I thought it couldn't get worse.

it did.

There is a variation of the theme, but nonetheless . . the theme is in many ways. God won't give you more then you can handle or . . . the universe gives you what you need to grow or. . . whatever. Apparently the idea is that when your in a place to grow, shits gonna hit the fan. Walk through it. Run from it. Hide from it. Whatever you do . . . its going to change something for you.

This must be that day.

I honestly can't believe today happened. I am sitting here staring out my window, wondering how the hell today lined up how it did. I'm also wondering how to escape it, and realizing with a heavy feeling that I can't. This day had to happen. There was no other option. I'm sick already and hell, it hasn't even happened.

Doing my family mapping for a project was hard enough. I get sick in my stomach every time I even think about having to do a map. Yes, it sucks to make the marks and to see that every family member I have is marked with either drug abuse, sex abuse or mental health issues. I mapped back three generations of family and saw that there were two intact relationships. One is my grandparents the other is my aunt and uncle. That's it. No other long happy marriages. Even sadder when I realize my grampa died young and that they wre considering divorce. My aunt and uncle are married but hes a drunk. Shes a bitch. They stay married to torture one another. And, to prove to everybody else how perfect they are.

So, i call my aunt Lisa, figuring she can give me some glimmer of hope in my family. Some concept somewhere that I can grab to tell me that maybe, just maybe we aren't as unhealthy as our family map would seem. She begins the stories . . . who left who . . who hurt who . . . As I marked the family members I felt worse.

Then, out of nowhere she asks why I didn't ask my mother these things. Nervousness builds as i begin to think about what would happen if I asked mom. See . . . Mom would tell me how wonderful everybody was. How there is no drug abuse or sex abuse. She would tell me that there are no mental health issues. Thats how she does it. Denies everything. Always. So, I explained that to my Aunt, who understood.

Then she said something that rocked me. She began to talk about my cousin Amanda, and how Amanda's young son was just raped. Brutally raped. My little baby seven year old cousin was hurt horrifically. And, she began to talk about how lucky Amanda was that she learned what to do from my aunt when she was molested. I got it . . . I was there. Sad for Amanda and my baby cousin but glad she did the right thing.

Then she apologized to me. She said she was sorry that my mom felt the way she did. She told me that my mom and her just talked and that mom was talking about how I took her man from her. Recently. My mother. My MOTHER told her sister that I took her lover from her. RECENTLY. My stomach dropped. I don't think my aunt meant for it to come out like that. I don't think she meant to tell me. It slipped.

And my heart dropped. Goddammit. Why. WHY? Why after all these years does she stll think that when I was thirteen . . . I took him. Jim. I hate him. I hate her more. Why does she still think I took her boyfriend? My god she still hates me so much that she . . . twenty one years later . . . blames me for getting pregnant by a man who claimed to love her yet tortured me? I just wanted to run away. i wanted to get in my car and drive . . . anywhere . . . I don't care where. Away from here. Away from her. I felt like my heart was imploding. Just . . . folding up.

I can't even think. But, did it stop there? No. I never stops there. That would be too easy.

I couldn't focus and I am learning to not run but to sit in the pain. Not to block it. Not to get drunk. Just to sit. Still. Listen to my own pain and not push it away. I was lying on my bed, staring at the ceiling. Ironically the same way he would rape me over and over. Looking for patterns. Using the patterns I learned to cope with rape to cope with the pain of rejection twenty years later.

It hurt. It does hurt. I'm crumpled and don't know what more to do.

The day moved on. I don't even know how. I feel like it was just dark, so dark. I began to realize I didn't feed anybody, I didn't communicate. I didn't do . . . anything. So . . . I get up and begin moving around, doing chores and check email.

I can't believe it happened this way. If i wasn't me I would think that it wasn't true. There, sitting in my email, is an email from his sister. My stepfathers sister. My daughters fathers sister. Her aunt. Annette. My heart hasn't beat that hard in years. Fear shot through my body . . . fear is still pulsating through my body. I guess it is a good sign that I can feel right?

Her email is an attempt to tell me that the family knows all about everything. They struggle with what he did, and they think it was wrong. However they want to know Jayme, they want to accept me as part of the family. The door is open. I appreciate that.

And

Jim wants to see Jayme. He wants to meet his daughter. How can I accept that he is a father? How can I trust that he won't hurt her or do to her what he did to me. Or, that he . . .how? How can I stand and face him again after twenty years and pretend that its ok, or that this is a reunion or . . .

What does one do?

But I can't let him meet her alone. That would never work. I don't think she would be safe. I wouldn't be safe worrying.

I have known this was an interest of hers for a very long time, yet, I always thought of it as . . . some day. Not this day. Not tomorrow. Not this month or this year. Some other awful scary time that I didn't have to face right away.

It looks like that day is coming.

I feel hope again, for the first time in a long time. I feel that I am on the brink of a new path in my life, a path of being a stronger more confident woman. So long my view of myself has been that I am broken, crushed, damaged. I was not able to truly see myself moving into a healthy place in my life, a successful place, because broken crushed children aren't successful. I had this idea that I wanted to be calm and stable, yet the connection was never there. I felt like a farce, a fake . . . As if I was fooling every single person around me and eventually they (whomever they were?) would figure it out and come yank my stability from me.

Tracking back I can recognize this began very early and has built over my life. I was fearful of the loss of my children because they would figure out I was a bad mother, fearful of the loss of my home because I wasn't good enough as a wife, fearful of the loss of relationships because of my anger and frustration, and finally fearful of the loss of my degree if they figured out I wasn't smart enough for it. I have been projecting this fear into my future . . . thinking I am too broken, picturing that broken child as a successful therapist and believing that it was not possible. How could I possibly be successful when I am so broken inside.

Then I heard this . . . . "In my brokenness I find my wholeness" that hit hard. The conversation progressed to talking about how this work, this path I (we) have chosen is forcing us to emerge. Emerge. I can Emerge and become something more then just a broken child. What will I become? This is a thought that has never truly hit home until now. Who I am now is completely based upon who I was then. My brokenness then will create the whole woman in the future. That is powerful.

What does the future hold for me? I have always pictured myself away in a cabin, in the woods, surrounded by trees, completely self sufficient and having a need for nobody. I have planned ways that I could work for myself so that I would not have to interact with others. I never saw myself with a partner. I planned isolation for myself in an intense and deep rooted effort to protect myself from rejection of others. Any others. My need to control the surroundings in an effort to lesson the impact of others finding out I was broken and not worthy.

Now, I can see that. I don't exactly know what it all means but I do know I am aware of it. I know being aware means I can rewrite that story. I can build a new future. I can choose trust in my self and others instead of recoiling in fear and pain. I can be a woman of my choosing. I can emerge.

Waking up with fear an anxiety pulsing through my body. Today I have to drive up that long windy road, knowing that the awful cabin sits there. I want to confront my fear and say its no big deal, that it is just a house with no power but I don't feel that way. I feel panic just picturing the cabin. I try to visualize it being a safe place or even a nuetral place but the image is so frightening I can't even hold it in my mind without shaking and blocking it out. I realize more and more through the years that my defense mechanism is to shut it down. If it hurts, don't go there. Let it go. This is not helpful.

How am I supposed to work with clients and do therapy when I can't even follow the simple directions that i am giving? How can I lead them to a place of sitting in the raw pain and working through it when I am woefully unable to do it myself? I don't know what all my pain is, what all its from. I want to close it out and say it doesn't matter but it does matter . . . or else it would not be so terrifying.

Why the hell did I choose this internship? To prove something to myself? what the fuck was I thinking, I have nothing to prove. Why do I torture myself in these ways. I must have known on some level somewhere that this would trigger painful issues. Issues that would have been far better laid to rest and not touched. Why did I choose this therapist to work with? Why somebody who is so difficult and so pushy?

I wish I could get sick and not go. Just curl up under a blanket all day and forget that this area even exists. Not have to face her comments about me and my sexuality, about the work I do, or about the ways I should not be concerned about anything. This whole situation just is as messed up as it can be. I want out. Now.

This is ridiculous. Night after night sleep escapes me. I can feel the tension in my body, feel the anger and raw emotions that begin to rise when exhaustion is bordering. I know the depression and dark place I go to. I see it. I don't want it. I just want to lie down and sleep . . . long enough to replenish and refurbish my body.

Sleep comes so quickly. I'm exhausted and the second I stop I collapse into a deep e xhausted sleep . . . but within hours the dreams begin. Dark swirling dreams of choking, dreams of running with nowhere to go. I hear them coming after me but there is nowhere to run, no place to hide. I'm scared.

I want to have a place to run and hide, somewhere safe, some place that is soft to land. The nightmares have to stop.

Depression scares me, hurt and pain scares me. Why can't I just force my way through this?

Is this the part when i pull my hair out because I can't figure it out. Somebody needs to make me a set of dating rules, what you can do and what you cant. yes you can keep friends and go out but no, not if it makes your partner uncomfortable. But what makes your partner uncomfortable. how do you know. Thats why dating sucks. Thats why people should just be single or get married. No in between. If I was married I would never go out during the week and have drinks with friends.

I love him. Thats what it boils down to. I love him and feel like just with one choice to go out and have drinks I have lost him. I think its more then that but I don't know what it is. this is the first time he has refused talking to me and it feels like shit. I'm sure I am pulling all my own bullshit into it but it hurts, it feels like shit and I don't understand.

I see a goodbye coming. The closing of a door because I am too much of a pain in the ass. I'm not worth the time to work it out. This wasn't my intention and sometimes I don't know why I am such a stupid bitch about this stuff. I am so confused, my mind is spinning in circles. I don't know what made the problem. was it going out? was it drinking? I don't get it . . . we go out and drink . . . was it not asking first? Or . . was . . I don't know??? What happened so that even a phone call is not alright.

I just want to know the rules. I just want to know how to love him and have him as my own and yet keep the piece of me that he was drawn to in the first place. The piece of me that is active and outgoing and lives a full life.

What happened? Where did I go wrong? Why does this always happen . .. its like im woefully uncapable of keeping a man . . . any man . . . happy. It never mattered before but, it was never him before. This relationship is different. This is the man I want to grow old with, the one I want to watch the age weather his face, I want to see him grow and learn and expand . . I want to walk down the street holding his hand when we are old and grey, I want to explore this world with him. This matters. This is worth fighting for. I don't know what to fight for though.

God . . .. did I throw it away over a few drinks? Really? Or is it something else. Something I can't see. I don't know. Why can't I figure this out?

waking up at night, gaspin, clawing at the bed with the sheets wrapped around me . . . Hearing the agony of screams as somebody is trying to escape the pain, slowly realizing the screams are my own. Waking with the dry throat and the heaving breaths . . .trying to figure out if I am dying or awake in some strange place. Nightmares. They come in waves . . . easing off just when I think I can't handle one more night of lying there . . . terrified to sleep and yet exhausted by the mental and emotional strain of walking through my daily life.

Why now? Why so many dreams and thoughts, memories filtering to the top of my consciousness like oil drifts to the top of the water. Nothing is new . . . except the memory of the fear . . .sometimes dull and aching, other times sharp and painful. Awareness is new too. I was such a scared child. I had no safe place, no safe harbor, no place to bury my head and know that all was going to be well.

Living in our Skookum house is where the fear began. Thoughts drift through my heart and through my soul. I feel my chest tighten and my legs begin to grow weak . . . my toes tingling when I remember, when I free my mind and go back.

Memories of walkign down that damp dark porch to Dads shop . . .screaming "daddy daddy daddy" I would scream and shake, afraid of the dark and the cold but so much more afraid that when I opened that door my father would be lying in a bloody pool in an effort to end his own life. When he would finally answer me the relief would wash over me in waves and I would race to get out of the dark and cold . . . race to the shop that held his tools and machinery to tell him to come to dinner.
Dinner. . .meals .. . those were loaded times. Never knew when Dad was going to be furious and screaming or throwing things. Moms shelf was always in danger of having things thrown from one end to the other. Dad in a fit of rage, mom crouched on the floor begging him to stop. "mitch please please stop" she would cry. It was my job to intervene. My job to calm him before he became more violent and took it out on us. My job was to protect her and goddammit i was so young, I must have been about nine. Hannahs age.

The night we broke down, coming back through Sams valley late at night. We blew a tire and had to go into town. Dad was telling me that he hated my mother and wanted her dead. He wanted to twist her head off off her neck until she popped like a balloon and was no longer alive. I had just seen a movie where a woman's head exploded and couldn't erase the image from my mind of my mothers head exploding all over me. I begged my father to calm down, told him to hit me but not my mom. I didn't want my mom hurt. I told him she didn't mean to . . . I was always defending her. He was shaking in rage, his face red and sweaty. He was furious . . . over what I no longer can recall. Eventually we were able to get home and I thought I would die that night. He was screaming and jerking the wheel all over, the car was veering all over the road. My mom was screaming back. I huddled in the back with my hands over my ears trying to drowned out the screaming.

Always screaming and threats, always violence. Bruises and scrapes from thrown items were the norm. I was so proud to have Robin come to visit for a weekend. She was the most popular girl in the school and I finally had a friend over. Dad was furious . . . he threw a cup of coffee at me and struck me with it. Robin was scared and her parents came for her. I didn't understand. I knew I was bad and had lost a friend . . .

It was awful. The therapist made my dad take his guns out of the home because he was threatening to kill us. He took all but one out. He still had the one gun . .. always so aware of that gun and wanting to use it to shoot him. I wanted him dead. Then came the day that he loaded it and began parading with it. Mom and I ran as fast as we could to the van to get away. My legs couldn't move fast enough. That all too familar feeling of adrenaline racing through my veins. Both mom and I were crying and praying that God would allow our van to start that day so that we could get away. i ran so fast I couldn't turn to see if he was behind us. I thought we were dead. I knew that would be the day. As we hit the van we realized it was going to start and we could get away. My mom drove as fast as she could down that driveway when we realized that he was shooting at us. he didn't hit us . .. but he did hit the trees lining the driveway. Was he trying to kill us? Did he hate me that bad? Do I wonder why I live in constant fear of men?

And, she went back . . . even after he beat the car with the hammer trying to get to us. He would have killed us that night too. Even after he scraped her breast with the throw of a brush and hung her off a bridge. Even after i told her that he had molested me . . . that he had held me down in my little white gown and did what he did. she went back. "katrina, I miss my home and my animals. don't be selfish" thats what she said. Don't be selfish.

so I was selfish and I didn't go back. I began to write. Tonight I found a poem I wrote to my dad . . . then . . my words were strong. I didn't rhyme well, I was child like. . . but the words are strong. I don't know what to think . . . sitting here reading my poems from my childhood. Words that captured moments in time.

Here are my words . . .

Dad
Sadness pulls at my heart
When I think of the innocence you stold
Looking back on you
You must have been damn cold

When I think of the things you have done
I get so angry inside
You pulled me down and hurt me so bad
You wounded my innocent pride

The precious innocence you stold from me
is something i can never regain
but the sad thing is,
I'm sill under your strings
and I can't let go of this pain.

So now I hope your hurting
somewhere deep inside
I guess thats the wrong way to think
or maybe a feeling I should hide

But im tired of having to hide
my feeling thoughts and emotion
maybe this way I can forget
some of this terrible commotion.

I wrote that at fourteen. What The Fuck?

`Or, the one I wrote february 1989. I was what . . .13? This was two months before I tried to take my life . . . when I was in the thick of being homeless and shuffled around town. It was cold that winter, snow to my knees. This was two months before Jim began raping me for the next three years. I was . .. thirteen . .. .

Divorce
The word divorce has always scared me
it started way back when I was just three
member sitting in the wagon my daddy telling me
don't worry honey it will last eternity

Being the kid I was, dumb and naive
how was I to know that someday he would leave
I saw the beatings and all the fithts
but I never thought hed be gone on these long winter nights

I guess its better this way with him not here
because nwo I don't have to spend my life in constant fear
but its still hard cus theres a new fear
it only seems to happen when one of them is near

The drugs and alcohol have taken their toll
taught me some lessons, im no longer a fool.
but I know when she comes near
that shes been out and it brings back my fear

She says she don't drink and that shes fine
but I know better cus I know the sign
She says its her life to do as she wants
but late at night, its me that it haunts

I know I should stop her and not let her go
but if I do she makes me feel so low
she yells at me and leaves me confused
and says bad things that make my heart feel confused.


JESUS . . .. I was thirteen. I was a baby. How could I have wrote that. what the hell was my reality? Random lines from poems back then are tearing out my soul tonight . . " Sometimes life don't seem worth it to try, all you want to do is Cry" . . .. I was 12. TWELVE! "I feel so alone and burning up with pain, my life is like a paper that has been spoiled by a stain" . . . .

flipping through my old book of poems . .. from eleven to fourteen . . . the words rape, pain, stain, death, shame . . . over and over.

and I wonder why i have nightmares

sometimes I wonder why I do what I do?

Why I feel the need to destroy something before it can even get off the ground. There is safety in being sheltered and alone. Safety in holding the walls and doors around me. Safety in the certainty that no pain can come. Do I strive for that safety to the point of destroying my own happiness?

I feel it coming, that mad desperate need to run from absolute fear. I want to be different this time. I want to dig my feet in and stay. I need to stop running out of fear. Pain happens. I can take it. I have taken it before. I can take it again.

it would be so easy to walk away, go back to what I know, finally give in to the fight. It would be so easy to live within the madness that never touches me deeply. So easy to live a lie of a life and shut down again. I don't want that though. I don't. right?

pieces

Random thoughts that mean everything and nothing . . . kept tonight . .. .


being on the bunk, michael and stacy . . . I was very afraid. There was tickling and my "uncle" but the fear was that the uncle would hurt me. How would I have had that fear? How old was I? I think around three. Trying to hide up against the wall so I wouldn't be reached or touched. everybody laughed. I laughed. but why was there fear.]

the nightmare

There is a door leading down the steps . .. I go down the steps, sometimes only four or five, sometimes its very long. There is darkness . . .a sense of disarray. Dirt, lots of dirt. there is dirt on the walls and floor. Things are crumbling. I want to get out and I begin to try to leave. I can't leave. Im' being grabbed . . . people are grabbing me. There are voices but I don't seem to be able to connect to the voice. I'm trying to yell and I can't yell. . . . I see teh stairs but I can't reach them. Im going to die. I choking. I'm dying. I'm scared . . . I try to escape but I can't go anywhere. I'm stuck. I think im dying. I can see the stairs. they are there, I can see them. I can sometimes feel them.

Michael is there, we are in a sand box, my dress is yellow and has two ruffles on the bottom. My legs are open. Michael is there. It hurts. I don't want my mom to see. im embarrased. I have pigtails. a curl in the pigtail. im scared. im embarrased. I want to go away. somebody comes. there is sand.


im sick, everybody is calling me a sickie. im upset and angry. I don't want to be the dirty bad girl. im hiding behind a hedge of grapes or floewrs. im crying. I am afraid of kendall. he has a beard and is scary. he kisses me, i don't want him to kiss me, its wet. I am a bad girl. bad girl. im sick and nobody wants to touch me, im contaminated or dirty or feel very yucky. I want to hide behind the bush. there is a couch, he is on the couch, he is yucky and wants to hug and touch me. Where is this house? I think I was four or five. this was later.

Why was i a scared child, why was fear always something that was in my life. I never feared what others feared. i feared being raped and choked to death. I feared being held down and hit, bbeing hurt badly. I thought I woudl be tortured. Torture was always a thought as long as I can remember. My fear of being caught alone, my fear of being alone. my fear. where does a small child learn to fear for teir body. In hebor, i was five, and i feared leaving the porch because somebody would hurt me and get me. i can't remember a time in my life where I wasn't scared. that fear lingered and became a cloak to my life. i never spent the night out because of fear or took a risk due to fear. what did I fear. Who caused that fear, why was that fear there.


whhy was my story of such interest to others. why did everbody think it was so funny that i told stories of rape and violence. why was thsi interesting and why did nobody step in to protect me. why has nobody ever protected me. wnhy doesn't anbyody care. I had uncles i had a dad, i had a mom. did nobody see the sign, my gramma did. what did she see to make her warn my mother. why did my mother never tell me. did everybody know. is this a scam to take the pressure off of michael. why was my little body and soul secondary to a good story. why wasn't i good enough to be protected and loved. why couldn't i be picked up off that floor and bathed and held and reassured. why was I left there. why did nobody care. why was I crying. Why was i ignored. why was I hushed.




she knew. thats what got me. she knew
how and why did this never come to me. why in all the stories of what I should go there for did it never hit me . why wasn't I told that my grandmother stepped in to save me. why did my grandmother care enough to warn but not enough to remove me. what did she see did she see the act or did she just asssume. why did my mother never care and why does she describe it as the best time of our lives. maybe it was the worst time of my life. where was my mother that she couldn't care what was happening to her baby. i was her baby once. is that when she stopped loving me? did I ruin her reality. did I scar her picture show and illusion with my broken little body. did she block this or did she care . when did she stop loving me. was it then? did she see it. did my aunt tell her. my aunt knew. She knew when she was washing the laundry in the bucket of soap outside the house on the hell. I came to her. I know she knew. She was angry with me. I was told to go in the house. there were rocks by the path. she was mad. was I bad. was I dirty. I was dirty, I was in the dirt. there was grass too. but that was a different house. That wasn't the small house. that was the house on the hill. If my mom knew why was I there. my grandmother told her well before.

two years old in oak knoll. I don't remember it. I began to talk. There was a snake, a big snake. it hurt me. there was a husband or a man. he hurt me. he raped me. how does a two year old know that. how does a two year old describe a rape unless they have endured that rape. why was that funny. why does it get told to me with such joy. why did nbody tell me before the awful truths

driving to the cabin I realized its a body memory. even before I knew we were anywhee close my speech disorganized and my heart began to pound. my body remember that, my soul remember that. the cabin makes me panic, i am vile and sick to my stomach. my flight instinct takes over and I want to flee the scene. the reality begins to sink in as she tells me to put on my clinicians hat and describe what it sounds like. why didn't i see that before, its so obivious. seeing the cabin on the way back impounds that, before we hit the curb the fear wells, the intensity is there, the pain is there. it hurts but its terrifying, like crawling and fighting and gasping for air. why am i gasping for iar. im not sure I want to remember the details or not, im not sure if I should, im not sure if it matters. this is the fear though the fear that has haunted me always, im running and im fighting and im not getting anywhere. i cante get away, i can'g to, im being smothered, there is dirt so much dirt, its grinding and hurting me, its pebbly dirt. there is thumping so somebody is there, its dark, but there is light from somewhere. there is more then one but who. who is the other. there is michael

stay apolgoizes. i rmemeber stacy apologizes and I dn't knwo for what. she is in the bthroom and holding my face. i am maybe eight. I don't know for what but i tell her its ok. why is it ok. what is she apologizing for. was she the other one. no. the other was a boy. they were big. big boys. scary boys. my panties were white with pink rosebuds. where are they. brown. wet. dirty and smeared. my hair wsa full of sticks. where are the sticks from.



the utter and complete fear of stairs my entire life didn't hit me til today. my attempts at going dow nthe stairs from my room growing up. i was panicked and would race before anybody could catch me. I refuse to go down my stairs if the lights are n't on. descending into marsha and dales root cellar was torture to put it mildly. i made it into a joke but the panic and te fear tht would wel up inside me wasn't funny. when i run up my stairs at my house there is that jolt of adrenaline. i panic always. why didn't i see this before. stairs have been my giggest fer. my house on mill creek. they would tell me to go up or down the stiars and i would cry, the fear would parralyze me. i get it now. I understand it now. now i understand. my body is reacting in fear to what it experienced. i was that child held under there. it all makes sense. it fits together. everybody knew but i wa held in the dark thil the end. wy was i the laughingstock. why was i the funny story. wy wasn't anybody there to step up to the plate for me.


is that where the fear began. the fear of being so far away that somebody would take me and drag me away. is that where she tstopped loving me, because i was a dirty sameful child. my entire childhood is rooted in pain and fear, in hurt and being scared, in constant visions of rape and choking, of skinned knees and bruises. who the fuck nows that at four or five. this fear has dominated my life.

always trees and woods in my fears, bieng hurt and left out, being attacked and not seeing it coming, being the dirty one, the bad girl, the yucky one. but i carried that role. i walked right through my life with the one who wasn't good enough for any others ta. why . well now i know why. now it makes sense

like my father hse knew. so casually knew
so casually told me
how is my victimization so casual for her. Oh ya . . .theres a story . ... why am i thrity five and just hearing that story when i have heard the other for so many yars. what did she have to gain by holding the dark veil over the truth.



hes dead now. did she feel relief when he died. he raped his daughters. i forgot. oh my gld. he raped his baby girls. his twin girls. why did i not get that

when he raped his babies, did nobody look back and consider me. was i the afterthought that didn't matter. im always the afterhought, the one that is strong enough to conquer all. the one that trudges through. what if i don't want to trudge through. what if I want the be the first though. what if I wanted to be picked up and held the way his babies were held. they had a mommy that picked them up. i wanted that.



dear little girl
if i could be there now i would hear you . . . i would hear the muffled sounds and he bumps. i would come to find you knowing that there was a small child that nboody saw. I would see your litle blonde head and your fear stricken eyes. i would come and pull you off of that dirty floor and carry you out. i would wrap my arms around you and hold you tight, whispering that everything would be alreight. i would hold you and rock you and sing to you until your tears dried on your face and you no longer had a body wracking iwth sobs. you cried hard, you were scared but embarrassed to cry. you made a decision to stop crying that day but little girl i would hold you and tell you to cry. i would hold you and wipe the tears then take you in and wipe them away. i would tell you that you are going to hurt but that you are loved and potectid and that nothing will happen to you again. Little girl I would find them and keep them from you forever. i would never lie to you about your trauma and pain, i would never lead you to believe that you were fine. i would hold a place in my heart o to allow you to feel the pain that they inflicted upon you. i would hold a place to comfort you afterwards and tell you i was there to care for you. little girl I would slowly pick the sticks from your hair and the briars and dirt from your clothing. I would put you in a clean dress and wipe the dirt and soot from you. I would give you a big bowl of ice cream and tell you how safe you were. i would hang on to you when you cried and hold you through te nightmares, bringing you out of them and back into the reality owrld where nobody could hurt you. i wouldn't let them hurt you. i wouldn't let your life change because of the actions of a few. I would keep him from hurting you again. I would keep you safe. little girl I would fight to keep you and every other little girl safe. your little pigtails were curled, so blonde and short. I would comb them and put bows in them so you smile whth delight when you sa w them. you wouldn't hurt any more. i would keep you safe. little girl im sorry you weren't kept safe. little girl im sorry there was nobody there to keep you warm and protected.

The pieces came together today. I'm not in a place in my life at thsi moment that I can unpack them but today it was like a jigsaw puzzle and the pieces came together. I realized things I never had a clue about before and it is surreal. It is bordering on painful but tonight, it can't be. Tonight I want t smile and I want it all ok. Tonight I don't want to think about the reality that soon is slamming home to me. Then again, its not reality, it is history. i am in a safe place to think about this history. I am an adult now and this gives so many answers to so many questions. I can't belive teh obvious wasn't so obvious before. I need to not go there right now but at the same time I can't shake the inevitable, its bordering on the brink . . . right there . . .threatening to slip into my emotional reality any minute. I am fighting harder to contain this primal scream then I ever have had to maintain any emotion. The terror and sadness is so close, so bordering teh edge. God I hope I make it through this night. I don't want to fuck everything up because I can't control myself. Please god why now. Why do I have to have this realizeation on thsi day at this moment. Oh god.

Im already feeling the frustration grow in me. I started my placement today which went better then I could have expected. I was up at 530, getting ready to head out. I wasn't sure what to expect for my first day so just dressed casual and hoped for the best. When I got to the town I realized I forgot the directions. Great. I thought I could remember . . . haha nope. I realized that I had the old directions in my planner though and pulled up one minute before seven am. Perfecto!

The morning started off great, I got a tour of the entire facility, met the physicians and several nurses. I was able to meet the man who runs the addictions program (which I may be working with!) and other pertinent individuals. I was excited to see my office. I have a desk by a window. The office is simply decorated in tribal sayings, prints and articles. On the windowsill by my desk is a nesting of sticks as well as a piece of root that is burned ceremoniously by tribal members. It's a good reminder that this is a different kind of a work environment.

I watched videos the rest of the morning and then my new field instructor took me for lunch. We talked about various aspects of my work and what I wanted to do. She mentioned my queerness a few times. I realized I felt like a traitor. Am I still queer? I guess I am but I am with a male now, and that changes everything. I finally felt that to withhold that information would be misleading so I told her. It was interesting. Her reaction was more that of curiousity. We talked about it a little bit later as well. I didn't feel judgement but it made me realize how different this world may be for me. The day continued to be working out details such as voicemail, badges etc. It ended with a bang when a crisis happened and I was the only one available. Trial by fire I suppose.

So, I got out later then I anticipated and pulled back into town around six pm. Tired . . hot . . overwhelmed . . .I realized I had to stop for milk and bread. Into the store I trudge, my legs worn out and all I wantedto do was get home. I gathered my groceries and pull into my driveway only to be met by my kiddo. She was sobbing hysterically because Kiah locked her in the room for two hours. Not good. NOT GOOD AT ALL. Struggling under groceries and sobbing kids I meet Kiah who announces that I was the one who told her to keep Hannah in the room. My anger flew through the roof. Why would I say that? Ever? It makes no sense. Kiah and I are hashing it out while I am putting away groceries and trying to shred the roast in the crock pot for tacos.

Finally . . . dinner on the table, I still haven't sat down. I'm frustrated and tired. I dish teh kids food for them and sit at the table while they eat. Eating at this point holds no appeal for me at all. I just want to sit and do nothing. This obviously is not in the cards for me tonight. As I am trying to gather my breath I hear about Hannah wanting to play vollyball and Jake wants flag football . .. my minds screaming "WHEN WHEN WHEN" . . . Kiah is having an attitude and tells her boyfriend they can't go to homecoming cus I said no (I said no if she didn't straighten her attitude). Katies not home so I begin cleaning up after the dinner mess while doing yet another load of never ending laundry . . . dreaming of a moment to sit. . . just . . .. sit . ..

Of course, then it was sweeping, yelling at kids to take out the trash, folding the laundry . . jake can't find socks for tomorrow . . . the bedroom is a mess again . . . jakes shirts are missing OH NO they are under the stack of dirty laundry because he never put them away . . . oh my god are you kidding me . . .

Did I mention the bag of dog food split open and was spread down the hall? Seriously? Why me god? Why?

So, I gave up, left the mess, collapsed to read another chapter of Harry Potter. I pulled the wreckage of a room into the center and threatened them with their lives or at least no more ice cream if they don't have it done tomorrow . .. now its quarter after eight and I am finally sitting. I am worn out. My body hurts and my head is killing me.

This will get better. I will adjust. I need to organize . . . I bought frozen pizza for tomorrow, hell with nutrition. Hurry up June . . .

I got the call

She was raped.

God Dammit.

So young, so angry, so brave and strong and eager to run.

He took it from her.

He . . . in his fucked up, twisted mind, in the depravity that hits when the soul just leaves . . .

he stold it from her.

WHY does this continue to happen. WHY do men feel they have the right to just rip the core from young girls. This will affect her forever. I know. I know . . .

He goes on . . . probably spinning some sick and twisted fantasy

She will never trust. She will always look over her shoulder. She will have doubts that creep into every decision of her life. She will live in fear, struggle to survive, die trying or die trying to prove she is worth something to somebody. I know. . ..

That son of a bitch.

drunk blogging again. not good. I wonder if i will have to delete this post to. Sometimes i write and write . . .coming back later and realizing that i make an ass out of myself when I do this. Tonight I am so torn up and raw I dont care. i'm blogging. hell with it.

this has been such a bad week at work, starting with traveling out of state to pick up a child who did not want to come with me. She made her plans, she wanted to stick with it. i wished she could have but the law is the law and I pulled her back with me. The plan was for me to have a few days off to make up for it but alas, there was no placement for thsi child so i have been babysitter de jur.

I wouldn't have minded had she been slightly reasonable, instead I am the queen of all evil to her. I spend my days being accosted by her, screamed at, cursed out, alternating between how much she loves me and how scared she is to having her tell me she may as well kill herself now because she wants to die . . . all because of me. When I don't have the pleasure of her company I have been working myself to the bone to prepare to send this child back to the state she wants to be in . . . . until today. until it came out that serious sex abuse apparently was happening. Of course I understand it. Nobody else does. i'm thrust into my own situation where I was willign to keep my mouth shut about being raped daily because it meant I had food on the table and a bed to sleep in. Gone were the days of sleeping in a car or under a tree. i had a fire a night, and it was well worth the embarrassment of having to be raped by a man thirty years older then me. After awhile rape no longer hurts. It settles into a numbness, a shield that protects the body and soul for the harsh realities of your body being invaded at somebody elses beck and call.

I'mfighting for her and she doesn't even know. She doesnt care. She cussed me out, spit on me and threw a book at me today. She told me she will get loaded regardless of what i say. She hates me. I should be dead and shewould be fine. It was lovely. I wonder what will happen when I tell her she can't go back.

I move from her to my next child, a child who spent the entire hour talking about her abuse, her trauma, her pain. She will be ok . . . she has a solid base. . . .

Back to the office I go, thinking hwo nice it would be to go hoem early, cook dinner, play with my babies. I was . . . am . . . exhausted. I miss my lover, I miss my bed, I miss my energy. I wanted to be home and recharge. Then . . . I get the call . . .

another young girl I have sent home, one I made a contraversial decision about . . .one I have been watching and monitering the best I can . . . made a suicide attempt. For confidentiality I can't speak of it but the poitn is I am responsible. I sent her home. I sent her into a pit of vipers who started again and wasn't there to save her. She t ried to save herself through death.

what the fuck am I thinking that I can do this job. I did exactly what I set out not to do. I placed a child at risk. A child almost lost her life. A child still could lose her life or her functioning. Why? because I sent her home. I . . . of all peopple . .. know that home is never safe. what was I thinking.

I came home after working several mroe hours to find myself utterly devastated. i don't know that I can continue with this line of work. I don't know how to find the words to tell her im sorry. I don't know why i thought I was well enough to do this. im fucked up and now she is fucked up.

I came home to beer and sobbing. maybe its the stress of the last few weeks, maybe its traveling, maybe its exhaustion or maybe its all. I am a mess. and, in the middle of my mess, is bill, always bill. Right there to remind me how weak and pathetic I am next to him. Right there to remind me that my lover and I will never be. Right there to tell me on one hand how much he loves me and on the other hand to tell me that he doesn't care what I ask. I told him if he cared then let me love my lover. Let me be happy, let me move on. Let me be. Just be. Thats all I ask. with his swagger he reminds me that he goes where he wants, does what he does. Its just like that. I have no choice.

im thinking its best ot just go. run. leave. gone. Why fight it. why?

So tired that I know I shouldn't be writing. Exhaustion is the worst time to write and yet seems to be the time when I am drawn the most to writing. Sometimes the element of emotional and physical exhaustion lends itself to creating a place of just being raw and open, walls going down, flood doors opening. Other times it lends itself to writing a jargled jumbled mess that makes no sense at all. Usually I don't read my stuff later so it doesn't matter but sometimes i go back. Its then that I see the times I write that are spurred by different emotions, highs and lows, hopes and fears. It affects the way I write. The way I think. The basic simple facts I believe in or don't. Maybe thats why my life is rocky and rolling . . . maybe there is no solid ground. Maybe there never will be.

When I look at my future, in ten years, I see a blank page. I don't know how to fill it in, what to write, what colors to choose. I don't see a theme or a canvas. its just blank. At some times I believe that in ten years I will be married, the kids mostly out of the house, I will be traveling and secure in my career. I will cook for lots of people and play with grandkids as much as possible. Life will be about having fun and relaxing.

Other times I can't imagine that. I wonder what the point is. I am terrified of complacency and settling into a mundane middle class existence. I want to join the peace corp and travel teh world or adopt five kids and build a life for them. I want to do the extraordinary, not sit in a mundane lifestyle and watch the years pass by. I've no fear of death but a huge fear of not living life to its fullest. I don't want to be rich or famous, I don't want to drive a new car or outfit my family in the latest brand names. I just want to life fully.

Every day I wake up and think about how amazing this life is. Maybe you have to go through an experience where your basic fundamentals are stripped from you before you can truly recognize how amazing it is to simply go for a walk, take a drive or plan a vacation. I even still get emotional when I make a phone call at times, remembering the years I wasn't allowed. Watching television still feels like I am going to get in trouble . . . I wait for my husband to come around the corner and catch me. Lying in a bubble bath with a book is exhilerating and at the same time I'm so aware that I would have caught hell for weeks just a few years ago.

Looking into my future, I never really saw myself with anybody again. I can't imagine shifting my life to include somebody who would once again have a say over where I go and what I do with my time. How would I let somebody in who could bar me from a weekend trip or limit my choices and freedom. I logically can understand that I only will find this relationship if I let myself and that there are many many men out there who aren't this way. How do you ever know though? really know?

And under all of that . . . how do you know your strong enough to move on? strong enough to be a true partner to another and yet to hold your own space and boundaries, your own beliefs and ideals without becoming homogonized to the other person? Where do you allow the lines to blur and yet know when to hold steadfast to yourself? I haven't had a relationship like that . . . I realize that i want that . . . and that I'm woefully unprepared ot know how to proceed. I find myself being pulled back into patterns of the past, thinking I should settle for the 'safe' man . . . the one who won't rock the boat, who . . . while kind and gentle is also not the one I am pulled to. The one I am pulled to is like fire . . . and I'm a moth drawn to the flame . . . dancing so close I am bound to be burned but so delighted in the lick of flames I care not. And then . . . when all is quiet, I think about it, logic sets in and I began logically explaining to myself why the other is safer. Its not a fire . . . its more like a warm blanket that just cloaks you . . . its comfortable, its easy, it asks for nothing and requires nothing. There is companionship and maybe even chemistry but it pales in the light of the other.

My old habit has always been to shy away from what I really want to seek out what is safe. My history shows that this has never been safe nor has it ever worked for me. Do I dance in the flame . . . do I throw aside old habits and dive in head first, letting all caution to the wind . . . asking for nothing in return and knowing that I may have to pick myself up from the ashes when I am done? OR . . . do I keep it as a special memory and go back to the safe place, the warm arms, the quietness, the dark eyes. Do I dip back to the one who silently has the world to offer? I don't know . . . do I want that world? I don't think so . . .

Maybe I am answering my own questions . . . I began this talking about not wanting to live a mundane existance but to push the boundaries of life. I want the passion, the spark, the backbending toe curling arching hanging on for dear life passion. That doesn't come often. That passion becomes passion for all things in life . . . arts, career, friendship, life . . . but that passion can cost one hell of a price. It can cost me everything. I don't know . . .

Loss

Coming home from the playa I had so much emotion in my soul. I was feeling so healed and ready for my future whatever that holds. I left behind the expectations and the pain from the past, said goodbye to relationships that didn't matter anymore, was full of love from my playa family and was looking forward to coming home recharged and ready.

Until Sunday night, when I found out that Dale, a man who was the kindest, gentlest, best person I have ever known, had passed away. It was a shock. I knew he was sick but Dale is a strong man and up until last week when I left, was still out on the baling tractor working the alfalfa. I didn't see this coming. I feel like somebody just opened my chest, ripped my heart out and left a huge dark cave where once was a soul.

Today I spent remembering. I couldn't do anything. I can't bring myself to go to the farm. I can't bring myself to make the call. I can't face the reality that the one safe place in my entire life is gone. He is gone, and soon, she will be gone to. I am unprepared for the fact that I don't have a center any longer, no stability or anchor in my life. I feel like I am about to set into a drift with no directions and it scares the hell out of me.

When I was fifteen, my home was so abusive that police and child welfare intervention was necessary. The day I left was the scariest day of my life. I ran and hid in the bushes from my stepfather as he raced his motorcycle up and down the street trying to find me. I would like on the ground with my baby (his child) under me so that he couldn't see us. He had threatened to kill us so many times that I have no doubt, he would have, that day, had he found us. Eventually though we arrived at the police station. The fear was immense. They took little Jayme from me and had a woman watching her while I went to another room and was interviewed for hours by the detective. The humiliating pieces from the past three years all came out. . . one by one. After that we were driven to child welfare, the office where i work now .. . . specifically in the same office that my supervisor is now in . . . . at that point, I began to realize that not only was I not going home, but that there was nowhere for me to go. As a teenager with a toddler, no home was certified for us both. I didn't know what that meant but I knew I was scared. Scared for me and my baby girl.

We went back to the center we had originally been at. There it began to come out that I was going home with this little white haired lady Marsha. She wasn't a foster parent but she came out fighting for me. I remember the detective stating to her that I was in very high danger until my stepfather was caught. Marsha smiled and said "I have a big shotgun in the closet, a son on one side and another on the other side . . . nobodys gonna hurt these kids". With that, she loaded Jayme and I in her car and home we went. I was terrified. I saw a Jesus sticker on her car and hoped it would be ok. She told me she had a husband. Dale. I was more terrified then ever.

As we pulled into Marsha and Dales home I gasped. So many times I had drove by their home and wished for a life like that. The sweet white farmhouse, acres of green growing hay, the cows and chickens. I cried and told her. She welcomed me home. She set about making a space in the room for me. What I didn't know, is that she had never taken a kid home before. She took a risk for me. Her husband, Dale, allowed that risk.

I met him soon. He was tall, cowboy hat, a farmer to the core. Dale didn't speak much and I was terrified of him. My experience with men wasn't very good and he was very big. He never said much, but was polite. A few days later they called me to see a birth of a calf. That calf died, and Dale was concerned for the mother. He went to buy a baby calf at the auction and invited me. I was terrified and refused to go. He sensed my fear . . . he was soon back with a tiny baby cow and let me watch as he introduced her to the grieving mother. He was so gentle and concerned.

Over the next twenty years, Dale and Marsha were my anchor and my rock. They would come to visit, come for the holidays. One year there was a flood and rats kept coming through the sewer lines . .. . for Christmas Dale bought me a huge rat trap as a joke. He was kind and funny. On my graduation from high school when everybody forgot me, Dale came in from the fields and took me to dinner to celebrate. He loved my children and I in a calm and safe way that nobody ever had before. He could be moved to anger though. One particular time I was stuck in a very unsafe situation with a man I had been dating. I couldn't find my way out and was scared. I called Marsha and Dale answered. He knew right away something was wrong and said "are you safe?" I wasn't . . . and he knew. Within moments him and Marsha were there to help me once again and take me home, to the farm. He had a few simple choice words for that young man but we all knew he wasn't joking.

Home. Thats what the farm is. When my life was in turmoil at fifteen . . . it was home. When my mother brought my stepfather back into my life at sixteen, I ran away in the middle of the night in a snowstorm with my daughter and hid while Marsha and Dale drove an hour to pick us up . .. and take us home. I lived with them for months, building money, skills, and letting my heart heal . . . before I could move on again. When my heart was broken, I went home, to the farm. When my marriage ended, It was Marsha and Dale who healed me again. Sitting at the table with farm food being served, Dale drinking his milk, Marsha fussing over me. I was safe there. Probably the only place on this planet that I was safe, that is consistent, that is solid. I can go in the middle of the night, on any given day of the week. I can call when my world is crashing or when something exciting is happening. Most of the last ten years I have spoken to them daily, sometimes good, sometimes rocky, but always there. They parented me. They raised me. They encouraged me to do better and knocked me around when I was spinning out of control.

Now, he is gone. No more farming the fields. No more watching the tractor weaving in and out. No more laughing as my children climbed onto his lap and got their first tractor ride or jumped in the pickup to head out to a far field. The farm is going to be sold . . . I can't imagine my life without walking in the garden or picking clusters of grapes. The thought of never sitting at that table and sipping tea from Marsha's teacup collection or being teased about my fear of the basement is terrifying.

So little of my life has ever been solid, I don't hold connections or keep grounded. I don't carry on traditions. I don't have a safe childhood home I long to return to. I float like a crushed dandelion in the wind. When I crash, hurtling in a downward spiral I land at the farm. Now . . . that is gone.

Without Dale, Marsha won't make it for long. She has been suffering from a host of problems for awhile and dementia is beginning to settle in. She needed Dale to care for her. She needs the lifelong patterns of gardens and chickens, church and quilting. Without them she will begin to lose everything . . . and then I will lose her.

I am scared for me. I am scared for my children. This is the anchor, the rock, the solid place in my life and its gone. Nobody to ask my questions of any longer. Nobody to cry to, or to share joy with. Nobody to listen when I am confused. It's gone. The only solid thing in my life, is gone.

I know I shouldn't be selfish. Dale is in a better place, I believe that. Marsha will join him soon and if anbody on this earth should make it to heaven its them. But, im here, and im scared. I panic and get lightheaded when I think about my life now. How do I recharge? Where is my safe place going to be? Who is there to care at all now? To guide me and pull me back into line? There is nobody. I'm alone . . . completely alone. I am so scared.

This week I have to face his funeral. I don't think I can. The children want to go and say goodbye. I can't say goodbye. I cried and sobbed so hard this morning I drove the wrong way and had to stop on the shoulder of the road. My sobs led to wails, to a primal level of pain and release, to shaking and heaving, sobbing, hysteria. I had to come home and tell the children. Katie stared at me blankly . . . she hasn't connected yet. Makiah crumpled and began sobbing much the way I did . . . . Jayme, sat silent for a moment and then the tears came . . . . Hannah and Jacob cried . .. we all are feeling lost.

I always have to be the strong one to get everybody through. This time, I don't know if I can. I don't know where that strength is. I feel vacant and empty. I'm tired of doing this life alone. Now I am more alone then ever. Im so scared. I feel like that lost and lonely kid the first day I was taken away . . . knowing that home is gone and no longer an option but without any clue what is there to take its place. I'm lost. I'm scared. I want my parents. They are no longer there. Home is gone . . . im afraid I'm gone with it.

Thinking . . . . pondering. . . So, I just read a blog entry about a man who went to burningman . . . his truck was dinged and dented when a part broke. Burningman said he could file a claim and fix it but he realized that after he came home, everytime he looked at the ding in the side of the truck it was with nostalgia. He kept the dent . . . thought about painting a kiss. . . that is beautiful.

When I was in my first year of college I took a class on religion. My favorite story was that of a Buddhist woman who went to the temple to burn incense . . . she asked for blessings from the Buddha and began being blessed greatly. As her blessings increased she began to get selfish, she wanted the blessings for herself only. Next time she went she cupped the incense to go straight to her and the Buddha statue only. She burned and singed the Buddha's face. It was an amazing story.

The class opened my eyes to Buddhism and I began collecting Buddhas here and there. My first one I bought was a sitting Buddha, Lotus style. As soon as I got it home I dropped it . . . breaking his nose off. I delighted in this because it is my reminder to share the blessings in my life. The next Buddha I got fell and broke as well. I bought a Buddha lamp and it broke . . . To this day, every single Buddha I have bought has broken or had a chip out of it. I absolutely love that reminder. It has become a running joke in our house. Last year at Christmas Makiah bought me an oil warmer with three buddhas on it. Within days it had broken . . .

My point? Nothing really. Reading his post made me think of my own experience. Made me remember to embrace the experience . . . . good or bad. What looks like a negative can quite simply be something beautiful. So, if you see a cracked Buddha, thank somebody for your blessings

I woke up this morning feeling giddy and excited. Three days from now I will journey to a dried up lakebed in the middle of nowhere to spend the days rediscovering who I am. I wasn't going to make it this year due to a myriad of issues but at the last moment the playa called me, and I couldn't say no.

Going to Burningman means so many things to different people. It is so easy to get swept up in stories of orgy style parties and endless drugs. Some people talk about the hippies or the ravers, whatever their particular bent is. That is all true . . . as with any city, if you look close enough you will find just about anything.

But, on the playa, its magic. It is the only place in my life I have ever felt connected and fully accepted. Nowhere else do I feel that people understand me. I understand that my outlook and view on life is often significantly different. It is one of the reasons I tend to not make connections in this every day life. Its far simpler to have many polite aquaintences. However, on the playa . . . its understood. The people who actually treck to the playa with everything they need to survive the week . . . those people get it. They understand the need to experience everything this life has to offer. The good, the bad, the unusual. The experiences that you draw from in those down times to pull you through.

When I think of my burningman experiences, the ones that move me are the ones that taught me so much about myself. My very first burn with the Tribe (my group) we had planned and worked on our project for months (a move theatre in the desert). I had taken several trips to Sacramento and San Francisco. I was ready . . . I was fired up. We got to the desert and began to build our circus tent. The wind was thrashing and dust was flying. It was hot, the sand stung, it wasn't the best of times. I was very task oriented, wanting to get this "done". Soon, a group of men . . .adult men . . began whooping and hollering. They had lost their hula hoop and were chasing the hoop down the playa. I noticed and went back to the task of holding down the circus tent while the men attached the gromets. Next thing I knew . . . the adults in MY group were chasing this hula hoop. They left our job to go chase a childs toy.

That made me so angry! We had so much to do and these adults were chasing a three dollar item. I stopped to figure out how to keep working while this pack of now 15 or so people chased a hula hoop. I thought it was idiotic that these men ran after this rolling hoop in the wind . . . leaving responsibility behind . . .

And then, it hit me. Thats what we are here for. Jimmy grabbed my hand and pulled me along. Soon, I was one of them . . . I was chasing a hula hoop across the desert. That hoop would roll in the wind, fall down, pop back up and roll more. It would slam into cars or structures and pop in the air. Others joined our run . . . I lost my shirt somewhere . . . This went on for probably thirty minutes. Finally, the hoop was caught and everybody began to cheer and hug, clap and cry . . . it was amazing.

it wasn't the hoop. No. It was so many strangers gathering for sheer fun and joy. It was acceptance and a community event. We all were best friends after that. We had connections.

Maybe that is why I love the playa. Connections with others can be made in moments. A look, a touch, a gift, its there. It touches your soul. You come back with your heart so full of love and joy that it exudes for weeks. Here in the real world I can't hug a stranger or cry with a woman I just met. I can't put on a purple tutu, snakeskin boots and a cowboy hat and walk out my door to find somebody else with the same idea. Out there, I am truly me. Out there, I can express myself in any way I choose and be alright.

On the playa I am free. That is an amazing way to be.

I have been so busy posting about my own personal drama I forgot the intent for the blog. Moving my life to a place of simplicity, a place of peace and becoming as sustainable as I can. I realize this year that much of that has went by the wayside. Sustainability at least. I have put up less then 25 jars of food. Primarily I have done beets, pickles and beans. I think next weekend I may have a canning frenzy and put up 100 pounds of tomatos and sauce. Part of the reason I have put up less is having a smaller garden. I truly believe in eating seasonal and it doesn't make sense to purchase food to preserve when we live in a climate that produces year round. Part of the reason is that I have had a long slow easy summer and was too lazy to do much more then that. Least I recognize my laziness ha!

Yesterday we harvested the last of the corn and a patch of beans in the garden. I cleaned out a huge piece and will be replanting lettuce, spinach and onions there this weekend. I am a bit late to plant more flats of cabbage and broccoli so will grab some starts from the coop. So much for self sufficiency lol.

We are moving into my favorite time of year, fall. Some of that is really just due to harvest season and the excitement of canning, dehydrating, freezing, settling in for the winter. Primarily though it is the joy of cooking for my family. I love autumn dinners, big pot roasts, stews, hearty food after spending the days hiking in the woods. Love to watch the leaves change and feel the bite in the air. Jayme is 20 now and still gets so excited for Thanksgiving, she looks forward to the pumpkin rolls, the yams and turkey. She is like a four year old child on Christmas Eve.

When I begin to make plans to move away in a year, I wonder what it will be like to not have all of my children under my roof, all of them here for a big meal, to hear the sounds of them joking, teasing, remembering stories good and bad. I don't know that I am ready to give it up. Staying here seems impossible though. How do you move from being a mother, from your identity as a mom of many and begin to stretch into the realm of a woman on her own, without the buffer of your children's noises as a distraction?

Good or bad . . . I'm going to find out. I have everything to apply for a teaching position in Alaska, a few different options in Arkansas. Arizona is a possibility as well, if my dad moves down there. Somewhere. I will be . . . and my babies will be here. Katie will likely go to Washington for school, Jayme will stay here where she has her grandmother and friends. I will be with just my three youngest. Excited . . . but oh so unsure. I feel in my soul its right to go. I will go. I just don't know how . . .

BUT for tonight, I won't worry. I will have my kids and their boyfriends for dinner. I will just enjoy the simplicity of spaghetti and meatballs, of hearing them chatter, of feeling that all is well when all my chicks are under my roof at once. Maybe I will make a cheesecake and see Jayme smile. How many more times will I be able to do that?

Moving forward always comes with a price right?

Mornings like this are my favorite. The first chill is in the air, not enough to be cold but just enough that my morning mug of coffee feels so content. This morning is fuzzy, last night was far more beer then was necessary . . . precipitating me having to delete last nights post on here. Sometimes drunk blogging is a bad thing.

Work yesterday almost killed me. Two new cases and one just hit home so much. Much as I love my work with the teen crowd, at times it triggers me more then I would like to admit. Sometimes when you read through the history and you see that it parallels your own, it gets tough. Particularly when you see the parents following the same . . . denial, blame, shame, not supporting the child because they are so hell bent on protecting their own selves, which, most likely were hurt as well. Of course, I get the new case at the end of a long week . . . then I realize one of our toughest cases I have been working on is somebody I know intimately. That hurt. It's one thing to help with an abstract idea . . . an unnamed child . . . a situation you don't truly know about and then once you hear who it is? Wow . .. . my legs began to tremble, I could feel the tears stinging my eyes. My throat felt like it was tightening. I wanted to break down in that moment but I held it off . . . not for long, but long enough. Leaving all that at work, thinking how thrilled I was for a long weekend, looking forward to some time with my family and my mother calls . . .

She is upset, in tears, needs me. Why does everybody need me? Where do I go when I need somebody? Thich Nhat Hahn, one of my all time favorite authors wrote one time that if a person is in therapy its a sure sign that nobody in their life is listening to them . . . good point. Maybe thats why I am becoming a therapist? I listen to everybody else . . .

So, I go to my moms, she went and saw the surgeon today. First of all this is insane. She hates this surgeon, his bedside manner is awful, but he is so very skilled. I trust him completely but I don't think he knows how mean he is. Well, mom went to see him without me (and admitted it was a huge mistake). He told her she needs complete knee replacement, some veins stripped and sealed, possibly another stint, maybe a few other things. Point was, she was an emotional mess. We worked through it . . . I limped my ass home thinking all I could handle was blues and beer.

And, so it was . . . I had a date with a botonist I recently met. Great guy. Love that he butchers his own chickens and has a huge garden, love that he knows every single plant God ever made and that his weekends are spent backpacking. I guess I didn't love it enough. I cancelled the date. I just wanted to be home, with my family, in my space . . .wanted to cry when i needed to cry, laugh when I needed to laugh and figure out what the hell I am doing in my life. The blues came on . . . the beer came out . . . the kids laughed, we chopped our garden veggies, sauteed our chicken, threw in liberal amounts of basil and olive oil . . . had dinner. Jake wanted to dance so he spun me around the living room floor to John Lee Hooker and BB King.

Then, of course. Bill happened. Thats when my evening crashed and anger hit. He is so good at knowing when my life is moving forward. He preys on my weak moments. Some how, somewhere, our psyches are connected. When he knows I am weak and exhausted, sick of fighting and all the stress . . . he can move in for the strike. Its a bitch. The evening crashed. My sadness and grief moved into anger. . .

BUT, this morning, its a new day. I feel amazing. I realized about 230 this morning that he has no power over me any longer. The strings have been cut. He can say whatever he wants, do whatever he wants. Call me names, accuse me of whatever. It doesn't matter. I'm not his, I don't belong to him. He never belonged to me. I may have pulled my heart out and handed it over on a silver platter but he kept his so carefully guarded under a fortress nobody could bust through. My heart is safe from him now. . . . over the last two years, I realized I have been rebuilding, one step at a time. I have begun healing and patching, piece after piece. I didn't realize it until a few hours ago. I won! I am still whole and intact. I will move on. I will have another love . . . I will be far more selective, pick one who is able to love me back and fully participate in a life together. I will never allow a man to treat me the way he did again. I feel like the spheres have been completed. I have learned what I needed to over the last six years of having a life so intertwined with his. Not one time have I ever allowed myself to truly consider moving past him. I could go to a certain place and I stalled. Usually by him and his presence. No longer. Not again. He is now my history and that . . .. feels . . . . Amazing . . . . .