The Little Dog That Heals Me

I knew I had been healed when I forgot to kiss her picture.

Mama's engagement portrait ~ perched high a shelf ~ a classic picture to remember the mother I lost so long ago.  I framed the picture shortly after her death.  Ten months later when I finally moved out of my parent's house, I proudly displayed her beautiful smile, her soft gaze on my antique dresser in the furnished room I now rented on the Westside. 

I had visited my grandmother that Summer of 1995 and saw her kiss Mom's high school graduation picture.  Nanny had a black and white, wallet-sized picture tucked into the corner of her bedroom mirror above her dresser.  The simple act of her kissing her daughter's picture touched me so deeply that I soon copied the gesture when I got back home.

There was only one time in my life when I tucked the picture away in a drawer ~ during my abusive relationship ~ for fear he would break the glass or tear up her picture.  But I remember taking the picture out of the drawer to kiss her on my 40th birthday, the day he completed ignored me. 

The picture has travelled with me from Aptos to Ben Lomond to Santa Cruz to Felton to Scotts Valley and now back to Santa Cruz.

But now I keep forgetting to kiss her picture. 

Because of him.  He greets me so excitedly when I come home from work that I whisk by the picture to give him a hug.  My little rescue dog.  Paddington with the Big Brown Eyes.

My life is busier now, fuller, a routine revolving around him.

I find myself too busy walking him at dawn, gathering up dog treats, and then rushing off to work to stop and kiss her picture.

I have my fur family back after over three and half years of loss ~ the back-to-back losses of my precious dog Ceci and my longtime companion, Mama's beloved cat Lil' Red.  I have two boys now, my Paddington and my wild cat Jack ("The Flying Cat"). 

My tiny home is full of life ~ not death. 

Mama's picture remains high on the shelf ~ a sepia-toned memory ~

As I return to the present

and

The Little Dog that heals me.



My Precious Paddington

Anatomy of A Layoff

Seems strange that one year ago today, my whole world changed.

I have thought about this anniversary for days and have been scripting a blog post in my head ~ an hour by hour account of what happened on May 26, 2011.  I got excited and wrote the introduction last night and suddenly stopped before I even really got started.

It just does not even matter anymore.

The "sheer terror" I felt ~ when being told at 9 a.m. that fateful morning that I would have to meet four hours with a panel of four people ~ passed months ago.

My memory of that eventful day is mostly how little anyone seemed to care that they were letting me go after five years in the same department and nearly eleven years at the same university. 

I carry that feeling with me today ~ that no one really cared ~ that I was met by uncaring eyes, expressionless faces ~ all in the name of a "business decision" to let me go due to "a lack of funds."

I meant nothing to them.  I was not a human being to them.  To them I was a measly $34,000 and pocket change salary along with a $9,000 and pocket change benefits package that they could no longer support.

Cold, unfeeling robots telling a human being that their job has been eliminated.  Actors in a "B" movie following a script laid out by Staff Human Resources.  Stay on topic, do not let the staff member being laid off diverge from the topic, keep the meeting brief.

One year ago today, my whole world changed.

Sheer terror last year ~ sheer joy today ~

The "B" Movie is over ~ The Blockbuster has begun!

The Face of Abuse

You cannot tell by looking at me.

That I once was abused.

That I once endured four years of domestic violence.

You could not tell by looking at me back then.

That I wore The Face of Abuse.

That the bruises were hidden beneath my hair.

You could not tell that I put make-up on my neck to cover up the first incident when pressed his knuckles so viciously into my neck and rib cage just hours before I had to leave for my niece's 1st birthday party.

You could not tell by looking at me that I listened to vulgar words being shouted at me daily.

That I feared for my life.

That I did not know if I could make it through another day.

Perhaps my eyes revealed some truth.

Weary ~

Worried ~

Distracted ~ 

Hopeless ~

Full of fear ~

I looked at my driver's license yesterday and saw The Face of Abuse.

A look only I could see.

A picture taken mere months before we broke up.

Then reposted five years later on my new driver's license.  Expiring in three more years.

Maybe I will take a new picture then.

In 2015.

To showcase my 10 years of freedom.

A New Picture of The Face of Freedom.

For all to see ~

Uncensored

Mama, I Miss You

Mama, it's been 17 Mother's Days without you.  I have been thinking about you even more this Mother's Day.

The passing of time makes my loss of you seem even more permanent.  The passage of time makes me realize how close in age Rhonda and I are now to the age you were when you died.  The passage of time makes me realize that "the boys" are now fully grown men ~ those precious grandsons who still remember "Their Ma" in all her glory ~ so much that your memory has been tattooed on their forearms.

Dear Mama, I cry about you when I ride the bus.  I mist up at the sights of Santa Cruz and how all our dreams came true when Dad moved us to our annual vacation destination 30 years ago this year.  I am so sorry you were only here for 12 of those years.  The Summer of '82 was so magical for all of us as we explored every nook and cranny of Santa Cruz County.  How we celebrated the drifting fog in glorious Rio Del Mar.  How we became a hotel for that summer as everyone wanted to visit us.

So much time has passed without you.  I thought about how we do go on with our lives and are not sad as much yet tears are streaming down my face as I write this letter to you.  Oh, how I wish the cancer had not taken you away from us so soon.  I still question it all and wonder why I had to lose my dear mother so young.

I thank you for all that you have given me just by being my mother.  Mostly I thank you for the strength you instilled in me ~ to give me the courage to go on despite life's obstacles.  So many more obstacles that I faced in the years since you have been gone.

I feel your presence around me on a daily basis, and I treasure the spiritual relationship I have with you now.  I blow kisses to the ocean each time I see a peek.  I know you feel my love.

Thank you, Mama, for being my mother, for loving me, and for being my best friend.

Mama, I miss you ~

All my love,

Your Grateful Daughter

Mama and Her Infamous Castle Cake

Randy's 4th Birthday ~ May 10, 1970



Buried Beneath The Scars

I thought about my blog ~ my survival story ~ and wondered if I actually had anything left to say.  So many stories ~ so many flashbacks ~ has the subject of domestic violence run its course?

Have I said all that I need to say?  All that I need to share with the world?

And then I realized that the rest is really too painful ~ too humiliating ~ to even begin to describe.

The horrific memories ~ even worse than my most graphic stories here ~ that no one but my abuser and I know.  No one else knows.  Can I ever tell them?

My family rarely reads my blog.  The stories of Mom's cancer year were too painful for Dad to read.  I really wanted him to read the stories of domestic violence because he was the main person I tried so hard to hide my terrible truth from for four years.  I know he knew somewhat was going on during that time, but I also know he would be shocked and sickened about how bad my life really was during the time I remained so isolated from my family.

I think about those painful memories and cringe.

It took me several years to share my first story "Death Row" ~ a graphic list of abuses I had endured ~ which was written mere days after my relationship ended.  It took me even more years to write "August 22, 2003" which chronicled the one night I finally called 911 on him.

The hidden memories ~ left unshared ~ are not necessarily the worst cases of domestic violence I once endured.  But they reflect a deeper pain ~ and even more shame ~ that what I have been able to write so far.

Maybe I will share them one day.

But not today.

Today, they remain secrets.

Painful, sad secrets.

Buried beneath the scars.

Uncensored

Amends

I question whether amends can be sincere from a man who abused me so viciously so long ago.

I put his email in the "XYZ" folder I created to stuff any email I have received since our days together ended.  I told my brother about the email, and he suggested that maybe my batterer was finally trying to make amends since he has re-entered a 12 step program.

The email did not really mention the physical abuse ~ only hinting at cheating and being too hard on me at times.

I always thought I would like him to make amends but thought that would mean meeting face-to-face.  Mostly I wanted him to give me back the $5000 he made me pay him back for the lawyer and the bail money ~ after I finally called 911 on him.  A sort of financial amends to me for extorting money from me for two long years filled with even more abuse.

No amount of "I'm so sorry" will ever erase the flashbacks that still come at me in dreams, in drifting thoughts, or sudden winces of painful memories.  The flashbacks have lessened through the years, but they do pop up quite unexpectedly at times.

Mostly, my time with him seems like a blur in general ~ on a day-to-day basis ~ and then I remember I am stuffing the pain away so tightly that I may forget all that I went through just to get through my life.

The blog helped me process the flashbacks one by one, and I felt an emotional healing begin almost immediately.  Then I felt the incredible victory in being able to help current victims and survivors with what I consider stories of hope.  

I wonder if he can actually remember our time together in the same way I do.

I wonder if he remembers bashing my head into the wall three times nearly 9 years ago.

I wonder if he remembers asking me, "What am I going to do with you—put you in a hole?"

I wonder if he remembers asking me to choose what I wanted to have written on my headstone.

He feels sorry and wishes he could talk with me now.

Wants to meet up for Chinese food.

But there will be no more conversations, no more Chinese food, despite any type of amends.

I only put a check in the box next the new email in my In Box and move it to the folder titled "XYZ."

And then thank God that I have survived.

Uncensored

Domestic Violence ~ Not A Popular Media Topic

I had dreams that my blog would generate more hits by being featured in our local newspaper.

I had hopes for being featured as the "Post of the day."

But I have found that domestic violence does not make good press copy.

Maybe I need to be writing daily to be noticed for what I need to say ~ the truth I need to share ~ but with life's struggles of having dealt with a layoff and return to work this past nine months, I can not seem to write as regularly as I would like.

Some of my best posts are in my archives from the early days of my blog when I wrote down each flashback in a frenzy.

But archives are old ~ not current ~ not fresh.  The topic is uncomfortable, ugly, frightening, and perhaps forbidden.

I have found my best following for my blog to be on Facebook where I share my blog links ~ both current and archived ~ with Domestic Violence groups and pages.  Women who have shared my experience are not afraid to read my words.  They have lived my words with their own harrowing experience of being abused.

So I will focus on these women instead and not the general public who read online newspapers.  I will continue to share my truth with those women who need it the most. 

The elusive "Post of the day" will remain just that ~ out of reach ~ and I am okay with that now.

I will stop checking each day to see if my blog is featured as if I am trying to win some odd type of popularity contest.

Domestic Violence is not a popularity contest.

Domestic Violence is gruesome.

Domestic Violence is evil.

Domestic Violence is horrific.

Domestic Violence is brutal.

Domestic Violence is life-threatening.

Domestic Violence is silenced.

Uncensored