Diane Neas

Chosen Paths

Sometimes, the past rears up in front of us with little warning.

I remember a time, in the mid to late 80’s, when I found myself in a hospital emergency room trying to decide what I should do. On my left was a doctor who had called the police because I had been punched in the face and my nose was broken. To the right stood my mother (and another person I can not remember) who said to me: “How can you do this to your father?”

This wasn’t the first broken nose I had received from the fist of my father. And, sadly, it wouldn’t be the last time he physically attacked me.

“If you didn’t talk back he wouldn’t hit you.”

“You just need to keep your mouth shut.”

“You know how he gets when he’s mad.”

“You bring this on yourself.”

I never completely believed what was said to me but I tried to comply, anyway, just so I wouldn’t be hurt. I guess I believed it enough, though, because I thought maybe it would work. It didn’t.

The last time I saw my parents was near the one year anniversary of my daughter’s death. They’d just picked me up from my stay at an inpatient mental health care facility. We got back to my house and things went horribly wrong. This was nearly fifteen years ago so I can’t recall exactly what jump started his anger this time. Let me say this: no matter what was said his hands should not have ended up around my throat as he squeezed as tightly as he could.

It was at that precise moment that I knew I could not survive the loss of my child as well as put up with the toxic chaos that repeated itself periodically in our lives together. I knew this would be the last time I threw them out of my house and I was finished. Sadly, it is one of the best decisions I have ever made in my life. It’s allowed me to truly heal in a lasting way.

Here’s where the past makes itself visible.

This past week our family lost a member. My aunt died unexpectedly in her sleep. I wasn’t sure if I was going to attend the funeral but in the end I decided to go. I knew there was a chance that my father, mother, and sister might be there, too. Wanting to support my cousins seemed much more important than worrying about a meeting with my family. On the way there I called another cousin to tell her I was on my way. She told me that my mother was there. Instantly, I got a sick feeling in my stomach. I felt like I needed to be on guard. Though my mother never physically abused me she rarely kept me safe.

I learned at a young age that I was dispensable. My sister and I were told by my father that we were secondary. My mother came first. He explained: “After you two are gone it will just be her and I”.My mother apparently felt returning the sentiment with her actions was more important than protecting us. Especially me. She was the one who said those things to me that I listed above. Instead of standing up for me she told me to be smaller. Quieter. Less noticeable. And, when it came down to the line . . . she chastised me for even daring to betray the man who’d broken my nose for the third time.

All of this came rushing back as I drove to the funeral home. I started to spin into a state of anxiousness and feelings of “not good enough”. Then, after talking to my friend on the phone, I told myself to stop. I wasn’t that person anymore. I am strong. I’ve fought too hard to get where I am to worry about one person and what they thought of me. As I pulled into a parking space I knew that I was going to be just fine.

My mother wasn’t there when I got there. She and other family members had gone to get something to eat. The first person I saw from the group was an aunt. She said: “You know your mother’s here, right?”. I said yes and then a few moments later my mother came out of the bathroom. My breath caught. She looked at me. No emotion crossed her face. I’m told she didn’t recognize me.

I thought I’d feel angry when I saw her. I didn’t. Or, possibly, a longing for her. I didn’t feel that either. The only emotion I felt for her was sadness.

Not sadness because she isn’t in my life. Nor one that is born of missing her. I don’t miss her. I feel sorry that she has chosen to live the life she has. The one that has forced her to stand by as her child was abused. The one that has kept her from knowing her incredible grandsons. I feel sadness because she came from a broken place as a young person and never seemed to escape it. I feel sorrow for her.

I was told that she said if she’d known it was me then she would have said hello. I’ve also been told that when she did know it was me she chose not to say hello. In truth, I am glad she didn’t. Years ago, I had to make a decision I felt necessary to save myself and I am happy I did. I wouldn’t change anything in reference to this whole event.

Surviving the death of a child is beyond difficult. Some parents never figure out how to come back from the hell we are thrust into. Thankfully, I found my footing and I’ve been doing what I need to do in order to keep moving forward. I put my healing at the top of my “must do” list and I won’t ever apologize for that.

Seeing her this week reaffirmed the decision I made years ago.

All of this being said: I do believe my parents did the best they could with who they were and what they knew. At the time. I’ve grown past that. I’ll never go back.

The only thing that brings tears to my eyes is thinking about how heartbroken my Becca would be at the distance between all of us. I think she was the glue that held us together for so long. If she were here she would be sad. I believe, and hope, that where she is . . . she understands the bigger picture and knows why I’ve made the decisions I’ve made.

I’m at peace on the path I’ve chosen.

A side note:

Nobody has the right to abuse you. Including, and especially, family. The notion that blood somehow ties us together in a way that contact should never be broken is ridiculous. Toxic relationships, whether by someone related to you or not, are damaging to our psyche and self worth. In addition, we can understand where someone is coming from and decide not to accept the behavior in our life. Protecting yourself is valid. You owe nothing to anyone when it comes to your physical and mental health.

Cookies

My daughter loved to make cookies together. I don’t know how many times we were side by side in the kitchen mixing dough. When she was little, she would stand on a dining room chair. Her chubby belly pressed up against the counter’s edge as she dumped ingredients I’d handed her into a bowl. As she grew older, and taller, she didn’t need the chair or for me to measure out what we needed for the recipe.

The teenage years, for most of us, are rough at times. I could tell when she was hurting. When I saw this I knew it was time to bake. Side by side was a comfortable place for us to be. There is a sacredness to the space between two souls who fit together. Often, the gathering of what we needed for the cookies was a quiet time. If I was silent and gave her space she would start talking when she felt ready. Not always . . . but usually. The times she didn’t share what was happening were still helpful to her. I could tell by the way she relaxed as we stood together.

She’d start with the dry ingredients. Remembering the things I had taught her over the years, Measuring the flour and tapping it on the counter so it could settle then dumping it into the bowl. Pulling the teaspoon against the flat plastic top as she drew cinnamon out of the container so the amount was level. She liked to use her hands to mix it all together because it felt soft to her she’d explained, like a cloud would feel.

My job was to mix up the wet ingredients. Becca wanted to crack the eggs, every time, so I would let her and ultimately have to fish a piece or two of shell out of the bowl. I tried not to let her see me doing this because I didn’t want her to be disappointed that she didn’t “do it right”.

When we combined the two halves of the recipe together she demanded to be the one to do the mixing. I would let her. Though, when she was young she would give up and thrust a pudgy finger into the bowl and scoop some dough to shove in her mouth. Eventually, she grew out of that habit and would mix the ingredients fully.

Becca always wanted to add the “special ingredient” to whichever recipe we were making. Oatmeal cookies she had to add the raisins. Chocolate chip cookies she empty the Tolhouse bag into the bowl. Peanut butter she’d be the one to make the cross hatch pattern with a fork on top of the cookie or firmly place the Hershey’s kiss in the center. I can still see her face beaming with a proud smile.

Often, as the cookies baked and the house filled with the warm sweet scents, we’d make tea and sit at the kitchen table and eagerly wait for the first batch to be finished. This is usually when the boys would show up. The scent of goodies baking had reached them wherever they happened to be in the house and they made their way to the kitchen. It’s hard to be sad when the entire family is sitting around the table waiting for a taste of a warm cookie. Such beautiful times.

And, I just realized, I can’t remember what her favorite cookie was. Sigh.

Yesterday, I was working Shipt. I had an order, early in the afternoon, that I could get every item requested for but one. Gluten Free Oats. I couldn’t find a substitute so I had to skip it. I’d talked to them on the phone and the man seemed jolly. I liked that.

I’d never shopped for this couple before so I knew nothing about them. When I got there I saw a motorcycle, with a sidecar, in the garage.Next to it there stood a walker. Then I made my way up a fairly new ramp to the back door. I placed the groceries there and gently knocked before I descended the ramp. Just as I was exiting the garage the door swung open. The man cheerily said hi to me.

I said hello back to him then added, “nice motorcycle . . . love the sidecar!” I asked if he drove and his wife rode in the sidecar or if it was the other way around . . . with a wink. He said it was for his wife then added she used to have her own bike but could no longer drive it because of a severe stroke she’d had in February. I told him I was sorry and he said it was okay because she was still here and getting stronger every day. The new ramp made sense to me then.

I told them that I was unable to get the oats that had been requested. The wife, who’d come up next to her husband in the doorway, looked disappointed. The husband explained to me that the oats were for cookies. And, they had to be gluten free because that’s what their son could eat. The wife told me that she was finally going to see her adult son in Detroit and she wanted to bring him his favorite cookies. I apologized and she said it was okay. She was just happy to be able to travel and spend time with him. They’d not seen each other for a long time.

As I drove away I felt sad. What an intimate thing I had just been a part of. A woman, who undoubtedly wondered if she would ever be able to bake again now couldn’t bake because the ingredient she needed wasn’t available. A mom, who had probably baked for her child for years and just wanted to be a mother again wouldn’t be able to do so. Such a simple thing. Doing something for our child wouldn’t happen.

A husband, who very much loved his wife as evidenced in the looks he gave her, wanted her to be able to do this. He needed to see her baking, a normal act, for both himself and her. I knew there was a son, on the other side of the state, who would be thrilled to have his mom come with cookies she’d baked just for him.

I had to make sure that happened. For all of them. I felt like this was a big step in healing for the family.

Knowing I had enough time between shops I drove to another store and found the oats she’d requested. I bought them and hopped back into the car and drove right back to their house. I knocked on the door and was told to come on in. I did. I handed the oats to the man and said that I wanted to make sure that their son got cookies from his mom. They were stunned and we all shed a few tears.

Becca and I can not make cookies together anymore. My daughter will never stand at her own counter, with her child, measuring and mixing. Growing closer and making memories. She will never have that sacred space with her own little one. All of this hurts my heart more than I can put into words. The absolute anguish this causes is nearly too heavy to bear. If I think about it for too long I’ll break. So, I can’t. What I can do, though, is help others.

I needed this woman I didn’t even know to be able to do what mothers do. Care for her child. I needed this son to be cared for by his mother. I needed this husband to see that there was hope for the future even after a devastating event.

It was a small thing that cost little but I hope has a big payoff for the family. I know it helped my momma heart immensely to be a part of this very intimate time with people I didn’t know and will probably never see again. It felt right to do what I could to help another woman realize what she wanted to do. I know they were “only cookies” but, oh, they were so much more to me.

I think of those times, long ago, with Becca in the kitchen mixing ingredients. Of the four of us around the table waiting for warm goodness to come out of the oven. All of us warm and safe and together. I desperately want to hold on to these memories because this is all I have of the past with her.

Help other people when you can. We can’t do this life alone. We all have something to give.

I can’t help but think of watching my Becca swirling her hands through the soft puffy flour mix in the bowl with such happiness.

I wish I could ask her if the clouds feel as soft.

Dwelling Within

Not my image. Found on Moon to Moon Blog.

The truth about the house is that it is much larger than it appears from the outside. This used to surprise me but I’ve learned it’s one of many things that makes this building interesting. When I’m walking around inside I am always finding something I’ve never seen before. Sometimes, entire wings.

I am not sure of what age I was when I first found the old white house. I’ve always been drawn to the abandoned and run down. Both in buildings, and people, I think. I imagine that’s why this place, in particular, kept me coming back over the years. I don’t remember exactly when I saw it for the first time. All of my visits there seem to run together and I can’t tell what I saw when.

The house is large. Sprawling, really. A wooden structure with a deeply pitched roof. On the backside, depending on whether you approach it from the field in the back or the sidewalk in the front, there is a nearly as big ornate glass greenhouse attached to the main structure. Windows are scattered across each outside wall. Oddly, it seems some are in a place that can not possibly line up with where the floor must be. This has left me a bit unsettled at times but I’m used to it now.

The weathered wooden siding needs scraping and painting to bring it back to its original crisp white color. There are spots on the roof where shingles are missing. A good size hole at the peak allows the sunshine in and I can see it through a broken window pane. On days when the sun is out during my visit that is. Generally, though, the weather is overcast and threatening to storm when I am there.

Whether I approach the house from the woods or the street I walk the overgrown mossy stone path to the greenhouse first.

Every time I am there I make a point to visit the green house. The exterior of the structure is highly decorative. Almost Victorian. Black metal makes up the bones that hold the glass panes. Scrolled designs curve out from each piece. Neither style of the two attached structures go together but yet they compliment each other. I can not imagine either being gone. They belong together.

The flora surrounding the house and growing up it’s sides (sometimes entering windows and inching across the decayed floors) is varied and and some seem out of place for the region. As if they should not be able to grow in a climate which has little sunshine and copious amounts of rain and snow. Maybe, long ago, they escaped from a broken window in the tropical warm greenhouse and somehow found a way to survive.

As I am describing this house I feel as if I am telling you about an old friend. I know my words are inadequate in conveying the eerie albeit comforting presence of this place. My words are not doing this place justice.

Upon entering the house . . . the interior is never the same. In fact, as I sit here and think about it, I can’t remember ever actually going through a door. All of a sudden I am just inside. Hmm.

I am the only one who can visit this old house. I go to it when I am asleep. Only I have traversed its halls and peeked into the innumerable rooms the walls hold.. The greenhouse is mine, I’ve created it, and I alone will continue to spend time there. The house, you see, is the physical manifestation of my soul. My thoughts. All of my fears. Memories. This is where the records of my life/lives are kept. The greenhouse, I think, is a direct reflection of the health of my soul.

There are times when I have been inside and it is full of decay. The warm wet air is heavy with the smell of rot. The towering trees are gray and their leaves hang sadly with little color. The pond in the center of the space is swampy and when I peer inside I can see milky white fish laying at the bottom barely moving. They look like ghosts. This sight always brings me to tears and I vow to do better.

I haven’t dreamt about this house in quite a while. Finally, a few nights ago, I found myself inside its walls again. Oh, how things have changed.

Endless hallways lead to dozens of rooms. On a previous visit, years ago, I found myself able to go through a door that I’d not been able to enter during prior visits. Contained inside were the mementos from the life of a preteen red headed little boy. He died young. I sat on the spongy floor and leafed through the stacks of papers. Anyway, that visit is a story for another time. I mention it because my access to certain areas is at times denied and at other times allowed.

A hallway that once led to the stairs to the upper floor no longer exists. Or, it has become so small I can no longer walk it. Rooms are missing and new ones have taken their place. There is one doorway that has an intricately carved wooden casing surrounding it. I always run my hands lovingly across the wood grain. A few nights ago, though, the wood was faded and didn’t have any luster. It was dry and cracked.. Cobwebs covered it’s opening and it looked as if it had aged a hundred years since my last visit. I stopped in front of it and wondered why it appeared as it did. I didn’t stay there long because I noticed a wind blowing down the hallway. A wind, from outside, because it smelled of fresh grass and warm earth. When I turned my head in the direction of the wind I could see a warm glow around a curved corner. I walked in the direction of the light.

Coming around the corner I saw an arched stone doorway. It was both tall and wide and the sunshine splashed across the cobblestone that lay beneath it. The light was dense and warm and golden. The sounds were familiar. The people were speaking in another language. I could hear dogs barking and people laughing. I rushed through the doorway and into an Italian town.

When I got outside I was astounded. A street lay out before me that was lined with different shops. People, appearing to be from many different eras, walked up and down the sidewalks. Slowly, I made my way down the brick street. I could tell no one knew I was there. I thought I used to be her. Or that is me from another time. But then I got nervous. Afraid I wouldn’t be able to get back into my house again so I turned around to head back.

And, there was my house. On the right side was the greenhouse. This time the glass windows were clean and shining brightly in the sun. I could see the tops of bright green trees swaying in the uppermost panes of glass. Plants with vivid colored flowers were pressed up against the lower windows. There were birds flying around inside! I knew the fish in the pond would be shiny and bright darting around underneath giant lily pads. The life inside was flourishing.

To the left of my house was a long ancient stone wall. Along the wall, at varying levels, were tombs carved into its depths. The ground was dusty clay and palm trees grew here and there. Italy. Sicily is now attached to my house. The island is now a part of my history, of my future.

I stood for a moment and let the hot heavy Mediterranean sunshine bathe me in its light. My face turned up to accept the warmth. Opening my eyes I smiled at the knowledge that I can now visit this place whenever I come to my house.

The fact that the greenhouse is lush and full of life says so much more about what my soul experienced in Sicily than my words can.

I am grateful to know myself so well.

I am thankful.

The Changed Me

Roughly three weeks have passed since my return from Sicily. Initially, I had planned on staying much longer than I did but circumstances were such that coming home seemed the best choice. My early trip back in no way signals a bad experience abroad. Quite the opposite . . . the entire time I spent there was valuable beyond measure. I found what I had hoped I would find and beyond that I uncovered parts of myself I didn’t know existed. From huge epiphanies to smaller shifts in my being. I have changed as a person and am thrilled to have learned so much about myself.

The desire to travel to Italy has been with me since I was a small child standing next to my Sicilian nonna in her kitchen in Hyde Park, MA. Her way of being was different from other grandmothers I knew. She was mysterious and had an aura that I was drawn toward. She didn’t look like other old ladies I knew. Black hair, deep olive skin, and eyes that looked like milk chocolate. When she spoke in the Sicilian dialect I was mesmerized. My nonna, Margherita Eleanora, was the most fascinating person I knew. Somewhere in those days spent next to her, stirring a sauce pot, the idea to one day go to her homeland was ignited.

After my daughter was killed I had planned on spending the rest of my life just existing. Trudging through the days because I had to be here. I had no other thoughts than to merely survive this hellish existence without my child. I was in my forties when Becca died. I remember thinking, prior to her death, I only have about 40 years left and there is so much I want to do. After she died I lamented the fact that I had a very long four decades to fill before I was released in my own death to where she is. The amount of time that lay out before me was overwhelming. Then, somewhere deep inside, the thought that I had maybe thirty years left of this life wriggled to the top and into my consciousness. I decided that it was time to “start making moves” as a good friend of mine always quips.

From that moment the desire to travel to Italy was fanned into a flame. A flame I could not ignore because if I did I would regret it for my remaining days. I am tired of collecting regrets.

The reasons for going are many. They vary from one end of the spectrum to the other.

I knew there were things I needed to learn, about myself, that I could not learn here. In my comfortable life that is mostly consistent and easily managed. Personal knowledge comes from leaving your comfort zone and watching how you react in a completely alien environment. Situations you’ve never been in before will elicit a response that you can either work to strengthen or move to release.Travel is a great barometer to let you know where you stand in life. This being said . . . I believe everyone should travel outside of their country at least once in life. For a lengthy period of time if possible.

I am finally back to “normal” after having returned. Jet lag and the odd feeling of being back in this culture have mostly subsided. It’s the “soul lag” that I’m still feeling. There were things I brought with me to Sicily that I left there. In their place I packed what I’d learned about myself that will make my life fuller wherever I am. Though, the lessons I learned were easy to carry across the ocean . . . integrating them into my everyday life here seems to be a different story.

It’s very easy to slip back into what we were when we are back in the environment in which they were born. In which they served a purpose in our lives. We are, after all, creatures of habit and easy paths.

I’ve spent the past three weeks processing all I have learned about myself. Both in thought as well as in practice. I’ve written page upon page of the why’s and the how’s. Listing examples of the lessons in action. Thumbing through my journal entries written during my time in Sicily I can pinpoint moments in which I laid something down and picked another thing up. There is a theme weaving its way through the trip and into my words. I am smart enough to know that I am definitely not aware of every way I have changed. Unaware of the shifts that have taken place in my being. I am looking forward to excavating everything! For now I can talk about those things of which I am subtly aware. And, even these must go deeper than I can see.

The easiest way to convey the new me is: I am more myself than I have ever been. Ever.

I am excited to keep digging and learning about how I have changed and what it means for my future. As I have said before, I don’t write so others understand me . . . though if they do then that is wonderful. I write so that I may understand myself better and more honestly. So I can be the best version of myself that I can attain. To help leave the world and the people in it in a better place for my having existed. I think that is the best any one of us can hope for, isn’t it?

Three weeks home and my thoughts and experiences are finally settling down and forming themselves into groups which I can understand are connected to each other. My intent, upon sitting at the keyboard this afternoon, was to share all that I have learned about myself. I’ve realized, however, that there is just too much to encapsulate in a single blog post. I was writing an outline earlier and it’s long! I think I owe myself the time of introspection for each lesson individually. Rolling it over and examining it from all sides. There are so many facets to my change and I want to experience how the light bounces off of each surface.

I am different. I am better. I learned both positives and negatives about who I was.

The most important lesson I learned is that I want to live my life again. Fully. Deeply. My life must be bigger than I’ve allowed it to be. My days need to be filled with experiences. I am more than who I have been.

I learned that I have come full circle and am back where I was in my forties. I only have a finite amount of time left. Thirty years if I am lucky. I am no longer overwhelmed by the pain in the years ahead of me without my daughter. Instead, I am looking forward to what the upcoming decades will bring to me.

I am lighter. A good portion of the heaviness was left in Sicily. I am forever grateful for the experience I had and am eagerly looking forward to what my future has in store. And, hopefully, this includes much more time spent in my nonna’s homeland . . . among other adventures!

I am grateful for the ability to change, grow, and heal.

WHEREVER YOU GO . . .

When my daughter was killed she had been preparing to study abroad for a semester. Becca was earning her degree in early education with a minor in Spanish. Her dream was to move to a large city and work with immigrant children. Her semester overseas was to be spent in a coastal Spanish town. She could not have been more excited! Unfortunately, she never got the chance to live anywhere else in the world or follow her dream in education. The saying “life is short” couldn’t be more accurate in her case. I don’t want it to be so in mine.

I always thought geographical therapy might be a good thing. I just never had the means or the courage to do it.

Right after losing Becca, it was unbearable to drive past places that had held my child, our life. I’d take circuitous routes to get to a destination so I didn’t have to see a house. The funeral home. Where her first apartment was located. Her high school. Where we all went trick or treating. There were so many haunted spots in my city that it was hard to avoid them. Living in a haunted city is exhausting, so I stayed home. I hid.

As the sharpness of her death started to dull (a little bit) those haunted places had started to become comforting. I could physically be in a place my daughter had inhabited before her death. Before I was forced to live in a world that had forgotten her. I’d purposely drive to her old apartment and replay the times I’d seen her run out the door and hop into my car. I’m surprised no one called the police on me. A woman crying in a car for hours should have raised suspicion. Thankfully no one did.

I would go into a store where we had gone together just so I could touch the handle she had touched. I sat in the parking lot of the funeral home because I could see the “exit” sign that had been in the viewing room where I had touched her body for the last time. Sometimes, I think I was trying to prove to myself that she had existed. My beautiful Becca wasn’t a dream. I had actually had a daughter that was no longer here. But she was mine, once.

Those physical places had comforted me for a lot of years. I didn’t think I would ever be able to move away from the city where I had raised my family and lost my daughter. But, after the passing of years, I was able to. Not a huge move, mind you, but another city completely. After moving to Muskegon I gave quite a bit of thought to the term I mentioned above, geographical therapy. There was a lightness in moving from Grand Rapids. I realized the memories of my child are carried within me. They are in my heart and mind. And, on paper and on the computer. The city that had held comfort had become uncomfortable. Cumbersome. Moving to another place had been a very healing move. The future wasn’t heavy with the past any longer.

I’ve had three summers in my new hometown. I’ve felt myself grow. There have been huge strides in my healing. I know leaving one town for the other was exactly what I needed to do. Now, I believe, this move was my training wheel move. There is another one I am in the process of making, it will take a while, but I am committed to making it happen.

A few weeks ago I saw a Facebook article about an Irish island that was looking for Americans to move there. I playfully shared the article and made the comment that I wished my job would allow me to move there. A yearning started to build within my chest. I had people telling me to do it. My sons both told me to do it. One friend even said that of all the people she knows I would be the one who COULD do it. I kept thinking about that comment. Amazed that people thought of me this way. I consider myself unconventional but not sure I am the bad ass that moves overseas. Turns out . . . I am. Well, I might be.

This past week I had an epiphany that washed away all of my “buts” when it comes to choosing my future. I was in a wolf enclosure helping to microchip them. Though I was outwardly cool (I hope) I was screaming inside. I was actually touching these animals. It has been a dream of mine to be able to near wolves. (In all transparency, these are wolf dog hybrids, but they were cool as Hell.) I realized that I could mark this off of my bucket list. Then, I thought, why the Hell am I not crossing more things off of my list?? Why not move overseas??

Why not. I have no reason except not having the courage. I am not part of a couple. My kids are grown. There is no one I have to answer to. My future is what I decide to make it. Why not make it somewhere else in the world. I am bad ass enough to do it. I’ve done harder.

I won’t be going to Ireland though. I have the opportunity to move to Sicily, my ancestors’ island of origin, and spend time there. I am very early in the process of making this happen. There is a lot of work to be done but I know it is something I need to do. I want to do. It won’t happen tomorrow, sadly, this move will be about a year in the making I think. Which might be a good thing. I have a good friend who was born in Sicily and she is helping me make all of the arrangements. She even connected me with a woman, in the town of Partinico, who runs an animal rescue! I talked to this woman tonight, via messenger, using Babel translation because neither of us spoke the other’s language. Everything is falling into place for me to make this move.

I’ve had the drive, since losing Becca, to do some of the things she had wanted to do but never had the chance. I honestly hadn’t thought about her doing a semester abroad in a number of years. This decision brought it back to me. I can do this for myself and for my girl. I can be strong enough to do this for the both of us. We, she and I, will be walking hand in hand as I traverse the streets of my future new hometown. I want to fall in love with the world, again.

I have survived losing her. Now it’s time to find myself.

I know the future me is out there, somewhere, waiting.

ON WILDNESS AND TRUST

The summer before last I found myself in the right place at the right time to rescue a gravely injured baby possum. I had turned the last corner, heading home, when I saw a tiny gray creature staggering down the center of the road. My brain took a moment to register what my eyes were seeing. The animal had no face. But it was still moving, blindly, trying to get to safety. I realized that I was the safety it needed.

I did the only thing I could do. I stopped and picked up the bleeding baby and tucked it into my shirt. Frantically, I called around to find someplace that could give the animal care it so desperately needed. I found the place. Fast forward since that day and I am now a sub

certified wildlife rescuer and transporter for the non profit Wildlife Rehab Center in Grand Rapids, MI.

Since that day I have had the honor of rescuing, and rehabbing, dozens of birds and other wildlife. I’m getting a reputation around my smallish city as the one to call when there is an animal in need. I always have the time to head out on a rescue. I get to touch and care for vulnerable little creatures who need me.

This past summer was unbelievably busy with various newborns who were orphaned. I hand fed dozens of Starlings, every two hours, and watched them go from naked little babies into fully feathered adults yearning to fly. There were a few Robins mixed in there, as well as one Cardinal. The last bird I rescued, three weeks ago, was a gorgeous red headed woodpecker. His wing was broken and there was no way to fix it.

There were two foxes. One had a broken leg, probably hit by a car, and she survived! The other, sadly, had distemper and he was euthanized. He was beautiful. All of the animals are beautiful.

I also had three Redtail Hawks! One of them we had to chase down and capture with nothing but a blanket. He was a juvenile and was tired and dehydrated and couldn’t fly. My friend and I followed him around a housing complex until he got himself cornered in a side yard. I was pretty scared as I approached him! He was on his back, wings spread, with his taloned feet clawing at the air. I laid the blanket over him and scooped him like a football and he was safe and transported to the rescue. A little rest and sustenance and he was able to return to the wild. The two other hawks didn’t make it. One had a shattered wing that was not repairable. The other had an old break, which kept it from flying, and he died before I could get him into the rehab’s care. He was starving before I even got him so there was little I could do. My heart was still broken.

My favorites are the possums! I’ve had the tiniest babies to a big old grandad with a scarred face and missing toes. On one of the hottest days of this year I picked up a deceased momma possum that had a pouch full of babies still attached to the nipples. I can not tell you how bad she smelled as I drove the forty five minutes to the rescue. (I don’t have air conditioning in my van). Time was of importance because the babies can not detach themselves and eventually the milk flowing through the nipples will become toxic and kill them. Baby possums swallow the nipples so they can not just be pulled off or the nipple will break and the baby will choke. I made it to the facility and I was taught how to firmly hold the baby’s head and gently slide the nipple out of its mouth. Then I learned how to tube feed them.

The tiny ones I don’t care for often. I fill in the gap between weaning and release. This year was my first year in this role and I believe I raised and released 11 (or 12) of them. The only hard part of the process is keeping my hands off of them when they are so small and cute! Their care is minimal as the goal is to keep them wild and fearful of humans. I feed them until they weigh two healthy pounds then I set them free. It is amazingly fulfilling and makes me feel like I am making a difference in the world. A world so full of pain and sorrow.

I had someone recently ask me: why don’t you put this much energy into helping people instead of animals? I mean, they are just animals.

Oh, where to start.

Animals are pure. I can not say that about humans. There are always hidden agendas and ulterior motives. We never know the truth about another person. It’s weird though . . . I will help another person at the drop of a hat. Even though I don’t trust most of them. But, the animals are different. I know they are labeled wild. At least with this kind of wild I know what to expect.

When I was cautiously approaching the Redtail Hawk, cornered in a yard, I knew the danger it posed to me. Its wings were spread as wide as they could be. He was trying to intimidate me with his size. Leathery feet with inch long talons rapidly clawed at the air. I knew they were dangerous and would slice through my skin with little trouble. I also knew he needed help even if he didn’t understand that. But, knowing the truth of the predatory bird’s nature made me careful as to how I approached it. I knew the worst that could happen.

We don’t know those things about people, do we? Each has their own set of behaviors they exhibit as we interact with them. Except these behaviors are not to warn us off but to bring us in closer. These behaviors are not unadulterated but used to garner an intended reaction. There is thought behind them. Most times, I’ve found, these thoughts are to serve the purpose of the person who is performing them. Not all purposes are for the good of both people involved. With this being said . . . how do we trust each other? I don’t know if we ever can.

I can, however, trust the wild animals that I rescue and rehabilitate. They just want to be left alone and survive. They don’t want to size me up and see what they can get from me. They don’t lie. Or hide things. Play mind games to manipulate my feelings. Or, change the rules when they’ve had enough.

Animals are pure. Their love is genuine. Their needs are simple.

This is why I choose to help animals. Not over people because I still help my fair share of people. But, with animals: what you see is what you get. I don’t get anything from them in return for my care. I do feel happy that I have helped a vulnerable creature and made a difference in their life. I give them what they need in order to get to the next chapter. I am a better person for it.

I can not say the same about my interactions with most people. I know that sounds sad but until we learn to treat each other with pure intention we can’t fully trust. So, I’ll keep giving my time and attention to some of the most vulnerable creatures on earth. There are thousands of organizations that are set up to help people in need. I will let them do what they do and I’ll stick to chasing hawks and fattening up baby possums.

There is little chance of me being hurt by a wild animal . . . unless I am careless.

The picture I shared at the top of this blog is of an injured possum I picked up this evening. The text I received said there was a “neuro possum” that needed to be cared for overnight and transported tomorrow. A probable head injury. He’s not very mobile and would not have been able to get to a warm shelter. Currently, he’s snuggled in clean straw, covered with a towel, in my basement. There is a little dish of water, some dog kibble, and a sliced up banana for him to eat. He is safe and secure and tomorrow my friend will drive him into the rehab center where he will be seen by a vet.

I carefully lift up the corner of the towel to peek at my patient. Making sure I don’t get my hand too close to his mouth. I know he will bite me so I act accordingly. Yep, I’ll take an animal over most people any day of the week.

If I get hurt . . .it’s my fault. No one else’s.

On Sorrow

“The best we could hope for would be insights that left us feeling common, ordinary, everyday unhappiness.” – Sigmund Freud

Side note: The above photo is from the tea I had this afternoon. Interesting that it fell into the theme of this blog.

Western societies generally treat sorrow as if it isn’t an acceptable state of being. We do everything we can in order to keep sadness away. Take prescribed medication. Pretend. Shove the pain down deep inside. Keep moving. Self medicate. Get into relationships. Buy things. Over eat. Ignore. Seems we will do anything in order to keep the sadness at bay. “The pursuit of happiness” is even alluded to in the Constitution. The way we live pretty much demands we are constantly striving for complete happiness.

Eastern philosophies have a much different view concerning the sorrow in life.

Buddhism has Four Noble Truths. The first being: Dukkha. The truth of suffering. Suffering exists. This statement is neither optimistic or pessimistic. It is simply reality. I have done in depth reading on the Noble Truths over the years and recently the desire to understand myself, and my state of existence, has prompted a return to these writings.

I was having a conversation with someone who is relatively new in my life and he stated that my sorrow was a choice. As if I could just set it aside and not find myself turning back to pick it up again. My reaction was silence. I was at a loss for words. Then the saying ‘to be human is to suffer’ appeared in my thoughts and I decided to revisit a few old books. I know there are the truths in Buddhism and there is also the Eightfold Path to enlightenment – nirvana to help us rise above the suffering. :

The Second Noble Truth is: Suffering arises from attachment – Samudaya. Which is related to the concept of Tahna, craving. When we desire a thing we set ourselves up to suffer when the craving is not satisfied. Or, it is satisfied, but only briefly. The latter is true of everything. This being a fact means we will always be in a state of suffering. Even when things are good, somewhere inside, we know they won’t always last. There will be an end. And, then the sadness.

When applying this to my personal existence I can see that it makes sense. One of my attachments is to my daughter. I desire my daughter’s presence on earth. This desire will never be met. The time I had with her is over. Moments are fleeting and have no permanency.

Nirodha. The Third Noble Truth. Suffering ceases when attachment ceases. The attachment to my daughter will not disappear until I, myself, have died. I will never not crave the presence of my child. Therefore, my sorrow will never go away.

I guess I am a failure at Buddhism and living by the Noble Truths.

I am not as wise as the people who have studied this belief system for years. I don’t pretend to be. I am not claiming to know whether one can actually rise above all that causes sorrow and ultimately reach Nirvana. I imagine some can. I just don’t think I can.

Is it because to no longer feel sorrow concerning the loss of my child somehow feels like a betrayal to her life and the love I have for her? Probably. Do I measure how much I love her by how sad I am by her absence? Undoubtedly. I bet it is a combination of those two things and so many more that I am not cognizant of.

Maybe existing in suffering isn’t so bad. Is the secret to life knowing we must live in the moment and that every moment is impermanent. That there is suffering during and after all things? Accepting that suffering is inevitable in every life? That isn’t to say that there are not moments of joy. There are. But they end. Living in the moment seems the best way to exist. But, we are human and most of us will not transcend the desires and attachments that we have.

Again, this isn’t pessimistic. It is just reality. And, there are lessons we can learn from the suffering we experience. Wisdom is gained.

We can gain a healthy respect for reality when we have an acceptance of what limitations exist. When we know the boundaries of reality we will not set ourselves up for dashed hopes in attaining a certain outcome.

Compassion is the awareness of suffering in others and the desire to relieve it. I’ve said this so many times before: people hurting intensely are generally the most compassionate and empathetic.

Our resilience is built up and we are able to handle the next painful circumstance that arrives. I talked about this the other night when I shared my belief that surviving childhood sexual abuse made me know I had the strength to endure losing Becca.

The moments we are joyful will mean more to us when we know they will, someday, be a memory. We will give our full attention to what is in front of us because we know it will not last.

When we finally accept that grief and sorrow are a necessary part of life we will lessen our own suffering. Guilt and shame won’t add to our burdens because we can not seem to attain complete happiness. We will learn we are not alone is our suffering because we all suffer.

Sorrow and joy seem to be at the opposite ends of a scale of emotions in their definitions. Aren’t they really just two sides of the same coin? Inexplicably combined in the same moment even though they seem opposed.

There is so much more I need to untangle in the concept of life is suffering and suffering is a necessity. I know I have not even scratched the surface of what I must learn in order to understand my existence. As I said before . . . I write in order to understand myself. My motivations. My life.

I know that I will always suffer in relation to the loss of my child. That is an attachment I will never be able to break. I am fairly certain I will never be able to walk the Eightfold Path to enlightenment. I will continue to strive to live a life of happiness, however. I think I need to change what I envision happiness to be so I can actually attain it. As fleeting as it seems to be.

As far as the person who told me that sorrow is what I choose . . . I will give him a pass as he has never lost a child. A sorrow, I think, that is impossible to overcome, completely.

On Sharing and Transparency

I want to add a warning to this blog. There is graphic material contained within having to do with childhood sexual abuse. Please, do not read this if it is going to be a trigger for you.

Every time I share a blog I am showered with positive comments. Many people thank me for sharing such intimate details of my life. I tend to be extremely transparent and it’s taken me some time to figure out why I have little difficulty sharing to the depth I do. I say little because there are still things that I am not ready to talk about due to shame and guilt. I have faith that I will get there eventually, though.

Growing up, as I have written about here and there, was hell for me. So much so, I am often amazed I have turned out as well balanced as I have. There are years of unbalanced living in my past but, now, I can say I am proud of who I have become. When you know the truth of the obstacles I have faced and overcome you will understand. Or, maybe not. I write so I can understand myself. Having others appreciate my growth is less important.

My life was irreversibly changed when I was four years old.

I lived with my mother, father, sister, and an uncle in a suburb of Boston MA. As a quick background . . . my maternal grandmother died at a relatively early age due to complications from alcoholism. There were underage brothers and sisters of my mother when her mother passed. I’ve been told that because my mother was the oldest of the children it fell upon her to “make arrangements” for her younger siblings. This is why her brother, Ted, came to live with us when I was a toddler.

At this time Ted was in his late teens if I am remembering correctly. Around this time, my father had an affair and had moved out of the house. Babysitting fell upon my uncle, Ted, so my mother could work. This gave him unfettered access to me, unfortunately. I believe I was his first victim but I’ll never know.

I do know the first time I remember inappropriate behavior . . . my uncle was not the only one in the room. He had an audience. An audience of a few of his friends. I don’t remember their faces. They are merely dark shadowy shapes sitting on the couch. My uncle was in an armchair facing a wall full of windows. I was standing in the room. The windowed wall was to my left. In front of me was the couch holding two or three young men. To my right was my uncle. His pants were zipped down and he was playing with himself. I remember feeling uncomfortable and crying. He motioned me over with his left hand as his right kept rubbing himself. When I was close enough he grabbed my head with the hand he’d beckoned me with and forced my mouth onto his penis. Even at four I remember knowing how wrong it was. Glancing at the others I couldn’t figure out why they didn’t stop him. To this day I can not figure out how monsters like that find each other.

That incident, and the dozens that happened in the following years, ground me down. I can still hear the words, carried on breath that smelled of an ashtray and alcohol, that he whispered into my young ears as he lay on top of me. “No one will ever love you. You are never going to be worth anything more than sex.”.There are days when his words still bang around inside my head and smash any thoughts of self worth I’ve nurtured to fullness. I hate that this is the truth . . . but it is.

The truth that matters here is I have been able to overcome most of what happened to me as a child. In fact, I have used my childhood sexual trauma to reach depths of strength most people never have to access in their lifetime. When Becca was killed I had to reach down and find that reserve of strength again. Somehow, in my fog, I knew it was there. But, that’s a different blog.

My uncle, the child molester, was also an arsonist.

When I was five he set the house on fire while we were all in it. My sister and I were already in bed when Ted ran upstairs. He scooped up my sister in his arms then grabbed my hand and pulled me out of bed. He’d set the fire under the back porch and it had spread to the basement. My feet could feel the heat through the wooden stairs as I hurried down to the first floor. I remember my mother panicking, we raced away from the house because there was a propane tank that was going to blow up, and firemen hurrying everywhere. My uncle just kept hold of my hand and held my baby sister. I often question why he saved us.

That wasn’t the last time his propensity for arson affected our lives. He liked to set kittens on fire in order to make us keep quiet about his abuse. I was told this would happen to my family if I ever said a word. Why would I have doubted him when he’d almost killed us once before?

Do you know what I learned to do? Keep my mouth shut. At all costs . . . keep it all hidden. I remember a day when Ted was watching all of us girls. Six or seven of us in total. There was a little house set behind a larger house across the street from where my cousins lived on Dwight St. One of my aunts, Ted’s sister, lived there. I am not sure where our moms were but he was left in charge of us for the afternoon. One by one, he took us into an upstairs bedroom. I knew what was happening when one of my cousins was called into the house but I didn’t say anything. I wonder if we all knew. Were we all molested? Did any of us get through those years unscathed. I don’t know. And, might never know because we don’t talk about it.

I was conditioned to NEVER TALK ABOUT IT.

When you don’t talk about things they can never be healed. Or, understood.

I spent decades being quiet about things. Years were lived just surviving. I carried so much pain, deep down inside, for so long that when Becca was killed I knew I didn’t have the strength to carry more, silently. I didn’t realize this immediately after her death, of course, but in the years since I’ve come to understand that I can not live with untold pain inside of me. It is not that I want pity. I don’t. I want release and healing. I want lightness.

I want understanding from those who love me. Who matter to me. I don’t ever want my actions or silence to cause another person pain. So, instead, I continuously share.

As I said in the beginning of this blog . . . I am often complimented on my willingness to share the private details of my life. But, do you know what I remember more often? The few people who comment, disapprovingly, on the fact that I am too transparent. As if I am doing something wrong. Or, looking for attention. Or, pity. Or, worst of all, I’m somehow broken.

I’m not broken. I am being fixed.

Holding everything in doesn’t make one strong. Being stoic is not necessarily an attribute to aspire toward. Keeping quiet creates a barrier between yourself and the rest of the world. A world that holds the people who will support you. When you are removed from others you are fashioning a space in which you are completely alone and this can lead to exacerbated pain and hurt. I think, and have learned, healing will not take place in an empty world.

This is why I share. And, share. And, will continue to share. If my openness bothers you then maybe you should take the time for some self reflection and figure out why. You may be missing out on the support and love you need in order to find healing within yourself.

Connect with each other. Say the things that need to be said. Listen to the words that need to be heard. Share your stories. Honor the storyteller. Just listen when someone talks. Without judgement. Engage with each other.

I’ll keep sharing. I have to. It heals me.

Intimacy

“I’ve never been really loved by a hand that’s touched me.” – Matchbox 20, Push

This blog entry is going to be quite different than my others. As personal as all my others are . . . this one is intimate in a dissimilar way. I’m going to share my first experience in intentionally widening my world.

A few blogs ago I touched upon wanting to be happy. About the realization I wanted my life to be less controlled. I don’t think most will understand how monumentous a decision this can be for a bereaved mother who is living in a way that keeps her world safe. It’s miraculous, really.

The strength it takes to open one’s eyes each morning and take in a world that does not contain our deceased child. The courage we must possess to look at the world with trusting eyes. Trust that is requisite to engage fully in life. This also includes the people around us. Our trust extends to them as well. Otherwise, what is the point?

So recently, as some of you may know, I made the well thought through decision to let someone in. My advice: don’t expect to receive what you are willing to give.

My choice came after a decade of keeping people away. I overturned my decision to remain removed from others of the opposite sex. Previously, I’d felt that I had nothing to offer. I had no emotion to give another person. Then someone came along who made me feel as if I was ready.

In truth, I think I was. Am. I just wasn’t prepared for the cruelty that lay in wait for me.

As you may have figured out by now I am very transparent with my feelings and motives. The why’s that cause people to do what they do. Especially my own. The problem is, this time, I let my guard down. I was open, communicative, and honest. About everything. I have to be.

Too many of the choices I made after Becca died were not good for me. The people I allowed to remain around me. The amount of red wine I drank in order to keep the anguish away was unhealthy. I couldn’t see a joyful future no matter what horizon I turned toward. It was hell.

Now, in the after those first years, I make double and triple sure that my motivation is wholesome. And, I thought I could be certain the other person’s was, too. Fuck was I wrong.

I remember waiting, nervously, to get a copy of Becca’s autopsy report. I know many won’t understand why I had to read it, but I did. From the first page to the last, in one sitting. Then, I read it over again. I had to know everything. Every detail that was contained within the in depth descriptions.

I know how much my dead daughter’s brain weighs. I imagine that fact makes you recoil. Grotesque, isn’t it? I wish I didn’t know. It might be one of the worst things a parent can know about a child. The weight of one of their organs. But when one can see the very bottom then one knows the worst. That is an important truth. Sadly, at times, the bottom is in someone else’s keeping and can not be seen by another person. When this is the case then we must base our moves in faith. And, hope.

I thought I’d made a decision that was sound. I didn’t rush in. I took my time. I trusted.

I won’t say that what has transpired is all the other person’s fault. I know I struggle with being able to convey my emotions at times. They tumble out in a jumbled mess and fall splat on the floor between the other and myself. Then, I shut down. It’s a defense mechanism I learned as a child. I get that this makes me difficult to deal with at times. I’m honest about how much of a pain in the ass I can be, too. Figuring out who you are . . . where you fit, after your child dies, is almost impossible. You don’t want to fit anywhere but back when your child was alive. Instead, you’re forced to make yourself find a suitable place now. Cultivate some kind of life here.

So, that’s what I did when I decided to open myself up to another person. Cultivate some kind of larger life here. As I said, it did honestly, and clumsily. What matters the most is that I did it with integrity. I can not say the same for the other person involved.

What have I learned about myself in the past six weeks?

I have more courage than most. I am not afraid to step into the dark. I am valiant enough to engage in a world that has shown me deep sorrow. Honesty doesn’t scare me. Being open doesn’t make me anxious. I welcome transparency in all interactions. I have a lion’s heart and though I have felt the greatest pain a mother can feel, I am still kind. Considerate. Empathetic. Respectful.

I would ask what can make a person so cruel? Let me explain cruelty, first. Knowing a person has laid themselves bare in front of you yet having no intention of honoring such nudity. So, back to the original question: what makes a person so cruel?

I know what SHOULD make a person cruel. Pain. Unfairness. A childhood of abuse. The death of a child. Yet, do you know what those things tend to do to a person? They make them kinder. More loving. Deeply empathetic. The most giving people I have ever met are those who have felt the same depth of sorrow and horror that I have. Because we understand what it takes to interact with others in a respectfully intimate manner.

In short, I would never treat another person as I have been recently treated. I’m not cruel.

The second thing I have learned about myself: I am forgiving. Often, people tell me that they are astounded that I have forgiven the drunk driver that took Becca’s life. While forgiving the driver was by no means easy . . . he wasn’t someone who had intentionally caused me pain. And, I am hurting deeply right now due to this other person’s actions. I’ve already forgiven him because something must be broken deep inside of him to treat another person with the dismissiveness he showed me.

Please, when someone opens up to you . . . honor the space. Don’t exploit it. Treat others as you would your mother, sister. Daughter. Be a worthwhile person. Face the hard things. Be honest. Imagine what the world would be like if we all treated each other as sacred.