Nightmares

Tonight I feel sad. I've put everyone to bed and I am alone but it feels like more than alone. I cannot describe it. Half of me wants to cut, burn or somehow hurt myself but I feel beholden, believe it or not, to my therapist - Ellen.

So strange that I miss and love my children so much, yet she's the one I can't let down.

The nightmares are terrible. I have no appetite and no energy. Ellen and I agree this is from a lifetime of wearing necessary masks. I need control. Must have it. So many times as an infant, child, teenager and adult I have been molested, beaten, abused... I have learned the habit of controlling.

There's so much more to it...God, so much more.

But for now, I am sad.

Denial

Sitting in the seats
watching the show
half-hearted, half-listening
to things I want not to know

Stories and flashes
Flicker inside, too
"Yes, girl,"
"Yes this happened to you."

"NO IT DIDN'T!"
some part of me fights
yet from that same place
buried deep, a spark of light

Not of judgment nor fear
not of hatred or guilt
just a glimpse - a tiny scrape -
in a wall I have built.

"Impossible," I think
And I turn the movie off
Shut down the fight
Turn off the light

Still I ponder
And some part of me aches
"You'll know me one day,
Whatever it takes."

I shush it with distraction
Any will do,
Still I hear that whisper,
"Yes, honey, this happened to you."

Pain and Prison

I wish there were words to describe this. But there are not. I cannot even think of a metaphor...and I'm usually pretty good at that.

But this time I can't think of a single word besides pain and that word is so inadequate. It comes from the inside and the outside, like I'm being crushed.

I cry...I cry spontaneously and I gag and I take a clonazepam but none of it takes it away. I dream of it, and I feel it somewhere so deeply.

I do not like feeling. Anything.

But I do.

And that's why I don't like feeling.

It hurts. It hurts every time.

I won't let anyone in, and those I want in, won't come in (with one exception).

God I wish she knew... I wish he knew.

I miss her so desperately and now it's a compound fracture and there's no doctor.

I'll never forgive him...he knows who he is. To judge, when you're unknown by someone, is loathsome and immature and - in this case - disrespectful.

I hope my daughter sees the control all around her and frees herself.

Unlike me....who's just now learning - or trying to learn - to free myself.

That's why I can see her prison.

Because I've lived there my whole life.

Shadow

She stares at me
a stranger in the mirror
She is there
but I'm not here

A veil hangs
betwen who she is
and who I am
who I see

It's not me
not me that I see
some other person
some other story

Her pain isn't mine
her secrets, her own
I close my eyes
And she is gone.

-C

Third Rate

A lot of sex-related dreams. So many humiliations in my sleep, haunting me, waking me with tears.

An odd one: a man holding two large white boxes; behind him, a dark figure in the shape and with the gait of a lion, ferocious, vicious and I, with a choice: This box or that box. I had to choose which to open but I knew - in the darkness, there with that man and his two large white boxes standing between myself and this dark, savage, blood-thirsty...thing - that my choice did not matter. Whichever box I chose, this man would disappear, the box would not matter and I would be eaten alive.

This morning, again in tears, I awoke with the vivid memory of being subhuman. Of being third-rate, unimportant. Moments before awakening, I'd been in a dream, on a bus, perhaps a train. I had my laptop - an old Dell Inspiron. It was in my satchel but somehow, an ex - I don't know which one - was there with his new wife (girlfriend?) and the woman was sneering at me, leering, daring me to be jealous of the fact that she was "fucking my ex."

Together, they plotted with the person in charge of whatever commuter venue we were on and told her - a woman with auburn hair and a light blue dress suit - that I'd stolen their laptop and they wanted it back. The woman, condescending with her tightly wound french twist, occasionally turned and glared down at me as I tried desperately to hide one of my prized possessions. My laptop - dilapidated and out-dated as it may be - holds many secrets. Many photos. So much writing. Years of it - both personal and professional.

A stranger next to me who I cannot identify was seeing this exchange and heard what was happening. He was helping me to hide my laptop with it's taped space bar and missing "I" key.

"How does it feel to know I"m fucking your ex, bitch?"

The stranger next to me heard her vengeful, spiteful words, spoken through clenched teeth from a scowling, sneering face. The stranger knew what was happening.

My clothing was third-rate. My appearance third-rate. I was third-rate.

A third-rate citizen.

And that's why the blue-suited woman believed them over me.

I awoke crying because they were trying to take my laptop and my satchel. I was just beginning to quiz them - to ask them to describe the keyboard and the space bar and the I key. I know which keys work and which ones don't.

But I awoke as I struggled against them.

That's how I feel. Like a third-rate person.

A recent re-traumatization has brought on some horrific nightmares. Laughter at my nudity. Laughter and mocking of my body. Sexually grotesque nightmares.

I do not like being treated like a third-rate human being. It hurts and yet it's all I know. Everything else has always been an act. Beneath it all, I've always believed myself to be that third-rate person, mother, wife, human.

Adjustment/change

Sad and hopeful all at once, along with all the in-between feelings.

I accidentally called Bill "Gary," today... Again.

Working hard to get through everything. Holidays don't help.

Those who know, understand; certain seasons, smells, movements, characteristics. So much.

I miss many, but have to believe my moving is a healthy step forward. I've spent numerous nights alone fighting the urge to cut.

Part of me wants to scream. But there's nothing but compliant silence and survival.

I am far, far away from myself... Whoever that is.  

Birthday

Dear daddy,

My birthday is coming up. It's this weekend.

It's the first one in my life that I've dreaded.

Like last Mother's Day I may or may not not receive a text message telling he happy birthday from my children. I don't blame you for that and yet some part of me I do.

This year I don't want to celebrate my birthday.

This year I don't want anyone to celebrate my birthday.

Because I wish I had never been born.

Tears

Tears fall without a sound, but scream so loud.

Today I cry for those who hang their heads. For those who cross the street, when they see people coming. For those whose voices are gone, replaced by what society demands of them.
Today I cry for the silent shame that weighs like an anvil on each shoulder of those who society pretends don't exist; the forgotten, unnamed, unlovable, unwanted. The faceless, the poor who "don't matter" and whose worlds simply do not and have not ever existed beyond the TV screen of 3,000 square foot homes with 84" screens.
Today I cry a deep, aching cry for the fear that is always felt, but never revealed and the anger that cannot be felt, but often comes out at the worst times - usually aimed at oneself.
I cry because I am so scared. So scared.
I cry for those who - like me - feel alone because we create our prisons. We have these prisons that both keep us captive, and keep us and everyone else safe.
I cry because it is a lonely, dark place. But it is our place.
Our only place.
I cry for those who - like me - have medical issues that go unattended because we cannot allow our bodies to be exposed. We'd rather bleed in pain, than be violated again.
Paralyzed by fear, I sit here in this room I've tried to make "home" and I know it is not - nor has it ever been - "home," and I try, with frustration, desperation and utter overwhelm to figure out what it is I am supposed to do now. What do I do next? I wish someone was here.

The Rest

Just sitting here in the bedroom, rocking, looking down and seeing that I made the bed wrong. You can see the top sheet from beneath the comforter. And you cannot see the bed skirt. 

I did miter the corners, but you cannot tell. That is something that daddy would beat us for if it was not properly done. 

And he always checked.

My first thought was to talk to Cindy and tell her, "I made the bed wrong." Some small, child-like part of me wanted to hear someone say, "that's okay."

Like being beaten for using too much toilet paper.

Daddy would watch us and make sure that the toilet paper didn't touch the floor as we unrolled it to wipe, in such private moments. But there were never any private moments. We never knew what to expect or when to expect it. 

This morning I stared at some of the flaws in the wall in my bedroom, and was reminded of the many holes and broken furniture in my childhood. Daddy's strong fists; his big arms and his powerful presence. 

I was reminded of always being afraid.

My door is now shut and I sit here alone, knowing nobody knows the secret agony, and there's really nobody I can tell it to because there really are no words with which to describe it. 

None of the beatings or holes in the walls or abandonments or embarrassments mattered, compared to the rest. 

The rest... The rest. How heavy it is, to feel "the rest" and all other things, threaded through time - torturous and painful - to "the rest."

All tied to a man it seems I surrendered my soul to. 

Daddy. 

Pictures and ghosts

Last night-after I discovered I had the photos I thought I did not have anymore-I collected them all and I put them in an envelope. There are not many photos of me as a child. At least, not that I know of. 

But I could not just leave them in an envelope. I went through them and I stared in complete disbelief and bewilderment. Most of them were pictures from my wedding day; I was 16 years old and daddy was there as well as grandma, pop, and others. 

Some pictures are of me and my younger brother when we were small. However, for me, those children never existed. I stared at the little knobby knees and the black strap shoes with the Easter dress and the blue lace-lined socks. For me this was an image of some other girl. She was wearing a dress and she was innocent and appeared to be at least somewhat happy, even though there was no smile on her face.

Cognitively I understand that this photo is of me and that it is a picture of me after my return from Pensacola, Florida. A time when my father molested my brother and I both, together and separately. It was after the time when he threw big black garbage bags full of his stuff - no explanation just angry words and yelling - as we banged on the front window, begging him not to leave us. I wonder why we begged him not to leave us. He hurt us every day. Still we held an unnatural (or, perhaps natural) adoration of him and he was daddy. 

So rather than put the photos back in the hat box that I have reserved for pictures, I put them on the bed next to me. My purpose was the hope that somehow some notion or some feeling might seep from the images into my subconscious mind as I slept. And maybe, perhaps, I might glean some kind of understanding of why I held this man's hand, I let him hold my child, and most troubling is the photo where we are embracing. 

I don't understand what I'm supposed to feel. Sometimes anger bubbles up but it's a fearful feeling and so I gear it towards something else or aim it at someone else, usually myself. 

Anger is a dangerous emotion. However I know it exists within me like a huge black, ball of tar. But this black bar of tar is explosive, so I avoid it. It tastes terrible; it feels terrible; and I don't want anything to do with it nor do I want anything to do with what makes me feel it or brings me closer to it. 

Cognitively I know this is just avoidance and distraction-the way I have lived my entire life. But now here I am, facing places I am afraid to go; Facing places within myself that I am afraid to see.

I slept with the pictures hoping that somehow some kind of energy, memory, something, anything might seep into my brain, into my dreams and give me some kind of insight.

Instead I awoke with a scattered array of childhood photos of a man I adore and adored my whole life. A man who hurt me more than anyone else could ever have.

Ice Cubes? Really??

Saw my "new" therapist today. This was our second visit. I knew - during our initial phone conversation when we set up our first appointment - that she was not right for me. She became "concerned" when I told her I get afraid and overwhelmed when I meet new people/doctors/social workers/etc. and that I would take a clonazepam before I came.

So you're concerned about me taking an anxiety medication for...anxiety?

Strike one.

When I met her, there just was no chemistry and I knew - by the way she talked and approached certain things - that she was not the caliber of help I need.

I had recently had a meltdown, in the bathroom. I collapsed on the floor, sobbing, angry, flooded, lost, confused, overwhelmd and I reached in the drawer and pulled out a razor and compulsively began slashing at my legs (this was about four weeks ago).

My (new) therapist, upon hearing my telling of this meltdown, suggested the next time I want to cut or self-harm, to try using an ice cube.

Great idea! I'll make sure and store some in the bathroom drawer!

Today she told me I need more intensive treatment than they can offer and she is going to see what she can find for me. Outpatient. I told her I won't do inpatient. I have my reasons, and there are many.

Vomited again this morning while brushing my teeth. Cannot adequately define the grotesqueness of this. She asked me why I think that happens.

!?!?!

Seriously?

Jesus.

I also told her I take offense to the term "Mental Illness." I do not have a "Mental Illness," but a Mental Disorder, with a bunch of sub-disorders (if you will) as a result of complex, repeated childhood trauma. I am not mentally sick (which is what an illness is). I am mentally debilitated at the moment due to circumstances beyond my control and for which my brain has developed coping and survival mechanisms out of sheer need and necessity for survival. I'd hardly classify that as a "mental illness."

Anyway that's just me ranting.

I'm being pulled in so many different directions that I can't find myself. That's what I told her and she understood that.

She told me I should do what I have to do, to take care of me.

That's a tough one.

"Mental Illness"

New therapist. New office. New Building. Fortunately I knew the taxi driver - Jim. An upbeat, dark-skinned, compassionate man who tells the story of his wife's death and his new relationship and how they travel. He's very keen on her. I hope his life is happy. He could retire - he's well over retirement age - but enjoys the interactions with his fares, and - like many, I suppose, would go nuts if he didn't work.

Anyway Jim knows a little of my story. Not hard to tell, when you see the scars on my arms and, now, on my legs. Self-mutilation. I've graduated now to burning, as well. It's quick, easy and done. No hair-pulling since (because of my agoraphobia) my doctor put me on an earth-sized doseage of Vitamin D. My nails and hair are now growing normally. I am grateful for that.

Anyway So...the new therapist, Anne. Bad vibes. Not optimistic.I suppose the first turn-off is that she is part of one of those conglomerates which has always turned me off. However, in this case - because I've called and left tearful, sobbing  messages to not take Judy away - I believe they're going to let me stay with her. So tired of losing people and I have built a rapport with Judy. She gets me more than most do, and she helps.

Oh hell I'm too wrapped up in shit right now to finish this blog.

Point is I don't like or trust her, don't expect much.

burn it down

Just wanna rip everything up. Tear everything apart. Burn it all down. None of it belongs to me. None of it suits me. The gifts. The flowers. The jewelry. The bedding. None of it.

I feel like a ghost and I want to be one. I don't want anyone to know or notice me. I'm not ready for that.

I hate me.

HATE ME.

Peace?

Had another nightmare last night - of him. Woke myself up screaming. God I wish he knew how horribly he hurt me. I wish he could feel the fear - even if just for a moment.

I recently met a woman who told me her father, too, had molested her but that he did 10 years in prison for it and died recently - in December.

"It was the first time in my life I've ever felt peace," she said. "Not that I wished him dead, just it was the first time I ever felt peace."

It made me cry. Her mother had been a staunch supporter of her through it all and I wondered - marveled - at that. Wondered what that would be like.

But then I kind of lost it and I realized I won't ever know when my father dies. How long does that mean I have to wait for peace? And what about the others? I won't know when they're gone. I cried for two hours over this. Sobbed.

Is that when you find peace after all this? When they're all cold in the ground or sitting in an urn on a mantle somewhere?

Knowing there's a rapist around every corner in every walk of life, will there ever be peace?

CT Snobs/friends/reality

Going back home today. I've been crying and crying. Parts of me just paralyzed by fear and trembling with anxiety. So much pain in Connecticut - a place I once revered, now just gray with disgrace.

There have been a handful of people who made me cry, just by being kind, but all-in-all it's a sheltered, unkind place that turns a snooty nose up and a blind eye to the atrocities that happen in REAL life. This was just reinforced for me yesterday when a wealthy family tried to get $20 a week from me to help get Trevor to the summer school program.

It's MAYBE (and I do mean MAYBE) two miles out of their way - their daughter goes there too - and Trevor would meet them on their route. Still this family - with their two nice cars and fancy house - want $20 a week from me? I get $180 a month in food stamps! Seriously!?

Clueless.

Much more to it but, to me, it epitomizes the general morality of this state (sorry to the nice people). Want me gone? Oh trust me, no more than I want to be gone, but treating people like second-rate garbage is inexcusable. Especially people in need and especially CHILDREN in need. But like I told them: if you can do it and you don't, shame on you.

I can't wait to get the hell away from this place.

Everything here was ruined by him.

I get sick to my stomach if I see the river or a boat or a white van or burgundy truck. I know how fake people act because of him. I was duped and it split my heart in two. I can't stand knowing what I know now and still live here. I can't wait to get AWAY!!

Of course, that's my Modus Operand: Run Away.

But like a new, not-really-friend-but-someone-who-is-smart told me: Get rid of the stress. You'll never get over the PTSD if you don't remove the stress from your life. I need that. God I need that. People - people like his brother and their friends and HIM and his friends would say things like, "stop living in the past" or "let go of the past" or "you gotta move on" or wtf ever their choice of words may be but the message is: GET OVER IT!

OMG if only - IF ONLY - I'd had just a spanking here and there and an emotionally suffocating mother and an absentee father. OMG if ONLY my father had just been "absentee" but no he had to be absentee AND a pedophile AND a violent psychopath and sociopath!! Oh Jesus these people (not all, but most - those who proclaimed to be my "friend" for the most part) just don't GET IT!!!!

Oh I'm so angry. God I'm angry. Probably at the wrong people, but for the right reasons.

And he....he wants me to "move on" or "get over it" and he doesn't understand what he DID TO ME! What he did to TREVOR! How he HURT US!

I know he will one day. I believe that, spiritually and I believe it's two-fold: I, too, will know what/how I hurt and/or frightened him but right now, I'm dealing with me and trying so hard to please so many people and do the right thing - always always always trying to do the right thing and why?

To be loved.

That's it.

Just to be loved.

</rant>

Again and again. I believe you.

Today went to River Valley Services. Lovely. I was dreading it. I was actually terrified of going until Cindy said she'd take me. At first she wasn't going to be able to and I am terrified of going to these places anyway, never mind alone. I am afraid to go anywhere alone.

For two hours I talked to Brianna. A pixie of a young black woman with fluffy hair, pulled back from a thin, pretty face. She was kind.


I - again - retold the synopsis of my life. The things that have happened, things I've done, places I've been. Smiled my way through it - cried just a little.

Cindy was there.

I caught her crying a couple times.

It occurs to me that I've told this story before - so, so many times - or at least in bits and pieces.

People say things like:

"Really?"

or

"No shit?!"

or

"Oh my God!"

or

"That's terrible!"

But it occurs to me that I have never heard anyone say, "I believe you."

This won't be the last time I tell this story. I know this. I knew it as we found our parking spot because I won't take part in a conglomerate for long. They're all the same and, trust me: I know. I've been in enough of them to know if you've seen one, you've seen them all.

I'm sure most of them care, but society doesn't so funding is minimal and we - the survivors and sufferers who desperately want to heal - become another file.

Oh that rant I could go on and on about but I won't.

What I will say is this: Michelle - the lying, misleading, untrustworthy therapist I spent almost a year with - made me realize some people don't believe you. She was the first time I ever thought, "Oh my God, she didn't believe me."

And today, I thought: People don't believe you. They don't.

Perhaps they can't.

For whatever reason(s) they can't say, "I believe you, and I love you anyway."

So much, that people don't know. So, so much.

So much.

Escape

Don't even have a clue how to start this blog. So many mixed emotions.

I left and spent the week with Bill in PA last week. Trevor stayed home. I made arrangements for him to have all he needed, plus emergency contacts, plus Cindy stayed with him Wednesday and Thursday night. I was grateful for that, although it makes my heart ache to know he opens up with her - and others - far more than with me. I know this is a natural thing, but I'd always thought Trevor would trust me enough to come to me with his problems.

What I discovered was his five year tenure in the life of Gary and the time he spent in HK Middle school, really traumatized him and hurt him and the whole time - the whole time - I was blind to it. There were times when I thought about leaving Gary and then thought better of it, because I thought the school was so good to Trevor, never realizing how badly he was struggling. Now, he refuses the help he desperately needs and I believe he will be in 10th grade again next year.

And there's nothing I can do about it.

Today - along with the rent - I sent a card to Tony in jail. I don't know how it will be received - his last words were not all that kind. That relationship is complicated, so complex and none of it is his fault, really. It's all me. At least the relationship part.

While in PA, after three days, I finally ventured outside to the pool. Middle of the day, nobody there. Mostly I stayed in the motel room - which was fine. I had work to get done.

But one day I did go out to the pool and sit for a little while. I had to go into the office and ask them to open it up. I had to interact with people. I felt a lot different there, than here. I still had bad dreams, but nothing like what I experience every day, here.

When Thursday rolled around, my anxiety started going up - the opposite of what I usually experience. I knew we had to head home the next day. Then Bill told me they asked him to work Saturday, so it eased just a little, until I spoke with the school's special ed coordinator. She told me Trevor was being argumentative and oppositional and not cooperating. She said they can't force him to do the work (he could - if he chose - to do the make-up work, earn extra credits, and possibly pass) and that "there are consequences in life."

I had to sympathize with her. I agree. But it hurts. I feel like I've failed him and I don't know what to do about it. His new relationship is obsessive. He obsesses over it as if it is all he lives for. And even at home he argues and is disrespectful. I don't know what to do about it. Grounding doesn't work. He just becomes more obstinate. Talking doesn't work. He won't talk. He gives, what I call, "non-answers" - which helps nothing.

I miss PA. Not necessarily PA but the lack of anxiety I felt there.

I met a group of people who work with Bill at the same place. Friday night we all sat out around the BBQ pits and grills and chatted and laughed. I sang. Met a guy named Ron whose gold tooth reminded me of St. Louis and, Lo' and behold, he's from St. Louis. In fact, just around the corner from where I lived.

I described to him where I'd lived, hung out, went to school, etc. and his response was, "Daaaaamn you WAS in the hood!"

In some strange way, it was nice to be validated.

He was familiar with the newspaper that ran the story about my kidnapping, although he didn't know the story. I asked him to please get me a copy of that paper so I can ask them about their archives. I want that article.

I laughed that night but I know it was partly because I was escaping. I drank quite a bit. I was friendly. I had originally sat out there under the trees and cried. Nobody was there - just me - and I cried over what to do.

As we drove home, I realized the more we live and experience, the more we see things that remind us of something else.

For me, seeing the water and boats and marinas turns my stomach. I feel sad because, for me, that is a big loss. I've always been a lover of the sea, but my experience with Gary ruined something beautiful. Trevor still suffers from it, as do I.

Just another monster. I wonder, sometimes, who the greater monster is: Gary or my father and my rapists. I expected to be raped and beaten and put through what I was put through by Daddy and my attackers. I never in my wildest dreams expected to be put through what Gary put us through.

A giant Italian monster who has ruined this place - and so many other things - for me, and for Trevor. As we drove back, Connecticut didn't seem nearly as pretty and colorful and full of life as it once did. When we first came here in 2005, it was colorful and beautiful and fresh. Now it's cluttered and grey and dismal.

Now I go back into isolation.

Thanks G.E.T.





To be happier in a place like Lancaster PA than here, says a lot. I don't like being inland - never have - but God it was nice to get away, even if the real "getaway" lasted just four days before the anxiety over returning kicked in.

Bill left to return back there about an hour ago. A sad time for me. And I'm already overwhelmed, knowing what I need to get done.

This place really drags me down. I wonder what it does to Trevor.

Thanks to all who helped me feel secure and safe leaving Trevor on his own. You're wonderful, beautiful people. He did good and had no problems (plus had plenty of food leftover!).

XOXOXO

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.