Heartbreak

It's hard to see someone we love in pain. Right now a sweet relative is going through a tough breakup. Knowing how much a broken heart can hurt, I just want to sit her down and tell her it's all going to be okay. That he's a fool, and he is no doubt missing her. But, I know what she's feeling. Heartbreak is something that you never really get over. Just think about the last time your heart broke, that you physically felt pain at the loss of a love, and you can still feel a tinge of that pain all over again, no matter how much time has passed.

Instead, each day I try to just give one little snippet of something that I hope makes her smile; Something I wish someone would have told me when my heart was breaking.

I'm hoping her heart heals faster than most, that she takes the time to not just heal but to grow and become so much more than she would have been with him.

Losing a relationship is hard. The healing that has to happen afterwards is no different than mourning a death. It's not that we are mourning the loss of the person; Rather it is the death of a relationship, the loss of love, which leaves an empty feeling in our chest.

The old saying is that time heals a broken heart, and in a way it does. We cry a little less each day. It gets a bit easier to sleep with each passing night. We begin to realize that life goes on, and eventually we see that we are the author of our own story. The only way to ensure a happy life for ourselves is to get up each day and face the world with a smile on our face and an optimistic attitude. It isn't the time passing that heals us, rather it seems that we heal ourselves, it just takes a little time. 

Some of the snippets I've shared with her so far:

"A woman's strength isn't just about how much she can handle before she breaks. It's also about how much she must handle after she's broken."

"One of the hardest lessons in life is letting go. Whether it's guilt, anger, love, loss or betrayal. Change is never easy. We fight to hold on and we fight to let go."

"Believe in happy endings. Because you are the author of the story of your life." (Douglas Pagels)


My credo is "Everything Happens for a Reason." I think heartbreaks can help us become more independent, more positive, maybe even a bit stronger.

Philosophical short story

My philosophical short story...

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            "Out with the old, in with the new," the woman said to herself as she churned the dirt in the garden. No one else was there, but that didn't mean nothing heard her. This was the first year she had to do the spring yard work by herself, but she knew that she was not truly alone in her garden.

            Winter had been a season of loss and change for the woman. She lost her husband unexpectedly and found herself alone for the first time in her life. Not just physically alone in the home they once shared, but alone in her thoughts, alone in her fears, alone in her dreams. The plans they once had for the future seemed unattainable without him. She spent the winter mourning not just the loss of her husband, but the loss of her goals, and dreams, and plans.

            They once took comfort in going to church on Sunday, but since his passing she had become the object of stares and the subject of too many whispers. She took no comfort from her church and had since stopped going, which made her chuckle to herself at times because now she was surely the topic of even more gossip than before.

            She missed the idea of going to church and hearing the parables that were told there. She never went to be saved or free herself from guilt; She simply enjoyed hearing the stories and the lessons. The last time she went she sat in a pew off to one side alone. She sang the hymns, stood when she was supposed to, knelt in prayer with the others, but felt isolated. The looks and hushed whispers that were about her did not go unnoticed. She felt their stares, could hear the whispers. While everyone felt comfortable talking about her, no one would talk to her since her loss. They attended the funeral and offered some nice words that day; The platitudes of "Call if you need anything, " and "We'll have dinner sometime next week" were all spoken many times to her that day. The trouble was no one followed through, presumably because they did not know what to say to bring her comfort. And that was okay, because she didn't know what she needed.

            It was a cold January night when she stumbled across a website which she found oddly comforting. She had gone to a few counseling sessions and joined a support group, but nothing seemed to help ease the turmoil she was feeling inside. It wasn't something she could explain to others with words, it was just an unease that would not seem to quit or let her rest. That night, she read about the interconnectedness of all things in the universe; Of how all living things emit an energy and that shared energy flowed freely around all of us. She read of times when people worshipped the earth, not just for the life it supported, but for the life it provided to the trees, and the plants, and the water. She was mesmerized for hours. She had finally found something that clicked. She finally found something comforting. When she climbed into bed that night, she sighed a peaceful sigh and drifted into a restful sleep.

            When she awoke the next morning, she was well rested and eager to come up with a plan for her future. Winter was still holding firm outside, but spring was just around the corner. She looked around her home which still felt veiled in sadness and knew that it was time to make a few changes. She started with small things; A new rug for the hallway in a bold pink pattern, a new shower curtain, new bedding. Each small change made her feel a bit better, brighter, more hopeful. It seemed silly to think that a new rug could make her feel better, but it wasn't just the rug, it was that she had made and accepted a change. She was taking control of her feelings, one small change at a time. Her biggest project was yet to come.

                        When the inside of the home started to feel alive, she knew that she would need to tackle the outdoors. She had a plan for that. She planted several pots full of seeds so that when spring finally arrived she would be ready to brighten up the outside just as she had the indoors. She wanted to feel the interconnectedness that she had read about. She was still seeking some level of peace and seemed to realize the serenity that could come from reconnecting herself to the world around her.

            When spring finally arrived, she started with a small corner of the backyard. When they bought the home several years ago, there was little more than grass growing in the yard. Excited at the blank canvas that the yard offered, they talked about what types of trees to plant and what sort of flowers would grow best. Once they moved into the home other projects took precedence over beautifying the yard. Things like replacing worn carpet, repairing leaky faucets, and installing a new water heater ate up the flower budget each year. With a small bit of insurance money left after the final expenses were paid, she knew that this was the year that the yard would finally be graced with a wave of color and growth. As she peeled back the grass and worked the soil loose, she could feel an energy like none she had experienced before. "Out with the old, in with the new," she said as she breathed in deeply the smell of the fresh soil and damp moss. The crunch of the dry leaves rang in her ears and the more she worked the less she heard a crunch and the more she heard the world around her coming alive.

            She planted an apple tree first. She loved the beautiful blossoms they wore in the late spring and hoped that one day she might be able to enjoy a homegrown apple. As she dug the hole she found herself humming; She was enjoying this immensely. She hadn't felt happy in months, but she was finding joy, one shovelful at a time. As she was placing the tree into the ground she looked at the roots; There was an intricate pattern woven as they grew. The roots themselves looked like a tree, their growth slowly stretching and expanding its reach; The roots grew while searching for water, tree branches and leaves searching for sunlight. As she looked at the roots, she was saddened at the thought of never seeing them again one they were buried in the ground and it reminded her of the heartache that came when she buried her beloved. She fell back to the ground and just laid there for a few minutes, letting her tears flow freely. She felt the sun on her face and the grass on her cheek and took comfort from both. As she sat back up and wiped her tears from with earth covered hands, she realized that in order for her to eventually enjoy the beautiful spring apple blossoms and one day eat a homegrown apple, she had to bury the roots to allow the tree to grow. She may never see the roots again, but she would see the growth and know that the beauty of the roots still existed, even though she could not see it anymore. She slowly came to realize that the same was also true for herself. She had to bury a piece of her life, but that did not mean that she was no longer able to feel the love they once shared or that the beauty of their life together was gone. It was simply in a different place and in order to fulfill her destiny she had to allow herself to fulfill it. She saw the tree as a metaphor for her life. And suddenly, the garden took on a whole new meaning for her. It was more than just making the yard more beautiful, it was a way to heal her heart. She was not just working on a project they planned together, she was working on herself. She was finding her new path; She was fulfilling her destiny.

            Once the apple tree was tucked snugly into the earth she looked at the rest of the yard and could hardly wait for what was to come. As she was planting the seedlings that she had started in pots over the winter she marveled at the wonder of the seeds. When they were placed in the pot, they were tiny, and each was a perfect replica of the other. They all looked just the same as each other, neat little pods holding limitless potential. Now, as she pulled the little plants from the soil, the seed was gone. In place of the seed a new plant with a delicate root system and tiny leaves was growing. Where she once had twenty seeds that all looked the same as each other, she now had twenty unique little plants ready to grow where they were planted. Instead of mourning the loss of the seeds, she marveled at the new plants. She was amazed at how something so magical could exist in something as small as a seed. What magic could lie within her? The lessons that the seeds offered seemed to ring true to her life as well. She realized that like a seed she too had been in a dark place. The seed had to crack and break down completely to realize its full potential. The insides of the seed poured out in the dark that came from being buried in the soil, changing the entirety of its existence. Before she had to face her own growth through heartbreak she, like many others, would have seen what happened to the seed as nothing more than destruction. Now, she realized that in order for the seed to grow, the change was necessary. Like the seed, she too had broken down; Her months of mourning had changed her. Only after seeing the seeds did she realize that the change could have a positive outcome. She had struggled with her loss and the changes that it inevitably brought, but thanks to the seeds she realized that growth can only come from change.  As she planted the last of the flowers that she had dedicated to that area of the yard, she was eager to see what she could learn from the rest of her garden.

            She had learned about butterfly gardens while at a local greenhouse and decided that she would like to make one in her own yard. She again peeled back the grass and turned to soil loose to prepare it for the new plants she was about to place. She had gotten herself a butterfly bush and several other plants that were proven to draw butterflies wherever they were planted. She had also found a butterfly house and feeder which she was eager to see used by the beautiful creatures she hoped to draw to her yard. It was only a matter of hours before the fluttering friends showed up. She was putting the final plants in the ground when a butterfly landed on the back of her hand. She paused for a moment to observe the beauty of the pattern on the wings, the delicate texture of the body, and the tiny antennae reaching out from the butterfly's head. The butterfly took flight but landed again on the butterfly bush, next to a small caterpillar. It was then that the woman again saw how something beautiful could exist in the most unexpected of places. The caterpillar was green and seemed unremarkable now, but next summer it would be as beautiful as the butterfly that it was now sitting next to. She recognized too how fleeting things can be when she realized that the beautiful butterfly would not be alive next summer. As she sat marveling at what she had learned from the butterflies and the garden she planted for them she smiled. The lesson learned was one she certainly needed; We spend life fighting to maintain what we know and love, because change is never easy. When talking about loss and love, we fight to hold on while we have it, and we struggle to let go when we lose it, oftentimes missing the beauty that exists in what we are and what we have. Beautiful things can come from change.

            The garden was coming together but she felt that something was missing. She stepped back to take a look at the whole yard to see what else it could need. She had been meaning to remove the old pieces of a broken sidewalk that ran through the middle of the yard so she started with that. She took the broken pieces and stacked them, creating a wall. Even though the sidewalk was broken into many pieces, she knew it could be used again in a different way. Once the sidewalk pieces were cleared from the yard, she knew what was missing from her garden. After a few phone calls, she found someone that could help her build the missing element. She envisioned a river running through the yard, but had no idea how to make it a reality. With the help of a landscaper, in a few short days she had her river. All that was left for her to do was to make the river blend with the rest of the yard. She took the pieces of the broken sidewalk and used them to edge the water. She filled the base of her river with colorful rocks that reflected the sun into a series of rainbows and glistening waves of blues and greens and even reds. She watched the flow of the water change as she added and removed rocks from the water. She noticed that the water seemed determined to keep flowing. When the water faced a new obstacle, it simply found another path to flow down. If an obstacle was removed, the water flowed more rapidly and freely.   She recognized that like a river, she needed to be more fluid and flexible to change. In order to keep going she had to adapt. The dreams and goals that she once had with her husband did not need to be thrown away, just adapted.

            She sat in her garden with her toes in the river, saw the beautiful butterflies, and heard the rustling of the leaves of the apple tree and knew that she had created something amazing. She found herself feeling truly happy, not because everything was as she had planned it to be, but because she chose to be happy. She had learned that she could choose to make herself miserable or strong, the decision was hers each morning when she woke to face the day.  Building the garden had given her a purpose, a task to conquer each day. Now that it was complete, she woke each day ready to enjoy the fruits of her labor. She now recognized that no one is given a good life or a bad life, we are simply given a life. It is up to us to make our lives good or bad. We are each the author of our own story.

            From an article about the interconnectedness of the universe she found the inspiration to make a change for herself.  She had learned so much more from her garden than she had ever thought was possible. She began her project with the hopes of understanding how the energy of the world around her was connected, but she learned so much more. She had come to see that you can learn much from the world around you; The water, trees, flowers, and insects have much to teach, if you only take the time to listen.

             

           

 

 

 

 

What's your credo?

   This week I had to write my credo. Never really thought about it before, but my philosophy professor nearly fell over when he saw my bracelet which says "Everything Happens for a Reason." Turns out that was going to be the lecture. It also ends up being my credo. If you're not sure what a credo is, or what your personal credo is, check out http://thisibelieve.org/essays/featured/ to see and hear what others have written. It's not as easy as it seems. My credo follows, but I'll warn you...I got emotional. I got teary. It was tough. But, hey, everything happens for a reason...  

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          Everything happens for a reason. Some may find this statement cliché, but I believe it every day. Every hardship, every struggle, has made me stronger. Each time I face a new obstacle or challenge, I am able face it head on with the confidence that I will not only succeed, but that I will ultimately learn something valuable about myself on the journey. Because every journey, every challenge, everything happens for a reason.

            I've been through a lot, just as most people have. It is not always easy to see the silver lining in difficult times. For many years I let myself get caught up in negativity and felt terrible about my odds in the battles I was facing. My health was horrible, and no one knew exactly why. I felt like a pin cushion as week after week they took my blood which was tested for illnesses and diseases, most of which I never heard of. I was told at age sixteen I would never have children, and now they were telling me I may have a terminal illness. I was seventeen. My support system was small, but amazing. I had just a few people who knew what I was going through; It was better for me that way. I didn't want sympathy, I just wanted to be better, even though I didn't know what exactly "better" meant for me anymore. That's when I just decided to find the silver lining, even if it was tarnished.

            I started to find the positive in everything, no matter how minimal the positive was. Slowly but surely, my tests were coming back normal, or at least a bit better than the week before. I completed a six month course of treatment which left me with some scars, but I now find them beautiful. They are a reminder that I can overcome, that I am stronger than I ever realized. There were other heartbreaks that came along the way, but in the end I proved a lot of doctors wrong. My blood work now is normal, and has been for several years. After five heartbreaking ectopic pregnancies, and two late-term miscarriages, I finally had what I call my miracle baby.  

            Years of illness and heartbreak could have swallowed me in depression and sorrow, and for a time I was trapped in my sadness. But my illness helped me in the long run; I learned to find the positive. Without the struggle, I would not appreciate the positive as fully as I now can.  Surviving and thriving in the face of struggle has made me believe that everything happens for a reason.

My Obituary

This week I had an unusual homework assignment: Write my own obituary. It's not as easy as it sounds, and is a little freaky as you write. Here's what I came up with for mine.

 

 

The final chapter has come to a close for Renee, as she has passed away today at the age of "29 and holding." Her true age may always remain a mystery since she has been "29 and holding" for as long as anyone can remember. She will go down in history as the most fantastic wife ever and a mother who adored her children more than any mother who came before or since. Her grandchildren adored her and the treats that she would always have freshly baked whenever they visited, and she loved watching them eat loads of sugary sweets before sending them home with their parents. She could clean a house in a single day and fold a fitted sheet like nobody's business. Renee loved to learn new things and was constantly looking for the next exciting challenge to conquer. She was a collector of wine and tattoos, which always made for great conversations.

Though not a fan of Mondays, she saw the good in each day and we hope that others will start to do the same in her honor. To help get you started, statistically speaking there will be over 5,000 weddings, 10,000 childbirths, and 42 million hugs today in the United States and that is a pretty amazing day.

She is survived by her husband and child(ren) who will miss her terribly and love her forever. She was preceded in death by a number of loved ones, and will be greatly missed by those she leaves behind. Highly spiritual, but not deeply religious, a life celebration will be held at a local park where we will plant a tree and flower garden in her honor.

The best kind of people in the world are the ones who can make you see the best in yourself, make you see sun where you once only saw rain, the people that believe so strongly in you that you start to believe in yourself, the people who love you just for being you. Renee tried to be that kind of person. Your challenge for today, and every day,  is to be that kind of person.

 

Approaches to Death and Dying Reflective paper

I'm enrolled in a class called "Approaches to Death & Dying." It can be a heavy subject. The first paper asked us to write about some of our experiences with and how we handled loss. This is what I've come up with for my first assignment.

            The first funeral I remember going to was for my great grandpop, Paul. He was everything you could want in a grandpa; he had kind eyes and was a master craftsman. He smelled like pipe tobacco and vanilla. He had an affinity for cheese curls which he passed on to me, and on any given day you could find the two of us with a bag of curls watching M*A*S*H and Hogan's Heroes reruns. His death devastated me. Who was going to share their chair and snacks with me? Who would make me more blocks or a new cradle for my baby doll? Everyone struggled to explain death to me. They told me he was in heaven now with the angels and he was at peace. I had no idea what any of that meant. Our family was far from religious and in my mind angels went on top of Christmas trees. I cried until I had no tears left, then I fell asleep. When I woke up, I cried some more. It hurt. It made no sense. I didn't like it. I told everyone who would listen that they were not allowed to die, because it made my heart hurt. They smiled and called me sweet and precocious. They clearly didn't realize I meant it.

            Several years passed before I experienced another loss. It was not any easier. My parents seldom went out, but when they did our babysitter was Tommy. Our dads worked together and because of that our mothers became friends. I remember my mother telling us that Tommy was sick and that the next time we went to visit we had to be careful not to stare because Tommy had lost his hair. He had leukemia at age thirteen. I was six. I had no idea what leukemia was and when I asked I was quickly shushed; as if saying the word meant the disease may find its way to me. We were not allowed to say it at home and certainly not when we went to see Tommy. His illness seemed to take him quickly. Each time we saw him he looked a bit smaller, weaker, sicker. The treatments that were meant to save him were slowly eating away at him. Leukemia scared me. There was no talking about it at home, and unlike today there was no internet to turn to for answers, so I was left wondering. After he passed away at the age of 17, a memorial tree was planted in his honor at the high school. My mother did not allow us to go to the services and in fact did not even tell us he had died until after the burial. I feel bad that I never understood what he was going through. I feel good knowing that I could make him laugh by showing him my newest Garbage Pail Kids trading cards. I think he knew how much we adored him. Tommy's death struck me because he was young. It seemed unfair. He would never grow up, get married, have kids, or any of the other things that we are supposed to grow up and do. His death felt wrong.

            While Tommy was fighting Leukemia, my great grandma, Esther, was fighting dementia. She had always seemed a bit scattered, but after Great Grandpa Paul passed, she got very confused. She had always been a bit of a packrat, but her collections grew out of control. She saved bread bags inside of grocery bags and twist ties inside of margarine dishes. She had hundreds of empty yogurt cups which she washed, dried, and stacked in the cupboard where the coffee mugs were now buried. She moved in with one of her sons, my great uncle, and since his home looked similar to hers, it was an easy transition for her. She had moments where you would swear she was fully lucid, but then she would go on for ten minutes about how the number 7 smelled yesterday compared to today and it was clear that the clouds in her mind were thickening. Her former quirkiness was hard to decipher from her addled mental state when she passed peacefully in her sleep, like her husband had. I think we all took comfort in the notion that she and pop would be reunited and he could look out for her again like he always had in life. While I certainly loved her, she and I were just never as close as I was with Great Grandpop. Where he was funny and loved to smile, she came across as serious and stern. I cried when she passed, but as I was a bit older, I seemed to understand how to "appropriately" grieve; Cry hard in private, and just a little in public.

            The death that has hit me hardest though has got to be Great Grandmom Yan, Amelia. She was amazing. She had the best smile and a laugh that just warmed you to the core. Her love knew no limits and her fridge always had chocolate milk and beer. She lived in a beautiful little bungalow on a cobblestone street with a fenced in yard and a glider on the back porch. She died on Valentine's Day, 1991. She had been sick for some time battling what began as breast cancer but then quickly spread to her major organs. The little bungalow sat cold and empty for nearly a year as she lived in a nursing home. We went to see her as often as my father would take us, and each time we walked in her face lit up with that amazing smile. She loved flowers and her favorite color was purple, so I used to cut out pictures of purple flowers for her to hang on the wall since real flowers were not allowed at the home. When she died I was crushed. I had not hurt this badly since Grandpop Paul passed away when I was a small girl. I was eleven now, and this was certainly not easier. I understood that she was sick. I knew that she was in pain. I just kept wishing for one more hug, one more smile, one more laugh. In the spring, we had to clean out the little bungalow so it could be sold. All my life I had never been allowed upstairs, and was always told it was closed off to keep it clean. This may have been true, but it was also where she kept all her treasured memories. She had pictures of her husband who died before I was born, the veil from her wedding, and a costume jewelry collection like none I have ever seen. On my wedding day I wore a pair of her earrings and her onyx wristwatch. I miss her every day.

            Her sister was my next loss. Aunt Blanche was amazing. She was a pioneer for women's rights and was considered one of the original members of Bell Telegraph and Telephone in Philadelphia. She never married and never had any children. She was ridiculed for her life choices of work over a family, but she loved what she did and she rewarded herself for it. Each birthday she bought herself a lavish gift, a fur coat one year, a diamond tennis bracelet another. She had multiple sets of the most beautiful china dishes you can imagine, and many beautiful hutches to house them all. When she became uncomfortable living by herself in Philly, she moved to Boyertown where much of my family lives. They had just torn down the old casket factory and built a beautiful retirement community in its place (no, I'm not making that up). During the move, she saw my grandfather carrying out a pillow and quickly asked where he was going with that. He said it was going in the truck and she said it had to stay with her. He obliged and when they unloaded the truck at the new place he found out why. She had it stuffed full of cash. She was a funny lady and taught us all that "A glass of wine is only one glass, no matter how many times you have to fill it." When she passed away, my aunt wrote a brilliant eulogy in her honor full of her many words of wisdom. We were all laughing through our tears. She really seemed to live just the life she wanted to live with no regrets and no apologies. That is a gift.

            When Grandpop Satterwhite passed away in 2011, I crumbled. I was lucky to grow up with a mother, a father and an amazing dad. When my mother and father divorced, my mother quickly remarried, and I hardly remember a time when my dad wasn't in my life, which meant his dad was in my life. Grandpop was from Oklahoma. He wore cowboy boots, bolo ties, and ten-gallon hats. He had a bit of an accent and always smelled of aftershave. His first wife died when dad was young so I had never met her. We did know his second wife, and we called her Grandmom Satterwhite. She was crafty and had a hair salon in the house. She always wore nylons, had her hair neatly styled, and wore lipstick. She died suddenly in her sleep from an aneurysm. When we went to the viewing, Grandpop was not crying, so I did not cry. He was strong, and I wanted to be strong too, for him. I kept up a strong front, but when we got in the car for the drive home, I cried. Not just for the loss, but for the way it seemed to shake Grandpop. He seemed so uncertain of what he was going to do next. On the way home when I mentioned it to Dad, he said he noticed the same thing. But, we should not have worried.

            He found a new friend at church and in short order they were planning on getting married, but she died before that was able to happen. There was no keeping Grandpop down though. He met another friend at church. He married Johanne when he was 85 and was all smiles the whole day. I remember him having heart troubles in the late 80's, but had not heard much about those concerns for some time either because he didn't mention it or because we didn't ask too many prying questions. He was apparently more sick than we realized. The last few weeks of his life seem like such a blur; running back and forth from Lititz to Reading as often as I could to try to keep up with what was happening. They sent him home at one point, but he was readmitted in short order with further complications. Once he lost consciousness after his readmission, he was never fully back. The decision was made to end the heroic measures keeping him alive, and we all had to stand by and watch him struggle to breathe while he slowly starved to death. It was agonizing. I cried with each gasp he took, with each convulsion his body writhed through. I pleaded with the hospice nurses for something more humane, a better way. One empathized and said that maybe one day we will give our loved ones the dignity we give our pets. That really has stuck with me to this day. At the funeral, I was a mess. I sobbed for the loss, but more because here was a man that accepted me as not just a step-grandchild, but as a grandchild. He was a grandfather to me because he wanted to be, not because he had to be. He was buried with his first wife in the most beautiful cemetery I have ever seen. He is atop a hill overlooking a lovely wooded area next to the first woman who held his heart.

            A few weeks ago it was my dad's birthday. When I called to wish him a happy day he told me to sit down, he had some news. He said that my uncle had died earlier that day and no one quite knew how to tell me; Apparently he had drawn the short straw. I hated my uncle. He was a monster and even after his death he has continued to haunt me. He did unspeakable things to me when I was just a small girl. He denies any wrongdoing, I denied him forgiveness. His death was not a surprise to anyone. He had multiple strokes over the past few years due in large part to his raging drug addictions. He was an alcoholic as well and obese. It was bound to all catch up to him. His funeral was on a Saturday, and while I toyed with going to seek out some sort of closure, in the end I stayed home. In hindsight, I don't believe being at the service would have given me any more closure than I have right now. I'm no longer seeking closure, just some peaceful dreams instead of nightmares.

 

Nightmares...still?

It has been nearly a month since my monster took his last breath. I can't sleep without seeing his horrible face. I feel my heart racing, I get clammy, I'm freezing and sweaty all at the same time. And when the panic finally wakes me, it takes longer than it should to realize that I'm an adult, in my own home, and it was all a nightmare. And the monster is dead.

I am still seeking out some sort of peace. Some cathartic moment where my heart is healed and my dreams stop morphing into nightmares. I'm seeking a release that I know will never arrive. He died denying what he did. My horrible memories live on.

I fought with the notion of going to the funeral. I certainly was not "invited" and may have caused quite a stir just by walking in the building. In the end, I didn't go. The weather that day was terrible, and since I'm battling this concussion driven migraine, I was not feeling the best. The night before I went back and forth about going more times than I can count. I grappled with the notion that going would give me some closure; but I realized that closure would likely never come to me. I certainly deserve it; every victim does. But, the idea of closure seems so foreign, so exotic...impossible. If the best a victim can ever hope for is being able to live each day without being ruled by their trauma, I'm already there.

What is closure? What gives one person peace may not be enough for the next person. Who is to say what is necessary for closure...certainly not me. I don't know what it would take for me to feel like I am truly fully at peace with my past. Certainly having the monster admit his guilt would have been ideal. Perhaps I would not have lost so many others along the path of my healing. Until the end though, he lived his lie.

It sucks that the truth is so painful.

Ding Dong the Monster's dead...so why am I still having nightmares?

I was molested as a child. It's not a big secret, but it's also not something I wear on my sleeve. If you know me well, I've told you this. If you didn't know before, now you do.

Overall, I think I've handled the trauma well. Like anyone, I've had moments of triumph and despair; made great leaps ahead only to feel like I've regressed; and over time I've been able to subdue the nightmares that used to cause me to have panic attacks in my sleep. Things though have been pretty tame lately. A large chunk of my family abandoned me when I came forward with my abuse, and I received a few death threats, nasty emails, horrible voicemails, and other various threats to my well-being. I'm still here. They're still angry and would probably make the same threats again if given the chance.

I won't sit here and recount what happened in the detail that I could. Suffice it to say that it was terrible, happened many times, and has scarred me in a lot of ways. I don't think that anyone should have to prove themselves by recounting any trauma they have been strong enough to survive; especially when that will likely open them up to ridicule and judgments from people they always believed would be there for them. I learned the hard way that some people just won't support you. And that's on them. I could sit and cry a river about the family and friends that I lost as a result of my opening up about what I went through, but it won't bring them back to me and I just wind up re-traumatizing myself because what inevitably happens is I start beating myself up for ever telling anyone. I start to think that I should have just kept things to myself a little longer...maybe if I waited until more time passed, or until they seemed like they could handle it, or until he died...

Which is what just happened. He died. I didn't cry. I had a panic attack. Can't explain it, just happened. It doesn't even make sense, does it? I always thought that when I got word of him passing I would feel some sort of cathartic release...I'm not finding it. I deserve that much, don't I? Not only did I lose family and friends because of what he did I lost my self-esteem, a bit of my confidence, a lot of love for myself. I deserve something, don't I? If I cry now it is not for his loss of life, but for mine. Like it or not, he killed a little part of me. Robbed me of time, stole my innocence...there's no getting that back. I hate that others will cry at the loss of his life, and I know that's selfish. Those same people who will cry for him are the ones who turned their backs on me and threatened me. I know it may be wrong, but I want them to hurt, even if it is for the loss of him, because I hurt everyday for the loss of me...

This has nothing to do with class but I needed to vent for a minute...or ten

**Note: I started to write this post a long time ago. It seemed too personal to share at the time, but in light of recent events, I decided to publish it now. Thank you.

I live in a small town. Not just a small town, but America's Coolest Small Town according to a poll this year. Living in a small town has a lot of great perks. Safe streets, great parks, lots of little community based activities, and you get to know loads of people and see friendly faces everywhere because it seems you always know at least one person wherever you go.

One of the quirks of living in a small town is that the people there tend to have great memories. For example, when a woman just up and disappears without a trace, you don't just forget, no matter how many years pass. When this happened in Lititz back in 2002, it stuck with me, but until this past week I had no idea why.

When the news broke that Brenda Heist had been living in Florida the past 11 years and she had left of her own free-will all those years ago, I finally realized why I remembered the story. I never believed that she was dead. I was mad at her. I hated her for what she did to her kids. I grew up with an absentee mother who just came into our lives when it pleased her, which was usually when she broke up with whatever flavor of the month she was dating. Brenda Heist had shown the world just how selfish a mother could be. It was liberating for me to see news articles that identified her as being terribly selfish and narcissistic. It meant that maybe I wasn't the only one with a terrible mother.


No one really ever understood what went on behind closed doors at our house growing up. My mother is still a mess. We haven't talked in several years because the last time we did it did not go well. I cut the communication not only for me, but for my son and family's sake. Like I said earlier, my mother came and went as she pleased and she always left a path of destruction in her wake.

I've come to realize though that I was a bit jealous of Brenda's kids. When she vanished she did it cleanly and quickly. There was no backslide where she came back only to disappear again. She committed to leaving. She should have committed to her family and her kids, but that's another subject. She chose a path and stuck to it, for several years at least. My mother came and went each week like a leaf on the wind. She would just show up, no rhyme or reason as to the day of the week, she may have even made dinner on occasion. But, the evening usually ended in her starting a fight with someone, anyone, and her leaving in a huff, taking along the overnight bags that would just happen to be ready for her to leave.

It quickly became clear that this was her pattern and the rest of us just sort of adapted. What choice did we really have? I remember several times when things got particularly ugly between her and I that I went to my biological father and begged for some help. I didn't know what I hoped he would be able to do, but I just needed someone outside the house to know what was going on and potentially help me deal. He said "I divorced her years ago. This is your problem." When I protested, he shot me down quickly and it clear that I was not getting help from him.

Back to the Heist children. From what I've read, they have no desire to have a relationship with their mother. I get that, probably better than most people. And good for them. Despite everything my mother has done, there are still people in my life who disagree with my severing ties to her. They argue that she is still my mother, and that everyone makes mistakes. I hear what they're saying, I really do. But, as a mother myself, I speak from experience when I say that no true mother tries to break her children. My mother tried to break me, tried to break all of us. Her plan seems to have backfired though, as she is truly the one who has been left broken by her choices. I don't doubt that Brenda Heist will wind up the broken one.