Sleep

The edge of the bed sank noticeably as I dreamt of my latest crush. I woke with a start, fear knotted in my stomach as my senses came back to me. The pressure started on my ankle, then moved to my calf, over my blankets as I laid, frozen, on my side. I begged my eyes to adjust to the darkness so I could see who the hand belonged to, running slowly up my leg. I knew I locked my door before I went to bed, how was HE in here?

I installed that lock on my door after the first time this happened. So many people, mostly men, came in and out of this house at all hours of the night. I just needed some sleep and fucking peace so I could go to school in the morning. Why was I always the parent when I was just a kid?

They talk about fight or flight, but forget to mention the third option; Freeze. And that’s exactly what I did. I froze.

I had no idea what time it was.  I knew it was late. Or maybe early. They had been partying since five pm and I knew this was her drug dealer. I learned how to stay quiet, but observant. I took a mental inventory of the strangers in and out of the house. I inventoried every lingering look. I knew I wasn’t safe. I couldn’t let my guard down. I thought I had locked that fucking door.

His hand was at my knee now and the scream was in my throat. He was getting closer to my hip. I heard the usual stomp of her feet over the blaring music. Hoping that for once, she would save me. My door was cracked open; he must have closed it behind him. A sliver of light cut through the room, and a shadow passed. The door opened and the pressure on my leg vanished instantly. Caught with his hand in the cookie jar.

The relief swelled into tears.

She opened the door, looked at him, and said, “This isn’t the bathroom.” She glared at me as if I had invited him in while I was sleeping. Hey thanks for not letting your daughter get groped in the middle of the night.

He rushed out of the room and the slam of the bedroom door was my undoing. The tears spilled over, and I muffled the sobs in my blanket so the bastard couldn’t get any satisfaction from the fear he caused. I pulled myself together, long enough to get up and lock the door. It was broken. The screws hung loose. He must have jammed something in to break it.

Tomorrow. Tomorrow I’ll see if I can get a new lock. And a bat. I’ll take the hottest shower to scrub away the lingering feeling on my leg.

I shoved my chair under the doorknob and laid back down. I begged for sleep that never came. Instead, I watched the sun come up and wash the darkness my room; taking with it the dark figure that sank the edge of my bed.  

Dream

I was startled awake by the feeling of falling. You know the dream where you are falling and get jolted awake? Only this part of the dream wasn’t a dream. It was a shadow in the night taking a seat on my bed, slightly rolling me towards the figure; mimicking this feeling of falling. I held my breath as my eyes adjusted to the dark. It had to be past midnight as I could see the moon through my window high in the sky, although blurry. This figure felt familiar, but not a comfortable familiar. A creepy familiar. All I could make out was their teeth as they smiled and i watched them reach out towards me. Was I sure I was awake? All the comfort of my room felt as if it was sucked out. In one inhale I held my breath as I felt a warm hand touch my wrist. As my senses started to come back to me, logic set in. Who was it? How the fuck did they get in my room? I know I locked the deadbolt before I went to sleep. And here I was, paralyzed in fear and shock. You always hear about fight ot flight. But what about freeze? Cause I absolutely froze. Even though I could feel my brain telling me to scream and my body willing me to move, I froze. I fucking froze.

The warm hand started at my wrist, moving up my arm; slowly, deliberately, as to gauge if I would yell. I knew we weren’t alone in the house. I could feel the quiet beat of the music and see a light peeking from the frack of my door of my room. Disgust churned in my stomach as the hand moved up my arm, slowly, deliberately; as if to taunt me with superiority. They had the upper hand. But why? I was 13. The only safe space in this disaster of a home was soiled now, by this invasion of privacy. This was MY room. How dare you invade my twin size bed with your ill intentions. Where the fuck was my parental unit? The Red Hot Chili Peppers blared in the background as the hand reached my shoulder, grazing my neck. the tears stung my eyes as the helpless feeling filled the distance between me and the shadowed figure.

Even as I write this, twenty something years later, it still feels like a dream. More like a nightmare, but unreal nonetheless.

Eight

I never had to pee in a coffee can before. The smell of urine permeated my nose with the metallic coffee smell that lingered in the empty container. This was such a small space, but luckily it was just my brother and I. She was telling us it was time for bed and this included us using the coffee can. I could feel my brother behind me as I was trying to pee and aim. Not an easy feet when your 8. She showed us where to dumb the can when we were done.

            I crawled in to the bed. It was only half of a camper. The kind the go over the bed of the truck. So we got to sleep up high. The curtains that covered the windows smelled moldy and I could feel a gust of cold air past the heavy curtains that covered the window. The cold bit at my toes that poked beneath the too short blanket. The ragged blanket didn’t quite reach from chin to toes. I didn’t have any pajamas yet and it was in the middle of December. I was hoping Santa would bring me some pajamas and a new doll. I swore I had been good. I didn’t fuss and I followed direction when she asked me to keep quiet and leave her alone. I didn’t ask for much for Christmas and I didn’t even think he would be able to find us in the middle of nowhere.  My last doll was taken when our car disappeared at the hotel we were staying at. I remember her blaming it on my dad. So maybe he had my dolly. This was a lot warmer than sleeping in the car. And much more comfortable.

            I felt the bed sink beside me as my brother climbed in to bed next to me. The first night in our “own room” as she called it. I was younger so I had to sleep closest to the window. My eyes grew heavy, in time to hear a howl just outside the flimsy window with the moldy curtain.

Accountability

For years I have said I was going to write a book based on my crappy childhood, mostly joking of course. But I never really followed through because I didn’t know why I would write the book or even how. And both of those things are important to keep someone committed to a goal. Over the weekend, I had the realization that I don’t feel like I have a purpose in life and that has contributed to being in this funk. I have always felt good when helping people, but I have never known how to get directly in front of someone to help them. Or who I could help.

            Working in a tire shop for 11 years has really been the largest degree of me “helping” people. And while that was mostly fulfilling, it was not my passion. It didn’t set my soul on fire. A few years ago, I had the privilege of speaking at a high school career day, representing the tire shop I worked for. As a young mom working in a “male dominated” career field, I hoped to spark encouragement for those who might have needed some. I had two young girls come to me afterwards and express how I did, in fact, inspired them and that’s a high I want to chase.

            I grew up with my biological mother who was an addict. Not a closet addict, but a full blown addict. Someone who could never shake her demons. The repercussions in her life were her terribly broken relationships. I can speak to how I grew up, what memories I have and the emotional damage that followed me into my adulthood. So, I am writing a book. I am writing a book on how drugs have lasting effects on family members. And mostly with my dark, twisted humor because it has been my coping mechanism while growing up. And maybe, just maybe someone struggling will read it and it could change their life. Because if I had to go through the trauma growing up, there has to be a reason why. And I believe this is it. I get excited thinking that if it helps just one person, it will be worth it. My limiting belief that no one would like what I had to write or my story was not worthy of sharing. So if you have read this far, this is my accountability post and conquering my fear of anyone actually reading what I write.

Childhood

The hard desk. There I sat. The new kid in school. I wasn’t sure if my discomfort was from the unforgiving chair or the sideways glances I catch the other kids giving me. I can barely remember third grade. But that day was the first day I truly felt the and emptiness I would carry with me through school and in to adult hood. I felt it like the suitcase I had to struggle to pull when we suddenly left our house late at night. Or was it early in the morning? All I remember is being pulled from a slumber, the sand of sleep still heavy in my eyes. And lights. No. Cop car lights. We were being rushed to the car. I remember the police officer saying they were changing the locks and we were not allowed back. We had had ten days. But why can’t I get all of my toys? Those next few days were a blur. A mess of hotel rooms, staying with friends of ours and yelling. So much yelling. My dad never did anything right and I think I can hear him crying? I just want to go home. So we drive. I didn’t know I fell asleep but when I wake, I hear the ocean and I’m all alone in the car. They left me! Did the police take them too? Tears threatened the brims off my eyelids as the panic started to build in my chest. I had to build the courage to set myself up right and peer out the window . . . frantic. . .

Then I snap back to the present; the new classroom and uncomfortable chair. I can hear the kids snickering. I didn’t realize the teacher asked me something. When I finally looked at her, she must have seen the tears from my memories threatening to spill down my cheeks. She smiled sympathetically, cleared her throat of the pity burning there and changed the subject, whatever it happened to be. I think she feared to make the new girl cry on her first day. Absentmindedly I doodled on the desk then erased it. Doodled and erased. Doodled. Erased. I felt content. I even relaxed a little. I continued my pattern until a clearing of a throat over my shoulder startled me. I looked up, absentmindedly. Right as I was in the erase phase. The eyes full of sympathy were now full of something else. Like anger. But why? The preppy blond girl next to me looked smug. She told the teacher I wrote on the desk. And now I’m in trouble on my first day?? In a few years, I would stick up for the preppy, popular blonde sitting next to me. She would eventually get bullied and the smugness would turn in to a suitcase of emptiness that she would struggle to pull by herself. But I remember. I remember my first day, of my fourth school, for my third grade elementary class. And I remember the weight of that loneliness and the look of her eyes that threatened to spill tears.

March 30th

One year. It’s been one year since my son, my first born, the man that was first to teach me unconditional love, lost his grandfather. His papa was his pal, buddy and best friend. Even when my son’s father went MIA, his papa was there to be his role model. The bond they shared even when he was nestled safely in my womb was palpable. “It’s gonna be a boy and I’m gonna take him fishing”, he would tell me with certainty even though we did not find out the gender. He took me out to dinner the night before my son’s arrival and told me, “You’re going in to labor at 3:15 in the morning”. (I was 2 days over due and just assumed he was just as anxious as I was.) I woke up in a sweat, nauseous, cursing my father in law, thinking I had food poisoning. I looked at the clock after I got back from the bathroom to see it said 3:18 am. Chills. From the sickness? In that moment, I thought yes. We rushed to the hospital and after 3 shorts hours, I was holding my baby boy. I could feel his papa outside my room, pacing, anxiously waiting to hear a cry. I told my ex to tell his dad “It’s a boy, It’s a boy!” The bond was as instant as I knew it would be. That man you would have guessed was mean and hard as stone, melted when he held his first born grandchild.

In January my son turned 13. The first birthday without his papa, his pal, his buddy and best friend. My heart hurts. I have cleaned and bandaged the boo-boos, I’ve been able to hug away the heart break from his first love, but this. This I can’t heal. This pain I can’t bandage, this pain I can only temporarily hug away. I can see he feels empty and lost and broken. As a parent, I’d shoulder all the pain if I was able, shelter him from having to personally know loss.

But, on the flip-side, in order to feel that intense amount of loss, you have to know an equally intense amount of love. And so is the feeling of loss worth it? Would you go through the heartache, the emptiness or the despair of losing someone if you knew you would never feel that kind of love? He got 12 good years with his grandfather. Even though it was not nearly long enough for my boy, he will cherish those years and know in certainty, that he was loved. Unconditionally. It’s been one year.

Lights, Camera…. now what?

I had thought this first blog post was going to be all glitz and glamour, awe-inspiring and blog-award winning in all its glory! I had visions of instantly becoming famous, people taking my picture (weird, because I don’t like or want either of those things) and my fans crying as they saw me. But soon I realized it was just me, the Queen of Procrastination, dragging her feet, “waiting” for inspiration. The all-too brave voice in my head kept telling me to “just f*cking DO it already”. (Like she knew what she was talking about.) So, reluctantly, I complied and here we are. (If you’re still reading.)

It’s like pulling off a Band-Aid. The hardest and scariest part is the courage to pull. This is a constant struggle in life. For 15 years I haven’t written. And it’s not that I’m terrible. It’s because the last 15 years, I had lost who I was. Journals I had written in, destroyed by a fire of someone else’s insecurities. Literally a bon fire where my journals were burned. Figuratively because their burning was fueled by my insecure, abusive ex. The years that followed were shadowed in self-doubt, insecurities and loneliness. I had lost myself. My identity. Without those books, who was I? Where had I come from?

Yet, here I am, ripping off the Band-Aid. The wound feels fresh underneath and a bit uncomfortable. But you know what else it feels like? A breath of fresh air. Redemption. Wounds heal when cleansed and taken care of. Just. Like. You. What is holding you back from your passions? It’s never too late to fall in love again with an old passion. Or find something new….

Intro

I’m a mother to 2 precious kids, engaged to the most wonderful man in the world and a pig mom. I live in Northern California, work a full time job and go to school part time.
Now that the standard, mundane and boring intro has been written-
REAL TALK
I have 2 kids that are usually awesome. Except when they aren’t. They are smart, kind (except to each other), opinionated and sarcastic. Those last 2 are all me. You’re welcome world.
THE MOST amazing man. But those rare times he isn’t. And it’s usually not him, it’s me. The same man that encouraged me to start a blog. I’m better with words than he is. (But not perfect.) ‘Cause why not? We will see who wants to read my blog and if no one does, I’m only out $50 for the year. Feels kind of like when my fiance, (Chris) told everyone “I’ve wasted money on stupider things” referring to our engagement and the ring he purchased. Thanks babe!
And a pig mom. Because somehow being a pet owner is some type of social status? And I felt compelled to tell you all I own pigs. Cause they are cool as shit. And somehow, over the last few years, I have magically transformed into the crazy pig lady. Ya. Cats and dogs are overrated. (Confession-I still have one of each of those assholes too)
Wow, that was a lot longer than I thought. They have this cool, helpful section in the beginning of WordPress that tells you to let people know what you plan for your blog to be about and why want to write it.
Well, I’m not really sure the answer to either of those questions, but I guess we’ll find out.