Little Orange Pills.

I shake the prescription bottle, the little orange pills clang around in the neon yellow plastic holder. The sound of it gives me relief, and even though the feeling leaves me a little embarrassed, I’m actually really glad I found a doctor who is finally listening to me.

The sun is shining through my bedroom window, and it’s pretty because the fall leaves give this burst of color against the blue sky, sometimes with this stark contrast, other times more gentle, and during the sunset there are times the layering of colors are almost seamless and I love it. I think of God when I look at things like that, taking out those quiet moments to pay attention to something with intention, with warmth. I think of God when I look at a lot of things in that way, but along side this gentle rush of joy, my heart is sick and filled with anxiety. Just like it has been every morning, for the last three years.

Back to the neon yellow prescription bottle, still sitting in my hand.If you turn it to the left, the label reads clonazepam.

Klonopin. My new best friend.

How many are left? Twenty or so. A sigh escapes my lips, as I fill the glass with cool water, and drop one of the tablets into my mouth, swallowing it down hard and fast with a deep breath. Leaning up against the bathroom counter, the pill sliding down my throat and landing in the base of my stomach as I stare myself in the eye. Most days, I don’t recognize the woman looking back at me. She’s pale. Her skin is dry, and the eyes are heavy from the med’s, sleepless nights, and let’s face it, the pain. I’m embarrassed, ashamed and I miss the woman I once was. It’s been over ten years since I took anything for my panic disorder, and if you asked me three years ago, if this is where I’d be, I’d laugh.

I’ve learned to be a little less judgemental since then.

Let me just say, I didn’t wake up this morning thinking to myself, ” I can’t wait to share my weaknesses! yay!” Not at all, I actually hate this right now, my heart is rebellious, I’m angry at my feelings and I want to slam this laptop closed, and go lose myself in my art work, but I made you a promise. I promised I would share it all, and these fragile and unsteady days are the hardest to write. Because it’s not just the fucked up story, this is me, exposing the lies I tell everyday. The little ones, that are so damn big, like… “I’m good, how are you?” or “I’m fine.” The small lies, that eat you up inside, chewing away at your heart, because after a while, that’s all you’re really saying, and in the end no one knows the truth.

This is me, saying, yeah I’m a mess a lot lately, and that’s just not something most people feel very good about admitting. At least not continuously. They may for a moment, to someone they trust, but it’s certainly not looked up upon in our society to admit the wallowing.To recognize, the coming apart at the seams and how after tragedy, it can take years to heal. People just don’t go around talking about it like that, it’s just too unbecoming to be honest about the despair. Society, even our friends, family, television and sadly even the church at times, urge us to hurry up and move on. To find the light of day, be positive and find the strength to rebuild. And as much as I agree with that, I also feel strongly, that before that can truly happen, we all need and deserve the time it takes, and it’s different for each of us, to process. To become aware of oneself, and internally work out what we’ve been through, whatever that may be. But, because it’s not considered attractive in any sense, to lurch around in one’s own suffering, many of us are left alone to do this. For many reasons. And because of these shitty reasons (fear of judgement, shame, crappy morals from a dysfunctional upbringing, religious reasons, anxiety, the fear of appearing weak and the list goes on…) it can take a really long time to reconcile within. It’s like, we’re allowed to stumble, but we’re not allowed to fall. And if we fall, we’re pressured to climb back up, as fast as we can, screaming love in the face of adversity, revived, hopeful and running toward a future that is waiting with open arms. But here’s the thing….

As I lean up against that bathroom counter, taking deep slow breaths and waiting patiently for the medicine to work…I’m still frightened of my future, of what it holds, just as much as I have hope for it. The hope and the fear are equal parts. And even though, I pray often and keep an open communication with God, I still hurt.

I still hurt, and that’s okay.

I guess what I’m saying is, give yourself, and the people you love, the freedom to be in pain, let them hurt. Give yourself, and others the time they need, to process. Of course it’s important to edify, to speak life and to support someone. But, there’s something to be said, about patient silence. Just sitting with someone. If your words are needed, you’ll feel it. Prayer, is prayer for a reason, and one of the beautiful things about it, is if someone isn’t ready to do it WITH you, you can totally do it behind their back. Choose to meet them where they are, and put down your own agenda. We can be SO selfish with our agenda’s can’t we? and they can really hurt those closest to us. Don’t be the kind of person that your friends or family cross of their list, when they’re in crisis. And don’t be territorial with your support in their life, that’s messy, gross and unbecoming. And nothing like a friend, in the way God intended friendship to be. In the way love intended friendship to be. So, with that being said…

I still hurt. I still cry at least once a day, but I laugh too, and I’m not ready to run screaming in the face of adversity yet, I’m tired, and I want to take my little orange pills, talk and write my story, and create things, paint, draw and eat. Rest and sleep. Pray and go for walks. Learn how to live once more, before I get all up in life’s face again.

Ernest Hemingway says beautiful things that I really like, so here’s one that made me smile.

“Forget your personal tragedy.We are all bitched from the start and you especially have to be hurt like hell before you can write seriously.But when you get the damned hurt, use it-don’t cheat with it.” ~Ernest Hemingway

God bless each of you, on your own personal journeys..brothers and sisters xo

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Scream.

I want to scream.

SCREAM. 

I want to bag up all my misery, all those memories tainted and iron sharp, and drag them behind me upwards the steepest hilltop. I want to claw forward in the cold, the cold of all those things I’ve hated for too long now, and push forth, my breath hot with anger, blowing against the metallic chill of this intensity, this rage climb, my heart beat pounding inside the organic warmth of my chest. And when I get there, to the top of that jagged hill, fingers black and blue, hair whipping across my red cheeks, I breathe a deep and full breath. The coolness filling my lungs, as if it were winter, and begin to peer into the darkness of the pit below. The murky deep nothingness, to gather that bag tightly in my hand, wrapping it around my white fingers, and hurl it off the cliffs edge, heavy and strong.

To watch it fall, tangible and helpless. Into the dark. Gone. Lost. Forever.

From the pit of my stomach, with everything I have, I want to scream from that highest point. From that highest point, and deep down into those lowest of depths. Scream until my throat is raw and red, until the words fall out as crippled wisps of breath, tapering off into dead ash, and landing at that bottom of nothingness. I want to scream because….I’m tired of crying, and let’s face it. I’m angry as hell. 

I want to hit, and kick and punch, and tear away at all the hurt. At the pictures in my head, memories made tangible, and blown to pieces. To rip at it, to kill and destroy it with my bare hands, until my knuckles bleed. Until the ghosts are gone. Until I’m too tired to do it anymore, and I fall down, landing perfectly at God’s feet. For it is His love, and only His love that can cure the pain I feel. That can cover my past with a salve so healing, so deep, that not only will the hurt fade away, but the thing that was meant to kill me, will turn into the thing that sets me free.

Under all that anger, under all that pain, that’s what I truly believe.

Even when I’m crawling around in my own gutter, Jesus is there with me, getting his knees dirty.

There’s Something You Should Know About Me.

Something beautiful happened the night before last.The beauty of it was equal in measure to the roughness of the heart ache it caused, and I cannot write about anything else today.

It might seem like I’m jumping all over the place here, but bare with me, we’ve been through a lot the last few years, and to fully understand my story, there are some bases we need to cover, in love, before moving on. Such is the nature of a tale needed to be told, and I am truthfully grateful for your patience and understanding, as I dig and sort, and express this life, I myself, am often times, overwhelmed by. So, moving on…

Last week, my son, who is a precious five years old, asked me a question.

“Mommy, do I have a brother and sister in heaven?” Just like that, as it so often goes with these strikingly honest children of ours.

We were walking home from school, fall leaves crunching beneath our shoes, that perfectly romantic smell of smoked wood in the air, you know the kind, and the sun was bright that day, as it often is this time of year. His little hand was wrapped in mine with the kind of purity only a parent can understand, and as the words passed over those plump cherub lips of his, they pierced my heart like a frenzy of tiny golden arrows. Enveloped in love, but the sharpness of it, was painful none the less. You see, in the past three years, we have lost two children. Both of them lost to us through miscarriage. The first was early, our daughter I’m convinced she was a girl, and you’ll know why later, and as much as losing her, rocked my world, and shook the foundation I stood on, the second was all together different and has forever changed me. 

As a person, as a mother and as woman.

 We lost our son, Asher, at four and a half months pregnant, my water broke in my living room, in front of my son and husband, I pray still to this day, that my son doesn’t remember that in the same way I do, and that in his little three year old mind, that memory is shaped with much gentler place to land than what I was left with.  I gave birth to Asher right there on my living room floor, still born, and as I write this, even through all the blood, tears, excruciating pain, shock and terrible grief, the one thing I remember above all else, was how beautiful that little boy was. How precious, and tiny, and perfect he looked. Even in death. But, for months and months afterward, in all honesty, I felt I had died right along with him. So, almost two years later, to hear these words fall from the lips of my son, was sort of unexpected for me, but only because I had put it away to survive, and he hadn’t.

And so, I could feel the weight of his curiosity, the thoughts running through the purity of his mind and for a moment, I was frozen in these memories, and had to force myself to speak.

“Yeah baby,” coming forth in a gentle breath, “Yeah you do.”

The second I said it, doubt abruptly slapped my face, and I asked myself, should I have lied? Surely he could remember me having been pregnant. He was almost four years old when we lost Asher. He had once rested his cheek upon my belly, traced his fingers across the roundness of it, and left behind kisses tied along with sweet words of love.  And now, looking down at the sweetness of his face, how his eyes searched my face for answers, I knew, I could not lie. It was time to talk about it, and not for me, but for him. Because he deserved that, and we always promised ourselves, as long as it was appropriate for his little heart, we would never lie to our son. Ever.

And so, I told him the story. Of how Mommy and Daddy had wanted so badly for him to have a sibling, but that Mommy had been sick and hadn’t known it. And the kind of sickness Mommy had, made it hard for her body to carry a baby for our family, and that God let Mommy hold them for just a little while, inside, before taking them back home to heaven, to live with Him there. And you know, this little five year old boy of mine, looked up at me, and was quiet for awhile, as we walked slowly beneath that fall sky, until stopping, and saying,

” I understand Mommy, but I wish they could come back. Because I care Mommy, about that. I care about my brother and sister in heaven.” My heart sank in my chest, this poor little boy had experienced so much death, right along beside us, including the death of my mother and grandmother during those two years as well, and it took everything I had to hide the tears behind my sunglasses, before crouching down in front of him saying,

“Baby, I am so proud of you. For the love you have in your heart. You have been so brave, and so kind. And Mommy is so sorry little one, that your brother and sister are in heaven, instead of here with us. And I am so proud of you, of the kind of big brother you would have been, and are. And know, that they are always watching over you, and know how much you love them.” And I held him there on the sidewalk, and he wrapped his little arms around me. The most precious of gifts.  And we stayed there for a little while, with the wind rustling through our hair, and the birds singing in the trees, on that beautiful fall afternoon.

Now before I continue my story, there is something you should know about me. This is not something I tell people, nor do I advertise this in any way. I don’t use titles, or box myself, but I suppose if I had to choose the best way to explain myself,  would be to say, I am a seer. I dream, dreams that come true. I dream dreams. of things that are happening to other people in real life, some I know, some I don’t. I have visions, in prayer, or out of prayer, they don’t have to go hand in hand. I hear God’s voice, and we converse. I have seen and spoken to Jesus, and have no doubt that I will continue to do so. I sense and see demons, and other dark things across the veil, and have had plenty of run ins with them, and the enemy we call satan. These gifts are God given, and this is my normal, every day life, and will continue to be until I die. I don’t tell you this for any other reason than, to help you understand parts of this story. I doesn’t bother me, if you believe me or not, that’s the least of my concerns, because I didn’t come here to convince you, I came, to tell you a story, and my story is what I’ll tell. So with that all being said,

Later that evening, after we had brushed his teeth, and read him his bedtime story, my husband and I curled up into his bed with him, like we do every night. I’m telling you, this kid goes to bed feeling loved, I can tell you that much. Not a night goes by, that he isn’t held, lifted up and spoken life into, by the both of us. Not a night goes by, without him being told how wonderful, special, talented, kind, and loved he is. We tell our son, every single day, how happy and grateful we are to have him in our lives. And so, as we all curled up together, getting super cozy in the multitude of soft blankets and pillows, our son turns to us and says,

“Mommy, I want to pray tonight. I want to pray for Aryanna, and Asher. My brother and sister in heaven.” My heart broke, hearing the two beautiful names, names we had chosen in full excited hearts. Names, I had chosen from the same place my prayers are born. Names, that now felt memorialized, and as beautiful as they are, it still hurts just as much to hear them, as it  feels good to say them. My children. One here in my arms, and the other two, distant, but so close, just like all the other things seen, but unseen, in the spirit. That any other seer or prophetic child of God would understand.

And so, he prayed. And this is what he said.

“Heavenly Father, and Jesus in heaven. Please take care of Aryanna my sister in heaven. And of my brother in heaven too. Play with them Jesus, and tell Aryanna I want to make a sign for her, of her name in sparkles, just like she likes.”  And I swear, in that very moment, in the spirit, I heard a little girl laugh. I heard Aryanna laughing, and the smile passing over my son’s face as he thought and spoke about her in that moment. The spirit, and the natural weaving together, and I felt, all three of my children, together in his room that night. I felt I might explode in a tidal wave of love, grief and all the things in between. 

I’m not sure if you can imagine what that felt like for me, for our son, or for my husband, because he felt it too. And I held that inside me, with all the strength I had, as I kissed my sons forehead goodnight. Praising his courage, sweetness and faith. His love for them. And I walked to my bedroom, and fell into my husbands lap, weeping. I wept there for a long time, and while I wept, this strength filled the room. And I could feel it from the bottom of my toes, to the top of my head, my heart beating faster. And I knew it was Jesus, because I know how He feels. And as I wept, the visions started coming. Pictures flowing through my minds eye, powerful, but also smooth, and gentle, in a way they hadn’t been before. And as the tears came and came, I saw in the heavens, my babies, and it was the cleanest cry, I have ever wept. The details, of what Jesus showed and showered over me that night, are for my family alone. A gift, of which I am eternally grateful. But I can say this, my children, our children, my sons brother and sister, will live the most beautiful life in heaven, and there is no doubt in my heart, that they watch over us and cheer us on as we rise to walk the path less traveled. That beautifully narrow road.

And to the ladies out there, who relate to the pain of losing a child, and there are many. To the men, the fathers, who have held those ladies, and sat silent in the grief. Know you are not alone and on the nights you feel that grief tugging sharp at the heart, imagine, each of us, around the world, human to human, life to life, breath to breath, united in the great weave of life. Or at least, that’s what I do. With the heart of God intertwined throughout.

I love you Aryanna. I love you Asher. Until we meet again my loves.

“We must be willing to let go of the life we planned so as to have the life that is waiting for us.” ~ Joseph Campbell

 

 

What Granny Said.

“You be a good girl Angie,” her eyes fixed on mine. “You be a good girl for Granny or else Granny won’t let you see Mommy ever again. And you know Granny can do that don’t you?”

I am five years old. She is sitting on the edge of my bed, it’s nighttime and I’m in trouble again. I did everything she asked me too. I put my pajamas on like a good girl and brushed my teeth when she asked. I crawled into bed without a fuss, and did my best to finish all the food on my plate at dinner time. But, she’ s angry with me, like she is most of the time.

She grabs my jaw roughly, it’s invasive and controlling, my little heart beating so fast. She’s digging her fingers into the sides of my cheeks and it hurts. I want to move under the weight of her grip, to pull on her forearms, and twist out from under, but I know better. Yanking on my chin, she pulls her face up close to mine. I am frozen. Her eyes locked onto my eyes, the sharp sting of her nails pressing down on the soft skin.

“You remember what Granny said.” The heat of her breath, mixed with cigarettes and coffee and she just lingers there for moment, her gaze tearing into me, before she whips her hand away in disgust. It is harsh and unrelenting. And with that, the room goes dark and I am left to stare at the crack of light beaming in through the hallway. I had forgotten to breathe and my exhale is shaky and strained. I’m terrified to make a sound, pushing my face into the cotton pillow, the warmth rushing to my cheeks with the release and I can hear my Mom downstairs. I want to tell her what happened, but I’m scared. The fear ran through my body like a current and I wouldn’t, couldn’t move.

I had to stop,  and reach out to my God, two paragraph’s into writing this post.

Jesus, give me the strength I need to see myself through this evil maze of sickness. This torment, Lord.” Repeating verses from the bible, that have held me up during my most fearful of days, through the deepest of shameful nights, those powerful words striking through the fear and lifting me with His golden staph. I am so grateful God is real, and alive and with me. The residue, of these moments in my life, can be crippling. I often find myself, staring off into the ground, my thoughts overlapping each other in a frenzy of anxious shock, and I can’t find my way out. I get lost in this unbelievable reality of my past, and when the child inside me can’t make sense of it anymore, and my adult self is raging with a hate that frightens me, all I have left is God. 

I have a husband, and a son, who think the world of me and this isn’t lost to me most days. I bask in that light with them, and pour as much love into them as I possibly can. But every survivor knows, each in their own way, the loneliness that comes with the mark of abuse. It’s a solitary experience. One that traps you within the confines of your own painful existence, tearing you away from being able to share it with anyone, a place set aside just for you and no amount of explaining or clawing away will ignite an understanding between you and the world. Because the thing is just too evil, and you know that if you were to really expose the truth of it, your comrades would turn away in disgust, tummy’s churning and your tears would turn to dust with the reaction, the regret pushing around in your gut, and so many of us stay silent. As I have for the last two years. Until I chose not too anymore. I believe, that by staying silent, I am allowing her to still have that hold on me. That I am welcoming the harsh grasp of her hand. Letting the fingers dig into my cheeks, her nails gripping my face and falling weak under her weight. 

I can’t let her do this to me anymore. I refuse to lay in that bed any longer, the fear running through me like a current. I think of my five-year old son, the pureness of his heart, the innocence of his soul and I have to stand up for that little girl. 

Right? 

“As my sufferings mounted I soon realized that there were two ways in which I could respond to my situation — either to react with bitterness or seek to transform the suffering into a creative force. I decided to follow the latter course.” ~ Martin Luther King Jr. 

She Was In There.

I cried all night, the day I published my last post.

It was September first, and one year prior, to that very day, was the day I lost my Mom to cancer. It happened at Elizabeth Bruyere, the palliative care building located in a beautiful area of downtown and  my husband, myself and my son, were the only family left to visit that day.

Somewhere, deep inside my gut, I knew she was going to die that day. I knew, in the same way, I knew it would rain. How you taste that cool breeze in the air, and even though the sky is bright blue and the sun is beaming down on the flesh of your shoulder, that coolness running over your bare skin, tells you the truth. I knew it in the same way as this, and I tried to put it away, but could not. And when my Grandpa left  that afternoon, shuffling away, with those sad, heavy shoulders of his, I knew I would be the one to call later, and have to tell them him truth. That she had died.  And I was right.

She had been in a morphine sleep haze for two days now. The little machine laying at her side, the tubes pumping a never-ending supply into her veins. The tumors in her cervix had grown so large, that she was now unable to relieve herself, and go to the washroom.  They had spent hours trying to insert a catheter two days before, but the tumor was just to big. There was nothing more they could do, and we had nothing to offer her, but the small comfort of our presence.

The doctor informed us that because they could not successfully help her relieve herself, that this would cause the urine to back up into her kidneys, and that she would eventually pass of kidney failure.  It was a peaceful way to die, they said.

“We recommend you say your goodbye’s and do your best to make your peace with this.” The nurses were kind and understanding.

There was so much to say, I didn’t have the words. I still had so many questions, so much anger within. And the contrast between my love for her, and my hate, was almost too much to bear. You see, during the Spring that had just passed, I had come to learn a dark truth. One that, stole away all the seeming  innocence of our relationship and the morsels of trust that had been left. Not that there were many.

She had known what they had done to me, the abuse I suffered. And she had not only turned her back, no, she had not only turned her face away. She had once..

It’s been almost an hour since I typed those last three words. Every time, I  begin to finish that sentence my mind goes blank and I find myself staring at the screen. Repeating it over and over again in my head. She had once….participated. She had once….participated. She had once…participated. I’m stuck here, and it hurts. A lot. I can hardly remember what I began this post with, because just having this thought run through me, is enough to bring me to my knees in tears. I love my mother. And, I hate my mother. It has made my grieving process a terrible and confusing thing, and every single day, my heart wails in pain at how much I wish things could be different. That I could say goodbye to my mom in peace, without the constant tug of war between these two opposing feelings. How my heart contradicts itself equally on both sides, is disconcerting, even though I understand it. 

Moving on. 

She had not only turned her face away, she had once…participated. That memory resurfacing itself just four months before I got the phone call. And so as I sat there at her bedside, with the sound of the beeping machine, of it pushing the drug into her veins, I knew this. The crayons in my son’s hand dragging over the white paper on his lap and the soft weight of my husbands strong hand tracing the lines of my back, I knew.  The smell of food wafting through the halls, the elevator opening and closing again. And as I listened to the sound of my mothers breath, so strained and forceful, I knew what she had done. Cringing internally at the phlegm rising up and down her throat from all those years of smoking and rattling within. That terrible sound. My internal chaos and pain, for the now, and the then, mixed with the soundtrack of this all too painful reality, that my mother was dying.

When my Grandmother was in her final days, the nurses had taught us how to remove the extra phlegm that had spilled into her mouth,

(gross, I know, but I wouldn’t tell you unless I had too)  

…with large kind of que-tips, teaching us to remove the stuff not only because it was needed, but because a person could choke this way.  The thought of my grandmother choking to death scared the shit out of me, but they reassured me how normal this was, and that it happened to almost everyone in those final days. Normal or not, it still scared the shit out of me.

So when my mom began to choke, I knew this was why. It was such a terrible sound. My heart falling to the pit of my stomach, and I ran out into the hallway for a nurse. The attending nurse grabbed this kind of large glass jug, with measuring cup units in red print up along the side of it and followed me into the room. She began to lift my mother’s head in her hands, at the same time asking me,

“Do you want to stay for this?” Breaking me out of my own haze of disbelief and plugging me back into life. I look down at my son, only five years old.

“No, no I won’t stay.” And she gets to work as the three of us head towards the hallway, and into the elevator. It felt like I smoked an entire pack of cigarettes in those fifteen minutes. My hands shaking, my heart screaming, the sound of my mother choking like that. The walk back to the elevator was entirely surreal, the bell ringing as the doors opened on my mother’s floor. The slow walk down the hallway, turning the corner with the thudding of my own heart, and Landon’s little five-year old hand in mine. My husbands strong, warm hand in my other, and I see her. I see the nurse standing in the hallway, and she’s crying. She’s shaking, and she’s crying and she looks up to see me there.

“It was horrible,” she wails, “It was so horrible.”

And all I can do is look at her, because I don’t know what she’s saying to me. And she’s still crying, as she lifts her hand to her mouth, and this look of shock comes over her face. And she says to me,

“Oh my goodness, you’re her daughter! I’m so sorry! I’m so sorry. Your mother has just passed away, I couldn’t clear her airway, and she asphyxiated. She could not breathe. I’m so sorry.” And that was it. As I turned my head towards her room, the tears rimming my eyes with heat, she was in there. Still and lifeless, and gone.  I held her hand and played with her hair until her skin started to get cold, and with that, I kissed her forehead and said my last goodbye.

I love you Mom.

“Someday, you’re going to look back on this moment of your life, as such a sweet time of grieving. You’ll see that you were in mourning and your heart was broken, but your life was changing…” ~Elizabeth Gilbert

The Phone Call

Don’t do this Ang. It’s stupid. No one’s going to believe you anyways. Satanic ritual abuse? are you fucking kidding me?! That kind of shit doesn’t happen in real life. 

My hands are shaking, so I grab my pack of cigarettes, and pull one out. Filter to lip and drag my thumb across the metal ridge of my black lighter. The flame sparks and I inhale deeply, close my eyes, and turn my face away from the glare radiating from my lap top.

I’ve been jumping back and forth between doubt, and confidence.

Between fear, and courage.

Most importantly, in my opinion, between the chains of shame, and freedom.

It’s tiresome, but I knew something like this would happen.

 You’re making a fool of yourself.  People are talking about you behind your back you know, and they’re saying…you’re just doing this for attention. 

I take a deep breath, and try to be still. Try to be still underneath the weight. Be still as the unease crawls up my throat, and the flutters in my stomach, turn to waves of folding queasiness.

God is on my side. God is on my side. Deep breath.

Fingers to keys.

 

My entire world changed the day the memories surfaced.

I went from being very confused about my emotions,  pain, depression, and life experience to feeling, for the very first time, understood.

For the first time, in my entire existence, I made sense. At least to myself.

And as sickening and terrifying as it was, I was grateful to finally have an answer, to the question that had haunted me for so long.

What is wrong with me?

For the first time, I was able to put a name to face of evil in my life, and for a little while, along with the rage, tears, disgust and hatred, I felt empowered.

But that didn’t last. It washed away piece by piece,  as everything began to sink in and make a home for itself inside me. Tucking itself away in the bleeding parts of my heart. In the saddest places of my soul and I began to slowly shut down.

In the beginning, I was relieved. Relieved to have found the truth, and have the opportunity to expose what had been done to me. But in time, like I said earlier, as it made a home within, I began to panic. Because the reality was, I had no where to put it. I had no idea what to do with these horrifying memories, it was like something out of some sick horror movie and I felt like I was going completely insane. It was very hard for my mind to wrap itself around such evil, let alone, the truth that this evil had touched me in ways that could destroy a person, and I wondered how I had made this long. I wanted to scream it out in the street, smash and break everything in my grasp, and on the same hand, the shame was suffocating me, forcing me down to a tight lipped mannequin version of myself who wouldn’t, couldn’t, speak a word.

I lived like that for a long time, trying to face it alone, and then falling into a bottle of vodka. A two liter of wine. A 12 pack of beer. Sobering up and trying again, only to fall into a pool of booze again. Eight or nine months of this messy fight, and then I got a phone call.

” Angie, I have something to tell you. Are you sitting down?” I’m sober today, and sitting on my back patio. It’s one year ago, and it’s summer time. June.

My heart falls into my stomach, that all too familiar feeling, and my eyes are already filling up with tears.

I’m so fucking tired, I can’t handle anymore. Please. Please God. 

” Angie, I’m so sorry to tell you this but, you’re mom has been diagnosed with cancer. It’s spreading rapidly, and they don’t think she’ll make it through this.”

There’s a pause, I don’t know how long, but I don’t make a sound. My mind is spinning, and at the same time, everything feels so slow, so surreal.

Cancer. You mother fucker. You can’t take my mom. YOU CAN’T TAKE MY MOM. 

But, it did. It did take my mom.

And the one person who could validate my memories more than any other.

 

“Beloved, never avenge yourselves, but leave it to the wrath of God, for it is written, “Vengeance is mine, I will repay, says the Lord”. ~ Romans 12:19

 

 

Just Drive.

I’ve been remembering what it’s like to look through the eyes of a child.

The beautiful ignorance.

The unfailing trust.

The light of joy that literally pierces through their eyes.

The thing I find I’m most often missing, when I look in the mirror.

Tired eyes, a hint of strain.

An adult, and there’s this pressure.

Have I forgotten what I need to remember?

When I was young, maybe four, five years old. My best friend… was my Dad.

I used to ride next to him in his car, music flowing around me, the wind blowing in through the pulled down windows.

A little girl never feels so safe. Then with her Dad at the wheel.

We’d pull into the parking lot of some local home improvement store, and he’d come around the side to unlock my car door.

“Hey bud, you ready?”

Reaching out that big Dad hand, that only little girls know so well.

I think about this.

That simple act of trust…

Of  holding his hand through the parking lot.

The clunky metal vehicles pulling in and out around us.

Remembering how safe I felt.

Not even the notion to watch out for cars, because he was doing it for me.

Not concerned with what we we’re doing, or what it was that we needed.

Just holding his hand, me and Dad.

The warm palm, I was so used too. The black oil mechanic stains on his fingers. Safe.

Mine.

Dad.

I so often forget Father, to take the hand you are reaching out to me.

The scar that bumps over your palm, there is nothing you haven’t done to be with me.

The world teaches me, I’m not to need anybody.

Keep your hands free.

Find your own way.

Never rely on another.

But I don’t want to do that.

I want to hold Your hand Father, just like I held my Daddy’s hand.

I don’t want to look out for cars, because I know…

You are doing it for me.

I don’t want to think about where we’re going…

I just want to go there with You.

The country wind through the pulled down window.

Music flowing around me…

A girl never feels so safe as she does, as when her Dad has the wheel.

Take the wheel Father.

While I close me eyes,  and listen to the tires tread over the black cement road.

The soothing, dull rhythm.

Drive Father….

Just drive.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Our Hands will Bleed, but Our Hearts will Beat.

It is through the deepest of our pain, that we are asked to stand.

When darkness stalks us, a black oil suffocating… faith.

When our weakness’s mock us, and stare us in the face.

Grim and shameful a thing.

When all strength has left our limbs…sitting fearful at the edge of the cliff.

That the deep breath fills our bodies.

Fill me up, Lord. Fill me up.

The breath, of life.

Called in the night of our dreams, in the weight of our tears.

The whisper tugs at the straps of our souls.

Be of hope, child. Be of hope.

The earth beneath your feet, cracks with uncertainty.

Tree roots lifting, clinging.

White knuckles, grasping.

The dust catching your eyes, that awful burning.

You curse your own flesh, in its weariness.

Our hearts pulling to catch up, when things change…too fast.

The place between your mind, and heart, a criss crossing of wires. Sizzling.

But He calls.

That cool wind, to sooth the burn.

A love ointment, for a mind infection.

An intimate pull of heat, a love that runs deep.

To the very nature of your cells.

The voice upon the waters.

Be of courage, child. Be of courage.

Catching each tear, in His mighty hand.

Storing them up in the Great Heart.

Restoration. Is a promise.

Do not fear, child. Do not fear. I hold the stars in my hands.

Joy comes in the morning my love. It always comes.

A lullaby of Truth.

And even though the world around me, shakes, it crumbles…my hands are bleeding…You Father, ARE BIGGER.

The cool wind to sooth the burn.

The love’s breath to heal the torn.

The All. The Is. The Forever.

Yes, child. Nothing in vain.

Nothing….in vain.

It is when the tidal wave hits, that we are called to stand against the crashing waters.

Hand in hand.

The salt waves whipping our cheeks, matting our hair, stinging our eyes.

A wall of brothers and sisters.

Our hands will bleed, but our hearts will beat.

Oh they will beat, the glory of God.

My hands are ready.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Even When Fear Stalks You.

Don’t LABEL yourself. Living up to that label can bleed you dry.

Don’t ALLOW yourself to be packaged and sold into the views this world has of you. BE YOU. That’s what you were born to do.

POWERFULLY.

HONESTLY.

COURAGEOUSLY.

AUTHENTICALLY.

Without fear. And even when fear STALKS YOU,

Fight anyways.

Because the fear needs to know, you’ve got this beat.

AND YOU’RE NOT GIVING UP.

Be Here.

I still take a moment to read this entry back to myself… on my worst days. I remember how many emotions it brought up while I was writing it, and sometimes, I need to be reminded of that. Need to be reminded how insanely blessed I am to be here today, to have the family I do…to be a mother…just to be alive. To be loved. To remember, I didn’t give up back then, and shouldn’t give up now. That I’m able, and God is powerful.

It’s a letter to my 16-year-old self, and before switching to WordPress, it was my highest read post.  I wanted to share it, for the ones who haven’t read it yet and for myself, because it bares a healthy weight on my heart.

~I’ll Be Here.~

I woke up this morning with a swollen, bleeding heart.

The emotions I swam in yesterday, for my entry D.N.A, are still beating inside me.

I’m hurting. I knew that it wasn’t going to be a piece of cake, sharing all this past with you, but there is something to be said about recounting your most painful memories. In writing. Forcing yourself to climb into the rabbit hole of your past, dig around and search.A kind of sadistic treasure hunt. What you find down there, may leave a bad taste in your mouth. May cause your heart to quicken. Make you angry, ashamed and raw. Hits a nerve, one you may have been aware of, or not. Regardless, it’s gonna cut you, on some level. I made a pact with myself that this blog was going to be real. That I wouldn’t chump out and hide. So, Hi…this is Me…not hiding.

I was sixteen years old when I got arrested for the un-mentioned crime. I tell you all soon enough, but for that your just gonna have to wait.

Sixteen years old. Just reading that messes with my head. Sixteen. A baby. Being twenty-seven now, with my own child, it hits a spot in my oversized heart. The place inside that boils over with empathy, with compassion. That kind of breaks your heart. If you allow yourself to feel it that deep. I wonder what I would have said to myself, if my younger me, and the me now, could stand face to face. I can’t even think of anything, ’cause the me back then wouldn’t have heard a word. The me back then, the sixteen year old Angie, would have stared at the ground, bypassing my words of sound advice, and taking it all as an act, of blowing smoke up my ass. She would have perceived my act of kindness as self-serving or false. I want to pick her up and slap her around. Remind her that life will prevail, and one day I’ll look in the mirror and see myself for the first time. I realize that, the sixteen year old Angie still exists inside of me. Somewhere locked away, where she sits in the dark spots of my conscious… crying. Punching things, and screaming obscenities. Half of me is walking in her shoes today. Half the twenty-seven year old me , and half the her I was once was. It hurts, my heart beats an ache I’m more familiar with then I’d like to admit.  I want to take her shoes off and go back to my good life, but there are some things I have to say to her first. Here goes…

Angie,

You have every right to be angry that you spent almost three years in jail. Honey, I know what you did was very wrong. I know you feel remorse for that. I’m not going to sit here and force you to be held accountable, or own any of this. Because, I know you already have. It would be against your nature in all ways if you hadn’t. I know you better than that, and because of that I’m going to let you put it all down now. I want you to know that I understand….I really do. A lot of people are going to point the finger at you now. They are going to tarnish you and knock you around. They are going to try very hard to convince you that you will never rise above this. That this moment is going to define you. Please baby…don’t believe them. I know, you hate yourself in a way I cannot touch on. I know, that two weeks before you we’re arrested, you thought very long and hard about when and how you were going to end your own life. The only reason why you didn’t is because God stopped you. I’m very glad he did sweetheart. Honey, life for the next few years is going to be very hard for you. I want you know, how very wise and strong you really are. That you are going to make it…and not just make it…but rise above and over it in ways, that now, you cannot imagine. There is nothing I can do to stop what’s coming…but I want you to know, you didn’t deserve any of this. You are not a monster. Your choices we’re the choices you had..slim pickins at a time such as this. Yes, you made the wrong one, and the damage done is irrevocable, but it will not go without purpose. No one has the right to judge you, unless they’ve walked in your shoes. No one has the right to define you, label you, or put you in a box. Please, baby, don’t do that to yourself either. Don’t fall victim to the harsh words and reactions. Believe me when I tell you, you deserve honour. You deserve to have someone hold your hand through all of this, and even if no one comes, which they likely won’t, I’ll be there. Deep on the inside of you, a voice from your future…pressing on. Ignore the scars running jagged along your wrists, you won’t be trying to kill yourself again, will you? no..you won’t. Because my love, you have a future. There is a little boy up there with God, waiting for you to be his Mommy…a man out in the world, waiting to honour you and love you in ways you can’t even comprehend right now. A family at home waiting for you to return, and fill their life with all the times lost to them. Times, they dream of, waiting for you to wake up to life for the first time. So, hold your breath sweetheart, and take the dive. This is gonna hurt like a bitch…but I’ll be here. One day you’ll look up and see ME in the mirror…and this will all make sense. I love you so much..and can’t wait until we meet…absolve into eachother…and be whole for the first time. It’s time to let you go babe…it’s just time to let you go…

Sincerely and with all grace,

You.

Link to the next post “Time’s Up.” Made me sad to go over it, it was the first time my Grandmother came to visit me in jail. I miss you so much Grandma..but I know you’re resting in peace, and one day, I’ll see you again. I love you xo https://thisbeatingheart.wordpress.com/2011/11/21/times-up/