just after i wrote the last post M. and S. came in and told me that when they play with their small universe of toy people they sometimes use the soundtrack of carmina burana.
I laughed and rejoiced at the beautiful invention of their world; no longer weary.
Jesus said, come to me, all you who are weary, and I will give you rest.
Weary is different than tired. You can be satisfied and tired. Weary is when you feel like you are giving up. That’s it, you say, too tired for the exclamation mark. i give up.
i feel weary. i often have this feeling, the urge to go along. with what?
with the social convention surrounding what embarrasses people. many times a long silence from someone signals their discomfort. the silence tells me they are embarrassed.
Sometimes I want to speak directly to that silence and retort, do you think this what i want? i want…
i want
em to know she can tell her story fearlessly
when she tells me she is scared
i know she has reasons to be scared
people do look at you differently when you tell them you are broken
but then, who are they kidding?
we are all broken
today has been five years since my father’s crash. i miss him and see him in my children’s faces.
the day i let go of the rope i decided, why not write?
if someone mined the interior of my computer they would find fragments of the same terrible story–for years i wrote to stay sane
when i finally wrote the book it was an act of defense not just for my children but for the millions of other children who have been silenced and marginalized by abuse, especially sexual abuse
after I wrote the book I sprinted to edit it and clean it up and then I bought a hundred copies. I have given them out. That was the goal I had set for myself and the image that goes with it has been with me for years:
When M. and C. were little they had so many tantrums so regularly I often thought about the climatic moment in the now ancient movie The Witness–the bad guys are about to win when a contingent of Amish neighbors appear on the horizon. Their numbers and witness prevent violence. Over the years I have longed for those Amish people–a group of witnesses preventing violence. And that was the idea–one hundred books, one hundred witnesses. The justice system is falling short and sexual predators are allowed to do much more damage than they should because we do not have an effective system to just identify them and prevent them access to children. If you add the terrible price of silence and the way it cuts children off from healing and community–something needs to change.
Now that I have gotten to the watermark of 100 books I feel compelled to reiterate my offer. Want a copy? Send me your address.
S. tells me about the missing lobe on the left side of the human chest; a space carved out for our hearts. I know some of my friends are agnostics and atheists, yet I can’t help but see God’s authorship in that missing space. A place missing only God can fill.
I used to stay awake very late out of fear, now it is grief. I hate to admit it but the grief stage that resulted in lack of appetite was more cosmetically useful. I would not go back.
I don’t tell the kids about the Chris Rock monologue that haunts me. He talks about how you know the bad parents because they assert that “at least” they are meeting basic requirements for their childrens’ care. Food, water, shelter: all basic. Protection from sexual abuse was in that list–necessities for all my children. Yet I failed.
I constantly feel the pressure against that missing place in my chest. I think we all do except Sea. He tells me he is better, wills me to believe it. I never will. The hole in my chest is there to remind me.
a few years ago i talked to a caseworker about adopting again. i was pregnant with our 6th child and she dismissed my question politely–nope, too many kids. then-all-hell-broke-loose. what was i thinking adopting the first time, right? i will never “get over” what happened to us all, especially the children. still..i read about this lady in Kenya who takes care of 52 kids..crazy, right?
Mel is in the pool amusing herself by humming the shark soundtrack from Jaws. She stops abruptly and shivers in the water. Ooh, she says, I was scaring myself…
I have not let her watch Jaws; just told her about the good parts. She says that sometimes she will be playing a game of ripstick tag at the park and humming Jaws then she will say to herself, we’re gonna need a bigger ripstick.
These stories clearly illustrate that she is the one who should be blogging.
I have a picture in my head of me or my more attractive avatar standing at the edge of a chasm, shouting into it. I don’t think anyone is listening. It gives me a freedom to say what I want–after all I am just shouting into the abyss, right?
Still if someone were to listen, I would be afraid to thank the precious handful of people who have held our hands through the terribleness of our story. I know so many people have more devastating stories, but ours is riven with a shame that makes people (justifiably) uncomfortable.
But I don’t think Lindsey would mind if I said thank you. I should say it about a thousand times to get the point across. Thank you not just for friendship, but for listening. Thank you for the letter that you and H. wrote. Thank you for being there.
And while I am shouting into the abyss I would like to point out that you are so beautiful with children. You hear them, your own and others. It is precious to watch you do it, and you are a great gift to me.
so thank you,
i shout
from the edge of the chasm
I found an adoption website with blogs about kids with RAD. First I was gratetful to not feel so alone, then I thought–where have you been all my life?
Also, after multiple rejections Yahoo! Voices published a poem I wrote! I am amazed.
Carrying Light 