May I mourn your passing from my life even though you are not dead?

21 years ago…and a few months, I watched you come into this world. I wasn’t ready to receive you as I was a child myself. In the next few weeks, I found the inner strength to be everything you needed me to be. I walked miles to collect aluminum cans to feed you, even as I had no food. I did it in the blistering sun with feet barely shod. I "rescued" things from the trash for you. I found a bassinet, an outfit, even a stuffed teddy. I changed your cloth diapers, held fast with only safety pins and hand washed them before hanging them to dry in the hot July southern sun. We lived like refugees in our own homeland. I had no mother nor father to help me with you, as I was abandoned long ago, before I even hit my menses.

Later, I would hop in the back of a man’s pickup truck, surrounded by men from Mexico. I, being the only female, not even 18 years of age, no legal papers to say I could work, but I begged the man so I could feed you and he allowed me to come. I carried you on my back as I picked strawberries for 50 cents a pound. No one I worked with spoke my language and none were native to this land. I felt like a stranger in my own land…but I would go on to continue to do this to feed and clothe you until a social worker helped me apply for assistance for you.

Later, my mother was called to come collect you. I was homeless you see and it was that or have you taken by strangers. I would rather hand you over to my mother than see you be without family. Notice, she didn’t come to collect me…even though I was a child as well. Eventually, I was prodded into coming back east with you…and at my mother’s insistence, I married your father. He had been paying her money since before she came to collect you I found out. He called it "child support" even though none of it made it to you until my mother took you away. I called it my bride price. My mother did as well.

I stayed married to a man I didn’t love, at first…even despised sometimes, but grew to love as a human. I stayed through the violence, the drunken nights, the drug-fueled rage, the women too. I stayed even though I knew this wasn’t good. I wanted you to know your father, unlike me. I stayed until you said he threw you into a wall after coming home from a visit at grandma’s with a huge bruise on your leg. Within 20 days we were out of state in a new home with a big backyard as you dreamt, just as our local women’s shelter advised. I worried if it was the right decision and I was assured it was time and time again by everyone around us.

Then everything seemed better. I was in college and working at home. I made so very little but I made it stretch to pay the bills. I didn’t have as much time to pay attention to you, but I hoped the sacrifices I made would pay off for you big in the future. I hoped to find a good paying job so you could go to college too. I didn’t know what you wanted to be yet, because at that age it changed every week, but I wanted to help you get there whatever it was. I wanted to be your support…the mom I always wanted and never had.

I fell in love with a man that I had known since the very first days after you were born. He promised to be a dad to you and all your siblings. He promised he would take care of you all like his own kids. He worked to help our lives get better. He was kind and patient. Eventually, we got married so that we could all be a big happy family.

Eventually, my sweet little girl started to turn into a young lady. I saw the awkward growing pains of trying on makeup, giggling about boys, wanting to have nice clothes, among other things. I also saw you were angry. You were a teen and it’s no surprise when teens are angry. I wanted to be that mom that you could talk to. I took you out for ice cream, told you I loved you, took you out to eat…just me and you. I never had enough money for a spa day or to buy you two-three outfits at a time. I wish I did…but we were still struggling financially. I tried to offer advice about proper clothing. I tried to sew your clothes, but I guess it just wasn’t enough. They were too "old fashioned". I tried to be there for you, but you never said anything other than you missed your real father.

So, I even spent thousands of dollars twice to have you and your real father spend time together. Once from a windfall, in 2009, I took all of it and traveled with you and your sisters to his house. You had such fun. I wish we could have done it more often, but it was so expensive.

After the first trip, you came home angrier. You started fibbing about stuff, like who ate the peanut butter. I figured you were upset. I asked if you wanted to talk about it, but you never wanted to. I saw beautiful poetry in your notebooks and encouraged your writing. I remembered how much I loved to write and even shared some of my old poems with you. I remember when you came and asked to enter a poetry contest. We had missed that years deadline, I said next year, I promise. I kept that promise too. I even typed out the entry to their specifications, so you could be entered properly. You made the poems and I made sure they met the specifications on font size, names, address, etc… I thought this was us connecting.

After your second trip to your father’s, you couldn’t wait to move in with him. I said no problem, at 18. Even as you were going to the bus station days after your 18th birthday, I tried not to cry. I wanted you to be happy. I wanted you to get to know your father, now that he was clean and sober. He was remarried. He was finally stable.

What you don’t know is that me, your sisters, and your brothers cried that whole afternoon after you left. I couldn’t see the road home for all the tears and had to stop for a bit. Your sister comforted me as best as a child can and I comforted her as best as a mother can…but a hole was left in our hearts.

Then we learned to live without you here every day. You never wrote. You didn’t call. Days turned into weeks. Finally, I called your father to check on you. He asked me if you had to do all the chores and then remarked you said you did. Weird…all of you children have chores I told him. He said your room was such a mess, he doubted you did all the chores. The conversation left me feeling confused.

Months went by again and I heard through the grapevine you were in trouble. Your sister’s friends mother contacted me and said you hurt her son and you would be going to court. I wished her well..although that didn’t sound like my little girl. I tried to talk to you, but every time we tried to talk…it turned into a fight. What happened to my baby? When I asked you once, you said you weren’t my baby you were a woman. I took this as a sign that you were rebelling…and I should back off.

I tried, but then you would keep reaching out to me. My family had gotten involved at this point and they begged me to always be open to you should you want to talk. I tried but it never got anywhere.

Then your biological father died. I grieved. He was too young. He might have been an asshole as a kid, but he tried to turn it around. I wanted to go to the funeral, but you insisted I was not welcome and you said your 14-year-old sister should travel 1500 miles alone to the funeral. Even after you said she could have me in the state with her, but not the funeral parlor…she decided against going. She said she wouldn’t go if I couldn’t. We stayed home crying and looking at his photos. She never got a chance to know him. She tried, but he was always too busy. She called to say Happy Father’s Day and he never called back three months before his death. She still has the dress she bought with the money he gave her for her birthday that year. Every time I remind her it doesn’t fit, she tears up and I say ok…we can keep it. The poor child will never know her father just like me and you denied her the one chance to say goodbye because you were grieving him and I was for some reason not "allowed". I never imagined my child would be this way.

At night, I think to myself I thought I raised you better than that. I cry sometimes wondering why would you be this way. I didn’t reach out to you and for a while, you didn’t reach out to me. Life was peaceful. In the back of my mind, I wondered about you. Were you in college like you told me a year earlier? Did you have those two jobs you used to have? Then you invited me to your wedding. I was trying to be very professional…what to wear, when will it be, etc…I didn’t want to argue, but in the end…we did. Then my sister texted me and wanted to know why I was "pestering" you about going to the wedding. I sent her a copy of my entire texted conversation and she sent me a copy of her entire texted conversation with you, and we caught you in so many bold-faced lies. I was hurt and angry. My sister was too. I didn’t care to see you at your damn wedding then. After that, I knew you were not the child I thought you were and it broke my heart.

Still, I felt, it is my duty to keep you appraised of your family’s events. Your sister was engaged. I tried very hard to convince her to have you at her wedding. "Be the bigger person." She wouldn’t budge. Why? Why can’t my girls get along? I was at the point of tears… Your poor sister. I never knew. "Oh mamma, you don’t know…" She told me all the horrible things you said to her and had done over the years. I was so taken aback… all I could say is I understand. What more could I say? I knew you to be a liar now and this child of mine had never lied about such things to me just described a sister from hell. How could I not just accept your sister’s decision? She asked me to call you so you would know she was getting married and that you would not be invited.

I did. I kept it short and sweet. I identified myself with my full legal name. I said your sister is getting married and that we wanted you to know. You said, "Well she should have told me." I said ok and hung up. That was it. I didn’t say she was too afraid to speak to you…I didn’t say she asked me to because you had been so cruel to her…I said nothing except ok. I knew it was pointless to say more.

Not a month later, I wake up to the police at my door telling me that you had a baby and buried it in my backyard…basically that you told them you killed a child. I was in shock. I was confused yet again. I said go ahead and do whatever you wish. Now I sit here and ponder…who are you? What monster have I brought into this world?

Your poor siblings…how do I shelter them from the storm you created? God grant me strength is all I can say…they finished searching the property today. I don’t know if they will be back. All I can say is God grant me strength, I need it.

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Bad News

How we handle the peaks and valleys of life tends to color the view everyone holds for us…I personally have always been one to avoid the peaks, because I knew the valleys would be that much harder to bear if I had just been walking on the top of the world. The past 15 years have been one continuous traverse over gently rolling hills with few truly tragic valleys or high peaks. Most people would call that boring, but I call that comforting. Excluding the one friend’s betrayal, everything has been well with my soul.

I hear the poetry written in my childhood all around me. I have been blessed to hear my children sing the songs that I dreamed of in my youth. I have seen my art realized fully and taken up by others younger and stronger than I. I have been able to build a simple existence free from intruding eyes. I have been able to travel in my youth and exercise all the wickedness from my soul before coming of age fully. Never did I fall so far again. I thank God for this.

The only news that gets attention is bad news, they say. Unfortunately, I have received yet another blow to my mortality and thus more bad news.

I feel like I am in the part of a drama where the lead has been through blow after blow, just nonstop pain…and then in the middle it seems like the lead may find peace and relief. After a short time, the old demons come back to haunt the lead, but now he is soft from a comfortable life for the past decade and in no shape to fight. Then comes the final battle, where the lead gives everything he’s got, but bittersweetly, it just isn’t enough.

Now imagine sitting in the bleachers just ahead of the biggest and probably last fight of your life. You have been through hell and finally found peace for a few short years. You are no longer in fighting shape because you were comfortable. You stopped running. You stopped fighting. You just enjoyed life… the announcer says “Are you ready for the fight of your life?” Inside you say no, but outside you press your lips into a firm line and nod assuringly so everyone around you feels better. As you step into the ring, memories of the past 15 years fill your head as tears flood your eyes. How much you are going to miss this all. How much you hate going into the ring. How much you hate the bloodshed. How much you hate the fight…but fight you must or die.

The announcer states the rules. No giving in. No crying foul. If you give up, you die. If you lose you die. If you refuse to fight, you die. You nod again, but inside you know that you are in your 30’s, out of shape, and not ready to beat the 250-pound gorilla in front of you. You know a younger, fitter, hungrier you could have…but this you, the middle-aged, tired, sad you doesn’t have much of a chance. You beat your gloves together and try to set your mind right.

The gorilla knows you are afraid. It can smell your fear. That fear will be your downfall…and then the announcer yells “FIGHT”. You feel sweat trickle down the back of your neck and you breathe deep hoping it isn’t your last. You close your eyes for just a second, Father let me live these moments well. Give me the strength I need to fight a good fight. You open your eyes and the 250-pound gorilla is already an inch away.

That’s where I feel I am.

Of God and Gods, religion…Oy!

First, I hate publicly discussing religion. It’s a private thing between me and my diet(ies) of choice, but I feel one must take their beliefs and principals seriously. I was raised Christian, but not the kind of Christian that is loved, protected and told how much God loves them. No, no, that was a fairy tale kind of Christian for me which is very sad. My parents were the kind of Christian that would try to marry off a 12-year-old because she was raped and unpure now… yes thank you very much.

Before the litany of comments saying that Christ doesn’t command that or God would never require that, understand at 12, my parents were God’s representatives on earth.

Needless to say, God and I had a falling out because of the ‘rents…

I searched high and low for a belief system that would fit me. That meant a system that would not look down upon me for being raped, a woman, bleeding, hell speaking without authorization to a man… Christianity to me as a child was a cage that I sought to escape. I didn’t know that Christianity was not a cage for some people. By the age of 17, I settled on Wicca and then at 19, I decided Wicca was a little too perfectionist and settled on the term Pagan. I had just realized I would have to be a fruitarian in order to "harm none" and frankly, I wasn’t down for that.

That’s how it was until last year.

My aunt, bless her, sent me a family tree going back over a thousand years. It included births, deaths, marriages, children, ranks, war services, and religion. It included my last Pagan ancestor, which converted to Christianity about a thousand years ago. All that followed were Christian…until me. I was the first in a thousand years to leave Christianity. That kind of revelation settles in on your heart rather heavily. Why was I the first to leave Christianity? Why did my ancestor leave Paganism a thousand years ago? It made religion a little more than just personal for me…it made it familial. I don’t even mean like mom and dad, but like my entire family for generations upon generations. It felt like I was denying every single ancestor before me, not just my rotten parents.

That hardly seems fair to kick an entire family line because of one or two people?

So, I went to church. I went to a couple. I thought, what harm…indeed. I did not find the hateful messages I heard as a child, but I did not hear the words of love and mercy. I did see selflessness, but I also saw petty bickering and bigotry. In some churches, they tsked me for my tattoo and in others for having children. All in all, they are too varied for me. I tried returning to the church my grandmother went to, which was not at all supportive of my parent’s behavior, and it just didn’t feel the same. In short, I still have not found my religious panacea.

Then came the opinions of all my loved ones in my life currently. The Pagan and proud crowd. A lot of people called me a hypocrite. Am I really though if I am trying to find my way? Why would I seek out another way if Paganism was currently fulfilling me?

The truth is before my aunt sent me that family tree, I had become very disenchanted with the Pagan community. In the northeast, where I converted to Paganism, there is a healthy, vibrate, and essentially positive Pagan Community that has child-friendly events and some morals. I was very active as a participant, not a leader, and enjoyed being a part of the community.

Then I moved south. Paganism in the south is very much just an anti-Christian, what can I get away with hedonism, without a hint of respectability. There were no events that were child-friendly. The covens in the area were of questionable morals and violated almost every rule of being a good teacher as laid out by Amber K. Many teachers demanded sexual favors from circle participants, drugs were involved, and money was expected (not unlike a church there).

Simply put, I was a Silver Raven Wolf slash Amber K type of witch and I was surrounded by people that resembled Aleister Crowley and Anton LeVay had a love child in the back of motel 8 and couldn’t quite abort it before it ran off wild into the night. Yeah, so not a good mix.

This is not what I want in my life.

I even had to cut off a relationship because my Pagan soon to be husband said his religion demanded he sleeps with other women for a fertility rite! If I wanted that kind of life, I could have had it! Remember, we are the same religion, but his religion is a different flavor. He would not compromise either, so goodbye, good luck, and I feel sorry for your future wife.

This was Paganism at it’s worst.

It got me thinking, perhaps my parents were Christianity at it’s worst. Perhaps, I should try another time, but I never actually took action on it until my aunt sent me that family tree. It was a swift kick to the pants, that I am the oddball. I am the weirdo. I am the one sending our family in a totally different direction, which normally is good when you right wrongs, but was I righting a wrong?

Then, I got the news I got in March…shiver.

Perhaps, I will never find my religious panacea. Perhaps, I will die without a faith. Perhaps, I am forever lost. Perhaps … but at least I know what I don’t want in my life. I don’t want men that say they want to rescue me, and then wish to destroy my heart, on the whims of words written by half illiterate goat herders or warriors from over a thousand years ago. I want a man that can look at me like a person, with a valid right to my feelings, with the ability to reason, with morals, and who wants no other…and need not invent excuses to try others. I think perhaps religion is about the worst excuse for denying your mate a part of your life that should never be shared or for forcing people to be together as mates.

In short, I have tried both flavors and found fault in both!

I wish I could be enlightened. I still know there is something out there, a being, something….but I wish I could know that being, like I thought I did as a child, before my parents ruined it for me. I wish I could still call myself a Pagan without the embarrassment of being associated with these backwater so-called Pagans or the completely anti-Christian, do everything we can to be bad, Pagans. For me, Paganism was about the earth and connecting to it. It was about finding a way to heal my past hurts. It was about finding my inner voice and my inner peace. It was about owning my womanhood and enjoying it.

Now the locals that practice this weird sort of Paganism have ruined it for me forever.

I just want to heal and be a part of a positive religious community. Is that too much to ask?

Two more weeks

I have two more weeks until I get tested to see if "it" came back. I started biting my nails again. I feel tired most of the time. I started pushing on with my job more. I haven’t told anyone else…they just think the chaos in my life…day to day life…is what makes me tired. I put in a garden even though I’m unsure if I will have the strength to care for it or harvest it in the next few months. I’m hopeful you could say.

15 years and some change…

Tags

cancer, death, dying, illness, love, religion

I had a bout with a serious illness almost 15 years ago. The doctors in all their esteemed wisdom gave me a 2% chance of living 5 years without treatment and about 0% chance of living 15 years without treatment. The word miracle was used to describe living beyond 15 years. I was very against the treatment for several reasons which I won’t discuss in detail, but in particular one doctor I already knew and hated was there attending. He was the sort that you want to punch the minute he opens his obnoxious Gob.

As I sat weighing life and death options, he was pressuring me. Me, thinking it really wasn’t his call, told him to be still. It’s my way of saying shut up without being a prick because I honestly felt pressured. The decisions I was being asked to make were very serious and could have life altering effects if I did or did not do as I was told. Namely death and sterilization among other things. This “doctor” goes into this sing song, “You’re gonna die. You’re gonna die.” I mean straight out of first grade bullish right in front of the senior doctors. I was so angry and it was so inappropriate he was kicked out of the room by the other more senior faculty. However, it solidified my resolve. I would not take their bitter pill.

Here it is 15 years later…and some change. I am alive. I did not take their treatment. However, I’m afraid my illness has returned. I recieved the first news on March 9th. My doctor said I needed more testing to be sure. I never cried so hard in my life. I sat in a public bathroom crying because I was too afraid to come out and face my loved ones with the news I had just recieved via my cell phone. Luckily, no one else entered in the 45 minutes I sat and sobbed in a public toilet.

Then I got a text from my partner. “What’s taking so long?” How do I sum up that I am facing the biggest battle of my life? All I said was, “I’m crying.” I am a person about actions. What is taking so long? I was crying…not what happened, or who told me, or even what might be wrong, just “I’m crying.” Of course this was followed by, “What’s wrong?” I texted, “The doctor says it might be back.” My partner knew what it was of course. He saw me through my first battle and if not for him I would have died of dehydration alone in a home full of small children. My partner said, “It will be ok.”

It didn’t feel ok. It felt like I was being mocked by the universe or God. I felt like I was used as a pawn to prove that God exists…but you know what…I stopped thinking about that. I breathed in deep and tried to center and calm myself. “I had 15 wonderful years they said I never would….I am thankful for that.” The tears slowed. I dabbed at my eyes trying not to smear my make up.

I thought to myself, in those 15 years I had 4 beautiful children. I found a man that loved me enough to stay and fight death with me. I found a place to call home. I found a place of peace. I had known very little peace in my life. My childhood was one terror after another. My parents not suitable to raise a puppy. From there I entered my first marriage damaged and demanding…it was a chaotic and abusive relationship. When I found out I was sick, everyone in my life walked out and my current partner walked in.

My friends said they didn’t want to watch me “commit suicide” by refusing treatment. My ex-husband said he needed to move on to someone more “viable”. I never felt so alone in my entire life. Everyone abandoned me. I said, “Have faith.” I kept it too. I fought with myself and wrestled with how I would handle my affairs after…till I decided…I’m not dying so why worry. I have faith.

Then my partner, at first nothing more than a friend from a long time passed came into my life. He knew I was ill. He tried to persuade me to get treatment. Then he watched as one by one everyone abandoned me. That’s when he decided to take me at my word and let me have my faith. He helped me when I was too weak and too tired to get to the bathroom. He brushed my hair that went to below my bum everyday. He made me food. When I no longer wanted food, he brought me broth to sip. When I could no longer sit up, he propped things so I could still drink on my side. When I could not lift my head, he spooned broth into my mouth so I would not be dehydrated. When I shivered from a fever so high our thermometer read only HIGH, he popped two Tylenol in my mouth, helped me swallow and held me all night through. In the morning, I lifted my head barely an inch to see him, and he cried, “You’re still with us.”

He cried tears of joy. He held me all night with the expectation he would wake next to a corpse and woke to me feeling a little better.

No one in my life has ever done that for me and I have been very ill many times.

When I came out of the bathroom, my eyes were red. My cheeks clean of make up. My hair disheveled I’m sure. He smiled and put his arm around me…”what do we do now?” I told him the doctor wanted to do more testing to be sure. I also told him the doctor wants me to clean up my eating and may be that will make the numbers go down. He was 100% supportive. I didn’t want to talk about it. Talking about it seemed more real. I burst into tears on the way to the car and he hugged me…then again when I sat in the car…and again when I was at the red light. My mind was thinking, “I’m too young to die.” I was jumping to conclusions. I expressed my worries and my partner…he told me to stop and breathe. I still need more testing. It isn’t definitive. It helped some….but every time I looked at my two young sons int he back seat, I busted into tears again.

That was a tough day.

Now, I’m getting tired again. The same old tired. The too tired to get up….I don’t want to be tired. I want to be full of life and happy again. May be I’m just depressed, but I don’t like this feeling. Hopefully upon further testing they will find that it isn’t “it” that came back. Hopefully, it’s something less damning. Hopefully it’s nothing more than needing to eat cleaner.

No matter what though, I got those 15 years they said I would never have….they can’t take that from me.

Wish me well poppets.

Round here…

we always stay up late,

This is true, if for no other reason than I have insomnia. Truth be told, my nightmares have increased. I have, since a young age, had nightmares. My therapist called them a sort of flashback or reliving the past. At any rate, they are happening more frequently and being a normal, functioning human, is getting very difficult.

I was tempted to go to a mental health provider, but dissuaded by my friends and family. My friends told me they couldn’t help me, since I am just reliving trauma, short of drugging me into a stupor. (Which they quickly added they would help me do for free, I might add) My family recounted how many times I tried to receive services, real help, therapy …like behavioural therapy or talk therapy…and instead recieved a quick diagnosis (always different mind you) and about 5 or 6 scripts for heavy anti-psychotics…and how the meds never helped. My lover refused to speak to me the whole time I tried to talk about it…even shunned my touch.

In case you can’t tell, I live in a bubble of people that have seen me try and fail numerous times, with the help of "professionals", to get over the trauma of my childhood. They are very supportive of who I am, undrugged, eccentric to a fault, and even a bit mad. They prefer me this way, they say at least. However, when I get one of my episodes of sadness or insomnia like of late, they get upset at me. When I try the logical, mainstream way of healing, I get more chastisement. Admitting you need help from a "professional" is tantamount to giving up the ghost of your own free will.

Instead, I must find unconventional means which so far haven’t been working. Religion used to be a comfort of mine, but those days are long since past I fear. Say what you will, but the placebo effect is strong and works well when you believe hard enough. Unfortunately, that spell has been broken for me. I have no placebos, no comforts, no place to find solace…not even in my lovers arms do I find comfort anymore. The world is a big, dark, scary, and lonely place now as it was when I was a child.

Normally, my mental health deteriorates after an event of sadness, but of late only events of joy have really been in place. I am to help with my best friends wedding. I have been canning on a regular basis. I went dress shopping the other day. It’s so rare for me, but I do love when I go…even if it is just window shopping. Having a reason to dress up is so wonderful.

The only sadness is that of one of my girlfriends. Her husband had an affair. I was trying to be there for her. Put her up at my pad, got her into a local job and college. Everything was going swimming, then suddenly she turned on me. Blamed me for her sadness, though to be honest she had every reason to be sad about her husband…but that wasn’t my fault. She left, in a huff, back to the man that was leaving her for days at a time to be with his girlfriend. I really loved this woman. I wanted her to feel the freedom I felt. The independence of going out there and doing it. The joy of knowing you can handle it. I guess she wasn’t ready.

Her days here brought up a lot of old emotions from my marriage. My partner died in 2015, but we were already divorced. I remember her arguments with her husband, and they were so similar to the arguments my partner and I had. I was reliving my divorce. I cried nightly about the way that divorce went. What’s worse, I couldn’t even call and talk to my ex for some sort of closure. Those around me started to feel the effects too. They said things like, "Geez this reminds me of your ex. You guys did this crap towards the end." Yeah…and I had to relive that there was no way for me to say sorry now.

IS this because I am grieving…again? Is it because I never got to grieve? I don’t know. I do know though…now, I lay awake for hours wondering…how did my life come to this sum?

A year….and almost nothing posted

No excuses here.

I live life. When I get time to catch my breath, I write.

2016 was a whirlwind of bad health, financial disappointments, and new friends.

I canned 29 quarts of pears, that I gleaned from a local tree.

I canned 29 pints of pickles out of ten gallons given to me by a friend.

I learned a lot about my health. I will be on medicine for life now. yay….*small slow sad clap*

On the plus side, I feel better than I did.

Hoping 2017 is better, better health, better finances, and better gardens.

Love Chow

What happened?

I tried to write to you via messenger. I offered you an opportunity. Apparently, it was not up to snuff, since I had a lot of "nerve" to offer you a place to stay when you were kicked out of your home by your step-mother three days after your father died. I have a lot of nerve to be kind.

I had a lot of nerve to write and say that I would be putting you in my will since your father left you nothing.

I have a lot of nerve to ask what the hell do you mean I should have known…known what? What should I have known?

I do have a lot of questions. Your father died in September and you had no children then. Suddenly three months later you have a family, two jobs, and two children? Yet you say you aren’t screwing a married man behind his wife’s back even though your address comes up with his name. Hey, I guess if you would rather pay your way in pussy then come live with me…what’s it my business. Please don’t lie to yourself though and pretend his children, with his wife, are your children. Even further please don’t use her children as excuse not to speak to me, you loser. You have no children. I never did anything to you except offer you a place to stay where you wouldn’t have to put out to sleep on the couch.

How I remembered my friend…

After my friend, my ex lover, my ex partner died…I was devastated. I cried for three days. I could not eat. I could not sleep. I could do nothing. Every time I closed my eyes, I could feel his hair. I could smell his scent. I could feel his body when it was next to mine. It had been a decade or more since we were actually together, but it felt like he was right there. I cancelled all of my appointments, social engagements, and projects. I shut down.

As I laid in me bed for almost a week in the dark solitude of a depression I hadn’t known in years, I felt my emotions fly all over the place. I cried out in pain. I screamed at him for leaving me. I cursed him for marrying such a con artist whore. I wept for the loss his children would endure. Then I fell into an exhaustive sleep. Then I woke up and did it all over again. I never changed my clothes. I never took a shower. I never even got up off my bed except to go to the restroom. I was beyond devastated. My partner would come check on me periodically, hug me, and bring me food or water. I usually just took a bite to make my love feel better, but at least I ate then. By the end of the week, I was nudged gently to at least get on the computer.

I did. I had messages from all of the mother’s of his children. "What will I do for the rent?" "His son is going to need diapers?" They didn’t have the luxury of wailing for a week like I did. They had children with immediate needs and concerns, while my love took care of everything so I could grieve. Here I was laying around like a slug crying my eyes out, relying on my partner for even the simplest of foods or drinks, while these women were worried how they would now support their children without their child’s father around. I am so thankful to my love for being the sunshine that nudged me to join the world after a week. I am also so thankful that the mothers of his children felt comfortable enough to chat with me. I was so thankful to God for giving me a chance to help my friend even though he was gone. I got straight to work.

By the end of the second week of his passing, the mothers of his children knew they would have income, how to get it and where. We ALL worked together for the kids sake. The government helped by working quickly to help the kids. All the children now receive survivor’s benefits including my daughter I had with him over 14 years ago. This year I sent all of the children a gift. He used to get them all at least one small gift. Since he couldn’t be there to do it this year, I did, and I will do it every year after too if they don’t mind. It’s the least I can do for him.

How do we grieve?

How do we grieve?

How do we let go of someone that for at least part of our life was our lover, our friend, our partner, our life?

How do we let go, when everyone in their life stabs your heart?

How do we heal when we are excluded from services?

How do we move on when we never got a chance to say goodbye?

My ex-lover and I remained friends well over a decade after we split. We spoke to each other often, monthly at least, sometimes weekly. We worked together in common goals and supported one another. Then my ex-lover found someone new. It’s not that he was alone for that entire decade. Lovers came and went. He was engaged once. Through it all though, we spoke. We laughed. We worked as a team. We supported one another as friends. However with his last love, he married. I saw the red flags. The exclusion of long time friends and family. He didn’t call as often. His calls were hurried and secret.

“I can only call you while she’s at work.”

“Why? We haven’t been together in years.”

“She’s jealous of everyone.”

It never occurred to me that he could be a victim of domestic violence. He had a temper. He had a strong will. He was a man. SHE was a perpetrator of a unique kind of violence.

More red flags went up, he could no longer see his son, because SHE said so. Then SHE needed a new wardrobe to get a job, so she spent $8,000.00 on my ex-lovers credit card. She took a loan out for 10 grand in his name. Combined in one year she spent more than 3 years of his pay. Friends whispered about the debt, the arguments, the fact that he started to lose weight. No one dared speak what they believed.

Then late at night, more than 4 hours passed when he would normally call, he did. His voice was hoarse. He sounded like he had been crying.

“She want’s me to make her the only beneficiary of my life insurance. She doesn’t even want my son on it.”

“Are you crying?” I asked. Not seeing the obvious, listening to the sound of his voice not the words they spoke and the impact they held.

“Of course not, look I have to go.” Click. That was about 6 months ago.

He committed suicide a week ago. Oh he made it look like an accident. He sped up to a point of no return and crossed over the center line. He did it like he always said he would though…”If I ever get to pick my way out, it will be to crash and burn. He was 17 then…who takes a 17 year old seriously? At 21, “you know motorcycles are just a man’s suicide machine right?” “I wouldn’t want to come back after an accident.”

He gave her everything she wanted. He gave her the clothes, cars, house, and more. He gave her his life insurance policy. He gave her his life. Even in death she isn’t satisfied. She would not even allow someone to speak for him at the memorial. She would not even allow his loved ones to scatter his ashes. She had to have every last piece of dust all for herself. I pray no one ever marries her again, so that they might be able to live.

Here I am, just trying to figure out how to heal, without saying goodbye.