It's Still There

I have a secret, one that's not being spoken aloud but will surprise no one. That grief thing...it's still there. It hasn't left, hasn't magically disappeared. In fact, as we are in the heart of the holidays, the intensity is growing.

I don't mention it. Nobody asks me. My assumption is that everyone's assumptuon is that I'm finally beyond it. I haven't talked to anyone about it since the last time it shriveled me to a bawling mess. I tried to talk about it, but I was derailed by other stuff. Stuff that wasn't nearly as important. I know satan does his best to keep me from the healing that needs to happen.

Honestly, I think I would be much further along in this if I didn't have this huge decision looming over me.

Fertility treatment vs. no treatment and pursue adoption.

Both are scary.

My husband is ok with either decision. He will do whatever I want. He will give me the opportunity to have my hearts desire. The problem with that is the decision lands firmly in my lap.

I'm back and forth on it. One week, I want to move forward. The next, I am looking at all the kids who need adopted.

Here's the reality for us.

Financially, we can do one or the other. It will break us, but what value is money to us anyway? As long as we have the basics, money doesn't matter.

There is no guarantee with fertility treatments. My reproductive system is a mess. Even a little hope doesn't mean there's a guarantee. Years of abuse and neglect have left me with a variety of issues. We could dump our savings into treatment and walk away empty handed and broken-hearted.

It's very possible that I could conceive with or without treatment and continue to have miscarriages. Since Each one of those seems to be more difficult than the last, am I really capable of putting myself through that? I don't know.

I could choose a hysterectomy. That's not really optional. My risk of cancer is going to go up exponentially if I do not have one. So, I could have surgery and then we could pursue adoption.

We've talked about adoption a lot. We aren't interested in international adoption or a baby. There are too many kids here who need families.

We don't want an open adoption. We'd prefer a boy under the age of 10.

Now with that said, we have some realistic fears. A lot of the kids in the system have serious issues. Some have disabilities. Some have anger issues. Some are jacked up because of abuse.

We are sympathetic. We really are. But what if those things aren't easy to overcome for us or keep us from loving the child because we aren't the biological parents? We've heard so many of our friends who have children with issues say that its different when it's your own child. What if that's true and we don't love the child enough? We are loving people, but I think our fears are legit.

I know this will sound silly, but we don't want to live in fear either. We've talked about what happens if we get some angry boy who decides to stab us in our sleep? We've seen the 20/20 specials.

So here I am. I'm running out of time to make a decision. If we aren't doung fertility treatments by May, I have to have another surgery and it's probably going to be a hysterectomy.

I'm so confused.

I can't figure out how to make a decision based on what Gods will is for my life and not my emotions.  I can't do it.

So, I continue to have this battle inside me that I fight alone. I smile and engage in small talk, all while my heart is being pulled in two directions. My pain sits on the edge of my lips, waiting for an empathetic ear.

Meanwhile, others holiday traditions crush me. I watch the little girl crawl into Santas lap and wonder why that's not part of my story. I watch a mom teaching a little boy how to give by picking out gifts for less fortunate children. All while I struggle to understand why we aren't given the opportunity to impart those lessons. I bake cookies for kids at church and painfully dream of having little hands dipped in a floury mess.

That loss, those crushed dreams, they are all the more real this year.

When that kind of pain is swirling inside you and there is no outlet, you can't escape the soul crushing agony.

Since most of the world outside this little blog is oblivious, I'll keep smiling and moving through life as if...

As if I everything is fine.

As if my heart isn't crumbling.

As if the road ahead is known and easy.

Crying Wolf

With all the media coverage on the Cosby rape accusations, there's a piece of the puzzle that nobody dare touch at the moment. 

False accusations have far reaching ramifications for far more than today's embroiled celebrity. 

Before I go any further, let me explain that I believe there is a difference between rape and molestation. I've experienced both. Rape is when the person is sexually assaulted and has the mental capacity and maturity to make a decision for consent. Molestation is when the person is sexually assaulted and does not have the capacity to consent or is mentally incapacitated by age and/or the stronghold of the abuser. 

Without question, both are wrong, evil. Both sets of perpetrators deserve punishment of castration or some equivalent. 

I believe the bible is very clear on righteous anger and these acts definitely qualify. Some of the strongest language from Jesus is regarding hurting God's children. Romans 12:9 tells us to hate what is evil. 

Before I get too far off course, let me get back to my point. 

Rape is awful. Those of us who've experienced it know the scar it leaves on your heart. Sadly, a majority of women who are raped are revictimized. That has been my experience. 

Being raped alters who you are and your ability to be strong, especially in the weeks, months and years immediately after. Fortunately, some have a stronger resolve. Not someone who has been broken over and over. That weakness allows you to become prey for those who search for a victim. 

When you have been raped, you know the depth of pain and the trauma intimately. Knowing pain that intimately also gives you a real compassion for others who've been down this road. 

Unfortunately, it's also easier to pick up on those who aren't being truthful. 

I'm not being a cynic, not with this. But I am a realist. Not every woman who claims to have been raped has been. It's sad, but true. 

We've all seen it play out in the media. Someone makes a rape accusation against an athlete or celebrity. Sometimes their is a settlement. To the general public, a settlement is an admission of guilt. Not true! Other times there is a trial, guilty or not. 

I've looked at the statistics. When a rape goes to trial against someone above your average person, the majority are found not guilty. And the truth is, that's probably an accurate outcome. 

Why?

I cannot argue that sometimes an average, consenting sexual experience is traumatic. There's regret, unexpected actions, self loathing. I've seen it firsthand when any combo of those things leads someone to claim rape. None of those things qualify as rape. Rape is rape. Those aren't rape. All those things cause high emotion and can lead to a false accusation. 

Honestly, if I were a male, fear of false accusation would drive me toward abstinence until marriage. 

I've seen false accusations ruin lives. 

The reality is that false accusations hurt everyone. They hurt the two people involved, their families, past and future victims. 

Let's take the Cosby situation for instance. I've seen an interview with an accuser. Let's be very clear. If a supposed victim is recalling actual details of the event without sincere emotion, it is ok to be suspect of the accusations. There is nothing in me during that entire interviewed that felt compassion for her. I believe what I heard was someone wanting to cash in on the accused's status. In fact, the high profile lawyer for these women has asked for $100 million for these women. 

The problem is that anyone who makes a false accusation makes the next accusation harder to believe. 

False accusations have left us with a society who is unapathetic toward real victims. Our society places more blame with the victim and more innocence with the perpetrator unless there is physical evidence. 

Please believe me, I have great compassion for those who have been raped. The distrust and scars are lifelong. My heart aches for those who've been traumatized and the years it takes to heal. I understand how rape can change the course of a life. 

But false accusations trouble me. I'm fearful for the young men I know. I'm fearful for the unstable young ladies I know. 

I pray for the safety and minds of all the young men and women I know. I pray for these men and women wrapped up in webs of lies. I pray for true victims. 

Cop Shows

Given my background, it might surprise anyone to know I love cop drama shows. Criminal Minds, SVU, those are two of my favorites. 

I don't like romantic movies and stay away from scary ones. I'll watch dramas, action and comedies. 

I'm very careful about what I watch. 

There is a risk with watching these 60 minute shows. They can be graphic. The victims are often children. There is often tape and torture involved. There's a risk of triggering flashbacks and it's happened. 

So why do I watch? It seems to go against exactly the peaceful mind I try to keep. 

There are a couple reasons. 

The first is that it gives me some insight into the evil mind. While the stories are fiction, the reality is not. So much of what you see in these shows is based off of true stories. As the story unfolds, you get a firsthand look at the anatomy of the crime. You begin to understand that behavior is never pure. Broken people hurt broken people. 

A few years ago, I watched an SVU where a young boy molested another young boy. As the story goes, the kid spent hours alone at home watching his dad's pornography. He didn't have the maturity to understand it was wrong. He did exactly what he saw on tv to his friend. 

This is exactly what happened with my cousin/half brother. He was told by my grandpa to do horrible things to me and my cousins. He watched porn. It's what he knew to be ok and he continued to do it. 

That show opened a window to his behavior for me and gave me the understanding I needed to forgive him. Once I understood that his immature brain had been severely broken by evil, it was easy to forgive him for the many years he molested me. 

The other reason and the most important is that the good guys always defeat the bad guys. 

In these shows, they always get the bad guy. A lot of times they save the current victim. There's always a victory. 

By my best count, my dad raped, beat and abused over 100 women, girls and boys. Those are the ones I know. He never got caught. He never paid a price. Even though I've forgiven him too, there's never been any justice served. I know that justice isn't mine to serve. 

I still find it hard to pray for his salvation. 

My counselor and psychologist worked very hard to get me to a place where my dad could be prosecuted. I'm probably closer than I've ever been. I'm healthier than I've ever been. 

The statute of limitations has run out for some of the lesser charges. They will run out in the next few years on many more. Some will never run out. As far as I've come, seeing him could possibly unravel me. 

That's why I love the shows. In the midst of pain and brokenness, there is victory over evil. 

I wish that for every victim, every survivor. 

Christmas Gifts

Let me start by saying that I know the true meaning of Christmas and that's not what this is about. This is about the ugliness that's in my heart and some of the heartache that never goes away.

I did something this week that I've never done. I ordered my Christmas present from my husband. I'm getting a new laptop for school. Several years ago, I said I wanted my next laptop to be a Mac. That's what I got.

Don't get me wrong, it's exciting to have a new laptop coming for school. I'm thankful we could make that investment to take me through school.

It's exciting, but not fun. It's a functional gift. A gift that I get cause it is so expensive that we can't justify buying it otherwise.

But here is a confession straight from my heart. My biggest love language is receiving and giving gifts.

I've explained this before. Years and years and years of not receiving gifts or having them taken away from me makes it easier to understand this.

As kids, we were promised so much only to find their was nothing for us on Christmas day. When there was, it was a mental game for my parents. It was a way for them taunt us by having us unwrap rocks or dirty clothes or toilet paper.

When I got older and was babysitting, I bought socks and clothes and toys for my brothers. One set of grandparents gave us money, which was always handed over to the parents. The other grandparents always gave a gift, which was aways a game for my dad. My grandma loves to jack with my dad who was a horrible racist. So the Mexican themed car was burned and my black baby doll was left in my bed stabbed with a knife.

It's not hard to understand why this is my love language.

My husband knows all of this and has spent 20 years making Christmas special for me and in his own way make up for the years that were so horrible.

About October, he asks for a Christmas list. He does an awesome job of surprising me and leaving no space under the tree.

After I placed the order, it hit me. This was it. No surprise. No piles of gifts to open. And, I was sad.

I know. I shouldn't be. I should be happy. But I'm sad.

There's so much that makes this season hard. Now when we spend Christmas day completely alone, there won't even be excitement surrounding gifts.

Ugh!

I told you. It's the ugly selfishness of my heart. It's the heartache of a painful childhood that can't be shaken over 30 years later.

I'm thankful that the birth of my savior is ultimately the reason for celebration. I hope when the ugly disappointment threatens to set in my heart that day, I'll know that I've already received the greatest gift of all.

December 2nd

For as much healing that has come in my life, I am innately aware that I have a significant past that is still being slowly processed with time. 

December 2nd wasn't a day that meant anything until years of processing my past. 

Today would have been my grandmas 79th birthday. She died 16 years ago, 3 days before our wedding. 

Up until seven years ago, I believed my grandma was the only person in my family who loved me, the only one who cares for me. She was the one who took me in when I had no place to live. She was the only one who boldly claimed my dad was an abuser. She was the one who took me to buy my wedding dress and paid for several of our wedding items. She was also the only one who expressed any physical or verbal sense of love. She hugged us and told us she loved us. 

But like everything else from my childhood, there was a dark secret festering below the surface. She may have been the lesser of the evils, but was definitely a broken piece of my family. 

There were things I saw as a kid, but didn't know they were wrong until being emersed in christian counseling. 

She had a sex addiction. There was pornography, books, magazines and movies, all over the house. We were encouraged to look at all of it. She talked with everyone about her sex life and shamed my grandpa for ED. She enjoyed being nude, often walking outside and in front of guest without clothes. She often engaged in phone sex with younger men worked with my grandpa. 

I had no reason to think every grandma wasn't this way. My parents never said it was wrong and never removed us from it. 

She was all about the drama. She had three kids. At no time were any of those kids and her ever on the same page. Somebody was always on the outside. There was always a family fight and she was the perpetrator. 

She was the one who knew all the ugly family secrets and the one who dropped them when she needed to detract the attention from her. This is how I found out my parents and my aunt and uncle were swingers. Swingers in the same group, which led to my dad being the biological father of my oldest cousin. She broke up a marriage of an aunt and uncle by blurting out at a reunion that her own son was cheating. 

I knew all that stuff. None of it meant she didn't love me and I didn't realize how terrible it was. 

However, counseling brought a lot of memories to the surface. 

She was an abuser. My grandpa sexually abused all of us and she knew, she participated. A year into counseling, I came across a box of photos from my grandparents. My grandma had divided photos by grandchild and planned to scrapbook them. We were never intended to get them. Buried at the bottom of my box were a stack of Polaroids. They were child pornography and we were the children. My grandpa was in some, which was my first clue my grandma knew. On came the flood of memories, horrid and terrifying. 

I found myself in a place of truth and having to make that painful move. She had to move from the good column to the bad with everyone else and leaving me with nobody in the good. 

It's taken a lot of work to forgive her. It's a lot harder to forgive someone you believed to be good than someone you've only known to be evil. 

As a Christian, I think the hardest thing for me is her death. 

I was a christian when she died, which makes my behavior a little bizarre or maybe it was a stirring of my heart 9 years earlier. 

She went in for a biopsy on her lungs because of breathing problems. She came out of that intubated and we were told she would not make it. 

A late stage cancer was filling her lungs and her other organs were shutting down. She was a smoker for over 50 years. Smoking had caused the aggressive cancer. Have you ever watched someone die of lung cancer? It's awful. Black goo is auctioned from their lungs and they can't breathe on their own. They make a horrific, nightmarish gurgle every time they try to take a breath. Their body swells and they let off a rotten, ashy stench that stays in your nose for weeks. 

While the one good person was nearing death, I was crushed. I found my way to the chapel in the Catholic hospital. I sat there for hours, even fell asleep. It was the only place I could be calm, peaceful. I was fully against church and God at that time, so it is beyond my understanding. 

My grandma was awake at times and communicated through nods and writing. After one of my trips to the chapel, I returned to sit with her. Just her and I. I asked her if she was afraid of death. She nodded yes. I asked if she believed in God. She nodded yes. I asked if she thought she was going to heaven. She nodded no. I cried. 

That was the last time I cried for 9 years. Again, I don't know why. 

It's also a moment that has confused me since then. Did she believe? Is she in heaven? 

There was no confession or repentance. She didn't believe she was going to heaven. 

I've had a pastor tell me he couldn't say for sure. Another told me he was certain she was in hell. 

I don't know. I know if she's in heaven when I get there, it'll be a surprise. 

So, when this day rolls around, it's a mixed bag. I can't say I loved her, can't say I miss her. I only think of her December 2, holidays and birthday. There were a lot of good memories, but bringing the truth into the light has wiped those away. 

December 2 is always the day when I ponder heaven and hell. It's a day when I find myself incredibly thankful for the security of my salvation. It's a day when I pray fervently for the salvation of my brothers and their families. So the question of heaven and hell doesn't haunt their loved ones years and years after they are gone. 

Marital Inequality

I'm not a feminist. I don't think men and women are created equal. However, we work from a mutual respect and equality in our marriage.

When you don't have children, it gets a little dicey. We tend to get a bit selfish. We can forget to think about the other person. We can get into a comparison war where we know we've done more than the other. And one of us (not me) has a propensity to need to place blame for everything that goes wrong.

So, we might fight a little, but we make it work.

Let me tell you where the worlds of man and woman never align, never equalize.

When a man and woman get sick, there's definitely a time when the woman becomes the superior species.

No kidding!

It's not just in our marriage, by my educated estimation it's in every marriage.

When a man gets sick, they automatically act as if they are staring down the pearly gates. They can't function or do much of anything for themselves outside of going to the restroom. They moan and whine until the wife succumbs to the needs of this poor creature. And that's with the scourge of a head cold. Imagine the misery they portray when it's anything more significant.

Most wives I know dutifully take care of said husbands when they are sick. They dote on them as if they were servants of kings. And mostly, happily so. Soup. Quiet. Medications. Hot drinks. Fresh cookies. They go the extra step to make sure their man is well cared for throughout the duration of the plague he has brought into the house.

But when the coin is flipped...

The wife (I speak from experience) moves about her regularly scheduled day in agony. Can't breathe. Puking. All the other stuff. It goes on as does the laundry, dishes and cooking. A short nap can be had if it's snuck in between dogs barking and obnoxious YouTube videos and laughing. There must be at least 14 times when a woman must drag her weak tail off the couch to find or put away something. And that dinner (lunch too), sick wives everywhere would be subject to chili dogs during every illness if they didn't fix meals themselves.

During this time, the husband does exactly what he would do any other time of the year.

Ok, so I'm joking...a little bit.

I've been sick all day. I know this all firsthand.

Husbands, treat your wife like a queen. When she's sick, try to remember what she did for you while you were sick. It's time to put a little equality back in marriage.

Wives, be nice to your husbands when they are sick. They can't help it that a cold incapacitated them. Set a good example and pray like crazy that they learn from you.

Scales Don't Lie

I could barely wait to get home and get on the scale. After a week of eating fried everything, I was certain I'd gained back every pound I'd lost.

I had lost 40 lbs in about 8 weeks. Very unhealthy way, so I knew I'd gain some back rapidly.

Before we left, I had gain 5 lbs back. My appetite had stabilized and I wasn't puking all the time.

So tonight I got on the scale. Total, it looked like I'd gained back an additional 5 lbs on our trip. However, I weighed at the end of the day and fully clothed...not my usual time. So I'm guessing it's not that bad.

Irregardless, I should feel good about 30-35 lbs lost since the first of September. I'm bloated up because of all the inadvertent times of eating dairy, so I'm feeling super fat and my newer clothes feel tight.

I shouldn't feel bad, but I do. That's what a day with my husband's family will do to me.

Remember, I very much see myself the way my dad has always described me. Fat! Not very often do I let my size bother me, although I've been eating healthier for a while. Eating healthier was what helped me lose 10 lbs before we moved.

But his family. Ugh!

Let me start by not pointing a finger but simply pointing out a few things. His youngest brother, dad and sister easily weigh 200 lbs each. His dad made a big deal of his mom gaining weight and being at 220 lbs now. His sister in law is short and still has "baby weight" 4 years later. She also has a "giant ass," her words not mine. His niece and her husband are over 250 lbs and she wears the exact same size shirts I do. So, I am by no means tipping the scales all by myself here.

Yet they treat both of us like we are giants. They purposely create narrow walk ways and only scoot aside for each other. They make comments like "you obviously eat well in Ohio." And "did you guys outgrow your car?"

How stinking rude? Especially coming from some fatties.

I'm so used to being teased about my size, that it takes a lot to get to me. When it's family, it doesn't take much at all.

I'd hoped this year would be different. I was there 35 lbs lighter than the last time they saw me. I certainly wouldn't expect a compliment, but I thought I'd escape the taunting. Not so much.

If I'm really honest, I hate how I look. I want better for myself. I want healthy. If I dare to dream, I want to run.

I used to walk down our road until I got sick. I finally feel like I'm well enough to do that again. Of course it's freezing cold now and I'm fearful of the freaky guys who followed me last time.

My husband has started working out with the fitness ministry at church. I'm so proud of him. He's an emotional eater, so he's gained weight this year. I know if he can stick it out, his aches and pains will lessen. I'm proud of him cause I could never do that. Years of being mad fun of in gym class and every single time I've been to a gym, make it impossible to get the nerve to work out in front of anyone.

There is deep desire in me to lose weight for health. Then there's a very real, shallow part of me that wants to lose weight so I can rub it in their fat faces. Then there's just the reality that losing weight will increase my chances of having a child. So there is some motivation, but a lack of follow through.

Damn it! I want people to stop seeing a fat girl and see me for who I am. I'm more than the fat on my body. Why do we have to all wear a label of fat or skinny?

I wish there was a scale that instead a number would tell me to keep going. Don't lie, just don't give me the agonizing bad news that makes me wear the label.

Homebound

In just a few hours, we will make the 12-13 hour trek back home. I can't wait.

I can't sleep. I'm tired but I cant. My inlaws have a cat that I'm allergic to, so I'm stuffy and can't breathe.

Yesterday was miserable. Only my husbands dad talked to me. I sat and ate lunch completed alone. Not joking. My husband sat with his family and there were no seats left for me. Any seat I tried to take, I got told was already taken. Even the one saved for the cousin who left before we ate.

My mother in law was in fine form. She's regressed to a childish state and my father in law is incredibly mean to her. I can't even go there.

The dogs are ready. They don't like all the time they've spent in the car and on leashes. Their habits have been disrupted.

Mostly, I'm ready for the holiday hibernation. I've had enough of the drama and pain and frustration. I'm ready to be home and not leave. I don't know how else to deal with life the next month.

Unfortunately, my life is set up to allow me to do just that. Church and grocery shopping will be the only times I'm expected to leave the house. The difficult things will be easy to avoid right now because my husband won't be motivated to go either.

I haven't forgotten that the last three weeks I spent in Ohio were hard and I was struggling to find my place there. Time hasn't made that go away. In fact, it's gotten a little worse. Once I'm away from regular activity, especially difficult ones, it's harder to return. That's just the honesty of how I am.

I'm a little fearful of the next month and the possible depression that could hit. With the grief, holiday stuff, marriage stuff and the adapting process, I'm not sure I'll fair so well. I'd be ok to sleep until December 26.

Because of several things that have happened, I've got some serious walls up with people I've met. A month ago, I'd tell you I was making a lot of friends and was happy about that. The things that have happened have caused me to retreat.

I have A friend. She is encouraging and loving and probably only one of two people in the entire state of Ohio that I trust and can be honest with. With everyone else, I've taken a step back and intentionally stopped sharing who I am and my heart. I got hurt and misunderstood. It's made me question whether I can truly be myself around people and definitely made me stop being vulnerable. I can't even bring myself to participate in bible study or small group settings. I know it's my choice to be self protective, but I definitely feel isolated and as though my spark has blown out.

So I better go shower so we can head home, our only home.

I Love My Brothers

I talk about my little brother a lot, but I have two younger brothers.

My brother, Randy, and I haven't spoken in over 8 years. Our relationship has been strained for a lot longer than my estrangement from my family.

He is 16 months younger than me. Growing up, he was always the tallest, physically healthiest and most athletic.

But, he was broken by the same evil that broke me.

I have many memories of abuse, but there is one that has haunted me more than any other.

For many of our childhood years, my dad sold us into prostitution. I didn't know at the time it was called prostitution. He would take us to men's houses or allow men to come in our house. They would hand him cash and then they were allowed to do sexual and torturous things to us. Nothing off limits. I saw and experienced it all.

If we were uncooperative, we paid a price. My brother's punishment was usually a brutal rape afterward by my dad. During one of those times, my brother looked at me and cried out for me to help him.

I was a child in fear. I couldn't do anything. I loved my brothers and cares for them in motherly ways. But I couldn't stop the pain and abuse.

His face during that time. It's often the last thing I see before waking up in a cold sweat and tears. It's the image that most haunts me.

For obvious reasons, my brother became very angry. Late in high school, he developed an odd seizure pattern. He was an outstanding athlete. He represented the US in junior Olympic international competitions. He was headed for multiple scholarship opportunities through sports. The seizures derailed all of that.

He spent most of his senior year in and out of hospitals and having tests. He was physically healthy and nothing could be found. He finally ended up in the psych ward of a KC hospital. It was there, in 1997, his seizures were diagnosed as dissociative episodes and he was diagnosed with Dissociative Identity Disorder, formerly Multiple Personality Disorder.

When the doctor started questioning my parents about trauma and abuse, they checked him out of the hospital and prevented him from getting treatment.

The years following his diagnosis, he became increasingly violent. He would snap. He had several girlfriends who accused him of rape. He physically attacked me in my home. He was violent and barely able to escape jail.

In the early 2000s, he was diagnosed with MS. In 2008, he was diagnosed with a clotting disorder that was said to shorten his lifespan to five years or less.

I'm convinced that the meds he has to take to function are also helping his anger and mental health. He still has issues. You don't come out of what he did, get no help and not have residual issues. Now he lives a life of depression and hoarding.

I don't have a relationship with him. My experience with him has been toxic. I can't do that. He's also very connected to his parents still.

I have forgiven him. How could I not? I know he was a product of the same hell I was. He's never found the help I have.

I pray for him. I want him to know the peace I have found. Peace doesn't erase pain or memories, but it does give you something besides the pain.

I love him. I know he's doing the best he can given what he's survived. And he is a survivor. I have to respect that. I have never met anyone with as extensive abuse as we endured, except my brothers. I have to acknowledge the inner strength that has brought us all through that.

I love both my brothers.

My little brother is almost 4 years younger than me. He didn't experience quite the depth of abusewe did. He's also the more sensative of the two brothers. He didn't come out unscathed. He can't show emotion and has his own issues.

It's been a lot easier to rebuild a relationship with him. I think some of that is me being able to show him love knowing he isn't capable of showing it in return.

I am excited for the upcoming visit with my little brother. But, my heart still aches for my other brother. He's on borrowed time medically and lives a miserable life. I know I can do little more than pray. I know the Lord loves him and was grieved when my bother was broken by evil.

Please pray with me for my brothers. They need Jesus. They need to know a true love. They need restoration.

I Wanna Go Home

I've had a huge revelation the past few days. Ohio is my home.

Since we moved, I've felt torn, like I'm straddling 600 miles. Displaced. Ohio didn't feel like home, but my stuff was there. Missouri didn't feel like home, but my heart was there.

Two days ago, we drove by our old house. It was part of what kept me feeling connected to MO. It was where I lived for 16 years and definitely the place of so many life changes.

As we drove by, I didn't recognize the house. The color was brown. The garage door was brown. The front door was red. The decor was different. Our nice blinds had been changed out for cheap mini blinds. It was our house. It was only a guess that they've changed the inside too.

Huh. Missouri isn't my home any more. I'm not upset by it, I feel a little relief.

Life in Ohio has been rough recently, so it's hard to fully embrace it as home. But it is my only home.

I don't have any other place. No family home. Not even a place to stay.

There is still a connection to people in Missouri. However, that is dwindling. There are a few close friends who remain the same. I savor the time I have with them, knowing it isn't newrly what it used to be.

Let me take a moment to discuss friends. Maintaining those long distance relationships is hard and takes intentionality. I've also found that it's hard to balance visits. People who've never had to move away just don't get it. When we visit, family is the priority. Family is two hours from friends. I can't be in two places at once. So that limits availability. When schedules don't mesh, I just can't fit in exceptions, despite the desire or guilt trips. Simply put, I'm not going to see everyone every time and that has to be ok.

So, here I am after another sleepless night and ready to go home. My home. In Ohio.

I'm glad for the difficulty of this trip. I hope it drives me to put more effort into being at home in my new community. I've still got a lot to learn. God still has to help me out with the details of how I'm going to fit where I don't believe I do.

But I'm ready to be at home.

Insecurity

I've written on this before. Insecurity isn't one of my usual struggles. In fact, I tend to be misjudged because I tend to have more confidence than insecurity. However, when it hits, it knocks me right on my butt.

I feel like I'm taking a huge step backward. Given all that has happened, I've handled the last year better than expected. Sure, I've had meltdowns, but I've navigated them and quickly returned to some semblance of normalcy. I've had help at times, which has kept me from falling apart and completely regressing. 

I'm stuck in a hotel in Kansas with nothing to do but let circumstances unravel me. Old tapes are playing. Self doubt has settled in my mind. My heart is wrapped up in anxiety and hurt. 

There have been times in the past few months that I thought everything that had happened was finally going to break me. It didn't, because when I finally got to the end of myself, one or more people were there to walk through it with me. 

This is a little different. Insecurity is different than the big struggles. It makes me feel far more vulnerable. 

At the moment, I'm dealing with some harsh realities in my marriage. Realities that are always there, but only get to me when I'm feeling insecure. 

My husband doesn't give me what I need. He can't. He's got his own stuff that makes him only able to care for himself. Not getting what I need for so long, finally leaves me tearing myself apart. Questioning what I otherwise know to be true. 

Does he love me? He doesn't say it much anymore, so he must not. Does he want me around? He must not because he's rather watch tv than talk with me. Can I depend on him? I don't think so because he isn't sensative when I'm sick. Have I become unattractive to him? I must because he doesn't hug or kiss me any more. Am I the worst wife in the world? Of course, he tears me down, brings up mistakes from the far, far past and let's me know all the ways I fail. 

I think that is greatly compounded by the time of year, especially this year. 

I've taken huge steps forward this year in every aspect of my life. But here I sit, in a dark pit, knowing that this is a step backward. 

I pray. I pray about the circumstances. I probably don't pray much for myself. At times like this, I don't feel I'm worthy.

I can't wait to get home. I want to curl up in my own bed and not move for the next month. I want to hide. Hide from the pain. The only way I can hide from it all is to be alone, isolate myself. I don't want to deal with all this and I certainly don't have the energy.

My only prayer for myself is that this doesn't get as bad as it has in the past, so bad that it is destructive. I don't have the relationships built yet to share that kind of honesty, so I know it could get bad for me. I know how quickly my self value sinks to being non existent and how easily it would be to slip away. 

Madder than a hornet?

That might be accurate. It's 5 am and I've been awake for hours. I'm angry. Why can't I sleep? I'm exhausted and yet my mind races at 12 am, 2, 3, 5 and I can't sleep.

I'm a christian. I should always be loving and forgiving. I shouldn't be angry.

I am human. I'm angry and hateful. I don't want to forgive, but want vindication.

This isn't necessarily all about my husbands recent revelation. This is about this time and place.

This marks my 8th year of going through the holidays without my family. Nothing compares to those first few years. Those were hard. Those were the times when I still thought that Jesus wasn't worth the pain I felt over being so alone during the holidays.

Then the pain lessened and I began to embrace Jesus over my family, knowing that I was far better off. Over the past few years, I found myself surrounded by friends during the holidays and managed to survive them well. The pain never left, just because less of the focus. The past two years have been the best.

Now here we are and everything is different. All the comforts that have gotten me through, they aren't there any longer. Over 600 miles separate us. Our new area, our new friends, nobody knows us well enough yet to understand how hard this coming month will be or how to support us through it. I fear that will isolate us even more.

There is a bit of anger and sadness with visiting this area. Unless there is a family emergency, we won't be back in Missouri/Kansas for a year. A whole year! That is a decision we've had to make.

It is easily a 12-13 hour drive. We aren't just a long weekend away. We've done that and watched friends do it to visit us. It's rough and wears you out. But, it's more than that.

Ohio is our home. Coming back here is emotionally draining. It deserves a post of its own, but it takes a lot of emotional energy to make the trip and we leave feeling even more displaced. We need to make our home in Ohio. To do that in healthy ways, we've got to put some distance between us and our attachment to this place. Not the people, just the place. Our heart can't be torn between two places if we ever want to fully make Ohio home and we do want that.

In addition, we've got a full plate the next year. I've got 3 semesters of 18 hours each. Somewhere in there, I have to squeeze in at least one surgey and either a second surgery or a baby. With school and health stuff, we don't have the money to make the trip. School was a choice, but we did it knowing we'd be living a poor student life for a few years.

Since grief still plagues me, I do hold some anger over that idea I could have been six months pregnant this Thanksgiving. I'm angry that the grief still keeps me from being fully decided on fertility treatments.

That brings me to the reality of how I will spend my holiday. Yes, I'm angry. I've not had time to fully process what has recently been said, so I don't yet have it in me to forgive. I absolutely hate that I have to walk into this family dinner on Thursday knowing that these people very unfairly despise me. The hateful sneers and disrespect will be showered on me like a gift and I'll have no choice but to smile as if I'm an oblivious idiot.

I'm not that person who goes off the deep end and has a crazy holiday meltdown. But everything in me wants to tell these people off. I want to tell them what life has really been like and that their brother hasn't been an angel. I want to ask them where they get off judging me when they are incredibly dysfunctional. Seriously. The family is full of sin, sin that they easily judge others for but fail to acknowledge the exact same in their own life.

I want to, but rest assured...I won't. I'll bite my tongue. I will probably be unintentionally ugly with my husband. But I'll know that once these few hours are over, then I get to walk away for a year.

Hopefully I've cleared my mind enough that I can go back to sleep. I don't need to be angry about being exhausted.

And the truth comes out...

Holidays suck for me. There's no getting around it. I don't have the typical celebrations with my family, I have none. My husband's family celebrations are always so hard for me. Nobody talks to me, I'm disregarded and overall treated poorly.

I'm not kidding. His family, one by one, will come to wherever we are and say hello to my husband or tell him that dinner is ready. They'll say goodbye to him and not so much as make eye contact with me. At Christmas, the couple gifts I get are usually tossed around and have even been oped by other people.

That's a small list and it's been that way for well over 16 years.

For years, I've struggled to understand. I've never been mean to them. I've tried my best to fit in and love them. I've done everything my husbands ever asked me to do to develop some semblance of a relationship with them and I've failed.

For all these years, I've thought it was me. Beat myself up over it. Listened to my husband tell me that it was me. And still not understood because it didn't add up. Their hatefulness never seemed to match what I gave them.

We've fought. My husband and I have fought over this. Every time, I was at fault. It was me.

My husband made a confession to me this weekend. One that I at times suspected, but never truly believed could be true.

By his own admission, he has told his family every terrible thing I've ever done.

That's right, every little thing I've ever done wrong in our marriage has been shared with his family.

No wonder they hate me. I haven't always been a good wife. In fact, I've been a really bad wife most of our married life. And they've been privy to every bit of it. Our dirty laundry has been aired the entire time and I never knew.

I'm not even sure what to think or how to respond.

Of course I asked some questions. I stayed calm and didn't share my growing frustration.

Did you happen to ever explain to them that I had no real models for how to be a functional member of society, let alone a wife?

Did you ever share the times I begged for forgiveness?

Did you tell them that you weren't always the easiest person to live with or that you at times have been mean?

Did you bother to tell them that I've changed and carried us through all your depression?

Did you ever mention to them that I love you so much that I stayed through all of that and have worked my ass off on our marriage?

No.

NO!!!!!

It's taken me a few days to process this enough to say, I'm hurt.

One of the things I've learned and I believe to be true, you work on your marriage between the two of you. When things get difficult, then it's ok to confide in a trusted person or counselor but only with the intent of being able to go back and work through the issue with your spouse.

Never during our marriage have I ever been that woman who sits around and bitches about my husband with the girls. I won't ever be.

I know, I probably sound like a hypocrit right now since I'm putting this grievance in a public forum. I do so as my personal way of processing and as advice for any reader.

At least this holiday, I'll know why I'm being treated poorly. Because like my husband, they never let things go, and I'm pyong a price for everything I've done wrong and most of it being years and years old.

Good grief. I just want to be loved and forgiven. Isn't that what we all want? I want a family who accepts me. I've never felt further from having that.

We've obviously got some stuff to deal with, huh.

My best marriage advice, know you're both going to make epic mistakes and give your family the running list unless you're going to share the whole story.

My days lately...

When we first moved, I stayed busy arranging our home. Then I focused a good deal of time on being a wife and being domestic. Then I got sick. Then, well, I got bored.

I got into a routine with laundry and shopping, but that didn't fill my days. I went through times of feeling useless and struggled with motivation.

Honestly, I'd had a similar struggle after my time volunteering at a previous church ended. Getting the house ready to sell was a welcome job after not having much to do for 6 months.

Volunteering at the previous church was always a mixed bag for me. For a long time, I enjoyed it. When I was allowed, it gave me opportunities to serve the church in unique ways and in ways that people rarely knew.

There were multiple reasons for me being there, most importantly to protect me from my own depression/anxiety when it was very severe. There were times I fought against that.

It was also an emotional roller coaster for me. There was so much drama, so much self inflicted struggle within the office. I won't go into details, but I will say it was tough at times. It was also my first time to see the good, bad and ugly of the church. I was a very immature christian and didn't know how to process what I saw from the members and the general public. I didn't know then the correct ways to handle the things that felt wrong to me.

All that said, I wouldn't change those three and a half years. I developed some amazing relationships, learned a lot and developed a desire to serve the church. Ultimately, it taught me to love the church body, the good, bad and the ugly.

So, my husband shared with our new minister about my experience volunteering in the church office and my desire to do something.

Over the past few months, that has led to an opportunity to volunteer in our new church several hours a week.

It's so nice to have something to do in addition to being a housewife. More importantly, it's giving me an opportunity to serve the church in ways that aren't obvious. I enjoy giving my time to this church and am so thankful.

When school starts in two months, things may change a little. I hope to balance everything, but I shouldn't get bored.

I'm so very thankful that my husband heard my heart and was proactive in helping me fight my boredom.

Pre Travel Thoughts

It is the week before Thanksgiving, the official start of the holidays. We leave in two days. I'm not overly emotional, but I have a sadness that's settled deep inside me.

I've not been feeling as though I belong here. I've struggled. It's been hard. I've cried out in total darkness, not wanting to be here. Ohio winter has hit early and hard. The coldness has been more than freezing temps, it's been my heart. There has been good things, but in general it's been hard.

We are heading to Missouri. We will see my husbands family, spend some time relaxing in Branson and see a few friends. The truth is, we don't belong there either. We will spend 10 nights in hotels and condos. Not in the comfort of a warm home. We will fight exhaustion as we run from one place to another, never really having any down time. It will be hard and we feel out of place there too. I know because the same thing happened in September.

We, me especially, are in this season where my heart isn't settled anywhere. I struggle to feel truly at home right this minute. I want to. I hate feeling displaced.

When we moved here, the plan was to stick out the two years. It's likely we will be here a good long while. I think ultimately, that will be good. It's really difficult to establish roots if you think of this time as only temporary.

I want this to be home. When there isn't a stirring in my soul, I love it here and I love the people.

At this time each year, I know I have to rely more on facts than emotion. This year is no different.

I have the usual difficulty of the holidays. I have the stress of still recovering from being sick. I am totally jacked up on hormones.

I do have my brothers family coming the day after Christmas. I am looking forward to their 8 day stay. However, that comes with a special kind of stress. As an adult, I've never spent that much time with my brother. It will be good, but stressful. I only have one agenda while he is here. To let him see the impact a relationship with Jesus Christ has had on my life.

I know this too shall pass, but I'm ready to feel at home. I'm ready for things to fit together like they are meant.

Girlfriends

I have lots of friends and aquaintances. But if I had to really condense that, I'd have to say I only have a few close, deep relationships with one developing here.

And if I had to be honest, I'd say of those half dozen or so relationships, there are an equal number of men and women. and of those, it took years and years to develop most of them. Years to learn to trust, value relationships and believe that person wasn't planning to hurt me.

I've said this before but it remains true...it is much easier to befriend a man than a woman. As I start anew here, I find myself evaluating why this is so.

Let me start by saying that relationships with men have absolutely nothing to do with sex or lust. If you know me at all, you know that sexual attraction is not a driving force for me. Just putting that out there so there's no confusion.

Secondly, when I develop a relationship with a man, it always resembles a brother/sister relationship. If I don't have that sibling type of love for the person, chances are they'll never be a good friend.

So, why?

Well, I tend to enjoy conversation with men more than women. I gravitate toward manly activities like sports and cars. I've always been that way. I like that men talk with less emotion and more facts. They don't gossip or bitch.

I also tend to have more respect for men. If I need correction or have deep questions about life or the bible, I'd prefer to talk with a man. This will probably always be the case. One thing years of abuse set up for me is to respect men in authority.

Women are so much harder for me. I don't seem to fit. I don't enjoy shopping or gabbing about senseless things or gossiping.

Not all, but a lot of women play games with one another. They expect you to understand them and know exactly what they want. I don't get that. I'm not that way. Again, not all, but many are so not trustworthy. They take what you say in confidence and it spreads like wildfire.

You can imagine that is all making it more difficult to develop relationships here. When I'm in small groups of women, I'm often off to the side by myself. But I could talk to the neighbor guy for hours and never get tired.

I don't know how to fix this without altering who I am. I just got comfortable with who I am, I'm not sure I can change. Even if I did, I'd eventually revert back to the true me and still not fit.

I also don't know how to explain to these people I don't know that I'd much rather sit and watch the game with the guys than go shopping or gossip. Hopefully I can find that too and at least work toward some balance.

Baby Dreams

I have a confession. I think this baby stuff has taken over my life. For 16 nights straight, I have woke up in the middle of the night from either a nightmare about babies, in full blown memory of the losses or in tears with the latest loss on my mind.

It's safe to say, I'm not through this yet.

In all fairness, I did talk to our minister about it. He had wonderful, wise counsel and was willing to listen to me. I met with him twice and told him I was fine, over it.

Now I am fairly certain he'd talk with me again, especially if he knew how much it is bothering me still. However, I have those two little problems. One is pride, I couldn't possible admit that I fudged the truth with him. The other, my solid to the core belief that I am not worth the time. I don't ever feel as though I am worthy of anyone's time, that there are far more important things for that person to deal with than me.

So here I am. Still stuck in this place of all consuming grief and confusion.

In January, I'm headed to school to be a counselor. I've been walking with people through some pretty tough stuff lately. I feel like I should already have all the answers and know how to get over this. But I don't.

I'm not depressed, that's not it. It's grief and sadness over a loss.

There's a part of me that's glad winter is coming. The less I'm around people, the better. I just can't hold myself together long enough to be around people for extended periods. It's too hard.

Last Friday, my previous psychologist called me. He was so kind to be checking in on me. As I left him a voicemail, a bit of reality smacked me in the face. I reported the news, gave the rundown of everything that's happened since we last spoke in July.

After I finished the rundown, I told him not to worry that I was doing absolutely fine. As the word fine hit my lips, my voice cracked and the tears shot out of my eyes. I abruptly ended the message, hoping his keen psychological spidey sense wouldn't kick in and I wouldn't be faced with a return call.

There is only so much he can do so far away. I'm very much a face to face person and am exactly that way with this stuff.

Since I'm still struggling physically with my hemoglobin being so low, I don't have a choice but to go to sleep at night. Otherwise, I'd opt to stay awake and forgo the nightmares.

I don't know who you (the reader is), but I would love it if you'd pray for me. That either this season of grief and confusion would subside, get easier or that I would finally come to the end of myself and ask for help cause I'm failing miserably doing this alone.

What life is really like here.

I love it here. I love the slower pace of life. The people are friendlier and I love our home. All those things are true and very consistent.

But there's a dark side too, a reality that isn't all sunshine.

My husband is severely depressed and there's no help for him. He doesn't enjoy anything. A month ago, he told me he wasn't sure he knew how to love me. He's struggling with faith. It crushes me, all of it.

I've met a lot of wonderful people, but I feel so alone here. There's lots of reasons for that. In KC, I had my friends. I knew who I could trust, who I could call in crisis, who was good for a mid day pick me up. I also knew what was expected of me. I knew what I could say and what I should not. I knew who could speak hard truth to me and how to take things.

It took me a long time to learn all that and I was happy. Here, I don't know any of that. I have to start over. I constantly say the wrong thing and misjudge how to take things. It's so damn hard! It's like having to learn to walk all over again. And the crappy part is that the same rules don't apply because the culture and people here are completely different.

After six months, I've started to see how previous relationships are shaking out. Few have stayed strong, but I still know who is fiercely supportive. Some have slipped away and some still come in a text a month. That in itself brings another level of adapting.

Despite our 6 years of strained relationship, being away from my little brother and his family is the hardest. I would only see them 1-2 times a year max. However, the past two years, my brother and I had been rebuilding our relationship. For the first time ever, I know he loves me even though he hasn't learned how to show it. And I miss him. Everything else that causes sadness in my life is nothing compared to how badly I miss him. I am on a countdown for December 26.

My faith is not shaken through this. I may question and wrestle with where God's love can be found, but I refuse to let go of the one constant.

Where my grief goes

Back in September, I started a grief process that I never thought I'd experience again. It overwhelmed me. To grieve miscarriages for the first time in so long was more than I was prepared for. 

My grief spewed out at all times and on everybody. Until one day, about two weeks in, I took assessment of those around me. Everyone here who was even remotely with me through it, appeared to be done with me. They physically and verbally seemed to grow tired of my emotions and very much came across to me with the words and non verbal communications that screamed "aren't you over this yet!"

So I did what I do best. I put it away. Shoved it so far inside myself that there was no chance it would come back out. At least not in ways that I would allow anyone to see. 

When I'd see new babies of friends on fb, I'd head to the bathroom and bite back tears until the sadness passed. 

When I got handed the baby dedication forms at church to take care of and the announcement in the bulletin, I turned the music up loud so nobody dare hear my momentary bout of bawling. 

When I listened to friends complain about their children, I fought those raw emotions that threatened to come out in a full blown backhand and reminder to be thankful for what others can't have. 

The truth is, it's still there. Sitting at the surface and eating away at each of my days. I exhausted my resources and convinced everyone I was ok. Doing so for them, not me. Believing life would somehow get better if everyone around me were once again ok with me. 

I screwed up. I'm not ok. I'm still grieving and I'm doing it completely alone. The people who were helping have long since moved on, because that's what I claimed to have done. 

As I sat filling out our fertility specialist paperwork, it hit me hard. There is a higher probability of additional loss than actually having a baby. Am I ready for that? Do I have the support I need for that? I can't answer those questions. 

I was devastated and elated that our appointment had to be postponed. I think I need a little while longer for my heart to mend before I do it all again. 

The other shoe

I'm sure you've heard that saying about waiting for the other shoe to drop. Well....

Life has been too good lately, which means satan is in full blown attack mode.

Two weeks ago, things couldn't have been better. I was loving life and things were far better than I anticipated.

I was loving this area. Loving church. Felt great. Plans for infertility treatment and school were moving forward.

Then the past week happened and everything came to a screeching halt.

I spent the better part of a night in the ER with what we can only guess is a gallbladder problem. I can't get in until mid December to get further testing. Until then, my digestive system is totally jacked up and I spend about every other night puking.

My first fertility appointment was to be tomorrow. Guess what? They won't treat with major issues, like gallbladder going on. So that appointment is in limbo and likely cancelled until further notice. It probably deserves a post of its own, but I'm having major second thoughts about the process.

You can imagine with the gallbladder problem and stress of it all, I no longer feel great. My most recent gyno issues have caused my anemia to come back and my hemoglobin to drop. Cue the constant sleeping, no physical energy, rapid heart beat and being freezing cold all the time.

School is in limbo at this point too. Partially because I can't get my high school transcript and partially becaus of me.

I can't decide between two schools and three programs. It's a huge commitment. At nearly $6000 per semester, I need to make sure it's right. I know my own insecurity is plaguing me too.

There are so many good things about a small church. I would never say that it's easy to adapt when changing from a medium sized church to a small church. Really, it's probably less about church and more about adapting period. Even after six months, we still find that we have a lot of adapting left to do.

I'm not surprised by any of this. I expected it.

What I didn't expect was my response. My need to self protect has kicked into overdrive. I want to withdraw and not leave home. I've said it before, but the amount of stuff since January has been so overwhelming. We aren't quite out from under the weight of it all and it's still crushing us.

I thought I was beyond that, beyond withdrawing. I guess not. So, I'll quietly battle this round the best I can. I don't have a support system here to help and encourage. I'll make it through all of this, but it's hard right now.