Today we remember the six million Jewish people, as well as millions of other minorities and disabled people, killed during the Holocaust during World War II
Today we remember the people that were ruthlessly torn from their homes and transported to concentration camps in an effort to eradicate them.
We remember that 1.5 million children were among them.
We remember the parents, helpless to protect their children. We remember the old, young, sick, healthy, teachers, doctors, lawyers, shopkeepers, and so many more that were killed for fear.
Fear.
People turned against neighbors for fear of the other. For decades, the chant has been never again
. Never again will we allow children to be separated from their parents. Never again will we allow people to be locked away for wanting to live free.
Never again.
And yet, we are here. We are witnessing the rise of hatred and fear.
We are watching as families are torn apart. As we fail to reunite these families.
And we are forgetting the stories of those people who came before, that tried to help us to learn how never acceptable this is.
This year’s theme is “torn from home”. While it is unlikely that any of us lived through the Holocaust, it is very conceivable that at least one or two among us has been torn from the only home we’ve ever known and thrown into the terrifying unknown.
Today, we will honor the stories of those who came before us and lived long enough to tell us about it. Love and light today and every day.
You know about my kids now here’s a little about me.
I am extremely stubborn.
I hate admitting I need help.
I have a ton of health problems: anxiety, depression, EDS, IIH, and fibromyalgia. All 3 of my kids have autism with other co-morbidities. My husband is my rock but he can be a pain in my ass.
I take on a lot with the boys because they’re mine it’s not up to someone else to do it and I do see a therapist.
She thinks in dealing with the latest with what I call my shitshow, I lost myself in there somewhere.
I think she’s right in a way, I’m so mentally tired I’m surprised I can form complete sentences.
I’m getting away next week for 10 days.
For the first time in 4.5 years, I’m going to visit my mom, my dad, and my sister. I haven’t been together with the three of them at the same time in a long time.
I’m actually really excited… but scared too.
Scared of having a good time.
Is that weird?
Scared I’m going to be in pain and they won’t understand. Scared of being away from my kids for so long.
When you comment on my posts that you understand, or you’re sorry, or that you love me? That may be the only positive experience I have that day. I know I SHOULD live for myself, but I can’t. So I live for you. To tell my life experiences. The things that made me who I am.
Dealing with PTSD, childhood sexual abuse, suicide, prematurity, abuse, horrible (now-dead) parents? Is a load of fun. (Sorry, sarcasm is my primary language.) By sharing stories of my mother’s suicide and my own self-hatred, your love and support makes my life a little more bearable. Every single one of you.
The Band, each and every single one of you is awesome, and I love all of y’all!! Thank you for sharing your stories. The ones that we all smile reading. But especially the ones that make us lose our shit. Because you’ve been there, survived, and lived to tell the story. Thank you, Band.
Your love is the only unconditional love I’ve ever received.
The intangible that lives within and is expressed without but not with words…thoughts, deeds, drinks, and pills. Words seldom give justice to the turmoil within. And even when blurted out in a moment of weakness or vulnerability…if expressed to the wrong person they are still and float on the air like flotsam…better left wherever the journey began.
One might say “get a therapist” or “join a group.” Some psychobabble will surely help things along. Turn lemons into lemonade, bump inertia into movement. But, what to do without that ever-expensive, mostly elusive thing called health insurance?
Out of pocket expenses for mental health care are damaging.
So the cycle continues. The mood swings, the doubting, the bursts of mania. The decision to do one thing and suddenly another road is taken. All the while keeping things together. Feeling very little, looking very ill and fooling no one. Or maybe, just maybe, fooling everyone and that is the very problem that needs to be addressed.
The adjectives used to describe this current state are self-actualized and negative. But what is the alternative?
“Take these broken wings and learn to fly…”
No, these wings aren’t broken, my cape is not torn, I can handle everything that is happening. In the midst of accolades for “making it,” the pieces of my heart slowly tumble and quietly hit the ground while barely making a whisper.
And yet the pain is still devastating, immobilizing and nobody knows.
Admittedly this is my fault. Perhaps wiping away the facade will release magical healing powers, somehow I find that doubtful. So what if the alternative means holding it all in, weight creeping up and face looking as if I’m aging in reverse – teen years I’m back! Acne and all.
Sadly I don’t know how to remedy this. And so I sit. Waiting for the next thing in the pipeline and inevitably it comes and keeps me focused.
For a moment.
But in the quiet times (which are rare) my truth must be faced. I’m inert. Immobile. Dysfunctional and pray that someone will swoop in and take it all away. The likelihood of that happening? Nil.
And so I wake to face another day, I wear the mask and hope that no one notices.
My story all begins in August of 1976, my birth mother was 17 and was pregnant with me. So before she had me she had my sister who is supposed to be 4 years older than me. That would put my birthmom at 13 when she had her. That daughter was taken by the state and considered unadoptable because she sat in the corner and rocked back and forth. Well fast forward to 76. I was told her parents had told her she had already made one mistake and if she had me they would disown her. So she threw herself down two flights of stairs. She ended up going into labor and because I was seven or so months gestation I survived I weighed 4lbs5oz well she took me home and life began. It was said she was a drug user and abuser and that while she was under the influence she would hold me under water to watch the bubbles come up. I was also told she used me as her personal ashtray. I was also told she would use her foodstamps to buy drugs cause back in that time they were like paper money and were traded for real money or drugs. Anyway my adopted mother was telling her best friend how all she wanted for Christmas was a baby. Well the best friend had a sister and that sister knew my birth mother. So oneday when my moms second husband was at work or somewhere he came out to his car and there I was. I was dressed in a dirty T-shirt that they had used as a makeshift diaper. So he took me home and zipped me up in his coat this was winter time in Charolette NC. So he goes in to the house and unzips his coat and shoes me to my mom. My mom then begins adoption proceedings. Well I had to go back to my birth mother and I was told she burned all the dresses my mom bought and didn’t use the burn cream for my bottom where she used me as an ashtray. So my mom finally gets me and my birth mother tried to stop the adoption because she would lose her benefits. The judge didn’t allow it so I was adopted at 14 mo old and I weighed 11 pounds. Then when I was about two my moms second marriage ended because her second husband threatened to kill me because I wouldn’t stop crying. So she moved back home with her parents. Well we lived with them till my mom remarried to my dad and he adopted me to give me his last name. Well every time I was adopted my birth certificate was legally changed to represent my current parents and their respective ages at the time I was born. However many years later my mother confided in me when I told her of abuse from a family member that had happened. She told me her father my granddaddy whom I called daddy for years had molested her until she came back home with me after I was adopted. Only after she returned home did she confront him and say it was over. So I think possibly she got pregnant by him and moved away remarried and had me. But everytime I tried to talk about my adoption and wanted to search she would tell me to talk to my granddaddy he was supposed to have all the paper work well he would tell me to go see my mom that she had the papers. This man never threw anything away so it’s odd to me that the papers were never found which also makes me think something shady happened. But no one in the family that is left will talk about it. My granddaddy was a raging alcoholic for years and only stopped drinking when the dr told him if he didn’t he would die he abused my uncles and my mom. But my records are sealed as it was all considered a private adoption and unless I have a terminal illness or need an organ that my children can’t provide or something on that level I’d have to petition the courts to unseal my records and they can still deny the request. So I don’t know the truth for sure and it doesn’t really matter I guess other than to finally have answers. I hold no ill will to anyone involved no matter which story is true. I feel bad that my mom suffered that abuse I’ve been abused sexually and I know how that feels. I just wish I could know the truth just so I’d know where I belong. But as the time has passed I have an awesome husband and three great kids so I have a family I’d just like to have medical information. So there it is my story I hope it helps.
