Excuse me? Who, me? Seriously!?!

In April of 2016 I took an Aromatherapy Certification course with my girlfriend, Trisha. It was a weekend spent in the home of the people teaching the course. It was an amazing experience and the food? WHOA!! The wife of the gentleman teaching the course could cook like there’s no tomorrow. If you left the table hungry, that was your fault, but I digress.

We met wonderful women during this weekend from different walks of life. One of these women was from Russia. Her name is Nikita and she had a wonderful accent. She was so knowledgeable already on essential oils and helped to explain some things I may not have understood. During our breaks and after the days teachings were over, Trisha and I started talking to Nikita about different things. Nikita was very into the metaphysical side of life which was something I knew very little about.

We were talking about Astrology, numerology, past lives, etc. It was very interesting to me, but nothing I had ever considered myself to be interested in prior to this conversation. I mean sure I’d read my horoscope growing up, but didn’t everyone? I also messed around with energy once as a kid, which I totally forgot about until writing this post. I was a sleepover in probably 5th grade. We played the game “Light as a Feather, Thick as a Board.” Five little girls were able to actually lift another 5th grader off the floor with just our finger tips. That scared the bejeesuz out of me. We also played Bloody Mary that same night. (BTW, not for nothing, but I didn’t sleep that night.) As if I hadn’t learned my lesson enough, one night we played around with a Ouija board. NOT a very smart thing to do when you have no idea how to protect yourself metaphysically. The damn white thing moved on it’s own and told us it was a 6 yr old child who had been murdered. I was done. Threw the board out and never looked back.

To me, this were all just games. Stuff which wasn’t real and kids just played around with because we were the only ones dumb enough to believe it. Adults told us we were silly and just left us to our devices. My mom did read Tarot cards when I was younger. She had a very bad experience with them when I was about 15 and she never touched them again.

Nikita continues on talking to Trisha and I’m just sitting there listening. I had a look of disbelief on my face and plain as day Nikita said “You have the gift. I don’t know why you’re shocked at the conversation.” Excuse me? Who, me? Seriously!?! You have got to be kidding. And that’s exactly what I said. I shook my head no way and Trisha looked at me and said “Yeah, you do.” My jaw dropped open. We had been friends for about 9 years up until that point and NOW is when she’s telling me this? My head was spinning in disbelief. Trisha repeated what she had said previously. I hadn’t been open to hearing about many things she believed in and she was afraid to talk about them to me for fear of being judged. So.. here we were. She got all into oils and the great beyond was staring me in the face whether I liked it or not. Crap.

This one fairly innocuous conversation was a snowflake which turned into a snowball. One I never expected to snow again much less grow into a snowball. My life was about to change in a very big way. I had no idea.

Blessed Be – Peace be with you
Shelley

**Nikita’s name was changed to protect her true identity.

It Takes a Village People… like it or not.

There is a saying that goes “It takes a village to raise a child.” There is a reason this saying exists. When life was much more simple and humans were more interested in other people rather than a damn phone, tablet or a TV, people looked out for each other. When a woman bore a child, the village women would help her. They would cook for her, help clean her home and help teach her how to raise that child. The entire village was invested in the well-being of the young which had been brought into the world. As the babe grew, neighbors would continue to help. Families helped to raise each others children. Families were large and often required more than just two people to handle it all.

Children were put to work fairly early even with school duties because farms needed tending to, logs needed split, animals needed fed. There wasn’t an enormous amount of free time for a child to sit around and dawdle. Now I’m not saying no one got in trouble, I’m just saying it gave them less time to get into trouble. Men worked outside the home and the females took care of the home. This came with its own set of issues because women weren’t always valued for the true blessings they were to a family. However, if a female was mistreated, often times other men of the village would step in and handle business. Just be patient with me, I’m getting to the point.

As a society, humans eventually started to not like other people butting into their business so they moved to other cities where no one would know who they were. Technology came along like electricity, phones and other modern conveniences. Women learned they could have less children. It became easier to move away from your support group.

If the village has dissipated, who helps the single mom of 3 children care for those children, work a full-time job outside the home, feed those children and make sure they have clothes and all of their necessities? You are now left with a stressed out mother who just wants a moments peace. Rather than her finding that moments peace, it exasperates her situation and she becomes more mentally agitated than she needs to be. Who suffers? EVERYONE SUFFERS. The mom suffers, the children suffer… it’s a no win situation, unless you can afford a Nanny and trust me, that ain’t the norm.

When does society finally decide to actually start caring about other people and helping out those families who are in distress? No one is saying you need to hand over thousands of dollars to someone, but if you see a person struggling, give them a hand. If you see a stressed out child, ask the parent is there anything you can do to lend a hand. BE THE CHANGE WE NEED TO SEE IN THE WORLD. Don’t be a fucking ostrich and bury your head and pretend it’ll all go away.

Hunger is here in the United States. We keep sending money to other countries. FEED US. FEED YOUR LOCAL CHILDREN. Do you not think the parents of hungry children are stressed out? It leads to physical abuse, mental abuse and so much more. If my mom’s parents hadn’t owned a farm, I truly don’t know how I would have eaten as a child. The majority of our food came from that farm and we worked for it. Snapped beans, shucked corn, dug potatoes. I swear that root cellar with the potatoes used to make me puke it stunk so bad. However, I am grateful it existed because it fed me.

I keep money in my car so when I see someone on the street with a sign asking for money, I have money to give. I used to be so judgmental and think “Oh you just want it for drugs.” As a recovering addict, I fight with my inner self on this. What did I decide? I decided, who the hell am I? Who am I to judge someone else? I am no one. Maybe that $5 I hand over is going to go for drugs, but maybe, just maybe they’re hungry and that $5 just bought them some warm food. Give it FREELY with NO EXPECTATIONS.

America expects. I call bullshit. Learn to love openly and unconditionally. If you are donating, it’s called a donation for reason. You gave it willingly. Your end of the deal is now complete. Walk away proud of yourself and pray that the receiver will do the right thing. You don’t get to decide what their karma should be. Mind your own karma.

I have debated many times if I want to continue to write this blog. I haven’t written anything in about 6 weeks. Sorting through how I feel about my childhood and my early adult life has been difficult for me. I have biological family members who have accused me of being selfish, pointing the finger at everyone but me, being egotistical and the list goes on. I let it deter me for a while because I felt I needed to examine my motive for writing this blog. Was it really to just point fingers at someone else and say “Look at what you did!” Or, did I start writing this blog because I was tired of putting my dirty laundry under the carpet which had become so lumpy, I couldn’t walk on the carpet anymore?

It’s none of those things. I started writing it because I give a shit about other people. I want other women and men to know YOU ARE NOT ALONE. That’s my message, that’s my reason. If my reasoning pisses you off and you want to yell at me, have at it. Perhaps you need to examine your own damn life and figure out why you’re getting so pissed off about what I wrote. Perhaps you have your own behavior to look at.

And so, here I am writing again. And it feels damn good.

The Truly Bad 4-Letter F-word

FEAR! This word to me is far worse than saying, reading or hearing the word fuck. I mean, seriously. Fear can stop you in your tracks. It can alter the course of your path for a minute, a day or a lifetime. Fear can stop you from taking chances which could propel you forward in life. Fear of the unknown can you keep in a stalemate. Fear of a spider? Can make you stop your car in traffic and jump out yelling like a crazy person. (Yes, I do know people who have done this.) Fear of the dark? You refuse to go into a dark basement until every light is on and even then you wonder what’s lurking in the shadows. Why do we do these things ourselves? Humans have a need to feel safe.

When we walk in safety, we are comfortable with life. We may not be happy, but we are comfortable because it’s what we know. We have a routine which we become accustomed to and we know what to expect. The flip side to this is, we also stunt ourselves emotionally within the confines of safety by not allowing ourselves to grow.

I thought I had a fear of writing about my life and the experiences I’ve had. I’ve met so many other women who’ve had similar experiences and when we share stories, I’ve shared with them I’ve always wanted to write about it so others like us would know they were not alone. They’ve all said to me “You should write about it. I’m too afraid to do it.” It’s always easier to be on the sidelines than on the field in your gear ready to take a hit. And to be honest, it wasn’t really the fear of writing we were worried about at all, but the fear of how our biological families would react to WHAT we were going write about. Yes most of the family members already knew the stories, but confronting them with it in black and white is a different story. How well was that going to go over? Not very well. I knew that going in. I am tired of standing on the sidelines. I’m geared up and ready.

I’m making a different choice now to confront my fear and with that choice comes a consequence. I am losing relationships with biological family members. I have exposed the things which we do not speak of. Did I expect this? Yes.  Is it a surprise? Nope, not in the least. Here’s the biggest question: Have these people loved and supported me no matter what my decisions have been my entire life? The biggest answer: No, they loved me as long as I did what they wanted me to do.

This is a huge epiphany for me. So huge it didn’t even occur to me until I was writing this and figured it out. I’ve said and done things my entire life that I didn’t agree with to make others happy so I would feel loved. This is an admission of guilt. I’ve said horrible things about people I truly loved because it made a biological family member happy. That was MY choice. No one forced me to do this. I allowed others opinions to become my own. I was the weak one. I now choose to stand in my truth and it takes strength, but it can also be physically very lonely. However, as I walk down this road I know I am not emotionally alone. I have spirit guides, guardian angels and family I’ve chosen who do love me for exactly who I am. I am no longer responsible for carrying someone else’s shitty pickles. I am standing with my head held high knowing that I made a different choice. I chose peace and happiness. I chose to claim in my responsibility and forgive myself so I can move forward and grow.

Here is my truth. I have been married four times to four different men. I have 4 children with 3 different men. One of those 3 men I wasn’t even married to. How’s that for airing some dirty laundry? I was very embarrassed about this for years. I’m not any longer. I have remorse for the trail of pain I left behind.

First marriage: 4 months beginning to end. I knew I shouldn’t have gotten married. I apologize to you husband #1. I knew it wasn’t right when we got married and I did it anyway. I accept my responsibility for not putting any effort whatsoever into the relationship and for being willing to walk away so easily.

Father of child #1 – I am sorry I lead you on after she was first born and allowed you to believe there would be a relationship because there was a child involved. I really and truly wanted her to be raised with biological father because I hadn’t been raised with mine. I know I hurt you and I apologize.

Second marriage: 8 months living together, 2+ years total on paper in marriage. There will never be enough words in the English language to tell you how deeply sorry I am for hurting you. I loved you the only way I knew how at the age of 20 & 21. It was far less than you deserved.

Third marriage and father of child #2 and #3 – I am sorry for the part my behavior played in our divorce. I could have been a much better wife and that wasn’t fair to you. I gave all of my love and attention to our children instead. I could have made more time to nurture our relationship.

Fourth marriage and father of child #4 – You’re my favorite asshat in the world. I’ve apologized to you for many things over the years. Marrying you, I will never be sorry for that. We have worked extremely hard at keeping our marriage together including living in two different states for 3 years and stage 4 throat cancer. I will be damned if I’m going to allow my human ego or my pride to wreck this one. I love you with a depth in which mere words could never express it appropriately.

To anyone reading this post if you made it this far:

When you feel alone in this world, please know you are not. With each blog post I write, I lose another friend or family member, but I also gain 2 friends who choose to become family. Family is everything to me. I will hold on tight and love you all til my dying breath.

Peace be with you as it is with me.

Trauma Is Not Just Physical Pain

The definition of trauma is (1) a deeply distressing or disturbing experience or (2) physical injury. When I’ve talked to people about trauma I’ve experienced in my lifetime, they automatically assume it was all physical traumas. There was physical trauma, but what about the emotional trauma? Just because someone didn’t hit me physically doesn’t mean I didn’t experience a pain so deep in my soul it changed who I was forever.

The majority of my specific trauma all happened by the age of 15. After that, I was pretty much a self-serving bitch because I’d had enough of people thinking I was a pushover. I was no longer willing to allow my throat chakra to stay closed and swallow down anymore bullshit for anyone. I said what I wanted, how I wanted and outwardly I didn’t really care what anyone thought of me. When I was alone and quiet I would think about the pain I may have caused someone. It was in those moments I decided I was more like my favorite book/movie character, Katie Scarlett O’Hara, more affectionately known as Scarlett. I always thought to myself “After all, tomorrow is another day.” The translation to this is… I’m not going to think about that right now, which Scarlett said regularly. To her, the end goal was all that mattered and whomever she had to stomp on in the meantime was just going to have to deal.

As human beings walking around with a lot of baggage in our hearts, we often say and do things out of anger or when we are under the influence we would not normally say. In a normal, unaltered state we avoid saying and doing these same things. You know those moments when you’re out and you’ve had a drink and wind up telling the hot guy/girl you’ve been eyeing up all night that you’re attracted to them. There’s a reason alcohol is called liquid courage. It lowers our inhibitions and our guarded protection over our hearts. Feelings we have in an unaltered state we would never allow out start to flow freely. Sometimes we remember stating these feelings and sometimes we do not. Anger can cause much the same reaction. It’s like a switch was flipped and the electrical current is no longer being controlled and stuff just starts flying with no grounding to trigger it to stop. Then comes the electrical shock.

I remember this moment as if it was yesterday; I don’t think I was any more than 6 years old. My parents were getting a divorce and my world was upside down so I wasn’t sleeping well. My father had always rocked me to sleep and with that gone, my routine changed (insert a huge aha moment literally just now as I write this for why I had routine based OCD). My mother had been out for the night and I could tell by the smell alcohol was involved. I have a very sensitive nose, always have and I can pick up that smell very quickly. I remember being scared because I woke up in the middle of the night and went to crawl in bed with her, but she wasn’t there so I went back to my bed. When she did finally come home, I tossed back the covers and my little bare feet hit ground again. I walked towards her room holding my Mrs. Beasley doll (which I still have) and there stood my mom facing away from me. I asked her where she had been because I was scared. She turned around and looked at me and she said a few things but the only one I remember hearing was this “If you had never been born, your father and I would still be married.”

As a 48 year old woman who has been through a divorce, I understand why my mother felt that way. She was hurt, going through a lot and there was alcohol involved. I did ask her about this statement once when I was in my 30’s, but she has absolutely no recollection of ever saying it. I believe that. My own children tell me things I’ve said and I do not remember saying them. It doesn’t mean their feelings about it aren’t valid. That one sentence from my mother, something she doesn’t even remember, had affected me for most of my life. I truly believed I was responsible for their marriage falling apart. I was immediately and deeply saddened. I lost a piece of my soul that night.

As an adult, I can tell you having someone blame me for anything was a huge trigger for my anger to come out, especially when I knew it wasn’t my responsibility. PHEW! Boy howdy would I react violently. I’d throw cordless phones (went through 4 in one year) and I would reach into the depths of my mind to find the weakness of my accuser and I would use it against the person. If they were going to hurt me, I’d show them a thing or two. I was reacting to what was in my view, a huge injustice. In the end, I feel like what I did was worse because it was intentional. I had some serious self-forgiveness to do. I still don’t like being blamed for something which I know isn’t my fault, but I don’t get angry anymore. I’m not going to keep trying to convince someone of something I know I didn’t do. Either you believe me or you don’t. It’s that simple for me.

I step through the triggers instead of allowing them to consume me.

Peace be with you.

Shelley

Moments Which Begin to Define Us

As the child of a single mother in the 70’s, I spent a lot of time in my bedroom playing alone. During the summer months my mother couldn’t afford to pay a baby sitter, much less send us off to summer camp. My brothers were 5 and 7 years older than me so they didn’t really need a babysitter, they were the built-in babysitters. In retrospect, I am able to see that due to circumstances beyond our control they were in the position of having to care for their little sister. Teenage boys would much prefer to hang out and have fun with their friends. My brothers Constantine and Rinaldo were not any different.

Their friends who would spend a lot of time at our house while Mother was at work. Since I was the youngest and the only girl around, I was the designated sandwich maker and drink go-getter. Demanding boys! I remember how much time my brother’s had to spend with me because our Mom was working. I can’t imagine how much it bothered them to always have their little sister with them. I felt like a burden and I certainly didn’t always like getting dragged around to go visit girlfriends when we were not supposed to be leaving the house. However, Rinaldo’s theory on life was that if I did the same thing they did then I couldn’t tell Mother because I’d get in the same amount of trouble as them. I have to hand it to Rinaldo, the boy was a genius (and still is, literally. Super high IQ). I completely believed him and just went along with it.

Most of my brother’s friends were nicer to me than my brothers, but then again I wasn’t their little sister who tattled on them all of the time either. There was one boy who about a year older than Rinaldo who just scared me. Being around him was uncomfortable and I didn’t like to be left alone in a room with him. I remember him with a dark aura around him and he almost always had on a khaki military jacket. One time during the summer he was in the living room and had asked me to make him a sandwich. My brothers were not around and it was just the two of us in the living room. I was wearing shorts and a t-shirt. After I was done making it, I brought him the sandwich and he ran one of his hands up the back of my left leg on the bare skin. I instantly became very aware that I was a little girl and he was a male much bigger than me. I already knew what that kind of touch meant and no way did I want that happening at my own home. No 2nd grader should have to feel that uncomfortable around her brother’s friends. I ran away from him and made sure I was never in the same room with him again. Nothing else happened with him. He just stopped coming over after a while and I was very grateful. (As an aside, before I wrote this post I googled his name and discovered he’s been arrested several times for crimes against women such as battery and stalking. I was very fortunate.)

I used to have some serious issues with claustrophobia. The kind where if you got up in my face, my fight or flight instinct would take over and I’d start swinging regardless of how much I liked you. Why did I have claustrophobia you ask? Well, let me tell you! Mother was very clear “no one in, no one out.” It was a standing rule when she wasn’t home, a rule which was frequently broken by Rinaldo and Constantine. This one specific day during the summer, my brothers and their friends wanted to get high and didn’t want the pest (aka me) around to witness it. I got locked in my bedroom closet and was told I wasn’t allowed to come out until they came to get me. PS, hours later I was still in the closet. Mother came home and I heard her ask “Where is Maria?” My brother Constantine came running to my room and opened my closet door. He told me I better not say a word and pretend like everything was normal or else. So like a good little girl, I obeyed and shut up.

It’s taken me 40 years to get over being claustrophobic. It’s taken me 40 years to deal with all of the moments where I had to “be a good little girl.” Think about what you say to the younger generation. You are forming the adults they will become. I used those moments as lessons to teach me to what I didn’t want to become as an adult, but not everyone makes that decision. Many times bad behavior is repeated.

The next time you see someone with OCD or with a phobia, before you criticize them verbally or even in your own head, think twice. Ask yourself, what happened to them during their lifetime to cause the issue. It’s much better to see the issue through their eyes rather than your own.

Who are you to judge?

I am just me.

Shelley

Ask for Help – It’s not as easy as it sounds

This seems to be the new theme I’m being lead toward. You know when you’ve spent most of your life doing things yourself, asking for help is really very hard. My guides are basically smacking me upside the head with “GIRL, you better get a move on and ask for help.”

If I think back to the earlier stages of my life to when I was a little girl of about 7 years old, I can identify where this independent streak started. I have some very clear, scattered memories from earlier on my in life, however, the memories from age 7 going forward have the most impact.

I distinctly remember being in 2nd grade getting myself ready for school. Alone. My mother and father were divorced leaving my mother single with 3 children to raise alone: Rinaldo age 14, Constantine age 12 and me age 7. My father lived on the other side of town and worked either 2nd or 3rd shift so we never saw him for visitation. Mother had to work to support us, put a roof over our heads and food in our bellies. Yes, she got child support, but it didn’t cover everything and her salary was not as much as she would have liked. If memory serves me correctly, she was a secretary for the maintenance department in a local hospital. In 1976 the minimum wage was just that… minimum.

Rinaldo was in 9th grade and Constantine was in 7th grade when I was in the 2nd grade. It was Constantine’s first year in the junior high and Rinaldo’s first year at the high school. They had different start times than I did for school. Constantine used to walk me to and from school every day making sure I was safe when we were in the same school. He wouldn’t hold my hand because that wasn’t cool, but he walked next to me or put me on the handlebars of his bike and let me ride so I didn’t have to walk. Constantine was truly my protector in my early years.

I remember being scared to be alone in the morning and my mom would tell me “You’re a big girl, Maria. You can do this and you don’t need help.” I would get up, make myself breakfast (two bowls of cereal because no one was there to tell me no), pack my lunch (an extra Twinkie if I found it. Who would know?), get dressed and walk to school. My mom could have made my lunch and left it out for me, but I honestly don’t remember that part. I remember being happy I could eat what I wanted without hearing about how fat I was (that’s a whole different post).

My mom did what she had to do, I understand this. I also know the words she spoke to me repeatedly “You’re a big girl, Maria. You can do this and you don’t need help.” These have played like a stuck record in my head for years (A record is this little black thing we used to listen to on a record player and if the needle got stuck the song would skip. It’s kind of like a song on repeat on your MP3 player). She also told me women have a hard time making it in the workplace and if I wanted to make something of myself, I’d have to prove I could do it without the help of a man. “Men only respect a woman who isn’t helpless.” Again, I understand she meant well and that last piece of advice has served me well in the business industry. I am not angry with her for teaching me these things. It just left me believing I could not ask for help. For anything.

This advice hasn’t worked out so well in my personal life. I’ve been married 4 times. I am not ashamed of this, although I am tremendously sorry for the pain I caused my previous husbands. (BTW, If any of you are reading this, I truly am sorry. You had no idea what you were getting into, but if you keep reading, you’ll understand it now. And there are a few select ex-boyfriends I send that apology out to as well. Contacting you directly would likely drudge up too much shit, but hey if you’re reading, I’m taking the opportunity.) Why have I been married 4 times you ask? GREAT QUESTION. Here’s the answer, I was emotionally hosed and had an attitude of “I don’t need you, I can do this without you.” How does one learn to form a good foundation of a relationship with a spouse if you don’t allow them to help? If you yourself have no idea how to communicate or how to actually love your partner in a healthy way, how do you form healthy attachments? You don’t.

Today, at the age of 48 I am finally learning to ask for help. My husband Tyler has been my rock through this entire learning process. He does more for me than I feel I deserve sometimes. However, when  I start to feel that way, I will ask him. “Why do you do so much for me now?” His answer is plain and simple. “You allow me to.” No hesitation in the answer.  The implied explanation is “If you had allowed me to do this for you years ago, I would have. However you were stubborn and insisted on doing it yourself.” He loves being able to help me and truly gets pleasure from helping others. By my not allowing him to help me which is the very basis of his nature, I stopped him from being himself and it affected him tremendously. I didn’t even realize it.

If you’re anything like me, please start to ask for help. The universe loves us enough to put the right people in our path when we need it. Reach out. Ask. If I can do it, so can you.

(I am searching for a catchy phrase as a parting before my name…I will find one eventually, but until then…)

Shelley

Be the Duck

Some days are better than others. When I’m having a bad day, I remember something I was taught by a previous co-worker of mine named Jim. He was in human resources at the time and I was taking some classes from him on how to handle stress in the workplace.

Be the Duck.

Simple phrase, huge impact. When you look at a duck floating along the water, all you see from the outside is how graceful and beautiful they look as they leave simple ripples in the water behind them. However, if you were able to view under the water and see their tiny feet, you’d see feet moving quickly to get the duck to its end destination.

Graceful on the outside, frantic and crazy on the inside.

Not everyone needs to see every emotion you are feeling in the moment. Sometimes things we are feeling are private and should stay that way. With social media being so “out there” these days, it’s easy to post something about how pissed off we are at your co-worker (I just did this), your sibling, your friend, you get the idea. However, once it’s there… it’s been seen. People don’t often forget the words we hurl into the three dimensional space where they live. If your Facebook page isn’t private, it’s a public post for anyone to see. If the person you’re talking about is your Facebook friend, then they’ve seen it and while you didn’t care in the moment, 2 minutes or 2 days later you may regret it. If you’re applying for a job and you’ve posted a photo of yourself in a not-so-nice manner, it may be visible to the prospective employer. Be conscious of how you present yourself.

The flip side of this coin is that for hundreds of years there have been families who live by the creed “We don’t talk about that this in family.” Pain and anguish get swept under a rug because no one wants to deal with the reality of what’s happened. There are productive and non-productive ways of dealing with such trauma. For we as survivors to be heard and understood, it’s better if we come at these situations in a more productive manner. And by productive, I just mean we don’t need to get drunk or high and start throwing a bunch of angry, accusatory statements around because we’re finally brave enough to do so. That’s more on the non-productive side and boy howdy it might feel damn good at the time, 24 hours later, not-so-much. Not that I have any experience with this or anything, I’m just sayin’. When that happens regularly, our audience starts looking at us like the little boy who cried wolf. Eventually, no one pays attention.

I’ve waited a very long time to start telling my story because my family is absolutely the “we don’t talk about that” kind of family. I’ve been so worried about who would stop talking to me or who I would hurt. I’m sure at some point some of them will likely read this blog. Guess what? They all fight anyway over just about anything. In my 48 years not once have I seen my family all get along. Someone is always mad at someone else. When does it ever stop? Maybe if they pay attention to what I’m writing, they’ll stop bitching at each other. For now, it’s time for me to heal me and help myself.

I am not the only female in my family to be molested by a male family member. Someone before me was far more brave than I and got her information out there. She is my role model and “biologically” my aunt. I use the quotes because she and her best friend are more like mothers to me and deserve the title. I love them more than words could ever express. I admire my aunt’s bravery for being the first person in our family to put it out there. Incest exists. The lasting pain from such an experience will kill you if you do not find a way to deal with the pain. Committing suicide was an option more than once for me. By the grace of God there go I.

Now is the time. My soul’s purpose for being on this planet in this lifetime to provide support and help for others who have walked down the same road I walked. I thought I was alone. I was not. I thought no one else had ever been through this. They had. I didn’t know. Why didn’t I know? No one talked about it.

If you have been molested as a child please hear me loud and clear when I say this:
1. It was NOT your fault.
2. You did nothing wrong.
3. You are lovable. I love you. No, I may not have a clue as to who you are, but I love you and your soul.
4. You are worthy.

Peace is yours, it’s time to reach out and grab it and hold onto it like I hold onto a piece of cake. I am using a productive way to talk about it. Writing it. I am discovering more about myself the more I write. Please follow my blog and keep in touch with me on my progress to finding more about me and perhaps you’ll learn something about yourself as well.

(I am searching for a catchy phrase as a parting before my name…I will find one eventually, but until then…)

Shelley