Anniversary

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Okay, that is me that the last post spoke so lovingly of.  It’s an odd anniversary.  One year ago I tried to take my life. I took an overdose of valium.  Then, I thought better of it, and called 911.  I still feel shame over it.  Because my son found out.  I don’t know if I can ever forgive myself for allowing my darkness to enter his world.  You see, I hid it successfully for over seventeen years.  He was about five years old when I started having flashbacks and started feeling like I was losing my mind.  I would hide in the bathroom and run my fingers up and down the lines on the wallpaper till the worst of the anxiety would pass.  His favorite movies would play as I grappled with my sanity.  Years of refusing medication because I thought to tough it out and get better faster.  Till I didn’t.  I grew worse and finally cried uncle and said “give me the pills”.  The medication helped a great deal.  I no longer felt as if I was holding on to my sanity by a thread.  But, all along, I was working hard to improve my life.  I got a divorce, went to college, got training and worked hard.  Despite some hardships, I felt my life getting better.  I felt that the bad times, and the decades of abuse, were behind me.  Then, I met a kind man and we married and within a year he  got a terminal illness and he died seven years later.  And that is when I lost it.  Lost the hope that I could have a decent life.   I did manage to keep on keeping on for a time but then a dark day came and I took the pills.  I am lucky that a part of me wasn’t ready to give in and dialed that phone.

I don’t have any words of wisdom.  When you feel that  bad — that you try to take your life — it seems you are beyond words.  A darkness encompasses you and you just want to flee it.  My medication was changed during my subsequent hospitalization.  Perhaps, that is why I have not attempted suicide again.  Or perhaps, I have found a glimmer of hope that my life could get better.  It is ever so small this glimmer but for now it is enough.

 

Weepy Day

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I am having a weepy day today.  You name it — I have cried over it.  It started this morning after waking from a bad dream.  You know the kind — the kind that seems realer than reality.  The experts say crying is supposed to be good for you.  But I don’t like it.   I find it frightening and fear it leading to a mental meltdown.  From silent tears to sobbing to practically keening and wailing, I have a whole repertoire.  Did it do me any good?  My best guess is maybe.  I didn’t numb out today.  I did finally function and get washed and dressed.  I washed the kitchen floor, swept the stairs and started a load of laundry.  But, when Onyx sat on my lap and purred  I started crying again because he was being so sweet.   Thankfully no one is home (but the cats) to see this spectacle that I am making of myself today.

I feel a bit calmer now.  Not so raw.  Perhaps, the cup of tea helped. 🙂  The storm has finally passed. Have you had a weepy, sad day recently?  Did you find crying helped?  Please feel free to share your thoughts.

 

 

 

Onyx, the Ebony Cat

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I have fallen deeply in love with Onyx, the ebony cat. His soft fur shines and he lights up my world.  My friend, Rose, (who I am staying with while I get my life together) adopted him two months ago and we have become fast friends.  He is three years old and seems wise beyond his years.  We play together, cuddle together; he purrs, I say inane things to him. (I keep my most silly talk to private times when we are alone.)  I call him friend because what else would you call someone who calms, comforts and cares for you?  Okay, perhaps I am guilty of some level of anthropomorphism.  But, I tell you, it is uncanny how he appears at my side when I am starting to slide into the blues.  He’ll hop onto the bed as I sit journaling and start to purr at me and it stops my descent into the pits.

In the morning, as I sip my coffee and read blogs and devotions and try to enter the day with something resembling hope, he hops onto the arm of the chair, reaches for my shoulder, and places his front paws on it.  Then, he bites my head!  I feel so honored and loved and suddenly glad to be alive. And I giggle when they turn into multiple love bites.

Sometimes I bury my nose into his warm fur and just breathe in and out.  It is truly a Zen moment.  I love this beautiful cat and he is safe to love. How often do we love where we shouldn’t and end up hurt or disappointed?

Perhaps I need to get a life!  But, until I do, I am going to hang out with a cat named Onyx.

photos from Bing

Truth Serum for My Father

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Truth Serum for My Father

In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Truth Serum.”

My heart was broken by my father.  My memories about my father had always been wonderful.  He was loving, kind, funny, and gentle.  I would remember how gentle he was when removing splinters from my hands. Although not one for physical affection, the look in his eyes when he looked at me was as good as any hug.  We laughed together often and usually it was at each other and ourselves.  Much time was spent together bicycle riding through the neighborhood and playing badminton in the back yard. Other special times together including art lessons using the John Gnagy Learn to Draw Kit.  Dad would also make his delicious ice cream shakes and sodas for me on hot summer days.  Oh, how I loved and adored my father.

But then, in my thirties, the flashbacks began.  First, they were about the newspaper boy and his friend who had sexually assaulted me repeatedly on my way home alone from school.   Then, they were about my father. How I had finally told him despite their insistence that no one would believe me or else would  blame me.  The attacks by the boys stopped after I told my father.  But, the flashbacks were not done.  They continued. Now, I would climb the stairs into the attic when I would feel myself having that strange trance feeling that would precede the flashbacks. And then I saw the unthinkable.  My father had sexually abused me.  And threatened me into silence.  My sweet, wonderful father was a part-time monster.  I fought so hard to not believe these flashbacks.  How could the man who so gently removed my splinters defile me? My father loved me, how could this be?  After several months of these returning memories I finally confronted my father over the phone.  He not only denied everything, but called me a lying slut.  His voice in that phone call was not that of the good father, but that of the bad, threatening father.  If I had had any doubts they were extinguished now.

We have never spoke or seen each other since.  I have never fully mourned my loss of him.  I have been struggling just to survive and function each day and raise my son.  But I have cried this morning as I have written this.  The prompt for today was “who would you give truth serum to?”  My answer would be to my father.  And its not to get him to admit to the abuse.  I don’t need that.  What I want to ask him is “Are you sorry you abused me?”  and “Do you miss me?”  I want to know that he has remorse.  That all my love was not completely misplaced.  Or, maybe that the love I perceived was not all a lie, but was real.  I know the abuse was real, but what about the love?

A Perfect Afternoon

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A Perfect Afternoon

In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Singin’ in the Rain.”

The rain has been persistent all day. It’s been dreary inside and out this morning, but I have finished all the chores and it is only one o’ clock.  I turn on the lamp by my overstuffed reading chair now.  It casts light on the window panes behind it. The rain is trickling down them.  A whole afternoon to myself.  Free to do anything I want.  I start by putting a record of Debussy’s music on the stereo. The Prelude to the Afternoon of a Faun fills the room that is lined with books. Then,  to the fireplace.  Kneeling down on the hearth, I place a log and some kindling inside.  After opening the damper, I light the kindling and watch the bright flames flicker. My cheeks redden and warm from the heat.  The room has transformed from dreary to cozy. The light from the fire glows in the cut glass of the decanters on an old table.  “What a good idea.” I think and pour myself a sherry.  Grabbing my latest mystery novel, I sink into the chair and sip the sweet wine. Dinah, my tortoise shell cat, pads into the room and throws herself down on the braided rug in front of the fireplace. I sit, well content, and listen to the music.  After the last piece on the album has played, the silence and the sounds of the rain are all I want.  And, I have taken the precaution of taking the phone off the hook.  Neither the cat, nor I, will be disturbed on this fine, rainy afternoon.