La Speranza 2.0

http://lasperanza2.blogspot.com/

Lost

Last night, I picked up my phone.  I don't know what I was thinking...I guess some part of me wasn't really here.  I thought I was going to call my mother.

I came across something, stumbled upon it.  It hurt me; it upset me.  I'm having trouble focusing on anything because I can't let go of this one haunting thought.  But the only person I want to talk to right now, the only one I feel comfortable talking to about this, is my mom.  It's very rare that I feel like I can't talk to anyone.  I mean, I have a psychiatrist and fantastic friends and sisters...I'm really lucky to have such a support system.  I just really feel insecure...and a little worried...and really, really sad.  And it's not something I want to talk to anyone about; I don't want anyone to see me like this because I honestly haven't felt anything of the sort for over a year now.  I've been doing really well...I'm doing my physical therapy 3-4 times a week, I'm almost to that one year post-surgery mark, I've been doing EMDR and other forms of therapy for my PTSD weekly, and I'm being more social than I've been able to be in a while.   I've been very positive until just recently.  

I feel like sometimes I am playing this role in life, and that somewhere my real self is hiding and lonely.  I am desperately trying to find some semblance of comfort.  Really, I just want to talk to my mother.  I'm not a child anymore, though.  I had my mother till just before I was fifteen, and I'm lucky to have had her.  But I'm 21 now, and I should be my own person, a woman.  I shouldn't need a guiding hand or someone to 'complain' to.  I just don't know where to look for answers.  I feel selfish for just wanting her advice, her care, her love.  I feel selfish for needing her for my own self-esteem.  I feel selfish for yearning for a hug from her.  I keep reminding myself that she's not suffering anymore.  Her life isn't difficult anymore. 

  How am I supposed to feel, or rather, how do I get past this? 

A reminder to my readers: why I don't proofread

Sometimes I go back and read my blogs and see there are words missing that I meant to fill in later, lines that don't make any sense, rambling and getting off-topic...all of these stylistic errors.  But I don't write my blogs like essays.  I write them as a stream of consciousness.  I purge my words and move on... it's my way of decluttering my mind--of stresses, worries, memories, voices, reminders.  Because my mind is the biggest obstacle in my life.  I realized not too long ago that the brain is fragile and that I can't wait for everything to resolve itself.  I have to make the effort to do so otherwise I find things from the past creeping back into the present, occupying my every thought.  My mind takes control of me and sometimes makes me someone I can't even begin to recognize, and I say or do things that I wouldn't in otherwise normal situations.    

Occasionally, I will go back and change/edit/add things in order to get more of that cathartic feeling, or to clear things up for myself--but rarely for grammar, punctuation, and all that jazz. 

But essentially, I write to get the private, raw truth and not some well-told partial truth to deflect reality.  Sure, I filter what I say at times, only because there are things that are far too shocking to let out on a blog with thousands of readers.  But I share what I can when I need to. 

I write what I think will bring me some semblance of peace.  

The Recluse in Me

Today my mother would have been 52....I wish I had more pictures of her...in total I have fewer than 8-10. 

There are three times a year that affect me on levels I can't even begin to understand.  Her birthday, Christmas, and March/April.  I can have no idea what day it is or what month it is, but my body knows.  It still responds.  I get sick, feel exhausted or depressed, want to just sit and cry, don't want to interact with anyone, like to stay in a dark corner of my room, find it hard to focus....

I know my little sister feels it too because it seems like our bad days line up with one another's.

I was doing SO well being back at school.  I was happy and social and loved my classes.  And then I saw my psychiatrist about my nightmares.  We tried a little EMDR and found really painful memories I can't bring myself to acknowledge.  That was Thursday.  Friday, yesterday, and today have been overwhelming as far as emotions go.  I didn't go to two of my classes Friday.  All I wanted to do was be away from everyone.

It's times like these when I am simply a recluse.  People can walk by me and I can make eye contact and not recognize there's a person there.  I don't recognize people I know.  It's not that I don't want to.

The EMDR is helping I'm sure, but it is tough to get through.  There's a reason I bury some memories, and I still don't think I'm ready to get to them.  I know I have to in order to get better, but I guess.....I'm scared.  Of what I don't remember.  Of whatever I've locked up inside.  Of myself.

Spirit of New Orleans: 8 Year Anniversary

Eight years ago, today, Hurricane Katrina battered New Orleans.  It seems like a long time, but when I sit down to stop and think about it, the memories are still fresh.  August 29, 2005 nearly a thousand lives perished at the hands of Katrina, and thousands of the destitute lost the little they had.  Still today, while the Big Easy has resurrected to a great extent, I see countless people struggling to find some relief, whether financially or emotionally.  I don't think six or eight or even twelve years is enough to get over something so tragic.  But what amazes me is that their faith and devotion to this place they call home is steadfast. 

I had a somewhat different experience with Katrina, nothing like these people had.  We had a small gas station at the time and lived about 180 miles from the city.  At first, much of Mississippi lost power.  Their was a lot of damage from trees and floods.  We were out of school for several weeks, and I could never forget how hot and humid that summer was.  No air, no light, no ice, scarce water...it was definitely an experience.  At the gas station, people pummeled one another for the food we had left on the shelves and gunshots were fired for the little gasoline that was left. Some would attempt to sleep outside at night just to feel a breath of fresh air.  Lovebugs swarmed the place--in our cars, in our houses, even in our mouths at times.  It was bad, but it was never like it was for those south of us.  With our schools, many of us spent the next couple of years, helping to rebuild the coast of Mississippi.  The destruction we saw was appalling and unforgettable. 

I didn't live in New Orleans until many years later, and I always felt that it had an aura of somberness.  To this day, many places, schools in particular, have not been reestablished.  However, I do believe that when this city is further rebuilt, it will be nothing less than the New Orleans it once was.  There's something about the people there.  Something unshakeable.  New Orleans is a city of flaws.  But I think that's what makes the place so special.  During the seemingly-endless restoration, the culture lived on.  The spirit was revived.  And the storm could take away everything, but no storm, no natural disaster, could ever shake the resolve of the New Orleans' citizens. 

ONCE I was a daddy's girl (Part II)...

 ...And that may have very well been the last time we were together, as a family.  My mom's reason for staying with my dad was always "because he has a good heart."  But until recently, I didn't realize that you can't just stay with someone because of a good heart.  A relationship, a marriage, it all takes work from both ends.  My relationships....well, those are stories for another time.

A few months later, my dad was incarcerated, as I mentioned in Haunting Me.  I never learned the true reason for it, but I know the only reason he had to stay imprisoned was because we couldn't pay a paltry sum for bail.  Sometimes, I'd go with my mom and "brother" to see my dad.  I was never all too fond of it...I'd see the baby reach out to Dad but was hindered by the glass in between us.  He'd say a few words, the ones mom and I had taught him, on those fake phones in jail.  It tore me up inside.  But I still loved my dad wholeheartedly.

That, along with a few other shocking events, was my 2006 Thanksgiving.

The psychotic man down the street gave my mom the deadline of New Years' Eve to give him all our money, of which we had too little to even have a meal at times.  All I could wish for was my dad to get out of jail and talk some sense into this man, or at least lessen the burden on my mother.  Like I said, I always felt secure when my father was around.  Nevertheless, it wasn't until shortly before my mom's accident that he was released.  With the little time he unknowingly had left with her, he withdrew once again for his little business an hour away, leaving the baby of course.

When Mom died, I was swamped with guilt.  However, there was a time when I blamed my father.  See, Mom always made sure birthday were really special in our house.  I can't remember any occasion that excited her more, after all, it did mark the day she had each of us.  She couldn't prepare for my birthday, clean, cook, and all with a baby in one arm, so naturally, the morning of her accident she told my dad to come get the baby.  He didn't.  My mom reluctantly agreed to make the drive instead.

Baby survived.  Mom didn't.

Obviously, I held my dad responsible for a very short time, but I saw he was hurting too and eventually I came to acknowledge that none of us could really be blamed, especially not for an accident.  Understandably, I still felt culpable, and I'm sure all of us felt some sort of remorse for different reasons.  I mean, guilt is one of the stages of grief, is it not?

My father never really stayed at home, but he came around a lot more than he used to.  I presume because Mom was gone.  In this time, I grew up fast--really fast.  I had already seen more than enough in my adolescence, but this--this was real.  This didn't just affect my parents and, in turn, me.  This was a direct blow to my world as I knew it.  I was cast into a role I still am not old enough to have to take.  My older sister left home at sixteen years old and she followed her MSMS experience with college and medical school.  She was coping in her own way, and her visits to the house became increasingly rare.  And because I now had more insight into my father, I knew that I was essentially all my baby sister had.  She meant/means/will always mean the world to me, and even though we spent days fighting, both physically and verbally, in the beginning, somewhere along the line we formed an indestructible bond because of the experiences we shared.

I didn't mind all the time, but every day I felt more and more angry.  I had just turned fifteen, and I think some of that teenage anguish, along with my father not taking his part as our parent, made me a very angry, depressed person.  When he came around, there was never a time when he forgot to bring the stench of alcohol along with him.  It was at this point that I strongly resented my father.  All I'd get from him was disappointment, but it wasn't new to me.  I always felt I failed as a child in his eyes, but this time, I knew it wasn't me.  He was the one who failed as a father to me.

Along with his inebriation, came the abuse.  He could lie and manipulate, but abuse was never his manner, and I still find it hard to believe the things he said and did.  This was "Dad," the man who apparently had a "good heart," who let me stay with him at times, and who would get me whatever candy or toy I wanted in Dollar General as long as I cried.  But there were days I was afraid to leave the room when he came home in the wee hours of the morning.  Then there were days that he chased me through the house, and I had to lock myself in a room, climb out of the windows, jump over fences, and run to school.  There was one day I was panic-stricken when I saw he had brought a gun.  I had been afraid of him once in my life when I threw out his booze, but this fear was only second to the that I had for my mom's terrorized life.

I hardly got to grieve my mother's death because of things that occurred on a day to day basis.  I didn't have that opportunity to grieve until college.  There was not a day in high school that I did not come home only to burst into tears.  Then I took a break from the tears, did some homework, went to band, came home again and sobbed myself to sleep.  Sometimes I'd sleep in my car and once in the park.  When I started working, I had more freedom.  I had cash and an escape.

I never thought I would need an escape from my own father.  I loved him so much as a child and always begged to have him in my life.  As I learned, though, my mom was only protecting us and herself.  For some reason I held out hope for a long time.  I suppose I yearned for a parent, someone to guide me, anyone to be proud of me.  That hope was all I had.  And now it's gone.  Relationships I have falter and fail because I cannot trust and because I cannot envision what one is supposed to be like.  I owe that to my father.

You know in television series, like Bones or Psych, how they always arrest some random character at first but soon-after come to the realization that they had incriminated the wrong person?  Well, this was my breakthrough.  

All along, I thought my father was the only one who truly loved me.  I was truly mistaken.  As memories came flooding back of the times I spent with my late mother, I knew that no one could have ever loved me more than she.  She taught me the beauty in life, made me strong, and gave me the unconditional love a parent is supposed to have for a child.  And she prepared me for all that was to come, all that I would end up facing over the next few years.


I'll forgive him always, no longer begrudgingly.

But...I'll never know if he felt remorse or if he realizes how much he has broken me.

And... I can no longer hold a place in my life for him, nor do I expect him to do the same.
 
Once I was a daddy's girl, but now I've lost all faith in him. 

ONCE I was a daddy's girl... (Part I)

Once I was a daddy's girl, completely and utterly enthralled by him.  I counted down the days I would see him again; sometimes they came and sometimes they didn't.

When my mom and I disagreed, I ran to the only person who I thought loved me.  He didn't abandon me, at least not as a four-year-old.

Year after year, I'd spend occasional summers with him.  I was young, younger than ten.  I'd play Snake on his computer, along with tetris and chess.  Occasionally, I'd come across pictures and videos that scarred me for life.  Never the same person.  Never my mother.

At times I remember violent arguments between my parents.  I could hear them because our place was small.  We all shared a bedroom.  I heard every shout and slap.  I cried.  Why were they fighting?  My big sister took me into the closet and explained to me that when people fight that means they love each other. 

I blamed my mother for not letting dad come live with us, I blamed her for pushing him away, and I blamed her for all the holidays, New Years, Christmas, and our birthdays, that he didn't spend with us.

Over the summer, I helped him in every way I could.  We opened a gas station together, and I took it as a bonding activity.  I stocked all the shelves, made orders, tended the register, while my dad rested in the back.  I learned every brand of cigarette, cigars, chewing tobacco, and beer, long before I was in middle school.  I knew they were all adult things.  Those summer days I spent in that gas station I learned a lot, but I seemed to see less of my father.  I began to notice his habits.  I knew when he drank he did things he wasn't supposed to, like run red lights.  I thought if I got rid of the problem, he'd understand that he scared me.  Every night upon closing the store, he'd lay out bottles of Heineken to take home with him.  I broke them.  I took every single one and smashed it on the ground in front of him.  When he had cans, I poured them down the sink, making sure he was watching.  He scolded me.  I had never been yelled at like that.  For the first time, he instilled fear in me.  Fear of him.

I wanted to go home, to my mom.  But at home, I could never get my mom's attention.  I was shy.  My big sister wasn't.  I felt ignored, lonely, and unloved.

Again, I turned back to my dad.

There were always women, in and out.  Strangers.  I wondered why my mom and he were never like that.  I thought that was how it was supposed to be.  At least that's what I saw in other people's homes.

Then out of nowhere, Mom told me we were getting a baby.  I knew what it looked like when a baby was coming.  I saw the baby grow in my mom's tummy when my little sister was born.  It definitely did not look like we were having a baby.

But we did.  A boy. 

When I mentioned to Mom that he kinda looked like me when I was a kid, she hushed me and reminded me that we had adopted him.  My father had always wanted a boy. 
My father's advice for me for as long as I remember:
         1.  The first thing to look for in a man is a high credit score.
         2.  NEVER...EVER...HAVE CHILDREN. 

I didn't want children.  I don't know why he would tell me that.  Nor did I have the slightest idea what a credit score was and how that had to do with what a man was like.

I started spending more time at home with my mom and the baby.  She needed the help.  Plus my dad had this new lady friend who he always stayed with.

I begged my dad to come home and if he did, to stay for the night.  It was sometimes scary in our new house, and he was the only person I felt safe around.  He always told me he couldn't because the house was a mess.  He said he couldn't live in that mess.

Right then and there, I began cleaning the house.  Attic to garage and everything in between.  I had never seen the house so clean.  He came by, but refused to stay.

I maybe didn't clean the house well enough.

I tried again.

When I was in seventh grade, my mom had begun working again.  There were days when I stayed home from school because I had to take care of my new baby brother.  He was adorable, so I didn't mind.  But then he called me "Mom," and I almost dropped him.  That was the first word he said, but eventually I taught him how to say balloon and ball and some strange word my father called me.  Gootudu.  He was good at saying that.  And his laugh was infectious.  When he ran into a table and hurt himself, I'd hit the table and say "bad table."  If he got a scratch on his arm, I kissed it and said "all gone."  And he was happy again.

It wasn't until I was a little older that I began understanding the things I noticed.

My dad finally did come home one day, but he brought that woman.  I didn't like her.  When she called, I'd take my clarinet and make the most obnoxious music straight into the telephone.  Then I hung up.  I got a sense of pride out of doing this.

But that day they came to our house, I noticed my mom.  I finally understood a little of how she felt because I felt it for her.  I didn't recognize the feeling because I hadn't really ever had it before.  It was strange.  The baby was that woman's, but she didn't want him...yet, she came to our house and had to sleep in the master bedroom with her baby and my dad.  I saw my mom drink for the first time in her life.  I'd never seen her act like this, but she crawled up the stairs.  She came and slept by me and mumbled things I didn't comprehend.  I knew she was upset.  I was upset for her.

How could she let my dad sleep with that horrid woman?  I asked her.  All she said was "the baby has to sleep between them."  And I nodded off to sleep.

Things seemed to escalate between my father and me.  He made many promises, none of which he could keep.  I don't know if he cared that I wept.  I told him I was okay and hugged him tight.  And when he looked me in the eyes and told me a lie, I believed him.  Every time.

My older sister was graduating from Mississippi School for Math and Science, and we were all taking a trip to Columbus, MS.  I was excited because rarely did we get to do anything as a family.  But we were all going.  Dad, Mom, my little sister, and I.  My big sister would be there, of course.  I knew this was one of the most meaningful days of my mom's life.  Her first daughter was graduating, and I artfully sneaked in the fact that this wasn't her only child.  She'd get to see two more graduations.  Or so I thought.

But that morning, I saw my mom upset, maybe even angry or sad.  It was hard to discern what she was feeling although I could feel that she was pissed off.  When dad finally got to where we were all staying in Columbus, I saw his button down shirt torn.  I saw scratches and blood on him.  I demanded to know what happened.  Later I learned by eavesdropping on my parents conversation.  There was a fight and confrontation.  The baby's mom wanted Dad to bring the baby to graduation.  My mom didn't think it was a good idea, especially since a baby crying is just enough to ruin the mood of all the families who could hear.  But that woman insisted.  She told my mom that she was having an affair with my dad (as if this was still a secret).  My mom knew, but didn't care to hear it.  She left.  But that woman attacked my father.  And left both my parents in a miserable mood.

I know that my little sister and I were beaming with pride when we saw the older one get her diploma.  All I could think was...at least we're all together.