The teacher wonders, but she does not ask It's hard to see the pain behind the mask Bearing the burden of a secret storm, Sometimes she wishes she was never born
I suppose two things come to mind on October 31st for the average person. The first is, obviously, Halloween.
The second, primary in Christian especially Lutheran, circles, is Reformation Day.
Before Halloween candy, before Martin Luther being all "TAKE THAT CATHOLICISM!", another day comes to mind. Independence Day. Now, before you think I've lost my marbles, I know it's not 4 July yet. There won't be any fireworks tonight, although there will be in my heart. And there won't be cookouts and baseball, because I really don't care much for either.
Seven years. I moved out seven years ago. And while it was undeniably the best decision I ever met, it was undoubtedly the most painful. No 18 year old should have to make the decisions I made that day, and no 18 year old should have to live through that.
I was, after all, only 18 years old. And I turned my father into the police. I had people I thought I trusted turn against me. It's so hard to believe it's been seven years since all that happened. But there are still nights I miss my Daddy.
Yes, he's a colossal class A asshat. But we'd watch movies together, or sometimes I could convince him to hook up the SNES or my Genesis and we'd play video games. We'd play "Name That Tune" to the Oldies Radio Station, and I'd kick his ass in Bible Trivia. He'd take me to see the movies. I can't really name that many good qualities about him and he is, at his core, a drunken pedophile, but dammit, he's my father. I miss him. I miss what I lost, I miss what I never had, I miss what I never will have. I guess that's normal and I guess it's the way it should be. But at the same time... I still deeply grieve.
But I've changed so many in seven years, and I will change in so many more. Next Halloween, I'll be wearing a costume for the first time (and it'll be awesome). The next year, I'll continue to heal and grow and change. And who knows? Maybe one October, it'll just pass as fleeting memories. Like my father's come to pass, seven years has gone so fast.
Me at eighteen. Yup. Really, not much has changed.
And with a broken wing, she still sings She keeps an eye on the skies With a broken wing, she carries her dreams Man, you ought to see her fly
Like my father's come to pass, seven years has gone so fast Wake me up when September ends Here comes the rain again, falling from the stars Drenched in my pain again, becoming who we all
September marks seven years since everything flipped upside down, since everything turned topsy-turvy, since my life went totally off-kilter. It's kind of funny because even though my father isn't actually dead as in he kicked the bucket, emotionally he's dead to me as I don't speak to him, haven't seen him in seven years.
Funnily enough, this time seven years ago this song was all over the radio. I heard it on the bus going to school every single morning (along with the DHT cover of "Listen To Your Heart"). Kind of funny that seven years later, it sums up my feelings about the month of September.
September isn't as loaded as October 31st is for me, but September is still a month of loss, a time of grief. September 2005 is when my health started spiraling out of control. September 2005 was when I started to realize who my true friends were. So much happened seven years ago. So much happened.
As my memory rests, but never forgets what I lost Wake me up when September ends
I fully believe that one day my memory will be at ease, but I don't know when that day will be. I believe there will be one day that's not taunted by flashbacks and nightmares and painful memories. I fully believe that will be a day where it will all just be another faded scar, another jaded memory. Kind of like the lyrics from the opening theme of my favourite anime (taken from the Japanese translation to English and not the English version): "Even when yesterday's wounds remain, take yesterday's tears and turn them into tomorrow's strength."
I don't have to let the past control me. I don't have to let myself be consumed by the memories. But just because I finally process the pain after all these years, just because I finally come to terms with the past, doesn't mean that I forget it. It doesn't mean that I have to forget it at all, but it also doesn't have to be at the forefront of my memory.
A lot has changed in seven years. I've gone from an 18 year old high school senior to a 25 year old college student. I never dreamed on my first day of high school that these seven years would turn out the way that they did: The whole ordeal with my father, losing my health, losing some of my mobility, moving to Minnesota, taking time of school, still being in College, this, that, and the other. It's kind of baffling, really, what all has happened over the course of seven years. And how in some ways I'm so different, but in some ways some things never change.
All this doesn't mean that sometimes I just want to skip the month of September, and October as well for good measure. Maybe one September, I won't just want it to end before it begins .Maybe one September, I won't want it to just go away.
will i lose my dignity? will someone care? will i wake tomorrow from this nightmare? there's only us, there's only this, forget regret, or life is yours to miss. no other road, no other way, no day but today.
It's not September yet. It will be in just over an hour. It may be a difficult time - but maybe this year at long last, I can start healing and fully living it the now, instead of being trapped in the past.
I am told that it is nothing short of a miracle I am alive, be it by the circumstances of life or be it by my own hand. I am told that many other people in my shoes would be homeless, would be drug addicts, would be drunkards. That I shouldn't be alive due to medicine mixups, ailments, and various things I have.
At the same time, I've been told that if I just had more faith I would be healed. If I just believed I could overcome, things would be better. The truth is, I've accepted things to be the way they are. It doesn't mean I don't channel my energy in recovery. What it does mean is like in the serenity prayer, I accept the things I cannot change and must have the courage to change the things I can.
Oh look, I can climb the twisty thing!
Just because I've accepted my disabilities, I feel, doesn't mean that I've let them pull me down. I've really beaten incredible odds. I've overcome so much. I still have much to overcome. I know that due to genetics my general health will continue to demolish itself. I know that if I try to push myself, believing if I just do a little better I can overcome, I will wind up making things a bazillion times worse. To focus on what I cannot do would be foolish. I can play on playgrounds, I can wade in the water. I can take walks. I can so much! Why pull myself down by bashing myself?
I can play in the water!
I can't control what my father did in the past and I can't deny the impact it has with me today. I can control how I choose to act on the result. I can't control the fact that I'm disabled for likely life, but I can choose to accept it and make the best of my life, no matter how long or short it is. The important thing is that I keep on keeping on, and instead, continue to defy odds. Continue to shoot down the ones who say I can't make it. You know what? I may not make it in the traditional sense. But it doesn't mean I have to give up hope, that I have to quit at life. Instead, it fuels me to go forward, propels me to keep swimming (even though, well, I can't swim) and gives me a reason to survive.
And if you care to find me, look towards the western sky
As someone told me lately, everyone deserves a chance to fly
And if I'm flying solo, at least I'm flying free
To those who ground me take a message back from me!
Tell them how I'm defying gravity, I'm flying high, defying gravity...
Not even a month ago, I was started on a new antidepressant. Before I was trapped in depression. Trapped.
But now things are looking up. I'm having horrible side effects, but maybe my nice shrink with a southern accent can find a similar one or maybe he can find something to counteract them.
There is just one week left of classes. One week!! It's at this lovely state in the semester where things are just not going all that well..
But it doesn't mean things are going poorly. I'm at my breaking point stress wise, but things are looking up. It doesn't mean things are perfect, but it means they are looking up. Things won't always be this way.
Some days are still terrible. Some days I feel like relasping into self injury. I know, I know, it sounds silly and maybe it is. I recently passed the ten year mark from the first time I cut. I still remember that day, still remember it so clearly. And for so long, I thought I was so clever. That I was masking my pain. That I was dealing with my pain. That I had my own little secret way of dealing with the world, hidden under my shirt sleeves. But I was young, I was naive. I didn't know, couldn't know, wouldn't know that by masking the pain, when it came to surface, it only got worse. And so, when once one cut would suffice, now it would take two. Then three. Then four. Until my arms looked horrible. Until I had to move to my legs. And as much as I would welcome the nirvana, the bittersweet Ecstasy of cutting again... it's not worth it. At times I think the break from the pain would be worth it, then I'd deserve it coming back so much.
But the thing is? I don't deserve pain. For years, and I admit, some days I still do, it feels like it was all my fault. Maybe if I had been a better behaved child. Maybe if I had been cuter. Maybe if I would have run away. Maybe if I would have done drugs. Maybe if I would have drank. Maybe if I would have told someone what my father was doing instead of hiding it, even denying it for years. Maybe if I would have fought back. I had so many chances in high school to say what my dad was doing. There was the time I fell apart in youth group, and one of the sponsors asked if everything was okay at home. There were the countless doctor appointments that asked if I was safe at home. There were the teachers that reached out to me.
The thing was, I was young and I was scared. Would people have believed me? Would things have gotten worse had I told? I don't know. But the thing is, it's not my fault. It wasn't my fault. It was never my fault.
And even if, for some reason, it was my fault, it doesn't make any of it okay. It doesn't make my childhood okay, even if I did mess up at times. It doesn't make what my dad did right, not remotely. And even if my actions DID cause him to act that way, it wasn't right. Not in any way shape or form.
That said, I started this blog taking one track, and it took another. Things are looking up. I'm finding hope again. Moreso, I'm enjoying things again. I'm not playing games just as an escape, but I'm enjoying them. It's the little things. I'm starting to sleep again, even! Sleep is good. Usually.
And now I'm going to play Final Fantasy 8 and talk on MSN for a bit before going to bed early, so tomorrow I can talk on MSN, clean, and do homework. So I can do what I love on Sunday and play music in church then come home and study and clean. I'm going to close this entry with lyrics to one of my favourite songs. ^_^
Spoken - Promise. (Verse 1) Yet another day seems like its wasted You don't feel youre any closer to the prize A dead end job where there's no future Praying that tomorrow things wont be this way
(Chorus) Things will get better this I promise you And I know that you won't feel this way forever Things will get better this I promise you And I know loneliness wont last forever
(Verse 2) Yet another day, another tired morning You're catching up to your intentions Your'e thinking life has to be easier than this Maybe tomorrow things wont be this way
(Chorus) Things will get better this I promise you and I know it won't feel this way forever Things will get better this I promise you and I know we can find a way to make it better things will get better this I promise you
(Outro) Things will get better this I promise you And I know it won't feel this way forever Things will get better this I promise you And I know loneliness won't last forever Things will get better this I promise you And I know things will get better this I promise you And I know things will get better this I promise you And I know loneliness won't last forever
I have this habit of locking down inside myself. Oh, there is so much happening. Images dancing in my head, sights, smells, sounds, twisting together, tangling, intertwined. It's safer to stay silent. It's safer not to speak. I'm afraid to speak out. Speaking out senior year and being shushed solidified that fear. I was only eighteen. I was a senior in high school. And I was heartbroken. I wouldn't wish the choices I made that cold October morning to my worst enemy. But yet, the choices let me to where I am today.
I've grown so much since my senior year. I should hope so, considering I'll have graduated six years ago come June. Six years is a long time, and even as I got my diploma that warm June evening, I had no idea the changes that would come over the next few years. I had no idea I would legally be declared disabled before 21. I had no idea I would sever ties with my mother as well. I had no idea that I would be called into the ministry. I had no idea I wouldn't finish college in Canada and that in 2012 I'd still be working on my undergraduate degree. I had no idea I'd live in frick-fracking MINNESOTA where it's frick-fracking cold. I had no idea I'd still be battling PTSD, cutting, eating disorder... I suppose I thought it'd magically stop, but NEWSFLASH: IT WON'T.
I had no idea that both my grandparents would die before I completed my undergraduate degree. I had no idea that I would make beautiful friendships, meet my future best friends, and go through heart-wrenching grief. I had no idea of any of that.
I had no idea at age 24 people would STILL think I'm 14. Heh. Funnily enough, side story. I was on my way to a doctor's appointment and I mentioned how I still had a specialist at the Children's Hospital. "Oh, you could easily pass for 14." Me: "Mmhmm." "You'll like more as you get closer to your 30's!" *silence* "I'm 24." "WHAT?!" "Yeah, I'll be 25 in June." "...." "You're not 18?" 18 is the oldest I've been mistaken for in awhile, so I suppose that should make my happy. Anyway. Done with the side story.
Tori Amos said in her song "sometimes I hear my voice and it's been here, silent all these years." Problem is, I don't hear my voice. Sure, I blog and I write and I talk. But I bottle so much up. I keep so much inside me. And I don't know how to pull it out. There are things about my past that repulse me, that I haven't told anyone. And it scares me that it's there. And I don't want to talk about it because I'm afraid people, even those who want to help me so badly, won't like me anymore. Will think horrible things. Won't understand. And so, I carry the burden.
When will I realize how stupid that is?
When will I realize how dumb that is?
When will I find the way to pull out my voice and be strong?
Tim Hawkins summed up this song with "My son got mad 'cause I worked all the time, he grew up to me a jerk just like me. And the cat's in the cradle and the silver spoon, and some other poetic stuff."
John Mayer sang "Fathers, be good to your daughters. Daughters will love like you do." A powerful PSA from 1980's is "I Learned It By Watching You"
The thing is, children learn from their parents, if they want to admit it or not. Ultimately, in the end, we have the choice to act on what we learned and what we were taught, but it doesn't mean that it lessens the imprint on us.
There was never a time my father was without a bear can in one hand. His breath always smelled like beer, usually Milwaukee's Best. He'd sit in front of the computer, with his bag of potato chips and his beer can, watching the telly.
I learned so much from watching him. I learned how to be a good girl. I learned how to act on and to lead people on into thinking everything is fine. I learned how to play the game that makes people think that life is fine and I learned how to throw up walls. I won't even go into what I learned from my mother.
And then it scares me - what will I teach my children?
I still haven't forgotten that autumn day, ten years ago. November 28, 2001. It's kind of hard to believe. I was depressed. And by depressed I mean really freaking depressed. I was fourteen years old. And I had a plan to end my life.
I likely would have gone through with it, had a friend not intervened and notified the police. Had the police not shown up at my small Christian school. I'm told I'm lucky I wasn't taken into custody or admitted to the hospital.
But even more important was that was the day I realized my dad didn't care. I was fourteen years old, depressed, and realized where my dad's priorities were. My school principal had called my church youth pastor, and my youth pastor informed my father. Less than a couple days later, my father no longer cared that I had had a plan to end my life. He was back to his old self.
This is part of why I struggle to view God as a father. Logic tells me that not all fathers are like that. I KNOW good fathers. I KNOW good, Christian fathers and I know good, atheist fathers. I know there are good Jewish fathers, there are good agnostic fathers, it goes on and on and on. But the fact of the matter is I can't wrap my mind around the concept that the father God is like is nothing like the father I had. Someone who was never there when I needed him. Someone who always had beer in the fridge, but not always a gallon of milk and a loaf of bread.
It gets harder and harder this time of year. Well-meaning people ask if I'm going home for the holidays, and I never know how to answer. I shrug it off, but it still hurts. The ache still lies inside. I have a place to go for the holidays, but gosh, it's not the same.
and I don't know where I'm going with this. :P
Oh, you see that skin? It's the same she's been standing in Since the day she saw him walking away Now she's left, cleaning up the mess he made Fathers, be good to your daughters Daughters will love like you do Girls become lovers who turn into mothers So mothers, be good to your daughters too
It's been five years since my grandfather died. Five years this past August. And I still miss him. I miss him I miss him I miss him. He was the closest thing to a father I had. I recently found this piece I wrote sometime in 2007. Maybe it was an essay. Maybe it was a monologue. I have no clue what it was, but I feel that it's something I want on my blog so here it is.
A Ladybug's Lament - written summer 2007. It's been nearly a year since you lost the war. Times flies faster than what you expect, and the pain is still as strong. Although the war was lost, the battle was won. You were strong - a trooper, a warrior, a soldier.
You always kept your morale high. Even when you were at your sickest, you'd still have the strength to tease me. You'd always have something to say to make me laugh. You might of never said the words “I love you” to me, but you did it without speaking.
You are my inspiration. You were always humble; you always had something good to say about people. When I think about giving up in this world, I think about you and how you didn't give up. I remind myself of how you were a fighter - and that is what I want to be.
I can't believe it's been so long. Do you have any idea how many lives you touched with your gentle sense of humor and your loving ways? You had a way of touching every life you came in contact with. You touched the doctors who treated you and you touched the family who loved you. You touched those who just stopped in to say hello.
I have always been told that home is where the heart is. However, my heart is broken because you're not here to make it “home” anymore. You always fixed things for me when I was little. Can you fix my heart this time?
You're in a better place, and I rejoice for that. You no longer have the chains of cancer pulling you down. Are you turning cartwheels down the golden streets? I always longed to be able to do a cartwheel. Will you do a few for me? One day, I'll join you. Together, we'll terrorize the angels and swing on the pearly gates. We'll be united again, and you can torment me once more.
Every time I see a ladybug, I think of you. I know when I see a ladybug somewhere, that you're there watching me. I know it is your way of saying you are still here with me. Even though you're gone, your spirit still lives on inside of those ladybugs. I don't believe in reincarnation. However, I have to wonder as I see those ladybugs if it is not actually you. Perhaps you are simply sending them from Heaven, as a sign that you are okay. They are a sign that you are still thinking of me, your “little maple leaf.”
“It don't matter where you bury me, I am home and I am free. It don't matter where I lay, all my tears be washed away.” (Jars of Clay, “All My Tears”). I often feel bad that we couldn't provide a better burial for you. We gave you what we had. I feel bad that there's not a proper tombstone at your grave. These trivial things don't matter in the big spectrum. Are you crying now? I'm crying as I'm writing this. When I greet you again, will you wash away my tears the way Jesus is washing away your tears now?
You are free, Pawpaw. You are no longer fighting the battle against cancer. You are truly an inspiration. You are truly the one I will always weep for. You are the one man who will always hold a place in my heart. You are my hero - I love you.
I wrote this poem my senior year of high school spring semester. The assignment for class was to write a "tribute" or "dedication" poem to someone. The other students in this class wrote these mushy lovely poems to someone they admired or who they looked up to. Me? I took the exact opposite approach. I blew the socks off the creative writing teacher as this was his first year teaching and I guess he wasn't expecting that. That's me, breaking the norms! ;D
It has been revamped since then (I last modified it sometime in 2008 when I took creative writing at community college) because I didn't like the format that the teacher made me stick to. So I tightened the language, made it in a style and format I liked, and this is the final project. I still have the original somewhere but I like this quite a bit better. ;)
Nothing (To My Father)
I reflect upon the past, wondering if I knew the truth or if I was fooled, and what I knew was nothing.
What happened to make things change? When did you quit loving me? Did you ever truly love me, or am I Nothing
Stop tormenting me! Yet why should you love me? Whatever did I do; am I just nothing?
You used your tricks to harm me, and wounded me by your words. Some scars never heal, Nothing
Your priorities were distorted Alcohol was your idol, I realized I was simply nothing
I believe Family is the most important thing You claimed it. Yet your actions proved otherwise, Nothing
The lies begins to come out, I'm victim to your hypocrisy, and fading into nothing
As I learned the truth, and free myself from your grasp I realize that I was never nothing
Starting live anew, running free from the past learning to live without you, no longer Nothing
And in the end, I realize at last it is not I, but it is you who is nothing.
