Musings on Death

Most of you heard about the warehouse fire in California a few weeks ago. Many of you know that one of my family members, Micah Danemayer, was there performing, and died. Micah was the 28 year old son of my cousin, Chris. I'm one of the youngest cousins in the huge brood of Reynolds grandkids, and Chris is one of the oldest. As a result, Chris was grown and gone before I was really even born. He and his wife raised their kids in the Boston area, and we were in Cincinnati, so I very rarely saw them. But we were very close to Chris's parents, Aunt Mary and Uncle Bob. Aunt Mary is one of my dad's older sisters, and she pretty much raised him. She got him through school, where he struggled greatly, likely with undiagnosed learning disabilities- in the 1940s and 50s. She took care of him when he was sick, and generally taught him just about everything he knows about life. Or so my dad says. Aunt Mary and Uncle Bob were my brother's godparents, and we saw them a lot. A LOT. Their middle son, Tony, never left the area, and I knew him well when I was a kid.

Most of you also know that the very next weekend, my cousin Katie's son, Jason, was killed in a bad car accident. Katie is the second child of my dad's oldest sister, Pat, who is the sister just ahead of Aunt Mary in birth order. Jason was 35, yes, two years older than I am. That's what happens when you're the second youngest of a million grandkids, and the several oldest are married and gone by the time you're born. Your cousins have a few kids older than you. I think there are only 3 or 4 of those. I don't think I'd ever met Jason, nor did I know much about him at all. We weren't as close to Aunt Pat's family when I was a kid. Jason had two little girls- 4 and not quite 2- and a fiance who he'd been with for nearly a decade, and ran his electrical business with. He died in the middle of the night, when he and an employee were driving on 275 in Northern Kentucky. A semi driver fell asleep, and barreled into Jason's truck. Jason died on impact, and in a freak twist, his employee survived, because he wasn't wearing his seatbelt. He was immediately thrown through the windshield, and landed on the grassy hillside where their truck had been pushed. He was treated for non-life-threatening injuries, and released from the hospital the same day. Had he been wearing his seatbelt, he likely would have also died on impact. The last I heard, the truck driver was being held on charges of involuntary manslaughter.

These two deaths left our family reeling. Never before had we had two freak deaths of young people in such a short period of time- just over a week apart. Of all of the grandkids, only three have died young: my brother, my cousin Sue, and my cousin Janet. My brother's death was a shock. We had no idea it was coming, and he was only 19. Sue was in her late 40s or early 50s, and had died of a very rare blood disease she'd had since birth. She actually lived much longer than anyone thought she would. Janet's life had been really hard, and she wound up dying in her 40s, of liver failure. That wasn't a huge shock though, either. We did have one other cousin's kid die a few months ago- Jessica, who was actually Janet's daughter. She was about 20, and grew up in Florida, mostly raised by her grandparents, my dad's second oldest brother, Jim, and his wife, Lois. While her death was sudden, it wasn't a shock. She had a chronic heart condition that was fairly unpredictable. She could have lived decades longer, or she could have died sooner. She was able to live a fairly normal life. I actually had met Jessica when she was a little girl, and we visited my aunt and uncle in Florida. She was a happy, sweet kid. Hers didn't hit me so hard, because of two things: 1. He heard condition, 2. Her mom is already gone, and I never met her dad, nor do I know anything about him.

When Micah died, I felt a punch in the gut, immediately worrying about his parents, Chris and Pam. My mom had called Chris, because, well, Mom knows what it's like to lose a young adult son. She said Chris was as well as he could be. They hadn't found Micah's body yet, but they knew he was dead. I felt like I couldn't breathe. I've been in the family where the kid dies. I've watched my parents grieve. I have walked that Hell, and I have watched that Hell. And it's overwhelming. To think of people I know, people I love, and people who share the same bloodline as me going through that stirs up a kind of grief in me that's hard to explain. The same thing happened when Jason died. Well, that, on top of, "What the HECK is happening right now?!"

Then, on top of all of that, deaths like these tend to dredge up my own grief. It often lies dormant, for years at a time, even, But then, things like this pop up, and yep, there it is again. It never really goes away. You just get better at dealing with it. Every single birthday and Christmas, and minor event no longer bring it all up. Even every death anniversary. May 28th has never passed without me noticing, but they don't all catch me in the gut. Sure, huge things- significant weddings, graduations, etc get me. But those, we know are coming. Those, I can prepare for. But sudden deaths like these? They catch me off guard, and hit me with so many different kinds of grief, it's hard to even fully process.

Today marks 3 weeks since Micah died, and Sunday will mark 2 weeks since Jason died. Thankfully, we got through last weekend with no deaths in the family. Things have settled a bit for us, and for me. I should be able to celebrate Christmas and the New Year without being overwhelmed too much by all of this. But it's funny how death can hit us in ways we don't always expect. I guess, though, that's partly how we gain our appreciation for life.

A Personal Plea- Part 10

Over the last two weeks, I have poured my heart and soul into these posts. I have talked about things I have never talked about before. Extremely personal and painful things. Some posts have been harder to write than others. At times, I have had to pause for a few days to figure out how to proceed. But no longer. Here I am, at the end. And perhaps this is the most personal and revealing of all my posts. Here I am, ready to tie together the last nine posts with my thoughts and feelings regarding the recent election of Donald Trump. I hope that it helps make clear my specific issues. This may get raw.

In the first three posts, I talked about my year of ongoing sexual harassment and assault. I talked about how it affected me, and my body image. How, instead of defending me, and sending a clear message to my abusers that sexual harassment and assault are never okay, the school ultimately sided with the boys and their parents. It wasn't looked at as unacceptable behavior. It was largely dismissed, and I was left to continue in my own shame, as my abusers continued on, and got bolder as time wore on. Granted, the school never knew about the assault, but why would they? I was already treated like a problem. Why should I think they would treat assault any differently?

The night before the election, I had my first PTSD dream about my sexual abuse at school in well over a decade. It's important to note that at this time, I didn't think there was any way Trump was going to win, so it's not like I was actually worried or afraid. At least, not on a conscious level. But I still had a dream that I was back at that school. Those five boys were abusing me again, and when I went to report it, the principal was Donald Trump. Instead of doing anything about it, he told me, "boys will be boys," and that this was normal behavior. If I didn't like it, I should either shut up or find a new school. And then he joined in. As I watched the election returns the next night, and he gained more ground, I could feel the panic attacks building inside of me. The next morning, I had to call into work, because I'd had 2 panic attacks before 8am, and I would have 4 more before the day was out. Never in my life have I ever had six panic attacks in a single day.

I felt incredibly unsafe and unprotected. Not only had the nation elected a self-admitted sexual abuser to the office of President, but they had also elected someone who is an abuser in many other ways as well. In ATI, I got a lot of crap from those who were supposed to protect and support me. My mom would tell me to go to my room and not come out until God had changed my heart and shown me the error of my ways. Whenever I would bring that up (she did it often), she would straight up deny ever having said something like that. She would never do that. And yet, I knew she did. When I would reach the point of desperation, and feel like I couldn't deal with Mom's abuse anymore and ask to talk to Dad about it, she would insist on being there, and then flat out deny everything I said, or else deny any wrongdoing. I felt like I couldn't breathe. Many people I had contact with in our church, and in ATI had those exact same patterns. The gaslighting was so intense I often wondered if I wasn't just entirely detached from reality. Not only that, but with any accusation against me by an authority, I had to prove myself innocent, or I would be treated as guilty, and punished accordingly. If something went wrong at home, I was often my mother's scapegoat. Obviously, I had done something wrong. Even when they were proven wrong, none of my authorities (with the exception of my father) ever really admitted to any wrongdoing. It was all justified, sidestepped, or flat out denied.

My entire life, I have worked incredibly hard to thrive in spite of some fairly serious disabilities. And I have succeeded. I have seen a very clear shift from ableism to inclusivism in the last twenty years. Society has become more and more accepting of those of us with various limitations and challenges. Instead of mocking us, or relegating us to a corner, society has made incredible strides in accepting us, and our differences.

Over the last 12 years, I have closely studied the suffering of the marginalized in the United States and elsewhere. I have seen what happens when the basic rights of people are trampled in favor of the majority. What happens when fear grabs hold of people. Not insignificantly because of my own lifelong experience with gross injustice, I have felt incredibly burdened with justice. With knowing that African Americans and Latinos, women and immigrants, Muslims and Jews, disabled and LGBTQ- the other- are being treated justly. And if not fully justly, at least better than before, with visible efforts to continue improving. I have seen this as a moral imperative. Jesus was clear: Whatever you do to the least of these, you do to me. All of these habitually marginalized groups, of which I am a part, these are the least of these. I don't see it as an option to either protect or not to protect. I understand the abortion argument. If you like, add the unborn to my list of the marginalized.

My struggle here is not a political one. It has absoultely nothing to do with politics. My struggle is a personal one, and a moral one. No, I'm not upset that my candidate lost. I voted for McCain and Romney. I'm used to that. Out of four presidential elections, my candidate has won once, and that was 12 years ago. I have never had an issue with anyone who voted for the "other" candidate. But that was all political.

Dear family and friends who voted for Trump, here is where I address you personally and directly. I am having such a hard time dealing with the fact that you voted for someone who is the spitting image of many of those who have personally abused me. Those who have sexually objectified me, and violated me. Those who have twisted their words and my words to fit their own agenda. Those who would never admit to wrongdoing, or show any kind of remorse for the incredible wrongs they committed against me. Those who gaslighted me to the point that I seriously questioned my own sanity. You voted for the person who is, in one person, in one body, the essence of all of my abusers in one. You voted for the person who has no respect for me, or for what I have been through. You voted for the person who mocks the disabled. All of the things I detailed above about my own experiences, I can give multiple examples of Donald Trump doing exactly those things to other people. Donald Trump is an abuser and a predator, who abuses and preys on people just like me. And you voted for him.

Not only that, but he has proven himself to be a direct threat to African Americans, Latinos, women, immigrants, Muslims, and the LGBTQ community. He has not shown himself to be any friend to the disabled, either. The only marginalized group in this country he has at all promised to protect, is the unborn. Because I see defending the "least of these" as an absolute, non-negotiable moral imperative, I cannot overlook the direct threat he poses to six (at least) of these groups, in favor of defending one. I don't understand how those I respect and love, and those I thought valued all human lives and rights equally, voted for Trump. I do not understand how you could do that. Like I said, this is not about politics for me. Believe me, I could make this about politics. But at the end of the day, I really don't care about that part. This is about protecting the unprotected. This is about making sure that those who have been traditionally marginalized in this country, and in the Western world, do not find themselves back 100 years in safety.

Yes. Those of you who voted for Trump, you voted for the embodiment of my abusers. You voted for someone who poses a direct threat to the vast majority of the marginalized in this nation, and I am having one hell of a time trying to swallow that. I am not someone to throw away relationships. But this is something that is going to take time. If I'm being honest, I don't feel like you're safe for me to be around. I'm on edge when I'm around any of you. And it's going to take me a lot of time to be able to sort things out. Don't question my love for you. I love you all. I do. But I don't know how to be "business as usual" with you.

I hope you all understand my heart in all of this. I hope you understand I'm not trying to shame or accuse. I am telling you how this makes me feel. And how this is causing one of the biggest struggles of my life. I don't even know where to start with this. But here it is. And I hope you can accept this, and have grace for me, and the many, many like me who are in a very similar position. Thank you, for sticking with me through 10 parts. Thank you for listening. I am finished.

A Personal Plea, Part 9

Without fully intending to, I found myself specializing in African American history as an undergrad history major. That's just how things worked out, because that's where my personal interests led me. Growing up in Cincinnati, I had always been keenly aware of the fact that the Underground Railroad had been especially active there. But when I began to actually study it, I discovered it was far more than "active," in Cincinnati. In fact, Cincinnati was THE central hub of the Underground Railroad in the American West. As I wrote in my Master's Thesis, not only was Cincinnati the western center of the UGRR, but it was also a microcosm of the abolition movement, in general. Everything the movement had throughout the entire country, Cincinnati had. These were all things I was incredibly proud of.

But as I continued my research, I discovered that there was another side to Cincinnati, and Ohio, in general. An ugly side. A dark side. In fact, the majority of Cincinnati was either ambivalent toward the issue of slavery, or straight up pro-slavery. In the pre-Civil War years, there were a few mass exoduses of African Americans from Cincinnati, usually to Canada. It wasn't a safe place to be, unless the color of your skin was white. There was an active and vocal minority, working against the hate, but most either actively or passively participated in it, much like in Nazi Germany.

As the years progressed, I continued to study American history, and African American history. In many ways, a historian is someone who witnesses history, more than the average person. And I began to realize, the United States is not, nor was it ever, what I was taught it was. Were our Founding Fathers brave? Absolutely. They were brave enough to go against the greatest empire on earth, fight a foolish war, and declare their own independence. But they were not brave enough to do it without slavery. Many of the Founding Fathers were abjectly opposed to slavery. Others, such as George Washington, Thomas Jefferson, and Patrick Henry, knew it was morally reprehensible, and yet they were not willing to be inconvenienced to the degree they would be if they both freed their slaves and outlawed slavery. Most other American nations abolished slavery as they gained their independence from their colonial powers. Many African Americans at the time of the Revolution believed this was going to happen here, as well. But it didn't. The Founding Fathers caved to the convenient and the comfortable. Willing to do what was necessary to throw off their own oppressors, but unwilling to make sure ALL in the new United States were likewise free.

I read about the Whiskey Rebellion, and how Washington sent thousands of troops to Western Pennsylvania to subdue a few dozen angry farmers, suspended all due process, and threw them all in jail without a trial. Yes, he cooled off and pardoned them, but still without a trial. So all the jailed farmers received pardons for crimes for which they were never properly tried. Yes, this was George Washington, grossly overstepping his Constitutional rights. Jefferson grossly overstepped his Constitutional rights as well, when he bought all of the Louisiana territory on his own, without Congressional approval. Polk straight up manipulated facts and lied to Congress to get approval to declare war on Mexico, and gain most of what is now the American Southwest, including part of my own new state, Colorado.

I grew up in the years of the "Moral Majority." The "New Right," as it is often termed. I heard my parents and many, many others within the Conservative Republican faction of society, praise the America of yore. They mourned how much modern presidents overstepped Constitutional bounds, praised how past presidents and politicians were "statesmen," and not "politicians." How partisanship was such a new thing. How our Founding Fathers all worked together to do what was right. How 19th century America was so incredibly Godly and noble and respectful to all. How America was so much better in the 1940s and 50s, when God and family were respected. But the more I studied, the more I found out just how much the history I was taught wasn't real. I heard about liberals changing history. I heard about the "revisionist" history the liberal agenda was pushing. But the more I studied, the more I realized, the conservatives amongst whom I was raised were just as guilty of revisionist history as were the fringe liberals I was taught about.

Exactly how Godly can a nation be, which kills and forcibly removes millions of Native Americans, just so they can have access to Southern lands to continue cotton cultivation? Cotton cultivation, which, almost exclusively relied upon the enslavement of four million African Americans? How Godly can a nation be, which enslaves millions of a race, rules that they are not people, which does not allow any protection against rape, torture, or even murder? How Godly can a nation be, which places economic and political stability over the well-being of the "least of these"? How Godly can a nation be, which even after emancipating its slaves, lynches innocent men and women, for nothing more than asking for the paycheck they earned? How Godly can a nation be, which doesn't allow for any legal recognition of the rape of a black female by a white man?

I could go on and on. But my point is, America never was any greater than it is now. Yes, you could argue that abortion is this nation's great stain now. But at the very least, the United States has done no worse than exchanging one evil for another. Until November 8th, minorities, women, people of other religions, immigrants, the disabled, those who are LGBTQ, etc., had never, in the history of this nation, been any safer than they were right then.

I was fed the lies, throughout my entire life, and I dismantled them myself. Please bear with me through my 10th and final post in this series. I will tie everything together from the last 9 parts. All I want, is understanding. All I want is those I know and love to understand my struggle now, and the struggle that will likely remain through the next several months and years. For those of you who have made it this far, thank you. Please, hang in there for one more post. 

A Personal Plea, Part 8

 Before I get into this, I'm going to ask that you please, please read to the end of my series before making any judgment or getting angry. Everything I say here ties to both my personal experiences, and my years of historical study. Thanks.

I'm not sure anything ever could have fully prepared me for the shock of stepping out of the ATI and fundamentalist revisionist history world and into the real history world at Ouachita Baptist University. I was not prepared to have so many of my preconceived notions completely shattered. But that is all beside the point of this series.

I am a social historian. Simply put, this means I study history from the "ground up." I look at people and social groups and movements. I look at society in general, and how society has shaped the past and present, as well as how the past and present has shaped society. In a nutshell, I study history through sociology. I'm not a military historian, an economic historian, a historian of science and philosophy, nor a historian of government. I'm a historian of the people. Sure, my focus is on African Americans, specifically slavery and abolition, but that doesn't mean I don't pay a lot of attention to the history of other social groups: women, children, the working class, etc.

Other  than African American history, the one area I have probably studied the most in a formal setting, is the history of Nazi Germany and the Third Reich. I have studied the horrors of the Holocaust, even hearing a Holocaust survivor speak in person while I was an undergrad. I have seen the progression of a WWI veteran and failed art student named Adolf Hitler, as he begins by unifying a desperate and starving post-War Germany against outsiders who might pose a threat. Many may not know that Hitler did not put forth his infamous Final Solution until WWII had already begun. At first, the plan was just to keep close tabs on outsiders, mostly Jews, but also homosexuals, Romani gypsies, the disabled, etc. Then he started giving incentives to the ideal "Aryan" couples to have as many children as possible, in hopes of out-populating the less desirable races. In essence, Hitler began by saying, "Make Germany Great Again!" He wanted to keep non-ethnic Germans from moving into the country. He wanted to keep an eye on non-ethnic Germans that were already there.

Instead of blaming a rogue government for the dire straits in which Germans had found themselves, instead of blaming highly unreasonable war reparations forced on Germany by the League of Nations, Hitler blamed the easy target: the Other. Those who were unlike everyone else. And as a result, a conservative estimate places the death toll of Jews, Romanis, homosexuals, and the disabled, at around 6 million people. That's not even including all the people who died trying to stop the Holocaust. In fact, before this happened, a word did not exist to describe the horrific nature of the Holocaust. The Jews had called it "shoah," the Hebrew word for "catastrophe." In the 1950s, a word finally arose in the English language- a new word- from Greek roots meaning "burned" and "whole." This genocide was so big, it wiped out entire family lines. I remember in music history class, when I was a music major, we were talking about the descendants of various Romantic composers. One asked about Mendelssohn's descendants. Our professor said, "There are no living relatives of the Mendelssohn family. They were all killed during the Holocaust." Entire family lines. Gone.

I remember one Christmas Eve a few years ago, having a conversation with one of my uncles. He was saying that he didn't really believe in Hell anymore. He said God is loving, and far more loving than any of us. I remember when he said, "I couldn't send someone to Hell. Could you? I know you couldn't." I was incredibly uncomfortable with the conversation, and I said so. The reality was...yes, I could see myself sending someone to Hell. Stalin? Bin Laden? Hitler? Yeah. I could. I have been in the kind of emotional pain, inflicted by someone else, that is so bad, day after day after day, that I couldn't see past. That made me want to die. The kind of pain Hitler inflicted on others? Yes. If Hell exists, he deserves to be there. Period, end of story. And so does anyone like him.

Before the last year, I had never heard any kind of significant figure in this country talk in a way that so clearly reminded me of Hitler. Someone who appealed to a disenfranchised group of people who felt completely marginalized. Someone who put a huge chunk of that blame on minorities. Someone who so blatantly disrespected the disabled. Someone who stated that he thought an entire group of people should be registered. Someone who shows no respect for women, and who refuses to take responsibility for his actions. Someone who gains the respect, loyalty and admiration of the KKK and other white supremacy organizations.

No, I don't draw those comparisons lightly. I have never in my life done this, and I did it with him all on my own before I ever heard the media do so. I remember standing in front of my classroom last December saying, "This is how Holocausts start. It is in your hands to stop it."

I have more to say, but I'll end this here. Please, keep reading, and keep in mind, I do not write this to shame, accuse, or blame. I write this to try, as best I know, to fully explain why I am having such a hard time dealing with this, and the fact that people I know, love, and respect, voted for him.

A Personal Plea, Part 7

The next few years continued with much of the same. More ATI events, more ATI church, more ATI at home. Not a lot of other stuff going on. As I was finishing high school, it wasn't so horrific. I mean, looking back, it was. But I wasn't developing those feelings of desperation that finally drove me to get out.

I graduated from high school in 2001, just before my 18th birthday. Most people go to college or get jobs after graduating from college, but I did neither. I was allowed to do neither. I taught a few piano lessons, but wasn't allowed to have many students. Most of the girls in ATI or the fundamentalist homeschooling world either got jobs (if allowed), or they helped raise their multiple younger siblings and homeschool them. There was enough to keep them busy. But when you're the only kid left at home and both of your parents are retired, there's really not that much to do. So I filled a lot of my time by practicing the piano 4 hours a day. I wasn't allowed to have just straight leisure time. I had to fill literally every hour from my mandatory wakeup at 6am until my mandatory lights out at 10pm. I was allowed one hour each afternoon to do what I wanted, and that was it. The rest of my time had to be filled with housekeeping, Bible study, or piano practice.

Of course at this time, I was starting to get really sick from my undiagnosed Celiac Disease. I was constantly in pain, I was exhausted, and I was quickly accumulating new symptoms. All I wanted to do was take my one hour of free time to take a nap. But that wasn't allowed. It was lazy. I remember being told that my 61 year old father could make it through a day without a nap, so 18 year old me should be able to as well. Add to the constant pain and exhaustion undiagnosed Autism, and it got even worse. Being home all the time with my parents, with little to do that stimulated me, was more or less a recipe for disaster.

My mom and I  began to have more and more conflicts. Mom would give me verbal instructions, and expect me to remember them and carry them out. I knew I wouldn't be able to remember them, because I've never been good with oral instructions. I would ask to write them down, but she wouldn't let me. "Kathleen, just listen. If you have a submissive heart and want to obey, and listen, you'll remember what I say." At first, I would just be nervous.  But later, after getting in trouble multiple times, being spanked with a switch, and being told, "Kathleen, you're either rebellious or stupid, and I know you're not stupid," I started having what I recognize now, as panic attacks when Mom wanted me to do something. Mom would start to give me instructions, and I would ask if I could get a pen and paper so I could write them down. Mom would again give me the "listen" speech, except, I would start to plead and cry, and get very worked up. She would look at me and tell me to stop crying and listen. She said I was far too old for tantrums. It wasn't a tantrum. It was an Autistic meltdown, based on the fact that I knew I couldn't remember her instructions, which would therefore lead to condemnation, reminders that I was stupid (sure, Mom thought I wasn't, but I knew I wasn't rebellious, so what was left?), a spanking, and time in my room to get my heart right with God. Though, those times were spent with me pleading with God to find me a way out of all this. And I got...nothing.

What my parents didn't realize at the time, is that I have what is known as Auditory Processing Disorder. It's often a comorbid condition with Autism. The way my neuropathways are constructed, I actually can't remember more than about two verbal instructions in a row. Writing things down is my guaranteed way of remembering them. Because they didn't realize I was Autistic, they treated me like a neurotypical child. And that slowly drove me to the point of desperation. Mom finally stopped spanking me in the summer of 2003, just before my 20th birthday. Why? Well she and my dad finally realized that my "learning disabilities" must have extended to more than my inability to do middle school math. It was a relief not to worry about being spanked anymore. The level of shame it induced to know that I was a legal adult, and still getting spanked, is indescribable. I often wondered what my friends would think if they knew. But I never told them. I couldn't.

Life continued. Mom and Dad decided it would be good for me to take a few music courses at Cincinnati Bible College (now Cincinnati Christian University), but only part time. When I auditioned, I got a call back from the department chair, telling me they wanted to give me their biggest music scholarship, but I would have to go full time. Of course, I wanted to take it! What an offer! But Mom and Dad  said no. They didn't want me to go full time, or get a degree. They wanted me to just take a few classes. I was disappointed, but I thrived in school. I loved my classes. I loved them so much, that when the end of the semester came around, I wanted to take more. But Mom and Dad had decided to spend the spring in El Paso, assisting some missionaries our church supported. Going was pretty much the last thing I wanted. I made that clear. I wanted to stay home, go to school, and keep teaching my students. Mom made it clear, that wasn't an option. This was a family ministry, we were a family unit, we do it as a family.

I won't go into much regarding our time in El Paso, except to say this: We attended a small bilingual church during our time there, and the people kept telling my parents how remarkable it was that I came, even though I was 20. Mom would always say to them, "Yes, she wanted to come and serve with us. That was her decision." Yes, she did. One evening, while in our borrowed apartment, I lost it. I finally told my mom that I hated it when she would tell people I wanted to come, because this was the last place I wanted to be. But I had no choice. It still amazes me that my mom came back with, "But if you didn't want to be here, you wouldn't be." With a voice raised by desperation, I said, "No! That's not true! You told me I could either come or find a new place to live! You didn't give me a choice!" I'll never forget the way she looked at me when she said, "So you wanted to come more than you wanted to find a new place to live."

I don't remember what happened after that. I do remember feeling desperation. That if I didn't get out of there, I would explode. But what was I going to do? I had poor health, I had no job, no money, and no car. I knew any number of relatives would take me in, but I didn't want to turn anyone against my parents, so I just continued in my misery. I'm not going to get all into why or how I finally got out, but I did. My parents declared me to be in rebellion, and continued to remind me that I was out from under my father's umbrella of protection. At 22. Leaving was traumatic in and of itself, and sparked years of dealing with undiagnosed PTSD, which had been misdiagnosed as Bi-Polar disorder, thanks to a long family history on my dad's side.

The last few parts will include some of my own personal studies and knowledge, before I begin to tie all of this together, to actually get to my "personal plea." Please, bear with me through these last few posts. This is the best way I know to try and make myself understood. 

A Personal Plea, Part 6

In December of 1997, my parents and I started attending a different church, one comprised mostly of ATI families. Those who weren't in ATI, still were, for the most part, fundamentalist homeschoolers. I think there were two families in the church that sent their children to school. The church was an Independent Fundamentalist Baptist church, not officially affiliated with ATI, but that didn't really matter. The teachings were the same. No rock music, no dating, girls and women wore long skirts, the young people were expected to stay home until marriage and not go to college. I had everything reinforced everywhere: Home, church and with all ATI events. No wonder I got so caught up in it all.

1998 saw many more ATI events, and an increasing self-consciousness over the fact that, while many of the girls at church wore skirts all the time, even while not at church, I didn't. May came, and with it, came the beginning of swimming season, once again. The first day of swim practice, I told my mom I needed to go to the pool after school for our first practice. Mom looked at me and said I could be on the swim team again if I really wanted, but she wanted me to go upstairs, put on my swimsuit, stand in front of the full length mirror, and think about whether I could feel good about myself in a swimsuit, knowing that a hundred men were looking at me. No, I'm not kidding. Add that to what I'd learned the previous fall at the Counseling Seminar, and my experiences in the 6th grade, and we're talking major body issues taking root, right here. Of course, I had no issues with my bathing suit. I never had. I grew up on swim team, and I had already gone a couple years in this very developed body. But my mother had mastered the art of manipulation (please note- she wasn't like this when I was little, and she's nothing like this now, she has since admitted that this was very wrong and apologized). Instead of her being the bad guy and telling me no, she manipulated me into making that decision myself, transferring all responsibility for the decision to me. I couldn't claim she made me quit, no, she gave me the choice, and I made that decision. And of course, I did choose not to be on the swim team, and it broke my heart.

Some might ask, why I didn't just assert myself and do it. Why didn't I just go for it, and let my mom disapprove? Well, a couple reasons: 1. Those of us with Autism, especially kids and teenagers, are highly susceptible to manipulation from anyone we care about. It's hard for us to name it and say, "Yeah, no, I'm not going to let you manipulate me. I'm doing me." 2. ATI teaches that when you "rebel" against your parents, which this would have been under ATI's definition of "rebellion," you remove yourself from the protections of your authorities, and essentially give Satan and his demonic minions a free pass to do anything they want. Out from under that umbrella, I could get hit by a car while riding my bike to practice, I could hit my head during practice and die, or I could even get raped. And of course, all of those things would be my fault. Mine. No one else's, because I asserted my own will over my parents' and did what I wanted to anyway. Not only that, but ATI liked to remind us of I Samuel 15:23, which states that rebellion is as the sin of witchcraft. Of course, this is taken out of context, but based on ATI's teachings, if I was going to be on swim team anyway, I may as well go join a coven.

This was one very large part of my struggle, throughout our ATI years. Anything I did, I did because I wanted to, not because I had to, according to my parents. And yet, I did almost everything because I had to, not because I wanted to. But my parents took no responsibility for that. Through the years, I died a little inside, every time I came across something like this. It really started to take its toll on me, leading me to a point of sheer desperation. I have probably two more posts left on my ATI years, before I can move on and start actually getting to the whole reason for all these posts in the first place. Thank you for bearing with me, and please continue to bear with me. It is so important to me that those close to me truly understand the depth of my struggle right now, and likely for the next four years. 

A Personal Plea, Part 5

The summer of 1997 was the summer I turned 14. We began the summer by going to ATI's big yearly national conference in Knoxville, at the University of Tennessee. ATI took over a significant portion of the campus for that one week every summer. School was still in session for the public schools in Ohio, so my mom and I went, while my dad stayed in Cincinnati to work. This was my first significant exposure to ATI as a whole.

My mom and I got there, and we stayed in un-air conditioned Hess Hall, where we shared a suite with another solo mom and daughter duo. With all the families in ATI with 4, 6, 8+ kids, it was pretty unusual for just a mom to attend with one child. Of course, I didn't know that yet. What was interesting, which I noticed right away, was the hundreds (thousands, actually) of women and girls wearing long skirts and dresses, and the men and boys in long pants (but no jeans) and collared shirts. It must have been 90 degrees and about 95% humidity, but there were no shorts or sleeveless shirts in sight. There was a very specific "look" to everything as well. It's not like everyone was walking around in stylish maxi skirts and tops. Looking back, it was a little Twilight Zone-esque. It's very hard to describe, but when a person spends enough time within fundamentalist homeschooling circles, it becomes very easy for that person to pick fundamentalist homeschoolers out of a crowd. I still do it to this day, and when I have the chance to investigate or ask questions, I have yet to be wrong.

Our first morning there, my mom and I headed off to breakfast, and then went our separate ways, as Mom went to the parent sessions, and I went to the program for 8-14 year old girls, Pre-Excel. Pre-Excel wasn't horrible. It was kind of more like a gender segregated Vacation Bible School than anything else, or at least, that was my impression. In the evening, Mom and I met back up for the evening family sessions. This was 19 years ago, and I was new to ATI and all that entailed, but I do remember something very important: The energy present during the Knoxville conferences was invigorating and contagious. The more the week went on, the more excited I got about living this new "godly" lifestyle, about the leader, Bill Gothard, and his teachings, and ATI's "New Approach to Life."

Following Knoxville, in October of that year, I went to the Indianapolis Training Center for ATI's "Young Ladies' Counseling Seminar." I was 14, and one of a few hundred girls ages 14 and up, who spent approximately 10 hours a day for a week in the main conference room, listening to Mr. Gothard himself talk about how to counsel people in crisis, the "Biblical" way. Why anyone thought it was a good idea with a bunch of teenagers is beyond me. Throughout the week, he would talk about the specific evils of rock music. No, I'm not talking about Aerosmith and Metallica and Bon Jovi. Or rather, I'm not just talking about them. Mr. Gothard would talk about how the rock beat was inherently evil, created by witch doctors and pagans in Africa to conjur evil spirits. It was then brought to the US by the African slaves, and made its way into American music over the years. Even Contemporary Christian Music (CCM), and a LOT of more modern Gospel (yes, this includes the Gaithers), was actually evil. We were told of how so many of the world's problems, and the church's problems, and teenage rebellion, etc., could be solved by eliminating this evil music, in favor of old fashioned hymns and new music that was not contaminated by a rock beat. They told us that rock music caused tumors, homosexual behavior, and cannibalism in rats. It made plants die. It threw everything around it into utter disorder. Of course, we were then asked to make a covenant with God to never listen to rock music, and not allow Satan a stronghold in our lives through that.

We also were taught about how we should never ever keep anything of any kind to our parents, and that even the tiniest secret could open us up to attacks from Satan, because we had removed ourselves from under our father's God-ordained "umbrella of protection." We were encouraged to call our parents and confess any and every tiny infraction we had ever kept from our parents. I'm not talking about drug use, a shoplifting habit, stealing money from our parents, sneaking out at night, etc. I'm taking about things like maybe that one time you sneaked a flashlight under the covers to finish a book after lights out, three years ago. Or maybe that one time you told your parents you had brushed your teeth, but didn't when you were 8. Or that time you accidentally forgot to water your mom's ficus plant before church one morning. Those kinds of things. Any tiny infraction could, according to Gothard and ATI, completely open you up to attacks from Satan and his demons. Even writing this sounds ridiculous. I have no idea how I didn't see it then. But of course, I was only a 14 year old girl, told by her parents to listen to the things this wise man said.

The most horrific part of the Counseling Seminar is one that was actually exposed by the mainstream media in late May and June of 2015, after the media found out about Josh Duggar's sexual abuse of his sisters and a neighbor. The curriculum used to counsel sexual abuse victims in ATI is extremely victim-blaming. It actually blamed sexual abuse among siblings on little girls being outside of their bedrooms wearing nightgowns. Or parents allowing their sons to change their baby daughter's diapers. Or parents allowing a younger child to hang out with an older one, unsupervised. Bill Gothard taught that if a victim was sexually abused and cried out, he or she was blameless. But if the victim did not, then they were, to a very large degree, responsible. There was zero room for any kind of real understanding of how the human psyche works, and that people react different ways to trauma. Some have a fight instinct, and some freeze. And this has absolutely nothing to do with character. Of course, in order to prevent such things, it was the responsibility of girls and women to dress as modestly as possible, so that the boys could not possibly be "defrauded." For me, this proved to be a bit of a nightmare, because my previously 34C bra size had grown by then. I'm sorry, but when you have the kind of chest I have, nothing but a cardboard box is going to keep people from seeing that yes, in fact, I do have breasts. And this would prove to be a real problem for me for years to come, especially considering my past sexual harassment and assault.

I think the Counseling Seminar was the proverbial nail in the coffin for me. By the time I went home, I had been caught. Completely, and entirely caught by the cult, and I would spend the next 8 years struggling with not being good enough, and not being content with where God had "clearly" intended me to be. Over the next few years, I would slowly lose more and more of myself, as my true personality retreated further and further inside of myself, in order for me to even be able to survive. And that, is the perfect place for Part 6 to pick up.

A Personal Plea, Part 4

I know a lot of you will read this and ask, "What does this have to do with Donald Trump?" Well, this particular post has no obvious correlations, but it is absolutely necessary background information in order for you to be able to understand the posts to come. So please, bear with me through this one.

In August of 1996, my parents enrolled our family (which by this time consisted of the three of us), in the Advanced Training Institute International (ATI), a fundamentalist Christian cult founded and led (at the time) by Bill Gothard. Up until then, life at home had been pretty rough. As I said in earlier posts, I already had PTSD when I reached the 6th grade. Two sibling-related traumas had caused it at the age of 3, and again at age 6. Based on that, it shouldn't be a surprise that by the time I was 13, my older siblings had driven my parents to the point of desperation. As any good parents would, they thought they were to blame. They thought they were bad parents. They weren't- my siblings each had unusually heavy issues to bear from the beginning, due to their adoptions, that I, as a biological child, simply didn't have. But my parents didn't realize that. So even though I was not at risk to go off the deep end as my siblings had, my parents thought I was, and took it upon themselves to become better parents.

There was a family at our church who had 4 happy, well-behaved kids, all older than I. Since they had turned out two wonderful adult children, and two wonderful nearly adult children, my parents asked them what their secret was. They introduced my parents to ATI, Bill Gothard, and homeschooling. And my parents completely went for it. Of course, they didn't realize it was a cult at the time. It wasn't secret (though it definitely was exclusive), people weren't forced to live in a communal compound (though they had several throughout the country, referred to as "training centers"), they weren't forced to shave their heads (though men did have to shave their beards- including my dad), etc. They just thought it was a good resource for godly living and raising godly children. As they looked into it, what they saw was family after family with a dozen happy, smiling, obedient kids.

My parents went for a week long introductory seminar for the parents of newly enrolled families at the Indianapolis Training Center, and came back talking about so many different things. Imagine being 13 years old, raised in a fairly "normal" Catholic/Evangelical hybrid home (I know, I know, it doesn't sound normal, but it was a lot more normal than you'd think), and suddenly your parents come home from a week away and tell you that all the rules had suddenly changes. You'd been promised your whole life that when you turned 13, you could start wearing light makeup and get your ears pierced, but suddenly, makeup became vanity, and pierced ears became body mutilation. You'd been promised your whole life that you could start dating at 16, and could go to all the school dances throughout high school, except now, dating led to depravity, and father-led courtship was the only way to go, and only once you were an adult and ready to get married. Your parents had stopped spanking you at the age of 8, only to take you out to eat (I still remember the exact booth at the Frisch's on Spring Grove Avenue we were in) and tell you that they suddenly had been shown God's way to discipline, and that they were going to start spanking you again, but more often, and this time, with a tree limb, and imagine that continuing until you were nearly 20 years old.

I could go on and on, but I won't. The point is, my life got turned upside down by well-meaning parents trying to save a kid who didn't even need saving. I remember fighting over homeschooling. I didn't want that. I wanted to be in band (which, I was in for the Christmas concert at my old school the one year after I left, due to an awesome band teacher (you're reading this, and you know who you are) and an utter dearth of decent French Horn players in the 7th and 8th grade bands). I wanted to be able to be in school plays. I wanted to be able to swim in high school. I didn't want to be removed from the things that most gave me life. I remember fighting over the "courtship covenant" my parents wanted me to sign when I was 13. That was going to be just one more way I was different from all of my friends, and everyone I had grown up with. I remember being told that I wouldn't be allowed to go to college. I had dreamed about college since before I started preschool. I'm not even kidding.

Other than those things, the first year in ATI wasn't horrible. I still went to youth group, I still listened to my contemporary Christian music (CCM), and I still was on swim team. But by the summer of 1997, my parents had so deeply bought into the lies of ATI, that the real trauma started. And that's a story for Part 5.

A Personal Plea, Part 3

The rest of the school year is a blur. Bits and snatches of continued bullying, continued sexual harassment, etc. I remember breaking down sobbing in the hall outside of my history classroom, and rummaging through my backpack for anything I could use to kill myself with. I remember holding my metal compass in my hand, and looking at the point on it, wondering if I could do the job with that. I remember holing up in a bathroom stall, trying to get myself together. And I remember three of those five boys, going out of their way to "accidentally" bump, brush, or even grab my chest or my butt. It was only those three. Never others. But sometimes, one of their friends would see it and smirk. I remember begging God to let me die, or make me never ever go back to that school. Begging to wake up and find it all a bad dream. Begging for God to let one of the teachers see it. Of course, none of that ever happened.

There is one massive event I do NOT remember. The only reason I know it happened, is that the school counselor told my mom, who then told me. And my friend Brittany was there, and remembers. The 6th graders only had half lockers, and they all lined the wall in a "U" shape on the second floor outside the science room. Apparently, one afternoon, several of the kids had surrounded me, blocking the exit from the locker area. It was the kids in front and beside me, and the lockers behind me. They started calling me a "bitch," but in the literal sense- they were calling me a female dog, not a female jerk. They started telling me to bark and roll over. And I did. And they were laughing when the counselor apparently saw and intervened. My mom still chokes up and has trouble finishing when talking about that, 21 years later. Like I said, I have zero memory of that event. I hear it, and it seems like it's about someone else. That's one of the big stories Mom would tell when getting me evaluated for Autism and other psychological issues.

I may not remember it, but I know enough about trauma and psychology to say, it's still there in my head. It had such an impact on me, that I literally blocked it out. But it's still there, whether I can find it or not. And I can also tell you exactly why I rolled over and barked like a dog, even though I can't remember ever doing it. Those kids crushed my soul. They crushed my will and my desire to live. They absolutely obliterated my previously healthy self-esteem, and that lasted for nearly two decades. I was trapped, I was being mocked, I was desperate. They weren't going to let me go, even if I sat down and did nothing. They'd keep taunting and mocking until, yet again, I broke. I'm not sure I even cared anymore. I'm not sure I had any will left to resist. I may not remember this, but thinking about that 12 year old little girl, absolutely breaks my heart. I was entirely broken. The only thing left to do when your abuser completely breaks you, and you can't get out, is to give them what they want. So I did. I reduced myself to an animal, because I didn't know what else to do. No one had really protected me. No one had succeeded in making it go away. Fighting back never worked.

Mercifully, the school year came to an end, and that year of hell was over. But the trauma remained. Some people like to say that a person's past is their past, and it doesn't define them. That's partially true. The thing about trauma, is that it actually can rewire parts of your neurology. It can also actually rewrite parts of your DNA. When those things happen, they're not ever fully in the past. Sure, healing can occur, growth can happen. The actual events are in the past and they don't define you. But in very real, very concrete, and very biological, scientific ways, the past is also partly your present. That's the cruel truth of PTSD. When Traumas rewire your neurology, and actually alter your DNA, they stay with you in ways you can't help. Anyone who knows me, knows I'm not a victim. That's what this whole blog is all about. Facing reality, facing my fears, and facing the truth. Living in spite of my fears. I'm not going through all of this because I'm wallowing, or I'm held down by the past. I'm writing all of this as a plea for you all to please try and understand how trauma victims, including myself, live.

As I said, the school year ended, and that hell was over. But what I didn't know, is that the one year of hell behind me may have been done, but I had nine more years of an entirely different kind of hell in front of me. Homeschooling would prove not to be the safe haven my parents had been hoping for. That story, though, begins in Part 4. 

A Personal Plea, Part 2

Over the next days and weeks, the comments continued, and got increasingly more graphic in nature. It spread from the initial two boys, to three others, as well. I don't remember exactly when I told my parents, who were already aware of the fairly extreme bullying, but when I did, my mom, especially, was livid. That was the first time I heard the phrase, "sexual harassment." I didn't even really understand what that meant. But I did start to understand why this felt worse than the other bullying. Quite simply, it was.

I started being greeted with "jiggle, jiggle" during gym class, while walking up the stairs, while walking down the hall. If I bent over, I was faced with other comments about "spillage," or a "leaking dam." Though there were only five boys who participated, there were several other boys- and girls- who would laugh at it, and egg it on. I even had girls at school who would pretend to be my friend, and then put their arm around me or link arms with me, awkwardly holding me in place while the boys would continue with their harassment. I didn't know how to make it stop. Nothing I would do worked. Eventually, I just gave in. I just started standing there and letting them.

My mom had called the school about the bullying many, many times, but the school wouldn't really do much. Finally, when my mom called them, yelling, about my sexual harassment, they did something. Not much. They called in the parents of the boys involved for a conference. Apparently, the boys got detention or something, I'm a bit hazy on the details. But not much happened, beyond a few repeated meetings. I remember the only encounters I ever had with a fairly well-known baseball player had to do with his son being one of the perpetrators. It's hard to get justice when you're at an elite, expensive school, and your parents can only afford tuition, and nothing else, and your abusers are the sons of bank presidents, prominent doctors, and professional athletes. Yes, money matters. So does gender. To some extent, it was my fault, because I didn't just keep my mouth shut, and I had the audacity to be in the 6th grade with a bra size far larger than my mother and some of my teachers. It was partly my fault, because I let it bother me, when boy were just being boys. It was partly my fault because I wouldn't defend myself. But really, my only offenses while at that school were being "poor" (we were solidly Middle Class, and I know that, but merely Middle Class was poor there), being Autistic, being big for my age, and being female.  After a while, the school just stopped dealing with things. I don't know why my parents left me there a whole school year. I don't know why they didn't pull me out before June. I don't know why they didn't do everything in their power to protect me. They didn't mean to let me down, but they did. And I'm still paying for that.

That Spring, the touching started. I remember how it started. I don't remember much else. I have an unusually good memory. But things got so traumatic for me that spring, I have huge blank spots in my memory. I can tell you where I got just about every piece of clothing and toy and accessory in every picture I'm in from about the age of 4 on. I can tell you what kind of soap we used when I was a kid, and when we switched from Zest to Dial. I can tell you when my dad switched from Prell shampoo to Head and Shoulders. My point is, I have a freakishly good memory. So the fact that I can't remember very significant chunks of time and very significant events from that Spring, is monumental.

It started between classes during my afternoon rotation. I think it was between Bible and history. I was in the school atrium, after coming down the steps from Bible class. The boy who had started it all, we'll call him "E," approached me with one of the other five boys, we'll call him "M." E told me that M wanted to be my boyfriend. I had no idea what was going on, and I had zero skills in dealing with these things. I just wanted it to go away. I didn't know if they were serious or not. What might seem obvious to the Neurotypical child is not at all obvious to the Autistic child. So I went with it. I said okay. They started laughing at me. M came up beside me, put his arm around me, and said, "No, Kathleen, you'll never be anyone's girlfriend. God obviously made you to be a hooker, otherwise he would never have made your boobs so big." As he pulled his arm away, his hand drifted down and briefly- but clearly intentionally- brushed my butt. All I remember is wanting to throw up and wanting to die, in that moment. I don't remember anything from the rest of the day. I remember feeling incredibly worthless. Incredibly violated.

I know that throughout the year, my mom would ask me if the boys were touching me. Once they started, I kept telling her no. Things were already bad enough with the plain bullying, and the harassment. If she knew they were molesting me- which is legally classified as sexual assault- things would get so much worse. I could barely survive things the way they were, and I was more of a problem to  the school than anything else. This is why I never reported my sexual assault. And until now, very, very few people have even known about it. Some of my closest friends haven't even heard about it. My parents knew nothing about it until this week. Had I reported it, maybe my parents would have pulled me out. I can see that as an adult. But I honestly don't know if they would have. Had they not, I knew then- and still know now- that I would have been nothing more than a further burden to the school. A lot of the teachers didn't even know how bad it was. The kids didn't do it around them. The teachers and administration thought I was exaggerating. I wasn't. Reporting would have caused way more problems, and solved none. So I kept my mouth shut, which is probably exactly what they wanted. 

A Personal Plea, Part 1

I've been struggling with how to write this post since Wednesday. I still don't know exactly how to go about it, so please bear with me. I don't write this to condemn anyone. I do write this to explain where I'm coming from, and what I've been experiencing the last few days. This is going to be raw and blunt. It may take a number of installments. I beg anyone who loves and respects me at all, to read and listen with an open heart.

I was what society refers to as an "early bloomer." At the age of 12, I was 5'3, 135lbs, my dress size was 12, and yes, I'll be frank, my bra size was a 34C. I was very thin. This wasn't extra weight. It was simply me. Not only was I very advanced in my development for the average 12 year old, but I also, thanks to my late summer birthday, was a year older than most of my classmates, putting me even further ahead of them. At the time, I was going to a very expensive college prep Christian school on the outskirts of Cincinnati. It wasn't the kind of place my parents could afford on their own, it was paid for by the money my grandfather left all his grandkids for their education.

Sixth grade there was hell. I was Autistic, but we didn't know it. High-functioning Autism was not nearly as well understood in the early-mid 90s as it is today. Despite a father who worked as a speech pathologist with special needs kids, including Autistic kids, it was just never on our radar until I was about 20 or so, and I didn't get a diagnosis until I was 32. Between being years ahead of average in my development, and being Autistic and therefore having next to zero social skills, or ability to deal with bad social situations, I was a magnet for the most brutal of bullying, sexual harassment, and assault from my classmates.

At first, it was just brutal bullying and teasing. Cracks about being poor, about being dumb, about no one ever liking me. Cracks about how excited I got at school spirit rallies. About how I believed people when they said they wanted to be friends with me. They broke into my locker so many times, leaving nasty messages, and even vandalizing my belongings, I couldn't keep up with them in requests to the school office for new locker combinations.

But then, in about November of that year (1995), the bullying went beyond that. I even remember exactly where I was when it started. I was at the front of Mrs. Slemmons's English class, and we were playing some sort of educational game, I don't remember what. My INTJ personality type doesn't make me overly-excitable, that's my Autism. Autism is neurological in nature. Those of us with it have a very different neurological map, and "normal" things affect us differently. It's easy for us to get overstimulated, or simply...more stimulated than other people about things, hence the over-excitement during games, competitions, etc. This game was no exception to that. My team was winning, and I was trying to get my classmates to make the right guesses before the clock ran out. I was laughing, and bouncing up and down on my toes. As you can imagine, with anyone of my chest size, things don't stay still when I'm bouncing. I remember exactly which boy started smirking, and said, "Jiggle, jiggle." His cousin, sitting next to him, smirked and started saying the same thing. For a second, I wasn't sure what was going on, but then, it hit me: They were mocking me for the size of my chest.

I remember feeling odd about it after it happened, but I didn't know why. This felt different from the other bullying. Before then, I hadn't really ever thought twice about my body and early development. I was blissfully ignorant. But after that, I became incredibly self-conscious. And what I did not know, was that this wasn't a one-time thing. It was going to continue throughout the rest of the year. And not only was it going to continue, it was going to get far, far worse. By the end of that school year, I would hit a new low. I would have developed PTSD for the THIRD time (the first two events being when I was 3, and when I was 6). And my usually healthy self-esteem would be nowhere to be found...for the next 18 years.

This is just the beginning. I beg of you to please keep reading over the next several days. My next one is going to be incredibly unpleasant to read, but please, read it. Try to understand. This all ties into the events of the last few days, and I desperately need my friends and family who voted for Trump to understand where I'm coming from, and why I'm having a hard time dealing with it.

Where I'm Going

It has been far too long since I have written anything here. I've had dozens of posts swirling around in my head, and I hope I will get them down here soon. But I've also been processing a lot of thoughts, a lot of feelings, and a lot of things in life. Just more steps in my journey forward. I started this blog a year ago, and while I'm light years ahead of where I was then, I'm still not in nearly a healthy enough state of mind to handle going back and reading what I wrote then. It was too raw. It brings back too much, even just thinking about it. Maybe someday, maybe never.

Tonight, I started packing for my move down south. On December 3rd, I'm moving from the north side of Denver, to Lone Tree, south of the city. It's actually a very wealthy part of town. To put it in Cincinnati terms, I'm basically moving to Indian Hills. By Lone Tree standards, I'm exceedingly poor, but no matter. I have enough to cover my needs, and sometimes, a little extra. It's far more than I have had for the vast majority of my life. 

When I began my moving process, I was moving because right now, I spend 20 or so hours in the car each week. I spend a lot in gas and tolls. I don't live near work, and I don't live near Andy. Fortunately for me, Level 3 has an office in Lone Tree, fewer than 10 minutes from Andy's house. I was fortunate enough to find an apartment in the building right next door to Level 3. I don't even walk across a parking lot to get there. There's a little grassy embankment, and I'm there. I'm guessing it'll take me less time to get from my front door to my new desk than it currently takes me to get from the parking garage to my desk every day. Not only that, but instead of using a tank or more of gas per week, I can use about one per month. And pretty much never pay tolls. The apartment building I chose is brand new and very modern in decor. It's basically my dream apartment. Yes, I'm spending in rent literally all the money I'm saving by not driving so much, but it's totally worth it. Plus, the year round heated pool is going to be amazing for my joints this winter. I'll be close to Andy, close to Violet (who is SO BIG!), close to a lot of things. I'll save hours in driving time each week, and especially when living with chronic pain and illness, on top of Autism, time is energy. 

All of that alone, seemed like the reasons I was moving. But a few weeks ago, I realized something that struck me again tonight, while packing some things up in my kitchen: I moved to my current apartment to survive. I'm moving to my new one to be happy. 

When I moved here, I was barely holding on to life and sanity by a thread. I had already spent a week in the hospital, and had only narrowly avoided going back a couple months after. Cape had become entirely toxic to me, and staying there was simply not an option. And so I packed up my five years of life in Cape, selling as much as I could to get rid of all my grad school cheap stuff, to make my move easy, and force me into saving money to buy good adult furniture in Denver. 

Packing was brutally painful. Nothing inside of me wanted anything to do with any part of the situation I was in. I didn't want to be moving. I didn't want to be leaving Cape and SEMO. I didn't want to leave him and our relationship behind. I didn't want to leave and start all over in a completely new city, and state. But moving to Denver was my only option if I was going to survive. And as I remember writing about a year ago here, I didn't seem to have an option but to survive. I was stuck living. I remember quoting Jurassic Park, saying, "Life finds a way." And for me, it did. It was the most painful thing I had ever experienced in my life. But life wasn't going anywhere, so I had to leave. And the only place that didn't make me want to cry to think about moving there was Denver. So I came. 

Moving to Denver was the best thing I had ever done. I began to make a life for myself here. My place wasn't bad, and I started to decorate it to my liking. But I still spent so many nights here in this apartment, sobbing for him. Grieving the life I thought I was going to have. The life that was promised me over and over. Dreaming that he was knocking on my door, only to wake up to reality. I was doing much better, and I was forcing myself to move forward, but it was still brutal. It was ugly. It was excruciating. 

Then came Andy. And he helped make it better. No, he didn't take the pain away. He couldn't. But he did help parts of it heal. I'm still overwhelmed by grief at times, and pain. Anger still takes my breath away at times, and I am still beyond confused, and even after 16 months, I'm still in a degree of shock. No, I don't wish him back. Not at all. I know he was too much of a coward to ever be able to make life with me work. And I don't even really know if he loved me. I don't think I'll ever stop questioning that. But even with Andy in the picture, my apartment was still a little shrouded by the reason for moving. I loved my apartment in Cape, this one is just okay. The one in Lone Tree is better. 

There are so many things that make my new place infinitely better than the one I'm in. This apartment played a role. An absolutely vital role. But it's time to move on. I moved here to survive, and survive I did. Now it's time to thrive. And that's exactly why I'm moving. I can't really fully do that while I'm here. But soon, I'll be in my new place, in my new part of town, without driving enough to be a part-time job. And instead of pain while I pack, I feel excitement. Like this time last year, I can't wait to move. But unlike last year, it's not because I can't bear to be where I am. It's because I can't wait to be where I'm going. And that, dear readers, makes all the difference in the world. 

On Pumpkin Spice Lattes

I write this with an empty PSL cup on my desk beside me. It's only September 19th, and I've already lost count of the PSLs I have consumed. On September 2nd, I got my first PSL of the season. I think I was halfway through before I realized that was my first PSL in 2 years. Last year, I couldn't do it. I couldn't handle a PSL, or making my yearly pumpkin and spiced fall things.

Of course, last year, I was in hell about this time. Making it even worse was the fact that the ex and I had started eagerly anticipating Fall and PSLs and pumpkin spiced everything in about...May. We kept talking about all the things I would make, and all the PSLs we'd get at Starbucks, and how the first PSL of the season should always be a day of celebration. We talked about picking apples and pumpkins, and doing all things Fall related. And then when Fall came, breathing was almost too much. Given my state of mental health last fall, and all the things I was dealing with, even on top of the breakup, it's no wonder that I couldn't manage a PSL. And that Fall itself was almost too much for me.

For a while, I kinda wondered if I would get that back. If I'd be able to fully enjoy PSLs again. Or if they'd always be sad to me. There are things that, even now, nearly 15 months out, and 7 months in to a new and awesome relationship, I still really can't deal with. Guardians of the Galaxy and Goonies are both kinda ruined, and I may never get either of those back. There are a couple songs I doubt I'll ever fully enjoy again. I'm getting to the place where Gremlins and Back to the Future and The Big Bang Theory and various other things are no longer huge, painful reminders. They carry with them mild to moderate pangs, but they're not the knife in the gut they used to be.

For this reason, I was really happy to realize, and to continually see, over the last 18 days, that a PSL is...a PSL to me. It's not a painful reminder. It's not even a very mildly uncomfortable reminder. It may seem petty that I place so much significance on enjoying a PSL. But really, it's a huge thing. Last year, I couldn't even deal with the thought of drinking one. It was far too painful. But this year, I've come a really long way. I've gotten to where I can order one and experience no more than a "Huh. Nope, nothing. This is really good."

And you know what? That's part of living a successful and fulfilling life. Recognizing that every victory, no matter how small it may seem, is, indeed, a victory.  I think a lot of times, we sell ourselves short. We minimize the victories and milestones. We make victories insignificant, and discount the milestones. Every victory comes from a battle that could have been lost, but wasn't. Every milestone comes from a place that could never have been reached, but was. Plus, if you ask me, anything that involves drinking a PSL is a huge win.

I don't usually do this, but today, I'm going to end with a challenge to everyone reading this. What is a victory, a milestone, or an accomplishment that you have achieved, but have been downplaying? What is something good in your life that you've been minimizing, telling yourself it's not a big deal? STOP! Stop denying that whatever it is, isn't a big deal, and appreciate everything that got you through that victory or milestone or achievement. It's when we're able to fully appreciate the things that may seem small, that life suddenly becomes so much better. 

7 Months, 1 Day

I'm not gonna lie. I'm a little unsettled today. A little on edge. A little jittery. Yesterday, Andy and I reached the 7 month mark in our relationship. We spent part of the day together, and it was great. But then he left (to go watch the Broncos beat the Colts...), and I started feeling less great.

We all know by now that the ex left me incredibly scarred and damaged. Some of that will continue to heal. Some of it never will. But that's part of life. I still fight the mental demons on that issue on a daily basis. Some days are worse than others. Some are horrible. Some are quite good. Today...today is rough.

Why?
Well, I'll tell you.

It was the day after the 7 month mark that the ex came over during his lunch break and broke up with me, leaving me completely shocked and devastated.

I'm someone who makes significant connections between, well, nearly everything. Connections and associations are basically how I process the world and all information that goes through my brain. Usually, it helps. Sometimes, it hurts. This time, it's brutal. I have something called synesthesia. For most synesthetes, everything has a color, but there are other types. For me, I have spatial sequence and spatio-temporal synesthesia. What does this mean? Well, basically, time is far more concrete to me than to most people. Perhaps that's why I'm a historian. But that's another thought for another time. Birthdays, events, dates, years, etc., all have a fixed place in my mind. I'm always highly aware of duration, and of one thing's duration in comparison to other similar things in my life. I could explain more, but for one thing, that would take too much time, and for another, it would probably freak some of you out. Usually, it's a blessing, as it helps give me an unusually good memory. Sometimes, it's a curse. But it's one reason that I always know exactly how old all of my family members are, how long my brother has been gone, how I know when my grandparents died, how I know how long my parents have been married, how long it's been since I graduated from high school, college, grad school...how long since we joined ATI, and how long since I got out. Everything significant has a fixed place in my head.

So for me, the day after the seven month mark has me on high alert. I've been dreading it, as I could see it getting closer. I have repeatedly told myself it doesn't matter, but everything in my head and my gut, and everything about how I process information has screamed otherwise. Every part of me wants to brace for impact, and possibly, sleep through the day. But I have a job, so I'm here at work, hoping the day flies by, and telling myself to chill. Of course, saying it is way easier than actually doing it.

Today is just one of those days I have to power through. It's just one of those days I have to deal with the pit in my stomach, and tell myself that no matter what my mind, body, and emotions are screaming at me, things really are good between us. Andy isn't going to just suddenly be like, "So um...I can't do this..." I'm going to leave work today and meet him and the kitties at his place. We're going to have dinner, play with the kitties, and watch a movie, or perhaps Gilmore Girls. We'll talk about our days, and the day will end, and we'll still be together.

So for today, I'll just have to deal. I'll do my job, and I'll grade exams for my online class, and I'll write a few blog posts, and I'll read on in  The Girl on the Train (guys, it's as amazing as they say...and leaps and bounds better than Gone Girl, which many are comparing it with), and I'll make it through, like I always do. I'm okay. I don't feel okay, but I am. And at the end of the day, being okay is far more important than feeling okay. The being is here. The feeling will come. 

On Kittens and Puppies

As many of you know by now, two weeks ago, I got a kitten, Violet. She's all black, teeny-tiny, and (mostly) adorable. When I got her, she was just barely 2lbs, and 8 weeks old. Now, she's two weeks older, and definitely bigger, but still in the 2lb range. The humane society information we got with her says she was found alone under a porch. Which is just really sad, especially for a kitten who was only a few weeks old and could not fend for herself! We're guessing she was the kitten of a feral or outdoor cat, and since she's SO tiny, was probably the runt, and rejected by the mother. I'm glad someone found her and brought her to the humane society, though, so that we could adopt her and love her!

Violet (also known lovingly as Jingle Butt, cause she has a bell on her collar and can be a little bit of a butt at times) is my cat, but she's living with Andy, and his 14 year old Maine Coon, Smokey. So she's really our cat. We got her together. I had told Andy about her, and said I was thinking about getting her, but then decided I just couldn't afford the pet deposit and all the stuff I needed for her right now. So I decided not to get her. But the next day, Andy said we should get her, and he would keep her with Smokey, and we could buy all the stuff together. I went for it, and my cousin Valerie, who had been fostering Violet for the humane society in Boulder, put her on hold for us.

We got the call that Violet had been spayed, and was ready for us to pick her up, on a Monday, and I made plans to get her the next day. But that night, I started getting scared. I didn't have a panic attack, but I did spend a decent portion of the evening crying and dealing with unpleasant memories.

Last summer, I talked to my ex about getting a puppy (before he was my ex, of course), as a way to help deal with the depression brought about by the Duggar scandals, and exacerbated by my temporary joblessness. We had always planned on each getting a puppy after we got married, but I felt like I needed one sooner. He thought it was a good idea, so I rescued little Rue. She was a lab mixed with multiple other breeds, and was full of fleas and ticks and worms when I got her. The people who I got her from had a farm and tons of dogs that they didn't spay, neuter, or keep away from each other, and they all stayed outside. She still has a scar on her leg from being kept outside without much care.

I got her, and immediately, she helped with my depression. When I woke up the day the ex broke up with me, I had realized that I really hadn't felt very depressed in the three days I'd had her. She was adorable, and got me out of bed in the morning, and gave me something to do. Well, the ex came over during his lunch break that day and broke up with me. As I have said in other places, no one- not even his best friends- saw that ever happening. I was completely blindsided. I tried to keep Rue, but at the end of the day, with all of my health issues, I couldn't keep her by myself. It's why I had never gotten a puppy in my 10 years of living alone. If I had known he was thinking about breaking up with me (which he was, when he told me getting her was a good idea), I never would have gotten her. After three weeks, I had to give her up. I left her with a friend in Colorado (who has since lost Rue to a breakup as well), and leaving her broke my heart. It was awful. And I still want my damn dog back all the time.

Things are different with Andy. Everyone sees it. But getting a kitten to keep at his house scared the crap out of me. I was so afraid he was going to break up with me, and I was going to lose another pet. That night, I really and truly wanted to back out and decide not to get her. But I knew the only thing making me want to do that was fear. So I made myself go to bed, and managed to sleep better than I thought I would.

The next day, I headed to Boulder after work, and picked up Violet. She is so precious. Usually, anyway. She loves pouncing, jumping, running, ambushing poor Smokey, and sleeping on faces or throats. Yes, ON the face. Foreheads and cheeks seem like ideal beds to her. And so do throats, though I find that one somewhat panic inducing. I'm so glad I decided to get her, despite the fear. She can be a little demanding, she loves to play with a playmate, rather than alone.When Smokey is done with her, she decides to try and get one of us to play with her. Heaven forbid we may be busy! She definitely attached to me immediately. Andy says she looks for me when I'm not there.

Sometimes, I still get scared I'll lose her. That something will happen with Andy and me, and I'll lose my cat in the process. But some things are out of my hands. I can't control everything. Maybe I'll lose her, but I probably won't. I can't let fear keep me from living my life. That's the reason I have this blog in the first place. 

On Being Human

Some days, I really hate my PTSD. Don't get me wrong, I never love it. For the most part, I have learned to live with it. I have learned to deal with the highly disturbing nightmares that happen more than I would like. I have learned to deal with the flashbacks, and the flood of emotions that I have become much more able to handle than I used to. But sometimes, it rears its ugly head in the most unexpected of places, and totally undoes me. Last night was one of those nights, and today, I'm suffering the consequences.

I'm not going to go into a lot of detail here for many reasons, so please forgive my vagueness. There is a certain person from my past who was extremely abusive towards me for a very long time. I have them blocked on Facebook, and have managed to live my life entirely removed from them for several years. This has exponentially improved my life, and allowed me to move forward and work on becoming a healthier person. But unfortunately, as is often the case, blocking a person and otherwise cutting them out of your life is not a 100% guarantee that they will not ever pop up in unexpected places since, most of the time, you have mutual acquaintances.

Last night, this person popped up on my newsfeed (no, there was no way for me to avoid that happening), and I almost dropped my phone. I physically startled, and found myself wanting to throw up. And here's the frustrating thing about mental illness: we often find ourselves reacting in irrational ways. I knew there was no way this person could hurt me. There was no way this person could actually get to me or do anything to me, just by virtue of them popping up on my newsfeed. Let me be clear, this is the only person in the world I am actually afraid of (more afraid because of potential emotional/mental damage than physical). Cutting them out as I have almost completely guarantees they can't ever hurt me again. Therefore, having such a severe reaction to seeing a picture of them in an unexpected place is rather irrational because they can't actually hurt me. But that's the thing about PTSD. Anything resembling the person or situation that caused it can trigger a severe reaction, even if no real threat is posed.

In the case of what happened last night, it triggered a panic attack. I've had more panic attacks than I can count. I've lived through them. I know they're not going to kill me. But last year, as a result of all of the breakup trauma, I decided to attack my issues with panic attacks. And I was extremely successful. I stopped avoiding things that caused the attacks, and faced them head on. Before last night, the last panic attack I had experienced was 368 days before, when I was in the hospital. A nurse who was behaving wildly inappropriately for the psych ward quite literally stood in my way while she verbally abused me and accused me of things I didn't do, causing, unsurprisingly, a panic attack. But that's another story for another time.

Having another panic attack, aside from the very real trauma of the attack itself and its aftermath, was frustrating for me. I still find it frustrating that I had one last night. I know it's not true, but I feel as though I should have been able to logic my way out of it. It feels like a colossal failure: I managed to keep panic attacks at bay for just over a year, in every situation, and a single picture undoes me. Psychologically, my reaction makes sense. It's part of the PTSD. And yet, I still feel that I should be able to control it. That, in itself, is irrational. If I could completely control it, I wouldn't have PTSD (yeah, I can't win with the cycle of irrationality- talk about INTJ hell...).

So today, as I try to recover from the lack of sleep, the headache, the muscle tension, the overall fatigue and emotional exhaustion, I also try to give myself some grace. I'm not perfect, after all. I'm not superhuman. Having a panic attack is not a sign of weakness. The reality is, it's hugely significant that I went over a year without one. It's not realistic to expect I will never have another panic attack again, as long as I live. Part of living a functional, healthy life is understanding and accepting that I will not always be able to avoid things like panic attacks. I'm only human. And that's okay. 

Trying

A year ago today, my parents came and picked me up, and took me home from the hospital. On August 25th, the second day of the Fall semester, my thesis advisor and general mentor, Dr. Hoffman, put his day aside, and took me to Southeast Hospital in Cape Girardeau. He spent hours with me in the ER, as doctors, nurses, and a social worker came in and out of the room. And then he went upstairs with me to the psych ward, and stayed with me until they made him leave. He called my parents, to tell them I was in the hospital, and he and his wife came back that night to visit, and bring me clothes, which I had not brought with me.

I was in the midst of a very deep, suicidal depression. The breakup I had been dealing with, and the way it had been handled by him, the lack of information and integrity and willingness to take responsibility (and funny enough, I didn't even know just how bad all that was for another few weeks, but it was already bad), the lies he had told his friends and our mutual friends...his refusal to work on things, or even talk them out, despite my complete willingness to do so...it had all taken its toll on me. This was the hardest thing I found myself ever having dealt with. Nothing- not my brother's death, not my loss of the ability to play the piano, not my years being kept in a cult- had been that awful for me. Absolutely nothing. I just didn't want to go on living. I was done.

The doctor and staff at the hospital kept telling me that my life had value. That I was worth something. That I would be missed if I died. In contrast to my previous depressions, I knew all that. Reading the Divergent series really did change my life. It showed me my worth and value as a person. And in the nearly 3 years since then, that hasn't wavered. I remember one day during a group discussion, expressing my frustration. The recreational therapist was asking us how we were going to prepare for success once we got out. How were we going to avoid going back into the hospital? Everyone else in the hospital, the whole time I was there, without exception, had all made destructive choices in their lives, that they were reaping the consequences of. I was the only one who had never had a substance abuse problem. I was the only one with any kind of college degree. I was one of the only ones who had never been in trouble with the law. I was the only person there who had never been in the psych ward before, and I was the only person who, in general, lived a functional life on a day-to-day basis. Even the doctor and therapists had told be that I was the exception to the people they saw go through the psych ward on a regular basis. They said that every once in a while, they got someone like me. And that I wasn't there because I was unhealthy, like everyone else. I was one of the few people who went through there precisely because I was healthy. I recognized a problem and got help in solving the problem. I wasn't there so people could patch me up and do damage control, so I could go out and keep being dysfunctional. I was there so I could get help getting better. One of the social workers told me, in our one on one, that she was actually really surprised and impressed by me. She said that she had encountered cult survivors before. And they're usually attention seeking and difficult to deal with. She said I was the most well-adjusted cult survivor she had ever met. And that I would do so well in life.

But all of that was part of my frustration. If I was in that deep depression and in the hospital because I had screwed up my life, then there would be something I could do to fix the problem. I remember when I had my bad car accident in October of 2014, I was upset more because I hadn't done anything wrong, than anything else. There had been literally nothing I could have done to avoid that accident. I was rear-ended by someone going above the speed limit while waiting for someone else to turn left. I was a sitting duck. I was frustrated, because there wasn't anything I could do to avoid that happening again. And I was feeling exactly the same way here again. I was born with Anxiety and Autism. I was given PTSD four times over, by siblings who tormented (no really, that's the correct word) me, classmates who tormented me because of my Autism, and by my parents who put me in a cult for 9 years and subjected me to abuse, and even abused me themselves. As a result of those three things, I wound up with Persistent Depressive Disorder, with an early onset. I was born with multiple health issues exacerbated by my traumatic early life. I was a good kid, I earnestly sought God, I (usually) happily obeyed my authorities, I did well in school, I tried to follow the social rules I could never quite figure out. When things at home and in the cult became so toxic I couldn't really function anymore, I took responsibility for my own well-being and left home against my parents' wishes. When my PTSD became disruptive, I took responsibility and got help. I fought through years of illness-both mental and physical- to get through college, even though I didn't think I could. When I got my Celiac diagnosis, I took responsibility for my health and changed my diet. I got through grad school, I took on lots of extra jobs to make more money because I didn't make much. I followed the rules. I took risks when I had to. Bottom line, I made good decisions. I remember being there in the hospital- and the months after- feeling so frustrated, because I was the epitome of the good girl. I didn't screw up. I had never in my life done anything to cause anything more than marginal inconveniences for myself or anyone else. Even my parents agree with this. And yet, I had PTSD four times over because of things other people had done to me. And here I was in the hospital, because of the horrible depression I was in because of what someone else had done.

And I was just done. What was the point? Why keep trying? Why keep doing everything I'm supposed to do, when it all gets screwed up anyway? Why keep fighting so hard? It didn't seem to be getting me far.

I still don't have much of an answer to that. I got out of the hospital, and kept doing what I do: making good choices. Surviving. Making my way. I was only in Cape that Fall as long as I absolutely had to be in order to do my job. I spent the weekends out of town. And as soon as I could, I got the hell out of Dodge. I left it all behind and moved a thousand miles away. Literally. I took responsibility for my own life. So far, it has worked out. Things are definitely better than they were. I made the right choices. But it's still rough. I still struggle with everything that happened. I still struggle with wondering when the other shoe is going to drop. Because, in my experience, it always does.

I still have nightmares. I still find myself crying on occasion. I still find myself incredibly confused. But I keep going. Sometimes, I'm not even sure why. I think that's just who I am. Like it or not, I'm a fighter. I'm a survivor. I don't allow myself to be victimized. And above all, I'm Dauntless. That doesn't mean I don't get scared or discouraged or angry at things out of my control. What it does mean, though, is that I keep fighting through all of those things. It's how I have always been, and I suppose it's how I'll always be. Sometimes I wish it wasn't. Sometimes, it gets so tiring. Maybe there's a good reason for all of it, maybe that's just how the chips fell. Regardless, I'll keep going. And I hope, someday, I see it really pay off. For me, or for someone else. 

Joshua Alexander

One thing that many people don't know about me, is that I have a niece and nephew, and they are 19 and 16 years old. I was actually in the delivery room with my niece, and was the first person to hold her. My nephew was born three years later, but my sister and her family had moved to New Jersey by then. I was 16 when he was born, and I loved our visits to New Jersey and getting to spend time with Joshua and Gabriella. I looked forward to watching them grow up.

But sometimes, our plans don't pan out. Sometimes, life just happens.

I'm not going to go into this here, because I'm not interested in airing dirty laundry between my sister and myself. But we had a falling out nearly 6 years ago, and as a result, I had to give up my relationship with my niece and nephew, which I have absolutely hated. My parents still had a relationship with them, but I didn't. For years, I couldn't even listen to my parents talk about them. It was too hard; too painful. I felt awful about removing myself from their lives, but I really didn't have any other choice. It was what I had to do to survive.

In the last year or so, I've gotten to the point where I could handle having a relationship with them, and they're now old enough that I can have a relationship with them, without having anything to do with my sister. But I knew that I had, effectively, abandoned them. I didn't feel like it was right for me to just jump back into their lives because I wanted to. I'd thought about going to visit their dad, Johnny, and having a conversation with him about it. The best think I could think to do was to have someone else tell the kids that I was available and happy to have a relationship with them now, if they wanted one. But I was going to leave that up to them.

A few weeks ago, at the end of July, my parents went to Philadelphia to visit Joshua at his other grandmother's house. I asked my parents to tell Josh that I was sorry I just dropped out of his life, and that if he wanted a relationship, I'm available. I told them this the day they were flying up there. The very next day, I was sick, and I took a half day off of work. While I was driving home, I decided to call my parents and see if they could talk for a bit, to help keep me distracted from how crappy I felt, until I got home. As it so happened, when I called, they were  just finishing up lunch with Joshua. I was talking to my dad, and heard Josh say, "Tell her I said hi." I heard my dad reply, "Tell her yourself." Half a second later, I heard this deep, young man's voice saying, "Hello?" I hadn't talked to my nephew since he was 10, and hadn't seen him since he was 7 or 8. I suddenly changed from my usually fairly cool demeanor to a blubbering aunt who almost couldn't handle the fact that she was finally talking to her long-lost nephew, who was no longer a little boy.

"Joshua?" I barely choked out, "Oh my gosh, I'm sorry, I'm crying. I can't help myself."
"Well it's been a long time since we've talked. I was a little boy. How old was I?"
"You were 10. Oh my gosh, how are you?" We went back and forth a little, and I asked about his sister, who is now a Sophomore in college (can't even deal with that!). Then I spent some time telling him that I was sorry I just dropped out of his life; that I never meant to abandon him. It had nothing to do with him, it was all about my relationship with his mom, and because he was so young, I couldn't have a relationship with him and his sister, but not with his mom. He said he knew, and he understood. I told him that the door to me is open now. If he wants to be FB friends, if he wants to talk to me ever, whatever he wants, I'm here.

We didn't talk terribly long, just a few minutes. And I cried the WHOLE time. I wish we'd had more time. But I do know that we'll talk again. And I hope I get to see him sometime soon.

I still felt sick the rest of the day, but I was kind of on Cloud 9 for the next two days. Finally getting to talk to him, hearing how he's turned out to be more or less the strong, level-headed young man I always thought he'd be, was amazing. And, knowing he understands, and he doesn't hate me.

I don't know how long it will be before I get to see him. I don't know when or if I'll get to talk to his sister. There are a lot of things I don't know. But for now, I'm just SO happy that after so many years, I finally got to talk to my nephew again. That right there kind of made my summer.