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A Letter To My Younger Self – Guilty Squid

by | Nov 27, 2010 | A Letter To My Younger Self | 0 comments

Dear 16 year old me,

I’m pretty sure you’re going to have a hard time believing it’s me. For one thing? It’s going to seem really stupid that if I had the ability to send a letter back in time, I wouldn’t actually go back in time my whole self, but science is very confusing for us and we don’t actually understand all of the technology involved, just that it worked. If you’re still in doubt then I’ll tell you that I know on the weekend of your 16th birthday, you cried bitterly and you said something selfish and stupid to Daddy that we can’t forget and even though you didn’t mean it? You wish you could take it back. Also? I know exactly where you got that Def Leppard T-Shirt, and it wasn’t from a concert. Yeah, that’s right. You believe me now, don’t you?

Listen, if I had my way, we’d never need to have this letter. You’ve spent a lot of time wondering how your life would be different “if” and you’ll spend a lot more time wondering. Hell, we probably won’t ever stop wondering. But the truth is you’re going to be okay. I know it doesn’t seem like it, and there’s going to be lots of days where it doesn’t seem like it, but you will be okay. One day? Someone will understand and you’ll spend many happy moments on the road to “okay”. Hang in there.

School sucks for us and it doesn’t ever really get better. Teachers are going to say a lot of crappy things to you because they don’t understand you. Please stop listening to those awful things they say. They are wrong. They are so, so wrong. Forget about trying to make them happy and do more things that you enjoy.

Not that every teacher is going to suck. Take time to thank Mrs. Simmonds. She’s going to love the things you write and she’s going to spend so much time helping you build your confidence. And your vocabulary. What she will give you will shape who you become later in life, and trust me – she didn’t have to spend all that extra time encouraging you. She’s the first person who looks past the fear you have and sees the amazing person inside. She’s helping the awesome that is inside you. She’s making sure you’ll be ready to shine. Thank her.

Stop trying to fit in. In a few years, everyone will be fighting to stand out from the crowd. You’re already ahead of the game. Fitting in usually ends badly, anyway. All the times that you say no to things even though saying yes would make you fit in, will be something that you’ll be proud of your entire life. Remember, you’re going to be okay.

Hug Daddy more often. Hug him harder and listen to him more. Enjoy being with him. He’s the first man who loved you unconditionally. Do better showing him how much you love him too. The next time you hug him, do me a favor, would you? Take a minute to just breathe in the smell of Dad’s cologne and relax in the safety of his hugs. Then remind us to never, ever forget that moment.

Skip the typing class with the big clunky typewriters and the business class with the actual ledgers. Just trust me. It’s a total waste. I know you’ll want to take the class that most kids take, but go on and take that computer programming class instead. Just trustme on this one.

I know you told that guy Johnny “no” right before school started. And you did the right thing. He wasn’t the one, and it wasn’t right. (Uh, seriously, he ended up on something called Baywatch and no one ever heard his name again. Plus? That acne is not going to clear up on him for years. Which also means you probably just realized we’re still somewhat superficial.) My point is, you were right to say no to Johnny and you really should say no to Brad. You’re going to fall for him. And for a couple of years you’ll make him your world. But it will end, you’ll get your heart broken, and you’ll end up doing a lot of stupid things for a lot of stupid years because you won’t understand that it’s okay to just walk away when you have that first nagging feeling of it not being right. Which reminds me: Start listening to that feeling. Trust yourself. Stop pushing that feeling and that reaction down and moving forward in spite of it. Move in a different direction because of it.

This high school thing is not the best time of your life. It’s not even close. You’ve got a great deal ahead of you and you won’t even believe how you turn out. You have friends. You have great kids. You write all the time. It’s fantastic over here and you’ll be glad you made it to this place. You laugh. You go months without nightmares. You never really get over the whole birthday thing, but those friends I mentioned? They understand it. And they love you anyway.

You’re going to be okay.

We’re going to be okay.

I am okay.

Hang in there.

Love~

Me

P.S. Let’s just try to love ourselves a little more, okay?

P.P.S. Oh, and that dress that your Aunt talks you into getting? That blue number with the lace collar? Just, no. No, no, no.

P.P.P.S. Hammer-Time is *not* going to last forever, so don’t get any of those pants, George Michael is gay, and save your money and buy all the stock you can in something called Google as soon as you can.

P.P.P.P.S. I KNOW! The George Michael thing seems so obvious after you look back at the old Wham! videos, right?

A Letter To My Grandchildren

by | Oct 31, 2010 | A Letter I Can't Send, Coping With Divorce, Divorce | 0 comments

Dear Girls:

I’m so sorry your mom and dad are splitting up.  It’s a hard time in your life and will kick off other hard times to follow.  I’m sorry for that.  I know at four and five you don’t really understand what’s going on.  You just know that for some reason Daddy is sleeping at our house and for the most part, you’re not.  I’m glad Daddy is trying as hard as he is to stay connected to you.  I know he misses tucking you in at night, but I also know it’s making the nights he does get to tuck you in that much more precious.  And I know Mommy is doing her best to keep things together.

But enough about them…this is about you and the lessons I learned when I wasn’t much older than you.

#1 – This is not your fault.  I know Mommy and Daddy have told you this already, but listen to your MaeMae because I know.  Your job in life is to learn and grow and play and be kids.  Grown-ups have other things to do and sometimes this means you get hurt in the process.  I’m sorry.  There’s really no way around that.  But I know they’re trying to do the best they can to be better people and right now that means they need to not be together.  There was nothing I could have done to keep my Mommy and Daddy from divorcing.  There was nothing Daddy could have done to keep Grumpy and BeBe from divorcing.

#2 – Even though it’s not your fault and you did absolutely nothing wrong…it still hurts.  And you’re going to get mad and get sad and miss Daddy and have a whole bunch of other feelings.  It’s okay.  Tell Mommy and Daddy about it.  Tell me and Grumpy.  Tell Nana and Papa.  We’ll listen.  We’ll hug you.  And we’ll love you no matter what you’re feeling.

#3 – This is especially for you N.  It’s not your job to help Mommy.  It’s not your job to help her figure out what to do.  It’s not your job to worry.  You’re 5 years old.  Your job is Kindergarten.  Your job is practicing tying your shoes and figuring out how you want your face painted on Pep Rally day.  Enjoy being 5.  It’s a fun age.  You still get to take naps at school.  Trust me, when you get to be 25 like you so want to do and you have kids and a job and a husband and bills and taxes and all of the stuff grownups have….you’ll wish you were 5 again.  So please stop trying to be a grown-up and go play with your sister and have fun.

#4 – K, you just keep being you.  With your smiles and giggles and scribbles.  I know Mommy really wants you to practice your letters, but scribbles are important too.  And I know that your smiles and giggles and hugs make everybody you know feel better.  But it’s okay to be sad, too.  We love you no matter what.  And don’t stop playing games with your Grumpy.  He loves every minute of it.

And most importantly of all.  No matter what happens between Mommy and Daddy.  When they tell you they love you, they mean it.  When they tell you it’s not your fault, they mean it.  And please know, they’ve always done the best they could with the tools they had.

A Letter To Lucas

by | Oct 15, 2010 | A Letter I Can't Send, Grandparent Loss, Grief, Help For Grief And Grieving, Loss, Parent Loss | 0 comments

Dear Lucas:

The last time I saw my parents alive was the day after my wedding, Sunday, August 5, 2007.

My sister and I choose to remember them most on October 15, the day we were both notified of their passing.

Sometime between Friday, October 12, 2007 at 8:00 PM and Saturday, October 13, 2007 at 8:00 AM they died of carbon monoxide poisoning. They were 61 and 58 respectively. Too young to die.

My parents lived overseas and dedicated their lives to working at American international schools around the globe for 28 years. My father was the principal of a kindergarten through 12th grade school in Tunis, Tunisia and my mother was a third grade teacher. They died in Tunisia.

For those of you who don’t know, carbon monoxide is odorless, colorless and is the second-leading cause of poisoning deaths in the country. Carbon monoxide poisoning claims nearly 500 lives and another 15,000 require emergency room treatment. It can kill you before you know it because you can’t see it, smell it, or taste it. A water heater vent was damaged in my parent’s kitchen and it emitted carbon monoxide into their home.

It’s hard to be the one left behind to pick up the pieces and ask the unanswerable questions. It’s stupid to walk around angry at an inanimate object. Most of the time I just feel robbed. My parents were anything but done with this life. One week to the day before their lifeless bodies were found, they had decided to retire and return to the United States. They were anxious to see my sister, who had recently graduated from college, start her life and begin building a career. They looked forward to us both having grandchildren (they would have been amazing grandparents and would have completely adored you, not to mention spoiled you rotten!) and had a long list of things they wanted to do to their Arizona home and trips they were excited to take. It’s unfair that they were taken from us too soon. I miss them every single day and ache to hear their voices again.

I’m mostly sorry that you will never get to meet them in the physical sense.

I hope that among me, your dad, your aunt, and everyone who knew them, we will help you know them too.

Sometimes bad things happen to good people, but I will forever believe that the best is yet to be.

A Letter I Can’t Send: Mommy Dearest

by | Oct 10, 2010 | A Letter I Can't Send, Abuse, Addiction, Adult Children of Addicts, Alcohol Addiction, Child Abuse, Child Neglect, Psychological Manipulation | 15 comments

“Mommy Dearest,”

First off, I would like to thank you. Because of you, I know what kind of mother NOT to be.

Now, let me be blunt. You are not the June Cleaver type of mother you have created in your head. Growing up, my life was not normal. It was not okay that you spent pretty much every day of my childhood intoxicated in some way. It is not okay that you bought wine coolers at the grocery store would drink them on the way home while you begged me not to tell my daddy. Going to three different doctors to get Xanax, and then taking 12-14 a day at your peak was bullshit.

Then, you had the nerve to blame all this on me. You said the reason you became an addict was so that you could cope with doing things normal mothers do everyday. You said that in order to tolerate taking me to dance or attend my chorus concerts you had to get shit-faced.

Well lady, I call bullshit. Really. It is not okay to blame your insanity on a child.

While we’re at it, it was crap that some of my first memories are of you telling me you were going to kill yourself. You would whisper this in my ear so that Daddy wouldn’t hear you. You once told me right before a vacation to the beach that you would die there. You said that you were going to walk out into the ocean and never come back. You also seemed to go particularly crazy at holidays. Why? I don’t know. The thought of Christmas still makes me panic.

You have called me things like “whore,” “slut,” and “worthless.” You have told me that the only reason I am here is because of my Daddy. You said if had been up to you, you would have had an abortion. In what world is this considered sane? You wondered why I rebelled as a teen. Well hell, I was crying out for help.

Now, you have the balls to think that should I allow you in my life because you finally decided to get sober? You expect that we should be friends and I should help you?

Let’s get this straight: I don’t owe you a fucking thing.

You have never apologized to me for being a shitty mother. You’ve never apologized for the psychological damage that may never go away. Not only that, you don’t even acknowledge that you ever did anything at all. The things I have listed here are just the tip of the iceberg. Conveniently, they seem to slip your mind.

You have nothing now because you left daddy. You wasted every cent that you got in the divorce. It’s your fault that you have nothing. It’s your fault you have no one. It’s your job to make a life for yourself. It is not my job to fill your life with happiness. God knows, you never filled mine with any.

You, as a mother, are supposed to be there to lift me up. Not the other way around. Our roles have always been reversed and our relationship beyond dysfunctional. I may have had to take your crap when I was little, but I sure as shit don’t have to live with your insanity now. I will not give you the chance to poison my four precious angels the way you did me.

You may be sober, but you are still the same selfish, self-centered person you always were. Unless you can prove to me that you deserve another chance in my life, I will always resent you and keep you at an arms length.

Get over it.

I had to.

Your daughter (in name only),
Kelly

A Letter I Can’t Send: Dear Mama and Daddy

by | Sep 21, 2010 | A Letter I Can't Send, Cancer and Neoplasia, Coping With Cancer, Grief, Help For Grief And Grieving, Loss, Parent Loss | 3 comments

Dear Mama & Daddy,

Well, here it is…September again. It seems like it should get easier. And some years it even does. But, for some reason, this year is hard. Mama, September 3 is now and forever will be the day you went away. And Daddy, September 21 will always be the day you left.

I miss you both so much. Daddy, you never got to meet Tabitha, but you would have been crazy about her. You would have called her “Sport Model”. You would have goosed her in the ribs with your finger stub just like you did me, and she would have hated it and loved it at the same time just like I did. I wish you could have known her. And I hope that you can see her from where you are.

Mama…oh God, where do I start? I hate, hate, hate the cancer that took you away. I’m glad you’re not hurting anymore, but my God. You always said that you wouldn’t want Grandma to come back because it would mean she would have to suffer again. I can’t say that. I’d take you back in a heartbeat and give you medicine to help you not suffer. I’m so sorry that I didn’t wake up that morning when you called me. That morning when your pelvis was broken and you tried to get up to use the bathroom. The doctor said that you falling back on the bed didn’t break your pelvis. That your pelvis was broken before you ever tried to get up because the cancer was in your bones. But still. If I could have a do-over, I sure would take it.

And Daddy, don’t think that all my guilt is reserved for Mama. I haven’t forgotten that time I ran off for a week and worried you so much and left you alone. You remember that song by Travis Tritt? Tell Me You Didn’t Say Goodbye? Well, I still can’t hear that song without losing it. Even after all this time.

Mama…Daddy…I’m sorry. I wasn’t the daughter I should have been. And I didn’t realize it until it was too late. I hope there really is a Heaven. And I hope that the two of you are together there. And I hope that you both can see all the way into my heart and know that even though I failed you both miserably, I always loved you and thought you were the very best parents anyone ever had. And I hope to see you both again someday.

Charles Franklin Brunson

March 1941 ~ September 1995

Virginia Faye Brunson

January 1943 ~ September 2008

A Letter To My Younger Self: Miscarriage

by | Sep 15, 2010 | A Letter To My Younger Self, Grief, Help For Grief And Grieving, Livng Through A Miscarriage, Loss, Miscarriage, Pregnancy | 2 comments

Hindsight is 20/20 – that is what they say right? Do you ever wish you could go back in time – back to the future style – and share some words of wisdom to yourself? At times I find myself wishing I had that super power – or technology caught up because I could have some interesting/heartbreaking conversations with myself:

A Letter My Younger Self About: Miscarriage:

Dear Devan,

I think that you should sit down because what I have to tell you is not going to be easy to hear. It will seem near impossible but I am so sorry to tell you it is true. In 5 short years, you will experience one of the hardest journeys you will have been on in your 28 years of life and experience: 10 heartbreaking & painful miscarriages. Yes, 10.

You will bounce from worrying about ever getting pregnant because of your previous surgeries for ovarian cysts to worrying about never carrying a pregnancy to term. However, after your first 3 miscarriages you will become obsessed with basal body temping and you will be diagnosed with a short luteal phase and progesterone deficiency. Although this is part of the answer after you have your healthy boy and start trying to conceive again, you will be punched in the heart with 2 more miscarriages.

You will be strong and try to pretend this is not affecting you as much as it really is. You will not share your feelings with anyone, not your husband, your family, or friends. You will battle through it and you will be blessed with your second full-term child – a beautiful girl.

I wish I could tell you this was the end of your heartache. You will, in fact, endure 4 more and then you will become pregnant again and you will pass your 8th week and think you will be welcoming your third child in a handful of months. A phone call that literally brings you to your knees will have you broken in ways you could not imagine. Your amazing husband will be there to catch you. He will guide you through the surgery and he will be your rock. Triton will be with you forever and you will think about him a lot. After some new medical plans and medication you will welcome your third healthy child and she will bring you back from some of that darkness and sadness.

I wish I could tell you that all this wouldn’t happen. I wish I could stop it from happening. The reality is this experience, this wordless journey will define so much of who you are – not negatively. Good things will come from it – you will see just how strong your marriage is and just how incredible your husband is to help hold you up when you thought you were sinking. Your children will bring so much joy to your life because you know how much you fought and ached for them.

You will realize how strong you are and that this – motherhood – was without a doubt what you were put on this earth to do.