Memory Lane and Journal Entries. Circa 2002.

I have spent the last several hours of my life reading my journal from the year 2002.  I couldn't seem to fall directly asleep, as happens many mornings after I've worked all day, into the night; or all night..... my brain does not like to automatically go from "we have a code red, please bring the jaws of life," or "when I entered the patient's room, he was standing in front of the mirror butt naked," or if if I've had an oh-so-crappy evening of "I love you, but I wish things were different, blah blah blah bibbity bobbity eff you," to "ah, my bed, it's so comfy, quiet and all nicey nice to sleep in."  I have to have some kind of in between.  Early this morning I spent some time reading old experiences and personal moments.  Here are some excerpts from the summer of 2002:

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May 25, 2002  Saturday
It's been a nice and lazy day.  No kids, just peace and quiet around the house.  I decided that I needed a real break from being a full time, single mom, and all I did was the dishes in the sink and that's it!  I didn't walk around the apartment cleaning every little thing like I usually do when the kids are gone.  I didn't sit in front of my computer or do homework all day long.  I slept and watched TV, prayed and did some scrapbooking.  Mostly just sorted through stuff that I haven't put in there yet.  The day was nice just relaxing like that!  I've been thinking about Brian a lot since my therapy session with Garrett.  About how he was when we met.  I find it nearly impossible to believe that it was all an act.  It hurts too much to think that I was living in some fantasy world where I was merely a player.  What a horrible game for someone to make up.  I just can't believe that.  There are times when I think about it and I just want to begin laughing hysterically and run my fingers through my hair while pulling it in this wild and crazy gesture.  Just like a lunatic.  I still feel a little crazy when I think about it.  I still feel like there is something wrong with me.  Why couldn't he love me for me?  I thought he did, and then suddenly everything I did was wrong in his eyes. 

June 16, 2002  Sunday
I just feel like both my body and my mind, my total being if you will, are being pulled in a million different directions.  My body feels as though it is falling apart just as much as my van is.  Pieces aren't falling off, of course, but they may as well be, because they just don't seem to work properly.  Sometimes I just ache all over and can't seem to move.  Other times I just feel so completely exhausted that I would be perfectly content to lie around on the futon all damn day long and do nothing.  I notice my cramping and pains on my sides and lower stomach more often now, so I guess the endometriosis is spreading.  My surgery is in the process of being scheduled, hopefully for the month of July some time.  I asked to have the dates of July 3-15 looked at since I won't have my kids during that time period since they'll be vacationing with their dad, but naturally there is no guarantee I'll get the surgery date I desire.  I'd just like to have to polyps removed before I have full-blown cancer if the surgeon can fit me into his schedule! I'm irritated with Bev over my surgery situation, because I feel like she is really belittling it.  All she can really say is that surgeries today aren't what they used to be and don't hurt as much, blah blah blah.  I just feel like she is pretty much telling me that this just isn't a big deal at all and that I'm going to be just fine and won't need any help.  Like I'm going to walk out of the hospital pain free and completely relieved.  It makes me mad and sad at the same time that she is viewing my hysterectomy like I'm going to have my tonsils removed or something.  I think I'm entitled to be angry, sad, disappointed and frustrated over this surgery, and once I have it done I'm entitled to be in pain, cry, scream, and whatever else I want to feel or do!!!  I didn't ask for pre-cancerous polyps, I didn't ask for endometriosis or adenomyosis, I didn't ask to have my ability to have any more children to be taken away. 

July 17, 2002  Wednesday
I grow a little more capable of being okay every day, but this week has been so hard for me.  Now that I've had major surgery, it has been nice spending time with Bev, since she has opened her home and taken care of me since I have not been able to take care of myself, and being able to sit here and read, and journal, and take time to heal.  But I REALLY miss my kids and my heart is hurting.  I'm used to having them every day of my life, and I've never been away from them except when they go with their dad every other weekend.  Aspen has been really sick the past couple of days and I hear him crying on the phone saying in his 2-year-old voice that he wants his mommy and I just start to cry.  It turns me into an emotional wreck hearing my baby so upset and I'm completely helpless to take care of him.  I can't pick him up, can't risk getting a fever or ulcers in my throat like Aspen has right now.  I'm so thankful to Debra for taking care of him, but I feel like such a burden right now with the kids spread out all over the place because no one could take all of them at once for a week.  I know they miss each other, too.  

July 27, 2002  Saturday
Oh my Lord.  I got really sick a few days ago, have been getting worse, and yesterday fainted from pain, collapsing on my bedroom floor.  I was rushed to the hospital by ambulance since I just had major surgery a couple of weeks ago.  They immediately went in surgically because of the pain I was having, but it was only supposed to be an inch long incision.  I woke up this morning with a row of 20 staples across my abdomen.  I never expected to wake up in so much pain.  Morphine is a wonderful, wonderful thing.  As soon as I opened my eyes I immediately started crying.  I was in so much pain, it was unbearable.  I had been cut open from hip bone to hip bone.  I had an infection and an abscess on my colon that had to clean out.  The kids brought pictures that they made for me to the hospital.  Karah cried.  I cried. I can't even see my journal because of the medication, I have to stop writing.
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Oh how I miss my children. Reading the things I wrote 12 years ago - TWELVE YEARS AGO - has brought forth so many feelings I didn't even realize I still had. First of all, I can see the bipolar disorder in me just from the first entry. I knew there was something going on with me even then. Ironically, I was in therapy, and still wasn't diagnosed. Brian is my first husband, and children's father, by the way. It's also ironic the way I spoke about the situation. I feel the same way about my current situation with Ron. Was I merely a player once again? What is it about me that makes the men I love, and who supposedly love me, erase me from their lives? Do I just have a knack for choosing hidden exhibitions of uncoded narcissism and I want to be loved so badly that I fall for the initial charm, only to be shocked into unpleasant reality once they know "they have me?" Do I just love too much and it's not enough? Or maybe I love too much and it's too much to handle? How effing codependent am I, really? The reminder that I can have no more children was surprisingly a little harsh, as well. I don't know why; I'm 40 years old and why would I want another child anyway? My youngest is 14 and my oldest is 21. I think it's the fact that I missed out on everything a woman who is expecting a child, whether it's their first or tenth, should be able to experience. Call me a fool, but I would have loved to have had someone with me at all my appointments, someone who would lay his head on my stomach and talk to the baby, someone who would rub my belly, someone who would cherish every single moment along with me, someone who wouldn't jerk their hand away if the baby moved because it was weird to them, someone who got excited about sonogram pictures, someone who would hold my hand all the way through labor and delivery and stroke my hair telling me it was going to be okay instead of letting nurses and other relatives to "the job." I loved being pregnant, and I loved expecting; but I miss the love of pregnancy with the person who helped create it. Every. Single. One. Of. Them. My girls are 18 and soon-to-be 17. My 18-year-old WANTS me to have another baby. She has encouraged me to adopt many, many times in the last year. That was before my fiance decided he didn't want to marry me, of course. She recently remarked, "you should have a baby anyway." I love her so much. If I were to have a baby, she is definitely one person I know who would be there through thick and thin. My own child. Imagine that. My soon-to-be-17-year-old. That's such the opposite end of the spectrum, that the last entry brought me to tears. "Karah cried." How I miss my Karah, so very, very much. I pray every day that she will give me another chance in her life. I've stopped trying to figure out why I've been cut completely out of it. Does she even miss me at all? Has my daughter really stopped loving her mom? The girl who just 4 years ago would still insist on sleeping in my bed with me and would fight her little brother over the spot next me, and lay her head on my shoulder? I can't bear the thought. It reminded me that her birthday is soon. She will be 17 in just a couple of weeks, and it will officially mark 1 year of her ceasing communication with me, as it was just after her birthday last year that the texts, calls, and emails just stopped. She was there - and then she wasn't. So what do I do this year? Do I try like I did last year to get her to go to lunch with me or something? That's what started it, I believe. She had already started putting me off a bit, and I pushed too hard and ended up telling her that when she was ready to spend time with me, she would. It's almost like I made up her mind for her, and I wish I'd never said it. I feel like it somehow triggered her decision, as if she was saying, "then I won't......... in your face!" I've been working on letting go; but how can I ignore her birthday? I can't. I will send her a card that I hand make for her, along with something else that I make for her; because that is our thing. I make things for her. She got a lot of her creativity in art and writing from me, and it's a passion we share. I hope that I can find something to do for her that will make her at least smile, even if I don't get a chance to witness it. I know it's usually the birthday girl that makes the wish, but I have a wish of my own for her birthday this year. A wish for just one hug. I just want to hug my daughter.

Final thought: I REALLY MISS MY KIDS. I never thought, in 2002, that there would be a day when I DIDN'T have them every day. As a matter of fact, the thought never crossed my mind.

Cherish the moments you have. You never, ever know when life will change dramatically on you.

Perfect To Me. A Girl With Aniridia.

When I was 21 years old, I gave birth to my second child; a beautiful little girl. I named her Andrea Meaghn-Jade. I've always insisted on being unique with my children's names, and they all have hyphenated middle names.  Maybe it was also partly due to me wanting to use every name I could think of that I liked. I still have plenty left for future generations.  As a matter of fact, both of my daughters know that two other girls' names I had picked out were "Storey" and "Waverly", and each has picked one of those to use for their daughters name; so, in a way, I guess I still get to use them! Pretty cool, I think. I was blessed with a doubly-unique little girl, with Andrea.  It's actually quite interesting how I had already chosen "Andrea" to be her name, given what she was born with.

Andrea was born with a congenital abnormality called Aniridia. The term aniridia literally translates to absence of iris, usually of both eyes. In her case, definitely so. There is much more to it than that, but let me start at the beginning.

Call it mother's intuition, instinct, or what you will, I knew within a couple of hours of them handing me my daughter that something was wrong.  My first child, a son, had been born with big blue eyes, and he would just fixate on everything around him, totally full of wonder, as soon as he was able to take a peek at the world. I realize that not all babies open their eyes fully within a few hours, but mine did. When my daughter opened hers, I noticed immediately that there was just a simple, very thin ring of blue around the outside edge of what seemed to be a huge pupil. Why would my baby's eyes be dilated? Had they put drops in them? Had they done hearing and vision tests already? I knew that they did these things early on while in the hospital, but nothing was ever said to me, so I immediately became my child's advocate. I thought perhaps her eyes were merely dilated for some reason, as I'd never heard of anything like Aniridia before. So I asked, "Why are my daughter's eyed dilated?" That very first day of her life was a whirlwind. It turned out not to be such an easy question to answer. Her pupils didn't respond to light.  There was no dilation or contraction. Why this was not noticed by someone BEFORE I said anything is still baffling to me. There was barely a blue circle. There was, in fact, just black. I was told that further testing and discussion would be had at her 2-week appointment with our pediatrician. That's the day I literally fell to the floor in the patient room, landing on my rear end, and sobbed. I cried and I was inconsolable. I heard everything the 2 doctors were saying, but it was like a dream. My daughter was essentially blind. She could see movement, shadows, and shapes, but not really detail. Aniridia is a congenital, meaning to be born with, defect that isn't just isolated to absence of the iris. Andrea also was born with cataracts, glaucoma, nystagmus (involuntary eye movement; with her it was rapid eye movement from side to side), strabismus (when the two eyes do not align with each other; in her case, one eye would usually look forward while the other crossed inward, or sometimes both would cross), macular hypoplasia and macular degeneration (underdeveloped macula; has a dark spot in the center of her vision and sees better peripherally, and it will gradually get worse), underdeveloped retinas, associated Wilm's tumor or cancer of the kidneys, cerebellar ataxia (inability to coordinate balance, gait, and movement), genitourinary abnormalities, and retardation.

This was a lot of information for me to take in all at once. I was lead to believe she would have to be in special classes, wouldn't be able to attend regular school, wouldn't be able to read or write without extra large visual aid, if at all, wouldn't be able to run and play with other children, wouldn't be able to drive, and would essentially lead the life of a blind person.

Please understand I know this is not the end of the world, and there are always worse things, but when it is your daughter they are talking about, it seems like the world is crashing down around you and you find yourself surrounded by a million questions. The why's and how's that penetrate your mind are innumerable, especially when you don't have a clue about your dad's side of the family because you, in fact, have never met your own father. Where did this Aniridia come from? Why did Andrea have it? Was it my fault? Did it result when I got kicked in the stomach when I was 3 months pregnant with her? It's a question that will never get answered, so I made the decision right then and there that I would treat her just like any other child, and never make her feel like there was anything wrong with her.

Our next step was seeing the pediatric ophthalmologist, who tested her cataracts and said they were clear, but would eventually cloud as she got older. Her glaucoma pressure was normal, but would increase as she got older. She got her first pair of adorable glasses when she was 1-1/2, in order to magnify things for her in an attempt to help aid her vision. Honestly, I'm not sure whether they helped or irritated her more. When she was finally old enough to recognize shapes, she couldn't even make out the biggest one on top; you know, where the letter "E" usually is? The huge one? Yeah, she can't see that.

The first time she tried to put on make-up, in secret of course, was quite hilarious.  She obviously could not see what she was doing at all, but that didn't stop her. As a matter of fact, by this time I had realized that there wasn't much that COULD or would EVER stop her. She was a force to be reckoned with. Strong-willed, stubborn, persistent, courageous.  I walked into the living room one day when she was 3 to find her almost to the top of the entertainment center, having scaled 4 shelves already like a little monkey with muscles as steel as her... will. I put her in a special pre-K class to prepare her for school, and it was amazing. It was perfect for her. After that, though; public school. All the way. She never went to a special class again, went to school and classes right alongside all of her friends and same-aged peers, and guess what? She did great.  Sure, she had to sit in the front of the class. She had to use a magnifier for her book sometimes. The first few years she had a vision teacher come in every week to make sure she was getting what she needed. Mostly, she was just unashamed and unabashed about the whole thing and stuck her face right up to her papers and books, like quite literally a quarter of an inch away, and did her work without a care in the world.

She watched TV the same way. She still does. Every time someone starts to say "If you keep watching TV that close, you'll go blind," I have to either cut them off and let them know that she actually IS blind, because they don't realize it, or bite my tongue because it's one of her brothers being a smart-ass.  See, hardly anyone ever really realizes there is anything wrong with her eyesight until it's time for her to complete a task that requires astute visual acuity, or until someone mentions it; she has made it that oblivious. She did play with other children and run around just fine, granted she did run straight into the mirror when I put her in karate, but only once. Yes, I put her in karate. She was about 8 years old and her brother was taking karate.  She wanted to take it too. I wasn't going to tell her no. She almost made it to an orange belt (her third belt) before she switched to dance with her sister. The day she ran into the mirror didn't phase her a bit. Not even after I went running onto the mat, almost got kicked dead in the face, yelling, "OMG, Andrea, are you okay? Didn't you see yourself coming?"  I really did say that. To this day, I still can't believe that came out of my mouth.  It was a frantic thoughtless statement, not meant to be funny at all, but has ended up being a joke over the years that everyone, including Andrea, has been able to laugh at.

She never developed Wilm's tumor and was progressively tested for it throughout her childhood. Her cataracts still haven't gotten worse and her glaucoma pressure hasn't altered. Her visual acuity has gotten only slightly worse. Now that she knows letters and how to read, we know for a fact she definitely canNOT see that giant "E" at the top of the eye chart.  Yes, she has learned to read and write just fine, as well. She wouldn't have been able to attend public school all those years, if she hadn't. She has no retardation of any kind, nor does she have any type of ataxia. She thinks just like you and me, and can walk a straight line without falling over.  I'm pretty sure she is smarter than I am, if I'm to be honest. At least, that's what her SAT scores say.

She has developed into quite the gorgeous young lady. Her nystagmus has improved dramatically. The only time her eyes shake is when she is trying to focus on something extra hard. She sees better out of her right eye than she does her left eye, so if you were to watch her read or write you would notice her head tilt sideways so that one side of her face is closer to the paper than the other. If she is watching TV, we clear a spot out in front of it and everyone watches around her. Her siblings, mostly her brothers, get irritated from time to time, but they are siblings. Siblings will be siblings, disabilities or not. Definitely something I have learned! I notice her head wobble a little tiny bit when she is trying to concentrate on a movie, but it isn't anything like it used to be. I can recall an incident when she was about 2 years old and she was sitting on the floor of the pediatrician's office waiting room playing with toys, and one of the little kids was staring at her. I always watched very closely, because I've always been afraid of her being bullied, teased, or taken advantage of, but I've tried not to be overprotective, as I know what harm that did to me as a child, rather than good. There were times, and still are, as a mom, however, where it is hard to bite your tongue or hold back when something happens. This was one of those moments. This child sitting next to her looked straight in my face and said, "Why is she looking all crazy like that?", because her eyes were moving very rapidly as she tried to focus on what she was playing with.

Rationale flies completely out the window. Of course I know that this child has no idea what he is saying and did not mean anything harmful at all by the comment. They appeared to be practically the same age; but, my mouth acted way faster than my mind did and I looked straight at the mom and said, "You better grab your child before I do." Ouch. I instantly apologized once the blood rushed back out of my head and she was very understanding, but it was most certainly a lesson for me on how to react to things that were inevitably going to happen. Lesson learned: Don't do that.

Andrea is still strong-willed and courageous. She is intelligent and beautiful. She loves horses, and when I say loves horses, I mean she LOVES horses. We had a horse, named Jax.

Jax is still at the farm where my ex-fiance lives. Unfortunately, since we are not currently together, it means my daughter also lost a dear means of therapy... Jax. He keeps telling me that he is going to get rid of Jax, but always goes back to "I don't know if I'm really going to do that."  The reasons are never-ending and constantly change, and I'll leave it at that. It's a painful situation all around. I wish I could give my daughter the world. I had given her a little piece of it, this beautiful animal that I love so much, as well, and so much has been ripped away from us because people are just mean sometimes.  She is now training for a guide dog and use of a blind cane.  She knows there is a good chance she will have to depend on one, the other, or both completely in the future.  So far, she is doing very well with the cane. The cane will determine whether she can move on to the dog or not, which is something she strongly desires.

Words could never be adequate to express my love for Andrea and how proud I am of her. I'm not just a proud mother, I am PROUD. She is my inspiration. She is a lot like me with her emotions and takes things to heart; something I didn't fully realize until recently. She holds a lot in. She feels misunderstood on the inside sometimes, but still gives all she has on the outside. She is constantly doing things for other people. She loves taking care of children. She graduated from high school this year and just started college.

TAKE THAT, DOCTORS!!
She studied with dual enrollment during that last part of high school, so she already has some college done. Her original goal was to go into criminal justice, specifically crime scene investigation and forensics; however, after talking about it a long while, she sadly came to the conclusion that she won't be able to pursue that field. Not necessarily because she wouldn't be good at it - she took a CSI class at Seminole State College and aced it! Unfortunately, if she were ever called as a forensic witness for any type of crime, her eyesight would always be called into question, and the reality of the situation is that it would most likely work against her every single time; even if she was right. That's the way society is. She understands that.

She wants to be able to help others. The only thing that she has not been able to do, that the doctors WERE right about, is that she cannot drive a car. She simply does not, and will never, have the visual acuity and/or depth perception to drive a motor vehicle. I have been asked many times if there is a surgery that could correct her vision. In short; no.  Nothing developed correctly or completely. You can't really fix what wasn't there to begin with. The only thing that would work is complete eye transplants, and I can't honestly say we've gone quite that far into looking at something so extensive, and expensive, as a solution.  Not being able to get a driver's license when her friends were all getting theirs is probably one of the only times she ever really let it hit her, "Hey, I can't do this."  And man, did it hurt me to see her hurt! What mainly hurts her is the fact that she feels like she can't help other people as much as they have helped her. That alone tells me something about her heart.

I'm not sure she has completely decided on her change of major yet, but I do know she wants to work with horses during part of her life. It pains me that we cannot see Jax, and I'm trying to figure out something for her.  Until I am able to get back up onto my own two feet again, it's going to be hard to help her.  She wants a little more independence and would love for the two of us to have a place together. I am doing everything I can to make that happen, although right now I feel like I am running as fast as I can and going absolutely nowhere.  Yet, we cling to hope.

The other part, helping people.  Interestingly, her other love is ASL: American Sign Language, and she does it beautifully!  She would love to interpret for people one day. She has such a passion for people. For all people, yes, but especially for children, teenagers, and adults who are considered a little less than perfect in a doctor's eyes. The people that get looked upon as incomplete, messed up, not whole, or otherwise disabled, physically or mentally.  She has more compassion in her heart than most people I've known in my lifetime to have in their pinky toe.  I want to share a song she did recently in ASL. The song is by Julie Durden and it's called "Perfect That Way."  I'm sharing my daughter with you in this video.  Please meet her with a smile.  She's perfect to me.

She was born a little less than perfect
at least in that doctor's eyes
he said that she'll be different
much more than you ever realized

that girl grew up not knowing
the sound of her mama's voice
God's gift to her was silence
in a world so full of noise

and she sings with her smile
and talks with her hands
she listens with her heart
so she always understands

she believes there's more to life
than the sounds that it makes

she's perfect that way

shes got a sign for the thunder
one for the wind and the rain
she's the kind that keeps you laughing
and the first to see your pain

and she sings with her smile
and talks with her hands
she listens with her heart
so she always understands

she believes there's more to life
than the sounds that it makes

she's perfect that way

My Mother.

*Disclaimer: I have my mother's permission to write everything in this article.

This is definitely one of the most beautiful women I have ever known. Today is her birthday. I have the privilege of calling her mommy. Yes, I'm 40 years old and I call my mother "mommy." Sometimes it's mom, but the older I get, the more it's mommy. Backwards, I know; but our relationship has grown backwards, so it fits.  It's similar to The Curious Case of Benjamin Button. You know, the movie where he is born as an old man and instead of aging, he just gets younger and younger, only to die as an infant? Granted, neither myself or my mother are getting younger, but we are bonding more as we get older, and the more years that pass, the more I get to know my mom; the more I love my mom. It hasn't always been that way, and I'm here to tell you why I'm proud to call my mom "mommy" today.

I was born in 1974. Her first baby girl. She really wanted a baby, but my father (who I have never met, as he chose not to be in my life after the fact) would not have a baby with her unless they were married.  So, they married, and approximately 10-1/2 months later I was born. I have no hate toward my father, as most people know, but why he even bothered is something I will never understand unless I get the opportunity to sit down with him face-to-face one day and have all my questions answered.  I doubt the existence of that day, but stranger things have happened. I am okay with it, either way, and I am thankful, regardless, because obviously I would not exist if things had gone differently.

My mommy loved me. Always has, always will. But there were times growing up when I didn't believe that. See, I wasn't raised by my mom for much of my life. I have very little recollection of my own life before the age of 8 years old.  I have a vague memory of being 4 years old and having my then-step-sisters (there were lots of them) each grab one of my limbs, and swing me back and forth, letting go just in time to where I would land on the bed in my half-sister's dad's bedroom.  I remember when I was 6 years old and we were supposed to have a birthday party for me, one of two birthday parties I can recall ever in my life growing up, and before everyone was to come over for the party, one of my step-sisters broke a bone and we had to take her to the hospital. We left a note on the door explaining to everyone where we had gone and why, and that we would be back, but by the time we got back, almost everyone couldn't come anymore. My childhood best friend, Shelley, who lived down the street, was getting her hair blown dry by her mom when I knocked on the door. She couldn't come. There was only one single girl, who I can't even remember the name of now, who ended up being able to come over.  All I can say is that my mom's intentions were good and we made the most of it. I also remember us living in an apartment complex that possibly had the word "Tiffany" in it and the dumpster being on fire one night, and us going to the pool in the middle of the night. I'm not really sure how old I was when that transpired.

I can't honestly say I remember the exact age I was when I went to live with my grandmother. Seven? My mom would know better than I would. I do know I was already living with my grandmother when I was 8, because of specific events related to that age. I can also tell you that even though I'm incapable of recalling the exact moment when I did leave my mom's care, I felt completely abandoned and unloved.

I grew up loving my mom so much, while at the same time never wanting to end up anything like her.  As far as I was concerned, she was a psychotic drug addict who chose a lifestyle that I didn't understand, at the time, over her children. I wanted to know why my mom didn't love me. I almost lost my mom when I was 6, because she decided to drive while drinking. She ended up hitting the cement barrier on the middle of a highway, breaking her nose and completely shattering her heel as her leg went through the floor of the car. If that is incorrect in any way, I will allow my mom to correct it.

Thankfully, it was one of many times that God would spare her life, just as He did my own later on in my adult life. It didn't stop her from living a dangerous lifestyle, though, as it just doesn't for some of us in the world of addiction. I envy those who learn quickly or from their first "serious mistake." Others, like my mom, and eventually myself, have to go all the way to the bottom and slam into the cold, hard ground in order to completely wake up.

I lived with my grandmother and my step-grandfather until I was 13 years old. The years I remember, from the age of 8 to the age of 13, consist of barely seeing my mom.  Again, I'm not sure how old I was [it could have been before 8, I don't know], I remember my mom sneaking my sister and I from my grandma's house in the middle of the night and driving us to Louisiana. I was born and raised in Houston, Texas, by the way. We went to her then (and ironically all these years later, now) boyfriend's house.  The only crisp memory I have from that trip, besides being woken up and wondering where we were going, is that I caught a butterfly. I loved butterflies. I was running around where Kevin lived, chasing the butterflies, and was so happy when I caught one. What I didn't realize at the exact moment that I caught it, I had killed it. I was devastated. Seriously, I was crushed over the fact that I had just killed a butterfly. I was so ashamed and sad that I went and sat behind Kevin's recliner, holding the butterfly in my hands. I don't know how long I sat there or when I finally came out, I just remember being sad about the butterfly. I don't even remember going back to my grandma's.

Through the rest of the years, I remember seeing my mom a few times a year after that. It may have been more than what I recall, but I mainly remember birthdays and Christmas.  I would anxiously wait by the window, waiting, and she would come and spend some time inside, bring gifts, and I would cry every time she would leave.  However, each year, even though the longing for my mom did not go away, the crying became less and less.  Instead, I was angry along with the sad.  She had this whole life that didn't include me and I didn't understand why.  I didn't understand what drug addiction was.  At that age, my opinion was that if you really wanted to stop using drugs, you could just stop. Just stop, already! I would find out later in life, that is so NOT the case at all.

The story varied through the years as to how my mom came to "give me and my sister up." I was told that she just decided to sign us over one day. I was also told that she was deceived and thought she was signing over a car, only to find out she had signed over her children. I was told a lot of things. The type of things you just don't talk to the actual children about when they are still young and impressionable.  God knows the truth and I no longer care what the actual truth is on that exact matter, and that's ALL that matters.  In my heart, because I'm a parent now and had to make a similar, very, very difficult decision, I believe that my mother did what she thought was best for me and my sister at the time; not because she didn't love us or wanted to spend her life doing what she wanted to do.

Mommy, I'm sorry for ever thinking you didn't love me.

I was the angriest when my mom ended up moving from Texas to North Carolina, and then eventually Florida, where I now reside. By moving, she truly abandoned me in my eyes. I cannot tell the story of the day she left right now. Even though I was 12, it is still one of the most vivid, freshest memories I have of my mother. The tears, the terror, the pain, and the fear.  She didn't fully understand what she was leaving, but my sister and I did.  Watching her drive away as my sister and I stood in the driveway crying was exactly like what it must look like to see your very last hope for survival leaving your life forever.  She was leaving us to a life she really didn't know we were living; but she would find out once she was already living in North Carolina.

For reasons I will not go into in this blog, my sister and I were taken away from my grandmother (whom I love dearly, as well, let me please add), when I was 13 years old. We were both sent to my sister's dad, because I had no other relatives to be sent to other than my mother, that would take me, and it would be a process for my mom to get me at that point. I lived with my former step-dad for a year.  During that time, my mom and I wrote letters back and forth, and talked to each other on the phone.  It seemed like she was doing better in life, she was with my second step-dad -the man I will always call my step-dad, or "Gene"ric dad (his name is Gene)- and she wanted me to live with her in Florida once they got settled.  After a long process of home inspections and all the other stuff she had to do, I moved to Florida during the beginning of my freshman year of high school, 1988, and I've been here ever since. I lived with my mom again, from the age of 14 until I was 18 years old.

Things were great the first year, with the exception of the fact that my sister had to remain in Texas for 4 more years. I later found out she felt like I abandoned her, and that will always sting my soul, as I spent most of my life taking care of her and trying to protect her as much as I could. I hope, as an adult, she knows that in her heart now. My mom and I got along great.  It was a little awkward at first.  We were literally trying to get to know each other.  I wanted her to love me so bad and felt like I had to be perfect in order for that to happen.  I was raised feeling like I needed to be perfect and it took a lot of "unlearning" to change that.  If I was hungry or thirsty, I would ask permission to get something, and she'd quickly tell me I didn't have to ask for anything. I could just take it. I learned how to have more friends. I had sleepovers and slumber parties, got to go places - all things I was very rarely allowed to do before that, having been overprotected and sheltered my whole pre-teenage life.  I was extremely naive and trusted way too easily, even after what I'd already been through.

I was 15 years old the first time I walked in and found my mom talking to herself. That's when things very slowly began to go downhill in her life, again, and subsequently, mine to an extent. I say to an extent because around the age of 16, I learned very quickly how to tune certain things out of my life and become somewhat numb to my surroundings. It was the only coping mechanism I had left, and at that time I swore I would never resort to using drugs or alcohol in my life. Remember, I never wanted to be my mother.  I knew she was using drugs again. I knew she was smoking pot, because I witnessed it. I wasn't aware yet that she was abusing prescription drugs, and that was the reason she talked to herself, didn't make any sense a lot of the time, and her behavior was so outlandish and bizarre sometimes. I literally thought she was just going crazy. I was clueless.

I won't say those 4 years of living with her was hell, because it wasn't. It wasn't fun, and a lot of it sucked, but it wasn't purely disastrous. During the times when she was "normal" it was fine.

When I was 18, I moved out of the house. I was pregnant. My soon-to-be first husband and I got our own place. After I left, my sister moved to Florida to live with my mom, and for me, so much is a complete and total mystery and/or blur from that moment until the moment when things started to change for the better. My mom would flake on me and not babysit my son when I needed to work; or I just couldn't get a hold of her. She started using other drugs; cocaine, crack, and heroin, though I'm not sure in what order.  I would visit and hear her pretend sneeze in the bathroom so she could snort a line, and find the bloody tissues in the garbage. When I'd ask her about the bruises on the insides of her arms, she'd tell me she had her blood drawn that day for yet another illness that she supposedly had. She came to my baby shower for my second child with a black eye. She didn't see my second child until my daughter was 2 months old. After that, I rarely saw my mom again for several years. I wasn't really a part of her life and she wasn't really a part of my life, and my growing family; and I didn't want her to be.  I went back to being angry.  I didn't even care if she loved me or not anymore, on the surface. The inside of me was screaming, but I could no longer hear it.

It wasn't until after the birth of my fourth and final child in 2000 that I began to reach out to my mom again. I had started to miss her, and of course deep down I still loved her very much. I was getting divorced, soon to be a single mother of four children, and I really needed a mom.. again.  It was no use. No matter how much I tried, I couldn't fix her. I couldn't get her out of the lifestyle she was in, and I still had yet to experience any of it on my own. It wasn't until the end of 2004 through the middle of 2008 that I understood what true drug addiction was for myself, and ultimately understood my mom.

Yes, I became my mother. In every sense of the word, from how much alike we look to the severity of our addiction, to the decision we both made to put our children in a safer place; I was the epitome of my mother. My addiction was to cocaine and heavy pain killers, no crack or heroin; but, it really makes no difference. Addiction is addiction, and it can be strong no matter how much, or how little, you are addicted to.

My mom and "Gene"ric dad eventually moved back to North Carolina in an attempt to get away from everything that had practically, and ultimately did, destroy them here in Florida. I don't remember what year. I was some time in the late 1990s. The reason I remember that is because one of the times I went to visit my mom, I was almost 9 months pregnant with my third child (yes, I drove from Florida to North Carolina while almost ready to pop; I had my reasons) and when I got there, my sister and I were laughing so hard, and my daughter was sitting on my bladder, and I had to stop in the middle of the sidewalk that lead up to my mom's apartment because I had to pee. Stopping didn't help. I still pee'd on myself. The worst part was walking in and finding out my mom had company.

Awkward!

See, even in the midst of everything, there were still those moments that my mom and I connected. Most of all, we have always been able to laugh together, because we have the same wit, sense of humor, and, in my humble opinion, freaking awesome personality. Oh, and we laugh the same. Extremely loud and totally obnoxious. Like, the next city over can hear us.

After North Carolina, they moved back to Florida, but it was 2-1/2 hours from where I live now; the general area I've been in since moving to Florida in 1988. Her addictions became worse and worse, but she was in complete denial.  Our addictions coincided in 2006, when I went to Bradenton for Christmas with my kids. We didn't do any drugs together, but we were almost in the same physical condition. I still feel much shame when I say that I barely remember anything about that Christmas, except for the fact that I was sick and not mentally there for my children.  No one will ever understand the pain I feel when I look at pictures or sit and think about it too much, of the times with my kids that I missed during my drug addiction, the time and consequences that it has cost me after my drug addiction.. except, ironically, my own mother. She understands.

Our communications became rare again. Our relationship was very off and on. Then I found out that her and my "Gene"ric dad were splitting up for good. I want to say that was in 2010, but I'm not completely sure. All I know is it was very hard for me and my sister.  We cried.  But he is still part of us and we love him, and we always will, regardless of his own character defects. We all have them. My mom had moved back to Texas, where she remains and I think is the best place for her, even though I miss her more than words can say.

It took me until I was 36 years old to actually have a mommy. But I can honestly tell you that it was well worth the wait. It was worth all the pain, the tears, the experiences, the letting go, the anger, the confusion, the desperation, and the praying.

My mom checked herself into a rehab in Houston, TX, and it saved her life. She completely detoxed off all the prescription drugs she was on, and then put on only the few she needed for depression and anxiety. No more what seemed like hundreds of prescriptions for pain killers that she was finally ready to admit that she didn't need. This picture was taken in 2011. It was the first picture that I saw of my mom since she had gone to rehab.

I will never be able to describe what I felt when I saw this picture. I cried. And I cried and cried and cried, and I sat there with my mouth hanging open. Then I prayed and thanked God, and I cried some more. My mother was beautiful again. This picture will always hold an unimaginable amount of significance for me, because it marks the day I consider having found my mommy. When I talked to her on the phone, it was the first normal conversation I could remember having... ever.  I don't think I realized I HADN'T had a normal conversation with my mother until we talked after she came out of rehabilitation. She didn't talk over me. She didn't repeat the same thing 300 times in one conversation. I didn't have to put the phone down for an hour, only to come back and find that she was still talking. I could talk about me, my children, my life, and she was listening and responding. I had a mommy!

I've had a mommy ever since. I am so incredibly proud of my mother that I could write it every single day and it would only gain in meaning and never, ever lose an ounce of truth. My mom is a gorgeous, wonderful, compassionate, talented, intelligent human being who has overcome obstacles that many could never even comprehend. She is a voice that needs to be heard. She is a face that needs to be seen. She is a story that needs to be told. My mom went back to school and got a degree in medical billing and coding; an ally to my profession of medical transcription. Just another similarity between us. She has held a steady job ever since she finished school and is an asset to her company.  She has a life that she has always deserved to have and is someone that I can talk to about ANYTHING. She is always there for me, and I will always be there for her.

If anything could describe the kind of relationship we have now, it would be this picture. We are happy. She is mommy, I am daughter. We laugh at everything when we are together and have fun no matter what the circumstances; although I kind of look like I'm about to burst into tears or have an aneurysm in this picture, because I'm laughing so hard. It has taken time, but as I've said before, anything worth it takes time and effort.  Our relationship is worth it.  I forgive my mother for not being there when I needed her as I grew up.  I forgive her for the choices she made.  We all mistakes. Some of us make really big ones. I love her for who she is and I'm proud to call her mommy.

Dear mommy,

I know we have had it rough.  I know you never intended to make me feel like I was abandoned, just as I never intended on making my own children feel that way during my own years of mistakes.  I know you didn't just give me away, but you put me somewhere you thought I would be safe.  You did the best with what you had at the time, and didn't really have much guidance in order to do better than that. I want you to know that that's okay.  I forgive you and I am forever thankful that, no matter how old either of us were, you made the decision to put yourself somewhere in order to get the help you needed.  You made a great decision and you are living proof that a tiger can change it's stripes if it's determined enough to do so. Thank you for having me, and thank you for being my mommy. I love you. Happy birthday.

Always,

Barbara

Little Girl Sixteen.

She may be 16 years old, but she'll always be my little girl. She will always be my little girl, even though she doesn't want to be my anything right now. Some people tell me it is a phase, that it is just the way teenage girls are. I'm sorry, but I will have to politely and completely disagree with you on this one. My 16-year-old daughter actually despises me. She doesn't just treat me like I'm one of those dumb moms and she is like, "oh my god, mom, I know everything and you know nothing." She doesn't treat me like anything. I don't exist. I almost quite literally do not exist.

My Karah [kerr-uh; noun]; nickname: Kara-Bearah:  Skinny, pretty, blunt, sensitive, tall, creative, health food junkie, dancer, soccer player, writer. She was born in October of 1997. She's been loud ever since she came out of my womb. She lets you know what she wants when she wants it, and she is not afraid to say anything - at least not to a stranger. AND I MEAN ANYTHING. When it comes to personal and intimate feelings deep down, she has more of a difficult time sharing those feelings and thoughts with the people she loves.

She definitely does NOT get her height from me.

Her strange eating habits began when she was just 9 months old. She grabbed a red onion off my plate while we were eating at Outback Steakhouse and promptly took a huge bite.  I cringed, half covering my face, fully anticipating the tears and screaming to start. Instead, she chewed it up, swallowed it, and took another rather large bite; then reached for another one. Thus, came her first word from whence she grabbed the onion: SALAD. Salad? Like, really? Most kids say mama, dada.... ball. Nope, her first word... salad. She will eat anything healthy, for the most part, and shun the things that are not. The foods that she does eat, she is incredibly picky about. It is always either too hot, too cold, too thick, too runny, the wrong color, or it just doesn't taste right. When she was in the 2nd grade, she began insisting I not put Swiss Cake Rolls in her lunch box for dessert, because according to her teacher, they would make her fat because of sugar. I had a hard time with that one - and with that teacher.

This will always be one of my favorite pictures of Karah. I took this picture during a Fall Festival and it was once featured in the International Library of Photography under the title "The Sad Scarecrow" by Barbara Hammontree.

She has many likes and dislikes, as do we all. Her likes include onions, ballet, soccer, hot sauce (on everything), singing, going to the movies, chicken, swimming, fruit punch, salad, drawing, painting, writing, running, zebras, pandas, coffee, and now, driving.  Her dislikes include alfredo sauce, sitting in the back of a minivan, having to wait (for anything), cheese, most things that contain sugar, getting dirty, pants, thick oatmeal, people touching her things, root beer, seeing other people cry, and hearing or seeing anyone vomit.. ever.  It really freaks her out.

She has improved quite extensively over the years, but Karah has been well-known to speak whatever comes to mind, without thinking about what she is saying AT ALL. 

The story of the unfortunate man and woman at the college book store:

I was waiting in the Financial Aid line at Seminole State College Bookstore, which can be incredibly long if you wait to go and get your books until the last minute.  I had my aunt and the kids with me. Karah was probably around 3 years old at the time. I had told the kids repeatedly to stop doing this, stop doing that, come sit down, please stop getting so close to that guy's butt, sit down or I'm going to throw you down, please don't put your gum up your nose, stop telling your brother he is stupid, etc.  There was a rather large black woman standing in line behind us.  I saw Karah eyeing her from time to time and was silently praying that she was not thinking anything sinister.  I was ready to pop her mouth at a given moments notice.  Apparently, my attention span was shot at that point and my reflexes just weren't quick enough.  She was pretty slick at how this all transpired, I really didn't even see it coming, quite honestly. I was sitting on the ground at this point, when my pretty, blue-eyed, sweet and innocent-looking little doll face from Mars walked up to me, looked me straight in the eye, and loudly enough for the entire book store to hear her said, "Mommy, is that Big Momma?"

Have you ever wanted to die?  I mean really wanted to die?  Like as in prayed for a giant black hole to just open up and swallow you face first right then and there?  I apologized profusely with what I can only imagine was a complete look of horror on my face.  Thankfully, the woman understood how children are sometimes (ha! she thinks) and just smiled it off.  It doesn't end there.

No more than 5 minutes later, the man in front of us in line bends down and says to Karah, "If you can sit down here in line and be really good for your mommy, I'll give you this dollar bill when you reach the front of the line."  Karah's response:  "Your breath really stinks."

More apologizing from me. I mean, what else could I really do at that point? I obviously had a child that completely missed the bus when God was handing out the filters that go between your brain and your mouth. Not that I can really say I have much of one myself, so perhaps she just got it honestly.

She has definitely toned down over the years.  She very seldom makes remarks anymore that us, as adults, know are rude and can have consequences.  At least not in front of me, anyway.  She has learned that even though she does not mean anything harmful by some of the things she says, they can still affect other people.  She really hadn't made any remarks at all in the couple of years after that until she randomly pointed out and declared that a woman in Wal-Mart was a "funny little midget".  Thus began the lesson that was politically incorrect; they aren't midgets, they are little people, without the funny.

She still has her own little attitude, and witty, even sometimes rather snappy remarks, but none so blunt as the ones I've shared.

She used be in ballet and tap classes, mainly when she was 6 to 7 years old, and then ballet again for a brief time when she was around 14.  Her first Tap Recital was "Itsy Bitsy Teeny Weeny Yellow Polka-Dot Bikini", hence the yellow tap dance costume with silver sequins and fancy yellow fringe hanging around her cute little waist as a "skirt."  She even had yellow ribbons tying her tap shoes.  At the end of her dance she was the last one to go off the stage and she stopped right in the middle of the stage, jumped up, and landed facing the audience with her feet apart and arms out to her sides, shaking her hands - jazz hands!  The audience cheered and clapped, as did I;  but, I did so with my mouth hanging open and heat beginning to travel up my face as I turned red as a beet.  You see, I didn't realize until after the program that she was actually told to do that;  I thought she just decided to take it upon herself to have her moment of glory in the spotlight. Her 15 seconds of glorious fame. It was a wonderful 15 seconds, regardless of whether she was told to do it or not.  I would have been proud either way.  After the kids went to live with their father, she drifted from dance.  She played mainly soccer and did some cross-country running, but returned to ballet, as previously mentioned, for a short time when she was 14, before deciding to quit due to having to choose what she wanted to do the most, as well as the fact that a tumor was found along her knee and had to be removed, making it difficult for certain extensions in dance.  I also think she was frustrated that she was behind the other students in terms of technique, and toward the end of her dancing, I may have been part of the reason she gave it up all together, because I am a former dancer; and Karah had always wanted to be like me.

She ran in cross-country for a while. It was great for her and she would come in with great times; those long, beautiful and strong legs of hers seemed to just glide past other runners. She was proficient in the long jump, as well. I was always impressed with her skill in whatever she chose to do.

It was when she became serious about soccer, which she still plays, that her light really began to shine through. When she was 9 years old, she kicked 13 goals that season.  I think my proudest moment was when she used the top of her head to block the ball.  Her team name: Shooting Stars.

She now plays with Orlando City Soccer and, despite surgery on her knee to remove the tumor and subsequent rehabs, she is an amazing soccer player whose skills develop more and more each year. Unfortunately, I don't know much about the past year, because I haven't really been invited to her games. The games I did get invited to, in the beginning of the season, I was unable to get to. Then the invitations just stopped coming.. and so did she.

One of the things that defines this child, especially with all we have been through -together, and her as an individual- is her love for Jesus.  She is a God-loving girl who can be incredibly sweet and will reach out to anyone.  She is very sensitive and compassionate, and her boldness has turned into a wonderful thing as she is not at all afraid to speak to people of the Lord.  She loves children and has a tender heart.  I believe a damaged and broken heart still in need of much healing, but tender, just the same.

Many of our belongings were either vandalized or lost in a flood in 2006, when our lives fell completely apart and the first time I became homeless.  Among those items was Karah's CD player/Boombox.  When I told her this, this was her reply:  "It's okay mommy.  You don't have to buy me another one.  I am just glad that you are alive."

Those words are something I will never forget and are similar to many she would say through the years; "It's okay if you can't get me anything for Christmas, mommy. I only need you."

That was my Karah. My shadow. My "mini-me" that I miss so much. 

Our family began to fall apart in 2005 as a consequence of letting someone into my life that never should have been allowed there; and eventually my own mistakes and actions, and following consequences of those actions. If you've read any of my previous articles, you will know that I was a hardcore drug user from the very end of 2004, and stopped using hardcore drugs in 2008; way too late to salvage anything left of my life. I had never believed that addiction was a disease until I succumbed to it. It is; the rest of that story will have to be a completely different article. It wasn't just the drugs, it was the lifestyle that came along with being with someone who was even more addicted than I was, and was willing to do anything to feed that addiction; including getting me in trouble with the law. I take responsibility for my own actions, but I was unfortunately incredibly naive and just downright stupid in some areas, that when I fully came to the realization of what was happening, it was way past any chance of fixing it. We had been happy by ourselves; they may not remember all our good times, but I was an awesome single mom from 2000 to the beginning of 2005. The kids went to live with their father toward the end-ish of 2005.  I didn't find out about Karah's experiences until 2011; after she suddenly stopped coming to visit me on the weekends in December of 2010.

I can pin-point the day, the exact conversation that took place, that I know for a fact started it all. It was a simple miscommunication.  Her father and step-mother both always made it a point to call me a liar, which I had been. Have you ever met an honest person who is still in denial and in active addiction? I haven't, and I've come across a lot of them. The honesty comes with time, learning, growing, and finally learning to love yourself. It's a process of healing and making amends. This particular event, however, I was not lying about. I had written her dad an email about something, he miscommunicated my words to her, she called me and told me that she wasn't going to come over again until I stopped lying, I asked her what she was talking about, she told me, I asked her if he had shown her the email so she could see what I said with her own eyes because what he told her was NOT accurate, she said no, I told her she should ask him if she could read it, she repeated that she was not coming over until I stopped lying, and I told her as nicely as possible, "That's fine. I haven't lied to you about anything, it is your choice to not come over anymore and your choice if you don't want to read what I said yourself. I can take comfort in what I know to be true and come away from this with a clean conscience. This is not my fault."

And I meant every single word.

Apparently, so did she. Never having tried to see the truth, never giving me a chance that I believe I fairly and fully deserved, she never spent the night again. 

She at least continued to talk to me, but our relationship was never the same. After finding out how much Karah really was struggling, it was a downward spiral of hospitalizations, suicide attempts, and self-mutilation, which I got blamed for, as well. After all, I have been a self-harmer for years, albeit secretly [so I thought], so it would be natural to assume it was my fault that she became one. Not just that, but she actually told her therapist, and her father, and thereafter practically everyone else, it seems, that I taught her how to cut, which is in no way true, even in the slightest.  I very clearly recall a conversation with her, before she stopped coming to visit, when she first noticed my cuts, when I was still at the peak of self-injury and normally hiding them very well. She asked me why? I have always tried to be transparent with my children [after coming out of much denial] and at that moment, felt it was important to do so then. I told her that in many cases, as with myself, it was a physical release for emotional pain. Something that we could see, that would somehow make sense out of all the pain we felt inside that was invisible. I told her it was the wrong thing to do, but that it was the best, honest explanation I could give her. If she decided to utilize that as her own coping mechanism a couple of years later in life, I will not take responsibility for that, because I "taught her" to do nothing of the sort. She asked a question, I answered it. She has since been diagnosed with bipolar disorder, like myself, which far better explains her last few years of behaviors and tendencies, but the stigma attached to bipolar disorder is still too great for her to get past, and if asked, she would never admit it; and she hates taking her medication, but from what I understand, at least she does not hide it anymore.

Still, even through all of that, we tried to maintain a relationship. It gets confusing and frustrating for me from 2012 to the present, because the timeline is foggy and sporadic. The events don't make sense. The reasons are a now tattered mystery novel leading to shattered lives. As I said, our relationship was never, ever the same, no matter how hard I tried to retrieve my shadow. Some part of her was just gone. It felt like someone had amputated one of my limbs. It still feels that way.  She continued to drift further and further away. The lack of encouragement from her other "parents" to spend time with me has never helped, and only hurt. No matter how many times I was told "she needs her mother," she wasn't supported or nudged to spend time with me. It only fostered the idea that she could then decide what she wanted. I feel like she has learned to manipulate people at will and does not even realize the extent of her own mental illness. It scares me as a mother. Thankfully, she no longer attempts suicide, but since October of 2013, she has stopped communicating with me altogether. No phone calls, emails, texts; I'm blocked on Facebook, Instagram, and whatever other social media sites she is a member on.

I believe I can pin-point that, as well. I kept asking her what she wanted to do for her birthday, as it is in October, and she kept making excuses as to why she couldn't do anything. I eventually said [short version] just let me know when you decide you are ready to spend time with me. If I really think about, it probably wasn't in the nicest of tones; it had become hurtful and frustrating to me to have to keep asking, and I missed her so much. Just like that, she disappeared completely. It was then that I realized she does not like to be called out on anything, and if anything I ever said or did was going to threaten the existence of the way she has her life set up now, the way she wants it, she was not going to allow me near her. She has cut me off completely. So did her older brother, 2 months after she did. They are the closest to each other out of my children, relationship-wise.

I don't know if she can't forgive me for certain things or if she can't forgive herself for certain things. I don't know the truth versus lies anymore. I don't understand or know her motives behind anything she says or does. I don't know if she just wants negative attention or if she enjoys getting the attention she gets from others because she portrays herself as a victim. I often wonder if she has accommodating Borderline Personality Disorder. I don't know if she actually blames me for things I had no control over or if she thinks I simply turned into a mom who didn't care about her. I don't know what she thinks - at all.  I tried reaching out for a while, to make sure she knows I'm still here, but honestly; I'm a human being, too, and there is only so much I can take. When you keep reaching out and reaching out and reaching out, and no one is ever there to respond or take your hand, and you just get talked about instead, even after all you've done to change your life, your arms and your mind become crippled. Crippled in pain and in ways you can't possibly imagine unless you are a parent of a child who wants nothing to do with you, no matter what you try to do to fix it. So, you stop. You let go. I let go for months. Only today I finally decided, I'll try one more time. I texted her. No response. So I texted her one last text, "I love you and I forgive you for cutting me out of your life."

The tears were a waterfall today. I struggled well into the night. It's 5 a.m. and I am just now about to attempt sleep. How do you let go? How do you just release a child and try and pretend like everything is okay, that part of your heart isn't shattered every time you get no response? How do you do it?  How does everything become "okay" again and where do you find the answers?  When do you figure out "why?" But I can't continue to torment myself. I can't ask "why?" every single day and try to fix something that I obviously cannot fix. You can't fix someone else, you can only fix yourself; and that's what I strive to do every day - become a better ME than I was yesterday. I can't run after someone who doesn't want to be caught.

I can't make someone love me again. Not even my own child. 

Those were the hardest sentences I've ever had to type.

Right now I feel like I have two children, not four children. I am blessed to be called mother, whether they see me or not. I focus on the two that do. There is nothing else, nothing different, that can be done on my end.

Just as the story of the prodigal son, the father waited and waited, and when the son finally returned, he rejoiced. I finally returned to my mother. If I can do that, I have faith my children can return to me. I don't know when and I don't know how, and I know it is going to continue to be painful; but I will wait. 

Even if my little girl sixteen doesn't see it, I am now and always will be her mother.

Complete Bipolar Randomness.

There are just way too many thoughts and things (weird, unweird, undefined, upsetting, angry, silly) going through my head right now, it's making me dizzy... it's making me numb... it's making me feel like a zombie... makes me think of a Cranberries song (none of you probably remember the Cranberries)

If I'm not looking at you when you are talking to me, or seem like I am looking somewhere else, you might want to make sure I'm listening, because I'm probably not.

This picture is just too cute:

Coca Cola really does take all the bunk off a penny. I tested it out. It really makes me wonder what it does to my intestines.

I love chicken.

What exactly does "You're shitting me" mean, anyway?

I really cannot stand it when a song comes on the radio and I can't understand any of the words, because the singer does not sing the words clearly, or it just sounds like a bunch of gibberish (high five if you remember "wrapped up like a douche"). It's impossible to sing along to something like that, and it really sucks when it's to, otherwise, good music.

Marilyn Manson scares me.

Coming is spelling with ONE M, helping is spelled with ONE P, it is NOT dieing, it's dying; it is NOT lieing, it's lying. Come on, people, think back to oh, I don't know, 5th grade? There, their, they're, too, to, two, are, or, our, it, its, it's... there's a difference.

Wrinkly balls.

I had a guy give me the finger at a stoplight a couple of weeks ago for playing Christian music too loud. I thought it was kind of funny. I wanted to give him the finger back, but decided that probably wouldn't convey the right message.

I hate it when my cheese in my salsa won't melt properly. It's just..... gross.

I do not care if Jennifer and Brad aren't together anymore or who Brad is with now, or that Brad and Angelina are happy. I do not care that Tom Cruise and Katie Holmes are supposedly no longer in a blissful state of happiness. I do not care how many freaking kids Britney Spears has. I do not care what is happening on The Young and The Restless. I do not care I do not care I do not care. Why is any of this news?

Why do they put caloric intake on fast food table mats? I don't feel informed. I feel threatened. It might as well say "Eat this and you will die in 7 days."

I have looked at the microwave at least 5 times tonight in utter confusion because every time I've looked at it, it's said "00:41" on it. Maybe I should go push clear so that the actual time is showing instead of how many seconds were left the last time I nuked something.

Itchy ears and jalapenos.

Pauly Shore is just not funny anymore and I wish he would stop trying to be. I miss Encino Man.

Why can my ex-fiance, of whom I've been split from for 2-1/2 months now, take his ex-wife out to dinner with a bottle of wine "for the sake of being civil, for their children," even though "their children," who are like 21 and 25 or something like that (not really sure, honestly.. he never would talk about them to me.. I'll add that to the list of things he never talked to me about), are grown ass adults, but he can't be in the same room with me? Better yet, why is it taking me so long to realize how dumb I actually am?

I was holding a friends 8-month-old baby at church and he "spit up" all over my arm, front of my shirt and front of my pants. Then, he proceeded to break into a huge smile and laugh, which was cute, but when I looked down I just had to ask what the hell he had eaten. "Avocados and carrots." :/ My friends 6-year-old thought this was very funny. Later when I went to leave I gave the 6-year-old a hug and he realized too late that I pressed his head into the front of my shirt in doing so. I thought this was very funny.

Get jiggy with it.

I went to Google and typed in quotation marks "Barbara looks like" and got some hysterical results... the first one was "Barbara looks like a breadstick from Olive Garden." I put my ex-fiance's name in, too, just because. The first one that makes sense says, "___ looks like Ed Sheeran's ass." I'm not even lying.

This guy really likes to play the piano:




Why do they call it "quiche?" I don't like it.

Hey, guess what? "A lot" is TWO WORDS.

It is humanly impossible to lick your own elbow.

Trail mix is super good but I think it's making me constipated.

It really sucks working by production and not getting paid by the hour. Not because I don't want to do the work. I don't mind working at all. I type, just like I'm doing right now, so it's not something I don't love doing. Of course, I type words like "gastroesophageal" and "salpingo-oophorectomy" and "Staphylococcus aureus" and "psychotropic" and "taint" all night (just kidding about the last word) and have to put up with doctors who love to make my nights difficult by not speaking English correctly or not speaking it at all, but hey.. it's a living. What sucks is that if I have a hard time with a specific doctor and have to do that report slowly, I'm making less money than if the doctor would learn how to speak. Don't get me wrong, I have some amazing dictators; but some of them really suck. Oh, and I can't get up to go pee without losing money, either. Because I'm not typing. Get where I'm going with this? Good. Because I'm losing money by taking a break to write this blog. I try not to take breaks, but there is only so much I can take from one particular physician. Moving on....

I could stare at Jared Leto all day and night, and never get tired of it.

Wtf: