Let Not the Children Suffer


After weeks of thought and preparation we carefully designed our costumes. Skyler spent over an hour and a half on my hair and makeup, an hour on Caitlin’s, and another hour on hers. All that was wasted tonight when we had to bail on Halloween.

Maybe you’re wondering why we would put so much effort into the evening just to cheat by walking into a store to buy candy, rather than walking door to door??? Well, buckle your seatbelt, because I’m about to tell you and it pisses me off.

Although Skyler was nine months old when I had my abuser arrested she witnessed a lot of abuse during that short period, plus the nine months in utero. This has led her to a life of anxiety in what she presumes to be unsafe situations. This is the second or third year that we have been unable to partake in my favorite holiday … and it makes me sad.

You may suggest therapy for her … done. Yet, we can’t predict when her anxiety is going to happen, it just does and it freaks her out. I share her pain, but I can’t fix it. I’m the mom, I’m supposed to be able to fix everything, but this is beyond me … even beyond the scope of my degree.

I effin’ hate what he has done, what he has taken away, and most of all, I hate the fear that he has given her. I can think of a thousand ways for him to die, but every single one of them is illegal … and that is the only reason he still has a heart beat.


Let’s Change it UP!

Let’s face it, my life has been pretty rough the last few months, but I have to admit it’s not all bad. As I heal I find more pain, anger, frustration, and other negative emotions. That’s what I seem to be posting lately, but this is just an ant’s view of my life.

The reality is that my life is full of lemons, sugar, and water … so I make some mean lemonade with it. So, I wanted to switch up my focus of my blog this evening and share a bit of humor. I’ve embedded a song, which brings me laughter and many happy memories of my brother-in-law, Leo Jack Ebert (1937 to 2002). (Lee, I know you’re smiling down on me right now, and I love you for it!)

Going Once, Going Twice, A Broken Heart … GONE to the lady in tears

Yesterday I received a startling phone call. My pulmonologist would like me to have an Echo Cardio Gram to see if the pulmonary embolism that I had eight years ago caused damage to my heart. When the cardiologist’s office called they told me that my appointment was listed as urgent. This freaked me out … a lot. Then, I got to thinking about it:

Did you ever think about how you will pass on? What will be your demise? I have, I’ve thought of a million ways for the end to come; mostly it is something wild and crazy. You know? Like sliding into your grave with a smile on your face saying, “Damn, that was one hell of a ride!” But, for the past 18 hours it has been a bit different.

What if I die from a broken heart? Both figuratively and literally. What if it is my emotions that take me? My habit of loving too hard, or for too long; what if that is my demise? Would I still enjoy the ride? Or would I wonder why no one could love me as deeply as I love them?

At first thought I believe that I should rebuild my titanium wall, to protect me from the pain induced by a lifetime of loveless relationships. Yet, that would make it seem like I don’t care and one of my greatest features and worst characteristics is that I care too much. I’m not going to change that, because if I did, it would be my past molding me. My history of suffering would break through every fiber of my being and tear me into oblivion.

I would rather die from a broken heart than to be unable to love myself enough to love others. So, if that’s what happens, if my heart gives out before I’m ready to stop loving you should know one thing:

A Guide to becoming Unlovable

Life is full of choices, even at birth. We decide when we are hungry, tired, or need a diaper change. It is up to those around us to decide when to fulfill our needs. As we grow these things change, the decisions are still ours to make, but we get increasingly more power to fulfill the needs on our own.

As life progresses we develop a past or a personal history. As the past develops we make different decisions, based on the results that we have received. For instance, I have discovered that when my mind and emotions are in chaotic disarray my house becomes cluttered and messy, almost a direct reflection of what is going on in my mind. These are subconscious choices that I make, but choices just the same.

A couple of days ago I asked my husband to have a few minutes of private time for me, because I am so tired of trying to read his mind to figure out what is going on. We went outside and I straight up asked him, “Are you happy?”

His response was “Usually.”

“Are you happy with me?”


“Are you happy with us?”


“Are you happy right now?”


“Why?” I asked, regretting the word as soon as it left my lips.

He looked at me and said, “Look at our house, it’s cluttered and chaotic. You were raised like that, so I try to respect that; to you that’s okay. When I was growing up, if our house was messy it was because Mom wasn’t doing what she was supposed to do.”

I should have grabbed onto the fact that it is all up to me, but I missed the opportunity, instead I said, “I can’t change how or where I was raised, but I can tell you that the state of our home is NOT okay. This is a reflection of what is going on in my mind. I don’t like it, but I don’t know where to begin.”

What I garnered from this brief communication is that I own it all! The chaos in my mind and home, the anger that he feels, the frustration that everyone feels. It’s all up to me, just like everything else that goes wrong, it’s my fault.

I’ve given it a couple of days and I have only reached one conclusion from all of this … I am no longer strong enough to hold the weight of every wrong in everyone’s life on my shoulders. I’m tired of being blamed, and I can’t take it any more!

I’m ANGRY!!!

I went to a pulmonary specialist today, to determine why I struggle to breathe and have a chronic cough. I knew before I even walked in the door he was going to say, “Laura, your lungs appear to be 70 or 80 years old. You have got to quit smoking.”

Considering that I tried my first cigarette at age nine, this wasn’t going to surprise me, but what he actually said did surprise me, and it really made me mad.

“Laura, all the tests show that everything is fine, I can’t even tell that you are a smoker. *Dramatic Pause* Do you have a psychiatrist?” (Maybe I shouldn’t have placed that in quotes, because I’m certain he said it a lot nicer than I took it.)

There are two things left that might be causing my shortness of breathe and chronic cough … one is that a blood clot that I mysteriously developed in 2007 didn’t completely dissolve and has caused long term damage. The second is … anxiety.

It may sound demented, but I’m hoping for the first option. The second option means that I still have a lot of healing work to do, that my body and subconscious are storing the memory of evils in my life within. I don’t want those little bastards bothering me anymore.

Some of my anxiety is self-induced, like realizing that I am not an individual capable of being loved by others. Sure, I could ignore that, and move on, but there is something to be said about human emotions and contact.

There are individuals in my life that haven’t had to conquer those things which I have endured, and they say that I should get over it. Move on? Deal with it?

They must think that I enjoy this suffering, that I like to feel the pain when I step out in public … fearing that my past is watching. I am entertained when I drive down a back country road and suddenly realize that I was beaten in this place and though I have nothing to fear, my body fears everything.

I feel like I need to get away, far, far away from the insanity of my past. To hide in perfect sight, to live my life in a new way, that doesn’t include physical memories of the trauma that has brought me to this point.

Over all, I’m thrilled that my lungs appear to be 41 years old, especially considering that my December birthday is quickly approaching. At the same time, I’m rather bummed that the more I heal from emotional trauma the more I realize how intense that trauma really is/was.

Now, if only I could find a way to re-create my childhood, so that I could come to a point in my life where others can love me. Gah … it’s just not worth the effort.

A Bit of Gratitude, even if it is too late

This morning I woke up missing my mom. It’s not a special day … it’s not her birthday, or anniversary, or even the date that she passed, but I’m still missing her. (Blah, that was one heck of a run-on sentence!)

I’m not thinking of her passing, or even of her living. I am thinking about all of the secrets that I kept from her. The pain that I held so deeply inside of me for years upon years. I hid so many monsters, afraid to tell; afraid of judgment and blame. Most of all I was afraid of her not understanding why I reacted to things the way that I did.

My husband was an amazing father and spouse, or so my mother thought. Until one night, she and I were on the phone and he began to yell at me and the children. I quickly terminated the call and within days my husband was on the road to being my ex and sitting in a jail cell for assaulting me. I had to tell my mom, and she said, “I had no idea until we were talking the other night. It was then that I began to wonder who he really was. Laura, you have no idea how helpless I felt knowing that you and your children might be in danger 800 miles from me.”

“Helpless?” Yes, she said, “helpless.” I knew the feeling all to well, and powerless as well. For the first time in my life she didn’t judge me, or even blame me for what I was about to do … rip my little family apart, take their daddy away … find safety. In her few words I was empowered to be me.

The irony of all of this is that within weeks, Mom was diagnosed with Stage 4 Breast Cancer. Her life was coming to a close, but her faith was in her God, and her fear in me finding safety.

Some days I still want my mommy, I want to hear her voice, and to say, “I love you,” just one more time. Yet, I know that she is here, with us, and she understands.

She is who I want to be when my kids remember their mom. Strong, determined, and most of all loving.

A Twisted Perspective

A kind individual that knows a lot about my past and that I wrote the article “Lessons Learned with Help from a Horse” approached me yesterday and handed me a photo copy of something that I will forever hold close to my heart. It was a letter to the editor detailing my strength and courage in allowing my story to be told. She also thanked me for making a difference in the community … in a sick and twisted way this simple letter made every striking blow worth while. From my past I’ve gained wisdom, and to make a difference to even one person proves that my mission is in fact possible. I wouldn’t trade that for the world.