See You On The Other Side

Our Dear Friend John. Your gruff demeanor always belied by your eyes. Kindness. All saw right through you. Teddy Bear. My friend. Who always asked and meant it. Really cared about the answer. My only lasting partner in "what the heck did we marry into here?" : ) More than an Uncle, my husbands friend as well. Giving him a hand when he least expected it. Carefully listening. The storyteller. The advice giver. The authority on just about everything. Whether it was correct or not. How we will miss you. Even after she left you and even after she chose to leave this earth you were and always will remain family. You said she had been dispersed. Well the boys found her in your desk drawer at work. After all these years. If she's waiting for you at the pearly gates I hope you brought some ear plugs. Or then again, maybe she found the peace she couldn't find here and will greet you with a smile and take your hand. Maybe when we see you again someday, when we reach the other side,  we will see you smile again too. We missed that when it faded away. And now, one week from apparently fine to "too late". "Too far along." No hope. Last week I held your hand tight and saw fear in those eyes. Something I have never seen. And never want to see again. Yesterday you lay unaware. Flanked by your boys. One by blood. One by bond. Good men raised by a good man. Their tears a testament. Blessed you were able to make the choice yourself. I don't know if their hearts could have withstood making the decision.  I hope you could feel my hand on your arm. Heard my words. Good friend. Good man. Goodbye. That you had to be taken only makes us grieve. But we have peace in knowing you were absolved from pain and struggle. That you were taken swiftly and gently with dignity.
Godspeed to you. See you on the other side.
Our Dear Friend John.

I do want to give attribution to this Youtube poster for the stunning video. Under the circumstances I hope they don't mind me totally ripping it off.


Copyright 2011-2014 All Rights Reserved By Ms. G.

And There It Is

Where does it come from? On just any day. A sunny day with the thunder a promise just the other side of the river. A day when a great deal is to be done, tomorrow. It's quiet. The phone rang already. One. Two. Three. Four times. Answered, listened. I understand. I do. It's not that. What is it? Midway through a week. Nothing is wrong. Not here. Is there? Not today. Not yet. But it stands there balanced on the edge of reason. Swaying on a fine pointed tip. So where does it come from? On an any day.





Copyright 2011 All Rights Reserved By Ms. G.

I believe every word this man is saying.

From this article/broadcast about WOFF
http://abcnews.go.com/US/nc-man-church-imprisoned-gay/story?id=17534557

My former best friend from girlhood, 57 ChevyBug has been in bondage to this cult since 1994.

It's an evil place that soils the name of Christianity. It takes advantage of the weak in spiritual confidence. The broken. The lost. Woff is not the Word of Faith but the Shame of faith.

It makes me angry and breaks my heart.


Copyright 2011 All Rights Reserved By Ms. G.

WW: Something's Missing

© 2011 All Rights Reserved By Ms. G.

Separating Fact From Feeling

Once I was driving down the road in the middle of the day. I saw blue police lights ahead and began to move into the left lane but then I noticed the car that was pulled over. A compact beige car. Old, beat up, dirty, unkempt. I changed direction and turned right into a shopping center parking lot and pulled into a spot facing the road just a few yards from what was going on. The officer stood on the sidewalk waving his arms around. I couldn't hear but he appeared to be angry and shouting. He was giving a stern lecture of some sort. My brother leaned against the passenger door of his car. Faded ripped jeans. His hands embedded deep in the pockets of a ratty jacket. His cheap, dirty tennis shoes planted on the edge of the curb. The thick waves of his golden blonde hair were dull tarnished copper falling over his eyes. Too long in the back turning up at his collar. My heart bled as I watched my beloved brother, like it had so many times before, and at what he had become. My brother stood motionless and listened with his head down. He finally raised it in answer to a question and I saw his mouth move in excuse. I was waiting in case I needed to call my sister in law. My brother nodded his head in acceptance and the officer directed a few more words at him and returned to his vehicle. Much to my surprise and concern my brother swung around, got back in his car and drove away.

Last year on MotPG I wrote this post Fly Bye from last July. It is a tribute to my brother on the anniversary of his death. It is an honest picture of how much I loved the brother I knew. In spite of his faults. What it lacks are the full facts of who he was and what he did. I titled this Separating Fact From Feeling but I'm not sure that is accurate. Both posts are Fact in every way. Perhaps Feelings Despite Facts would better describe it.

The facts do not change the love.

Because this was a brother who indulged me when I was small and was only kind. The brother I missed when he was in the army and couldn't wait to see again. The one whose side I would have taken against my parents as a kid because I didn't know better. This is the brother who let me tag along. Taught me to fish. To shoot a rifle. To fly a kite. And when he met his wife included me in their world. And she did too, which is why I love her. And why after his funeral I told her, "I'm glad you stayed with him, even though none of us would have blamed you if you didn't." She answered, "Well I cared alot about him." Who didn't? That was the problem.

Most of the people he hurt loved him because of the person he was when he was not consumed with alcohol. The person who was very proud of his children the entire time he was letting them down. The person who sometimes made thoughtful and considerate gestures toward his parents while he also took advantage of them. The person who once spent weeks looking for a perfect antique clock as a gift for his wife. To replace the one she inherited from her mother. The one he broke in a drunken rage.
Some of the people he hurt did not know him at all.

The brother who would rapidly advance whenever he attempted a new job and then self destruct the moment he was promoted into a position of authority. This is the brother who was a wonderful artist, though he had no formal training, and most of what he did would be considered what they call a 'naive' or 'folk' art. The one who had an elementary school teacher publicly denounce him for a picture he drew as part of a project and accuse him of tracing the picture and lying about it being his work. So he never attempted to use his talent publicly again. Also the brother who was treated by an Army psychologist for depression in the seventies. She suggested some pills that would perk him up as an alternative to drinking. And so began an even more vicious cycle.

Also the brother who was discharged from the army for operating a tank while intoxicated. Yes, TUI. The brother whom my parents sent to rehab countless times. He cleaned up nice. Met his wife during one of those times. Or scratch that. Met her in a bar the day he relapsed.
The brother who bought his very first brand new car when he was in his early twenties and within one week totalled it in a head on collision. He had head injuries. The other person was blessedly alright. That time. The brother who due to laxity in the laws at that time, was allowed to drive away numerous times. The one who, when he did lose his license, was eventually given it back time after time and allowed back onto the roads.
Until the last time.

The very handsome and out doors type guy who systematically destroyed his body and mind with alcohol and drugs to the point that when he reached his forties he looked like he was in his sixties and had already done permanent damage to his liver.
I got the phone call around 3 A.M. and we tried to hurry.

The brother who, at the age of forty two, died from an esophageal hemorrhage in relation to severe cirrhosis.

 Alone.

While I waited in a caged hall to be checked in.

At a prison hospital.

Three months before his scheduled release after serving his sentence
for vehicular manslaughter.

The brother I feel deserved to be there, without any question whatsoever.

And loved.



© 2011 All Rights Reserved

Kiss The Butt If Necessary

I'm not supposed to be in blog world today. I am up to my ears in work this week but this is what's on my mind and I need to clear it.

This morning Middlest woke up on the wrong side of the bed with her butt in place of her head. By the time we were ready to leave we were all about fed up with her and I told her," You can improve your attitude right now or take your bike to school." It was cold and dark but she chose to ride her bike rather than be pleasant. "Fine," I told her, "Go for it." When I walked outside to drive Littlest and saw her pulling her bike out I did mention, "You need to be careful. With the time change people will be driving tired and it's dark." She didn't answer, she was too busy being pissy and I didn't say anything else either because I wasn't in the mood to deal with a butt.

I am always a cautious driver. In the mornings I am on high alert watching for kids on bikes and walking. This morning I kept my own warning in mind and was especially careful. I was driving into a pit of overtired people who had become used to daylight driving and incautious teenagers on their way to school. After I dropped off Lit I watched out for Mid on her bike during my drive home but never saw her. It was alright. My child made it to school safely this morning. Today was some other parents worst nightmare.

Today when Mid reached her first class period one of her classmates was absent.

Shortly after I arrived home my husband left for work. Just a few minutes later he called me. Heading to the convenience store for coffee he was met by a closed off road in front of the store. There had been a bad accident, he said. A highschool kid on a vespa type scooter had been hit by a car. Life Flight had been called in. He was very upset. "His tennis shoes are laying there," he said.

I do not know this boy or his family. But I feel like my heart was ripped out. We live in a small town. Routine breeds familiarity. Just a few weeks ago, before she changed schools, I took a different route in the morning to take Littlest to her bus stop and would drop Mid there to walk the last block to school. Every morning as I came out through the neigborhood that leads to the main road I would stop at the stop sign. The oncoming traffic was on a curve. Every morning I waited an extra beat and thought, Where's scooter boy? Because almost like clock work he would round the corner and I would stay put till he passed. Then continue on to the main road intersection that scooter boy had turned off at,  one block past where the accident happened this morning. He didn't make it to the turn. Someone blew into the turn lane in front of the store and without stopping proceeded to cross the road into the parking lot. Except there was a problem. There wasn't an opening in the traffic. There was a seventeen year old boy on his way to school there. He wasn't wearing a helmet. Our midday news reported that he is in critical condition.

Back when I first started my other blog my fourth post was this one. Hug Your Babies..Every Day. It was a day when a six year old girl had disappeared from my town. The final result was horrifying. But in that post I said this,

"No matter how tired you are, no matter how awful they have been, no matter how huge, old or ornery they are, Hug your babies. Every Day. "

I would like to add,  tell them you love them and kiss them too. Even if it requires kissing a butt.

And drive safely people. Let's watch out for other peoples babies as we hope they are watching out for ours.

Me And My Stalker Chat On The Phone

**This is yet another post that I removed quickly from my other blog because quite honestly it was so depressing I didn't even want to read it. But it's a true story. I wrote it, I live it and I want to own it.


That's right. There is something about me that I haven't mentioned before.

I have a schizophrenic stalker. Although I'm not sure stalker is the most accurate description because from what I have read it is supposed to involve a threat. I'm not sure if there is one.

When I was 18 I met a young woman who was a couple of years older than me at school.  She was new to the area and was the one to initiate the friendship with me. She was from a very small town in Missouri and once showed me a picture of her graduating class. On an 8'10 photo. It was about 30 people. She moved to my town because her mother passed away and her older, married sister lived here. She was staying with her while she got on her feet. During this period of time that I knew her she always had a job. She worked hard. She owned a car and she had a bank account. She seemed like a very responsible young woman.

She was very nice but she was also kind of odd. Nothing obvious, it was more of a feeling. Occasionally she would say something strange but then kind of laugh and say, "oh never mind." I put it down to growing up in such a small town. M kind of latched on to me. Which was ok. Sort of.  I didn't mind hanging out with her sometimes as a casual friend. She was alright and someone to go out to clubs or a concert with. I didn't feel close to her. I didn't share my private feelings and dreams. She was fine to go have a beer with.. But I think to her I was her "best friend". That spot was taken with me by someone who had been my closest friend since we were thirteen. Whenever I mentioned my "best friend" and that we were doing something together M would get kind of quiet. She seemed kind of annoyed. She didn't say anything but I got the clear impression that she was jealous. Which was weird but not my problem really. I was only about 18 remember.  She was odd. I don't really mind odd people. I'm not exactly 'not odd' myself really. She was alright I guess. The other people I knew didn't like her much. Even my parents thought she was strange and I did start to distance myself a little from her but didn't drop the friendship right away.

We hung out occasionally for about a year and she happened to be with me the night I met my husband. Once I started talking to him she kept coming up and saying she wanted to leave. I didn't find out till later that she had tried to talk to him but he wasn't interested so she probably wasn't thrilled. She usually had really bad judgement when it came to guys. More than once she met someone and introduced them to me and I realized they were creeps. After my husband and I started dating she would seem annoyed if I didn't want to make plans because I was with him. We tried setting her up with one of his friends but it didn't go well. The friends words were "There is something wrong with that girl". Apparently when he told her that he didn't want to continue going out she hit him.
I didn't hang out with her anymore after that. I was uncomfortable with the situation and didn't want to be mean. I just avoided her more and more. Once I she came by our house with a new boyfriend that was a known drug dealer I went to high school with. We cut that visit as short as possible without being...Really Rude. Just a little rude.

About a year later she called me. She was hysterical. It was slightly incoherent but I got the story that she had been living with some guys and they had cleaned out her bank accounts and credit cards and disappeared. I felt horrible for her but didn't know what to do. I hadn't spoke with her in a long time. Why was she calling me? I told her she needed to call her sister. Apparently the sister didn't understand. She refused to help. Strange. Or maybe not, considering what I knew. I couldn't help her but I listened. What else could I do? Because of her past associates I had the fear that she had fallen to the level of maybe trying a scam for money. But I didn't know for sure.
She disappeared from my life again. Someone said they had seen her working as a waitress at a seedy strip club. This was a young woman who was a licensed nurses aid, cosmetologist and bartender. Apparently it had become bad enough that she was unable to get work in these areas.

Skip 6 years. I am at the sink with my infant Middlest in her baby tub when I hear a knock at the door. The SeaMonkey had taken Biggest to ball practice and I thought it was them coming home. The knock sounded again and I scooped the baby up to go to the door wondering why they didn't just come in. I swung open the door holding my baby without looking first...and there stood M. I was startled and unsure what to do but I let her in. Within minutes I was frightened. Her behavior was Odd, noticeable even to me. She looked over my house very carefully. She started talking to me like we had just spoke days before. Rambling about people as though I knew who and what she was talking about. When I looked in her eyes I could clearly see that something was Really Wrong here. I just smiled and chatted along, deeply relieved when my husband came home soon after. I finally guided the conversation toward having to get the kids ready for bed and she   left. With what I knew about the possible drug use I was scared to death that she was casing the house. We didn't have much, but still. It really creeped me out.

Skip 2 more years. A knock on the door. Having left those worries behind I again open the door and there stands M. I go outside to talk. She looks harried and worn. She began speaking to me as though we had just seen each other the other day. She is more rambling an incoherent than the 1st time but I noticed that some of the things she said were ringing bells. They seemed  identical to our last conversation. It was as though no time had passed in her head at all. I couldn't be sure if she was high or if maybe the drugs had done permanent damage to her brain. She mentions something that makes me think she has been in a facility and says it was alright there but it was hard now. She was having trouble finding work. I ask if her sister is helping her. She says, "no, they have kids and they don't go out or anything so they don't understand." They won't let me stay there. I thought of the possibility of drugs and had some understanding of that. I still didn't know how to help her and with young children in the house she really made me nervous. After another long absence she came by one time just as I was leaving. I was glad to be able to avoid her. When we moved I actually was relieved that she wouldn't know where I was. My in-laws rented the house from us for a few years and she came by once but knowing the situation they recognized who it might be and just told her we didn't live there.

I had not seen or heard from her again for 15 years. Just by chance we moved to a place that is difficult to find. The maps don't have it clear and for the most part, only people who have lived here for a very long time even know the neighborhood even exists. Pizza delivery and even taxi's are confounded. So far. This gives me some peace. One day a little over a year ago my husband told me I had a phone call from someone with the name M but they didn't leave a message. When I looked at the caller id it was a local children's clinic which I found strange and called the number back and asked for M. I only had a first name and when they asked I explained that I had a phone call a short time before and didn't know what it was about because the caller left no information but a first name. The receptionist said that that was odd and then said "wait a minute, I bet I know what it was. "A little while ago a homeless woman came in and asked to use the phone and was looking numbers up in the phone book. She seemed a little out of it and I think she was just picking numbers at random."  I thanked her and hung up.  No, it wasn't random. She knew who she was looking up. Our business carries our name. "M." She looked homeless? Could it be? I didn't know what to think. Shortly afterward I received another call. A bright, cheerful and seemingly perfectly sane voice asked if it was me. I said  "yes. " Then the voice asked, "where are you living now? Is it by", she named a landmark that someone who didn't know might suppose was correct. I asked, "who is this?" She said, "It's M. I was wondering what you're up to." She then launched  into a long, rambling senseless string of unconnected information ending with the question, "so how many kids do you have now? " Even though my kids are big  my heart froze. I panicked. I said , "I think you have the wrong number" and hung up. I was terrified...and torn. I didn't know what was wrong with her. I didn't know if she was on drugs. I didn't know why she wanted to know about my kids and where I lived. And I was worried that she was on the street. Was she hungry? Was she cold? Did she have a place to stay?

The next call was left on my answering service. After listening to the message repeatedly to try to sort out some sense I realized she was naming people that we had gone to school with over 20 years before and giving me the location and descriptions of their homes. Telling me where some of them worked. She listed them reciting as though she had it memorized. It scared the hell out of me.  In subsequent messages I was able to pick out information that made it appear that she couldn't find her family. They weren't living where they were supposed to. She couldn't find their numbers. If she had talked to them, they didn't care. All of this is mixed in with recitations of job openings and a place she stayed but it is no good there and the police came and this or that person was bad. She seems to jump from thinking she is talking about work, to her "missing" family, from 20 years ago to today.   I have no way to determine which information is real or delusional.

I have one message that I kind of like. For a moment I can hear her old personality within it.
She says, "I've been down to that beach and you know those seashells? They were everywhere. I don't know who they think they are. I was talking to them and they really need to realize that this is "Our Land!" That one kind of makes me smile. I save the recordings...just in case. Just in case of what I don't know.

The Christmas before last I got a card. Carefully signed. Inside was a folded sheet of paper. Folded over and over as though surreptitiously slipped into the envelope. Part of it was typed information you might use in a resume. All around it is written messages, between each line and around the border. Disconnected,  unintelligible information that mimics her phone calls. Some sentences that make sense, though they are disturbing,  followed by gibberish. The card was a thin inexpensive generic quality.
Where did she get it? Perhaps a shelter. There was a return address on the envelope and I was thrilled because maybe now I could find answers. I couldn't remember her sisters name but when I checked to see if the address was legitimate three names were associated including M's. It was her sisters address. I was hopeful. Had she gone home? Were they helping her? Did her sister give her the card? I thought of sending her a card back but the fact was I still didn't know what I was dealing with. I wrote a letter addressed to the sister and explained what had been going on. I asked if she was mentally ill or impaired. I asked if she was dangerous.
I asked whether it was a good idea to encourage her because I would like to reach out but have my family to think about. I left my number and email.

Eventually I received a reply. According to M's sister she is mentally ill. She used the house as a mailing address. They are no longer living at the address she used. It was an old one and she had moved to another state and once the house was sold M would not get mail there.  She does not know where her sister is or if she is working. She hasn't seen her in a long time. The family and friends have tried to help  but M refuses to accept that there is something wrong with her and get treatment. As far as she knows she is not dangerous...Except if you try to tell her she is ill and needs help.  Then she becomes very angry and verbally abusive. Her sister said that she was usually nonsensical and sometimes would accuse her of interfering and keeping her from getting work. She said that it gets worse if she is under stress.
They have given up. They have no contact with her. The email made it very clear that they have washed their hands of this. She has been abandoned.

Though I described M's behavior in my letter, I don't know if her family realizes how bad it has become because I think they are hiding from her. I also completely understand that. Sort of. Not really. But still....they were unable to have her forced into treatment because she was not an imminent danger to herself or others. I don't know how long ago they tried this. I do know the woman on my phone is not capable of taking care of herself and should be in treatment.  She obviously Cannot get work and is Under Stress.

We get calls weekly, sometimes daily sometimes several times a day. For over a year now. We let her ramble on.  I listen intently to voice mails trying to gather clues of what is happening. For whatever reason she has honed in on me. She is reaching out. I don't know what to do. She calls from wide spread locations, usually businesses throughout the city. Anywhere or anyone that will let her use a phone. I don't know for sure if she is utilizing shelters, has a place to stay or is sleeping on the street. It is impossible to figure out because she can't have a coherent conversation. Sometimes after she calls I think about jumping in the car and heading to the area the call came from to search for her. Is she hungry? Does she need money? Could she use a jacket? Why did she pick me? Sometimes I am afraid that it is because once her family disappeared on her I was the only one she could remember being kind to her in all these years.

The more I thought about it the more I realized that things were most likely going awry all the way back when I met her but they weren't obvious yet. If she became involved in drugs I imagine that only exacerbated the situation. I am not frightened by the calls themselves and most of the time I am not frightened of her. Though she did once say, " The [ insert the specific area I live here] is the reason for all my problems." Insert a little paranoia on my part after hearing that one...but I am scared to get more involved. The safety of my family is my first priority. With the state of her mind I do not know if she harbors any resentment about my husband or that I didn't maintain the friendship. I don't know if she can even complete a thought that far. I am not sure if her sister has a firm or recent enough grip on M's condition to be sure of whether she is dangerous or not.

I also do not want to be responsible for this situation. I didn't know this woman that well or very long to begin with. At the same time when the holidays were approaching the calls were becoming more and more frequent. It breaks my heart to think of her being alone. My husband and I don't mind letting her ramble on the phone if it lightens her day but what else? Should we try to help if she has refused help from her family? Do we want to put our family in the middle of a situation like this?

The other day Middlest was out and she came home saying that she had been accosted outside a store by a woman who was obviously unstable and kept following her around and asking if she could use her bike lock even though she didn't have a bike. She was a little freaked out. I was concerned and told her to be careful and leave the area if something like that happens. She answered that she wasn't really scared because she was bigger. Middlest is about 5'8 and strong. She said the woman was tiny and she didn't feel physically threatened by her. "Tiny"? I asked her to describe her. When she described the woman's appearance a chill went down my spine. It may not have been but from some physical characteristics it very well could have been M.

My mothering instinct says keep her away from my family.
My heart says I wish I could help.
Sometimes I feel so mean.
Other times I just feel incredibly sad.

For the time being we just "chat" on the phone. I hope it at least helps her to feel connected to something.

But what do I do the day she figures out how to get to my house and knocks on my door?


 © 2010 All Rights Reserved

How Deep Do They Go.

I originally wrote this post from a prompt for Mama Kat's Writers Workshop. I tried to include her button too for the post but the html wouldn't work. I want to make sure I include this because if I had not seen the prompt I might never have done it. In the end I decided not to link it at the prompt because it is very harsh. Particularly because I have not participated there before and it seemed a little much to spring in a place that is unfamiliar to me. It was the hardest thing I have ever attempted to write about. It concerns the most painful moment of my life and quite honestly I cried through writing it and cry when I read it and cry whenever I think about it. So I thank Mama Kat for the cathartic relief even though I did not share it there.

The prompt was "Scarred"

When my first baby was born her skin was an unblemished porcelain white so clear she had a cast of blue about her temples and wrist where the veins were close to the surface and totally unmarked except for a tiny freckle on the sole of her foot where an angel kissed her before sending her on to us.

My oldest daughter is scarred. When she was a teenager we would not let her get her ears gaged. She took it upon herself. She started with her earring hole and began punching larger things through them. Eventually she stuck a golf tee through them. This was very painful. She craved it. The large holes are now gone but the backs of her ears are deformed. They are thick and lumpy with scar tissue. When she wears earrings they are slightly off center because she can't get any thing through the correct spot.
 Like the holes in our hearts they are healed but marked for life.

The ears are only the beginning. Her forearms are marked with a faded row of web thin reddish brown scars. Most have become very faint but when the weather is cold, sometimes the scars become more angry and substantial against her very fair skin. She is embarrassed by them at work. She covers them with long sleeves. She becomes very upset if someone notices and asks about them. This is the work of pain. This is a trick a friend taught her as a bid for attention. It was a means of manipulation. It became self loathing at what she had become. It was anger she could only direct at herself. In the beginning she once held a knife above her arm threatening us when we told her she could not go out because she was failing in school. Later it became a threat to herself and at the same time a badge of honor among her friends.

There are more. She has skin deep flaws throughout her limbs. Falls. Intoxicated plunges. Jagged welts from getting caught on the barbs of a chain link fence while running with her pack at night. Scratches, the result of a push against the wall from an angry boyfriend. Gravel marks on a knee from a take down by a police officer while trying to obstruct him from arresting the same boyfriend.

This is the one that hurts the most.

She had been missing for days. It is freezing cold in January. She was 15 and a half years old. She called me at 10 o'clock at night. "Mommy, please come get me. I'm sick." "Where are you?" She says she will meet me on a corner in a neighborhood known for crime and drug problems. I am there. I wait and finally out of the darkness I see two figures. My child turns and hugs the dark form beside her before she continues on to my car and the stranger recedes into the darkness. I repel the urge to run him down. It would be so easy. There is no one around. I focus instead on my daughter. She is filthy. Her clothes are torn. A hole in the thin burgundy sweater I gave her just weeks before for Christmas reveals a deep straight cut over 2 inches long in her upper arm. When I ask her what has happened she tells me she does not know. This cut has become a permanent scar.

This scar is the mile marker that lets us know she has reached rock bottom.

A few months before I thought things were looking up. We had a tight rein on her and she had been doing her work in home school and working at a grocery store. She had met a nice boy at work and was spending time with him and his friends. Not perfect but an improvement. They had dread locked her hair for her which I wasn't thrilled about but she was mostly staying out of trouble. For Christmas she had asked for new clothes and bought pretty things. And then He came back. While she was gone he claimed he didn't know where she was. I finally told him that if he cared for her at all he should be worried about her safety. That I didn't care what they did or what was going on. I just wanted her to be safe. She called 2 days later so I guess I have to thank him for that at least. And now my daughter sat next me with her new things destroyed. Her dreadlocks filthy and disarranged. Black dirt under her nails. Almost incoherent. Running a fever and hacking with an echoing cough. And that straight edge cut on her arm. Too clean to be an accident. As neat and red as a rare roast at the first touch of a carving knife. To this day I do not know who hurt my child or if she did it to herself. From the condition she was in it is possible she really does not know. On this night she flat out refuses to go to a doctor at first. Her behavior is so erratic that I'm not sure how much was from drugs and how much the illness but I know she will run if I attempt to force her. She is afraid of being committed or sent to a rehab. She keeps saying that she is leaving again as soon as she feels a little better. I offer cold medicine. "It won't put me to sleep will it," she asked? "No, I say, handing her the little plastic cup of red liquid. "Not at all, it's just for your cough." This was a lie. I didn't feel right doing this on one level but I felt it was the only choice to keep her safe. She slept most of the time for three days straight. When she was awake she did some strange things. Went around the house and unscrewed the screws on things but left them looking intact. I later found an antique baby doll shoved face down in a toy stroller. When I turned it over it's eyes were gouged out.

Within a week or so she is doing much better but the gash in her arm is still frightening to look at. We were lucky it never became infected but it is a wide red cavern on my child's skin. She decides she is ready to leave again. I plead. I argue. I threaten. I beg. My child sits on the couch, her skin still an eerie shade of white. Dark green-blue sunken eye sockets under her bloodshot deep blue eyes. She is still weak. I sit beside her and do something I haven't been allowed to do in over a year. I wrap my arms around my daughter tightly. She cannot get away. I don't know what to do anymore. I don't know how to stop it. I don't know how to fix it. I hold my baby and I do the only thing I knew to do when she was small and I wanted to comfort her. I sing. Her baby song. You are my sunshine, My only sunshine. You make me happy, When skies are gray. You'll never know dear, How much I love you. Please don't take My Sunshine away.....
And my daughter began to cry. For the first time in a very long time my child cried her eyes out hard. She clung to me like she had not done since she was small. I only realized then how long it had been. And I released the deepest grief of my life in tears as well. I rocked back and forth on the couch with my child's head buried in my shoulder and choked out the words of the song as she sobbed, both of us soaked in tears and I never wanted to let go again. I was afraid that if I released my arms I would lose her forever. I had to let go eventually. I to let her out of my embrace and out of my protection. It wasn't over but it was a turning point. She did leave again but something had changed. She returned again and though I didn't realise it at the time the healing had begun.

I forget about the scars on my daughters arms and when I catch a glimpse of them I feel a stab of pain as sharp as any knife in my heart. This is our scar. The one you cannot see. The scar of feeling like a bad parent. Otherwise, why would this have happened, right? I've been told this isn't true many times by professionals, family, friends and even my daughter herself. I know in my heart that we worked hard to do right by our kids and there have never been any more loved. But though the cancer has been removed the scar tissue still clings to every decision I make as a parent. To every piece of advice I give my daughters.
The scar of self doubt.

The worst events only encompass about two years of our lives and believe it or not there are even some things that enough time has passed to joke about. There are moments we can now find the humor in. But not these. These are the scars that my entire family bears. The damage that was done to us is not visible to the naked eye but it is deeply scarred tissue that pulls at every aspect of our lives. It is the scarred childhoods of her sisters. Witness to things that in some ways tainted their innocence. The scars on their own self confidence and faith in the world around them. There is the scar of her own memory. She has never told me everything. She only tells me, "I have seen bad things, mom." "I know." I say. I don't press for more than she offers. I imagine some of those scars will be tender for her entire life.
In the end I can say that for the most part we are healed. We are a close, loving and functioning family.
But there remains this fact of our recovery.

We are healed but we are scarred.

Mama Kat's Writers Workshop


When I began my blog one of the purposes I meant for it was to share what happened with my Biggest. I don't try to go in depth and explain the professional side of her issues. I write about the personal side of the these trauma's. I have shared some things but I have danced around this from the beginning. Most of the time I prefer to have a good time on my blogs and I have avoided this because it is the hardest for me. The hardest to explain. My daughter self injured herself in many ways but there is some stigma attached to self cutting. Socially and also because of assumptions that are sometimes made without having all the facts. There are many reasons and factors that can be involved in self cutting. When I first found my daughter doing this I read some psychology books and totally freaked myself out. I find this link to the Mayo Clinic overview on self injury is a clear and accurate outline on the basic reasons for self injury.

There is also the fact that being the most protective parent I knew I was unable to protect my daughter. Not from the influences around her or from herself. I thank God every day that she is doing so well.
I have thought about writing about this many times in the past year but have always set it aside. When I saw the prompt I knew it was time.
Just writing this has taken me nearly all day because it has knotted my neck up and given me a huge headache. These events were seven years ago. I think that may be a sign that I needed to get it out of my system.

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