Writing

It is interesting what a life of its own this blog has taken on.  I originally began writing here because my husband continually found my written journals in the house, read them, and then became very angry over the content.  Anger is not something I handle well. 

So here I began to write.

I have taken a few breaks here.  Once because it became too hard to spell this shit out; it hurt too much.  And another break because of some internal conflicts I had within myself.  Those conflicts led me to this conclusion of honesty.

Writing from an honest place has been very freeing.  Some of the secrets I have held  close, I have shared here.  Those held even closer, I have not.  Yet.  When I write I am writing from raw place. There is no order, rhyme or reason to my posts. It just is. I do not see that I am any sort of writer simply because I sensor and edit what I write very little. I write for myself; to purge the poison I feel inside.

I struggle with self-esteem; I have very little of it.  I walk around thinking "if they only knew...", positive that "they" would hate me, despise me, be shocked or even disgusted by me.  However, I have learned my lesson here and it is the opposite of what I believed I would learn.  I have not had one hateful comment here or even a single hateful email.  The things that horrified me the most, horrified me for the wrong reasons.  I am not all that horrible.  The kindness shown by others here is amazing to me.  Perhaps it doesn't surprise the average person who believes that generally people are good.  However, that has not been my life experience.  But that is changing now.

The last surprise this blog has revealed is the help and awareness it provides.  Like other survivors, I have asked "why" over and over and never received an answer.  I still do not have a complete answer but I am beginning to believe that what I endured might possibly help another person.  Selfishly, I cannot say that it makes it all worth it though. 

Maybe someday.

So here I write.  I have good days and I have bad days.  Some words are what I think and wrestle with.  Other words are spilling what has happened; previously unspeakable words.  Writing is a way that we all communicate but there is a certain power in the spoken and audible word.  I have been encouraged to read outloud what I write here.  Verbalizing what I write scares me.  But just as writing has been an exercise in freedom; my wish is that speaking these words will take the sting and power out of the tragic while giving life to what is good and hopeful.

Thankful

Four years, 18 days ago my sister shot and killed herself. 

Four years, 22 days ago my mother overdosed. 

Four years ago I stopped sleeping with my father stopped raping me.

Nearly four years ago my father fled and I haven't seen him since.

Four years ago my daughter was almost two and I barely knew how to be a mother.

Four years ago today I met my my husband.

What an amazing four years these past four have been.  I have gone from being virtually alone to now where I have a family; a small one but still a family in every way.

As I am writing this, I am looking out our study window and I can see my daughter riding her bike with friends and my husband hanging Christmas lights, something he has been doing since this past Sunday.  Yes, he is that guy.  If you had told me four years ago that this is where I would be today, I would have probably told you to fuck off and I definitely would have laughed at you.

Four years ago was pretty much my rock bottom.  Just when I thought that things couldn't get any worse; they got better.  Quite literally as I lost my family, I met my husband.  The most toxic people in my life were gone and I met one of the healthiest people that I know.  Looking back, that was no coincidence because had I still been surrounded by my family, there is no way I would have ever allowed my husband into my world.

I have much, very much, to be thankful for.  My husband is perfect for me.  My daughter is thriving.  It's a risky thought but it is very possible that I am thriving too.  Things aren't perfect and yes, I still struggle but things are so much better than four years ago.  I have a family to love and I have a family that loves me.  I have a home, not just a house, and we are raising our daughter with the example I always dreamed of for myself. 

My daughter made this toilet paper wedding cake today for no particular reason and it struck me as funny that she knew what a married couple looks like.  Had I made that cake when I was her age, God knows how I would have depicted a married couple; perhaps with punches being thrown and broken glass topping the cake.  It made me smile to see her model a healthy family.  Something... lots of things... are finally going right. 

We are indeed a healthy family and I am immensely thankful for that.

P.S.  I love how creative my daughter is; she came up with this all by herself!

Hope

Hope deferred makes the heart sick, But desire fulfilled is a tree of life. ~ Proverbs 13:12

Hope is an oddity to me.  It is a double-edged sword.  Just enough keeps one going.  Too much can leave one in despair.

Throughout my life I have struggled to sustain a suitable balance between hope and despair.  The two seem to be interrelated for me.

There were days, even moments, where I had hope that my life would improve.  I saw a way out, I found someone who seemed to care for me, I made it through an entire night unharmed...  These things gave me hope.  I was hopeful.

Then there were other days, even moments, where I was filled with despair. My hope was lost.  My heart was sick.  There was no way out, everywhere I turned I was met with hatred or disbelief, I was torn apart at night only to be met with "nothing happened" in the morning...  These things destroyed my hope.  I was hopeless.

My inner struggle between hope and despair kept me alive.  I firmly belive this.  This same struggle keeps me alive, even today.  Too many times I have thought that there was no way out so I surrendered myself to dying.  But over and over hope has surfaced. 

So I fought.  Sometimes I fought against hope.  Sometimes I fought for it.  It was a sickening cycle.  Some days, even now, it is with a sick heart that I press forward.

Today it is with a sick heart that I write.  The enormity of my past is weighing down upon me.  Normalcy seems to be nothing more than a fleeting hope. One step forward, two steps back.  Hope and then despair.  My head is screaming once again.  It seems that everyone want their say.  Everyone wants to be heard.  I am one and they are many.  Today is a day where I am screaming at them to shut the fuck up yet no one hears me.  They drown me out and I feel powerless.

Today that dirty, sweaty man is in every corner, no matter where I turn.  He is smiling, licking his lips, and he is laughing at me.  I tell myself that things are different now; things are better.  He laughs harder.  Despair is setting in and I am feeling myself surrender while keeping one eye slightly open on the off chance that hope is in another corner that I just can't see yet.

Today is despair with a sick heart.  Perhaps tomorrow is hope paired with desire.  One can always hope...