I’m just sitting on the fence.

 

 

There has been a lot of fence sitting happening in my life. With it, comes general unrest. I usually pride myself in taking decisive actions with measured outcomes, but it seems that I have found myself in a sort of limbo that I cannot seem to choose my way out of.

I am not a quitter. I am not one to be pushed around or settle for less than a human deserves. So what does one say in the face of promises made when the real work is out of your hands? Sure there are things I can do to influence my situation, to compromise, but I am finding year after year that the compromise only works when the parties involved follow through. I also feel like people trudge the trenches of far worse things and come out alive and maybe happier.

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So now what? I wait. I wait and see, which absolutely tears at my being. I continue my day like everything is fine and well and wait to see if 1. Something changes or 2. I can handle the same cycle of events another year.

Subsequently, my writing will take a back burner so I can focus more closely on things that secretly got out of hand. Maybe I will not even blog until I am able to get out of this funk, as I am not comfortable letting my mind wander further than work and kids.

via Daily Word Prompt 181 “Fence” — All About Writing and more

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Not me. Not this time.

HappyBirthdayMy Love

I have never been the one to mess with. I have either always knew the rule or researched it enough to know whether my stance on the matter was right or wrong. Health/ dental insurance don’t mess with me.  I know my contract in and out. I know what I am “entitled to”.

“But Dacia, you’re a millennial, you’re not entitled to anything!

I am a ten year Army veteran. I have earned my health and dental plans. (But really they are my husband’s work’s so shut up. Yes I have ‘earned’ them)

So let me tell you women something. You do not have to agree with what they tell you.

You don’t have to go along because you don’t know any better

You can learn negative and detrimental things of you own past that bring to light something you held at high regard.

You can learn that ‘”protection” might not have actually saved you from the danger of your own family.

You can learn that after 32 years of existence, what you thought you had built your own foundation  on was a lie or was kept a secret from you, in hopes that it would go away.

I feel ashamed and defensive. I feel like I am owed the truth on the matter before I go chiseling at the details.

I feel that being so comfortably removed from the situation has, yes, saved me from the physical hurt that others have experienced but also left the remaining victims silent in their recovery, personal remorse, and unable to anonymously share their side of the story.

Ladies- You are not alone. Many have felt this pain. It is not my story to tell, but if you can help others by stepping up, then maybe it’s worth it.

It is time that you have felt this validation. That YOU know that you are loved despite the things that happened to you.

I grew up so far removed. My memories are locked in the photos I own. I try to apply principles to my own little family that has very different dynamics.

If you can please help me to understand why women lay so vulnerable to men;   not allowing their own voices to be heard. Why do you place your husband above the love of your children? Then I may be able to sleep tonight.

Choose Life

This essay was shared with me in confidence, and my dear friend will remain anonymous by her request. This very subject brings out ever primal instinct in me to fight and protect and cry all at the same time.

Friend- I can find no words. You have always been a strong personality in my day to day, but I shamefully underestimated what was underneath. You are strong beyond measure. You chose to overcome rather than be defeated. You continue to look for ways to build yourself against all odds. You are beautiful and worth every ounce of respect given to you. Thank you for choosing life.

Choose Life

Note to readers: I feel like my heart is out in the open as I write this, but at the same time, I feel empowered now that I have the courage to share what was once considered shameful, something that was never to be acknowledged as events that actually happened. This. Actually. Happened.  Sadly, it’s happening to someone else as you read this. I hope sharing my story helps raise awareness and gives another survivor the courage to reach out, get help, and regain control of their life.

“Either you can tell them, or they can find out when Child Protective Services comes to your house tomorrow.” my youth pastor told me.  I felt my heart pounding in my chest and my eyes welled up as I shook my head.

“No, no, they can’t know! They can’t know, please don’t do this.” I responded fervently.  My pastor and I were talking outside of my youth group and people were around, but my surroundings quickly faded at the urgency of the dialogue.  How could I tell my mom that her father, a man loved by all, had sexually abused me from ages six to twelve?  And furthermore, how could I tell my parents on Mother’s Day? I knew my mom would believe me and that she wouldn’t be mad at me, but I didn’t want our “perfect world” to be flipped upside down.

I don’t remember much about what happened that Mother’s Day.  I told my mom that Grandpa abused me every time he saw me for the last six years, and I recall silent tears streaming down her face.  She didn’t have a chance to tell my dad, so he found out when CPS and the police officer knocked on our door.

The first time it happened, I was in the shower when my grandpa came in.  My whole family was on the other side of the bathroom door. Grandpa was bold. I remember asking my grandpa, “Is this sex?” He answered yes and told me that if I ever told anyone it would tear the family apart.

People were around a lot of the times when he abused me. He would ask me to get something from the garage, but I wouldn’t know until we got there if he wanted to touch me or if we were actually getting something.  Other times it would be just me, my brother, and cousins in the house and Grandpa would take only me into his room. Later, my brother admitted that he and my cousins often excluded me because they were jealous that Grandpa spent so much time with me.

Eventually, my own behavior starting manifesting warning signs.  I used to pretend that my dolls were having sex, and one time I put a towel over my and my younger cousin’s head and began kissing her; thinking that nobody would notice since the towel was over our heads.  The abuse was literally right under my family’s noses, and from a young age I was exhibiting “red flag” behaviors.

Strangely, my family’s perfect Pleasantville never altered after they learned the truth.  My family did not want to treat me like a victim, so they acted like nothing ever happened to me. They could not bear to hear the details, so nobody asked me what happened, and I never told.  It felt as if my family thought I should be “over it” since the abuse was over. The police never heard the full story either and my grandpa was never charged for something that would have caused him to spend many years in prison. It also didn’t help that CPS sent a man; I did not feel comfortable speaking with him.  Instead, I spoke with the female police officer, but I was never asked to share the details of what happened to me.

My parents thought they were doing everything right, protecting me from seeing my grandpa until I was ready and taking me to counseling. I attended therapy throughout high school and it helped, but it was always situational conflict resolution instead of addressing the core issue.  I remember working through my relationships with my dad as well as an abusive boyfriend. Both byproducts of the abuse—my hesitancy to get close with my dad and being overly submissive with my boyfriend.  It was as if therapy addressed the aftermath of the abuse, but not the abuse itself.  Imagine a broken glass jar.  Therapy cleaned up the tiny shards of glass on the floor, but did nothing to repair the shattered jar itself.

I was a high functioning teenager and learned to cope without ever having to verbalize the things my grandfather had done to me.  Looking back on my late teen/early adulthood years, it seems everything was normal, including my mental health. I graduated high school with good grades and studied nursing in college.  However, during college, I felt strong emotions resurface about the abuse.  Pediatric nursing taught me about play therapy, how kids reenact what they’re exposed to, and that psuedoseizures often correlate with molestation.  Suddenly, I was filled with anger toward my parents, wondering how life would have been different if they’d recognized my warning symptoms and intervened.

I managed to graduate from nursing school and marry an amazing man, but anxiety always loomed in the shadows of my mind. I remained a victim to what I now know as Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. I suffered alone, not realizing that my mind was constantly functioning in a state of high alert; seeing threats, causing panic at every turn.  I was scared to walk down sidewalks by myself, afraid to shower unless my husband was around (lest someone break into my home and abuse me).  My brain worked like this—always on guard, and if I let my guard down, then I’d be vulnerable.  I had nightmares, panicked at the sight of fathers kissing their daughters, was anxious because a male doctor cared for me as a patient, and felt dirty inserting a urinary catheter in an elderly man.  I felt alone, like nobody else was experiencing what I was going through.

When I realized that PTSD was affecting my career, I sought further counseling.  For the first time, I endured the painful memories so that I could reconcile my past.  I had to relive my childhood, as a grown woman, and think about events that hadn’t crossed my mind in over a decade.   It was as if I rewound time, passed the “recovered” stage of college and young married life, and resurrected the memories of a child trying to hold it all together.  For the first time, my story was heard.

After coping with these horrendous events, I determined that I would not be defined by the abuse.  I chose not to be a victim to PTSD; I chose LIFE! I learned coping mechanisms like: assessing risk versus fear, realizing that nobody can hurt me with their glances or their words (no matter how inappropriate), allowing myself to ask someone to accompany me to a restaurant bathroom, and remembering that what my husband and I do in our bedroom is safe and consensual.

With this change, however, comes new fears.   I need guidance with many things that people take for granted because they grew up in a home with healthy boundaries.  I reformat every thought in my head and assess if it’s PTSD or a rational thought.  It’s a constant change that needs to occur, and success is dependent on this change. For example, I had to be taught that bathing my nephew and teaching him basic grooming skills is caregiving rather than incestuous.  I wish I could say that I made that dramatic change once and it fixed my life forever, but it’s a change that I have to make every day in order to succeed. Now I choose courage over fear. Now, I’m no longer the victim—I’m the victor.

I have overcome many challenges on this journey, but I know there will be many more to face.

Like how will I manage the trials of pregnancy and child birth? Perinatal checks, strangers touching my baby bump, and everyone wanting to hold my baby? How will I feel safe as a patient if I need narcotics or anesthesia? Choosing courage requires me to lower my guard and place trust in my caregivers.

This abuse will stay with me forever, and I will constantly have to change my natural responses in order to have a life worth living.  But I can be a conqueror, overcomer, and regain control of my life.  I don’t have to be known as, “the girl who was abused.”  I am the woman who picked herself up, has a successful marriage, a thriving career, and wants to be a mother someday.  I choose to change my perception every day so I can have an enjoyable, authentic life.  I am worth it.

The Mountain Climb!

Miscarriage is devestating. I know I’ve told my stories about my struggles with fertility, but please know that though it is extremely common, it is heartbreaking to lose a child. I went through a cycle of feeling dead inside and hated myself, too. But we don’t have to suffer alone. This post was written by my sister. Love you girl. Welcome back!

ladyandrea81

My husband James and I have been married for 7 years and in 7 years our one goal was to become parents. The sooner we could start planning and making that dream become reality, the happier we would be. I had no idea Infertility was a thing or that we would have issues. The question “Why Me” has been asked and I still ask that question. Every year our resolution is to have a baby. That’s our wish, the one thing our hearts desire for is to be a Mommy and Daddy to our very own children. We have a fur daughter Aubrey but we would love nothing more than for Aubrey to be a Big sister.

We had a hunch that this year would be “Our Year”, the year that our dream would in fact come true. The New Year started and we knew our appointment with a Specialist…

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The Generation That Built Us

Having a daughter has completely derailed me. Things that I have kept high on a shelf, have come down to tiny hands that don’t understand the frailty of the memories they hold.

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This bunny has a good 25 years on her new owner.

My father being in the military, we rarely lived close to family. When we did go “home” to visit, we stayed with my grandmother; my father’s mother. I only just recently found out my own mother hated it. But my brother, sister and I loved everything about it. The cookie jar that held snack cakes instead of just plain ole cookies, the “haunted barn” we’d explore only supervised by my aunt, who would later in life become my roommate, the smell of coffee and cigarettes at all hours of the day, and Grandma. Her cooking, her gifts, her love, and her pride in us: the grandkids.

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Always so proud of us (I’m the bottom left of the main photo.. My cousin is the innocent by-standard. Her blog can be found HERE).

My Grandmother was the face of everything that the subsequent generations wanted to be to their family: the Matriarch. There was not a get together that she was not in the center of. Her cooking alone is enough for its own post.  It was never ever about what she bought us. What she gave us, she made with her own two hands. I am happy that even at a young age, I recognized the prize that was handed to me that Christmas.

Hand sewn bunnies, like the one gifted to me in the first photo, were given to all the granddaughters she had at the time. Many MANY more came later, but as her eye sight went, and her arthritis worsened, fewer things were sewn and less gifts were made.

And now as a mother, I treasure more the things my mother makes for me and my children. I want her to be proud of my children like my grandmother was proud of us. I want my daughter to know the line of strong women that she comes from. I also want her to know the value and worth behind taking a few abstract materials, a little bit of finesse and a lot of love and transforming it into an heirloom; a token of love and life that will transcend her own if treated delicately.

Grandma, thank you for sharing your gifts with us. I hope I do well to teach my kiddos of your diligence, your love and your pride in them. Even my littlest little who did not get to meet you. We love and miss you dearly.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

What Do I Say When…?

 

As an introvert, I do not often mix work and my personal life. At work, I am “on”. I enjoy the people I work with and give as much of myself as I can. At home, I put up a protective barrier and little gets through, maybe aside from Social Media. But then there are certain people that also give of their energy instead of taking.

I have a dear friend that has such a wonderful and eloquent way with words. She is such a positive light, even in her own hurt. I sometimes joke when I introduce her to people, that she could tell you about a dog taking a poop in a way that would make you WANT to pick up that poop. She finds, identifies, and celebrates the good in people and situations. She is truly amazing in the way she breathes life into people.

So it absolutely broke my heart when I learned that this awesome woman lost her father. I am really horrible at condolences and often just give space to the grieving. But as we both are very articulate of our feelings, I simply asked if I could share her gift of word with the world.

“Nearly 15 years passed after his first stroke, but his tenacity never wavered. That ogre called stroke suppressed his body, but not his will. Today, he unexpectedly surrendered to the daily plight endured, cast hemiparesis aside, and walked into heaven’s gates unbroken. While dense fog permeates our midst, we have been lavished with an outpouring of love.”

She wrote an email upon her return from the service:

“I return to work today still feeling afflicted and emotionally bankrupt, but at the same time, attempting to find gratitude for the small lights of love in my midst. Those came by way of a multitude of messages and expressions of kindness.

I kindly accept warm embraces and must add, those have sustained me in the past week. While I will readily accept all hugs, I do ask that all refrain from questions. I know that any conversation about my dad will erupt in a flood of tears.

My dad’s services honored his life and highlighted his will to serve. I hope to continue carrying the torch he so readily upheld.

I wrote the following piece, printed 50 copies, and had all our family read along during a dove release ceremony. Thought I’d share below:

Your soul is released to a place on high;

Where trumpets sound in the celestial sky.

Those left behind your hand wish to hold;

We trust in God and will rely on one another, further cementing our bond as if cloaked in gold.

We promise to band together, to forge and cinch our allegiance and unity;

To honor your life and remember you for all eternity. ”

 

She told me that a conversation with her niece sparked her inspiration for this poem. She felt the need to pull her family together. Time had waned the urgency of family and life took priority of making memories. We talked about coming of age where we leave much behind to work hard and make it on our own, that sometimes we no longer make time for those outside of immediate day to day life. My friend did not want her family to feel regret, or dwell in a place of division or seclusion. But she wanted to honor her father in the way that memorialized who he was.

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My dad loved to spend time on the water, so we spent the weekend at Grand Lake sharing stories and honoring his life.

She went on to tell me that her father had the gift of word. That he had a way of speaking life, hope, and happiness into anyone. Something she wanted to carry in his legacy.

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“You left my world unexpectedly;

without notice or advisory, you were taken from me.

While I cannot comprehend why you are no longer here,

I try to hold on to reason and rationalize my fears.

Many of us want to rewind the clock, to hug you one more time,

and feel your embrace, hear you try to make rhymes.

Sometimes your words were poetic to me.

You were gifted and talented in prose, with a God-given ability to speak.

When inspiration knocked, a flood would emit

and the end resulted in persuasive words that yielded significance.

I will honor your legacy by appealing to others with your gift of word,

And continue your tradition of inspiring others with purpose to serve.

Your words infused conviction for all humanity.

You manifested God’s love, showcasing a life of integrity.

Thank you for the gifts bestowed along the way,

For establishing a bedrock of truth, for that and more we honor your life today.”

 

My heart is so full of this woman. Her words are always so heavy with love, encouragement and praise. It was no wonder then when she described her father’s gift of word, where she had gotten it from. She spoke of him in a way that made me wish I had known him. There is no doubt that everyone that had that privilege was a much better person because of it.

 

Dear My Sweet Friend,

I cannot fathom the emptiness left by the physical absence of your father. The hunger and thirst to hear his voice, and receive his words that would pick you back up and set you on track. You have worked so diligently to ensure that your family is able to feel warmth and love in a time when otherwise would feel cold and regretful. I also can see that this is the constructive way that you have chosen to heal. You have strength beyond measure and his light and gifts shine through you every single day. You honored him even while he lived and you continue to do so. You are allowed to be emotionally taxed. You are allowed to cry. You are allowed to set those boundaries for yourself. But know that you are supported by people that admire and love you. Thank you for letting me share you, your father, and your story with the world.