by Band Back Together | Feb 11, 2015 | Abandonment, Anger, Anxiety, Child Abuse, Compassion, Emotional Abuse, Estrangement, Family, Grief, Help For Grief And Grieving, Loss, Sadness, Stress |
I dread the day, but I know it is coming. The day when she asks why she doesn’t know her grandpa, or if mommy has a daddy, or why grandpa doesn’t talk to mommy but he does talk to her uncle, or why grandpa doesn’t want to know her or love her. It is coming.
It would be so much easier to tell her he was dead. I wish I could say that were true. If it weren’t for the fact that he is still very much a part of my brother’s life, and the likelihood of her knowing that he does exist is high, I might have no qualms lying to her and telling her that grandpa is dead and gone. Because he is dead to me.
It will be six years in January since we spoke.
The angry phone call that started with me announcing our engagement and ended with him telling me “good luck with the rest of your life” was the last time I could feel the hate in his voice vibrating through my bones. After telling me he could never be happy for me and reminding me what a huge failure I was for marrying someone who doesn’t hunt or watch NASCAR or eat meat and has tattoos, the phone clicked and I knew that would be the last time I spoke to him.
At four months pregnant, I mulled over the idea of informing him about his future grandchild. I decided to do the responsible thing and write him a letter and tell him he is welcome to know future baby if he so chooses. Why I offered such a gracious peace offering to him is beyond me now. A month passed with no response and I assumed he just didn’t give a shit, which, he obviously did not.
When I received his three-page hate-letter, my heart stopped in my chest. All air escaped my lungs. The words I was reading were piercing, deliberate, familiar –filled with hate and such inconvenience– the way I felt my entire childhood under his rule. The words and filth and lies he wrote made me grateful to no longer know him. It made me realize that even though the choices I had made were difficult to make, and the process of breaking generational cycles felt like trying to run a marathon underwater, no one is destined for a life reflective of the one from which they came.
It really solidified the choices in life that I had made up to that point and showed me that I truly have been, and always will be, a better person than he could ever dream of becoming.
I know the day is coming, the day she asks who her grandpa is. If he isn’t dead by then, my only wish is to handle that conversation with truth, grace and compassion like a champ, in a way he never could.
by Band Back Together | Jan 26, 2015 | Anger, Bullying, Compassion, Fear, Feelings, Sadness, Uncategorized |
I am the very last person to tell anyone when the right time for them to seek closure for any difficulty. I cannot speak for others when it comes to this process of healing one’s own self, because the truth is that no one else can say what someone else needs.
We think it would be as easy as saying a few magic words or thinking a few magic thoughts, and like magic, we would be okay again. Yet, every one of us here knows better than that. We all know that sometimes, there are things which hinder our healing.
Healing really is just another word for “closure.”
When we each think about the things that hurt us, for the most part, the majority of us simply want the pain to end. We know we cannot get rid of the memory. We spend so much time taking care of others, we forget that we have needs, too. When we forget that we have our own stuff to deal with, we take away our own good energy in exchange of someone else’s unbalanced energy, leaving us feeling depleted.
The one thing that we are seeking is not the lesson that is being taught, but rather, closure and an end to the pain. Yet it is through that very pain that we are able to heal and get closure. This is how Spirit works. The ache is like anything else that hurts us – to alert us that something is not right, that somehow we have been violated on some emotional level.
We have all been hurt from time to time. Other people can be jerks. The reason they behave in this manner is because it protects them from their own hurt. This behavior is not going to help with their healing.
The problem with bullies is they were not taught how to use empathy. Empathy, loosely defined, is our ability to walk a mile in another’s shoes. It is our ability to feel for someone else without our feeling sorry for them. Too often, we are told that we are feeling sorry for ourselves. Bullies feel it is disempowering to be able to relate to someone else. They have control over us if we are scared of them. I understand that fear because it became my own medicine, brought out of me in the form of the Medicine Dance, which for me is Hula.
I really don’t want anyone to think that by talking about Hula, I am trying to promote it as a way for everyone to heal. What I am saying is that there are means and measures by which you can gain your own closure.
Closure is a funny thing, really, because it demands the opposite of the thing that we seek, which is comfort from our pain. While it may well seem as though this is counter-productive, if we are wise to the reality that we don’t have to let others’ actions hurt our souls, we will be able to use the hurt they give to us as our own medicine. We will have the strength to move past the things that we have encountered in our lives. Closure requires our being able to accept that there are people on this planet who are not the nicest people.
Closure brings us wholeness. It calls on us to rely on ourselves rather than only on the shoulders of those closest to us. It takes some work, perhaps a whole lot of tears, maybe even a few bouts with rage, but it is all worth it. It is all worth it because true closure means we no longer have to live through that pain. Our pain becomes a lesson for the soul to evolve, and for us to become shiny examples of our own unique brilliance.
Once we can see our pain as our medicine, we become the most powerful being in our own awareness. When we understand that whatever we went through is not our fault, we become empowered.
…and being empowered rocks!
ALOHA!
by Band Back Together | Mar 12, 2014 | Bipolar Disorder, Caregiver, Compassion, Hope, Love, Loving Someone With Bipolar Disorder, Marriage Problems, Single Parenting, Special Needs Parenting, Teen Bipolar Disorder, Therapy |
I admitted my 10 year old son to a psychiatric hospital Wednesday night.
My son is mentally ill.
For years, I have apologized to people for who my son is. His behaviors or quirks were something that were spoken about quietly, like they were something to be embarrassed of – Like WE were embarrassed of him.
For years, I have defended myself, made excuses for a multitude of things – his medications, the therapies he receives, the fight for Special Education services, the way I choose to parent and discipline him.
Today, all of this stops. My son D is who he is. My job as his mom is to provide the best care for him that I can, to the best of my knowledge. I am not a sheep – being blindly led by psychiatrists and therapists. I do my research, and I am well educated about his associated Alphabet Soup diagnoses. He HAS to have medicine to function. I don’t let the staff at his school run over me at his Individualized Education Program (IEP) meetings. I am on staff at his school, plus I know the laws regarding special education.
D got the shitty end of the deal when it came to genetics. See, I understand the raging in his mind, and the lows where all you want to do is hide from the world in a closet. I have Bipolar Disorder, Type 1. So does his birth father. I am compliant on my medications. It took me 8 years to finally get it right. There were times I almost lost everything – my family, my job, my mind. I am grateful for those who stuck with me through the good times and the really dark, ugly times.
Everyone knows at least one person who suffers from mental illness. One in FOUR people in America suffer from some sort of mental illness. Yet, there still is a stigma.
Today, for my D and me – this WILL STOP. No longer will I apologize for his behavior to strangers in public because he is on overload or having a meltdown. I will no longer listen to people tell me that my child is on too much medicine. I will not let people tell me I baby him when I choose to talk him down from a rage rather than “spank that ass.” I will keep fighting for his equal treatment at school. He has a mental illness, but he is a bright, smart boy. I will love my child for who he is, not for what others think he should be. I will not listen to negative ex-husbands telling me that I am doing it wrong, when he is only with D four days a month and only is “Dad” when he wants to be.
Today the stigma will stop. Follow me on my and my family’s journey.
Peace.
by Band Back Together | Dec 12, 2010 | Anger, Anxiety, Breast Cancer, Cancer and Neoplasia, Caregiver, Compassion, Coping With Cancer, Fear, Feelings, Loneliness, Love, Sadness, Stress, Trauma |
I’m sorry. Right now, I cannot be a good friend. I am not a good wife or daughter, sister, neighbor, niece or cousin. I love you. I appreciate everything you do for me and for my family. But for now, everything I have, every smile I can eke out, every happy moment, belongs to my daughter. I can’t give you what you want, not today and maybe not tomorrow either. I don’t have enough for you.
My fear is all-consuming. I am endlessly treading its dark waters. Your well-intended positivity crashes into me, knocking me down before washing back out to sea. Your genuine, heartfelt words of hope leave me salty-eyed, gasping for air, bracing for the next wave of “You’re so strong!” or “Kids are so resilient!”
Your generous offers to help are not falling on deaf ears, but I’m afraid my desperate cries for it are. I can hear you happily proposing your casseroles, a walk in the park, an eager ”whatever you need!” I’m sure one day I will very much need those things. Today I just need simple kindness, compassion, companionship. I need you to hug me and hold my hand. I need you to stop worrying about the tasks on your list and just be with me, sit here and keep my head above water.
I realize nothing about this is convenient for you. I know the closer you are to me, the deeper the water, the stronger current. I’m sorry that you’re being pulled in, challenged, diverted from your regularly scheduled life. But this is my nightmare and sadly, you’re in it.
so bite your tongue,
you’re not the only one
who’s been let down.
by Band Back Together | Nov 26, 2010 | Anger, Anxiety, Baby Loss, Compassion, Coping With Baby Loss, Faith, Family, Feelings, Forgiveness, Grief, Help For Grief And Grieving, Hope, How To Help A Friend With Infertility, Infertility, Livng Through A Miscarriage, Loss, Medical Mystery Tour, Miscarriage, Pain And Pain Disorders, Rheumatoid Arthritis |
*I know that not everyone out there is a Christian and I hope that nobody will take offense to this post. My faith is a very personal thing, but it helps me get through so much. My prayer is that everyone dealing with a life crisis will find something that will bring them peace and hope, whether it’s faith in God, faith in humanity, or faith in herself.
When I wrote about my miscarriages and TTC journey, it was the hardest piece I’d ever written. What I left out, though, was the behind the scenes issues. The emotions that I’m still ashamed of feeling. That probably sounds stupid. I mean, you can’t help how you feel about things so why feel shame? Well, it’s been six years and I still do, so I guess I can’t answer that.
When Jordan and I decided to start trying to get pregnant, we didn’t broadcast it, but we also didn’t hide it when people asked. And people did ask. We’d been married over a year at that point, and apparently that’s the time that everyone from your grandma to the cashier at the grocery store deems you ready to have a child. But when we realized we would need a little help expanding our family, we clamped our mouths shut. Our families and closest friends were the only people who knew what we were going through. But when we got that first positive test, we told everyone! I’ve never been the best at keeping my feelings under wraps and we were thrilled.
A few days before I got that positive test, my sister-in-law gave me the news that her sister-in-law was pregnant. I was pretty discouraged at that time thinking that the round of Clomid I had just finished had not worked. But here was this girl (who I love dearly, BTW) who had become pregnant accidentally. It hardly seemed fair.
But then I found out that the Clomid had actually done its job and all was right with the world again. I could be happy for my sister-in-law sister-in-law-in-law sister-in friend, if a little worried for her. After all, my faith had always dictated that “everything happens for a reason.” But then it all changed.
During the few days that encompassed the fateful ultrasound experience and gut-wrenching D&C, I lost more than my baby. I lost my faith.
I left the hospital a bitter, heartbroken person that I no longer recognized. I was angry at the world. I was angry at God. I didn’t go to church. I didn’t pray. I didn’t even sing; something that has always been my solace. For three months I was in this dark pit. Every time someone who didn’t know would ask about the pregnancy and we had to break the news again, I sank further.
At that time, I worked for an agency that provided low-income housing. It seemed like every other day I encountered another woman who was expecting yet another child that she couldn’t afford. All these women around me were getting pregnant so easily, some while actively trying to prevent it, and having the healthy babies that I wanted so badly. I couldn’t understand why I was being treated so unfairly. I couldn’t bring myself to go to the baby shower for my brother-in-law’s sister. Every time I saw a pregnant woman I would cry.
It kills me to finally admit those things. There are very few people in this world that I’ve told about that dark time. I still feel guilty for being so angry. But if my first miscarriage caused me to lose my faith, my second one brought me back.
My second miscarriage happened on a Saturday morning. I was in the ER for a few hours then sent home. The next day at our church was Youth Sunday. I hadn’t been to church in three months at that point, but Jordan’s best friend, David, was delivering the message that day, so I insisted on being there. Not many people at church had known I was pregnant that time, so we didn’t really have to talk about the loss.
Something happened that Sunday morning, though. The youth members all did a great job with their testimonies, prayers, and music. David delivered a beautiful message. And then the youth sang a song to tie it all together – Here I Am Lord. I had heard the song a hundred times before. I had sung it about half that many times. But that day, I actually listened to it. It suddenly spoke to my heart in a way I had never felt before. Thank God we were sitting in the balcony so the whole congregation didn’t see me burst into tears.
I suddenly was at peace. After being angry for so long, it was an incredible feeling to let go of it. In that moment I knew that, like Abraham and Sarah, we would eventually have a child. And that there was a reason for my losses. I knew that it was going to fall to me at some point to support others going through it.
I was able to do just that several months later when my best friend had her first miscarriage. I’ve reached out to others as well – old high school friends on Facebook, a friend at church, etc. It’s what I hope to accomplish by contributing to this site. It also sort of paved the way for me to do the same thing as soon as I was diagnosed with Rheumatoid Arthritis in 2008. Since then I’ve found myself in something of an online support network of people living with chronic illness. Without that moment of clarity, I’m convinced I would still be that bitter person. I’m sure that the RA diagnosis would have been much worse than it was, emotionally speaking. I honestly don’t know how I would have made it through either of my full-term pregnancies, much less through a certainty of life-long pain, had I not had that renewal of faith.
I didn’t tell anyone about what happened to me that day until a few months ago when Jordan and I had the privilege to see David ordained. I figured that was probably the right time to tell him about the impact he had on me that Sunday so long ago. Today, my relationship with God is the most important thing to me. Through Him, I can do anything. There are days when I just need a nudge and there are days when I’m forced to ask Him to carry me. And I’ve come to realize that everything truly does happen for a reason, even if that reason isn’t revealed during this earthly life. But the choices we make when facing hardship will usually go a long way to reaching that revelation.
“But those who trust in the Lord will find new strength. They will soar high on wings like eagles. They will run and not grow weary. They will walk and not faint.” ~ Isaiah 40:31
by Band Back Together | Sep 24, 2010 | Anger, Anxiety, Breast Cancer, Cancer and Neoplasia, Compassion, Coping With Cancer, Family, Fear, Feelings, Forgiveness, Guilt, Hope, Love, Stress, Trauma |
The first night after my breast cancer chemo treatment was awful. Nugget sobbed hysterically in my arms, giving way to heavy sighs between her defeated attempts for true comfort until she finally fell asleep. I cried, and cried, and cried. Between the tears i apologized over and over to my sweet baby girl for being sick.
Last night was thankfully less painful. She fell asleep with my mother and only had to be quietly lulled back down once. Thank god for small miracles.
As for me, I felt pretty nauseated yesterday and today, and the meds to combat that make me tired. Today, I really started to feel exhausted. We went out for some quick errands this morning, but I’ve since spent the remainder of the day in bed.
