It has Been Eleven years since my mother died!

It has been eleven years since my mother died.

Eleven years without either of my parents.

Our Wedding 2005

1986

And still, some days, it feels as though I am standing in that room again—alone beside her, watching and waiting for the end to come.

The day my mother died was filled with emotions that did not make sense together. Grief sat beside relief. Love beside anger. Sorrow beside exhaustion. There were moments of tenderness tangled together with memories that still hurt. I remember feeling guilty for the ways my heart could not settle on one emotion, as if mourning was supposed to be simple and pure. But it was never simple.

Death does not suddenly untangle a complicated relationship. It does not erase childhood wounds, unanswered questions, or years of longing for things that never fully existed. Instead, all of it arrives together in the same room. The love. The hurt. The hope. The disappointment. The ache for what was, and the ache for what never became.

I remember watching her breathe, wondering which breath would be the last. Time moved strangely in that room. Every second felt heavy. I was no longer just a daughter—I had become the witness to her leaving this world. There is something profoundly lonely about sitting beside death, especially when the relationship itself carried loneliness long before that moment.

I sat there trying to remember a time when she loved me—truly loved me—or wanted me.

And I had none.

No memory came rushing back. No warm moment appeared to soften the silence in my mind. I searched anyway, desperately, as though somewhere inside me there had to be proof that I had once been held gently, wanted fully, loved without condition.

But even with that emptiness sitting inside me, I still wanted my mother.

That is the part people do not always understand. A child does not stop longing for their mother simply because love was inconsistent, absent, painful, or never given in the way it should have been. The ache remains anyway. Deep and instinctive. Almost impossible to explain.

As I sat beside her in those final hours, I remember thinking how strange it was to grieve someone while also grieving what I never had with them. I was mourning her death, but I was also mourning the relationship I spent my whole life hoping would someday become real.

I wanted one memory to hold onto.
One moment where I felt chosen.
One moment where I knew, without question, that I was loved.

But sometimes the hardest truth is realizing that the child inside you kept surviving on hope instead of evidence.

And still, even then, I wanted my mother to reach for me.
I wanted her to say something that could heal the years between us.
I wanted, even at the end, to finally feel like someone’s daughter.

There is a particular kind of heartbreak in realizing that the longing for a mother can survive even when the memories do not.

I still ache for someone to hold me the way I hold my own children.
To wrap their arms around me without hesitation.
To listen without rushing me.
To guide me without conditions, limits, or fear that love might suddenly disappear.

Sometimes I watch the way I comfort my children—the way I pull them close when they are hurting, the way I stop what I am doing to truly hear them—and I realize that somewhere deep inside me is the child who still wonders what it would have felt like to receive that same kind of care.

Not perfection.
Just safety.
Just softness.
Just someone who stayed.

I think the hardest part is that I want to be held just as tightly. I want to feel whatever my children feel when I wrap my arms around them and tell them everything is going to be okay.

And sometimes I wonder—who does that for me?

Yes, I have Ken. My husband. My best friend. The person who has stood beside me through so much. His love is real, steady, and faithful. I am deeply grateful for him.

But the love between a husband and wife is different from the love a mother gives a child.

A spouse walks beside you.
A mother, at least the kind I longed for, is supposed to be the place you fall apart without fear.

There is something so primal about wanting to be mothered. Wanting someone to look at you and see not what you can do for them, not how strong you are, not how capable you have become—but simply see you as someone worth protecting, comforting, and carrying when life becomes too heavy.

I think that is why the ache still lives inside me.

Because I became strong before I was ever held.
Responsible before I was nurtured.
Independent before I ever felt safe enough to depend on anyone.

And even now, as an adult, there are moments when I want to crawl into someone’s arms and rest without guilt. To not be the strong one for once. To not have to explain why I am hurting. To simply be cared for with the same tenderness I try to pour into my own children every day.

My grandmother—my mother’s mother—was the closest thing I will ever know to that kind of love.

And she did love me. I know she did.

But even with her, there was always a line. A limit to how much of herself she could fully give me. Not because she was cruel. Not because she withheld love intentionally. But because before she was ever my grandmother, she was my mother’s mother first.

Her heart was tied to her daughter in a way I could never untangle.

I think one of the deepest pains was watching my grandmother love my mother with the kind of devotion I spent my whole life longing for myself. She protected her. Defended her. Carried compassion for her wounds, her struggles, her pain. And part of me understood that. A mother’s love for her child runs deep.

But I was a child too.

And sometimes it felt as though there was no place for both truths to exist at once—that my mother could be hurting and still hurt me, that my grandmother could love me deeply while never being fully able to step outside her loyalty to her daughter.

So I learned to live within the limits of that love.

I took the comfort she could give. The moments of safety. The glimpses of warmth. I treasured them because they were real. But somewhere inside me, I also understood that there were places my grief could not go with her. Certain truths that sat too close to the pain of her own child.

That kind of loneliness is hard to explain.

To be loved, but not fully held.
To be cared for, but still emotionally orphaned in some quiet way.
To know someone wanted the best for you while also knowing they could never entirely stand on your side without it feeling like a betrayal of someone else they loved first.

And yet, I still carry gratitude for her.

Because even limited love can leave light behind.
Even imperfect love can become a lifeline for a child trying desperately to survive.

But I would be lying if I said it did not ache sometimes—to realize that my grandmother loved her daughter with the kind of fierce, unquestioning love I spent my entire childhood hoping someone would someday give to me.

Sometimes I want to scream from the top of a mountain for someone to help me.

Not because I am falling apart in some dramatic, visible way. Most people would probably say I am doing well. I work. I teach. I parent. I love my family. I keep moving forward.

But underneath all of that is this ache I cannot fully explain.

An exhaustion that does not come from one bad day, but from a lifetime of carrying myself.

And the hardest part is that I am not even sure what I need.

I do not know if I want someone to save me, comfort me, guide me, or simply sit beside me and finally notice how heavy everything has been. Sometimes I think I just want permission to stop being strong for a little while.

Because when you grow up without being emotionally held, you learn how to survive by becoming your own protector, your own comfort, your own caretaker. You become the person everyone else can lean on while quietly wondering where you are supposed to go with your own pain.

So the feelings build in silence.

The grief.
The loneliness.
The longing.
The exhaustion of always being the one who manages, adapts, survives, and keeps going.

And sometimes it rises so suddenly inside me that I feel like screaming into the sky:

“Can someone please help me?”
“Can someone please see me?”
“Can someone please hold the parts of me that have been carrying too much for too long?”

But even then, I do not always know what help would look like.

Because what I ache for is not something that can be neatly fixed.

I ache for the kind of safety that is supposed to begin in childhood.
The kind of love that teaches your nervous system it is okay to rest.
The kind of care that allows a child to believe they do not have to earn tenderness.

And when you grow up without that, part of you keeps searching for it long after childhood ends.

I think that is what people misunderstand about trauma. Survival does not mean the longing disappears. Sometimes surviving only means you learned how to function while carrying an invisible hunger for comfort, protection, and unconditional love.

There are days I envy the ease with which my children collapse into my arms when they are hurt. They do not hesitate. They do not apologize for needing comfort. They trust completely that I will hold them.

I wonder what that must feel like.

To need someone and not fear becoming a burden.
To cry and know someone will come.
To rest without waiting for love to be withdrawn.

Sometimes I think the little girl inside me is still standing somewhere with her arms open, waiting for someone to finally say,

“You do not have to do this alone anymore.”

There are days when it feels like this is not just a wound, but a missing part of who I am.

Not something broken that can simply be repaired, but something that was never fully given to me in the first place.

People often speak about healing as though every pain eventually closes neatly with time, love, or understanding. But some losses are different. Some grief comes not from losing what you had, but from never truly having it at all.

And how do you fully heal from the absence of something your heart needed in order to grow safely?

I do not know if that ache will ever completely disappear.

There is still a part of me that feels unfinished. A quiet emptiness where a mother’s comfort, protection, and unconditional love were supposed to live. Sometimes I think I carry that absence everywhere I go. It follows me into motherhood, into relationships, into the way I question myself, overthink everything, and struggle to believe I am worthy of being cared for without conditions.

It is hard to explain to people who were loved gently as children.

The absence becomes part of your identity.
Part of the way you see the world.
Part of the way your body holds fear, loneliness, and longing.

And maybe the hardest truth is realizing that some wounds do not heal by disappearing. Some wounds heal by learning how to live beside them without letting them consume every part of you.

I do not think the little girl inside me will ever completely stop searching for the mother she needed.

But I also know this:

That missing piece did not stop me from becoming loving.
It did not stop me from becoming gentle.
It did not stop me from becoming the safe place I once searched for in someone else.

Sometimes I look at my children and realize they will never fully understand the depth of what they were given simply by being held, heard, comforted, and loved consistently. And part of me is grateful for that. They should never have to understand that kind of emptiness firsthand.

There are still moments when the grief feels bottomless. Moments when I wonder who I might have become if I had been loved differently from the beginning.

But even in that sorrow, there is something sacred in the fact that I chose not to pass the emptiness forward.

The ache may always live inside me.
The longing may never fully leave.

But so does grace.
So does love.
So does the quiet courage of becoming the kind of mother I once needed myself.

I hold them when they cry.
I listen when they speak.
I apologize when I am wrong.
I stay.

And sometimes, in those quiet moments when my children rest safely against me, I grieve and heal at the same time.

Because somewhere deep inside me is still the little girl who wanted someone to hold her like this too.

Mother’s Day: The Pain and the Joy

Mother’s Day has always felt complicated to me.

Beautiful. Tender. Heavy.

For some, it is a day filled with flowers, laughter, handmade cards, and family gatherings.
For others, it is a day that quietly reopens wounds they spend most of the year trying to hold together.

And for many of us, it is somehow both at once.

There is joy in motherhood, real joy.
The kind that comes when little arms wrap around your neck.
When children call out “Mom!” from another room, they trust you will answer.
When bedtime stories, messy kitchens, and small ordinary moments somehow become sacred.

There are moments when I look at my children and feel something I never truly understood growing up: safety.

Not perfect safety.
Not a life untouched by fear or mistakes.
But a home where children are allowed to laugh loudly, cry honestly, and exist without constantly preparing themselves for someone else’s anger.

And yet, alongside the joy, there is grief.

Because becoming a mother does not erase the child I once was.

Mother’s Day has a way of shining light on what was missing.
On the things I needed but never received.
Gentleness. Protection. Comfort.
A mother who saw me clearly and chose me consistently.

Sometimes I watch my children run toward me without fear, and I realize I never had that kind of certainty myself.
I learned early to survive instead of simply being a child.
To study moods instead of resting in love.
To prepare for disappointment before hope could even fully form.

Mother’s Day can reopen those quiet wounds.

Not because I am ungrateful.
Not because I do not love my children deeply.
But because healing often works this way: joy and grief sit at the same table.

And for many mothers, the grief carried into Mother’s Day is even deeper.

There are mothers grieving miscarriages.
Stillbirths.
Infertility.
Children lost too soon.
Dreams that never had the chance to fully become reality.

The world often treats these losses as invisible because there are no school photos, birthday parties, or visible memories for others to hold onto.
But a mother begins loving her child long before the world ever sees them.

The moment hope appears, love begins growing too.

A miscarriage is not “just” a miscarriage.
It is the loss of a child imagined and loved.
A future dreamed about in quiet moments.
A thousand tiny hopes suddenly gone.

Stillbirth carries another kind of heartbreak entirely.
To prepare a nursery while also preparing for goodbye.
To leave a hospital with empty arms when every part of your body expected to bring a baby home.

There are no perfect words for that kind of grief.

And so many mothers carry it silently because people do not know what to say.
Or worse, they try to explain the pain away.

“You can try again.”
“Everything happens for a reason.”
“At least…”

But grief is not healed by explanations.

Sometimes what grieving mothers need most is acknowledgment:

Your child mattered.
Your love was real.
Your motherhood counts.

And I think the world forgets something important about Mother’s Day:

Motherhood has never been defined only by birth.

There are women who carried children in their bodies.
And there are women who carried children through life.

Women who stayed.
Women who protected.
Women who listened.
Women who nurtured.
Women who stepped into spaces where love was needed and gave it freely.

Some women desperately wanted children and could not have them.
Some chose not to have children for deeply personal reasons.
Some became mothers through adoption, fostering, mentoring, teaching, ministry, friendship, or simply through the way they cared for others.

And none of those forms of motherhood are lesser.

I can think of several women who never gave birth but still shaped people with the tenderness, steadiness, and sacrifice of a mother.
Women who noticed pain others ignored.
Women who fed children, encouraged them, prayed for them, guided them, and loved them without needing a biological title to make it real.

Because motherhood is not only biology.

It is presence.

It is the choice to nurture life in someone else.
To make another person feel safe, valued, seen, and loved.

Some of the most mothering people in this world are teachers.
Grandmothers.
Aunts.
Mentors.
Godmothers.
Older sisters.
Women in churches and communities who quietly gather hurting children under their wings and love them as their own.

Sometimes, for wounded children, those women become the closest thing to a mother they ever truly knew.

And I also know this hard truth:

Not everyone who gives birth becomes a mother.

Biology alone does not create safety.
It does not automatically create gentleness, protection, or love.

There are people who bring children into this world yet never truly see them.
Never protect them.
Never nurture them.
Some children grow up learning fear long before they ever learn trust.

And that reality can make Mother’s Day deeply complicated for survivors of abuse, neglect, abandonment, or emotional harm.

Because while the world celebrates motherhood, some people are quietly grieving the fact that they never truly had one.

A child should never have to earn love by becoming smaller, quieter, easier, or less needy.
A child should not have to become hyperaware of moods just to survive inside their own home.

And yet many of us did.

Some women gave birth to children but left the mothering undone.

And some women who never gave birth became the very definition of what a mother should be.

That contrast can be painful to sit with.

Especially when society insists that titles alone deserve automatic honor while ignoring the lived reality of children who were harmed by the very people meant to protect them.

The truth is, motherhood is not proven in a delivery room.
It is proven over time.

In patience.
In sacrifice.
In consistency.
In the ability to make a child feel safe enough to rest instead of constantly survive.

Real motherhood is not perfection.
But it is presence.

It is showing up.
Apologizing when wrong.
Protecting instead of controlling.
Listening instead of silencing.
Choosing love even in difficult moments.

I think many survivors wrestle with guilt on Mother’s Day because they do not feel the warm emotions others expect them to feel.
Some are mourning mothers they lost.
Others are mourning mothers they never truly had at all.

And those are not the same grief, but both are real.

There is a particular kind of loneliness in realizing that someone can be your mother biologically while never becoming a safe place emotionally.

But I also think there is healing in recognizing this:

The failure to mother well says everything about the wound within the parent and nothing about the worth of the child.

Children were always worthy of tenderness.
Of protection.
Of comfort.
Of being chosen fully and lovingly.

And many survivors grow up determined to become the kind of safe adult they once desperately needed themselves.

That is part of what makes Mother’s Day both painful and beautiful.

Some people spend the day grieving what they never received.
Others spend it quietly, celebrating the fact that the cycle stopped with them.

That, despite everything, they learned how to love gently.

How to stay soft without becoming weak.
How to nurture others even while healing themselves.

And maybe that is one of the most courageous forms of motherhood there is.

Mother’s Day holds both ache and gratitude now.
The ache of the daughter I once was.
The gratitude of the mother I became.
The grief for children lost.
The joy for children held close.
The sorrow for prayers unanswered.
The hope that love can still grow in wounded places.

Both joy and grief deserve space here.

Because healing is not learning how to erase sadness.
Healing is learning how to carry joy beside it without shame.

This Mother’s Day, we honor every kind of mother:

The mothers raising children beside them.
The mothers grieving children they never got to hold long enough.
The mothers carrying invisible loss.
The women who mother through teaching, mentoring, fostering, caregiving, and loving.
The mothers trying to break cycles they did not create.
The women who became safe places for children who desperately needed one.

And we honor the little girls many of those mothers once were too.

The ones who survived long enough to become the safe place they once needed themselves.

All Saints and Sinners

All Saints and Sinners

I lift up my eyes to the hills—

where does my help come from?

My help comes from the Lord,

the Maker of heaven and earth.

He will not let your foot slip—

he who watches over you will not slumber;

indeed, he who watches over Israel

will neither slumber nor sleep.

The Lord watches over you—

the Lord is your shade at your right hand;

the sun will not harm you by day,

nor the moon by night.

The Lord will keep you from all harm—

he will watch over your life;

the Lord will watch over your coming and going

both now and forevermore.

— Psalm 121

---

There are nights I still wonder what heaven will feel like, not the clouds and the light, but the faces. The ones I long to see, and the ones I’m not sure I’m ready for.

We celebrated All Saints’ Sunday at church, and as I walked through the sanctuary and saw the line of photos, faces of those who now rest in the columbarium, my stomach turned. Each picture was meant to bring comfort, a reminder of eternal life and hope. But I found myself staring and wondering, will they be there too?

If heaven is perfect, what happens to the pain they caused?
If grace really means grace, does that mean they’re there too?

This thought has unsettled me off and on for years. As I get older, I feel that I’m slowly getting closer to finding out the answer. I wanted heaven to be a place of safety, of peace, not a reunion with the people who broke me. I wanted the light to fall only on the faces that brought warmth, not on the ones that taught me fear.

But grace doesn’t ask for my permission.
It doesn’t stay inside the lines I draw to keep my heart safe.

And sometimes, in the quiet, another question rises — one that frightens me more than the rest:
What happens to me if I can’t forgive them?

It’s not something I ever want to do. Forgiveness feels impossible, almost like betrayal, as if forgiving them would mean saying it was somehow okay when it never was. But then I wonder, what does that mean for my salvation? What does it mean for my seat beside Jesus if my heart still trembles at the thought of mercy for them?

I’ve been told that forgiveness is required of me, that if I want to be forgiven, I must forgive.
But no one has ever talked about the fact that maybe God knows the difference between refusing to forgive and not being ready yet.

I am not sure where I am on that spectrum, but I have to believe He sees the struggle, the way I keep coming back to Him with the same ache, the same confusion, the same prayer that always begins with, “Lord, I don’t know how.”

And maybe forgiveness, in His eyes, isn’t a single moment or a sentence spoken out loud. Maybe it’s the long, trembling willingness to let Him keep softening what’s still too hard.

There are days I fear that my inability to forgive makes me unworthy of heaven, an unworthy child of God. My anger feels like it disqualifies me from grace, from forgiveness, from belonging. I still carry this quiet dread that when the gates open, I might find myself standing outside, still tangled in the pain I could never release.

But then I try to remember: grace was never something I could earn. It was given before I even knew how to ask for it. Still, the doubts linger, not in my mind so much as in my soul. I still question my ability to reach heaven, to be welcomed into that perfect love when so much of me still aches with what was never made right.

Yet even in those moments of doubt, I think God holds me closer, not farther away. Maybe He knows that faith isn’t always confident; sometimes it’s trembling and unsure, whispered through tears. Maybe He sees that I’m still trying, still coming back, still letting Him find me in the middle of the struggle.

Sometimes I imagine walking into that light and seeing their faces, not the versions that hurt me, but the ones God meant them to be before everything went wrong. I wonder if they’ll recognize me, or if I’ll even need words to understand. Maybe forgiveness will finally make sense in that moment — not as something I had to work toward, but as something that simply is.

Heaven, I think, will be the first place where forgiveness feels easy — not because the wounds didn’t matter, but because they’ve been healed by something stronger than pain. Because the only scars in heaven are on Jesus, not me.

Here on earth, forgiveness still feels like holding fire. It burns even when I mean it. But in heaven, I think the flames will finally go out.

Maybe that’s what perfect peace really is, not pretending it didn’t happen, but knowing that somehow, God made it right.

Maybe heaven isn’t about having perfectly forgiven everyone, but about finally being free from the need to keep trying. Maybe God will finish the forgiveness in me that I couldn’t finish myself.

And when that day comes, when all that’s left is light and love, maybe I’ll finally understand what it means that mercy triumphs over judgment, even mine.

---

Reflection

Forgiveness isn’t a door I open once. It’s a road I keep walking, slow, uneven, sacred.
And maybe heaven is where that road finally ends, where the burden of trying is lifted, and all that’s left is love.

---

Prayer

Lord, You know how deep the wounds go,
and how hard it is to let go of what was never made right.
You see the struggle inside me — the ache, the fear, the longing to believe You’ll make it new.

Teach me to trust Your mercy more than my pain.
Hold me when forgiveness feels too heavy to carry.

If they are in Your kingdom, let me be glad they made it home.
And if I see them there, let me see them through Your eyes —
redeemed, restored, forgiven.

Heal what they broke in me, and finish what I could not.
So that when I reach heaven’s shore,
there will be no more fear in my remembering —
only grace.

Amen. 

Grief support group week 2 and 3 and updates on the family.

Sophie:

So I have been going back to the grief support group and proud of myself for doing so. It has been a little over whelming but also has brought me some relief as well. This is the first time that I have ever been in a support group with people that I know and also know my family and at first I was not sure if I should be a part of the group because of that but I have stuck it out and have shared things that I have only ever told my therapist and that part of share things to people I know has been the hardest but also the most liberating thing I have ever done. The group has been extremely supportive and have been patient with how hard this is on me and the fact that I am not good at explaining my emotions at all. It has brought up some emotions and I know that I have been extra short with Ken because talking about this always makes me edgy. But he never complains just checks in with me every now and then. Next week we focus on Spirituality and I know right now that this one is going to be a hard one on me.

The group has also mad me realize how much anger and hurt I still have towards my family and even my parents even though they are dead. My whole life I told myself I am so lucky because it could have been a lot worse but I am slowly learning that it a way I avoid having to deal with or even think about what happened. My mom played a victim and the poor me rule as long as I can remember and I never wanted to do that. I never wanted any attention. I still have a hard time with that. I am also realizing at how much I miss them. I am not sure if it is them that I miss or the fact that I missed having any parents at all. I have always just taken care of anything that I need to do no problem I just did it but now at the age of 35 I wish I had a parent to call on. I am learning that a child's relationship with a parent or caregiver in really important and do to my situation growing up neither Lewis or I have someone we can call on, we have no safety net other than each other and that is not the same and what is even harder is that I feel we are both going through a hard time in life and we can't even give support to each other. I guess that is when we turn everything over to God and have faith! God's grace is amazing and I feel it daily and thankful that it is there but still my heart is telling me one thing and head is running a non stop script in my head about the other stuff. I guess that is why this whole month has been a hard one emotionally. I have felt really sad and lonely yet I am so happy to be around Ken and the kids. With Michael's therapies I don't get out of the house as much as I want. I have also tried to get in contact with a few friends with no luck. So I guess it all adds up and my brain wont shut off.

This week I had a lot of kids in my house and I loved it. With it being the first week of school a lot of kids only go half days and get out between 12:00pm and 1:00pm. At one point each day I had 7 to 8 kids in my house all the same age! I LOVED IT!! I always wanted to have a lot of kids but that is not happening now so it was nice to have it while it lasted! I was tired and in bed at 8:30 every night but it was so much fun and I loved hearing all the laughing, playing and yes even the fighting was cute. But it was a lot for Michael and it has had a few side-affects on his sleep. Up at least 3 times a night and really grumpy and clingy to me during the day. So maybe it is good that we can not have anymore kids! I can still dream about what it would have been like though and I would have loved it. Michael would have adjusted over time! (I am not sure Ken would though) LOL

I am excited about Labor Day because we will have people over and do a BBQ and the kids can play in the water. I try to have something that I can look forward too. I need to get better about planning one thing very week so I have things to look forward

Kaylee:

Kaylee started Kindergarten and is loving it! Her teacher is amazing which is good. It is so hard for me to think of her as a kindergartner! School has only been in for a week but so far she can't wait to get there and always wants to leave early! We had back to school night and got some more info which helped us understand how they do things. 

Kaylee also lost her first tooth on Wednesday! I could not believe that it fell out. But she was so happy plus the tooth fairy came in the middle of the night!! Michael keeps asking about his teeth. I guess he wants to loss his tooth just like his big sister. She has a dentist appointment on August 31st and she can't wait to show them! 

Kaylee's Birthday is on Tuesday and she will be 5 years old!! She can't wait. I have had a hard time getting a party together for her. For some reason I am just having a hard time this year. Plus last Sunday my Aunt said some pretty hurtful things to Kaylee and I! I am still trying to process it all and figure out how to handle it all. My heart is full of sadness for Kaylee as she does not understand all the stuff that goes on in a family she just loves everyone endlessly. But this time it affected her greatly. So possessing time is needed for me to decide on what to do next. I canceled a tea party that I was going to have for the adults in her life because of all of this so to make up for that we are going to take Kaylee to her FAVORITE restaurant on her birthday!

Michael:

Michael's behaviors have gotten a lot more intense the past month and it is stressing me out a little. We meet with his ABA team and they have noticed it as well. I asked if it could be his age and some of it is probably age but most of it is sensory and  him getting overly stimulated and not knowing how to tell us or dealing with it himself. He is only 2 almost 3. He has about 3 to 4 melt downs a day and they last anywhere from 5 to 45 minutes a few have lasted hours! On top of that he has the usual temper tantrums that very 3 year old has. It is just so tiring. I need a break from him.

On the plus side Michael language is improving DAILY! He is talking clear and using more and more words. I am so thankful that communication is possible now. He also has a visual schedule that we use and that seems to help a lot with transitions. The one thing I am not good at but need to improve is prep him for things. I mean start about 30 minutes before we leave the house or get Kaylee from school. I need to tell him details of what the process will be. Example: "Michael we are going to get Kaylee from School. You will be in the stroller." (because he thinks that he gets to WALK) "so we are going to get our shoes on in 5 minutes!" And do this a few time so he knows the transition process. I have learned that some of his melt downs come from frustration of not understanding what is happening or what is expected of him. So I do my best to prep and explain both visually and verbally.

Ken:

Ken has been at Costco a year September 1st! He loves it. They asked him about being supervisor and I think he wants the position but we will see. I just happy that he loves his job and has a set schedule every week. The raises are good the personal time is great and he loves how he is treated. It is been so nice to see him happy with work. We also get to see each other a lot more too!

Grief support group. TRIGGER and TMI

Well about 2 months ago my therapist told me to try a grief support group because she thought that what I thought was depression and anxiety sound more like grief. To be honest I thought she was nuts and did not look in to it at all. Then last week I learned that there was a 6 week Grief support group starting at our church and thought I would try it out. Well last night was the first meeting and it was really hard for me.

First of most people who are dealing with the lost of a parent there are "treasured Memories" or "good times" Well I don't have that at all. I don't have any good times really to look back on and can saw that was a time that I can hold onto and remember for always. Second " You have a right to search for meaning"! Meaning all I ever told myself was it could have been worse so much worse! I feel out of place in the group. Right now I am not sure that this group is what I need. Yes I can say I am grieving because I learned that I am grieving so much more than the death of my parents. I am grieving the fact that I never had PARENTS. I am full of anger about it.

I also never cry because I hate how it makes me feel but I cried last night! I cried  in-front of people that I did not even know. I could not believe that I did that. So it tells me that either I am SO NOT ready to take this process on or that I am a CHICKEN and don't want to face everything.

I have been in therapy off and on since I was about 12 years old. I am able to talk to my therapist about so much and unable to talk to anyone else. I have never really talked to anyone else about my feelings around my parents other than I wanted nothing to do with them. Because of that I never that I should give their death any attention or process any feeling because I told myself that own that they are gone it is over and I can live my life freely without them. I did post one blog about my childhood but it only cover a small blur. I still feel like I am betraying my family if I talk about things. I feel that everyone in my family is pretending that we are something that we are not. For now I just need to figure out if I should continue with the support group or not.

Parents, Abuse, Death and Forgiveness. (I have been working on this for a few days. This may be to much for some people)

I feel that I should worn you that if you know me or my parents you may not want to read this. It is my truth! Most of my friends and family know my childhood was hard but this is a little detailed. To be honest I can't believe I am even writing this!

The time around my birthday is always a little hard for me. Not because of my age or the fact that I am getting older but of my relationship to my parents. To me my birthday and my parents go together. I am here on this earth because they wanted a child supposedly. Now 35 years later here I am and they both are DEAD and I am still trying to understand why they wanted to have kids or if they even loved me or know what love is! Last Sunday night at Popcorn (family night) after everyone had gone home, Lewis and I for the first time ever talked about our childhood with grandma. The drugs, violence, and fear. We did leave a lot of stuff out like the sexual abuse and a lot of the more violet events of course. But it was the first time as adults Lewis and I talked and then agreed on events of our past. I am still trying to understand how this all happened in the first place and why after all these years Grandma would want to know these things. She was always adamant that our mom was not as bad as we thought!

 For many years before they both died I told myself that they where no longer my parents. I had done my best to erase them out of my life. Yes I knew that there was still there was this connection from them to me and me to them but I had tried to pretend that it was not there but it was still there and even today as my children grow and get older I am finding it harder and harder to ignore it. It is there pulling at me to acknowledge it. Now with my health issues that have come in to play (some of the medical issues are do to trauma from my childhood) it seems to be pulling at me even more. Then with grandma wanting to talk about stuff I feel a little very overwhelmed or maybe unsettled. 

Before my parents died I had thought that I had resolved my issues with them as best I could and tried to move on and then when I had my first child Kaylee I soon realized that was very far from true. I even started to feel for them and have sympathy and felt that I was starting to understand them and their action and that made me so angry and then scared because I had told myself that I did not love them and did not care about them. I had tried my best to erase all feeling toward them good and bad.  I wanted nothing to do with them but do family events that was never going to happen. My mom was after all my grandmothers daughter. One of the hardest things I ever did in my life was let my mother hold Kaylee. I only agreed because of how much it meant to grandma. I literally gave Kaylee to my aunt Janet and left the room and cried. I felt broken and still am. As I look back on that day I wish I had protested more. I ended up in a postpartum support group after that and worked on letting my mom and Kaylee have a relationship. It was hard on me but I did it for Kaylee and Grandma. My the time Kaylee was born she was already in a nursing home so that help a little. I took Kaylee twice a month with Grandma to see my mom. Surprisingly Kaylee remembers my mom and the nursing home. She still talks about Grandma Judy a lot. But ever since the day I let mom my hold her I have been struggle with my relationship to my parents. What if I did love them and care about them?? What would that me for me, for them and how I related to my 2 amazing children? Then they both died. My dad died 3 year ago this May 2nd and my mom 2 years this April 12th. How do you morn someone that you thought you hated and never love? I have told myself over the past 25 years at least that they hated me and wanted me only for the attention I brought them. Why do I care?

I really do believe that my mother hated me and I will never really understand why that was or when her anger and hate started and why. I don't ever remember her being nice to me unless it was because she wanted something from me or to use me for a way for her to get attention. There are a few pictures when I was really young that you see she cared but only a few.

The following picture is the last one of everyone happy.

Even before this picture was taken I already have memories of her talking to me in a mean/hateful way. I even remember on the day she came home from the hospital after having Lewis that I ended up getting stitches above my eye because she pulled or pushed me off a step stool in kitchen because I was making a mess! Come on I was 3 1/2 years old! That is when I remember all the LIES starting. "She just fell" or "she is just accident prone". I don't even think my family knows the truth about that fall that day but at this point it does even really matter. I don't think they know about a lot of stuff that went on because of my parents. And more to the point I don't think they could handle it. Things change rapidly after that day and as a small child I knew no differently. 

I don't ever remember a time when my mom was not using or drinking but she hid it well for everyone. I do remember the last time I let my mom hug me and I am not even sure why we were hugging but I was around 8 years old and we were at grandma Arlene's house and she was leaving and while she was hugging me I started to cry and I have no idea why I was crying and even if there was a reason but I know that once that hug ended it would be the last one and since that day I never hugged her not once. There were many times that she tried to hug me and most of the time I was able to avoid it and a few times that I just stood there but I never once returned it. To be honest ever time she touche me I wanted to run away or slap her but I contained myself most of the time. The hardest part was when she was dying. Watching her her lay in the bed knowing that she would only be in this world for only a short time longer I started to to feel the need to crawl into her bed and have her hold me and at the same time I could not even hold her hand! I felt torn and so confused. I guess I wanted something that I never had and her death meant that there was no chance of ever having it. A dream of having a mother. Having all the things that I am for Kaylee and more. I was the only on with her when she passed away and I wanted to take her hand in that moment but I could not move. I stood there next to her and prayed and all that came to mind was the Lords Prayer and I said it over and over again. I never did touch her before they took her body. At this point I don't even know if it matters to me or not.

My moms family put a lot of the blame on my Dad and my dads family blames my MOM. For some reason in my eyes my mom was thousand times worse than my dad. My dad was physically abusive but my mom was much worse than that. She was physically abusive but also mentally. She played with my emotions all the time. She even gave me to her drug dealer and let him do what ever he wanted for her drug habit! During any of this did she love me? How on earth was she putting my best interested at heart? Did she even care what was happening to me? All of this craziness went on until one day I was home sick from school with my mom. I think I was in 6th grade. I made her mad because I would not make her lunch!! So she called my dad home from work  "to take care of me" I am not even sure what she said to him but I knew he was going to be mad. I remember hiding in the laundry-room closet until he found me. That by far was the scariest day of my life so far! After that day I pretty much live with my moms parents during the week. So after that my dad said that he wanted a Divorce because he was tired of all the games my mom played. My mom and brother moved in with Grandma and Grandpa as well. Soon after my grandparents found out about my moms drinking and drug uses. They helped her get into rehab! To me rehab made her worse. She became so shelf centered and blamed everyone else for all her problems and actions. She never got better physically or mentally between all the drugs, drinking and health issues she was crazy. She never really was normal even though most people thought she was until they got to know her.

 The last 5 or 6 years of her life or maybe even longer she was angry at everything. Nothing could bring her happiness. The more angry and hateful she became at the world the more I told myself that she was nothing to me other than the person that gave me life. In the back of my head I kept asking myself how could a mother hate their child? What would make that happen? I knew both of moms parents had loved her and raised her well. I knew that my moms siblings where well established so what caused her to be so different. The loss of a child? Mental health? Addiction? Abuse by someone other that her parents? Or maybe all those or maybe something else all together? I still have these question and will probably never really know the answer. But in all those years of being hurt and telling myself that this woman my mother meant nothing to me was not so true. I am learning that I do have a connection to her and I guess I did love her or have some strange attachment to her in some way. I guess that once I can come to terms with the fact that is okay for me to want her or love her (this part my take me the rest of my life) I may be able to finally complete the forgiveness process.

 As a child and young adult always questioned God on why he made me and why if he loved me some much would I have these people as my parents. Lewis and I went to church every Sunday with our grandparents and sometimes our mom. It blows me away at how normal I thought was back then. When I was about 10 or 12 I was at a church youth event and the youth Pastor at the time Tim Huff would had no real idea why I was so made, gave me this verse for a game we were playing and it has stuck with me for ever.

Jeremiah 29 11-14

. 11 For surely I know the plans I have for you, says the Lord, plans for your welfare and not for harm, to give you a future with hope. 12 Then when you call upon me and come and pray to me, I will hear you. 13 When you search for me, you will find me; if you seek me with all your heart, 14 I will let you find me, says the Lord, and I will restore your fortunes and gather you from all the nations and all the places where I have driven you, says the Lord,

Yes I still have a lot to work on and I am not as far as along as I had thought I was but I am more happy then I ever thought possible and after talking with Lewis and hearing him validate my memories has helped me and I am not sure in what way other than me knowing someone else was there too and saw it, heard it and I agrees with me. I guess it helps me feel validated in some way. I am so lucky to have a great husband who loves me and our kids. I am blessed with 2 kids I never thought I could have and a wonderful life full of so many beautiful people and things. I have so much more than I ever thought possible when I was younger. I am truly lucky and sometimes forget that. I did not end up on drugs or worse yet dead.