Been Awhile

Tonight, I went outside in the dark, after Trevor brushed his teeth (not without playful argument), and sat at a plastic green table, hidden behind our duplex. My apartment is one of two - a big, pale, kind yellow house - converted only God knows when. It is the only building on our street surrounded and secured by tall, old trees and lush, thick foliage. Nobody could see me. 

None but the moon and stars. 

The moon faded in and out like it was playing peekaboo; the clouds, it's heavenly hands. More than once I gazed upon it asking, "what do I do? What am I supposed to do?"

I thought of Hannah immediately, wondering if I had touched her life just enough to make some difference. Wondering if - if I had - that were my only purpose here in this life. 

The past year has been horrendous and the past few weeks have been so painful. My son is in pain. I hear his heart crack and, yet, I know I must stand by and let it, while also being a soldier of a mother who pushes him forward, grasping at his best. Tonight I was momentarily relieved of that pain. 

I have so much to do tomorrow - much of it uncomfortable, some of it downright scary - yet I sat in the night, alone and I thought about my fortune. 

I sat on an old plastic chair and watched the solar butterfly as it changed colors. I noticed it stays red longer than any other color but I didn't wonder why. I just stared at it and then I listened to the crickets and the night sounds. I started deliberately smelling the trees and flowers and buds yet to bloom, the misty, dewy smell of life coming to life and my heart swelled. 

For the first time since I can recall, I felt peace with the moon's fading in and out. I felt peace with the dampness that promises color and fragrance. I felt peace and promise. 

I felt hope. I felt safe. 

I felt home. 

Triggered by his name

Just saw his name mentioned on FB. Another friend I guess I'll have to delete. Tagged him at the Pattaconk - just like old times, I guess.

My whole body jolted. Just seeing his name. Remembering the things he did.

It's been determined that Trevor will need therapy to deal with the years he spent with Gary. Having talked with two separate LCSW's about getting help for Trevor, they've told me it's not something he will talk to me about, beyond his usual "I won't ever let you live [your relationship with Gary] down." They said he's going to need to talk to someone who will listen to him talk about the things Gary put him through.

I feel horribly guilty about this. I knew it was an issue. Gary and I constantly fought over Trevor. Mostly because he believed Trevor should behave like a "normal" kid and do "normal" things. Trevor was a puzzle piece that didn't fit neatly into Gary's picture-perfect image.

The day he said to Trevor that he was going to shove his fist down his throat, I should have left. That day. That instant. In that moment.

Instead, I stuck around and allowed him to theoretically do it to both Trevor and myself and now we are both paying for it. What he put Trevor through - what I allowed him to put Trevor through - is a terrible mistake that I have to live with and learn to heal and move on. My stupidity, hope and blindness kept me from leaving, as well as his repeated promises of change. So now Trevor and I carry this enormous bag, filled with five years of pain and hurt and humiliation and not being good enough.

While he goes out to karaoke at the Pattaconk.

And he has the audacity - the sheer idiotic, unimaginable insolence - to think I'm obsessed and want him involved in my life?

I couldn't be far enough away from him and his lies and his fakeness and perversions and distortions.

So grateful to have people in my life who understand and who know how just driving north on Route 9 causes me enormous anxiety. They know - have seen themselves - the emotional, physical and mental effects of his abuse and neglect. They help me, talk to me and mostly just understand. For that I am grateful. Trevor is a different story, though. He hides his emotions or, at least, cannot identify them. Just speaks of his hatred of the man and those years in Haddam when he was the victim of constant badgering and put-downs.

We have a lot of healing to do.

Mother's Day

Every Sunday, around this time, is a sad time for me. It is not often that I have heard of a best friend like the one I have in Bill whose birthday was today. I awoke him with breakfast in bed after we stayed up til almost three a.m. just being together. Laughing, joking, talking.

I specifically asked that nobody contact me or anything for Mother's Day. I had many reasons. Frankly I found the day to be loathsome so I was grateful it fell on Bill's birthday.

After midnight, he told me something to the affect of, "I know you don't want to hear it, but I'm going to say it anyway: Happy Mother's Day, Cristina." and I started to cry. He apologized.

He got here Friday evening and we had a late dinner. One of his favorites: BBQ ribs with mashed potatoes. The next night - Saturday night - we all (he, Trevor and I) had fun experimenting with making (or attempting to make) the same kind of burrito I always order at Puerta Villarta restaurant. It's my favorite. As well as making (or trying to replicate) their habenero dip. We all cut up HOT STUFF - jalepenos, long red chilli peppers, Trevor cut up the carrots that will make your eyes water if you eat them. I'd warned him to not touch his eyes which he did, of course, at one point. Some of my fingertips are still burning. We had a lot of fun. A lot of playing around. Messy burritos but they were good. Just not as good as Puerta Villarta. I am afraid to go there - afraid I will see Gary and break down. It was the first restaurant he ever took me to on a date and we went there often.

Anyway, Saturday, we (Bill and I) decided to do all our tasks - laundry, groceries, etc. - so that today we would have nothing to do but relax and enjoy our time together. I thought it would be nice for Bill to have a task-free day for his birthday.

But...because he's my best friend and I know him so well and love him so much...

I know his reasons were different.

I know that he knew I would receive perhaps one phone call - from my daughter, Meagan - for Mother's Day and he knew if I heard from Tony at all it would be a simple text message and that Trevor would probably not even mention the day. He knew these things and so Saturday, as we were doing our tasks, he treated me to a day of spoiling.

He bought me some things that made me smile, made me happy and even squeal with delight. Yesterday was wonderful. I spent it with my best friend and then spent the evening with he and my son, making fools of ourselves in the kitchen, completely winging it, to come up with some kind of mexican concoction dinner.

I knew that Saturday was Bill's back-sided way of giving me Mother's Day because he knew the actual day would hurt.

A Buddha that I have always wanted and for which I have the perfect spot. Incidentally, it sits next to a fountain given to me by Tony for Mother's Day about three years ago and to the left, is a plant given to me by Tony about four years ago.

A solar butterfly that illuminates and changes colors to go in the garden we planted together.

Pots and soil and stones I needed to transplant the cacti and succulents we got together to put in my window box. He also got me the seashell on the top left because I needed one more thing to put up there, to balance it out.

This one made me squeal. A "Money Tree" - yes that's what it's really called. I've been wanting one and now finally have one. He bought the soil and pot I would need to transplant it and helped me to do so.

For Mother's Day, my first messages was a kind, loving and thoughtful text from who I refer to as my surrogate daughter, Hannah. As expected, I received a phone call from my daughter and a text from my son. "Happy mothers day mom" and, of course, it was just another day for Trevor and he made no mention of it.

I am unsure of my feelings about all this. I know Bill was being Bill...being kind, loving and (attempting to be) discrete. But I know he was trying to make my Mother's Day special in some way, because he knew my heart would be hurting.

I am so grateful to him and for him. The light he brings into my world and my life is like magic. We plan, one day, to leave this place and go somewhere far away, somewhere peaceful, tranquil and kind. Someplace that suits us.

For now, that is what we work towards because whether or not we ever marry is still to be decided but one thing is for sure: I know who my soul mate is. I know I think of him every minute and worry for and about him constantly. I know I go to sleep thinking of him and awaken with him in my mind. I know he changes my life, my mood, everything simply by being. He makes me laugh and he understands me and he loves me anyway and so I know, there will never be another man in my life.

None but Bill whose kindness, compassion and wisdom cannot be matched.

Obsessive?

After my last post, I felt this nagging, nagging, nagging inside. So much happening in my heart and mind but the one word that stuck out most for me was "obsessiveness" - he accused me of being obsessive.

God.

My ex - with whom  I spent five years of mine and my son's life - was fake. The whole thing was fake, at least on his part.

I don't obsess. I simply hurt. I can't take the week he took, to get over the love I felt for him. He also said, "I wish you no ill or good will" which dug deep because I have tried - I have things that belong to him, rightfully, that I wanted to return to him, but to which he has never responded. Photos of him and his family and his son. Things that are irreplaceable and which I consider important.

When I met him, there were no family photos. Nothing. In fact, there was no semblance of his own life. He simply allowed people to manufacture a life for him, while he "finagled" and wormed his way through this and that.

I cannot fathom loving someone, and not wishing them good will.

He threatened me because of my posting of my experiences with him online. He doesn't want others to know how perverse he can be. And yet, I humiliate myself by posting these very blogs. I do not do it out of malice, but out of introspection, self-examination.

And pain.

According to him, his new relationship began weeks before I left him (a pattern actually because he - by his own admission - did the same thing to his girlfriend before me).

I found this song I'd written about him. I cared. I still care. I just don't know or understand how someone can get so close to you, only to kick you when you are at your lowest.

Why?

I still care. God, I would never want to see him hurt - not that I ever want to be with him again, but I want him to find peace and happiness which, I'm sure, he swears he has, but he doesn't. He doesn't know love, and he doesn't know that he doesn't know love. Not for women, anyway.

I learned a lot through my years with him - some good, some bad - but I learned. I hold onto sentimental things and teach my son (and his new girlfriend) that from every relationship, there comes something valuable, you just have to find it, embrace it and let it enrich you.

But my story is different; it is full of pain and a history of abuse, mostly the kind rarely seen in the sheltered and safe communities of Connecticut (not that Connecticut doesn't have it's 'parts') but nothing, in my opinion, like what I experienced.

Compassion is lacking here because people - like him - wish not to acknowledge that such atrocities happen to children, to people, to women.

And then there are others who dare to listen, who dare to believe. To me, they are heroes because they know, they learn, and they listen and through this, make such a huge difference.

For me, this love I felt - this deep, honest love I felt for him - was, to him, expendable, The same as I have always been and now - because I tell my truth - my experiences, my feelings, my heartache, my confusion and pain - I am the monster.

Though I've yet to truly reveal the true monster. And I won't. Because I have more compassion than that.

I don't write my stories out of vindictiveness or some need to get revenge.

I write my stories because I am afraid to speak and always have been. The stacks of journals going back to 1995 can attest to that. There were more, but they have been lost or taken or thrown away.

I mean no malice and have spoken well of him, as well as poorly of him. I have spoken honestly of him. Of my experiences with him.

And there will be more.

I will never falsify myself again. I will never degrade myself by being something I am not, again. I will continue to be honest, authentic and attempt - through this - to heal.

I am not obsessed with him. I am terrified of all the reasons he gave me to never set foot outside my door. I am afraid to go anywhere, be seen by anyone. I am terrified in my own home. I have nightmares and flashbacks and heart-wrenching memories that make me feel might heart may explode because of the cruelty through which he put me.

I also have fond memories.

All are true.

He didn't always have it easy growing up. He shared, tearfully, with me, things that he endured. Some might compare them to the rapes and beatings and abandonment I endured, but I do not because his tears were real, his pain was real, no matter the degree.

It mattered to me and many nights, I sat stroking his hair, drying his tears, listening intently as he shared with me the pain of growing up the way he did.

The following is a song I wrote for him:

Help Me

He drew 'help me'
in the basement
tiny teching fingers
carving his lament
eternal marks of
his torment
the words 'help me'
on the floor
of the basement

His baby tears filled
the jagged grooves
with every letter
his tiny hands drew
and later when
the fighting was through
he went to his bed
with an empty 'I love you'

It's for his own good
they said....always for him
they'll hit him
beat him, again and again
they'll glare in anger
-make him a man -
with the belt
that papa
holds in his hand

with the critical eye
of a mother who cries
who tells him his wrongs
 never his rights
he'll become a man
afraid to move or try
live or die, afraid
to see or look or feel....

...but he'll become a man...


He never commented on this song I wrote but God how I felt the words as I wrote them, even though it seemed so small. Back in the day, being beaten by a belt was the way it was. For me, it was just...whatever was handy. But I understood and I cared. Truly cared.

And I knew  it was because of a suffocating mother that he would never be a good partner.

Emotions, for him, are black and distant, charred and gone.

Obviously.

More threats

Threatened about my blog again. To stop posting defamatory remarks.

Let ME be clear:

I am writing about MY experiences in MY life as is my right. There is nothing in my blog that is false or untrue and I will not stop writing about my process of growing and healing and hurting and the things I am going through just because of threats made to me.

If you - or your friends - do not wish to read my blog, then don't but there is not one fallacy in it. You argued many times that people shouldn't do things they don't want to have posted on the web. I heard that argument over and over again.

Well, sir, just because of your embarrassment of the things you did and do suddenly this argument doesn't apply to you.

You - and anyone else in my life  - are a part of my story. A story you've known since we first met that I would write.

I'm glad you've moved on  although I am still sickened by many things that you did to me and I am still greatly triggered by many things associated with you but I absolutely will not be bullied by you or controlled by you ever again.

I was simply asking for a couple of things that are of great importance to me... my childhood photos (the only ones I have) and my journal which I must have left behind. The fact that you have felt the need ever since July of last year to exert your control over me - show me who's "boss" - speaks loudly to your character.

But I forgive you.

Regards

P.S. I have absolutely no desire - nor have I ever - to "keep you involved" because of the damage you did not just to me, but to my son as well. I, too, have moved on and am surrounded by people who love and support me through a very difficult time; people who are able to step outside of their own egos and embrace me with compassion and understanding. Also, I would be very careful about your threats. Just a fair warning. (I've resisted the urge to correct your spelling error).

Email:
I've rec'd a number of phone calls from you.. in each you've asked for somethng, or me to
look for something you're missing; photos, journals, etc.

Let me be very clear:

I do not have, nor am I aware of any of these things in my posession.

I am entirely uninclined to look for them in light of your continuing posting of defamatory
writings about myself via your blog and other venues. To believe I would tolerate your
continued publication of obsessive and untrue rants about me and then also be willing to
assist you in finding something from a year ago is ludicrous.

I simply wish to have no further association with you. I wish you no ill or good will either, I
have moved on with my life and I hope you find the mental maturity to move on with yours.

I am further demanding that any writing, blogs, internet postings or the like wherein I am
mentioned in any way be immediately removed. You seem to think there are no
consequences for your actions. Unfortunately that's not the case. If you think it's a way to
keep me somehow involved, it's failed miserably. My recourse will be to simply assign the
problem to an attorney to handle should it continue.

Don't bother replying to this email, I won't get it.

Perhaps YOU should "do the right thing" as you mentioned in the latest
call.