week where I worked. 

And someone gave her a copy of bio meant for the parents. 

She immediately told me she loved my "little" drawings and wished she was talented. And then she said in a deeply concerned voice that Louisa had never mentioned the problem about my parents? 

At which point, my face fell.

At which point, her face instantly fell as well, as she was a highly sensitive individual. She read and responded to facial expressions carefully. 

"Oh, I'm so sorry. Was I not supposed to say anything?" she asked me. 

I was turning all shades of red, and was visibly crumbling on the spot. I told her I wished she hadn't said anything, but really couldn't say anything more. Krista was so uncomfortable, but I didn't know what to say to make her any less so.

"It's ok," I told her. Although it was not ok. 

I just didn't want her to be on the hook for anything. It wasn't her fault. 

I had no idea that she would be a bridge between my safe little world at the daycare, and the unsafe world at home. 

But I put it out of my mind instantly, because that's what I did with unsafe things. 

It was the safest thing to when your life is in constant danger. 

But several days later, someone said to me, "Your parents are coming here." 

And that's when my brain went berserk. 

I had the beginnings of a headache already brewing. But when I heard that was happening, it just got worse. I kept saying that somebody had to stop them. 

The director said she wouldn't let them come past the front desk. But I was distraught. She didn't know them like I knew them. He had weapons. He could gun the whole place down. 

I remember I became hysterical. I was crying. I think I had seizures. I remember muttering to myself. I remember them telling me to go in one of the pre-k rooms to be safe, and me stacking a wall of blue cots on top of themselves, 15 cots high against the door of the room I barricaded myself in, just in case. 

I remember being terrified, and peeking through the blinds of a window that looked out onto the parking lot of the daycare. I remember seeing my mom and him getting out of their brown station wagon, and walking up the daycare steps, into the building. 

Afterwards, I remember the director telling me that my mom was looking for me. That she said she wouldn't let them go past the front desk. That she wouldn't tell them where I was. 

But I immediately forgot this happened as soon as it happened. That's how I stayed safe. 

When I moved from the toddler room to the school age room in my early 20's, I remember telling each of the parents my name, did they get my bio and into sheet, and would they like to testify for me in court when I go to court whenever that might be. I never did go to court, but I asked anyway.

I remember being in a state of detachment, as if it wasn't me talking, but someone else, when I did this. At the end of each day, when I fell asleep at night, I remember thinking it felt quite nightmarish, because who would say something like that, especially an extremely shy person like me?

I immediately forgot all of these incidents as soon as they happened. That's how I stayed safe. 

The only way to stay safe when in continual threat of death was to convince yourself that there simply is no threat at all. To just be "out to lunch," in a way. Because of my brain injury at age 5, my brain wasn't working normally and I was pretty much always "out to lunch." It was very easy for me as a child, and since it was a habit I formed because my brain just wasn't working then, the habit continued into adulthood because habits just continue, even though my brain had started healing and was able to remember more than it did as a child. 

As an adult, any time I happened to "remember" something terrifying, my brain out of habit did as it always did... it converted reality into a nightmare. And I believed it was a nightmare. 

And I went on with my life, simply thinking I had a lot of crazy, horrible nightmares that felt similar to life but surely were nightmares.

Until I felt safe enough in my waking life for 5 years in a row now. Safe enough for the first time in my life with my partner and his family. 

Safe enough to realize what real family feels like.  What love feels like. What safety feels like. 

Safe. 

That's why I could finally realize that those "nightmares" weren't nightmares... they were reality. 

And now I finally remember that "That Horrible Thing You Did" was me simply telling my coworkers at the daycare that I thought my parents were killing me. 

It is true that I don't think my mom was trying to kill me. 

But in my pain and desperation at the time, and in my inability to articulate with precision, I tied her in with the FF, the father figure, and lumped them in as one unit.

I also had a suspicion that they were poisoning me at home, because I smelled fumes often at home, and I did not smell them at work. I did not have migraines or seizures at work, except for 3, and those started at home and carried over into work. I constantly had migraines, seizures and black outs at home. I woke up with the worse migraines on Saturday morning on a regular basis, and smelled bad chemical smells in the air when I woke up. I had the deepest intuition that the FF, the father figure was the cause of my pain, but I didn't know the exact reason. I also blamed my mom for not stopping him from whatever he was still doing. 

In my pain and inability to articulate clearly, I lumped them together as one unit, and called him "them." 

I know my mom did not cause the FF to try to kill me when I was 5. 

She never attempted to harm me. 

She has only been a source of steady calm, nurturing and peace. 

At least, that was my view of her when I had to stay in a constant state of protective amnesia through my childhood in order to have at least one good parent in my life. 

I made it up, though. In many ways, I made up a more angelic image of her, so I could survive emotionally in that nightmare house. 

But I understand it's complicated. She got caught in his web. She's an empath who went in naively, trying to help, being compassionate. I understand. I've been there. I myself as an adult have been caught in narcissistic, sociopathic webs before, but I've gotten out. I've run. But only because I've had my mother as an example of what NOT to do. I've become a runner, a constant detangler from webs, because of her. She doesn't know how to run because her mother never taught her. 

I've been wanting to tell my mom for over a year that I've finally remembered after a life time of amnesia  that it was the father figure has been trying to kill me ever since he beat me and left me for dead when I was 5.  That I've been terrified he was going to try to take my life every day since then. 

But I've just realized that the empty puzzle piece that used to mystify me, which I now understand, means that my mom already knows??!

That she's known for the last 10 years??!

That she's known longer than 10 years??

That she's known ever since I did "That Horrible Thing" at the daycare and she's never forgotten??!

That even though I blocked out what I did out of fear, she apparently never did. 

She just wouldn't spell it out because she is proper and respectable. I couldn't spell it out simply because my brain had deleted it. 

She knows.

She's known for a long time.  

This shatters my world in such a crazy way. I have been hesitant and afraid to tell her because I thought she would get angry and cut me off. Since she's cut me off before. 

But if she already knows, then she won't cut me off, right?

She wouldn't cut me off for telling her something she already knows, and has known for a long time, right? 

And what I'm going to tell her is actually an improvement on what she already knows, so she has even less of a motivation to cut me off right? 

Because there's nothing like saying, "Oh hey mom, remember that time I said at the daycare I thought you and the father figure were trying to kill me? Well, I actually meant to say that I only thought he was trying to kill me, not you. I think you are amazing." 

I feel muddled inside when I think of her still loyally supporting the person who purposefully tried to end my life, and still would if given a chance, in my opinion. 

He could easily turn her against me if I try to reach out to her and hold out an olive branch of truth. 

She could cut me off again.

Just like she did 10 years ago when I told her something a little less than stellar about her mate. When I told her that her husband, my "father," was actually a pedofile and had crossed a line with me when I was five. Her enraged response was, ironically, that little puzzle piece that she whips out to from time to time, to try to set me in my place: 

"Well, remember that Horrible Thing You Did at the Daycare."

Back then, I had no idea what she was talking about. 

She did. But she wouldn't tell me. And I still can't figure out her logic in bringing this up as a response. 

Regardless, there is a chance that my mom might cut me off again. 

But honestly, guys, it actually felt so freeing and authentic when she first cut me off ten years ago when I stood up for myself. It felt so honest. I liked being on social media where she had blocked me, and where I could write whatever I wanted, and she didn't write little hearts in "support" on my posts. A few years ago, I wrote to her because she had covid, and she had to go to the hospital. I was worried about her and sent her a nice message. She unblocked me, and now she posts things on my social media these days that I know she wouldn't if I told her the truth. I hate not being honest. 

I desire authenticity so badly. I am ready for authenticity, and the way is clearing in front of me. 

Which is why I'm so glad that my mom already knows what I want to tell her.

I've been trying to build up my bravery over the last year in order to tell her. But she already knows. That is such a relief!

I don't have to build up my bravery any more.  

Because, you know what? I already am brave. The fact that I remembered something this gory after repressing it in order to feel safe for this amount of time means that I must be brave. 

If I were to ever share anything with my mom, I would say. "I wasn't trying to hurt you, Mom. It was my only way of crying out for help. It was my way of trying to survive, trying to live." 

Everyone wants to live. 

If I could write a letter to my younger self, this is what I would say:

                 ************************************************************************

Dear 19 year old Self,

You don't know it, but you just did something incredibly brave. So brave that you had to blank it out. So brave that if you were to read this letter right now, your mind wouldn't let you understand it, and that is why you will never get or read this letter. But to humor both of ourselves, I'm writing it to you anyway. 

You don't know it, but you are the bravest person I know. I cry for you almost every day. You are locked in a prison in your mind, and you don't have the key to get out. You have dissociative amnesia, and you live with someone who wants to take your life. Any time you get an intuition you are in the slightest danger, you don't go into fight or flight. You go into "that isn't happening to me." It is safest that way. You put it into a file in your brain that says "dangerous: do not process." But you don't even know you are doing it.

You don't know it, but your mom is going to call what you did at the daycare "That Horrible Thing You Did." And you won't know what she is talking about. And you will be too terrified to even think about asking. You will automatically, without even knowing it, put her remark into the "dangerous: do not process" file of your brain and just carry on with your life. 

Just know that I have your back. There are actually lots of people that you have told, and lots of "horrible" things therefore you have done, according to her. 

But guess what? It's time to flip the script. It's time to rewrite the story how it actually happened. You are not horrible. You are brave, amazing and wonderful and strong. Most people would want to keep repressing, and would never have allowed themselves to remember. Someday you will finally feel safe enough to remember it all. And you are going to heal from it. 

I promise. 

Love,

Your Current Self

                  ************************************************************************

Maybe someday I'll get an opportunity to talk more with my mom about what actually happened. And maybe she will want to understand. But I understand if she doesn't want to or can't. In the meantime, I will be proud of myself and love myself for both of us. 

Photo: a creek called Bubbling Mike here in the PNW where we went camping. 
Top photo: the view through a bamboo blind on our porch here in the PNW.

Monday, January 1, 2024

Confidence


The first time she met me, she threw a chair at me. 

I was not her preferred person, you see. 

I was just a random visitor in her yard at the time, not her mother who gave her treats on the daily. 

It was a lawn chair, and I was sitting with my back to her. 

In HER back yard, of all places. 

She had nosed it up into the air with her muzzle and launched it so that it soared the distance it needed to so that it landed squarely on top of me. 

Of course, I yelled.

Of course, she meant it.

Of course, she enjoyed it.

Mini ponies are smart. 

And sassy. Oh, so sassy. 

Her name is Cookie. 

But everyone calls her Pony. Because she's the only pony on the property, so of course she deserves the name Pony. 

Somehow, Pony is my hero. 

And somehow, Pony has managed to beat me up and sass me more than any sentient creature I've met. 

But I respect her.

And admire her?

And I do not understand why?

Pony gets what she wants, when she wants, how she wants.

If she wants her hay early in the day before she's supposed to get it, and if I happen to leave the gate to the hay enclosure open.... well. Once she sneaks in, come hell or high water, that girl ain't budging. 

Oh, I can get behind her and direct her with my arms out to the side like I'm a goofy airplane, leaning and pointing which way to go. But she is one rebellious gal, and honestly this method really doesn't work with her. 

She thinks it's hilarious, and she just goes the opposite way.

She leads me on a merry chase round the garden, stopping to browse with infinite patience on delectable garden plants along the way.

But by the time I've lost all patience and she hears it in my voice, she immediately picks up a burst of speed with her short little stubby legs and zooms towards the gate with a merry toss of her mane and a low throated nickering laugh. She's so delighted with herself.  

Pony gives not one damn about social norms, social pressure, nor social media.

She could care less.

She could care less what the world, what you, and what I think of her. 

She just wants her food when she wants it, and she wants to be violent and sassy, like a big toddler throwing a temper tantrum when she can't get her way. 

If she was tiny and cute, we would all laugh. 

If she was a baby, we would all laugh.

If she was a Pomeranian puppy, we would all laugh.

The thing is, though... she is cute. 

Pony has the biggest, darkest, softest, most expressive eyes as she peers at you from under her long eyelashes. She has shortest little legs that she gets the zoomies on, running super fast down the length of our driveway to greet us. Stopping on a dime right in front of you. 

She has the softest, most velvety muzzle that wrinkles up gently as she nickers, that she reaches out towards you whenever you reach out to her. She grows the wildest, thickest coat in the winter. She does this little bucking bronco stamp when she gets excited. She follows us like a dog, and nuzzles our pockets and us. 

And, she's small as well. For a horse, that is. Seeing as she is a mini pony.

But that being said, she weighs several hundred pounds, and her tantrums, though cute.... can be, ummm. How can I say this without offending her?

Well, they can be dangerous. 

Maybe it's best if I just share the story of the day Pony Went Wild for the Chicken's Corn. 

It was a morning just like any other morning.

I walked up to feed our chickens in their serene, one acre south pasture which Pony used to share with them last spring. I had just let Pony out of her own little Prima Donna stall area, and she had followed me up there. 

At the time, I had assumed that Pony followed me up there just for my company, and that she was feeling a little nostalgic about the south pasture, seeing as how she had lived there at one time. 

It is true... if I was her, I would have loved spending my days up there, too. It was full of madrone trees, evergreens, dappled shade, stretches of sunny patches, and mazes of intersecting shrubs. It was also quite private and spacious. 

I was reflecting on this while I started feeding the chickens, when suddenly, something large bumped into my back. 

I turned around and there was Pony. I had forgotten to latch the chicken gate closed behind me, and she had ambled right on in. 

And she had one thing on her mind.  

Corn.

Now, if there is one thing that is bad for horses, it is the sugar in corn. 

And if there is one thing that Pony is addicted to, it is the chicken's corn. 

Suddenly, it clicked. 

No wonder Pony liked the chicken yard. 

And just as suddenly, I went into motion.

"Pony! You stop eating that corn!" I yelled.

But I was too late.

Of course, she did not look up.

She had started inhaling the corn the instant she zoomed into the pasture, and she hadn't come up for air since. 

Determined to get her out of there as soon as possible, I pushed back on either side of her neck, hoping I could push her back out the still open gate.

She wouldn't budge. 

She just kept chewing and masticating blissfully.

So I pushed even harder with my two hands against both sides of her neck.

But I guess I got too close to Her Majesty when she was eating her crack. 

Because Pony decided she was going to teach me a Thing or Two about getting too close to her when she was having the most delightful snack of her entire life.

Pony lifted her powerful neck up right between my legs, scooped me up into the air, and shook her mane. 

So there I was, suddenly sitting on Pony's neck, my legs straddling her body, facing her rear end, swatting at her with my palms.

I feel like a helpless toddler, kicking my legs helplessly, swatting at her sides helplessly, crying helplessly.

I AM a helpless toddler, throwing a tantrum! 

I am incredulous that she had the literal nerve to do that to me. 

I am full of rage that I have no power of my own to get down.

I am full of laughter because I feel exactly like a helpless child. 

I am shocked that I honestly have no ability to get down.

I am terrified that she is going to get very sick from eating all that corn while she holds me prisoner. 

"Pony, let me down!!!" I scream at her.

She is oblivious.

She could care less.

She is a Being oh so much stronger than I. 

She can stay here all day if she wants.

But oh, she wants that corn. 

As soon as her rage at me is sufficiently appeased, her desire for that crack corn roars back to life, and she tips her neck back down the ground. 

Immediately, I slide off her neck, fall to the ground, hop up, then dust myself off.

Then just as I immediately, I start in front of her with my arms spread wide, and and I know she can sense I Mean Business.

"YOU GO."

I didn't have to say it twice.

Pony is not just a smart ass.

She is also incredibly smart. 

She won't respond unless she knows I thoroughly mean it. 

She walks backward out the gate, easy as that. 

I latch it securely.

I scatter more feed for the chickens.

My legs are shaking. 

But I am not mad at Pony any more. 

In fact, I am slightly in awe of her.

I have respect for her. 

I admire her. 

This is a girl who gets what she wants, how she wants, when she wants. 

It's on me to keep the south pasture gate latched. It's on me to keep the hay enclosure gate latched. Pony is just a gal who is looking for a snack when she can get one. 

I admire Pony's confidence. 

Growing up in the religious cult I did, confidence was a trait that was brainwashed out of us. Even though deep down, I always knew it was a value that was natural in healthy context. 

That's why I admire Pony so much. 

But I won't ask her to move next time she's eating something tasty, even if it's not chicken feed. 




Friday, December 29, 2023

The Energetic Healing in Anger




Anger is a funny thing. 

Rage is a funny thing.

It can be constructive.

Even though society tells us it isn't.

Even though society tells us to tamp that thing down and hide it, suppress it, be good little citizens. 

Even though many individuals who do act on their anger do so in a way that is violent and aggressive. 

Anger can actually be an incredible force towards healing.

Especially if you grew up in a setting where people didn't want you to tell on them, or if you are currently in a situation now where people want you to be quiet about their actions towards you, or yourself and your children. 


Fascinating, isn't it?

Imagine a scenario like this... what if you had something absolutely terrifying happen to you when you were a little kid... 

Let's say your parent decided in anger, to kill you as a 5 year old and leave you for dead... but you actually in your resilience... LIVED through this nightmare.... 

And you know he wants you dead. 

You know you have to live in the same house with this parent plotting to kill you again in some sneaky, nefarious way between then and the day you leave the house in your 20's.

You end up with a traumatic brain injury from the beating he leaves you with, and amnesia that spots your memory of the event. 

Your memory after this is never clear, and becomes ever the more faded the older you become.

Your brain also simply will not allow you to remember because it is too terrifying for any child to process.

So you file it all away as a nightmare instead of reality.

You "forget" as completely as your murderer desires you to keep it a secret.

Because who wants to remember their parent is a murderer lurking behind every door?

Who wants to remember ocean of heartbreak that large?


Honestly, I've felt an ocean of sadness this large my whole life without knowing WHY I felt it.

Because I was murdered at age 5 in cold blood.

He walked away and left me there to die. 

But I wasn't able to remember this happened to me until this year.

It's been buried in amnesia for 40 years.

And I've only started to process my feelings. 

I grew up with my murderer, who is also my biological "f-a-t-h-e-r" side by side in the same house, day in and day out, and it was a big secret. 

Shhhhhhhhh. 

When I was dying, my mother wasn’t there to save me. 

I intuited at my young age that the reason she wasn't there was on purpose... the evil thing he was doing... was definitely supposed to be a secret from her. 

Shhhhhhh. She wasn't supposed to know. 

So, as I was dying, I realized I shouldn't ever tell my mother what he was doing to me.

Shhhhhh. Don't tell! 

Because if he was killing me, and keeping it a secret from her, would her knowing the secret mean he would kill her too?

In my child's brain, I did the math and decided instantly that a monster capable of killing their own daughter and hiding it from their wife would certainly be capable of killing the wife, too.

Especially a wife as kind, trusting, sweet, naive and gullible as my mom.

Especially if she knew the secret and decided to stand up for me?

In that split second of realization before my memory closed down and wiped out, I decided I had no choice. 

I would save my mother from ever knowing he did it.



I would save her life.

Even if it meant that NOT telling her meant SHE couldn't help ME get away from him.

Because I realized she had no power to ever get away from him, never did, never would, and my choice to remain silent meant I had no power to ever help her or me.

I realized right then and there that it was a loose-loose situation for both my mother and me.

All we could do was wait it out.

All I could do was let amnesia bury me forever.

All she could do was live with him until he died.

The secret was sealed in my memory which was mercifully now going, going, going, mercifully... gone. 

My head hit the concrete, and all brain activity was gone, oh so mercifully gone. 

All memory was wiped.

And I was glad. 

I went through the tunnel of light.

I was in bliss. 

Euphoria.

The place where you know you are dead, and you certainly don't want to go back to your body. 


I remember how violently upset my "f-a-t-h-e-r" was to learn that I had lived after all, after he had left me to die when I was 5. 

I remember how terrified and confused I was. 

I remember having difficulties staying conscious, feeling like my brain was tormenting me, having problems breathing, trying to move my body but not able to move my arms or legs. 

I remember him telling my mom that if I wasn't out of his sight by 8 pm, he would "finish me off" himself. I was out for a full day and a half after that. I don't know how I got in my bed. 

I understand now why I was given no medical attention as a child.

It understand now it was on purpose.

I remember now how my "father" got pleasure by watching me suffer slowly. 

I remember how I stopped breathing often, as is the case after severe traumatic brain injury. 

I remember that my brain didn't tell my body to breath, so my body went into a state of crisis often. My brain simply didn't get enough oxygen. My body would send a red alert signal, but nothing would register. My body kept signaling, "Red alert, red alert!!!' 

But my body did nothing.

I remember panic, uncontrollable movements, seizures, then paralysis, freezing of the chest and throat, inability to breath and not being able to move my body at all for an infinitely long, torturous amount of time. Hoping someone would come. 

I remember going often into states where I knew I was out of my body and I was in bliss. I don't know if it was death or not. But I was in a state of no thinking and completely limp.

I remember how finally I would feel myself gasping violently for air, my body would start flailing, and I then would be crying, and no one was there watching or caring. 

I remember growing up knowing that nobody cared about my life. 

I also remember caring about myself immensely when I was little during states of euphoria that seizures would send me to, then forgetting about it instantly afterwards.

I remember going to states of euphoria where I experienced the afterlife... what love and bliss felt like.. I knew what it felt like to die.. and I preferred death to life... knowing that in death, real love and comfort existed beautifully with open arms for me always, but it was not there for me in what I experienced in "real" physical life in that house I was growing up in... that was painful, bizarre, scary, and terrible. 

I remember having extremes of terror and bliss, and I alternated between them sharply, back and forth. 

I remember never knowing where I lived, in the horror of my mind, in the horror of that house, in the bliss of my mind, or in the perfect little church fairy tale they said we lived in. 

Coming, going, going, coming. 

Nightmare, bliss, sanity, reality.

I remember it wasn't safe to think.

Check out.

I remember I was always, always checked out.

I remember my "f-a-t-h-e-r" abusing me sexually over the years a little girl, but thinking it was just "a game," as he called it.

I remember the constant possibility that every day, my "f-a-t-h-e-r" might try to take my life again. Would he put poison in my cup? Why did the chicken for dinner taste weird? Was there something odd in my sandwich at lunch? Would he give me a push when I wasn’t watching? What was that gun shot I just heard? Why was everything making me jump? Why was I was in constant fight or flight?

I remember day of my life, every minute for the 19 years I lived there after age 5, being out of my body. 

I remember being too fragile as a child to process the nightmare of living in that nightmare, and processing absolutely none of it.

I remember my brain immediately placing every event as it happened into amnesia, day after day, minute after minute, automatically without me knowing it. 

I remember living in a completely out of touch state in order to survive. 

I know that if I told my mother today that he murdered me at age 5, she would instantly turn from me and cut me off.  

Just like she cut me off in a rage ten years age, when I told her he sexually abused me when I was a kid. 

Just like she never would have been able to stand up for me when I was a child. 

Just like she never has been able to stand up to him. 

He is "God," you see.

He is the Patriarchy.

He is the leader of a secretive religious cult, and all six of his children were the undercover members, hidden away from the world until we grew up and left. 

And she is his only loyal member now. 

But I can't be completely mad at her. 

Because she was the one solid, beautiful light in my life in my childhood that always shone steady and bright.

Even though I couldn't trust her to get me medical care, help relieve my pain, or protect me from him, at least I knew she never caused me pain while I was in her presence.

In her presence alone, I was safe.

And in the nightmare of that house, she was an angel. 

For that, I will always love her.

For that, I want to protect her from him.

Even though she thinks he's safe with him.

She's not. 

She just knows how to play her role very well in order to "stay" safe.

He used to make her life hell if she didn't vacuum the entire car within an inch properly once a week.

What would he do if she actually ACCUSED him of something?

Like trying to kill me?

She NEVER EVER speaks up to him.

She has never ever raised her voice to him or any of us in our entire lives.

She is terrified of him.

She knows her role in life, and how to act accordingly, meekly, sweetly, calmly, submissively.

She knows how to play it safe.

I won't endanger her.

But I am mad because I know I can't tell her any kind of truth.

I am mad because I want to get close to her as my mother, but I can't even be her friend and write to her, as he monitors and limits it. 

I am seething with anger and sadness now.

I am paralyzed with complicated emotions that feel like they have no place to go.

It's all new, like it just happened to me as a child right now.

New folds of the amnesia are opening up slowly each day to process anew. 

Even after 4 decades of “growing up,” some days, I still feel too fragile to process what’s happened.

Most days, I want to go to back to a state of complete amnesia all over again.

Most days, I want to go into a cocoon and never get back out.

I don't think I was supposed to remember.

But for some reason or another, oh I remember now.

I guess that the fact that the amnesia finally lifted after 4 decades is... I guess... my assurance that surely, I am strong enough to remember?

I guess I can do this. 

I guess that the most difficult part of this amnesia business has been that SO much of my sadness has felt like it has... 

Nowhere to go? 

Most times, when someone has amnesia, they can share what they have remembered immediately with others, and it is exciting!

But in my case, much has been incredibly sad, depressing, horrible and heart crushing.  

For myself

For my "family." 

It's something that's slow and sad for me to process and talk about.

It's something my siblings absolutely refuse to talk with me about. 

It's something my mother absolutely refuses to talk about with me, and cut me off for starting to talk about 10 years ago.

Its something my "f-a-t-h-e-r" absolutely refuses to acknowledge, and wants me to go to my grave keeping a secret. 

It's something that's been bottlenecked and choked up for a couple years now.

By my family's refusal to listen.

And by my not knowing who I can share it with. 

But guess what?

It doesn't matter that my "family" won't or can't listen. 

I can write about it.

Here.

The very minute I confided in a friend that I had decided to write in order to release the sadness and anger, it all completely evaporated.

For a full day.

Then it came back.  

But I know that there is power in telling your story. 

There is power in letting it out. 

So that's exactly what I'm going to do.  

Some days, I feel like I can rip down huge buildings with my bare hands and teeth. 

Rawwwwwwwrrrrrrrrrr!!!!!!

Because I know it's not just 4 decades of unprocessed RAGE for what was done to the child's heart, spirit, soul and body I lived in. 

But it's also the 4 decades of unprocessed, swallowed down, mysterious SADNESS that I swam in, unable to express. 

                       

                    Sadness swallowed down, 

                                 hidden, un-allowed to be expressed... 

 I've internalized as rage. 

But once I've begun to acknowledge and express my sadness

the rage has also allowed itself to dissipate...

both have started to dissipate little by little...

And I think healing has started to begin. 


That's the thing about anger.

Anger is a funny thing. 

Rage is a funny thing.

It can be constructive.

It can be a force towards healing. 

It can dissipate by sharing your story. 

Don't let ANYONE tell you not to be angry.

Don't let ANYONE tell you not to tell your story.

Don't let ANYONE tell you not to be sad.

Don't let ANYONE tell you to bottle up your sadness.

Don't let ANYONE take away this amazing power of yours!!!

Tell your story!!!

Q: How have you used the dynamic, healing power of anger to propel you forward in your life?



*all photos on this page I've taken while hiking here in the beautiful Pacific Northwest, particularly in Southern Oregon. 


Tuesday, December 26, 2023

Amnesia




What would you do if you just learned you had amnesia for 40 years?

Get mad? Get upset? Get excited? Tell everyone?

Well, guess what?!

It's 2023, and I just realized I've had amnesia for most of my life.

The photo above is from this fall as I'm in the thick of realizing this for the first time. 

But SHHHHH, we can't tell anyone?

It's a big SECRET?

Because they would become extremely upset.

And then, there is the murder of an innocent child involved. 

And then, they would cut me off. 

Again.

Well, they cut me off once before for being "too honest" with them, so I kind of know what to expect about being honest with them again.

And this amnesia thing... what I remember... well.

It isn't exactly pretty.

What I remember is... a nightmare.

Which is interesting, because previously if you would have asked what I remembered of my childhood, I would have told you my life was pretty much like a fairy tale.

I guess I had to tell myself pretty little stories to keep my sanity. Well, there is no "I guess" about it. I remember falling asleep every night as a child doing just that.

I wonder, did any of my siblings do the same?

It's not like I can talk about it with them.

I've tried, and most of my 5 siblings divert the topic, say that they don't know what I'm talking about.

I can hear it in their voice, they feel sorry for me, they think I'm crazy, deluded.

Some of them are still programmed to think what they were brainwashed to think about me.

That I have demons in me, that Satan has a hold of me, that I'm broken, stupid, simple, that I've never known what I'm talking about and never will, that I'm the one to over look. 

I know all of this is untrue. 

But it feels the same as when we were children, when I still knew, before the amnesia fully set in, before I forgot.

I still feel the shame, the ridicule, the concern masked as something else.

But I know their hearts are pure and good, as children.

They were just as a whole brainwashed as children to believe that I was evil and stupid. 

So every time I "slipped up" and accidentally remembered he killed me, which didn't happen very often, he had already taught them to believe I was the liar and he was the good father. So they didn't question him at all. 

They were terrified of him.

He taught them he was "God." 

In the cult we grew up in, the "father" was "God" and to question that was to be severely punished. 

He was the sociopath, and he got off on control.

And I was just a "simple" child who dared in my childish innocence to not take him seriously enough. 

I laughed, I danced, I sang. 

He hated that I didn't listen.

And one day he decided that he needed to "teach" me to fear him a little more. 

He let his rage get the better of him. 

I understand now.

I didn't understand then.

I understand now how my mom went into the relationship with him trustingly as a 14 year old when he was 16, seeing him as a broken individual who needed saving. 

He put a note in her locker when she was in middle school, and he was the only boy she ever dated. 

He was broken.

She only wanted to help him heal. She was an empath. She went in with a pure heart.

And he saw the goodnesses in her heart. And he flew to it like a moth to light, and has been sucking the light from her ever since. She chose to give him her all, bit by bit. Not all at once, and not by her own choice. 

He tricked her, cleverly, as in a game, and she never saw it coming.

He said, "Do you love me? Then you will do this for me."

And so she did. And in so doing, she was secretly blackmailed. 

But she didn't know. 

She was an innocent, naive girl who grew up on a farm, one of 14 children who was loved and protected and never knew harm. 

He drove a motorcycle, and he was a "bad boy." 

He knew how to love bomb.

She was smitten.

Years go by, and then came the day she wakes up and realizes she is backed into a corner from all angles, and can't get out. 

So she decides to pretend she doesn't want to get out, instead. 

But it's the day she realized she had no power at all.

The day she realized she had even lost the power to protect her own children, all six of them.

You see, he was a sadist.

He loved to slowly torture young, innocent children.

Then he told her that although he "loved" the children, SHE must remember that SHE was his number one.

And so she went to a secret place in her mind... she checked out.

Her life looked perfect on the outside. She had a garden that she escaped to, and a house in the country that she redecorated and made beautiful. It kept her busy.

"Don't think about it," was the advice she gave she liked to give when something terrible was happening to her children and they came to her.

I want to call my mom and tell her my amnesia of 4 decades has cleared.

But why would I?

Why would I ruin the perfectly constructed bubble that she has had to create in her mind to escape the nightmare of her inescapable prison of living with him?

She doesn't believe his blackmail can ever allow her to escape.

Her mind, her fairy tale, is her escape.

Despite my desire to finally talk with her about my memories, I'm not going to ruin her escape.

I love my mom.

I can't ruin her bubble.

It's her only safety from him.

She would go crazy if I broke her bubble.

I love her. 

I want to protect her.

She was my only protection from him, growing up.

For every single time I felt terrified of his presence and didn't understand why, every single time he left the room, I felt 100% safety in her presence alone.

Even though she couldn't protect me from him.

I knew that at least SHE was safe and kind. 

There is that.

And for that, I love her.

For that, I want to protect her.

For that, I am still willing to be her mother.

And for that, although I want so badly to tell her he killed me, I guess can't and won't?

Because I can't hurt her?

Although SHE HURT ME by NOT PROTECTING ME!

AND IT MAKES ME MAD!

But I understand her. 

I know that HE tricked HER, initially, when she was young. 

I see too many insights, I understand too much.

I just can't hurt her. 

I will be patient. 

I have a feeling she is going to outlive him, and someday she will be free.

And someday, when she's ready, maybe I can tell her what my child self has wanted to say for a long time, but has kept buried in amnesia:

Mom, he killed me when I was 5. And I wanted to tell you, so you and me could run away from him. And be safe together. 

But I thought if I did, he would kill you. 

So I kept quiet. 

So he wouldn't kill you.

Because I love you.

But I've been terrified he was going to poison me or kill me my entire childhood, teens, young adulthood, middle age and present day. 

I've been terrified he was going to get rid of me so I wouldn't tell anyone about him murdering me. 

I've been terrified of him my whole entire life. 

I have nightmares he is coming to slaughter me in my sleep. 

I'm sorry you have been held prisoner by such a person as him. 

I know you didn't mean for any of this to happen. 

I know you didn't know he was who he is before you met him. 

Why do the most depraved of pyscopathic narcissists repeat the cycle with their children. Sexual abuse, pedofilia, rape, physical trauma, sadistic beatings, and murder, generation after generation?

Somehow, at age 5, when the beating began, when the force of his rage hit me with a shovel on my spine and and shoulder while I was on my trike just riding down our sidewalk... I knew the answer to that question.

He was hurt as a child, and it enraged him.

He was a victim who chose to victimize others to feel better.

I was simply a very innocent and a very easy target.

He had also been sexually molesting me for years, and my mom had just caught him in the act a couple months earlier.

She told him to make it right and do the right thing.

His version of the right thing was taking all his bottled up rage, and swinging it with as much hate, speed and force as he could with the blunt edge of that shovel onto my tiny body.

As is reverbrated through every nerve, tendon, and muscle of my tender, young body, I began to jerk and seize.

I was innocence, but he wanted revenge.

Electricity coursed through me as if in slow motion.

He wanted to see me break, but I'm moving as if in liquid, out of body.

Lightning pulses in my veins, animates me and emanates from my soul as I'm moving in a blissful, underwater sea of neon light as music of a strange and ethereal glow pulses in my soul.

I am innocence, and his rage can not touch me.

I see clearly, from the all knowing bliss of half death where my spirit swirls, that his rage is not personal.

I get knocked out several more times, cussed out in long tirades of vicious hate, I'm kicked in my private areas, all over my body, I have more seizures.

And each time, through the searing pain, I try my best to hold on to the knowing that he's not doing it to me because he hates me, but because he feels hated by his mom, who was hated by his father, in a string of generational hate and abuse.

It stops with me, right now, I vow in my little child's heart.

If I live, I won't become mean like you, you can't make me. 

And if I do become mean like you, which my heart says I can't, but the pain screams I definitely will, I won't have kids and repeat the cycle.

And if I do become mean, which my heart says I can't, but the pain screams I definitely will, I will get therapy and help and I will heal. 

These things I swear on my five year old heart.

And the lights swirl around me, flickering electricity whirling, and I am not in a body.

I am floating in liquid dark, with electricity coursing beautifully through me.

As happy and joyful as the laughter of a million oceans of laughing fireflies, all flickering their glowing electric bodies on and off gleefully at once.

And there in the dark, with the electricity coursing through and around me so beautifully, I am given a choice.

"Do you want to stay or go?"

I know I am dead.

And I love it.

I feel euphoria.

I don't want to come back.

I know this bliss is where my spirit has come from.

This is my true home.

This is where I will go to when my body is done it's mission here on earth.

But now is not the time.

I know I have a story on earth, and strangely enough, it can only unfold if I'm brave enough to go back into my body and live in that house for 19 more years with that monster who may or may not kill me again.

Am I brave enough?

I am.

Today and most days, I do not feel equipped or brave at all.

But when I was 5, at that moment, I was brave.

I knew my spirit wanted to go back and be in her body, to live her life.

And for her, I will continue being brave.

It's been almost 10 years since I've written here last in my blog.

A lot has happened since then.

I'm going to keep writing here as insights unfold. 

I'm glad you're here!

Being a human here on this planet means that YOU are incredibly brave, and YOUR heart is incredibly brave and beautiful.

Everyone is going through something

We are all brave.

Because you are in human skin right now, YOU are INCREDIBLY BRAVE.

And if no one has told you that, then let me tell you.

YOU ARE BRAVE! 

Much love to you.


*Photo of a path I hiked on this summer, here in the Pacific North West. The dreaminess of the cottonwood drift reminded me of the deja vu feeling of amnesia. 

Q: Have you ever remembered something from your past that surprised you?______________________________________

Monday, December 18, 2023

It's been awhile


Two of my fur babies, Huckleberry and Sparky

It's been awhile!

The last time I wrote here, it was 2015. 

Back in 2015, I had just escaped an abusive husband.

I had left a note on the kitchen table and disappeared while he was at work. I hopped on a plane from Pennsylvania and landed in sunny Florida. I can still remember how excited I was the minute I landed and saw all the palm trees and felt the warmth hugging me. 

My health improved by leaps and bounds. There were no more violent anger outbursts to look out for. My fight or flight system settled down. 

I was able to finally start living a softer, slower, gentler, more loving life, just like I had been visualizing and manifesting all along. Just like I saw myself living as I was listening to audios imagining a calm and loving environment. 

I was finally enjoying my life. 

I was LIVING!

I had moved in August, and after about a solid seven months, by about March, I was enjoying pretty good health, too. 

I was able to go out on drives as a passenger and actually eat without feeling sick in the car, something I couldn't do in Pennsylvania before I moved.   

I was able to go out kayaking in beautiful warm weather in the winter in Tampa and para sailing at the beach in the summer.

I was walking our two dogs Sparky and Sadie twice a day in the beautiful Floridian weather. 

I met locals and neighbors on our walks, made friends, connections. 

I got to experience a genuine and comfortable family life with the family I was living with at the time.

I went on long walks an hour or 2 by myself almost every day, or every other day.

I hiked on trails in the woods right behind where I lived, in cities, towns, anywhere and everywhere I happened to be at the time.  

I was able to eat any kinds of food I wanted, and was even able to stop eating gluten free. I just happened to eat vegetarian for 3 years, even though I'm not vegetarian now. I ate high protein because I walked and hiked so much. 

Movement was freedom, and it was my liberation.

I was in a very peaceful, soothing environment, and it allowed me to thrive.

After 2 years, I was even able to start driving on my own again. 

After three years of feeling great, I decided I wanted to start working again. 

I thought about starting small and getting into animal rescue, starting at the animal rescue near where I lived. 

But I missed the orientation.

I had also put in applications at a few elementary schools in the area, and was surprised to get a call back from one of them.

Could you start in two days, they asked?

Could I, I asked myself?

Of course I could! 

I was overjoyed to be back in the world of working people, after being out of commission for 8 whole years. 

Every little thing felt like an honor. 

Until it wasn't. 

I quickly became overwhelmed. By Thanksgiving, I knew I was in over my head. But I swore I could make it by Christmas. I was not a quitter. I didn't want to let the kids down. 

Christmas break revived me, but by the third day teaching after break, I was exhausted again. But somehow, I dragged myself in day after day. Just like I did when I taught in NYC.

Because at this point, I had broken up with the only person I had known in Florida several months ago, and I was alone in the world. 

I had no family again, just like when I was in NYC.

So I figured that I literally HAD to keep going. 

So I did. Until the end of the school year in June. 

At which time I crashed, and then slept for weeks at a time. I slept two days at a time, woke at night and drove the city, crying, then slept a day and half, all summer. I barely had any energy. 

That fall I flew to the west coast in a serendipitous move that changed my life.

That's where I am now. 

I'm living in the Pacific North West, in Southern Oregon.

In the middle of the woods in a tiny cabin where my world has since been flipped upside down.

Tiny house in the woods where I live now. 

Everything I thought I knew since I was in my beautiful state of healing in Florida has been shaken to the core. 

I healed completely from adrenal fatigue in Florida, yes.

But I got it back again by overworking myself for a solid year. 

In the last five years since then, I have healed from adrenal fatigue, again. But to a degree, that is. 

I have that discovered adrenal fatigue is not the only thing that I have been dealing with. 

Adrenal fatigue has been the tip of the ice burg, I guess. It has been an indicator that there are other issues deeper at the core... and one of those issues has been childhood trauma which has been buried in amnesia. 

This amnesia has been something I haven't written about yet on this blog yet, and it has been waiting oh so patiently for me until I was ready for it to unfold itself.

But because it involves terrifying memories, the amnesia in its deep wisdom was waiting until I felt extremely safe, extremely loved, and extremely secure. 

And that is something that I have felt over the last 5 years on a steady basis for the first time in my life with my current partner and his family.

But now that those traumatic memories are a reality, I am truly terrified to be living in my brain just trying to sort it all on a daily basis. I understand completely why my young little subconscious brain blocked it all out 100% without knowing it was doing so. I could not have lived otherwise. 

I barely feel like living now as an adult, simply remembering it. I can barely cope now.

Sometimes I wish that I hadn't been ready.

Sometimes I wish that I could have stayed in sunny Florida, living forever in perpetual ignorance of what was about to be revealed. Eating oranges straight off the tree in the back yard, walking in the sunshine, basking in the warmth of the earth as I lay in the grass every morning. 

Sometimes I wish that I hadn't been brave. 

Why, oh why do they think that it's so great to be brave?

I guess because it's worth it. 

It's just that, on those tough days, when you can't see the light, and forget, you need friends to remind you that it's ok to have tough days, and not have all the answers.

Which is why I write in this blog.

I don't have all the answers. 

But I know it's worth it.

Especially on the days when I feel like I wish I had never remembered.

There is a silver lining, though. In remembering the trauma, I was given a gift. I was given replays of exactly what happened that caused my core health issues in the first place. Although I thought it was "just" adrenal fatigue, and then when that didn't go away fast enough, I thought it was chronic fatigue. 

But no, it was an untreated Traumatic Brain Injury sustained when I was 5, which I had no memory of until recently. And I believe a lot of my health issues stem from complications from that TBI. And that adrenal fatigue and chronic fatigue are the tip of the ice burg on top of them. 

I'm grateful for this actual knowledge that the amnesia DID provide, as far as allowing me to remember the TBI. It will help me in the physical side of healing. Finally, doctors will be able to figure out how to help me neurologically, something I never looked at before.  

My physical health, which has always been so puzzling, is finally going to get answers and real direction.  

And although my heart still feels sad and wishes it didn't have to go through this phase of remembering and processing the trauma, I do realize that it is a healing phase and that eventually I will be grateful that I was brave enough to go through it. 

I remind myself daily that I will be ever so much lighter on the other side of healing than I ever was when I was in that state of bliss in Florida when I didn't even know there was such a thing as amnesia looming on the horizon for me. And I was extremely blissy then! So I guess I will be extremely light after I am done processing everything that I repressed through amnesia. 

That is definitely something to look forward to! 

Q: Is there anything you've ever remembered that you wish you hadn't? Were there any silver linings?

Thursday, March 17, 2016

Kayaking

Just got back from a kayaking adventure today. Words can not describe how amazing it is for me to be able to get out and enjoy life again. There were many times over the last six years that I didn't think I'd ever be healthy enough to go out kayaking, hiking, camping, or on long drives... but I'm doing all these things now. Every day I feel like celebrating!
 
It was 90 some degrees but breezy and cool, especially in the murkier shade. We chose
tandem kayaks so as to be more sociable. 
 The murky green reflections in the water rippled in such a gorgeous way,
ever changing with the dip of each paddle.   
Now here lies a handsome fellow sunning himself . I named him Jasper. He has many gator
friends, such as Bernadette and Claudette. I would have captured their likenesses as well,
but I was busy trying not to crash into a fallen log midstream.
 Some of our friends drifted up ahead of us... while we were stuck high and dry on
said log that I almost but didn't quite maneuver around at the last minute.
Adorable, knobbly knees growing up out of the swampy water...

Now here's one of many hollow logs along the river with quite an inviting open door...
I quite imagine little elves, fairies or tiny water people living in here.  
 
 
Rowing into the sunlight, enjoying the breeze... being one with nature... this is the life!  
By mid afternoon we rowed under a canopy of trees and rounded a bend where we docked for the day. What a beautiful experience this was!

I still pinch myself each day with joy when I remember how far I've come in healing. Today's adventure wasn't just kayaking. I went out for breakfast this morning at a diner with my friends, where I had scrambled eggs and blueberry pancakes... I didn't have to order "special" food that was gluten free or dairy free like I strictly had to in the past. I still eat very healthy, but also do fine eating out occasionally.

After kayaking, we rested some, then went out with friends to one of our favorite Japanese restaurants. We wrapped up the day by stopping at the grocery store for the week. And by the time evening's dusk had wrapped it's soft, dark cloak around us, we were home and relaxing, watching one of our favorite TV shows. While little Spark drapes himself on or the other of us, cuddling up and sleeping with his face mooshed on my hand like he's accustomed to do.

Thursday, March 3, 2016

Gingerbread houses and heroines


It isn't like I want to go back there. It's not like I want to be near them again. But it was the thick of the holidays, and in my memory lingered the pleasant smell of biscotti baking in the oven... slivered almond and cranberry biscotti. Then row upon row of plump chocolate biscotti, newly sliced and cooling. Such a tough cookie, but perfect for dipping in coffee and softening up over family gossip.  This was our magical pre-holiday tradition, baking cookies together, catching up, and listening to Christmas music that my mom had compiled on tapes and had played since we were babies. So there was a healthy helping of nostalgia to go with the biscotti. Some of us were living in other states, but somehow, most of my four sisters if not all of us found ourselves in our Mom's kitchen to help bake right before the holidays.

Not this year. Or last year. Not since being cut off. It's been easy to start feeling down for myself over the holidays, but I decided that overall, honestly... I'm much better off where I am now here in Florida, far away from my toxic family. I'm done thinking about the past, done being a victim. My mindset and perspective has changed.
 
I saw a quote a few months ago by Nora Ephron that stuck in my mind and keeps bubbling up to the surface in a pleasant, random, fizzy way...
"Above all, be the heroine of
your life, not the victim."
 
Yes! Exactly! This gal has sass and gumption. I'm so ready to hop on the track going forward these days.
 
I'm focused on enjoying life to the fullest! Getting a puppy was the first step for me. Then leaving K and moving. Then most recently, my latest endeavor has been creating new holiday traditions. Because the holidays can be quite a vulnerable time, creating traditions with friends can help each involved feel more grounded, rooted, safe and cozy. More loved, even.
 
My first new holiday tradition this year was building a gingerbread house. Oh my gosh, this was so much fun, even if somebody... not mentioning any names... ate the gummy bears that were meant to grace the pathways and front door of the house. As you can see from the photos, my graham cracker house is pretty simple. Next year I'm going to enlist more friends to help make the gingerbread house even more nifty.
 
 
 
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The friends I'm staying with bought holiday sweaters for our dogs and I took pictures of them. Sparky wasn't in the mood to pose when I was snapping shots, as you can probably guess from the shirtless photo above, but he agreed to a rain check in the future. Next year, we may create holiday cards out of the photos, which will be a creative tradition I'd enjoy. Sparky insists he wear a monocle and plaid vest, and he wants to sport a stogie as well. I said I'd think about it. Yes, we all are going to be those people who send that kind of card, lol.  
 
I'm not the kind to put up holiday lights, but the neighbor down the road rigged this palm to light up at night... it's quite jolly walking past it on 90 some degree December days, seeing cut out palms for Christmas and not pine trees.
These peaceful reindeer are grazing in the late afternoon, tropical weather.
Santa arrives even if the weather's way too warm for his outfit.
This year I started a new tradition with my friends: choosing a live tree from a tree farm. All the years previous, I'd never had a real one.
We wandered around searching for the perfect tree....
... until one of us exclaimed "Here it is!" And that was that. There was a "knowing,"
similar to when you clap eyes on your dog for the first time... you just know.

We drove the tree back home and had a decorating party where we baked cookies, listened to Christmas music and decorated the tree. After that we went last minute shopping, which was pretty smart since Christmas was the next day.
 
 
This Christmas has been by far the best Christmas of my adult life. My roommates and friends are empathic and quirky, warm natured and authentic, with a tad of goofy thrown in the mix. We had fun addressing presents to each other that the other hadn't bought, just so everyone felt like they had contributed equally in the gift giving.

I whipped up mashed potatoes while my friends roasted the turkey and tinkered with the sides. My one friend made this gravy that could have won awards... it tasted like something a grandmother who loved you quite a bunch would make to warm the cockles of your heart. We lifted toasts of sparkling cider, then curled up in the living room to watch favorite Christmas movies.

I didn't miss my birth family on Christmas day. I actually felt more supported, safe and free to be myself with my new friends than I ever did in my own family. The positive, loving energy here transformed the day into something magical. Even Sparky and Mamsie joined in the festivities... they both earned a stocking each this year.... but whereas they pawed milk bones and chewies out of theirs, we upturned a clementine nestled in the sole of the foot, and piles upon piles of miniature chocolate snowmen and Santas in ours. Because even heroines need some kind of super power fuel, right?