We've all heard it, "breathe in the good, breathe out the bad" or maybe we heard "just let it all out". Either way, the concept and meaning is the same. Don't bottle it up. Don't keep the fear and pain to yourself. Don't lie there curled up letting the thoughts run through your mind, pushing them down yet again to the dark festering pit deep inside. We all have that dark pit we try to fill with our fear, our pains, our troubles. Our mistakes. We put on our mask of "this is the present me, the real me, the strong me, the happy me" and then the thoughts come in, and how bravely we fight them back. "That was the old me, the weak me, the wrong me, I'm not that girl anymore" we yell. But, we are wrong. The old me is as much a part of myself as the current me is. The old mistakes and failures are what shaped me. When we have children (if we have children) we look at them and say "don't do what I did, I know how that is" and they look at the person we show them. They see the "now me" and think there never was a me before..... a me that made mistakes, a me that holds regret, a me that used to cry deep into the night. I have a bad past. And all my life I've been bottling it up, pushing it down, ignoring the pain. It always come back. The me today has PTSD. The me today has scars. The me today is alive. And that is because of the me yesterday, and the day before, and the one who created me. I truly believe we all have some purpose in life. Some wisdom to share, a story to tell. A life to change. My life has been forever changed. Not by superheros in capes, not by a celebrity, but by ordinary, everyday people. Some of them I owe my life, and I don't even know their names. My latest therapist told me that writing my story would be good for me, that letting out what I've been through will help me heal, even though some of the wounds have been scabbed and scarred for decades. But, that is only the tip of the iceberg for me. My wounds I can handle. But I know somewhere, right now, is another person. One whose wounds are fresh. Someone with tear stained eyes listening to the same old lies "your alone...... no one else understands....."and that is why I want to do this. That is why I want to open my can of worms and let every slimy, filthy, dark thing out and lay myself bare. To let that person know "here I am, I went through this too, and you can make it!" Your never stupid for making a mistake. No matter how big or small. This roller coaster ride called life has many ups and downs, and to many of us it seems we go down and down and down. I've been a victim. Been, past tense. It took me a quarter of a century, but I finally made it through. I've been called many things in that time. Unwanted, a burden, a failure, abused, beaten, worthless, a whore, freak. Official records label me as abused child, victim of domestic abuse, cutter, suicidal and more. Some of the things I'll be talking about in the weeks to come will be purely what is written in the records, because my mind has shut it out completely. Sometimes, only temporarily.
Today I am truly happy. Today me and my husband have been told we are expecting, and the baby will be due May 1st, on our 3rd wedding anniversary. Long before I ever met my husband I swore my children will be loved. They will be hugged, and kissed, and told "I love you" until I no longer have the strength. My story begins before I was even conceived. It begins with a fifteen year old girl. We'll call her Martha (though this tale is 100% true, I will not use the real names of those involved). A girl with few friends, who wanted to fit in, to feel loved. Her mother was a Jehovah's witness. Could have been worse, a whole lot worse, but part of her mother's beliefs was that no one should ever celebrate anything. No Birthday, no Christmas, no Valentines. Her mother made it clear that she was not to be a part of any celebration at schools, so she was forced to sit out in the hallways and listen to the other children exchange valentines. She was not allowed to even be in the same room. No ginger-bread houses, no gifts, no balloons or confetti. No pizza parties, no chocolate, no cake. She was made the no-fun outcast. It was no surprise she hung out with the other outcasts in high school. It was no surprise she dated an older boy just to make her mother mad. No surprise she was defiant, and turned to Wicca. So when her boyfriend called her names, or 'playfully' punched her, she didn't complain. When he, an eighteen year old, wanted to 'go all the way' with her she was overjoyed. She was finally loved! And when she told him she was pregnant and he punched her over and over in the stomach until she miscarried right there at his feet, she grabbed the fear, the pain, and the shame and buried it. She pushed it down deep and pretended it never happened. It was gone, and it would not come back. He (let's call him John) still loved her, he still wanted her. She was just fine. It was just a mistake, just a nightmare and now she's awake and in his arms. How easy it is, like reading an old story you've heard a million times, to sit there and tell what is going to happen next. "It won't end", you want to yell at her, "he'll do it again" "this is domestic violence, and statutory rape, he's just a wife-beater, leave him, you deserve better!!" To be on the outside looking in. Of course, some people did tell her he was no good, and of course she ignored them. She stayed with him for another year, and then the thoughts started to come forward again. The fear, the pain, the shame. She had missed her period, and she was gripped in fear's cruel clutch. She tested, and saw the little lines. The positive lines. The "here we go again, he's going to be mad" lines. She didn't tell him. She pushed it all down. It was a mistake. He used a condom for crying out loud! But the next month, and the next, and she could deny it no more. She did not make the same mistake, however. This time, she told her parents. This time she went to stay with relatives, until she couldn't stand not seeing him. She finally called him, and told him. He called her a slut. He used a condom, she must have been knocked up by someone else. She came back home to her parents, and two days after her 18th birthday gave birth to a baby girl. Her boyfriend came back, and wanted her to move in with him. It seemed perfect, until they got to his place. There was another woman there. His fiance for the past two years. He honestly thought they could all live together! She went back to her parents, and his fiance left him too. She stayed away for a few months, until he proposed. She said yes, and they got married. Her picture of a family, a mom and dad with beautiful children in her mind seemed so perfect. In her mind this was a fairy-tale. For a small time things were well, until the baby started to try to walk. Her husband's new game: knock the baby down and laugh as it cried. He was a real pro at this. Martha tried to stop him, but then he'd hit her. It was easier to just let the baby fall down,he didn't really hurt anything. Until the baby stopped trying. After the child's first birthday she still wasn't walking, or standing. John got tired and started a new game. See, john was a cop now, with a real gun and everything. He decided "let's check if my gun is loaded by firing it next to my wife's head" sounded fun. Nope, not loaded this time. Martha became pregnant again, and the old fear showed it's ugly head. This time she left the state entirely, moving in with some aunts of hers and taking the baby with her. The little girl finally took her first steps, in the delivery room after her brother was born. Martha had stitches, and tried to be a good single mother. She made two mistakes though, first she named the boy after John. Second, she tried to do too much. See she lived in an upstairs apartment and tried to carry a load of laundry, her newborn in his baby carrier, and her 18 month old girl upstairs. At the same time. Of course, she popped her stitches. Of course she needed to go to the doctor. Of course she had to be on an anti-biotic, which meant no more breast-feeding. And of course her new baby could not tolerate any form of formula, or cow's milk. Even using a stomach tube didn't help. He started starving. And the first Chasdei Hashem happened. An Amish farmer who lived just a few miles away had goats. This woman milked her goats every morning, and brought fresh milk to Martha's doorstep. She was doubtful, but her son weighed 3 pounds lighter than when he was born, he was near death. She tried it, and he drank it. And it stayed down. Each morning more milk was brought, and each day he got a little stronger. He looked just like his father. And she made one of the biggest mistakes. She called John, and he drove to pick her up. They played family for a little while, and then Martha made a good choice. She filed for divorce. Then came the bad choice, she filed child support. John denied the kids were his, and dna tests were done. Then, he fought for full custody. Martha seemed like a fine mother, maybe not the best or smartest, but fine. She got a job, and made her next mistake. She let the little twelve year old down the block babysit. The twelve year old's idea: lock the kids in the back yard, and play with my friends in the front. we'll hear the babies cry and can deal with them later. Unfortunately, it was a pin and hole lock on a sliding glass door, the kind where if you jiggle the door enough the pin falls out and you can get in. Of course a four year old and a two and a half year old can manage that. And that is exactly what happened. These two kids with free reign over an empty house decided they wanted to swim in the wading pool out back, but there was no water! To the fridge, and in the pool went milk, orange juice, mayonnaise (it looked like milk) cookies, and then the older sister saw the antique glass kool-aid pitcher. She carried it to the pool, and dropped it in. It shattered. And then the little boy did a cannon ball. The older kids jumped at the screams and ran into the back, where the 'babysitter' promptly fainted from the sight. 911 was called, and the children were taken to the hospital. Martha was called at work by one of the nurses. Her daughter was fine, a bit shaken, but fine. Her son however had a large shard of glass that nearly cut halfway through his leg. Luckily, no major arteries were severed, but the bone was damaged beyond repair. The growth in that leg would be stunted. That was the evidence used by John, and custody was granted to him. That is the beginning of my nightmare, and how my father became mine and my brother's sole guardian.
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