tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-88841311991946277632024-03-13T15:05:32.029-07:00Back from the BrinkStages of progression after an adult survivor of childhood trauma seeks treatment.Emilyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00060501961768088247noreply@blogger.comBlogger35125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8884131199194627763.post-64649627367796247942008-11-11T07:46:00.000-08:002008-11-11T08:29:29.215-08:00ChangeRegardless of your political back ground or beliefs, I doubt there are many Americans out there who would not have been moved by witnessing the celebrations of so many last Tuesday. Following the confirmation that America had elected Barack Obama, I watched as people swarmed the streets with joy. I've worked on several political campaigns (including three presidential campaigns) and have never seen this level of excitement in any political candidate.<br /><br />Women, children and men of every age and race danced in the streets, their presence blocking traffic. Cars began to honk. I quickly realized the cars were honking in agreement with the celebration, rather than to prevent the festivities from blocking the road. Many drivers placed their cars in park and got out to dance themselves. Peaceful and joyous chants of "Obama, Obama" rang through the streets. Chants of "Yes we can" quickly transitioned to "Yes we did!" I watched as strangers hugged other strangers - a sight I had obviously never seen on the streets of D.C. Tears streamed down the faces of many celebrants. Within minutes, the crowd grew to hundreds in this D.C. intersection - the very same intersection that saw riots and burning after the assassination of Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. some forty years prior.<br /><br />But on this night, we were united. On this night, we were all brothers and sisters. All overwhelmed by this momentous moment in history, all grateful to be alive to witness it. Victory over the demoralizing world of the past eight years. What made this triumph even sweeter still, was the fact that not only had we elected the candidate that we believe has what it takes to change politics and to change the lives of the average American. This candidate also happened to be African American. The crowd grew and spread to side streets. I stood in amazement, holding back tears.<br /><br />I had worked briefly on this election as well. I had been battered by the last eight years. I had been shaken by the sight of voting lines the length of which I'd never seen. This very day had begun by my witnessing a remarkable and historic movement of citizens to their polling locations. Although I witnessed this, I had not allowed myself to believe that our nation's best chance at freedom from the past would be elected. I could not allow myself to accept that Americans might do all that was needed to heal our great country. I had witnessed too many losses in the past, far too many apathetic citizens staying home rather than going to the polls. I had felt my heart ache too many times.<br /><br />But on Tuesday, Hope won. Americans rose from the beds, in some cases before dawn; in some locations they stood in tremendous lines. They made their voices heard. Americans believed that this great country can unite towards the Good and can break new ground. And now, those Americans were celebrating joyfully and peacefully.<br /><br />I had never witnessed such a united crowd. Even passers by would stop to clap and shout and sing. A police officer danced next to his cruiser. I watched on as a group of people began to play drums. An older white man danced and hopped to the beats with a young Black woman. Another woman, standing on the sidewalk held her cell phone to one ear and blocked the noise of the celebration from her other ear. "MOM!" she screamed. "Oh my God, Mom.....We did it!"<br /><br />Yes we did.Emilyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00060501961768088247noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8884131199194627763.post-78612907101001001262008-04-29T08:45:00.000-07:002008-04-29T08:46:17.104-07:00Struggling to find JusticeJust over six months ago, I sat at my computer pouring my emotions into a Victim’s Impact Statement that was to be delivered to the parole board residing over the parole hearing of Matt Bryant. Matt’s parole hearing happened to be scheduled at the very time that Ericha’s murder became the primary focus of my therapy sessions. Dealing with the stress of Matt’s parole hearing so soon after delving into Ericha’s murder in therapy felt overwhelming - as if salt was being poured onto a freshly re-opened wound. On the other hand, I see now that the writing of an impact statement during this time was perhaps therapeutic as well. I printed my completed statement, gave it a kiss for good luck and placed it into the mailbox. I would soon find that the parole board had denied Matt’s release. I felt so relieved, so validated.<br /><br />The last few weeks, I began to wonder if the next parole hearing would result in my relief as well. Six months had passed by so quickly, I thought. Matt’s next parole hearing was fast approaching. <br /><br />This weekend I received a letter in the mail from the Department of Corrections. I realized immediately that the letter would contain the outcome Matt’s parole hearing. The time had come to view the results. I paused briefly and then slowly opened the letter.<br /><br />“This letter is to inform you that the above inmate will be released from custody on or after May 13th, 2008.”<br /><br />I read the letter over and over, each time hoping for a different, more forgiving interpretation. I don’t think I was actually able to process what it said. My brain would not let it sink in. I kept thinking that this must mean that he’s being released from that facility and is being transferred to another facility. I furrowed my brow, searching for any evidence that would support this conclusion. They couldn’t possibly just let him out. It’s been ten years. In ten years, his time was over and he was free. Yet, Ericha remains in her cold grave, I thought. Ten years for brutally ending the life of another human being, a wonderful human being.<br /><br />I slowly began to realize – it’s over. There is nothing more that I can do. He will be released soon and his time in prison will be over. I can no longer think of Ericha and be comforted by the thought that both of her killers are behind bars. The feeling of a loss of control is palpable. He will be released and will once again be able to walk down the streets of his home town. He will spend time with his family. He will have the chance to meet new people, make friends, perhaps even fall in love. I can’t help but feel sickened knowing that Ericha’s killer will be able to experience these simple yet beautiful things while Ericha cannot. Never again will she be able to laugh with her friends, flirt with a man or hold a child.<br /><br />I find myself struggling to find the justice in this.Emilyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00060501961768088247noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8884131199194627763.post-85770800425858510852008-04-03T22:56:00.000-07:002008-04-04T12:36:08.811-07:00Letting GoNearly two weeks had passed since the conversation with my mother. Each day I called my mother, hoping that she would answer the phone but not quite sure if she would. Each day I sighed slightly with relief when she’d answer, only then to become exhausted by her sobs. I tried to weigh each day if I thought she sounded as though she might agree to go to the hospital. I tried to comfort her.<br /><br />During one such conversation my mother told me that she was so upset by my nephew’s trip being cancelled because she had planned to commit suicide while my nephew was visiting me out of state. She told me how she had been planning the suicide for months. She had visited me herself several months beforehand, believing that would be the last time she’d see me. My mother explained that she had become more calm during the previous months because she felt as though she had a plan – a final decision on specifically when she wouldn’t have to “be on this earth” anymore. Now that she realized her opportunity had passed, she was frantic. She felt trapped. She had planned to commit suicide during my nephew’s trip because she thought he was the “most sensitive” family member and because of that, she wanted him to be absent during that time. She also felt like I would be able to provide a stable environment for him during a traumatizing time.<br /><br />I listened to my mother and began to think of what it would have been like, had my nephew’s trip not been cancelled. I imagined getting the call, having to compose myself, having to tell my nephew, having to quiet his inevitable feelings of guilt. I knew he would’ve felt guilty since he has become somewhat of a caregiver to my mother and sister already. I thanked God that my mother’s plans had been disrupted. I knew she was in pain but I still wanted her here.<br /><br />It became increasingly more difficult to keep my energy level up each day after speaking with my mother. I found myself thinking about her while at work (partially because she would call me sobbing, while I was at work, asking for me to help her). After one week of this “suicide watch” I was exhausted. I had felt as though I had to carry my mother through these episodes on my back. I slowly began to realize that I don’t have that ability anymore. Maybe I never did.<br /><br />There was one conversation I had with my mother during this time that was calm. My mother was having a better day. She was still talking about being suicidal, but wasn’t crying or particularly upset. I had spoken with my father earlier that day and he had asked me how I was doing. The question dumbfounded me. I hadn’t realized how long it had been since a member of my family asked me that. Now, I was speaking to my mother, she was calm and I was exhausted. I waited for her to ask. She spent the next twenty minutes talking about her thoughts and her doctors and her sleeping and eating habits. I listened and hung up the phone when she had finished.<br /><br />Several days later, I was speaking to my mother when she finally asked half-heartedly, “well, what’s wrong with you?” Sure, it wasn’t the ‘how are you doing’ I was looking for, but it would do. “Mom, I’m really stressed out.” She paused, “Well…why? What's going on?” she said. “Mom, I’m exhausted. This has been exhausting. You don’t understand that every conversation I have with you in which you tell me in detail, how you plan to kill yourself, exhausts me.” No sooner did the words come out of my mouth, I regretted them. She was silent. “I’m just saying that this has been stressful for me too, that’s all.” She began to cry. “Mom…Mom, how are the boys doing?” I was able to shift her thoughts to the boys. I asked her enough questions to calm her.<br /><br />The next morning I realized that I had a voicemail when I arrived at work. It was from my mother. She told me that she thought it would be best if we didn’t speak anymore. “You get upset when you talk to me and I get upset when I talk to you,” she said. Not an accurate view of events in my opinion. “So, I just wanted to tell you that. And I think it’s for the best. I love you, Emily. Goodbye.”<br /><br />I wasn’t sure what to think. My eyes welled with tears, naturally because my mother had, for all intents and purposes, just wished me goodbye. I was angry at first, then relieved. I listened to the message again. Her last words, “I love you, Emily. Goodbye” were spoken with one of the most loving tones of voice I’ve ever heard from my mother. I sat, perplexed. It then occurred to me that the best way to frame this was that my mother was doing me a service. Perhaps, I thought, she loves me so much that she’s decided to let me go.Emilyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00060501961768088247noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8884131199194627763.post-8835568886885605492008-03-30T20:01:00.000-07:002008-04-02T12:34:57.251-07:00Sunny MorningA few weeks ago, my boyfriend and I were running errands on a sunny Sunday morning. I wanted to prepare for the upcoming visit of my younger nephew. He is now ten years old. My boyfriend was driving. We listened to the radio. I smiled as I glanced at his handsome profile. My boyfriend and I have been through a lot together in the past few years but I was finally beginning to feel comfortable enough to start trusting him, little by little. I’ve begun to feel like we may have weathered the worst of the storm together and perhaps, we’ve begun to come out on the other side, still hand in hand.<br /><br />I felt the breeze and the sun on my face. I thought about how beautiful the day was. My cell phone rang and I answered. It was my mother. She was sobbing uncontrollably. “Mom, calm down. I can’t understand you. What’s going on?” I said. My mother attempted to catch her breath. She proceeded to tell me, in swells of sobs, that my nephew would not be coming out to visit me. My nephew was in the midst of experiencing behavioral problems and my sister retracted his trip as punishment during a particularly bad fight with him that morning.<br /><br />My heart sank. Each of my nephews use their trips to visit me as their very own vacations. I have one nephew visit at a time, so each of them can have the full attention of two adults. I go through great strides to make sure their trips are care-free, fun and allow each of them to be children. It had been my younger nephews turn to come and he had called me almost nightly for many months to excitedly discuss our plans for his trip. Two months before his trip was scheduled, he had emailed me a full itinerary and schedule for his five day visit. He acted as though he could weather his chaotic home environment because he had this trip to look forward to. I was thinking of all of these things as I listened to my mother sob. I knew my nephew would be crushed. My heart sank for him.<br /><br />My mother had also realized my nephew’s excitement which is why, I gathered, she was so upset about the cancellation. I still couldn’t figure out at that point, however, why she was upset to the extent that she was. I tried to calm her. Several minutes later, she was slightly calmer. Then, she took on a tone she uses every once in a while – a somewhat childish tone that she uses when she wants me to care for her.<br /><br />“And there’s something else I need to tell you, Emily. My doctor said that I should tell you that I’m on a suicide watch.” Even though I’ve heard these words from my mother many times in my life, they still hit me like a ton of bricks. I didn’t think it was possible, but my heart sank further still. ‘No,’ I thought. ‘Not again, please, not now.’<br /><br />She began to sob again and explained that she no longer wanted to live; she was in too much pain. I began to cry. I was so frustrated, so wounded. Unlike my mother, my tears were silent. I folded my phone shut and placed it on my lap and shook with sadness. My boyfriend placed his hand on my knee. I just couldn’t do it. I couldn’t hear those crushing words at that moment. I pulled myself together, wiped my tears away and opened my phone, hoping that my mother would not return my inability with her rage. She answered and her voice was calm and cold. “Sorry, Mom. My phone cut out, “ I said, cringing. “Well, I will talk with you later,” she said. She hung up.<br /><br />I closed my phone and sat silently, thinking. There was always a possibility of my mother slipping into suicidal thoughts. Every once in a while, however, she’d experience larger, more frightening episodes during which her suicidal tendencies were more serious and pronounced. It had been years since one of these episodes, so it surprised me slightly. I guess it shouldn’t have. I should’ve known that it was about time for another one but I had watched my mother’s doctors slowly wean her off of her anti-depressants the previous fall, much to my surprise. I expected the sky to fall, but she did fairly well. I was very hopeful, being that this was the first time in over two decades that my mother had been taken off of all psychological-related medication. I realized that my hopes were premature as we drove along.<br /><br />How quickly a lovely morning turned dark and cold. I was calm now and silent. I couldn’t cry. I couldn’t speak. I did not want to weather another storm. As we drove along, I did what I could to shift my thinking back to our day. I would undoubtedly worry about my mother. I would call her again before the day was over to try to persuade her to go to the hospital. But at this moment, I did what I could to swallow hard, wipe away the tears and return to my life.<br /><br />I find it difficult to return to my life when I’m in the midst of a family crisis, yet it’s a vital necessity, nonetheless. It is the natural reaction of a caregiver to attempt to swoop in, take action, coordinate and organize a response to any given situation. But I’ve learned that I cannot fix my mother. I’ve tried many times to pick up her pieces. I finally knew that at that moment, I could do nothing. That realization is scary and uncomfortable. I struggled to normalize my thoughts and bring my mind back to the car in which I rode. I placed my hand on my boyfriend’s leg and laid my head on his shoulder. Within the hour I walked down the street, hand in hand with my boyfriend, once again feeling the sun on my face. I laughed at a joke and didn’t feel guilty. I smiled and did not reproach myself for doing it.<br /><br />Finding ways to integrate chaotic situations into a newly calm life is difficult. I’m finding the more often I do it, however, the easier it gets.Emilyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00060501961768088247noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8884131199194627763.post-91082755431185814732008-03-28T23:01:00.000-07:002008-03-28T13:02:23.518-07:00SisterI am furious with you.<br /><br />You did something to me that was unspeakable. You did something that was wrong in every way imaginable. You were my sister. How could you violate my trust in that way?<br />The one and only time in my life that I had enough courage to speak to you of what you did, you dismissed my words with furious certainty. You lied, you said you hadn’t done a thing, you blamed me and you shamed me. You told me that if anyone heard that claim come from my mouth, they would know that I was a sick, disturbed little girl.<br /><br />To cover up your greatest sin – you broke me. You made sure that I was broken down enough to blame myself. You made sure that your words had forced me to feel your guilt towards myself. It worked. Every effort you made to squash my strength as well as any possibility of me healing from what you did, paid off.<br /><br />No more. I will no longer blame myself for the evil that lives within you. I have fed into your guilt, shame and pain for years. I am too beautiful of a person to be bogged down by the forces of a pedophile.<br /><br />On top of everything, you openly express your anger towards me – me. I’ve lived with your mistakes for years, yet you think you have a reason to be angry with me. What world do you live on? We have the same genes, I’m sickened to say, yet I didn’t grow up to be sick and twisted like you, thank God. How did you become so out of touch with reality?<br /><br />In your reality, you apparently have a right to be mad at the world. You parents got a divorce, you grew up with a chronically suicidal mother, your brother’s an alcoholic. Guess what? My parents got a divorce too, my mother was constantly threatening to off herself despite my constant pleas with her. My brother, who I spent years caring for, is hopelessly alcoholic as well. I’ve been through just as much as you have. And in the real reality of the world, I’ve been through much more than you have.<br /><br />You are so self-centered. I truly wonder how my nephews came from you. I’m furious with you for being a terrible mother to my beautiful nephews. I’m infuriated that you’ve given them a life as tumultuous as ours was. In your life, it’s not about your children it’s about you. Are you comfortable, are you angry, are you getting what you want? Your self-absorption makes me sick. You’ve become much worse than our mother ever was.<br /><br />And now you’re mad at me. It must be nice to throw caution to the wind and indulge in infantile emotions that are borne from your own guilt. You’re angry with me because I refuse to play the game any more. I’ve spent years participating in polite conversations with you, so as to not disturb our family members and primarily, my nephews. I’ve helped you raise my nephews, I’ve quieted my own disgust. I pushed my memories of your sin so far back into my consciousness that they would only surface at night, when I attempted to sleep. I can no longer do it. I will no longer pretend that you didn’t shatter a very important part of my innocence and trust. You were my sister. How could you do it? And how could you work so hard to make me believe that it was my fault? You’re angry with me because I will no longer pretend. I refuse. This refusal makes you feel guilty. Somewhere deep inside you, you know what you did. Having to face the smallest morsel of guilt makes you feel irate.<br /><br />Stew in that anger, stew in that guilt. You no longer have a part in my life. I will do whatever is needed to keep the strongest possible link with my nephews but you no longer exist. I now classify you how I should have always classified you – as a sick, self-centered and sad creature. And I don’t allow sick, self-centered, sad creatures into my life.Emilyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00060501961768088247noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8884131199194627763.post-45695134411358036722007-12-27T23:30:00.000-08:002007-12-27T13:30:48.638-08:00My Brother II.“Barry, you’re going to be home tonight, right? Okay…..I just ask because you know I can’t stay there overnight and Mom needs someone to be with her. Okay, thanks. Oh and Barry? Can you try to come straight from work if possible?....Sorry, I just mean so she’ll have someone with her. I’m not telling you what to do. I’m asking if you’d mind… Okay. Bye”<br /><br />I hung up my cell phone. I sat in my mother’s hospital room, watching her hands twitch every so often. I now lived in Boston but flew back home to care for my mother after her surgery. I had brought her in for the surgery and eagerly waited for her to awaken. I looked at my watch. It’s been 9 hours since she was brought into the recovery room. “I don’t think you’ll be able to get her into the car yourself,” the nurse says to me. “Let’s wait a few more hours until she’s a bit more awake.” The doctors had told me that my mother should not be alone for the first 48 hours following her surgery. A few hours later I was assisting my mother out of the wheel chair and into the car. The nurse had shown me how to tend to her wounds, something that needed to be done every four hours.<br /><br />I got my mother home, into the upright position she was to assume for the next few days and tried to get her to eat a little something. By this time it was already 11:00pm and no sign of my brother. I began to get nervous as I didn’t think I could spend the entire night at my mother’s house. I was very allergic to my mother’s dog and found it impossible to sleep in her house. I was now on my 20th hour awake and worried that my constant sneezing and coughing would wake my mother or worse – make her sick in some way.<br /><br />My brother was now 31 years old. He lived with my mother, which is why I thought it would be easier for him to come home and look after her long enough for me to go back to my hotel to sleep for a few hours. As I feared, however, it was impossible to get my brother to come straight home from work. Without fail, each night my brother would take his spot on the barstool at his favorite bar. My brother’s self pity and ability to point the finger at all others in his life, made it possible for him to create his own, comfortable world. Throughout his teens, with the steadfast help of his beloved drink, he slowly and methodically built his own world around him. Either you were allowed into his world and had to live by his rules or you were exiled. I love my brother very much and did what I could to stay in his life. I stayed away from topics that angered him. I tried to show him as much love and support as I could and hoped that he would move past this self-indulgent phase. When he complained, I consoled. When he got into trouble, I bailed him out. I still saw that spark in him that had made me so proud to be his sister. I still saw the person I grew up with. My brother failed to graduate high school. He had one child who he no longer saw or supported. Throughout his 20s, he held down various positions as his alcoholism grew immeasurably. He slowly deteriorated. It became rare for me to see my brother sober by the time he’d turned 30.<br /><br />By this time, I knew all too well how lost my brother was. I still hadn’t thought, however, that he wouldn’t be able to care for his mother after her surgery for one night. One night of no drinking. One night of coming home to the mother who’d allowed him to stay, rent-free, in her home. One night of lying beside her so I can get some sleep before returning to the house to care for her. It was 3:00 AM when my nose began to bleed. My body was reacting to hours of allergic reactions. I grabbed a pillow and went out to my car. It was the only way I could think of getting some relief. I set the alarm on my cell phone for two hours, so I could check on my mother. I held the tissues to my nose as one angry tear ran down my cheek. ‘This is not who he is,’ I thought. ‘I cannot have a brother like this.’Emilyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00060501961768088247noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8884131199194627763.post-63434614224539956742007-12-17T07:46:00.000-08:002007-12-17T08:46:54.075-08:00My BrotherWhen I was a young girl, I looked up to my brother. He was ten years older than I - enough of an age gap for him to feel like an authority figure to me. My brother was extremely intelligent. He had a naturally witty and in-depth view of the world, albeit usually cynical. He believed so strongly in his opinions and I admired that. Throughout my childhood, I was extremely close to my brother. He was the closest thing to a father figure that I had. He taught me how to play baseball and football. He would furrow his brow as he leaned over to adjust the positioning of the baseball bat in my hands. We stood in the street in front of our home, my brother pitching to me.<br /><br />At times his temper would flare, as when I couldn’t catch on to a change he wanted me to make in my swing. But, for the most part, I truly liked these lessons. I enjoyed the attention he gave me. I enjoyed feeling the pride he had in me each time I’d crush the ball. I looked up to my brother. I was proud that he was my brother.<br /><br />As he began high school, the volume of calls and visits to our home by his female classmates rose greatly. He was the guy that girls wanted to date; he was the guy that other guys wanted to be friends with. He was social, athletic, outgoing, often eloquent and his looks didn’t hurt his chances with the ladies either.<br /><br />My brother had just turned sixteen the first time I remember him coming home drunk. I was in my bed when I heard my brother trying to make his way into the living room from the front porch. I could hear my mother call out to him from her own room, “Barry, is that you?” My brother tried to control the tone of his voice the best he could, “Yes, Mom. Goodnight.” A few seconds later, I heard a loud thud. “Barry!” my mother called from her room, “what was that?” “Uhhhh, I stepped on Emmy’s shoe,” my brother grunted. Soon, the sound of my brother’s staggering feet faded as he was finally able to make his way to his room. By the morning, my brother was back to being my brother. “Hey kiddo” he said to me while walking into the kitchen as I readied my cereal. He patted my head before grabbing the milk from the fridge. I didn’t really know what to think. I knew that drinking was bad, but at the age of six I really didn’t realize the dangerous road that my brother had started speeding down.<br /><br />By the time I was nine, I had learned that my brother’s habits were damaging him. My brother’s temper slowly escalated. Our time together dwindled as he often spent most summer days in bed, recovering from his hangovers. My memory is drawn to one summer day in particular. I opened the front door to get the mail. Our family dog spotted a squirrel in our front yard and dashed past me before I could grab her. Our dog was rather large and weighed more than I did at this point. She dashed into our neighbor’s yard, racing after the squirrel while knocking over the neighbor’s potted plants. Our neighbor hated dogs and had seen our dog in his yard one too many times. He snapped. “Kid! You get that dog out of my yard right now or I swear to you I will shoot that dog dead! I’m sick of this!” I raced after the dog in his yard, but my efforts were fruitless. The dog was much faster and bigger than I. My neighbor retreated to his house while yelling, “That is it!” My eyes widened; I turned back and sprinted into my own home. I dashed into my brother’s bedroom, yelling, “Barry!”<br /><br />My brother’s bedroom had the stench of alcohol-clogged pores, of beer soaked clothing. My brother was in his bed, motionless. I ran to him and shook his shoulder. “Barry! Help me! That crazy guy on the corner is going to shoot our dog! Barry?” I shook my brother’s shoulder again. He did not respond. The dark circles under his eyes accompanied by the pale skin of his face made him appear dead. “Barry?!” I lifted my hands from my brother’s shoulders and placed them on my mouth. ‘Oh my God,’ I thought. ‘He’s dead.’<br /><br />My first, most prominent thought was wondering how I’d be able to tell my mother that her first born and only son was gone. I dropped to my knees. ‘Oh my God.’ ‘No, what am I going to do?’ The seconds felt like hours. Just then, my brother’s chest suddenly raised and he coughed. I stumbled to his bed side. “Barry?” My brother still would not wake, but now I could see his chest rise and fall. I lowered my ear to his mouth. I could barely hear his breathing, but it was there.<br /><br />Little did I know, this would not be the first time I would fear the death of my brother at the hands of the alcohol he clung so tightly to.Emilyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00060501961768088247noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8884131199194627763.post-48860821530213652072007-10-15T07:57:00.000-07:002007-10-16T08:15:43.266-07:00Starting OverI’ve experienced many highs and lows, many ups and downs in the past year. I’ve accepted that these highs and lows are all part of the healing process. Now, however, I find myself becoming weary of these fluctuations. I feel myself growing more and more impatient to finally get to a point where I’m at peace with myself and my life. I’ve suggested to my boyfriend in the past that in order to get past the ups and downs within our own relationship, we should try wiping the slate clean and starting over. The more I think of that idea, the more I realize that it won’t work to start over in any part of my life unless I am completely willing to allow myself to do so.<br /><br />I realize that I am the only person holding myself back from starting over, from beginning a new life. In order to start over, I must forgive myself genuinely and wholly for every mistake I’ve made. I must release myself from the life I was born into. My experiences do not define who I am. I am not dirty simply because someone with a filthy soul forced themselves onto me. Their transgressions do not transfer into me. I am not imbalanced simply because I grew up in an imbalanced environment. I am not unwanted simply because those I loved abandoned me. I do not deserve to be hit simply because someone else felt that I did, in fact, deserve it. I’ve blamed myself for much of what people have done to me. Now is the time to forgive myself. Now is the time to place blame where is it rightly deserved.<br /><br />My life is waiting for me. I’m tired of wasting time blaming myself for my past, rather than planning a successful future. I’m an adult now and in control of my own life. It is now my responsibility to treat myself with care and to build a healthy environment for myself, regardless of if I had one growing up. It is my responsibility to shut out those unhealthy, abusive influences and to welcome those I can trust.<br /><br />I refuse to live in self doubt and self pity. After grieving traumas fully, one must make that last step into starting over and building a healthy, complete life. Those who are not able to move on from their grieving may become stuck in the past. They may even feel too sorry for themselves to move on. I’ve known people like this. I refuse to become stuck in the past. Why would I want to mentally dwell in such a dark place? I’ve worked at grieving enough to overcome the past. Now, I feel that I am ready and more than willing to start over.<br /><br /><br />There is an adage, “Today is the first day of the rest of your life.” Corny? Perhaps. I do, however, find this saying particularly appropriate for any recovering trauma survivor. Give yourself the permission to start over. Give yourself the ability to let go of the past. You can’t forget it (nor should you dismiss the lessons you’ve learned from it) but you can release yourself from its destructive grasp.Emilyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00060501961768088247noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8884131199194627763.post-25958197551008461642007-10-11T08:48:00.000-07:002007-10-11T08:54:08.436-07:00When to give up on loveYesterday I awoke after getting about two hours of sleep the night before. I awoke knowing that this would be the day I would find out if Matt Bryant had been released from prison. I had already called the Victim’s Services line once that morning, on the off chance that their office was already open. I got to work and sat at my desk, staring ahead of me. I called the office again. The representative told me the decision had not downloaded into their system yet. She would call me when it does, she said. I began typing, my hands shaking. My head was throbbing although I didn’t want to take an aspirin since I hadn’t been able to eat anything yet. My mind focused solely on the verdict of the parole board. I placed my cell phone on my desk in front of me and peered at it every few minutes. Every once in a while, I’d pick my cell phone up and look at it to see if I’d missed a call. My anxiety rolled around in my stomach. Around 1:00PM, I began absent-mindedly tapping my leg in anticipation of getting the call. My cell phone rang. I seized my phone quickly. It was the representative. She told me that the board had decided to defer parole for 6 months. My initial reaction was thankful relief. “Is six months a normal deferral period?” I asked. “Isn’t it usually a year or two?” “That’s true,” she said. “You have to keep mind that he’s in a transitional facility. They usually start lowering deferral times when someone is coming to the end of their stay. Also keep in mind that the prisons are at capacity.” I thanked the woman for calling and hung up. While I was utterly relieved that Matt would not be released now, I have to admit I was also disappointed that his next parole hearing will be so soon.<br /><br />I met my boyfriend on the subway while heading home from work. I gave him a big bear hug. I was so relieved that I could just relax with him now. I wouldn’t be the bundle of nerves that I had been that morning. I thoroughly looked forward to returning home with him and relaxing. I needed so badly to be comforted and calm. We returned home, each took a couch and settled in to relax in front of the television. Soon, we left to walk to the convenience store. While we walked, I began asking my boyfriend why he wasn’t talking. I wasn’t trying to nag him, although it could have felt that way to him, I suspect. I just so wanted someone to talk with and hold hands with after this difficult day. Our conversation slowly escalated. My boyfriend felt attacked and nagged. I felt neglected. From there, I believe our minds split off into their own worlds. We returned home. We yelled, I cried. My boyfriend told me he didn’t want to be with me anymore. I realized this was quickly becoming the worst day of my life.<br /><br />My treatment for trauma has forced me to finally process and grieve the various traumas that have occurred in my life. This process includes delving into these experiences and feeling them. This could not possibly be easy for my boyfriend to watch. I know that no one wants to live with someone who’s experiencing pain. The anger I had has largely melted into sadness. I feel guilty that I’m often sad in front of my boyfriend. At the same time, I think it’s necessary in order to process these things and move past them. It’s getting better, though. I see and feel improvements on a daily basis. Even so, this process has affected our relationship. We’ve also had to deal with other external negative influences.<br /><br />Going on this alone, I would probably agree that my boyfriend and I should part ways. My disagreement, however, comes from the fact that I have a strong feeling that my boyfriend and I are just now getting into a position in both our lives where we’ll finally have the ability to tackle the issues we have and work through them. I’m getting further and further in my therapy. We’ve identified exactly what it is we need to work on. I have a very difficult time giving up on us at this juncture. Of course, this wouldn’t be an issue if I didn’t love my boyfriend. I love him incredibly. I know who he really is. I know how incredible of a person he is. I trust him. He trusts me. We’ve been through many difficult times together. We’ve also had many happy times together. I guess my question is – when do you part ways with someone you’re in love with? Someone who’s also in love with you? Someone who you share the same morals, values, sense of humor, religious experiences and so many other areas of life with? When do you decide to throw in the towel on someone you could still see as your husband one day – after time, after working through those few issues?Emilyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00060501961768088247noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8884131199194627763.post-23380326630431475622007-09-28T19:58:00.000-07:002007-09-28T13:59:03.101-07:00Conquering FearLast weekend, I was lying on the couch watching the movie, “Defending Your Life” (1991). The movie is about a man who dies after being in a car accident and goes to Judgment City, a waiting room for the afterlife. During the day, he must prove in a courtroom-style process that he successfully overcame his fears while living on Earth, in order to move on to a higher existence. This movie made me think about the effects of fear on every day life.<br /><br />I have recently felt like I am in a deadlock in life. I’ve felt as though I’m in a middle ground – I’m no longer in the unhealthy environment in which I grew up. I no longer wish to escape through an eating disorder or nights of drinking with friends. I wish to move on to the next stage of my life. Something has been preventing me from doing that, however. I’ve therefore felt, lately, as though I’ve been stuck in between stages of my life, unable to fully move onward. I began to wonder how much fear had to do with my impasse. The more I thought about it, the more I realized that fear is the reason why I’ve been stuck.<br /><br />I’m afraid that I’ll fail at being a good wife and mother. I’m afraid I’ll fail to make those I love proud. I’m afraid that I’m ‘damaged goods.’ I fear that I won’t ever view myself in as positive a light as I deserve. I’m afraid that I’m so unused to being happy that I won’t know how to do it - how to be comfortable in the tranquil and quiet space that is happiness. <br /><br />How do I overcome this fear? The first idea that comes to mind is to trust myself. At this time, I second-guess myself. I doubt my strength and reason. I think this contributes to my fear. I must remind myself, instead, that I have reason to trust myself. I have shown that I am able to successfully survive a gravely unhealthy environment. I’ve kept myself alive. I’ve endured much and have survived much. I’m not perfect in any way, shape or form – but I have endured my past and have come out of it as a generally caring, decent and good person. I should trust myself because I have proven to myself that I am more than trustworthy.<br /><br />After thinking further about conquering fear, I decided that in order to conquer the fear that is causing this stalemate in my life; I’ll need to learn how to care about myself. There is the cliché “Learn to love yourself.” While it is somewhat corny, I find it to be true. I also find it to be a very difficult task for me to master. If I could be as affectionate and fond of myself as I am to those I love, I doubt my fear would have such a grip over me. If I liked myself more, I wouldn’t fear making mistakes. I would think, “I’ve made mistakes in my life. I’ll make more of them before I die. That’s because I’m a person. It’s okay. I’ll succeed as well. Whether I succeed or fail, I’ll still be a good person and I’ll still be worthy. I accept all of me, the good and the bad.”Emilyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00060501961768088247noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8884131199194627763.post-35849013668518494722007-09-24T20:09:00.000-07:002007-09-24T12:09:53.087-07:00EscapeShortly before my graduation from high school, I had received news that I had been accepted into each university I had applied to, save one. I had also been offered a scholarship, although the scholarship wasn’t enough to carry me through college. I was reassured by my financial advisor that I could get enough federal assistance to get me through college – as long as my mother submitted forms proving her income status (and, therefore, proving my need for assistance). I carefully filled out each of the federal assistance forms. I checked and double checked each box carefully to make sure everything was filled our correctly. The only portion left was the one in which my mother had to sign in order to declare her income. I brought the forms to my mother and showed her the section she would need to complete. She looked at the form and rolled her eyes. “I’ll take it with me to work so I can get the income forms,” she said. “Okay, Mom. Its due in three weeks so I wanted to mail it by the end of this week so I can be sure it gets there in plenty of time.” “I’ll mail it, Emily,” my mother said sternly. My mother had grown increasingly agitated as the time for my departure to college drew closer. “I know how to mail things Emily,” she said, before slamming the front door. At the end of the week, I asked my mother if she had mailed the forms. She told me that she had.<br /><br />About six weeks later, I received a notice in the mail telling me that I had not been approved for any funding this year and that I was free to re-apply next year. My hands began to shake. I ran to the phone and dialed the number. I hurriedly explained to the woman on the other end why I was calling. She asked me to calm down so that she could understand me. I told her there must have been a mistake. She accessed my file while on the line and told me that they had received the forms over a week late. “But there has to be someway we can work this out! I’m leaving for college in a few weeks!” I said. “I’m sorry,” the woman said. “The form wasn’t even signed by your mother. We called the number she gave us several times to no avail. It’s just too late. You’ve missed the deadline – that money has been allocated to others now.”<br /><br />An hour later, I was still sitting in the same spot, staring at the wall in my living room. I had not moved. I should have done it myself. This is all my fault, I thought. I shouldn’t have trusted her to mail it in. All of my hard work - what am I going to do? I have no money. I have no where to live in Boston – my federal assistance would have paid for my dorm room. How could my future be falling apart so soon? What will my friends say? I was one of my high school’s best students – how could I be without a college to attend in the fall?<br /><br />A few weeks later, I packed every possession I could fit into my car. I hugged my mother goodbye and began to drive. As I pulled onto the highway outside of my hometown, I was full of uncertainty. I had $1,259.00 to my name. I had no job. I didn’t have daddy’s credit card. I had no where to live, yet I was leaving. I took a deep breath and tightened my grip on the steering wheel as I drove – I doubted my future, my stability, my safety. I was scared. One thing I knew was that I had to leave – I had to escape the life I had, no matter how difficult it was to survive alone or how hard my family members tried to stop me.Emilyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00060501961768088247noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8884131199194627763.post-1751855133673539582007-09-12T07:05:00.000-07:002007-09-12T12:26:42.305-07:00Impact StatementA few days ago, I sealed my envelope addressed to the Department of Corrections, held it to my heart for good luck, then placed it in the mailbox. About one month before, I had received a notice from the state, alerting me to the fact that Matthew Bryant was coming up for parole soon. I had the option of writing an impact statement, they said, for the parole board to read. The hearing is scheduled for October 9th, the Victims Services representative told me. “So just call us on October 10th and we’ll be able to tell you if they’ve decided to release him,” she said. Just like that, I thought. One phone call and you’ll be able to tell me if a monster is allowed to be free again; if he’s allowed to be with his family, fall in love, have children, watch a sunset.<br /><br />This notice came shortly after the 12 year anniversary of Ericha’s death, as well as weeks after I’d begun to dig through my memories of Ericha’s murder in my therapy sessions. I felt a bit overwhelmed. I didn’t want to have to deal with the possibility of one of Ericha’s murderers being released now. I feared that my emotions regarding this topic were too raw now to be able to deal with that possibility. I put off writing the impact statement until the approaching parole hearing date made it necessary to push myself to complete the statement.<br /><br />I felt that I had to participate in some way. I felt that I had to keep Ericha’s memory alive in whatever way I could, including in the minds of the parole board members who’d be meeting with Matthew in a few weeks. Matt had been sentenced to 23 years in prison for his role in Ericha’s death. He has served 10 years of his sentence. Sure, 10 years is more than the minimum. But to me – it’s not enough. He owes Ericha more than 10 years. He owes me more than 10 years. He owes my family more than 10 years. He owes the world more than 10 years for brutally taking away one of its most beautiful souls.Emilyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00060501961768088247noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8884131199194627763.post-15266234851488465802007-09-08T16:05:00.000-07:002007-09-07T16:06:00.324-07:00Secure of ChangeSo far, I had been pleasantly surprised by the tranquility of my visit home. While my family members seemed to still possess a general melancholy, they did not display any open hostility towards me.<br /><br />My boyfriend and I awoke early so I could have enough time to drive up to Ericha’s grave. It had been years since I had visited Ericha’s grave. The morning was sunny and warm, the breeze was fresh and the car radio was humming. As my boyfriend and I made our way down various country roads, I thought about how lovely this morning was, how peaceful it was. The closer we got to the cemetery, the more I wished that I could share a beautiful morning like this with Ericha. I wondered if Ericha was able to still experience beautiful things, where ever she was. Perhaps she has seen things much more beautiful than anything I could imagine. I hoped this was true as I pulled over to park alongside the cemetery.<br /><br />Although it had been years, the cemetery had been secure of change. The rows of tombstones were laid out just as I had remembered them. My boyfriend and I reached Ericha’s plot. I knelt down to wipe the grass shavings from her stone. There her name was. I gently placed the roses next to her stone. I began to wipe and dust the trinkets at her gravesite with my hands as they had collected dirt and grass shavings as well. I wiped the porcelain angel with my hands. The breeze on the hillside grew stronger. I slowly and methodically groomed her gravesite. Gently and deliberately, I brushed away more small blades of grass. I weeded the earth in front of the stone. The sea shells I had placed at her grave when I was 13 years old were still there. After I had groomed the gravesite to my satisfaction, I sat staring at it. “I miss you,” I said, my hand resting on the stone. I crossed my legs in front of the stone and prayed. In this sad yet peaceful place, I prayed that Ericha would know that I will always remember her. I prayed that she was in a place that was as beautiful as her soul and as tranquil as she deserved it to be.<br /><br />I looked down at her grave stone. It was so real, so final. I had come to visit Ericha, but realized that she wasn’t there. The wind dropped off and the cemetery grew quiet. She’s okay now, I thought. I kissed my hand and placed it on the stone. “Goodbye.”Emilyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00060501961768088247noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8884131199194627763.post-48251701959470819972007-09-07T07:40:00.000-07:002007-09-07T09:50:37.050-07:00Going HomeAbout two weeks ago, I left another session with Sara thinking about my upcoming trip back to my hometown. It was normal for me to become somewhat anxious each time I went to visit, but this would be my first trip home since seeking treatment for all of the traumas that occurred during my childhood. This would be the first time I would see my family since picking at the scabs of my childhood and adolescence. I didn’t look forward to the possibility of a guilt trip, of sitting at the dinner table with the family member who had molested me throughout childhood, of having to feel the terrible pangs in my stomach when it came time for me to leave my nephews at the end of the trip. Needless to say, I was glad I would see my family yet cautiously holding my breath to see what my visit would hold.<br /><br />My boyfriend and I arrived to my hometown, rented a car and headed to our hotel. I began staying at hotels during college, when I found that it was too difficult to stay with any member of my family. My boyfriend and I had just reached our hotel room when I received an excited phone call from my youngest nephew, who is now 11 years old. “Are you ready to go swimming, Emmy?” “Um…yes honey, it will just take us a little bit to get settled in,” I said. “Okay! Grandma and I will be over in a few minutes,” my nephew said excitedly, then hung up. My mother and boyfriend sat poolside and watched as my nephew and I played, frolicked and laughed at each other in the pool. It felt truly great to be with my nephew again, to be able to hold him and play with him. It was so good to hear his laugh.<br /><br />A few hours later my boyfriend, mother, nephew and I settled into a table at a restaurant to have dinner. I was able to get a good look at my mother. It had been almost a year since I had seen my family. As I looked at my mother I thought of how much she had aged. She didn’t look like she was in very good health, her hair had gone completely gray, her belly had grown a bit, and her cheeks were a bright pink, perhaps from her blood pressure. Her high round cheekbones were still as I remembered them – showcased any time she smiled. She still has such a pretty smile, I thought to myself. This dinner was the calm dinner I had wanted and needed.<br /><br />It had taken my mother years of outbursts and dramatic visits during my college years for her to be able to be calmer during my visits. I was used to my mother being angry and distant each time I’d visit during the first day or two of my trip. Then, sometimes, by the middle of my trip she’d break out of her anger and spend a calm day with me. Soon, my mother would realize my visit would soon be ending and would swing back into her angry repertoire of guilt trips.<br /><br />As I sat at this dinner, I thought about how much easier this night was. Perhaps it was time or age. Perhaps it was the fact that I’ve distanced myself enough that she has no choice but to view my life as separate from hers. Perhaps it was the fact that my boyfriend was present and she could not out number me or treat me rudely in front of him. Whatever it was, this trip was different, I thought.<br /><br />The next morning, my boyfriend was teaching my nephew the basics of soccer at a school soccer field when my mother asked me if we’d have any time to talk during this trip. I told my mother that our trip was pretty full but we could talk now if she wanted. My mother and I sat on the school step overlooking the soccer field.<br /><br />“How is your therapy sessions going?” my mother asked. “They’re good,” I said. “There have already been a lot of changes in my life, but I’m still working on moving forward.” My mother began to speak about my childhood. She began to speak of the fact that I had been through so much at such a young age. She said that since every other person in the family was acting out because of the chaos, I must have felt that I needed to be the one in control and the one who had to be prefect. “There was so much pressure on you to carry this family, even though you were the youngest,” she said. “There was so much pressure on you to fix everything and everyone. You couldn’t because no one could.” I nodded my head. “Terrible things happened to you,” she said.<br /><br />Teary-eyed, my mother and I both wiped our faces as we saw my nephew approaching us. “Come on, Emmy! Come play soccer with us!” My nephew reached over and grabbed my wrist. I jumped up from my spot and looked at my mom. She smiled. I turned and walked to the soccer field with my nephew, hand in hand.<br /><br />My mother and I hadn’t gotten quite enough time to talk. But the conversation had started. My mother had validated so many things for me. Perhaps she would change into the other mom in a few days – the mom that would deny that anything was more chaotic than normal during my childhood. But, I would take that mom with a grain of salt and I would decide that this person, sitting on the school steps with me on this summer afternoon, was my real mom.Emilyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00060501961768088247noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8884131199194627763.post-1033910268290144032007-09-04T07:40:00.001-07:002007-09-06T08:51:38.141-07:00LunchMy father suggested we go out for lunch.<br /><br />He had been in town a couple of days, there to witness my graduation from high school. This is one event he would see, so many others he had missed. My father had declared after my birth, the birth of his third child, that he had made a mistake. He didn’t want to be a father. He promptly packed up his belongings and his favorite mistress, to move to a warmer climate; a climate 1500 miles from me. Cello concerts, report cards, awards, school sporting events, proms, highs, lows – he missed them all. He was a distant relative I spoke with on the phone and visited every once in a while. He had his chosen, better life and I had my life – whether I wanted it or not.<br /><br />I had barely spoken to my father the first few days of his trip. He then decided, perhaps to bribe me into speaking, that he would buy me a laptop as a graduation gift. We had finished buying the laptop, yet I wasn’t anymore talkative. So, his suggestion was lunch.<br /><br />We pulled into the parking lot of the restaurant. My stomach somersaulted as my mind began to race with ideas of how to eat lunch without eating lunch. During the past year, I had shed almost 30 lbs from my 5’2” frame. Along with that, I lost energy, hair, my curves that I had loved. As we walked into the restaurant I could see the reflection of my pale, gaunt face in the door of the restaurant.<br /><br />We sat silently at our table, my father shifting uncomfortably in his chair. He waited for me to speak, for me to be polite, for me to make him feel comfortable. I couldn’t. Not anymore. I couldn’t make him feel better about himself. For years I wondered what was wrong with me. How could he leave so easily? Why wasn’t I enough for him? Why did he have to move all the way across the country? Was I that uninteresting? Was I that plain? Why didn’t he love me?<br /><br />It was inappropriate to display anger in my family – it would upset my mother. No – it was much more acceptable to walk on eggshells. So I learned. I learned to stuff it so I could take care of my family in the absence of my father. I learned to stuff so I wouldn’t be selfishly consumed with anger. My years of stuffing had done a number on my body. Finally, when I couldn’t stuff the anger anymore, it began to show up in other ways, like my eating (or lack there of). I thought it selfish to direct my anger outward – so I directed it at myself – and took it out on my body.<br /><br />I decided a few weeks before my father came to visit, that I would tell him about my eating disorder. I worked up all the courage I could while on the phone with him one night. After all, it’s not appropriate to talk openly of uncomfortable subjects in my family. I danced around the topic for nearly half an hour. Finally, as my father began to end the conversation, I was forced to tell. I spoke slowly, pacing around my room. My head started to pound. I was going to do it – I was going to trust him. “Well Dad, what I’m trying to say is, I…I …well, I have an eating disorder.” I waited, holding my breath. Silence. Finally, an eternity later my father said, “Mmm.” I waited another moment. Nothing. I waited a few more moments. I made sure he was done speaking after his grunt of an answer. I said, “Well, I have to go. (pause) bye.” I was mortified, embarrassed, enraged, saddened. Why did he not care? Why does he not love me enough to be concerned. “Mmm.” Nothing more.<br /><br />When my father first arrived into town for graduation and saw me, 30 lbs lighter, he said nothing. That's not quite true, he did say one thing when he looked at me - "Yeesh, you need to get to a tanning booth."<br /><br />There we were sitting, my father waiting for me to speak. He started with small talk. I nodded my answers, looking out of the window as he spoke. He stopped. I began to think silently. I thought about the fact that my father and I had never had an open and honest discussion in my lifetime.<br /><br />My father ended his story of his recent visit to see my uncle. I nodded my head and looked down at the table. He cleared his throat. “You know. This problem you have. Well, I think I might know a little bit about it. You see, I’ve never told you this, but I’m pretty hard on myself. I’m pretty much a perfectionist. That’s okay to a certain extent, but it has really disrupted my life. As I was working my way up the career ladder, I received many different awards. At the end of each month, I’d throw another plaque onto the floor of my closet. I only notice when I don’t get an award at the end of the month. And I obsess over not getting one. I ask myself why I’m so terrible at my job.”<br /><br />My father went on to say that maybe I got my need for perfection from him. I thought for a moment, paused, then began talking. While I didn’t think the roots of our problems were the same, I appreciated my father’s candor. Finally, candor. I tried to explain my disease to him, as well as someone can who is on one side of an almost incomprehensible disease. I spoke of suppressed feelings. I spoke of subconsciously forcing myself to be the size of a child, because I so wanted to be in a child’s role at least once in my life.<br /><br />My father listened, his forehead wrinkled, trying to grasp my explanation. I knew he would never fully be able to understand it, but it warmed my heart to know that he was trying to.<br />Then, my father did something I’ll never forget. He cleared his throat and looked up at me. Teary eyed, he said, “You know….I left you. I picked up and left. You and your brother and your sister.” He wiped his nose with his napkin. “That must have affected you greatly. That must have been very hard for you. “He paused to compose himself. “I’m sorry.” Tears rolled down his cheeks and mine. I reached over and placed my hand atop his. “It’s okay, Dad.”<br /><br />It was not okay. It wasn’t the best response, but it was the only one I could muster at that moment. I marveled at the apology I had never thought I would receive.Emilyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00060501961768088247noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8884131199194627763.post-45389300623877972222007-09-04T07:40:00.000-07:002007-09-04T13:41:26.426-07:00One Step Forward, Two Steps BackI dove into high school head first, certain that I would maintain good enough grades to earn a scholarship large enough to shuttle me out of my home town for good. I made friends and participated in various extra curricular activities. I began logging hours of community service.<br /><br />Midway through high school, I became active in local politics. I was later asked to join a national campaign as an intern. I left school each day and headed straight for the campaign office, where I’d work until the wee hours of the morning. I stopped during the dinner hour to do my school homework. Although I got very little sleep, I was more than thankful for the campaigning experience. I felt as though I had found something I was naturally good at, as well as something that seemed to make a difference. I felt like I was part of something bigger than myself. I was surrounded by people who wanted to make changes in our country for the better. This goal was refreshingly unselfish to me. The campaign office became my home. Daily, I felt the excitement of the campaign trail. Daily, I listened to the stories of regular, middle class Americans. I listened to their needs, their regrets and their dreams. I worked harder than I had ever worked on the campaign. I had never been able to work so hard on such little sleep in my life. There is a wonderful mix of audacity, energy, adrenalin and hope that exists on a campaign trail that I have never seen in any other job setting to this day. This mix some how made our tightly-woven campaign team push through sickness, lethargy and a rollercoaster of emotions each day. The campaign allowed me to do something that I quickly came to love. It advanced my self confidence and made me feel as if I had more purpose in the world.<br /><br />After the campaign came to an end, I re-focused my energy on high school. I felt as though I was going backwards as l re-joined my school. I felt that I had experienced and had learned so much on the campaign that I wasn’t able to use on a day to day basis. I decided I would work as hard as I could to finish high school as soon as possible, in order to move onto college.<br /><br />About one year later, I began to develop an eating disorder. I didn’t really understand why I was doing what I was doing. Nevertheless, I started eating less and less each day. I routinely told my mother I had already eaten dinner, when I had not eaten anything at all during the day. I would purge the small amount of food I ate during the day. My weight slowly dropped as dark circles formed under my eyes. I had a dream one evening that I was sitting in a doctor’s office. The doctor told me, very matter-of-factly, that I was going to die. There was nothing he could do. I awoke in a sweat. The next day, I called my doctor’s office to get a referral for an eating disorders specialist. After everything I had survived, I thought, I refused to die from the eating disorder that had gotten decidedly out of control. I began seeing the eating disorders specialist, while no one in my family had known I had been diagnosed with an eating disorder yet. I began to dig into why I had developed the disorder. For me, the disease was not a result of looking at too many fashion magazines. It was not a result of being overly vain. I believe that when someone or something is preventing a person from expressing their emotions in a normal healthy way, those emotions build up until that person is no longer able to hold them inside. That person inevitably acts out – sometimes by cutting themselves or being promiscuous, sometimes by doing drugs or drinking (as my brother had done). I chose to stop eating. I needed to act out after the years of trauma, but I couldn’t act out towards my family. I felt that would be selfish. I didn’t want to hurt anyone else; therefore, I continued to hurt myself. I unconsciously reduced myself to the size of a child – perhaps because I so badly wanted to be in the role of the child. I so badly wanted someone to take care of me. Making myself sick was the only way I could think of to force those who did not want to be in the adult role, to take care of me. I had lost 20 pounds on my 5’2” frame by the time I told my mother about my eating disorder. She began to cry. “How long have you been seeing this doctor?” “About two months,” I told my mother. “I didn’t even know,” cried my mother. “I’m sorry, Mom,” I said.<br /><br />I fainted several times at school. My doctors told me that my electrolytes were out of order. I experienced heart palpitations and chest pain. Yet, in my mind, I wasn’t thin. One Saturday afternoon my younger nephew was visiting. I was lying on my bed, out of breath when my nephew grabbed my wrist. “Emmy – let’s go to the park!!” “I can’t. Not right now,” I said. “But Emmy, you never take me to the park any more! Please, Emmy.” I placed my feet on the floor and slowly tried to rise from my bed. Suddenly, my vision went black. I grabbed the edge of the bed and sat back down. After my nephew went home, I burrowed my head into my pillow and cried. This had gone too far. I no longer had the strength to take my beautiful nephew to the park. I had to work harder to fight this. I couldn’t let my self-indulgent disorder prevent me from living any longer. I had to set a better, healthier example for my nephews.<br /><br />It took several years and several relapses, but I did find that I was strong enough to overcome this disorder. Even though it is not an active problem in my current life, I am mindful of it, making sure not to relapse again.Emilyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00060501961768088247noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8884131199194627763.post-69398158348428456212007-08-24T07:37:00.000-07:002007-08-24T13:40:34.412-07:00Summer with my boysTime passed after the sentencing of Ericha’s killers. I began to focus on getting into the high school I wanted to attend. I wanted to attend a private Catholic high school that my mother and aunts had attended, not because it was Catholic but because it was seen as the premier college-preparatory school in the area. I took my education very seriously – I saw it as my ticket out of my home state. I wanted a much different life than I had at that time. I wanted freedom from my family. I wanted space. I studied feverishly for the entrance exams of this high school. I would soon find that I had indeed been accepted into this high school. I was also awarded a scholarship. I was elated yet anxious. I wanted to be as successful as possible in high school and wasn’t sure yet if I was up to this new challenge. The summer before my freshman year would be my time to prepare, I decided. I received a summer reading assignment list in the mail and went to it.<br /><br />As that summer began, my sister’s marriage deteriorated rapidly. My sister and her husband split and my sister (as well as my two nephews) moved in with my mother and me. My mother and sister had jobs in the city, which they drove to each day. I did not have my license yet, as I was 14 years old. I was, therefore, confined to our home in our small town. I awoke early each morning to care for my nephews, who at this point were 5 years and 2 years of age. My older nephew had developed emotional problems, possibly from being exposed to the unhealthy marriage of his parents. Both of my nephews had already witnessed bitter fights, sobbing and unstable parents, as well as a lack of adult-like conduct from the adults in their lives. I had already begun to fear that history was repeating itself and my nephews would be hardened by years of fending for themselves in less than appropriate living conditions. I made it my goal to do whatever it was I could to curve that. Because I was the person in their lives that realized the sensitivity of their situation, I felt it was my obligation to be as responsible for them as I could.<br /><br />My five year old nephew had already begun to act out. It was obvious to me that he had learned his parents’ habits of exhibiting anger. He would routinely break into severe tantrums. I would prevent him from hurting his younger brother, therefore, I would routinely receive the brunt of his blows – whether they were from his tiny, angry fist, his shoe or a rock he had picked up in his rage to throw at my head. Some days were better than others. I became the primary caretaker for my nephews. My sister felt the need to live out her teenage years during this time, perhaps because she hadn’t been able to when she was actually a teen. She routinely went straight to the bars with friends after work and that is where she would often stay well into the evening. When my mother returned home from work each day, she went straight to her room. I felt as though I had become a single parent of two boys overnight. I loved each of them more than anything in the world. They were the only two people in my family that had the right to act like children. I struggled to work with my nephew on his tantrums. I talked to him about anger, the fact that anger was okay to experience and the appropriate ways to vent it. I encouraged him to express his feelings through painting – something he loved to do. We worked on this together little by little. Slowly, he improved.<br /><br />While working with my older nephew on his tantrums, I also tried to keep my younger nephew (a toddler) entertained. I worked to keep him on a healthy schedule of meals, naps and exercise. My nephews began to improve and although they were still rambunctious, they also seemed slightly happier.<br /><br />During this summer, I began to experience insomnia. The only time I had for myself was after I got my nephews to bed in the evening. It was during the evening hours that all of my worries regarding my nephews boiled to the surface. I would go to my room, play my music and write about all the things that I worried I would not be able to do for them once the fall arrived and I would have to begin school. In the evening, I worked hard to map out what activities might calm them or what strategy to use to alleviate sibling rivalry. Between the constant hyperactivity of caring for both nephews and my lack of sleep in the evenings, I became more and more exhausted. I felt more and more alone.<br /><br />One thing I was thankful for during this time was the ability to have control over the care of my nephews. I had already developed detailed theories on how to care for children. My ability to control the daily environment of my nephews allowed me to try to protect them from unhealthy influences – anything from anger, fighting and yelling to violent movies or lack of healthy food. I was able to control their environment and provide stability, affection, learning, warmth – all the things I had so often wished for while growing up. Of course, I could not always protect my nephews from all of the negative happenings of our family, but during these summer days, I was thankful to have the opportunity to provide a safe space for them to flourish in, if only for one summer.<br /><br />Of course, my nephews deserved so much more. They deserved to live in a healthy, stable, loving environment around the clock, every single day of every single year. But eventually, my sister reconciled with her husband and moved the boys back in to their home. Before long, their bitter fighting had once again replaced the calm lunch hour the boys and I had during the summer. My older nephew’s severe tantrums replaced the expressive painting time that I had set aside for him.<br /><br />Shortly before my sister and nephews moved out of our home, I began high school. While I was ready to focus on my new school and attempt to make friends, I also felt the guilt of no longer caring for my nephews on a daily basis. I did not have a choice and I certainly would not have been able to still care for them during the day if I wanted to attend high school, yet the guilt was still there. I had lost that daily control I had over their environment. I was still actively involved in my nephews’ lives and saw each of them several times a week as I had in the past, but now – my worries over their childhood experiences grew. I feared they would continue to grow up too quickly, too harshly. I struggled with these fears as I readied myself to begin my high school education.Emilyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00060501961768088247noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8884131199194627763.post-53998609883468732152007-08-22T19:10:00.000-07:002007-08-22T14:39:27.086-07:00Not good enoughI returned to Sara's office for another session. Our last session had been particulary stressful, as I was recounting the details surrounding Ericha's death to Sara.<br /><br />During today's session, we revisited the ideas I had formed about myself throughout childhood. I had decidedly formed some pretty negative opinions about myself, which had made adult life difficult. At times in the recent past, I had been certain that any partner I had, secretly didn't want to be with me and would eventually leave. I thought that it was pure luck to land a decent job, rather than hard work. If a stranger bumped into me without excusing themselves, it must be because they didn't like me, I had thought. I paused during my session, pensive. How have I allowed myself to view myself in this way for so long? I would <em>never</em> treat a friend or family member this way - so why was it okay to put myself down? I began to think of the past.<br />____________________________________________________________<br /><br /><br />Why am I not good enough?<br /><br />I couldn’t fix my mother. I couldn’t make her happy. No matter what I did, I couldn’t make her happy. I began to think, if she really loved me, she wouldn’t wish so often for death. If I was enough for her, she wouldn’t want to leave me behind.<br /><br />One fight between my mother and I stands out in my memory. I am about 13. My mother is having one of her “fits” – the kind in which she denounces life on earth. Sobbing, she declares that she no longer wishes to live – she’s in too much pain. She gathers her jacket and purse to leave the house. My mother would sometimes go driving during her fits – she would disappear for hours. I’m not sure where she went or what she did. And when she disappeared – I was never quite sure if she’d return; if I’d see her car turn into our driveway or if some day, as I feared, it would be a police car turning into the driveway, coming to tell me that she had finally killed herself. Every time my mother left, the moments I would wait at the window for her return felt like days.<br /><br />My mother slammed her purse onto the counter and hurriedly searched through it for her car keys. Suddenly, she looked at me – with rage in her eyes. “Where are my keys, Emily?!?!” I looked at my feet. Her voice grew and became more desperate. “Emily! Where did you hide my keys?!?! Give them to me!” I raised my head and said, “No.” She repeated her request. I repeated my response. She stepped closer to me, angrily screaming. “No mom. I don’t want you to go,” I said. I tried my best to stay calm – one of us had to be. The fear, anger and grief were tussling with each other in my stomach as the sharp pain in my head grew. On the outside – I stood firm. I didn’t want her to go – I didn’t know if I would ever see her again.<br /><br />Then it came – her rage. As she finally realized I was not going to give her the keys, her anger boiled over. “Don’t you see that I am in pain? Why would you want to keep me in this pain? Why won’t you let me go? I’m in pain! Why would you do this to me?..... No wonder I want to kill myself, with a daughter like you!”’<br /><br />There is was. The sentence that pierced my heart.Emilyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00060501961768088247noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8884131199194627763.post-3059148876031707502007-08-21T07:58:00.000-07:002007-08-21T09:58:49.849-07:00This NightIt was a dark evening. My mother and I were making the drive out to our home. We’d moved outside of the city I grew up in, to a small town. I couldn’t stand the small town and the impenetrable clicks of the farm kids, who’d known each other since birth. In my view, the tiny town was narrow-minded, unresponsive to the modern world and out of touch. I had heard a rumor that an African-American family had once lived in this town and had been run out. I wasn’t sure if the rumor was true or not, but I guessed it was true, given that I had my own experiences with the harsh rejection from the town’s kids.<br />I’d come to hate the town, perhaps because I felt it rejected me, perhaps because I had loved the city I grew up in and wanted to return to it. I was thirteen.<br /><br />But on this night, however, the town was not on my mind. My mother and I often tried to come up with ways to entertain ourselves on the long drive home. On this night, we sang. My mother’s soprano voice rose. My own voice (that of an alto) rose to meet my mother’s, then dropped slightly and paired with hers to produce a beautiful harmony. We sang Irish folk songs that my grandparents had sung. Every so often, we hit a note that needed a slight re-adjustment, paused to re-adjust, and then moved along in the melody. Occasionally we stopped to laugh at our mistakes or maybe just because we were happy. We ended another song in perfect harmony. I smiled, proud of our collective accomplishment. I thought of my grandfather, who’d sung many of these songs to me when I was a toddler. I thought of my grandparents looking down on my mother and I. On this night, my mother was calm, loving, caring and fun. On this night, I was a child.<br /><br />This is one of the happier memories I have with my mother.Emilyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00060501961768088247noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8884131199194627763.post-90195108296123580192007-08-16T07:20:00.000-07:002007-08-16T12:22:12.238-07:00No RegretsA few weeks after Matt was sentenced, his older brother Ben was to be sentenced. I had decided this time that I had to speak in court. I had chose not to speak at Matt’s sentencing and felt horribly guilty when Matt was sentenced to much less than what I had hoped for. While I was not immodest enough to believe that my contribution to the proceedings could have changed their outcome, I still felt the remorse of having not stood in front of the judge to give every possible argument I could think of for sentencing Matt to the maximum sentence possible. I promised myself that I would speak at Ben’s sentencing. I felt that if there was even the slightest possibility that my statement could have any affect, it must be done. And if my statement made no affect on the judge, then I at least needed to stand in court and tell each and every soul there how special Ericha was and how much worse the world is without her. “Are you sure you want to speak, Emily?” my mother asked me the night before the hearing. “You were in such pain at Matt’s hearing.” “That’s why I need to speak mom – to have no regrets afterwards.”<br /><br />I sat at the kitchen table the night before the hearing, hunched over the scribbling that I hoped to mold into my impact statement. By this time, I was 13 years old. I wrote a thought down, decided it wasn’t good enough and crossed it out. As the night rolled on, I repeated this step several more times. How could I possibly say all the things I wanted to say in five minutes, I thought. How could I possibly describe all that they did by taking her away from us – and so brutally? I folded my paper around midnight and placed in on the dresser in my bedroom. I laid down to bed – eyes wide open. Each shadow of each twisted tree outside of my window was apparent to me. I felt as though a storm was on the horizon – a storm I couldn’t prepare for or protect myself from.<br /><br />The next morning I found myself back in the Assistant District Attorney’s office, prior to the hearing. The A.D.A. again went over the impact statement procedures, how much time we had and the order in which things would occur. The victim liaisons escorted us through a back hallway to the courtroom. The aggressive television cameras had become too intrusive for us and had often made it difficult to move down the hallways of the courthouse safely. We reached the courtroom and took our seats. Ben was escorted into the courtroom. The first person to give an impact statement was called before the court. My heart began to pound. I was next. The words of Ericha’s friend (giving the impact statement) became distant. It sounded as though she were in a far-away tunnel. The only thing I could hear clearly was the deafening sound of my pounding heart. I focused on the tip of my shoe. I stared at my shoe and concentrated on breathing in and out. I will not faint, I told myself. This is the one chance I have to speak to the court. I will not faint. This is for Ericha, I thought. I cannot screw it up. Ericha’s friend sat down and placed her hand on my shoulder. I stumbled up out of my seat. I walked to the edge of the court, in front of the prosecutor’s table, facing the judge. I cleared my throat and began to read my statement. The sound of crackling paper filled the courtroom as my hands shook. No, I thought. This has to be better. I put my paper down on the prosecutor’s table and looked up at the judge. I was still shaking, but some how not as afraid.<br /><br />“Ericha was like a big sister to me.” I began to speak about Ericha’s smile, her warmth, our time together after school. I spoke of her generosity, of the beauty of her soul.<br />“I’ve always believed that in life, things happen for a reason. When Ericha was taken from us, I struggled to find the reason why. Maybe God was testing my ability to forgive. If that is so, then I have failed God’s test, because I will never forgive Ben Bryant for what he has done.” During my last sentence I had looked down at Ben and yelled the word “never.” I told the judge that Ben was an animal, that he was a threat to the community. I had wanted to do so much more to Ben at that moment, but this statement was all I had – and I cherish the fact that I had that.<br /><br />Ben was sentenced to life in prison, with his first possibility of parole in 2043.Emilyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00060501961768088247noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8884131199194627763.post-65161723855963419522007-08-14T08:20:00.000-07:002007-08-16T10:58:09.545-07:00God was missingIt was a cold day in January. My eyes were planted firmly on my shoes, my head hanging lowly to avoid the lights of the television cameras as my family walked slowly towards the courtroom. Today, the younger brother Matt would be sentenced. He had plead guilty to felony murder. His older brother had contended that Matt had helped him tie Ericha to the chair, then left the scene of the crime prior to her murder – a notion many of us refused to believe for several reasons.<br /><br />First – Ericha was a beautiful woman, but she was also a very strong woman – a physically stronger woman than most men I know. I believe it would’ve taken two people to kill her. She would have fought hard for life. I know this. Secondly, the gas station security camera tape was taken just before the older brother Ben left the gas station, when he was supposedly alone. The locked box containing this tape was not only extremely heavy, but it was also locked into a position high above the head of any human attempting to extricate it. The store manager has often said that she needed at least one other person to assist her to bring this lock box down. Because of this, we believed Ben and Matt were both still at the scene after Ericha’s death.<br /><br />I sat in the courtroom, motionless, unable to look up at Matt. Matt was the “more popular” of the two brothers. He was younger, had less of a record, was better-looking, had more friends. His friends came to each of his hearings and were seated alongside his family members. Not once did any of them approach us. Not once did any member of his family express their condolences, much less apologize for their sons being the cause of our utter grief and loss. Not only did they not express any sympathy towards us – there were often times that they scowled at us, rolled their eyes at us, and pursed their lips at us. At the sight of this family, my view of humanity further deteriorated. Ericha was dead at the brutal hands of their sons and they acted as if we were imposing on them, as if we had injured them, as if they were the victims. Each time I looked in their direction I became nauseous.<br /><br />After the closing arguments and impact statements, the Judge cleared his throat and began to explain the sentence. My hopes for a long sentence soared as the judge spoke of this murder being particularly brutal – perhaps the most brutal he had ever come across on the bench. Then – he began to speak about the evidence. While Ben was by no means a reliable witness to what time Matt left the scene, the judge contended, there was still a lack of evidence that could prove Ben’s story wrong. There was no video tape, as it had been taken and destroyed. With that, the judge ordered Matt to serve 23 years. By this time, I knew what 23 years meant in our state. It meant that Matt would be eligible for release in 5 years.<br /><br />My head began spinning. I cannot say what the reaction of anyone else in the courtroom was, as I could no longer hear. My mother put her arm around me as I began to sob and shake. I felt that my life had ended. I felt paralyzed with grief. I couldn’t move or speak or stand. I actually felt physical pain. This feeling was unbearable.<br /><br />I felt that God was missing.Emilyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00060501961768088247noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8884131199194627763.post-51991126907760636432007-08-08T20:34:00.000-07:002007-08-08T14:35:23.387-07:00The BrothersAfter Ericha’s death, there were few leads as to who was responsible. Time passed, the depression of injustice grew. One day, almost two years after Ericha’s passing, we received a call from the police detective working Ericha’s case. A routine traffic stop had led to a young man giving the names of Matt and Ben Bryant as the killers in the case. The man agreed to give this information in return for the dismissal of his speeding ticket. I was so thankful for this lucky breakthrough. At the same time, it pained me greatly to find that dozens of people in our town had heard rumors of Matt and Ben being guilty of Ericha’s murder – yet no one came forward. Going through the process of attending all of the hearings related to both Ben and Matt’s cases was exhausting.<br /><br />At one point, after the younger brother Matt was arrested, there was the possibility of a relatively low bail being set for him (this was not a possibility for Ben, as he was already in jail on an un-related charge). As I am a kinesthetic person, I focused on the campaign of petitions that resulted from this possibility. Like clockwork each day after school I came home to pick up my clipboard full of petitions asking the judge to raise Matt’s bail. I loaded up my clipboard and pen and went each eve into a different neighborhood. I went door to door to ask strangers to sign this petition. I look back on how young I was when I insisted on doing this alone each night and am astounded. I believe I would have done anything in those hours after school each day to keep myself busy. Those few hours after school each day had been my time with Ericha. Now, I couldn’t bear to come home to the empty, dark house once again. I couldn’t bear to sit on the couch and absorb the vacant silence of the desolate house.<br /><br />I was often the adult in my household. This led to me being able to insist on doing things that I should not have necessarily done. At the age of eleven, I had read the entire police report outlining Ericha’s murder – how it happened in brutal and unforgiving detail. I also insisted on going to each hearing for each brother. I remember the first time I saw Ben. Ben was the older brother, thought to have been the greater mastermind behind the robbery and murder. I stood behind a glass wall, watching as he entered the chamber in which he would plead guilty.<br /><br />His face was that of the devil’s. I never thought I would live to see the devil on earth. But here he was, right in front of me, separated by a wall of glass.<br /><br />The clinking and swooshing of his cuffed ankles and wrists filled my ears. That’s him - the person who killed Ericha. Person was a relative word to use. This was the devil. This devil tied Ericha to a chair and held a screwdriver to her back, telling her that it was a gun. This devil wrapped a telephone cord around her neck and pulled so hard he shattered her trachea. I looked at the devil. There was nothing. No feeling in his stony eyes. No embarrassment, guilt or sadness. Nothing. How is he allowed to roam the earth? My own eyes began to burn and tear. He took Ericha from us and he cannot even look sorry for it.<br /><br />I began to sob uncontrollably. I shook and wept and hyperventilated. I was escorted out of the chamber into the hallway, where television cameras pounced on the chance to film a broken little girl. I was so embarrassed by my lack of control at the first hearing that I promised myself I would be stronger at each hearing from that point on.Emilyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00060501961768088247noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8884131199194627763.post-55136454651496985702007-08-07T07:39:00.000-07:002007-08-07T08:59:49.736-07:00HumankindI haven’t written for a while, as you can see. The truth is, I didn’t know quite where to go from here. Ericha’s death was such a huge happening for me that I find it difficult, after recounting this event, to move on steadily in my writings.<br /><br />I was explaining this very dilemma to my boyfriend the other night. I explained to him that out of everything that’s happened to me, Ericha’s murder had the biggest effect on me emotionally. My boyfriend seemed stunned by this. “But so many things have happened to you. This is the biggest for you?” he asked. <br /><br />I began to think about my boyfriend’s point and why out of everything on my timeline, before and after Ericha’s death, this event stands out in my mind as the reigning negative memory of mine. I suppose it wasn’t just the event in itself that made such an impact on me. Albeit the circumstances surrounding Ericha’s death were horrendous enough to make anyone deeply pained. But for me – this event was made so much worse by everything preceding it. I had already experienced so much prior to Ericha’s death. Before Ericha died – I was desperately holding on to the belief that there was still good in the world, that not everyone was inherently evil. I clung to the tiny bit of feeling left that there are people out there that won’t hurt you and might even love you. The years of neglect, abuse and a volatile living environment had slowly but steadily washed away my faith in humankind. I didn’t grow up with Ericha, I wasn’t a blood relative – yet her death was the final blow for me. It was the last straw. It was the final confirmation that the world, in fact, was not safe, loving or fair.<br /><br />These beliefs, I now realize, will be one of the most difficult things for me to overcome during my treatment. I’ve protected myself for many years with these beliefs. After all, I thought, if I didn’t expect someone to truly love me and not hurt me, then I wouldn’t be so surprised when they hurt me. Sure – this philosophy may provide some comfort by creating the sense that I am protecting myself. But now I must ask myself if I really wish to live with these thoughts? Do I really want these negative feelings to affect my relationships with the few people I find that are, in fact, trust worthy? Do I want to inadvertently impart these beliefs onto my children?<br /><br />The thought of doing that makes me sick. I want my children to be able to see the world in ways I never could. I want them to know that while it is necessary to protect one’s self, the world is also filled with stunningly good people. I want them to see the beauty of the world, to feel the protection their parents provide and within that protection, blossom.Emilyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00060501961768088247noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8884131199194627763.post-77295792294390405992007-07-26T09:32:00.001-07:002007-07-26T09:32:07.159-07:00What's Up - 4 Non Blondes (HQ Audio)<div xmlns='http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml'><p><object height='350' width='425'><param value='http://youtube.com/v/jOyYet6msHc' name='movie'/><embed height='350' width='425' type='application/x-shockwave-flash' src='http://youtube.com/v/jOyYet6msHc'/></object></p><p>7/26/07 - It's been 12 years ago today that you were taken from us, Ericha. I love and miss you.<br /></p></div>Emilyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00060501961768088247noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8884131199194627763.post-61083210031470823672007-07-19T19:39:00.000-07:002007-07-19T13:41:47.204-07:00I'm SorryEricha,<br /><br />I miss you. I’m so sorry for what happened to you. I’m sorry that I couldn’t be there with you. I’m sorry that I couldn’t help you. You did not deserve what happened to you. You were a great person. You made me look forward to each afternoon after school. Your presence in our home was fun, comforting and wanted.<br /><br />I so wish that I could have known you longer. You would have made a wonderful mother. I remember the time we went to the circus. I remember your warm smile. I remember your twinkling white teeth and your pantene shampoo. I remember your feathered black hair. I remember how protective you were of those you loved. I remember how you cleaned and organized the house each day. I remember how you taught me to stock the refreshments in the back room of the gas station. I remember spending the holidays together. Mom bought you a nice jacket – you were overwhelmed. You bought us a beautiful poinsettia. We laughed and talked and ate. We could always count on you to help. We could always count on you to be there. I could ponder the random happenings of life with you.<br /><br />I miss you. I’m so sorry. I wish I could have done something. I wish I could have protected you. I wish I could have been there with you. I wish I could have hugged you, comforted you.<br /><br />You saw the ugliest part of our world in your last moments. For that – I am truly sorry. As a member of this human race – I apologize to you. I don’t understand how or why there are monsters that roam the earth. You encountered not one of them, but two.<br /><br />Now – I pray that you are in a place where you feel no pain, only love. I pray that you know how much we love and miss you. I pray that you are in a place of peace, warmth, comfort and love.<br /><br />Love,<br />EmilyEmilyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00060501961768088247noreply@blogger.com0