Deepest Thanks and Clarifications

I cannot even begin to express my love and gratitude to all of you who left comments on my post from yesterday.

Each of you wrapped yourselves around me and loved me compassionately, no judgment--without even knowing me.

What a beautiful thing that was to experience.
Tears were flooding my face as I read your words, and peace was filling my heart.
ThankyouThankyouThankyou.

This blogging community that I have found myself in?

Overflowing with gorgeously kind and supportive people.

I give my love to you all.

But I also need to apologize.
 Some of my post was not clear.


My shame does not come from being raped...
Sadly, that time was not the first, just the most heinous.
The one I could not deny as rape.
The first one I spoke aloud.

I am not ashamed of what was done to me. 
No victim should be, but so often we are.

I almost let it kill me, but I made it out.
I am a survivor. 
I am proud of that.

I would be lying though if I tried to say that I got to that place WITHOUT some intensive therapy, and I would also be remiss if I did not admit that sometimes--

There are still trickles of shame.

Even though I KNOW:
It was not my fault.
I could not fight back-drugging takes away choice, funny that...
And 3 grown men against one 5'3 woman with Cerebral Palsy?
Not so much a fair fight.
Or very human, for that matter.

I know that NOW, and I am not ashamed of being a survivor. 

But despite what I "know" there are still moments....
Even while writing this post, I found myself shocked at the familiar wash of shame that came over me.

Our intellectual minds and emotional minds do not always meet where they should.
Sigh.

But those past tinges of shame were not what I was referring to in that last post.

I am ashamed of myself for not reporting the rape.
For not seeking justice.
For sticking my head in the sand.
For letting three grown men violate me and walk away without any consequences.

Worse still?

Knowing that I never will.

I know that there are survivors who fought within an inch of their lives to seek justice.
Exposed themselves.
Faced judgment and further violation, for the sake of taking a stand.

I took no such stand.
I don't think I could have survived it.
I am in awe of you who did, who are.

I am sorry I could not. 
It truly does shame me, but I hope those reading can understand.

You all have my apologies, my love and my gratitude.
With your words have been salve on a very deep and slow-healing wound.

Thank you. So very much.
You've given me such a beautiful gift on my birthday...
Acceptance.

What I Don't Want to Admit.

 This post is in response to a question I asked my friend over at Hasta Claridad.

She asked me to answer in kind.

Here is that answer.

It is not a pretty one--

I was so happy that he was home.

That he was safe and alive.

We had never been “official”

Instead, off and on, almost but not *quite* since we were kids…

We hadn’t seen each other in 3 years, but my heart was still in my stomach.

I was afraid he wouldn’t feel like I did and I would look like an idiot.

                           

I walked through the door and we locked eyes.

That feeling was still there.

Thrilling, but terrifying all the same.

He was only home for a little over a week.

Then he would be stationed somewhere else and out of my life again.

I was determined to keep the week simple.

Why make things messy and break my own heart?

Sigh.

We pretty much stayed glued to one another.

There was closeness and kissing, but no more.

There never had been.

We always stopped short of crossing that line.

Such a messy line it could be…

We made plans to go out with his friends.

Some drinking, some pool, some fun.

I just wanted to have some more time.

We ended up getting into an argument.

I thought he was drinking too much.

He could do that.

Not my fucking wife, he said…

Those words stung. 

So much left undone/unsaid between us.

I went and sat outside smoking, and cursing myself for getting attached.

His friend came out to talk to me…

It’s not that he doesn’t want you, you know.  He loves you, but it’s complicated.

Isn’t it always?

He comes out to apologize.

You’re my family, he says.

I love you, he says.

It’s MY job to protect YOU, he says…

I will fix this, and give you what you deserve, someday,

But I can’t now.

I know it’s true.

I get the feeling it always will be.

I want to go home, but he convinces me to stay.

To go with him and his friends to a house party.

I don’t want to go, but he looks at me with those eyes of his, and I relent.

I remember being bored and angry.

I remember just wanting to go home, but knowing it was not safe to walk alone.

Ironic.

I remember someone offering me a beer.

Then things start to go fuzzy and black out from there.

They said they were going to drop us off.

He was too drunk to drive.

Obviously.

Strangely fuzzy and disconnected as I was feeling, even I knew that.

I remember climbing into the back of the van.

I did not feel right.

It was me and him and two of his buddies.

It did not feel right.

I just wanted to go home.

I remember blackness

I remember mocking laughter

And flashes of pain.

I know that he was there.

And so were his friends.

That is all.

Bits and pieces of out-of-focus horror swallowed by black.

The rest of the story was pieced together via bruises and blood as I screamed in the shower the next morning.

And by blood streaming and a baby leaving several months after.

I should have stood up for myself. 

I should have fought for myself.
I should have sought justice.

But I didn’t.

I retreated instead.

I just didn’t have the strength then. 

Honestly, I don’t now.

So many lines blurred.

So many times abused 

So many pleas disbelieved.

So many words.

So many lies.

So many questions I could not answer.

So many things I don’t remember.

So much I want to still forget.

And for that, I am ashamed.

To all of you who have fought, I apologize for my cowardice.

I wish I could promise you bravery...

But I cannot.

I am more ashamed of myself then anyone could ever be.

That, I can promise.

I hope someday, I can be forgiven.

I can't ever forget.

No Dice. As Per The Usual.

I didn't get the job.

While I knew that was probably going to be the case, I was trying to remain positive.

[And we all know how I feel about optimism....]

They didn't even offer to keep my resume on file or promise to keep me in mind for future openings.

The email basically said:

Thanks, but no thanks.  We hired someone more qualified than you.  Good luck with your job search.

Again, I wasn't surprised, but I was still crushed.

I WANTED that job.
Despite my initial nervousness about working full-time again, I knew that I would be good at it.
Being able to get back into the writing world (even in such a small way) would have been...well, never mind.

More than WANT, this job was a NEED.

We needed this job.
We need a break.
We keep trying to make forward progress and it's always 1 step forward, 3 back...

We are chained to money...or lack thereof...

I feel like that's an all-too-familiar refrain in our lives.

You have my sympathies, if it is for you as well.

Sigh.....

Fuck.

Not eloquent or pretty, but all I can say....

I'm in a Pickle!

I have a problem.

It's kinda outta control.

An addiction I'm ashamed of.

Purses.
I have spent so much on Target purses, it's obscene...
Now, that my MIL has introduced me into the seedy underbelly that is COACH? Ay Dios.

And now?

Baby Bags.

I am always on the hunt.
I don't need any more purses, nor do I need another baby bag....
Still?
I cruise...looking for a possible fix....  

The other day, I was at the mall walking around, and I saw it:

THIS.

Howcuteisthatfrikkenbag???

I had a 10% off coupon to the store it was displayed in, so I skipped into the store....

A Hundred and Twenty bucks?!!

That's a no. 10% off or not!

But I remembered the brand name so that perhaps I could find it on sale somewhere....

Petunia Pickle Bottom  Adorable, right?
 I had never heard of it, but what do I know?
Not much, it seems.
This brand is all kinds of hawtntrendys.

Sale? HA.

This was not a clearance rack-type product....
Damn.

But, because of my struggle....

I found myself looking at it wistfully.
Perusing the entire site.
Checking Amazon.
I know I can't buy.
Yet?
Look, click, Drrooolll.

It gets worse:

This bag has been crooning its wicked siren-song in my head all day....
because as much as I love bags?

I Luuuurrrrrrrrvvvvvve BIG bags.

Have you ever seen The Breakfast Club? Of COURSE you have.
Ally Sheedy's character?
The one who carries her whole life around in her purse?

That's me.

Now that I also have a child whose life I need to carry around as well?

I need a whole lotta bag.

Shut it.
I do so neeeeed it.

Need Need Needy NeedNEED!

Sigh.

I told you it was a problem....











(I wish I'd known about this when I made the LIST.)

First and Lasting Fools

Went to bed last night thinking of my father.

This happens occasionally...
and I get wrapped up in memories I don't actually have.

I do not know my father.
I have never seen his face.
I have never heard his voice.
He exists in the world, but not to me.

My mother married my first stepfather when I was a year old or so...
Before I was four, he was gone.

I remember flashes of him.
I have seen his face
I remember feeling loved.
But I cannot hear his voice anymore.

I thought he was my biological father until I was 18....

My mother met my second stepfather almost immediately after.
They got pregnant with my sister when I was five.
He was to be my new Daddy.

He didn't want to be my Daddy, I could tell.
But as a kid hungry for love, for normalcy?
I dove in.

Hi Daddy!

 A tenuous bond....
A daughter who was not really a daughter and a father who was not really a father...
yet.

When my sister was born (and shortly following, my brother), it was clear that I wasn't needed anymore.
 Not a judgment or a whine, simply a fact...

I found myself fatherless again.
It felt familiar, but watching it play out so differently for other children, ones of my flesh and blood, was hard.

I did not feel jealous or angry...
just less.

I would often wish that my father would come rescue me...

He was MY father, after all.

Except he wasn't.

When I was 18, I needed my Birth Certificate.
My mother claimed that she didn't have mine-- "lost..."
So I went to County Records-- got my own damn copy.

As I looked it over, I noticed that my father's name was not on it.
Someone else's name was listed there...
Ummm, what the fuck?

My mother's version of the story is as follows:

She let me believe that her first husband was my father because it was "easier."
I would never have to know the truth....

Ummm, really? Poor planning on her part, then.

Anyway-
He was much older

They fell in love...or she did at least...

She got pregnant

When confronted with the news, he denied her, and told her he was engaged.
She was nothing to him and he wanted nothing to do with her or her baby...

She called him when I was born...
I was not supposed to live.
She wanted to give him the chance to see me...

He never came.

When I was about 9 months old, my mother ran into his fiancee....

This woman knew who my mother was, and strangely, she knew me...

Apparently, I looked JUST like my father.

The only detail that my mother would ever give me was his name.
First and Last.
I never even carried his name.
I carried hers.

I wanted to find him.
See him.
Hear him.
I did not want to love him, or for him to love me.
There would be no diving in.

No "Hi Daddys"

I just wanted the other half of the picture that was me.

But I couldn't find him.
First and Last was not enough.

Five years ago?
My mother was at a bar with friends.
He was there.
He did not recognize her.
She said nothing.

I know he lives in my state, probably even my county.
I know his name.
First and Last.
 

I gave up searching for him a long time ago.
He is a man on his path, and I am a woman on mine.

There is guilt because my son does not have the whole picture.

I am used to messy.
I am used to not being whole.

But that is not what I want for my son.

So I find myself thinking of my father.
Of the face that is mine, but I wouldn't recognize on the street.

I think of the siblings I will never know or love.

I think of the histories and dynamics that I will never be a part of.

Longing for that half that I will never be able to share with the child that is half of me...

I find myself angry for even thinking of it at all.

It seems foolish.

He is not my father, he is just a man.
Who happens to look like me.

I am not his daughter, I am just me.
Who happens to look like him.

It's foolish, right?

Until I think of my son.
Of the two halves that came together to make him.
To create his name.
First and Last.
I see a face that has pieces of mine, therefore pieces of his.
How beautiful that face is.

And I forgive my foolishness.
But not His.






[This post was written for the Red Dress Club, as part of their RemembeRED prompt...Unfortunately, I won't be linking it because I couldn't come in under the word limit. Always running my mouth for too long! HA!]

Mice and Men and All That Rot...

I had an interview today...my first in a very long time.

A job I really wanted, thought I could do really well in, and that would be all-miraculous for us financially...

Hooray! Silver linings and lights at the end of tunnels! 

I feel like the interview TUH-AAANKED.

I was prepared.  I researched.  I made helpful notes for myself...

First question out of the shoot went bad-
and it was all downhill from there.

I'm fairly disgusted with myself.  
I should have trusted my gut and I didn't.

Maybe it was better than I thought....

Fuck, I hope so.

A legitimate Work-from-Home job?

I spotted a Unicorn, People!
I don't want it disappearing into the mists of impossibility again!

Sigh.


If I drank, I would need one right about now...

Eh.

I need to be a grown up about this and move forward with a positive attitude.







Hey, I think there's Milanos in the pantry!

What?
Emotional eating?
ME?

 Please.
Someone as self-aware and professional as I, would never self-soothe with cookies....

There's also Cheezits.

This Does NOT Have to Involve Matching Corduroy Jumpers, Promise.

Home-schooling.

A term, an, idea, a movement, that inspires either dread and judgment, or excitement and inspiration....
There usually isn't much of a lukewarm sentiment.
Hot or NOT, seems to be the general rule...

I have not fully-formed my stance, but I do think that I will be doing some HS-type stuff with O during his preschool years...

Why?

Education starts at home, people.

We are the ones who are supposed to be our children's greatest teachers, but also?

Preschool is OUTTA-CONTROL expensive.

It literally took.my.breath.away. 
Granted, I live in South County, and everything here is ridiculous--as ridiculous seems to be a way of life, but whoa.

I know that education is important, and that good educators are worth their weight in gold, but I ain't got that kind of scratch!

Which brings me to the point of this post:

A friend of mine is just beginning to HS her PreK-ers and has started a blog to document her descent into madness...I mean, her educational journey, ahem.

She would love to share it with any other moms who want to/are doing the same thing and is hoping for an exchange of ideas, feedback, and obviously, support!

Hop on over to her schoolhouse, and give her some lovin', tips, sage words of homeschooly wisdom, and the like...

I think what she is doing is awesome and brave, and I can't wait to set up some activities for O!

Oh!  Before I forget!

Another Lovely Mama I know has made the decision to HS, and I'm sure would adore some lovin' and feedback  as well!  Stop by Rachel's house too!

Home-schooling may not be for everyone, but we all need to support each other, right?

RIGHT.
I get a little uppity about supporting my fellow mamas, okay?

Okay.  I'm glad we had this talk.