For all the broken, a love letter.

Here I am, a month after deciding to never write again.

I have grieved hot collar soaked tears for accusations of my writing being “abusive” and “selfish,” a deer in massive confusion, headlights, big moving powerful blows to the body and soul have come out of nowhere, just me, licking my wounds, wondering what the fuck just happened.

If only I had been hit by a car.

I was afraid the intentions of my heart would never be shown, that if being known for 33 years brought this much adversity over my views on life and my journey, and I had lost valuable relationships because of that, well, I just gave up.

I gave in.

Beautiful things occurred as well, not just my relationship with Thelma, or the promise of our hard work beginning to take exciting new turns, my girls a daily part of me now, and sleep, I had gotten down to three numbers on my phone, even that had felt overwhelming.

The best news is that Lola and I share a room, and bunk beds, a post I can’t wait to write, for another day.

Tonight is about the pull to myself, writing being the nucleus to my soul, and I made a decision to that soul, the shame, the fear.

I will write, rather it be harmful, selfish, abusive, or cruel.

I am not responsible for the people I have caused pain, for they chose to read, and they chose to leave. I am only responsible for me, and if one day, I see that I was wrong, I will write about that as well, asking all my jurors and God, supposedly the ultimate Judge, for forgiveness.

I got a letter from my father, just a few hours ago, hence my inability to sleep, my frustration over my first post written with joy in my mind is now erased, his words replaced.

I have no doubt in my vulnerability been seen or read, and even with that, I ask how writing this horrible little blog could ever have served me, for if I were selfish, I would have kept my secrets and image, my relationships in tact, my little lie of a life safe.

Not today, nor tonight, the wound so deeply cut I want to run and run, like Jenny in Forrest Gump, get on a bus and ask God to make me a bird to fly far far away, a fist of stones I would throw, straight at him for wanting to hurt me again and again, straight at her for saying she loved me, when I weep for like a little girl, I don’t even care..

I want my mommy to tell me love is something real.

And she won’t even pick up the phone, nor return my last email, in which I begged like a pathetic teen for a boy who didn’t love her, to come back, to just please forget it all, say she was sorry, and do the right thing.

“Come back to me,” I cry, and she isn’t and won’t, the reality I sit in tonight, wondering what the fuck this God means by salvation, love, mercy, and hope, the very things she taught me, all the verses memorized still run through my mind.

I know something amazing will show up from this, in my silly positive little jar of bullshit or fath that removes all mountains, which I don’t know, but I will hold on to it, and wait.

If I can get through this night, the loss, the silence, maybe just maybe, God will arrive.

Voices laugh and snarl that I am an idiot to hope, not for one more soul, but tonight I climb on the top bunk, as promised, with Lola, who along with Kat, are the best things I ever did.

“Mama,” she whispered.

“Yes, baby?” I had the night light on so I could read the other night.

Her little red head popped over the top bunk, and she put her hands up in animation, “YOU are the best roomie I could ever have. I could just cry over how you made our room so fancy.”

I had given Kat her own bedroom, for which she in exasperation and tears, rightfully claimed her sister could not respect her stuff, talked too much, was messy, and stole her things.

She has become alive in my room, while Lola, in a room with my heels and real make up and art supplies, chats and chats, both of us in constant trouble for forgetting over and over again, to not talk.

I had thought just the other day, how I was ready to come back, to write about how no woman in a house full of treasure and closets as big as my room had what I had.

My heart is broken as well as my silly dreams but I will not let them take my joy.

I will die before I give it away, and if it takes all that I am and have, I will not just survive this, I will float.

The first thing I wrote on the Happy Wall is appropriate now, its message I never knew would vibrate so strongly, “God doesn’t give us victory over war. He raises us off the batte field.”

Good night, dear cyber hearts, I need you more than ever, and it is an honor to return to you, for you have been loyal on your end, and I deserve that gift, and hope and pray I am not what they say, but that someone out there, in this cold heartless world, will be seen, changed, not alone, soothed, or inspired.

It is all I have left.

Grief Observed

Yesterday I watched tenderly as a very old lady on a busy intersection, cane in hand, placed a stuffed teddy bear at the foot of a simple white wooden cross.

I was at a busy traffic light, on my way to work, and felt very much like an intruder, a witness to the horrific grief this woman was experiencing, tears flowing down her wrinkled cheeks, teddy bear being patted, picked up, placed down, and up again.

She couldn’t seem to make up her mind which direction of the cross the teddy bear should face and at one point, she just sat on the ground, staring, the teddy bear on her lap.

I wanted to open my door, ignore the honking people trying to get here and there to just sit with her, hold her hand, offer up a tissue or a hug. Instead, the light turned green and I can’t shake the image of her out of my head, as I said goodbye from my rear view mirror, watching as she took her hands off the bear and on to the cross itself, shaking from obvious sobs of grief.

I don’t know what happened or who this woman loved and lost. I want to tell her that she touched me, that she is forever connected to my soul, reminding me that death is part of being human, something we all have or will face. When you strip it all away, I am a breathing, loving, grieving soul, just like her.

So, I thank you, little old lady on Hwy 141 with hair in pink handkerchief, cane in hand.

I promise to pause and say a prayer for you when I pass by your white cross where you lost someone you obviously love so much. I am sure they were better for being loved by you.