I am no longer a first time swimming parent. We are seasoned pros at this. Old hat for us. Remembering to bring a lawn chair, rule #1. #winning
Sunday, October 5, 2014
Saturday, October 4, 2014
The best of friends are the ones who show up at 8pm when you lock your keys in your car. Who offer you their beer and cigarettes and a nice warm blanket just so you can sit on their lazy boy chair in silence watching old episodes of the walking dead.
And sometimes, that is all you really need.
Thursday, October 2, 2014
There are angels all around us. Real life, tangible angels. You don't know who they are until they text you randomly in the afternoon, show up late with a bottle of wine, and leave $40 on your counter even when you protest. They are the ones you never see coming, never would have expected to be someone to help fix you, even if just a little bit. People need people.
And all I can say is thank you. For the wine, for the conversation, for the money that is graciously accepted, yet completely unnecessary.
It is amazing the things you can have in common with someone you never really gave a thought of other than in passing. Knowing and being told that what you have to say, matters. Even if to no one else, to them.
Battered women have the makings of a battered woman. Visible, touchable. Even if they hide in places under shorts and pants. On rib cages and arms. On legs, backs, and when they are visible. Hand marks around the neck, stitches on an eyebrow. A black eye. A broken nose. A broken spirit.
Even a woman who is being abused emotionally, the depth of their eyes are empty. Dead. Trying to feel nothing because they are made to feel like they are nothing.
I have no visible unintentional markings. My nose isn't broken. My limbs are all intact.
I don't even know if my eyes are dead, or if I am just that good at pretending, ignoring, forgetting for a moment more that this terrible thing has happened. That this terrible thing happened to ME.
And I find it had to concentrate, try desperately to bury myself in anything but this emptiness inside of me. This loneliness. This isolation.
I am a battered women and there no visible marks to prove that this terrible thing happened. To me.
So many terrible, awful things happen on this planet. I am warm, and fed, and for the most part loved.
But this is still my burden. My pain. My brokenness that will never seem to heal fully. When do I get the chance to confront my abuser? When can I hold up this empty hole and say "Here, this is yours. You did this."?