Drew Eden and how to forgive your attacker

My sweet child has the fifth upper resp. infection this year right now. Her immune system is weak due to paternal drug use prior to conception. It really upsets me hearing her wheeze and cough and be ill all the time. It is really not fair as life too often isn't. I get very upset every time she gets sick because I feel it is not needed.
Which reminds me to insert here that my ex-husband called last week and apologized to me for all that he had done. It has been 4 and a half years since we were together and I have been married one and a half of those to my second husband. I responded badly to the apology.
I knew at some point he would realize that he screwed up. He was explosive and violent when he used drugs. I lived with him for 7 years behaving the way he did. I never knew which end of the spectrum he was on, going up-going down-high-with drawl. And no women who live through this, and God be with the ones that don't, ever speak of the torment they live in. He went through 4 rehabs while we were together and lost 5 jobs. I never really knew him at all. He hid his addict side until absolutely necessary to tell me. He left bruises visible and not, his favorite thing to do when angry with me, because he was convinced I had an affair with anyone that crossed my path, was the choke hold. Never mind the other women he had affairs with. He also adored the spit in the face when she doesn't expect it. I was so afraid of him. The really sad part is he could be wonderful too. He could be so sweet and romantic and just really great. That is the scary thing, it kept me there, waiting for him to notice that I loved him. He never did.
He calls for the first time in 6 months- yes 6 months- he has not even called to check on the kids in that amount of time. So he apologizes and I was very offended. I just ask how do you apologize for all the heartache you put me through? The kids were too young to remember living with him. They only remember their "REAL" Daddy- my second husband- not the biological real but the "REAL" Daddy. To apologize was really upsetting to me. You just can't take that back.
After calming down I called back and I apologized and I told him I was glad that he was a terrible husband/father/man. Because I wouldn't be here now if he'd been good at it, and here is really good. Here is chocolate fudge brownie good. I forgive him if I get to be here.

Inside my Head Today

Invisible weight

so hard to carry

Visible weight

leads to more invisible weight

Quiet solitude with

people all around

Singing in the car

to myself

No phone calls

only bills in the mail

Working

for way too little

Still here in this house

not home anymore

Desire for sleep

although I obtained plenty

Urge to be alone

the want for only myself

Depression

takes me in waves

Comes back

undulating with chemicals

Leaves me gasping for freedom

at times

Leaves me happy inside my head

at times

Must try to remain as normal

as possible

At least as normal

as I ussually am

My definition of normal

is blurred

Maybe it's not me

just the dictionary

Feb 6

Somehow it doesn't seem like a year-a whole year since that day.

I was very nervous because I was singing in the wedding, not because I was getting married.

He worked that day and then came to the church around 2:30 or so and shaved in the church restroom. We wore purple- my favorite color- an eggplant version. The kids wore a icy green color- his favorite. We hired a photographer, it was her first wedding shoot and she was more tore up than anyone there. I made the cake, it was fabulous. Peanut butter fugde cake and icing, them swiss vanilla, then black forrest choclate. We used a big cookie and a glass of milk on top instead of a bride and groom. I made a miniature banner that read "We go together like..." to go over the cookie and milk. We did not decorate the church.

We wrote our own vowes. I vowed to me the cookies to his milk, the cheese to his mac, and the right to his left. We went away for the weekend, the kids stayed with my parents.

I am sure that the physical part of marriage never came with emotion until him. Before it was always an act, a duty, not it is not.

It's funny because about 2 years prior I would have sworn I'd never get married and that I throughly hated men. Everything changed, life became right side up suddenly.

Busy Making Other Plans

There are days the bed beckons me.
I want to sleep and dream and drift for days.
I must fight the Darkness and stay awake...

There are days I will weep if that James Taylor song comes on.
The song about Carolina... I can feel the moonshine, even in December.
On those days I can hear the voice of ocean, it's been so long...

Not enough days of just us two,
Somedays I miss just us two, I want to be alone with him so I can accidently brush by...
Oops, sorry, did I touch? Please forgive...or don't. Oh no- did it again...

Days I just want to read a good book,
wearing clean pajammas and cozy socks,
while a movie is on cable that I am not watching.

There are days I want my Pap paw like no one else.
Days I ache for his conversation...his laugh...his bias love for me.

There are days I get lost on the way.
I hear that older boys voice in my head and can't shake it out.
Sometimes I sing really loud so not to hear him, angry songs.

There are days I witness our children get older.
Those days I give away the "now too small" clothes.
Days I pray to just hold on.

There are days I need a cigarette- and I don't smoke.
A drink- and I don't drink.
A joint- and I haven't smelled it in years now.

There are writing days, when I can't focus on conversation
for the words in my head.
Singing days, when I can't not at least hum.
And quiet days, when I hope to go unnoticed.

Planning days, phone calls, home work, paper work, checkbooks, bills,
School days, Work days, exhausted at the end of the day- actually before-
but can't do anything about that.

Life is what happens...

Sweet Little Girl

When i look at her baby pictures i see all the wonder in those gorgeous little eyes. She still is full of wonder and full of delight and a magic imagination that seems to come from no where.

She was sick for the first three years of her life. in and out of the ER, constant fevers above 104 degrees. Throat, nose, eyes were always sick. her immune system so weak that three separate times I was told to keep her inside and that a common cold may kill her. I cloroxed everything. it was a common occurrence for her to throw up three or more times per week for absolutely no reason.

Many nights ilay awake and held her burning hot body praying that she'd survive the night. Once she blacked out and wet herself. The hospital gowns were so tiny they broke my heart. The first time I saw one I thought, "No, this cannot be something we need here in this world. That is for a toy doll, not my sweet, funny, loving child." Her perfect cheeks would turn red, her beautiful lips would blister up in these horrible bubbles from her fevers.

She weighed twenty pounds for about four years, never more and sometimes less. she wore impossibly small clothing and at times I thought to myself I should buy better quality clothes because they would have to last her more than 2 warm or hot seasons.

The doctors threw out words like -underweight, failure to thrive, and undernourished. I would never speak of home life, I left him while she was a baby, but he saw her still and I am positive in her lifetime she has witnessed some sort of abuse by her biological father on some part of my body. I never dreamed he could have that effect on her or I would've left sooner.

When school started and she began kindergarten there were issues. She can't remember things properly, she can't hold them as well as she should. Her writing is terrible and she does not care that she can't do these things.

I was made aware that all of her issues were related to the biological fathers drug use before i got pregnant. I was aware that he used but had no idea it happened so soon before conception. As with all addicts you never know when or what they use, or how much. I was in shock when the news settled in. I pretended to be ok, and took it like a trooper. I accepted the challenge of helping her after school everyday and told her teachers we would work on what we could. I was broken inside though, worried that he had given her this gift- this lovely package- great shiny box and huge perfect bow, helped make her beautiful. The only gift he has given her aside from the occasional visit and check. How nice of him to give her this- father of the year.

She doesn't care if the other kids are her friends or not. She doesn't care what they say about her, or if they don't say anything. She wears crazy clothes and wants her hair to be crazy and tells me they say she looks like an alien or a weirdo and she doesn't care. She is like me in those areas. If I make friends it's great and if I don't then I enjoy the personal quietness when they all talk to each other.

Then there is her Daddy- technically step father- whom earned "Daddy" and does a fantastic job at it. He knows my heart is broken about her little delay and has not said anything other than, "She'll come around, she is smarter than what everyone gives her credit for. She's amazing and we'll do our best to help her. She needs some extra, that's all." I could burst with love for this man who bathes, feeds, loves her. Who can just look at me and knows that I'm exhausted, I have a algebra test in the morning and I've been told that our daughter may be developmentally delayed.

This gift of her future from her genetic donor, this lovely package is all I can think of. I watch her sleep now, the undulating breath a miracle. Please, I beg God, do not let this package be empty, give us a shot. Please, let her be more than a pretty box.

House

I have this image of the previous owners of our "new" house- not yet a home because it is under construction. They were distant relatives and they sold to another family in between our time with the house- this signature of the family though sort of make me think of 75 years from now other people- possibly our kids tearing out things we did to the house and putting in new, if the house is still worth the saving that is. I am talkin to it when I work, "Hello house," as I enter, "Oh wow house you are looking good," and "we will fix it old house..." I have done some work to know if anyone gave birth or died in the house and no one had, seems they already had all the children they had when it was built and that everyone moved out just fine and all, I am a bit creeped out about that death thing. Yet I talk to the house and I know I can't keep that up once we move- Dave already worries about my very vocal relationship with our cats, but still I touch the house and give thanks frequently to God aloud so she can hear me, so she knows she is special.

Pappaw

He was rough on the face almost the entire time. He was nearly always sweaty and damp in the hollow of his back. Yet I could not resist a hug, not ever. His laughter was magic, His sneeze was dramatic and his mouth was brutaly honest.
He smelled of Old Spice and sawdust and tomatoe vines and rich earth. He always wore suspenders- fire engine red ones, and american flag ones. Later he coughed alot, also over dramatic.
He would give me ice cream money if I'd ask Mammaw for extra gingerbread and a cold Dr. Pepper. Then I'd sneak it to him in the greenhouse. Later he'd say the machine that took his blood for sugar readings was crazy and he knew better and then he'd wink a private wink in my direction and I'd wink back.
He held my hand alot and squeezed too much. He told corny jokes, and even cornier stories. I laughed anyway. We watched the discovery channel and jeopardy. He'd always say that I was special and I was gonna be somebody someday. He called me precious for a nickname and not as an adjective. I didn't believe him then.
He told all the others I was his favorite. I was so embarrassed and would hush him, then later kiss his sandpaper cheek and whisper that he was my favorite too. He left all the other grandkids nothing and he willed me the house that my Mammaw still lives in. Sometimes I wonder what he saw in me. Why me?
I followed him around, if it bothered him I never knew. He showed me things. Interesting bugs, big ripe blackberries, newborn kittens and puppies, how stubborn one man could be. How sweet and patient my Mammaw is.
He would've adored my baby girl. He would've said she had spunk. He would've loved my son, would've said he was too smart.
I miss him like a breeze. It comes from nowhere and envelopes me for a while, I cannot stop the flow. I visit his stone and sit on the ground in front of him for a while. I talk to him, I understand that he isn't there, it is for me and not him. I lean my body against that strong stone and often weep. I tell no one that I went, it is just for me and him. I stay until I stop rocking myself and heaving. Everyone else goes in groups and talks and laughs and sings songs about Jesus. That stone will last longer than my baby girl... I know that someday I will visit them both there and that breaks my heart even more.
There are times I can still hear him whistle...