The rain has stopped and peace has come
I look and find no rush to run
And so I stay inside this place
And rest my heart from its crazy pace
The highs so high, and lows so low
The waves so fast I never know
The days bring change I cannot see
But God gives me oars each time I need
To save me from the rolls and tides
To help me see why I'm alive
The highs so high, and lows so low
The waves so fast I never know
I do not love this journey wild
But I have three loves, each one my child
For them I'll bunker down and stay
And see how next my life will play
My heart is tired, body weak
But still I need to touch their cheeks
There's reason still to walk through pain
And pray for green to follow rain
Tuesday, September 15, 2015
To My Babies
As I sit here with my nose in the computer, just after getting my nose out of my phone, I know that I am not being what you need right now. I look around at the mess on the floor and I know I am not being who he needs right now either. And it breaks my heart. But here's the thing. I'm trying to get back to you. To him. I'm trying to escape the confines of this strange bubble I have found myself encased in. A bubble that keeps me prisoner to myself. Watching. Waiting.
I didn't want you to learn about the broken world through my broken self, but here we are. And I am sorry. I ache for you, and want to run away to save you from me all at the same time, but I know that will only cause more wounds and brokenness.
Today you saw ugliness I never wished for you to see. I don't really know who is to blame. All I knew to do was to tell you it would be ok. And it's not your fault. And it's ok to be scared.
I didn't want you to learn about the broken world through my broken self, but here we are. And I am sorry. I ache for you, and want to run away to save you from me all at the same time, but I know that will only cause more wounds and brokenness.
Today you saw ugliness I never wished for you to see. I don't really know who is to blame. All I knew to do was to tell you it would be ok. And it's not your fault. And it's ok to be scared.
Saturday, December 27, 2014
The Hole
Wandering the aisles of the grocery store I ask myself what it is that I am looking for, but I don't have the answer. I am searching but I don't know what for. Suddenly it hits me. I am looking for something, anything to fill the hole I feel in my soul. The hole that supposedly only God could fill if I'd let him, but I don't. I search for quick fixes. Food, hobbies, sex, drama. All leave the hole even bigger, but I just keep stuffing things in. I need something every night to shove in the caverns inside me, to make me feel like I am still alive when so much of me seems cold and dormant, already dead and wasting away.
What am I afraid of? What can make me feel the fire of life and passion again? Why is it so hard for me to let go and let God?
What am I afraid of? What can make me feel the fire of life and passion again? Why is it so hard for me to let go and let God?
Wednesday, November 19, 2014
Memories
The strangest thing I have learned since moving back to Colorado, is the extent to which I left so many trails of bad memories. ..
Monday, November 10, 2014
The What Ifs
And some days the what Ifs strike.
What if my husband was willing to have a conversation with me... just because?
What if he could look at me with warmth and make me feel like I add something to his life ?
What if I spend the whole rest of my life this lonely?
What if I don't?
What if my husband was willing to have a conversation with me... just because?
What if he could look at me with warmth and make me feel like I add something to his life ?
What if I spend the whole rest of my life this lonely?
What if I don't?
Monday, November 3, 2014
#triggered
Yesterday the Huffington Post featured a front page full of readers stories based on the hashtag #beenrapedneverreported. This morning I woke to a stream of overwhelming memories that just needed to be written. Regardless of what my past holds, these things do not define me. Sure they were a part of shaping me, but everyone has their junk. Most importantly, I have resisted writing details of my story because it seemed self-serving, wallowing, and pointless. Now I realize it really should be told. Not for any benefit to me, but because maybe others will learn that they are not alone.
~~~~~~~~~~
I tried to tell them that nothing had happened. But my journal said otherwise. It was a hardbound book with a puffy purple cover. Something for silly little girls to write about crushes and best friends and breakups. Mine told of long phone conversations with someone I had never met. He was nice to me. We talked for hours after school while I waited for my mom to come home from her college classes, my brothers did who knows what, and my dad worked. I described my room to him, pink and sweet. A trundle bed and a closet where I hid the cigarrettes I stole from the grocery store each week. My black cat Domino following me wherever I went and kneading her paws across my chest, purring as I stretched my tall eleven year old frame out on the bed. He asked if I had heard of hide the quarter. I had not. We played our own version of it almost every day. I hid the quarter somewhere on my body and he described how he wanted my hands to explore the landscape until he guided them to the right spot. "Good." He said, "Now somewhere even harder to find." I giggled. It was so forbidden, but it was exciting and fun.
We talked about my parents liquor cabinet and he encouraged me to try a rum and coke. It tasted terrible. But I drank it down anyway. We talked about meeting up, and when we finally did, I saw that he was nothing like I had imagined. He was shorter and full of acne. He was not my age or anywhere near, that was for sure. He saw me briefly, sizing him up, and then I hid. But I didn't write about that in my diary. I translated my disappointment into an elaborate story involving alcohol and speed and sex. It was my diary after all. No one would ever see it. Until they did.
By the time the court date came around I had become a different girl. I wore dark flannels, Guns and Roses Tshirts and torn jeans. I didn't take care of myself anymore. I was angry. Guilt was eating me alive. I threw up when they told me he had the names and phone numbers of over 120 girls in his room at his mother's house. All between the ages of 11 and 14. I was instructed to testify wearing something that would make me look more innocent. A light colored collared shirt and a skirt maybe?
His eyes burned truth into me from his seat behind the defendant's table, but mine threw their own dose of truth back at him. I threw up again when the verdict came back "Not Guilty."
Suddenly I knew there was no going back. I was tainted and torn. A liar who still had a secret that didn't seem to compare to the stories I had told. My best friend was dating a 15 year old, and one day after school, while she talked to him on the payphone, I struck up my own conversation with her older brother who was 18. 7 years wasn't such a big deal after all. Was it? Besides, I was almost 12. Within a few weeks he was driving out to Parker to meet me at youth group since that was the only place my parents ever left me, knowing I'd be under the supervision of another trusted adult. I snuck him down to the basement of the old church house. He snuck my hand down his pants, and taught me what to do with what I found down there. Then one day he disappeared. His mother told me sweetly that he had moved to Florida to be with his father. There was no judgement in her pleading voice when she told me to please take care of myself. She asked shakily how old I was, and when I told her, she said "Please, sweety, don't try to call him anymore, ok?"
The carelessness with which I put myself in situation after situation just asking for trouble became a life long pattern. And when I paid the price with violence, I knew it was what I deserved. A pennance of sorts. I wasn't about to make any reports. Who would believe a little liar like me? And who would believe one person could be telling the truth about rape in her twenties after accusing someone of statutory rape as a child. I had no credibility. I had cried wolf as a child, and as an adult would have no one on my side if they knew. As an adult I was raped twice. Both times because I was drunk. Both times I cried as he did what he did. I cried because I already knew I'd have to keep this time a secret too. I cried because I deserved it. I cried because I wanted to be a better person than this.
~~~~~~~~~~
I tried to tell them that nothing had happened. But my journal said otherwise. It was a hardbound book with a puffy purple cover. Something for silly little girls to write about crushes and best friends and breakups. Mine told of long phone conversations with someone I had never met. He was nice to me. We talked for hours after school while I waited for my mom to come home from her college classes, my brothers did who knows what, and my dad worked. I described my room to him, pink and sweet. A trundle bed and a closet where I hid the cigarrettes I stole from the grocery store each week. My black cat Domino following me wherever I went and kneading her paws across my chest, purring as I stretched my tall eleven year old frame out on the bed. He asked if I had heard of hide the quarter. I had not. We played our own version of it almost every day. I hid the quarter somewhere on my body and he described how he wanted my hands to explore the landscape until he guided them to the right spot. "Good." He said, "Now somewhere even harder to find." I giggled. It was so forbidden, but it was exciting and fun.
We talked about my parents liquor cabinet and he encouraged me to try a rum and coke. It tasted terrible. But I drank it down anyway. We talked about meeting up, and when we finally did, I saw that he was nothing like I had imagined. He was shorter and full of acne. He was not my age or anywhere near, that was for sure. He saw me briefly, sizing him up, and then I hid. But I didn't write about that in my diary. I translated my disappointment into an elaborate story involving alcohol and speed and sex. It was my diary after all. No one would ever see it. Until they did.
By the time the court date came around I had become a different girl. I wore dark flannels, Guns and Roses Tshirts and torn jeans. I didn't take care of myself anymore. I was angry. Guilt was eating me alive. I threw up when they told me he had the names and phone numbers of over 120 girls in his room at his mother's house. All between the ages of 11 and 14. I was instructed to testify wearing something that would make me look more innocent. A light colored collared shirt and a skirt maybe?
His eyes burned truth into me from his seat behind the defendant's table, but mine threw their own dose of truth back at him. I threw up again when the verdict came back "Not Guilty."
Suddenly I knew there was no going back. I was tainted and torn. A liar who still had a secret that didn't seem to compare to the stories I had told. My best friend was dating a 15 year old, and one day after school, while she talked to him on the payphone, I struck up my own conversation with her older brother who was 18. 7 years wasn't such a big deal after all. Was it? Besides, I was almost 12. Within a few weeks he was driving out to Parker to meet me at youth group since that was the only place my parents ever left me, knowing I'd be under the supervision of another trusted adult. I snuck him down to the basement of the old church house. He snuck my hand down his pants, and taught me what to do with what I found down there. Then one day he disappeared. His mother told me sweetly that he had moved to Florida to be with his father. There was no judgement in her pleading voice when she told me to please take care of myself. She asked shakily how old I was, and when I told her, she said "Please, sweety, don't try to call him anymore, ok?"
The carelessness with which I put myself in situation after situation just asking for trouble became a life long pattern. And when I paid the price with violence, I knew it was what I deserved. A pennance of sorts. I wasn't about to make any reports. Who would believe a little liar like me? And who would believe one person could be telling the truth about rape in her twenties after accusing someone of statutory rape as a child. I had no credibility. I had cried wolf as a child, and as an adult would have no one on my side if they knew. As an adult I was raped twice. Both times because I was drunk. Both times I cried as he did what he did. I cried because I already knew I'd have to keep this time a secret too. I cried because I deserved it. I cried because I wanted to be a better person than this.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
