Meeting Stephen

I first met Stephen in 2nd period Algebra as a freshman. I remember him standing over a friends desk and jumping around excitedly when he got an answer right. He had a spirit about him that just made me smile. But we lost touch when he moved to North Carolina with his mom for a year or so.


Stephen came back to NoVa for Senior year and we bumped into each other in the hallway one rainy day after school. He was standing by the back doors that went out to the student parking lot, cussing and banging on the doors about the rain. I asked him what was wrong and he said he had to walk home because his ride had already left. I figured if he was walking it must not be too far away, so I offered to drive him home. Once we got to his house I saw that it was very close to the school and offered to drive him every morning so he wouldn’t have to walk. Being the cocky, good-looking teenager that he was, Stephen said he would let me drive him to school if I would pick up his friend just down the street too. It was agreed that anyone at Stephen’s house when I came to pick him up was welcome to a ride.
We still argue about how this really happened. Stephen is convinced that I wanted him so badly that I went WAY out of my way every morning to pick him up. And I continue to insist that, while I did want him, it was a slight detour...turn down this road instead of that one in a direction I had to go anyways. Either way I stopped by Stephen’s house every morning with my friend whom I also drove to school. Sometimes he would be ready to go to school and others his little brother would have to poke his little head out the front door in his under ware and wave us on.
The days when Stephen and his friend were ready to go to school they would sit in the back seat and talk about the girls they were seeing and the different 'tricks' they were pulling or games they were playing with these girls. You see Stephen and I came from very different places. Stephen went to school to find people to skip with; where I stayed late to sing in the Show Choir. The boys would talk about other girls because I was not someone they would date or even fool around with. I was a nerd or a dork and they were far too cool for me. But I took mental notes on all of the tricks Stephen was pulling on these other girls and saved them for another rainy day.
He was very good looking, and he knew it. Short brown hair and blue-green eyes, he had a smile that could just melt your heart. Then you were putty in his hands, and you wouldn't mind a bit. He had this power to either make you feel like the most beautiful girl in the room, like all eyes were on you, or like a leprous outcast. Being around him made you feel like anything was possible and you knew something exciting or fun was always going to happen. I knew he had no interest in me romantically but I always liked a challenge. Plus there was something about him that I couldn't figure out. I could see in his eyes these walls that he had built protecting who he really was with a hard, untouchable exterior. I wanted to know what was behind that wall, and why it had been built.
Later in the year Stephen was struggling with geometry, a class that he needed to pass in order to graduate. I've always been good at math and offered to help Stephen with some math homework. He agreed because the idea of not graduating terrified him; so we started to spend more time together. He started to see that maybe I wasn’t such a dork. Or maybe he thought I was someone he could pull those old tricks on. Stephen didn't have girlfriends, he just fooled around with whomever whenever, no commitments.
One night we were in the basement at my parents house studying. In the basement we had a pool table and air hockey, it was a teenagers playground. Studying slowly went by the wayside and a Madonna song came on the radio with the line “If I can melt your heart, we’ll never be apart”. By this time we had stopped studying all together and were dancing and playing around just having some fun. As we danced to the song I told Stephen that’s how I felt about him. I told him that I would melt his heart and break through all of the walls he had built up. By the end of the year we spent every possible moment together; and continued the same throughout the summer.
That summer we went to Luray Caverns, had picnics downtown, went to all kinds of parties and had an incredible summer. We had a lot of very emotional encounters with Stephen trying to push me away and then breaking down another piece of the wall and letting me in father. I remember sitting on the bed in his room. He was yelling at me, I don't remember why, he was just in a rant. I kept saying "I love you". He got madder and madder and then finally literally just broke down crying falling into my lap. On his knees, his head on my legs, crying. I told him again that I loved him. Another time I'd done something to piss him off. We were outside his house standing by my white '88 Integra and he kept yelling at me to go home. I refused to leave and took all of the anger and hurt that he had to give rid of. He broke down again crying. This was the process of those walls coming down. They had taken a long time to build and breaking them down was a hard and painful process for both of us.
But summer came and went and it was time for me to head off to College. A week after I went to school, boot camp was going to begin for Stephen. He came to see me at school the weekend before he was shipped out. He told me that he had cheated on me with a girl he was friends with, someone I knew. They had slept together. It was only a week, and he couldn't wait or be faithful for one week. I was devastated but knew that this was his way of trying to push me away before he left for boot camp. If he ended things and broke my heart then I wouldn't be able to hurt him while he was gone. We talked about it and I forgave him. I made him promise that it would never happen again. He never cheated on me with another woman after that.
I wrote him a letter every one of the 90 days he was in boot camp and we spoke on the phone once. Well we didn’t really speak as much as listen to each other cry. Boot camp ended in November and I wanted to go see Stephen’s Pass and Review or graduation from boot camp. I was at school in Virginia and the ceremony would be in Great Lakes, IL where the boot camp was. Mom and Dad did not want me to go; in fact my father forbid it. Being as independent or stubborn as I was even then, that was only fuel to my fire. I explained to my father that I was not asking his permission, I was 18 years old and I would do as I pleased. I borrowed money from my roommate for the plane ticket and hotel and then had to get a job on campus at Chick-fil-a to pay her back. You see I knew even then that Stephen would always be in my life, and I wasn't going to miss this landmark event in his life for anything.

Picking at Scabs

My apartment is finally in order now. It stays pretty clean and tidy. There are no dishes in the sink; the trash and recycling are taken out when full. The laundry basket is empty and all of the clothes are always put away. There is a sense of calm and peace here now.

It’s cool today. I sit with my sliding glass door open to the mountains and hear an autumn breeze rustle the leaves on the tress. The first sign that fall is right around the corner. I love fall, it’s probably my favorite time of year. The sound of the leaves should excite me but it terrifies me.

If fall is just around the corner then so is my baby! But that can’t be, Rudy and I aren’t back together. He still refuses to talk to me and we can’t have a baby when he won’t even talk to me. It’s not supposed to be this way.

I say there is a sense of clam and peace in my house now because when Rudy was here everything felt so overwhelming, chaotic. So then why do I miss him? Why do I even want him back?

I gave those questions some serious thought. The answers are filled with strong emotions that are very hard to tack down.

I don't miss the massive amounts of extra laundry. I don't miss feeling like I'm doing everything and that I'm not appreciated for doing so. I don't miss clothes and papers that were all over the apartment; the dirty dishes in the sink or the clean ones that would sit in the dishwasher for days. It's true that some things are easier and even better now that Rudy's not a factor in the situation.

So what then? Why do I miss him and want him back?

Is it because I'm afraid to do this alone? No, I know I can do this alone and be damn good at it. Am I just lonely? Well sure I'm lonely but that's not a reason to want specifically him back.

Rudy is spontaneous and silly. So masculine, but sweet and almost vulnerable at the same time. He exposed me to things I didn't know about or wouldn't normally have tried. One of our first 'dates' was to a tea cafe one Sunday afternoon. What guy takes you to get afternoon tea? I LOVE hot tea and going to tea. I never knew this place existed. He showed me several movies that I wouldn't have picked on my own that I ended up really enjoying. I miss someone pushing me out of my comfort zone and the possibility of these new and exciting things.

We have this biological chemistry that is stronger than I've ever had with anyone. The passion and attraction is unbelievable. Our sexual appetites are a perfect match. But we also had great conversations about nothing. When we first started living together we would stay up super late every night, just laying in bed talking. And this was after we had spent the entire day at work together.

I also think that I want Rudy back and miss him so much because there has been absolutely no closure. I have no idea what happened or why everything fell apart to the point that he won't even speak to me. Sometimes I think if he had died it would be easier to deal with than this. At least with a death its finite, definite. You know what happened and you can start the process of dealing with it. But this; I don't even know where to begin to deal with this because I don't know what's going on. And the silly, foolish, romantic that I am, I still hold out hope that Rudy will change his mind. I fantasize that once the baby is born something inside him will change. That he'll see what a good mother I am or what I went through to bring our baby into the world and want me back. That hope keeps me from healing or moving forward, but I don't want to let it go. So the wound stays fresh and raw; like a little kid that won't stop picking a scab.

The Lake House

Growing up my family was fortunate enough to have a second house; a house on a lake. Seven acres of lake front property, on a cove, with hardly a neighbor in sight except the cows. It was perfect, pristine and peaceful. Well the house wasn’t always there; at first we just had camper trailers. I don’t remember those times very clearly, but I do remember being inside one of the trailers on the top bunk bed and feeling like I was in a very small space. I couldn’t have been 4 years old and weighed all of 25 pounds. This is where we came to be with family. Every chance we got we were at the lake house with some other part of our family. There were a lot of very happy memories made at the lake house. It was also where some extremely traumatic and life-changing things happened.

When I was about 3 my aunt and uncle adopted a little girl who was maybe 5 years old. She had been taken away from an abusive family and we all warmly welcomed her into our family. Her name was Stacy Beth. To this day I have never met anyone like her. She was brutal, mean, crass and abusive. She would kick, spit and cuss at her parents, and even her older brother was afraid of her. There are some people that can swallow air and then make themselves burp…I remember her being able to make herself fart in a similar way.

I don’t know how it all began. A lot of it I think I’ve suppressed. However, I do remember the first time I remembered and knew what had happened to me. I was in middle school; eighth grade. Stacy Beth had been gone to a mental hospital of some sorts for nearly two years. A friend was sleeping over and we were looking through some old photo albums in my room when we came across some pictures from the lake house and of Stacy Beth. It was like something from a movie. Flashes from the past flickered in my mind.


I stopped. Frozen.


Then like a nuclear explosion I suddenly realized I had been sexually abused for five years. I was so young when it started that I never saw it for what it truly was, abuse. I was already in therapy at the time dealing with the P.E. teacher mess (I'll tell you about that another time) so I spoke to my therapist about what I had remembered. I don’t think I ever told her any of the details, they are still hard to talk about. She asked if I had talked to my parents about it. Since I hadn’t it was decided that they would come in for a joint session and we would all discuss it.
Mom and Dad sat where I normally did; that huge window filled with trees behind them. It’s funny the things that stick in our memory. Although I learned a lot that day, big parts of me were still empty. It turned out Mom had her own history. She cried; only the second time I had seen that. I am sure there were a lot of things said that day, but these are the only words that echoed in my head. “We had an idea that something like this was going on, but we wanted her adoption to work.” At thirteen that translated into “We know, but she was more important than you.” I felt very alone and very small.

Bunk beds and broom sticks

In the downstairs bedroom at the lake house were bunk beds and a trundle bed. This is where all of the kids (all 6 of us at the time) slept and stayed while we were at the lake house. There were many occasions when the rest of the family was out of the house, down at the water or on a walk, when Stacy Beth and I would be in that room of beds. She would have me get on the top bunk where no one could walk in and see us. We would take turns laying down and taking our clothes off or moving them to the side. We would touch each other. She was always more aggressive than I was and always wanted me to do more than I was willing to. Stacy Beth played with my nipples, sucking on them, pinching and twisting them and rubbing my very flat breast. Then she would move her hands down my body and over my privates, spending a lot of time there; putting her fingers inside me. Then it was my turn to ‘play’ with her. I remember how hairy she was, she was a few years older than me and had already starting going through puberty. Her breast had started to form, I remember the way they filled my hands.

One time we were outside of that room in the basement. I was sitting on a chair backed against a wall. Stacy Beth had me spread my legs and she went to get the broom. It had a wooden handle and was very old, it had started to splinter. She forced the broom inside me. I remember feeling the harsh wood against my delicate skin; I asked her to stop but she wouldn’t. She thrust that broom into me over and over and harder and harder. I felt the splinters and the coarseness of the broom.

Not all of the abuse happened behind closed doors though. In the cloudy dark brown water we would swim through each other’s legs. I remember swimming through her legs and she was pulling my face into her vagina; smashing my nose inside her. I remember the smell. I remember the feeling around my nose, the pressure of her body against the bridge of my nose and the rest of her around the sides of my face; like when you put your face inside a cup. I remember the hair tickling and itching my face; and her hand on the back of my head, not being able to breath she held me there so long, wanting me to put my tongue inside her. Then it was her turn to swim under my legs. She put her tongue inside me right away and moved it around. I don’t remember it feeling good, just strange. She pulled my bathing suit to the side and slid her tongue inside me. I remember the empty aching feeling in my stomach.

Learning Disability

Early on I knew something was different with me at school. It was mid-elementary school and lessons were starting to get tough. But I spent hours on homework and still wasn’t grasping the concept. Many nights Mom and Dad had to finally coax me to bed, tearful and frustrated.

I remember the year my learning disability was discovered. Well I don’t remember the year; but I remember the teacher, I remember where the classroom was and how it was laid out. I remember the tests. If you have been through LD testing or have a child that has, then you know what I’m talking about. In case you haven’t I’ll explain. In order to be placed into an LD or special education category a number of tests have to be taken. They range from oral math questions to psychological test including one where you are shown a picture and have to make up a story to go along with the picture. Most people I have encountered who have been through these tests find them somewhat emotionally scaring.

As if you didn’t already feel different enough, or already have people telling you that you’re failing or just not trying hard enough; these tests make you feel stupid and inadequate. I suppose they way they make you feel also depends on the type and severity of the disability. As for me, I was found to have what was later described to me (by a teacher that finally understood I wasn’t stupid) as a visual motor integration processing deficit. What that means is that what I see with my eyes and then try to write with my hand or say with my mouth doesn’t match. To make things all the more fun I have dyslexia. Reading was and is very difficult for me.

The year they discovered my learning disability was either 3rd or 4th grade. I worked so hard that year; spent countless nights up doing homework and studying. I had always been taught that hard work paid off. It was time for some growing up. That year I couldn’t get above a C no matter how hard I worked or how hard I tried. The teacher kept telling me that I just wasn’t trying hard enough. That was when my parents, Mom in particular as I later found out, really pushed for me to be tested.

While the end result of the testing was life changing, the process was brutal. Over several days I was pulled out of class and had to go down to the main office to meet with the counselor. Some of the tests were fun, almost like games; like putting blocks together to match the pattern on a card as fast as you can. Others left me in tears. The math questions were distinctively painful and frustrating to me. Math was my strong subject, because there were no words involved in two plus two. These tests changed that. A question was read aloud, no pencil or paper can be used, and it’s a word question. Johnny has $5.00 and he wants to buy a soda for $0.50, a candy bar for $1.00, and a magazine for $2.75. If the tax rate is 7% how much extra money will Johnny have or need? ‘WHAT?! What 9-year-old can answer these questions? Am I really THIS dumb!? Should I be able to answer this? Oh wait I’m supposed to be coming up with an answer…what was the second thing Johnny wanted? What the heck is a tax rate anyway?’ The test giver would just look at me waiting for an answer. My mind would go blank and I would just start crying.

That’s the way those word questions always are too. It’s always some kid with a pet name; he’s not Jonathon or John, he’s Johnny. Johnny always has something that a kid never does, money he can spend on whatever he wants. Then the question throws distractions at you, soda and candy. For the final blow there is always an odd number $2.75, and something you don’t even know about, the tax rate. But this isn’t a one time thing, every three years or so the testing has to be done again.

The only thing that got me through all of this testing was my strength and my parents. They always told me it didn’t matter what grades I got; they knew I was trying my best and that was all that mattered. This motto has given me the courage to live life to its fullest, to take chances and always try my best. This love, unconditional and unfailing has gotten me through the darkest and longest of tunnels.

Most people that I know today are very surprised to find out that I was in special ed. There is still this stereotype, this stigma that goes along with special education that is unwarranted. Growing up I always thought as myself as learning disabled. But that’s simply not true. I am more than capable of learning almost anything that’s thrown at me, I merely do it differently.

The fight

I still don’t understand what happened and maybe I never will. But I remember it all like it was yesterday.

Dave comes home and I’m making dinner. He goes to the computer, only a few feet away in our small one bedroom apartment, to take care of a few things.

He asks me “what are you doing?”
“I’m making dinner.”
“Well stop.”

I got excited for a minute because Dave often liked to surprise me and go to random places at the drop of a hat. Very spontaneous and exciting. So I ask “Why?”

“Because I’m not hungry.”

My eyes got wide, my mouth dropped, eyebrows raised. My mind races. Did he seriously just say that? I worked all day today too, just the same as him. I’m pregnant and making him dinner. Does he even realize that I have to eat, for two people! How rude, how thoughtless! Does he even care about me, about the baby?

My mind moves too fast to know what to say. I’m hurt, frustrated, scared, confused and mad. All of this comes out as mad and rude.

“Did you ever think that I might be hungry?” asshole

My mind continues to race. I do everything around here. I clean the house, vacuum, do the laundry and dishes, take care of the 2 cats including clean the litter box even though I’m not supposed to because I’m pregnant. But he won’t do it and then the cats find other places to go. I work a full time job on my feet all day long chasing 3 year olds. I pay all of our bills. I’m the contact person for the realtor and lending guy for the house we’re trying to buy. I asked him to do that but he’s not doing it. I’m trying SO hard to make things happen and to make him happy. I go out to night clubs with him to hang out and dance; even though I’m exhausted and I can’t even drink. I go bowling with him and his friends staying out until after midnight on a week night. I’m 29 and pregnant. I’m not 22 and in college. But I go along and I put on a happy face and had a great time. Why? To make him happy. I thought it would be nice to come home to someone making you dinner. And he can’t even think of the fact that I have to eat!? The most basic need for any person, much less a pregnant one! HA! Well, I can forget about my higher needs being meet then, huh?

All I can muster is “I’m worried.”
“Worried about what?”
“Worried that this isn’t going to work.”
“It’s not, I’m not happy.”

What the hell did he just say!? He’s not happy…What the fuck could possibly be so terrible for HIM that HE’S not happy!? I try to put my shock, hurt, and anger aside to find out what’s wrong, what’s really going on.

I ask as nicely as I possibly can “Why aren’t you happy?”
“This isn’t what I want”
“What isn’t what you want?”
“THIS”
I’ve lost all patience at this point. My blood is boiling my heart is racing. “What this!? Be specific. The house? The Baby? What!?”
“Yes, all of it”

Part of me died in that moment. Three months earlier Dave had told me the same thing. “This isn’t what I want.” The first time, I reacted calmly but it was obvious I was hurt. I told him to figure it out. Decide what he wanted and let me know. He went for a drive for a few hours, I took a hot bath. He came home with a box of my favorite chocolates that I thought you could only find at valentines. He said he still didn’t know what he wanted though. A few days later at a club he tells me that this is what he wants, that he loves me more than anything in the world and that he wants all of this. I was so relieved and I thought we had put it all behind us. Things were great up until a few weeks before the fight.

So that night when he is telling me AGAIN that he doesn’t want this, I’m not so understanding and patient.

In a calm, low voice I say “Get the fuck out.”

His face drops, his eyes get wide with shock. I suppose from his point of view I can understand why he would be shocked. But from my point of view, how much can I really be expected to take? And I think that he does need a shock. We’re having a baby!! He can’t come in and out of the baby’s life. He needs to know, and I need to know that he’s all the way in this, that he knows what he wants.

He doesn’t move. I’m becoming more and more frustrated and say “get out, get out, get out. I’m not kidding, get out.”

Dave goes to the bathroom and the bedroom to get some things. My mind races faster than ever. Does he think he can just keep changing his mind? How can he do this to me, to our baby!? What if this keeps happening? I have to do something to make his decide for good that this IS what he wants.

“You know what, why don’t you pack a bag and don’t come back until you know what you want.”
“Well I was planning to move out on Saturday anyways. But I wanted to talk to you about it first.”

I’m devastated. He’s been planning this all along? How long has he been thinking about this? Why didn’t he talk to me sooner? Saturday is 3 days away! I cover my hurt with anger.

“No, you’ve lost that privilege.” I go to get some shoes. I just can’t be there anymore. I walk passed him in the bathroom. “You really are a bastard, you know that?” I say through my tears.

I drive down the road and park behind a closed down restaurant so I can see his car go by and know its ‘safe’ to go home.

When I get home I break down even more, falling to the floor crying. Crying, making sounds I’ve never heard come out of me. Crying so hard that my stomach began to hurt in a way I’d never felt before. THE BABY! I have to clam down; I have to get a hold of myself. I go and lie in our bed and try to clam down.

I never did eat dinner; I spent the night crying.

For the next week or better I try everything I can to talk to Dave. I apologize for the way I reacted to him and try to explain where I was coming from. He refuses to change his mind.

Taken Over by Aliens

I wish that Rudy would have talked to me some and tried to figure things out (or at least let me know what he's thinking and why this is happennig) instead of just deciding on his own that I would be a single mom. This is not what I want. But it seems like the decision is made. I have to respect his decision. What other choice do I have?

Even though I'm still really hurt and confused, and I know that he's hurting too, I still love him. And there is still no one that I'd rather be having this baby with. Perhaps that makes me a fool.

I know at times it must seem to him like I've been taken over by aliens, and in a way I kind of have been...well, one alien. :-) At my core I'm still the same person that he decided to have a baby with, that at one time he loved enough to want to marry. I still don't play games, I am still very honest and open, I still love to laugh and be silly. Why can't he see this?

I'm willing to make myself vulnerable and say all of this because I know that he's still the same person at his core too. I know that he is honest and caring, passionate and strong. And I still know that he'll be the best father that Lucian could ever have. I also know that he's hurting and that he doesn't trust me to not be taken over by aliens. I'm so unbelievably sorry for that.

I can't tell you how sorry I am for everything that's going on. Things have gotten so out of control and out of hand. I don't know what to do, I feel helpless. I wish there was a way to make everything right again.

Sisters

My sister and I are very different. There are a lot of things that I don’t understand about her and probably never will. I hold on to a lot of hurt from her that I wish I could let go. But I hold on it for pride, or fear, or justification. I saw a video of when we were younger. My uncle was ‘attacking’ my sister at our lake house and trying to drag her into the water. I immediately run to her side and challenge her ‘attacker’. I was around 8 years old, she would have been 11. My sister was on the bus the day that bully made me cry and got me into trouble. She did nothing on the bus and I have no memory of her in the room while Mom held me.

For the longest time I looked up to my big sister. There were many nights when I would sneak into her room after Mom and Dad had put us to bed. I would crawl into bed with her, just to be near her. She never came to crawl into bed with me; but years later fooled around with her boyfriend in my bed while Mom and Dad were out.

For years she teased me about things she knew were the most hurtful to me, and usually in front of company. One of her favorite stories to tell was how I pooped in the bath tub when I was about 4 years old. I’ll say that again, I was 4 years old. Yet this story was told at every opportunity; which was quite a bit more often than one would think and always when company was around. I would say the last time this was told was…but I’m afraid this colorful story has not yet been put to rest.

Being adopted I have different hair than everyone else in my entire extended family. It’s curly and thin and has a complete mind of its own. As a young adolescent in the 6th grade I did the best I could with it. The style at the time was to have big bangs that stood straight up and curved over to the side. In the process of trying to achieve this style my curly hair curled at the end of my bang wall. This was to be known as my ‘jerry curl’. Even into my early 20s the story of my hair and how awful I looked was of much amusement to my sister, again in front of company.

Why does this bother me? Why should I care about something that happened before I was even old enough to remember? Vulnerability. Trust. There are few things in this world more vulnerable than a child. I somehow feel betrayed by the telling of these stories; as though I’m the brunt of the joke, always. It’s as though I can never let my guard down for fear that I may be lending more ammo to my sister's arsenal of ‘Taryn is an ass’ stories.

I’ve always expected something from her that she can just never give. I have this idea in my head of what I think a ‘sister’ is supposed to be like; your best friend. She should know you better than anyone; stand up for you and beside you. I expected her to be the older sister, to teach me, to bring me along. I have often found these roles reversed.

Never did I get any support from my sister (or much from the rest of the family for that matter) when Michael was out to sea, for 6 months, and then 9 months. But the first sign that her husband is heading out to sea for 2 months and she sends this mass e-mail to our entire family saying “thanks in advance for your support”. Thanks in advance. I hate this saying. What a rude saying that is! Don’t just assume people are going to do things for you. Are you so lazy that you can’t thank someone once they’ve actually done something; you have to do it in advance? This is ridiculous to me. Give credit where it’s due, and don’t guilt people into doing things for you by thanking them in advance.

The Good...

While my sister and I don’t get along famously, I’ve learned a lot from being around her. I’ve learned to be more sensitive to other people’s needs and feelings. A lot of times the people roughest on the outside are really very tender inside. Stacy has challenged me to look deeper into people and to find purpose in actions first thought to be hurtful. I have often found myself thinking “How dare she/he? Who do they think they are?” But because of my sister I now think these are opportunities to grow; opportunities to learn. So I stop and say to myself: Taryn, this person is not you, they don’t think or act the way you do. Let them be different and see what you can learn from them. Look past what they are saying and find what they are not saying but truly mean. Have patience with them, because you would want someone to have patience with you.

Poems

I am so

emotional I can't cry
tired I can't sleep
alone I am not with myself
scared I can't move
Frozen
Trapped
full I am empty
in love I can't hate
afraid I can't hurt
supportive I can't grieve
Unsure
Confused
Many things

What other choice

If I love you
You have to leave
So many emotions to wrestle
I don't know how to feel
Nothing
What if I am not what you need
What you want
Can I be happy
If I am angry
Everything is a lie
I want to be angry
Hurt
I want you to be happy
Complete
If I love you
I have to let you leave

Are you my mother?

One of my favorite books growing up was “Are you my mother?” It’s about a little bird that gets left alone in his nest while his mother is out searching for food. He leaves the nest to find his mother and along his journey asks everyone he meets if they are his mother.

I never made the connection to being adopted with this book until the ripe old age of 8. It was show and tell at school and like any child I of course brought my favorite book. The day went off without a hitch, until the bus ride home. One of the bullies on the bus caught eye of my book and did me the courtesy of making the adoption connection. He taunted the name of the book at me over and over. The words echoing my own thoughts of every woman I had ever met; even my young aunt.

And then finally he said it, “Your mother didn’t even love you, that’s why she gave you up!” My deepest darkest fear, which I dare not even think to myself, was thrown at me like a ton of bricks. The climax of the horrid display was a shower of spit in my face. This was the first time I ever felt ‘different’ for being adopted. Humiliated and terrified, I stormed off the bus pausing only to turn and scream at the top of my lungs at the bus driver who had done nothing. Tears streaming down my face I ran down the hill of our front yard and burst through the front door.

My mother sat at the kitchen table, in her usual dinner spot, just at the end of the front hallway. I ran to her arms and cried for who knows how long; sitting on her lap surrounded by her love. I’m not even sure if I told her what had just happened. But I do remember, as if it were yesterday, the way her arms felt around my body. They were my mother’s arms. I don’t think I ever read that book again. I was later called in to the Vice Principal’s office and reprimanded for yelling at the bus driver. The bully got off scott free. Even though I was the one who got punished, I was also the one who got to know the unconditional, unquestioning love of my mother.


I’ve often lain awake in bed, and for no apparent reason thought about my birth mother. I still haven’t really started looking for her. But I’ve always wanted to meet her; to shake her hand, hug her and say “Thank you, for everything you did for me. You made the right choice. I have fantastic parents, a great life filled with love.” I wonder what my curiosity with finding her is. Perhaps I’ll never understand this restlessness, this unfinished feeling.

She was 17 when I was born. The youngest of 4 or 5 kids; she was the only girl; the daughter of a military man. There are so many questions. What was it like for her? Did she have a choice in giving me up? Logic says no. Did she want to keep me? My heart hopes yes. What did her parents think when they saw me for the first time? Did they ever see me; hold me? Does she lay awake in bed thinking of me?

I wonder what horrible things she had to go through to bring me into this world. Did her friends abandon her? How many whispers did she have to endure? I hope some day I can meet her and help to heal some of her wounds. I’ve never understood why my sister doesn’t want to find her birth parents. I think there is just too much hurt for her. Perhaps she doesn’t think she owes them anything or can’t see the amazing gift she was given. The woman that gave me life, grew me inside of her; shared her body with me and then with no pain killers gave birth to me deserves to hear “Thank you”. She deserves to hear, “its ok, I’m ok” from me. Finding my birth mother is also for my parents. So they know how grateful I am to be their daughter.

Random passing thoughts

There aren’t words for how I’m feeling. My thoughts and feelings race so fast it’s hard to really know them.

I’m so torn between being sad and wanting Rudy back and being hurt. I don’t understand what’s happened or what’s happening. Rudy’s been gone for 2 months now. He doesn’t seem to want anything to do with me. And I’m not really sure why.
6 months ago we were SO in love. Everything was perfect, we were an amazing couple; had so much fun together. And we decided to have a baby. I’ve wanted a baby for longer than I can remember. Its what I was made for.
Now I have trinkets of Rudy’s love around my apartment. It hurts me SO much to have them around but in a strange way they bring me comfort. Like tangible examples that he really did love me and small pieces of hope that maybe he still does.
In my heart I see us together. My gut says someday he’ll come back. But I’m afraid to hope, afraid to hold on to what I truly believe: we have a real love. Special, rare love. I don’t like being afraid, or admitting it. It’s not an emotion I am used to feeling. I live life in the moment and don’t normally let fear hold me back.
He’s the father of my first child, not a title I would give away lightly. Does he want to be the father? Have I hurt him so badly that he can’t be with Lucian? Does he think about me? Miss me?
I’m not supposed to talk to him. I think about him constantly; dream about him every night! How pitiful is that?! But his child is inside me! We used to work together and live together spending nearly every moment together. And now I’m just supposed to stop, at the drop of a hat. He was my friend too and I miss our friendship. I wonder about him all the time. What is he doing? Is he happy? Is he dating anyone? What worries is he struggling with?

Sometimes I forget that I’m pregnant. It’s not supposed to be like this; me alone, sad. It should be a shared experience of happiness and anticipation. I should have someone to share my fears and anxieties. Someone to support me through this amazing but terrifying experience of pregnancy.


I know I’ve hurt Rudy. Maybe more than I ever imagined. That is by far the biggest regret of my life. And I don’t live my life with regrets. I can only hope that he will be able to trust me again. I’m so sorry. I wish I knew how to make it better, how to heal him. I don’t want him to hurt, and I don’t want him to miss out on his son.
I want Rudy in my life as my partner. He hates that word, but I don’t know what else to call it. I want to do this with him; go through life’s ups and downs together. I want him in his son’s life, and at his son’s birth.
It’s so frustrating. Other guys want me. Even 6 months pregnant old boyfriends want back in the game, I get checked out left and right all the time. Stephen says I’ll always be the love of his life. Jason tells me how much he really loves me and how sorry he is for everything. They both offer to help in whatever way I need. I need Rudy back. He is what I want; only he fills this hole in my life. Only he is the father of this baby.
What we had was really great, and I believe we can have it again.

Roller Coasters

Roller coasters are often used as a visual example of the ups and downs of life. Some people love roller coasters; some people prefer to sit and wait as the others take a ride. But I think people are also like roller coasters. There are old fashion wooden classic coasters full of nostalgia; new magnetic coasters that take off in the blink of an eye, examples of our latest technology and trends. Some coasters have great twists and turns, others have heart stopping drops.

I’m “the grizzly”. A rickety old wooden coaster at Paramount’s Kings Dominion tucked away in the woods, with fantastic drops and turns. The lap bar never seems to come down far enough and I am lifted out of my seat at most every drop. Arms should always be above your head in order to achieve the full effect. Near the end of the ride you plummet down a hill into a rusted old metal tunnel. There is a local urban legend that if you leave your hands raised in this tunnel they will be chopped off at the wrist. This coaster is something from the past, full of romance, nostalgia, and local legend.




Everyday, no, every moment of every day, you have a choice. In all things there is good and there is bad. You choose which one to focus on. Sometimes that’s a harder choice than others, but it is still always your choice. Sure there are times when no one would blame you for choosing to focus on the bad, it’s so overwhelming. And maybe the good hasn’t even shown itself yet. But if you hold on, if you hold out and wait for it, the good will always be there.

This is my story. Some might say I have had a lot of bad for such a short life. The facts are unmistakable. But that’s not what this is about. This is about finding the good, waiting for the good and the triumph of its arrival.