Posts Tagged ‘put my pieces back together’

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So here we are, on the brink of the new year and I’m feeling very introspective. I’ve seriously slacked in maintaining this blog in 2015, and for that, I’m a little sorry. Truth be told, this blog has served as a coping mechanism for me. It has been a means of expressing myself and fleshing out my thoughts in a meaningful way that allows me to make sense of them. 2015 has taught me that I don’t always require or have the steam for this particular mechanism. The writer in me laments this fact, while the survivor in me understands that it isn’t a horrible thing. I truthfully hope that I manage to be more attentive to this means of expression in 2016, and I have every intention of making every effort to make it happen. Time will tell.

So it’s 10:30 pm CST and I’m vegging out following a much needed shower after putting in two really long days at work. Since my husband’s arrest in 2013, I have found holidays to be the most difficult to contend with. I absolutely don’t begrudge anyone else their happiness and their companionship and celebration on these occasions but I’ve found time & again that I don’t really have a place in them. It’s awkward more than anything, and it’s just easier for me to separate myself from it as best I can. In doing so, however, the cue to maintain caution for another reason sounds. I’m 20 months clean now, and most of the time, getting high isn’t even an afterthought. It’s not even at the forefront of my mind in any sense of the word. When I’m alone though, and unoccupied, my mind wanders to places I haven’t voluntarily visited in quite some time. This is why I immerse myself so enthusiastically in my schooling and my work. Much like idle hands are dangerous so, too, is an idle mind.

I’ve made a lot of progress this year though, in spite of the conflicts inherent with adulthood. I’m in a transitional period now as I try to get situated and get a home, and that has been a little stressful for me. A lot of this scenario resembles some factors of the calamity in 2013. I try not to look directly at it for just that reason. The busier, the better.

I was inducted into two honor societies this year, and am hopeful for some scholarships through them to continue my education after the federal aid dries up. I’ve started a small business, promoting health & beauty products that I really believe in, and it is slow going but it is exciting just to consider the potential it carries. I hope to grow that business substantially in the coming year, and (though I hesitate to even say it out loud,) regain some semblance of financial freedom. Oh to be debt-free again. There is so much potential that it just makes me weak in the knees. I’m not a greedy woman, but I am no stranger to stress and I create more than enough of it myself without the added burdens of responsibility.

On the note of stress & anxiety, I dropped from weekly counseling sessions for 17 months to every other week in the forth quarter of 2015. I feel that denotes some semblance of progress on my part. I’m less prone to post-nuclear meltdown, which is nice. I still have bad days but they are less frequent & I blessedly perceive fewer boogeymen than I have since I was assaulted in 2013. It is a massive relief on a scale I’m not altogether prepared to express. One such development in counseling has been survivor panels. I spoke at three of them in 2015. These panels are an avenue for advocates at the crisis hotline provided by my counseling agency who answer those calls to speak directly to survivors and to get a better idea of what victims need from them. These panels have been incredibly empowering for me and have been pivotal in my own healing process. I’m happy to say that I am already scheduled to speak at one in the first quarter of 2016. I’m looking forward to it more than you know.

April 2016 also has the potential to carry happy news concerning my husband’s incarceration. He is up for parole again and, should the state grant it, he will then only have 14 months to serve in a federal facility before coming home to me. I’m trying very hard to not get my hopes up, as last year’s denial was soul crushing. If not for the amazing people in my life, I might have relapsed. I’ve resolved myself to hope for the best, but brace for the worst this year.

I am on track to finish my Associate’s Degree in 2016, and transfer to continue work on my Bachelor’s Degree. All in all, I am cautiously optimistic about all the potential I see in 2016. I’m eager to see what it brings, and hopeful that it will prove to be the fruition that the transitional period of 2015 brings.

I wish you all a safe & Happy New Year and that 2016 finds all you’ve been working towards and hoping for.

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Fair warning… this post was written to kill time before counseling and I am exhausted. Three cheers for insomnia!!

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I think it’s kind of funny how the older we get and the more we experience, the more our priorities and elements of stress change. There was a time really not that long ago when the biggest worry I had was whether I was going to be able to make an appearance at more than one social event, or what to wear or even whether our guild raid was going to be successful in new content or not. I didn’t really care about bills and if I didn’t make good grades it wasn’t the end of the world. There was always next semester. Nothing really was that urgent. On the flip side of this concept, our motivation changes so drastically too.

As an adult, I’ve always been a little anxious. My performance and punctuality at work have been a high priority for me. I’ve also been very neurotic about paying bills on time every time and just generally making sure all the little moving parts of my calendar day, month or year were attended to at any given time. I would get a little too worked up if I missed something.

Now, since I’ve been through trauma which, as a domino effect, destroyed my credit, my values and outlook are similar in some ways but drastically different in others. I still need to keep my schedule and I still need to get my bills paid, but I’m not motivated by a clean credit score so much as by the simple success of remembering everything. Having sustained a head injury, to say that I am forgetful is the understatement of the century. Any month where I don’t receive a past due notification is cause for relatively tame celebration. I don’t party at all anymore. I’d already grown out of it for the most part but after the events of last year, the only substances I partake in are nicotine and caffeine. I suppose I’ve evolved into an all or nothing kind of girl, in the grand scheme of things.

I still care about keeping my performance and punctuality up between both work and school but I think I’ve passed the point of relating to high school kids or true college freshmen in that I have no “there’s always next semester” mentality. I don’t like kill myself over deadlines but they matter to me. I keep a detailed electronic calendar to ensure I am apprised of all of my obligations and due dates. I really don’t remember a time where I didn’t care if I passed or failed, and my professors have commented that their evening classes and day time classes are as different as they can be. The noon time students cut class and miss deadlines with much more frequency than the evening students. It blows my mind to think about, considering college isn’t free in this country. Somebody is paying for them to be there. Why bother if it doesn’t matter to them?

I’m motivated to do the best I can in all of my classes because it tells me I am not permanently damaged. It tells me I am capable of not only performing, but performing well. I don’t think I would like it if I had to repeat a class.

I’m also motivated by the thought of life after prison. I’m not so naive that I think it is going to be easy, but I do see the potential for it to be good and worth the wait. I take pride in the lifestyle I have worked so hard for that is blessedly drug free and having accomplished this much on my own, I have faith that my man will be able to follow suit. I know he is proud of me for how far I have come in this last 18 months. I really can’t wait for him to become an active factor in this new, positive life.

Having gone without, in part due to my own choices but also due to lack of choice on my part, I find that there is so much in life that I am thankful for. Every ugly thing that has happened in my life has taught me over and over to varying degrees to not take anything for granted, especially the little things. This last is a topic for another post once I am more rested and possessing more coherent thoughts.

All in all, I’m in a pretty good place and while I worry somewhat about exams next week, I feel positive that I’ll make the grades I want. That’ll be another notch or two on the ‘I did that’ list. I’ll take it!!

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It’s not typically my nature to try and throw myself into the middle of a very heated, very volatile topic such as this one, but based on conversations I’ve had over the last couple of days, I truly feel the need to speak up here. Whether anyone chooses to hear what I have to say or not is completely up to them.

For the sake of context, I was raised in Canada. I was raised in a community that was basically colorblind. I was raised in a virtual multicultural mosaic. I was taught that ethnicity did not define a person; action did. Composure did. Character did. In 2012, I moved to Texas. While the social values may be different down here, mine are not. I am still the same person I was. I still judge people based on what they do and what they say, not on how they look or who they love.

Furthermore, I must also point out, again for the sake of context, that I am white. I am a pretty average North American. I’m not privileged. I live in what some would call a ghetto on the road to recovery. I interact with all manner of people on a daily basis.

In July 2013, I was the victim of a violent crime. I was kidnapped, raped and beaten. Following those 4 days I spent in hell, it took me seven weeks to file a police report. I systematically went to six different police agencies with my case, photographs of my injuries, copies of the medical records from when I took myself to the ER, as well as a clear paper trail and pictures identifying my assailant. In the first two weeks of this effort, you could still clearly see the trauma on my body. My face was bruised, I had burns on my neck and finger print bruising on my bicep. Those are just the marks that were visible at a glance. There was significantly more marks of my trauma covered by my clothing. But again, I had photographs of them all. Five independent police agencies basically told me “Not my jurisdiction, not my problem, sorry about your luck.” One officer did his due diligence and made the effort to at least provide me with GPS coordinates to take with me to the next agency. The rest of them couldn’t be bothered with the prospect of paperwork that wasn’t even in their jurisdiction for sure.

At the end of the seven weeks, and at the sixth law enforcement agency, I finally got a police report filed. The deputy was really kind to me, and praised the effort I went to to assemble what appeared to be a solid case. He said that I had made his job too easy. I felt relief, and cautious optimism that I would see some semblance of justice. A couple of months after that, I found out that my assailant had been picked up in a neighboring county and was being held on charges separate from mine. I thought that a little strange, but was just relieved to know he was off the street.

Fast forward another 3 months, into spring 2014. I was subpoenaed to appear before the grand jury in the county that had filed my police report to testify against my assailant. I didn’t know what to expect, but was once again feeling a sense of relief that maybe now was the time for justice. Maybe now was the time for someone to say that what had been done to me was not okay. How wrong I was.

I appeared before the grand jury, as per my subpoena. I was dressed professionally, and though nervous, I did my best to answer their questions. I had sustained a head injury in my trauma, and a lot of the specific details were blurry, but it wasn’t those details they seemed interested in anyway. These people attacked me. They spoke to me as if I was the criminal. They asked me things like ‘why didn’t you call out for help?’ ‘why didn’t any of the officers you spoke to ask for your financial records?’ ‘why didn’t you run away?’ These are all ridiculous questions. When a man twice your size has a weapon on you, and is threatening people you love, and takes you places away from where you are familiar, your survival depends on not doing anything to further antagonize him. Furthermore, how would I know why the police didn’t ask for my records? If memory serves, I am not the detective. I am not the one trained to build cases against bad guys. I realize it is the prosecutor’s job to find holes in the case that the defense could take advantage of, but nevertheless. I left that hearing feeling like I had once again been violated. I felt like these people were angry at me, and blaming me for what had been done to me. I was hysterical, and in tears. Surprisingly, or really not so much after what I had endured, I called up to the court house the following day to find out that the grand jury had no billed the charges of Aggravated Kidnapping and Aggravated Sexual Assault, citing insufficient evidence to proceed to trial. I was distraught as I could be. Ultimately though, my assailant ended up in federal prison on unrelated charges, and will not be a threat to me until fall 2017. While it isn’t justice, at least it’s something.

You might be asking yourself why I bring this up now. What does this have to do with current events? It has everything to do with current events. My point is, I’m tired of seeing the race card used constantly. I’m tired of minorities segregating themselves and then getting angry that they are segregated. I don’t have a racist bone in my body, so please don’t jump to that conclusion. As I said before, I am colorblind.

The moral of my story overall, however, is this: the justice system is fractured and broken. It is thoroughly, completely and totally screwed up. I’m a young white female and I was dropped through the cracks of justice the exact same way Brown was. People choose to see prejudice everywhere, and choose to use it to justify their actions. There is no context in which that is acceptable. If we are truly going to progress as a nation, everyone has got to stop pointing fingers, drawing lines, and playing the blame game. We are all at the mercy of the law that governs us all. That law is completely and totally twisted from what it was originally intended to be. We have a far better chance of changing that, of fixing that, by standing united in a cause than we do of lashing out and acting so shamefully as to riot and loot. Is that any way to honor that young man’s memory? Is that any way to honor his family? Surely not. That kind of behavior will bring about change, but it is not the progressive change this country, the system, and the people need. It will bring about regressive, backwards change.

I don’t know about any of you, but I have no desire to go backwards, potentially to a time mirroring some of those shameful marks on world history. I have no desire to live in an ugly world fitting ugly statistics. I have no desire to be an element of a statistic. Surely I am not alone in this.

I wrote the following narrative essay for my English Composition class. It was written in MLA format. I have received a lot of really great feedback, both professional and personal, on this piece, and so I wanted to share it here as well.

If it wasn’t already implied, I feel the need to express that nothing I write is seeking sympathy or pity, but simply understanding. I have since discovered that it makes my trials less daunting when I can affect and even help others with my experiences, or open eyes to the struggle of some among them. I share to do just that. If any who have been through some of the same trials as I read anything I write, it is my hope that they should draw solace from the fact that they are not alone, that they are not judged, and that I do stand by them, whether we know each other or not. I want to be a voice of support and kindness in the uglier parts of the world, because some folks trapped in those places are the ones who need it the most.

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There are so many theories as to whether innocence is an element of human biology, or whether it is something of a fluke. Some believe children are born with it, and gradually, as the world gets them in its grips, they lose it. I do not believe we all completely lose our innocence. I believe we have an inherent capacity to maintain some amount of it, proportional to the amount of imagination and wonder we allow ourselves. Like everything else, I believe there are also exceptions to that rule.

I was born in Oklahoma City, Oklahoma in the spring of 1987. I would be lying if I said I could tell you much about that time. I was raised by a Canadian mother and an American father, in a fairly well rounded home. We were not without our happy level of dysfunction as any family is, but for the most part, it was unremarkable. I am privileged in that I hold dual citizenship. I can (and have) worked in both countries, and have grown a great deal as a person in both countries, as well. I moved to Texas in late spring of 2012 in pursuit of a fairy tale. The man I call my husband now, is one of my oldest friends. I knew him on-line at the tender age of twelve. He was my safe place, my confidante, my best friend. I recall I would hurry home after school, eager to chat with him. Once high speed internet became the norm, he would leave his webcam streaming for me, even while he was at work. He kept a salt-water fish tank, and I loved to look at it while I did my homework. The tank and the creatures who resided in it were so bright, so vivid – it is really a miracle I ever got any schoolwork done.

Time passed as it always does, and we grew apart, as people often do. He was four years older than me, and so we were at different stages in our development. We fell out of touch, going our separate ways to make our separate mistakes and to learn our separate lessons. I would not learn the extent of those lessons until February of 2012. He crawled out of the woodwork, creating a profile on Facebook and adding me. It was an easy reconnection, as if we had never parted in the first place. I caught him up on my life since our last interaction, and he broke my heart catching me up on his. He had been incarcerated for nearly six years. He had just been released a week or two prior to making contact with me. I was stunned. In my youth, I had no idea that he was wrapped up in the ugly underbelly of the world. I had no idea he had fallen in behind his father and submitted to the siren call of drugs. He had gone out of his way to keep those elements of his life from me. It pained me to learn all of these things, but it also steeled my resolve. As a child, I did not have the independence and means to book a flight. At twenty four, however, I did. I flew into DFW the third week in March of 2012. I marveled at the weather. Canadian winters are often still going strong, well into the calendar spring. Texas boasted fair weather, if a little muddy. The grass was already becoming lush and green. It was a far cry from the blinding, desolate, winter wasteland I had flown out of mere hours before.

As all good things often do, my trip passed far too quickly. I was state side for twelve days. The time inevitably came for me to return home. We had decided between ourselves that it would be temporary. We were not quite sure what this was between us, but we were both determined to see it through. I would return home on April 1st, 2012, for the last time. Six weeks later, in the early morning hours of May 16th, 2012, I would load up my car, and I would depart Canada as a resident for the last time. I was terrified, not because I was unsure of where I was going, but because I have never been adventurous. It took 28 hours of driving and a lot of coffee, but I made the 1600 mile drive from end to end of the continental United States of America. I arrived in Sherman, Texas, mid-day on May 17th, 2012. I felt a sense of accomplishment, the likes of which I had never known. I made it. Life was great for the first year. I found work, we found our niche, and we thrived. We were closer than ever.

In the spring of 2013, the tone changed. I was so naïve. I did not know the signs. I did not fully understand my husband’s addiction until it was too late. He was out of control, and there was nothing I could do to alter the subsequent chain of events. He was arrested May 7th, 2013. For a long time I felt guilty for the sense of relief that I felt at knowing where he was, and that he was safe. I truly believe to this day, had he not been taken into custody at that time, he would not be alive today. The ‘drugs are bad’ theme is not the element of innocence lost I referred to earlier though. Less than eight weeks after he was arrested, one of the unsavory people my husband associated with would completely destroy my world as I knew it. Sure, my reality was pretty chaotic already. It was nothing compared to the days following the Fourth of July.

This man took me, took my car, took my money, and all but took my life. I was held against my will for four long, excruciating days. I was denied sleep, and I was sexually and physically assaulted. I was kept off the grid and far away from the people I loved, and the people who loved me. My husband was in county jail and could not come find me. I was not sure I was ever going to see him, or anyone, ever again.

Those days taught me anger. They taught me the potential danger in being too trusting of anyone. They taught me of the extreme evils in this world. The hard truth is that I survived. While I am still working on putting all the pieces back together, I am for the most part, victorious. I will never know innocence again. As if my ordeal was not enough, it would take me seven more weeks and soliciting six different police agencies, to even successfully file a police report, despite the visible signs of abuse on my face and body. Eventually the District Attorney of the county that finally listened, subpoenaed me to testify before the Grand Jury. I was hopeful that maybe justice would finally be served. I learned a great many things about the law, primarily among which is that the law does not like to gamble. It prefers to bet on a sure thing. The DA’s office no billed the charges against my assailant, citing insufficient evidence to proceed to trial. Not only was Johnny Law not concerned with what happened to me, he was also okay with it. He was perfectly content to turn that animal loose.

We teach our children that policemen are there to protect us and to keep us safe. That is the moral of this story. That is the innocence I will never again possess. I am still a happy, pleasant person. I have aspirations and hopes and dreams. I have conquered many adversities over this last year, and I am not finished, yet. The future is bright, and it will be mine. I am no stranger to hard work. My husband will be home eventually, and maybe then this will all be no more than a bad dream. Until then, I am motivated by my anger. I am motivated by injustice not only to survive, but to continue to grow, to become more than I once was. Whatever curve balls life has in store for me, I am ready. I will adapt. I will survive. Bring it on.

It’s come to my attention throughout my journey of being shattered and then gradually putting my pieces back together and reintegrating into the world as it is that more people than not undergo struggles of this nature. Sure, the details vary widely but generally speaking, there is not a single person I know of that hasn’t endured an event that has forced them to completely adapt themselves or alter their thinking.
One of the prevalent themes in this seemingly universal phenomena is change. Change, in and of itself, can carry both negative and positive connotations, and some people are more adept at acclimating to it than others but generally speaking, I believe human beings are fundamentally creatures of habit. We thrive with structure. Positive, personal changes rarely occur outside of a carefully structured and applied plan. The negative changes are the ones that are more apt to blindside us when we absolutely don’t expect it. It is in those moments that our coping skills and sense of perseverance are tested.

I’ve been told by many that I am remarkable for what I have accomplished this last 18 months, and I suppose in some ways, that is true. At the same time though, it never really occurred to me that it could be any different. No, the things that befell me and events in my life were absolutely not planned… who has a continuity plan for that sort of thing, after all? No one I know. I guess where I differ from others is my adaptability. I was pretty accustomed to dealing with more mundane curve balls on a fairly regular basis. After all, that’s life. I had my moments throughout all of this where I felt completely crushed under the weight of it, and definitely at a loss of where to even begin to start rebuilding. I am fortunate in that I have amazing family and husband who love me unconditionally. Without their support, there’s not much telling where I would be today.

Those who know me will have heard me say on more than one occasion that perspective is everything. When a situation is less than desirable, some people are content to play the victim and ride that horse into the ground. I’m not one of those people. I couldn’t stand the way people looked at me with pity. I know rationally they meant no harm by it, that they truly regretted my situation and just didn’t know how to deal with it. But emotionally it killed me because every sympathetic stare and gasp seemed like it re-carved that title of Victim into my forehead. In hindsight maybe that’s where my motivation to be okay came from. I wanted to be seen as normal, or at the very least indifferently. I would take praise too.. just not pity.

That realization is what led me to structure one of those carefully laid plans of action to bring about change that I mentioned earlier. Achievement and accomplishment have never been foreign to me… I am no stranger to working for what I want. That realization was empowering. Sure, I started from lower than in my previous experience, but hey, the same formula was applicable.

I guess my overall point is this: change happens to all of us. It is normal to experience feelings that aren’t necessarily familiar as a result of whatever variables in your life have changed. It doesn’t have to be an ugly thing. Take the time to understand what you’re feeling and why. From there, you can establish a clinical perspective of your state of mind and then you’re just a few short steps away from formulating your plan of action to get from where you are to where you want to be. If I can do it, anyone can. Perspective is everything. Take control of yours.

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I’ve got some time before my appointment and have been in my head a lot this weekend so I’ve got some more thoughts for that jar.

The foremost thought on my mind is accomplishment. I feel like I have a lot of little successes recently. I’m doing well in college, which means the world to me, not because I would feel like a failure otherwise but because it is another indicator that I’m not broken. I have struggled a lot with short-term memory issues in the wake of my assault last year. He caused a cortical contusion of the frontal lobe. He made my brain bleed. It was explained to me as shaken baby syndrome, just as an adult. The fact that I can still not only perform, but also perform well, in an academic setting is a huge victory for me. I am incredibly grateful for it.

The next big event… I attended Comic Con this past weekend. I was very apprehensive at first because I have a hard time even going to the grocery store. I experience high anxiety in public places, especially ones with open space and lots of people. I went to the Con with my cousins and felt little to no anxiety the whole day. It was amazing. I didn’t feel singled out or even the slightest bit threatened. That really bodes well for me. I don’t think I’m ready to try something similar by myself just yet, but it is most certainly a victory.

Aside from those happy things, I’ve spent more time thinking about my husband. I’ve been a little stressed lately as his parole hearing draws closer. I don’t sleep very well at all. If they grant him parole, he will go into federal custody and hopefully serve his 12-14 months in a facility MUCH closer to home. Furthermore, with the feds, he will actually have a set in stone release date. I’m beside myself just thinking about it. That in and of itself would make life exponentially sweeter. I would have a tangible date to look forward to, as well as a date with which I can really start putting effort into making arrangements for work when he comes home. I feel like it is a figurative light at the end of this long, dark tunnel. I long for it.

 

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Ever since I’ve known him, he has had this uncanny ability to calm my anxiety. I was anxious before this nightmare started, but not when he was nearby. The prospect of him coming back home to me and restoring the sense of peace and security that left when he did is almost enough to bring me to tears. We have both more than paid his debt to society, in so many ways. Any prayers and affirmative wishes for the parole board’s decision are most certainly appreciated.

It’s funny how losing so much can make you realize how much it all means to you. I mean, I’m sure some turn bitter rather than grateful… I’m not bitter though. Not completely anyway. There are some elements of this nightmare that will very likely be an outrage until the day they put me in the ground. For the most part, though… I am grateful that he and I are alive, that we are sober, and that eventually we will get a shot at the future we dream of.

Silver linings are truly in everything. It just takes a keen and hopeful eye to see them. Take it from me: it’s worth it. Every last pain is worth the joy that comes from seeing the upsides and from holding onto the positive. I think that is really the only way to stay soft in a world designed to make us hard. If I could give just one piece of advice, that would be it. Stay soft. Seek the silver linings, despite how well hidden they seem to be.

 

You know, I think it’s kind of funny how a song, or a scent, or a movie/book title or cover, or really anything can spark a memory and take you so vividly back to a place and time long since past. It’s really an amazing phenomenon, how we create these associations with otherwise mundane things. It can be something positive or it can be awful. I’ve experienced both myself, but more so the latter in recent days. It’s referred to as a trigger in the negative context. It happened to me a few weeks ago when someone randomly squeezed off four shots on a Sunday night around midnight. My dogs stayed close by me and didn’t react how I would have expected them to. That was a long, restless night that led into a long, anxiety filled day. It was the absolute worst. I thought I was going to have a heart attack. My pulse kept quickening and dropping again for no apparent reason. It wasn’t a good day, but I survived. Today, on the other hand, I blessedly got to experience the flip side of this phenomenon. A song I hadn’t heard in ages came on, and it was a genre of music I’ve never followed adamantly myself. Before I even recognized the song, I was taken back to September of 2011, when I visited a dear friend outside of Houston, Texas. On our way home from the McDonald’s drive thru and that very song came on and he serenaded me; made me feel beautiful, made me feel wanted. There was always potential for us to have been great, but we were so different. We were at different places in our lives and it wasn’t meant to be. We parted on good terms, and I have nothing but fond memories of my time with him. I feel very fortunate that I can still experience these little gems of pure happiness from the past, since my more recent past is so polluted with ugly, awful things. It also helps reassure me that I’m not broken. The head injury I sustained has consistently altered the reliability of my short-term memory and it has been an obstacle in and of itself. My grey matter is still functioning though, and clearly is adamant about reminding me of that fact every now and then. (:

Here’s to the past. May it ever be a firm but nurturing teacher to prepare us for the future.

 

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I like how it’s becoming a trend for me to arrive early to counseling and finding time to post here. How very fortuitous for me.

I’ve always known that I’m a hyper-emotional person. I feel my emotions in high def 1080p, both good and bad. I have long since accepted it for what it is and have adjusted accordingly. This last couple of weeks have brought my thoughts to this topic more than once though, in both positive and negative ways.

I suppose to begin with I was feeling pretty heavy last week because I hadn’t heard from my husband in a while and I was missing him, for many reasons. At the forefront of that was my ‘homework’ assignment from my counselor for last Thursday’s session (which ended up being canceled.) She asked me to write a letter to my assailant for her, to give her an opportunity to see into my feelings on the matter. She instructed me to wait until Wednesday evening or Thursday afternoon to write it, so that I wouldn’t have to suffer in the mindset all week long. This made sense to me because I have excellent coping skills in place. I don’t have time to fall apart, so the less time I spent on the thought process, the better. Unfortunately that is a good idea in theory only. The prospect of completing the task loomed over me basically the entire week. Just the idea of performing the task caused me a great deal more anxiety than I had anticipated. I was in a pretty somber mood all week long. Naturally, no mail from my husband, my best friend, my soulmate, definitely didn’t help matters.

Thursday afternoon, I dutifully put pen to paper on my lunch break and wrote the letter. I was a great deal angrier than I’d realized, and managed to scribble down three pages before I felt sufficiently vented. Within an hour or so before I was due to leave the office for my appointment, my counselor canceled. She offered to reschedule apologetically but being as busy as I am, I opted to wait until this Thursday, so I wouldn’t have to reshuffle my days. I strive to keep a very organized schedule. (Possibly yet another of my myriad of coping skills… control thing? I feel like I am very together when I have plans in place. Who knows?)

I left at the same time anyway, feeling pretty loaded down with the anger brought to the surface by the letter. I stewed in it some. I cleaned my home repeatedly, cooked as usual but opted to treat myself more than I usually would.. I have the mother of all sweet teeth. I wouldn’t go so far as to say I comfort eat… since moving to Texas, I’ve shed more than 100 lbs and am proud of that fact. I recognize the dangers of comfort eating in regards to keeping that weight off. I don’t deny myself little treats now and then though. I always found that I would eat more if I denied myself and then broke under the inward facing resentment. So I never deny myself. Anyway, I made it through the remainder of the week and got to visit my husband on Saturday. That was nice, but brought up a few unrelated stresses, which I promptly vented in inmate mail on Sunday. I learned on Saturday that he had written the letter I’d requested and put it in the mail Wednesday or Thursday and that it should be arriving any day now. I was hopeful it would be waiting for me when I got home Saturday – not so. That fouled my mood further. The letter I wrote Sunday definitely reflected the discontented nature of my mood.. it’s fortunate he knows me as well as he does. I’m sure it would be a great deal more distressing otherwise.

Well, here comes Monday… back to the grind and as stressful as work is sometimes, I’m still grateful for it. Performing my duties keeps me out of my head and keeps me busy. Time passes much more quickly and productively when I’m working. At quitting time on Monday, I hurry home, thinking the letter MUST be there today, surely. Not so. I almost fall apart this time. I cry for the first time in months. And really it’s silly. I just saw him Saturday. It’s really a very little thing. I’m so ate up by my mood and emotions though that it may as well be the end of the world.

I struggle through the work day Tuesday, in an awful mood and just generally displeased with the world. I head home at the end of the day and try not to be too hopeful about the letter, my reasoning being that if I don’t get my hopes up, I won’t be so upset if it isn’t there. Well apparently that worked. There was my inmate mail waiting for me when I got home. I was elated.. almost walking on sunshine. Scrawled across the front of the envelope in an unfamiliar hand was a note that said it had been delivered to the wrong address and to please redeliver. Now in my mood the previous week, I would have been all hellfire and brimstone over the screw up by the postman, as naturally I checked the address and my husband hadn’t erred. But instead all I felt was an overwhelming sense of gratitude to the accidental recipient of my letter for taking the time to write this and then put it back into the mail. I’d probably hug this person if I knew who they were.

Isn’t it funny how such little things can mean everything? That little gesture of selflessness by the hand of a stranger helped to completely alleviate my funk. Don’t get me wrong… my anger and general stress brought on by various aspects of life is still here. I still carry it. But it’s not a defining factor in who I am right now. It’s just something I do… not who I am. Moments like these where I am in tune with these little gems also make me feel like I really have it together. If that makes me crazy, so be it. I’m crazy. I’ll graciously accept that title and many others provided I keep getting to (and more importantly, remembering to) celebrate these little victories.

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Well here I am, an hour early for therapy again. Tonight is group expression through art therapy. I am blessedly in much better headspace than I was last week. Seeing my inmate this past weekend may have had something to do with that. Or maybe it’s the continuously renewing revelation that I am so blessed to be surrounded by amazing people with such a rare and profound understanding for those things that are out of the ordinary. I truly am blessed, in spite of the card hand I’m still working on getting rid of. One day at a time. I do get better every day.

I mentioned some things last week that I’ve mulled over more than a few times since I wrote them down. I’d like to revisit them again, from this more positive headspace. I had said I’d accomplished many things on my own in spite of circumstances. There have been many questions and criticisms over the last year, some more positive than others. One of the most common ones “why don’t you just come home?” I am home. The actions of one sad, sick man cannot drive me away from my home. I arrived here following an uncertain path, true… but it was, and is, my path. I will follow it through until the end. My nature will allow nothing less.

Following the incident last year, I went through something of an identity crisis. My compassion and kindness were some of the factors that created an impossible and horrific situation. I struggled with the fact that I’ve always strived to be true to myself – to the person I knew myself to be. But how could I rationally maintain that mentality when key components of the person I knew myself to be had nearly gotten me killed? It scared me to think, that if I forced myself to toughen up and evolve my nature, that I may not recognize nor like the person I would become. Furthermore, I feared that my inmate might not love the person I would become. Those were very dark days. I finally resolved myself to the mentality that my choices – the act of kindness and compassion – were a reflection of me. It was a reflection of a good person in a world where there were very few good people, whereas what he did to me was a reflection of him. I decided I had to stay true to my convictions, because I had worked hard and endured trials throughout my life that molded the person I am. I earned the right to be me. No one can take that from me.

 

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Another line of questioning I hear a lot of has to do with my inmate. Why wait around? Why struggle through this? There are plenty of fish in the sea. To this I have answered a great many ways, primarily among which was: not for me. If you read the first couple of entries in this blog, you will glimpse the history between my inmate & I. I truly believe with every fiber of my being that we are destined to be. I am a spiritual woman by nature… a healthy skeptic of things I cannot see and explain. But I see Design in us. I believe forces beyond my understanding have orchestrated everything that has transpired our entire lives to bring us to where we are. How can I possibly walk away from that? I may as well carve out my own heart for all the good it would do.

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Life is hard for everyone. We all have our own trials and roadblocks and tests. They may look different but so do we. We are all products of our own environments and experiences. It only makes sense that the obstacle courses of each of our lives are different. I choose to press on. Knowing myself how I do, I can’t imagine doing anything else. How do you go back to black & white when you’ve been living in Technicolor HD?

I am forever changed, and that’s okay. Tomorrow is another day with new opportunities for personal growth and repair. I wonder sometimes if I’m broken. I don’t think I am. I might be a little chipped, with a few pieces to put back together, but I am far from shattered. Frankly I don’t have time to be shattered. There is too much to do: too much rebuilding of my life and a life for my inmate to come home to. I have no time to sit and cry in the corner.

 

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I feel I’ve gotten a little bolder since I learned that my assailant is in federal holding a few hours away, not due to be released until fall of 2017. I’ve been spending more time in public, less fearful of everything that moves. I’m no longer afraid that he’s going to jump out from behind every corner. I feel like I’ve been holding my breath and just now, months later, I’m able to breathe again. It’s a very good feeling. I get a little better every day.

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So it’s extremely fortuitous that I’m not only on the roster for an appointment with my counselor but also that I’ve arrived early and thus have time to jot this down.

I’m in the midst of one of my mini meltdowns borne of one too many straws on the camel’s back. My counselor has raved on multiple occasions about what a strong woman I am, for all the blows I’ve taken, repeatedly and my get-shit-done attitude.

To paraphrase in the name of context, my husband and the love of my life was arrested in May of 2013. I bailed him out and he was arrested again less than a week later. I was left to clean up the mess left in the wake of his tailspin out of control in addition to trying to heal from the damage done to our relationship. Two months after he was arrested, I was kidnapped, raped and beaten within an inch of my life. This cost me my job, my car, my sense of security and my home. I was blessed to have family not too far away who were willing to take me in while I recovered and worked on getting back in the saddle. It took me almost two months and six different police agencies to file a police report (while ultimately was for nothing because the grand jury no-billed the charges against my assailant. It was an act of God that my assailant was arrested on unrelated charges and has been in the custody of various agencies since September of 2013.)

I got myself a good job in October of 2013 and have been there since. I was commuting 60 miles each direction every day until April of 2014, when I got an apartment in the city with my income tax return. I have since earned a promotion at work, and enrolled in college to begin work on an associate’s degree. If all goes according to plan, I should complete my degree around the time my husband is released from prison. Oh, did I not mention that? I’ve done all of the above on my own. I have survived and sought counseling and slowly but surely managed to begin to rebuild not only my life, but a good life for my husband to come home to.

In addition to all of my baggage, bills and life expenses, I support my husband. I make sure he has food and personal hygiene products, as well as correspondence materials to communicate with those he left behind. I take care of my in-laws as best I can, making efforts to see them every week or two. I also make arrangements to carry them on the 300 mile drive to visit my husband a couple times a month.

The moral of the story is I hold everything together. I fight kicking and screaming to push on, feeling that I don’t have time to falter or succumb to a sense of being overwhelmed. Well, I suppose that brings us to today. When my husband got arrested, the police kept his phone. I got him a new one when I bailed him out and voilà.. they kept that one too the second time. This past weekend the contract for two of the three lines I’ve been paying for over the last 16 months was finally up. I canceled them and now blessedly have only one line. I was going to go with q competitor’s plan where they’d cover my cancellation fees for the third line and would set me up with a new phone and number without a contract. Well my credit sucks (because of the excessively shitty hand I was dealt last year) and the competitor wants more than twice what the cancellation fees would be. So to hell with that plan. That irks me because in spite of my perseverance the actions of my assailant are still negatively impacting my life. So what else is new?

That’s not the straw though. The straw that broke the camel’s back is this: this morning on my way to work, a light came on on the dash of my car. It was the tire pressure light. No problem, I’ll handle it before I go to my counseling appointment. Well, my mood is shot after the competitor took the wind out of my sails, but I proceed to the gas station, check the pressure in all my tires and air them all up to the same approximate ballpark. The damn light refuses to go off. The final straw is the fact that I am a survivor; I am independent, self-reliant and have no real sense of defeat. I am no stranger to tactical retreat and believe it to be a pivotal step to be visited many times on the road to success. In spite of my ‘sticktoitiveness,’ I can’t handle simple, basic maintenance of my car. It was in this moment that I realized I am angry at my husband. I am angry that he left me alone and that he’s not here to handle these trivial things that clearly aren’t in my skill set.

I am a painfully rational, logical person. In moments like these, I experience inner conflict between my inherent logical nature and the emotional tendencies that go along with being female. I understand why I’m feeling how I am, but can’t seem to flip the damn off switch.

As I said, it’s fortuitous that it’s Thursday and I’ll be seeing my counselor shortly, because my otherwise exceptionally long fuse is on the brink of finally burning up.

Forget this terrible, no good, very bad day. Thanks.

 

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