But Anchors Do Sink...

I will not be broken.

It is etched into my skin just below my collar bone, on the same side as its duplicate which resides on my sister's collar bone. It is my mantra when all hell breaks loose, the tears fall, and the walls come down. It is what helps me get mad when being pissed is useful, and what helps me look passed whatever tragedy that my heart is trudging through at the time. I considered many different phrases and ways of going about this tattoo. I needed one that spoke for both my sister and I, despite our stories being a little different, yet the same. I needed one that put the power in our hands and made life something we were navigating, not something that was navigating us. 

For a while, we both liked the "I refuse to sink" tattoos with the anchor next to it, which can be found on feet, shoulders, arms, and ankles worldwide. It was cute and the phrase meant something. But we couldn't get over the fact that the whole point of an anchor is to sink, so the logic of the pairing bugged us a bit. Also, neither of us gravitate toward things that "everyone else" is doing or buying into. We dye our hair pink or blue because we want to, not because it is the cute thing the girls are doing. We pierce or tattoo things because we felt like it and couldn't give two shits who sees it or what they think about it. If we want to rock neon colors or dance in the grocery store or take our kids into the liquor store at 9am on a Sunday morning so we can have daiquiris with our french toast... well, we damn sure will. And getting tattoos that every 19 year old girl has just kind of speaks of something completely opposite of what we exist as. No offense to those who posses that tattoo; all that matters is that you got it with a truth to yourself in mind. My point is, it wouldn't have been true to us to pick something off the wall or google images and plaster it across our chests.

I also considered something along the lines of "I cannot be broken," but lets face it... I sure as hell can. She can. We both can. It is possible and maybe it has happened before, or maybe I just know what it feels like to come close. But, we sure as hell can be broken if we get hit hard enough in just the right spot. I have been in places in my life where I wasn't sure how I would ever move forward again... or move at all. Moments where I thought I couldn't possibly put the pieces back together, and if I did, there would be no way to do it so that I looked or felt anything like the girl I loved being. My sister and I, we get hit with a lot, all of the time. I needed something that spoke to our resilience and refusal to give up, not something that falsely proclaimed our immunity or invincibility.  In a way, that tattoo would have branded me as something I have fought to not become for my entire life. Implying I cannot be broken would be to imply that there is no pain, no hurt, no loss that could get to me. And the thought of being that person who does not connect, care, and feel the pain is terrifying. I do not want to be someone who "cannot be broken"...because if you cannot be shattered by anything, it is because you do not value anything enough to be destroyed if you lose it. I have many things I value that much, and I would never want my tattoo to imply otherwise.

So, I settled on "I will not be broken." Settled is the wrong word, as it sounds like I resigned to it because I was running out of options. That couldn't be further from the truth. I still had many options! I could have chosen "I like bananas" (this would be a truth, after-all). Or maybe I could have gone with "Animals > People"... or "Bite Here"... so many options. Now that I think about it, a "Bite Here" tattoo sounds kind of awesome. Don't judge me.

We went with "I will not be broken" because it puts the power in our hands. We will not allow it to happen. We cannot stop the things that threaten to crush us, but we can promise to keep going, keep trucking, and keep fighting. We can push when pushing is called for, and hold on when holding is needed. Life can throw everything and anything at us (but seriously, world, it's okay if you don't), and we may cry, get mad, and threaten to walk off into the sunset (that threat is all mine)... we may even be positive there is no way we can claw our way out of each hole we manage to get pushed into (and buried in, with cement, 30 feet down, in the winter, with spiders), but we will not let it break us. We will not give up. We are bad-asses. 

So, to my sister, who finds herself fighting more often than she ever deserved to have to, We. Will Not. Be. Broken.

As for her collar bone... that apparently doesn't fall under the "not broken" directive. 

Shadows

I don't get mad about much. I just don't. If I am given honesty, I believe I can overcome just about anything. I can see multiple sides of things, so that rush to anger just doesn't happen... because I can imagine what it is like to be the other guy. 

But I am mad that no one asked questions. I'm not mad all of the time, but when I think about it, I am. Family, friends, teachers, you name it... no one stepped in. No one asked why us kids were always miserable. Everyone cites being nervous about how to approach their family member or authorities about it, but no one made a decision to stop it. They saw tears and gave hugs, and for that I am grateful because hugs were not had any other time. But they did not do anything to help make the tears stop. I get mad sometimes, because they could have made it stop.

And in that, I find my own guilt. I also could have made it stop. I could have made a phone call or told someone the details. But I was a child still trapped in the tornado that abuse sweeps children into and convinces them that the debris flying past their heads is normal. I knew unhappiness, but I did not know it was abuse. I did not know it was uncommon. I did not know I was doing damage by not stopping it. Yet, that does not change the fact that I still know I could have stopped it. I was older. I was more aware. I was more insightful and analytical and reflective. I saw the hurt and sadness and hopelessness. But I did not think those things were bad enough.

That was their job; the adults were supposed to see it and question it. They were supposed to ask why I had new scars on my wrist, why I came to school in tears, and why my sister went to school on drugs. They should have asked why my brother was violent and unpredictable, and why the other brother hid away most of the time. Looking back, there was no shortage of times when someone could have decided to figure it all out. But no one did. I told a teacher Bill sexually abused me, and he kept that info to himself until he wanted to use it as ammo when I had been skipping class. At that point, I denied it out of fear of being in trouble with my mother. And every teacher and the principle at that parent meeting took my back-peddling as truth. They contacted no one to look into it, nor questioned me further. They sent me home. My mother sat there and let me tell them I lied, knowing I hadn't.. and they turned their cheek to the possibility that a scared 17 year old girl might need to tell her story to a safe person in a safe setting. 

My family told me once that they thought about taking us kids, but didn't know how to tell a family member that they thought she should give us up. THAT is what came between them changing 4 innocent and crumbling lives... fear of a reaction. 

I had many of my friends' parents offer to take me in, but I had to have my parents' permission. Think about that... They volunteered to save me if I could get the people harming me to let them save me. Saving me would have been calling someone about your daughter's friend and her constant struggle to want to stay alive because her home is a constant emotional and physical warzone. 

I sound bitter. I am not, really. I know it isn't easy to pick up a phone and get involved. I know it isn't easy to make someone else's battle your own. I don't think less of those people I encountered in my life that watched us float by without throwing us a life raft. And I don't stew over it any more than a fraction of a second every million years or so. But sometimes, I still get mad. And that's okay. It's okay to still get mad. But it's not okay to forget that each of those people had their own battles they were fighting, and it might not have been as obvious to them that something was as wrong as it was.

Hell, I didn't even see it.. and I was living it. It is an odd thing to consider when you think about it; how pain can hide in the shadows of the very soul it lives in. It's like living in your own house, but never being able to see yourself in it until you get a chance to leave and look back in.

I have lived through plenty in my life to make anyone scared of others. Problem is, that gives them the power and I am not down with that. If I let what has happened to me turn my life into something I navigate with fear, it is because I gave it up, not because they took it.

- my enlightening facebook wisdom. ;)

i miss you.

Glass Walls

So, I was thinking today about the miracle that is me. I know... so humble. But really, there are a million reasons I should be something other than what I am, and somehow I was able to tell them all to take a running leap off a short bridge. By all rights, I should be a terrible person. I should be a terrible, insecure, and highly dependent person. Who is also manipulative. And mean. And crappy at kids. Whose cooking sucks. Wait... I had a direction I was going here...

In all seriousness, sometimes I do wonder how I made it out with all of my marbles in place, and in a funny way I feel lucky. I would have been luckier to have not needed to overcome bullshit in the first place, but that's neither here nor there, really. Spilt milk, etc, yadda yadda.

Most of the time, it is my ability to be an affectionate and patient mom that baffles me. There seems to be this well of knowledge and compassion and common sense that I draw from and I haven't the slightest idea where the source of the darn thing is. But, I am glad it is there and I am immensely proud that I have been so determined to drink from that well rather than the one I was handed the rope to when I was a kid.

This time, though, it is my lack of fucks to give that I am proud of. Of course, I give lots of them when it comes to caring for people, but I seem to be very low on them when it is in relation to what people think about my actions/looks/dreams/love/everything else. It seems simple, right? Just don't care what people think of you! Yeah! Just don't! Except that goes against everything that was presented as normal to me my entire young life. I, somehow, looked upon a mother that revolved her every decision and judgments around what others would think of her, and instead of needing validation, I couldn't care less if you or anyone else thinks I am doing "it" right. I don't care if you hate my hair or my tattoos. I don't care if you think my significant other is ugly. I don't care if you think I don't discipline my son correctly or spend my money wisely. I am not an asshole... I KNOW that I treat people with respect and kindness (sprinkled with a bit of sarcastic humor if I think you are smart enough to catch it), and I KNOW I am a good person, good friend, good mom, and good lover. Anything beyond that is pretty unimportant.

I have acknowledged many times that "fuggit" is a common go-to resonse for me. It's not that I don't take anything seriously, but in the end there are very few things worth tearing yourself to pieces over. Yes, I watched my mother throw her own children under the bus more times than I can count for the sake of preserving her own image with people who really didn't fucking matter. But I refuse to let what someone might think of me dictate who I am, what kind of person I become, and how I interact with the world. Do I think my shit doesn't stink? Ha! No. I have my insecurities. I have stretchmarks that I hide and my sports abilities are nothing short of humiliating. I have my moments where I can be embarrassed or try to avoid just such an outcome. But for the most part, I came to this point retaining a healthy sense of who I am and how to be okay with it.

Going back to be unaffected, though... this state of comfort with my decisions and my instincts has not always been bubbling over the sides for me. It was a fight. I had all the tools to run with being a carbon copy of a woman who didn't know how to take a step independent of the world's glare around her, and I was walking on wobbly legs for a long time. I wanted her approval. I wanted anyone's approval. Love was good, but validation was the best. I did not come through the other side unaffected. However, a combination of self analysis and taking lots of long looks at the what and why of my history has helped me grow. Stepping outside and looking in is hard. But living your life looking out at everyone else looking at you is harder. I much prefer life as it is now, where I can be confident in where I choose to plant my next step. I don't always know it is the right step, but I know it is my step... and I don't care if you think it is weird that I took it dancing, crawling, or crying. I will not be crippled because I am waiting for someone else to tell me which way to go.

Which brings me to the question of what I fear. If you asked me in person, I would likely retort with a smile, "not much."  It is true, to a somewhat odd degree. But the truth is, I desperately fear being fearful. I don't want to hold back because I am scared. I do not want to live with a glass wall in front of me that I cannot get passed, even if I can see through it just fine. I don't want to be scared to try, to fall, to hurt, to get embarrassed, and to move. Scared to move... THAT is my biggest fear. To be so crippled, whether it is a fear of failure or a fear of others' judgments, that you can't get out of your own head and your own bubble... it's a nightmare. So, I rock my pink hair and my beat up truck and I curse a lot... I admit that I fucked up and I put my feelings out on the table. I try to stay open rather than putting up walls.

I am okay if you can see my inner workings, because I don't care if you think they are put together the right way or if you think they are pretty. And because I don't spend my time worrying about that, I can love without the boundaries that fear builds around us. I can live.

Not Done

Somewhere in the midst of a bottle of Riesling working its way through my system and an ever enlightening walk to campground restrooms, three words came to me. I had been having a conversation with my friend about why I have not written a book yet; as you could imagine, it was an emotional conversation. I usually blame my lack of interest in writing one on the fact that no one really cares what I have dealt with or what I am doing now... I am no one special, after all. But in the clarity that can only happen when your mind gets a little foggy, I realized that it is because I don't feel like I have any standing or right to tell anyone else where to go when I don't feel like I have gotten where I am going yet. So, as I walked back from that bathroom, I repeated those three words over and over so I wouldn't forget them... because we all know I have a tendency to move onto the next thought as if they were just being thrown into my lap to deal with in rapid fire succession.

Unanchored.

Unsatisfied.

Unfinished.

Those words landed on a random open document I had pulled up in on this laptop in the woods weeks ago and it wasn't until now that I found them. I probably should have followed up with wherever they took me at that moment, but wine and my ability to stay awake are directly related to each other: adversely, unfortunately.

Unanchored. What does that even mean in relation to why I am not writing a bestselling book yet? Well, drunk me probably could have answered that a little better, since she is the one who spit it out in the form of an epiphany... but I will give it a go. Drunk me is still valid me... she usually has her wits about her more than one might expect, so we won't dismiss her. Honestly, how the hell can I tell anyone else how to get from point A to point B if I don't know where the hell my point B is? I have a general picture of where I want to go, but I am not anchored yet, and I have no idea when it will happen. If it will happen. Life is in charge of all that mess, after all. If I was living in a world of stepping stones and paths that I could shine light onto, then maybe I would feel like sharing the directions made sense. But right now, what would I do... point off in the distance and say "go that way over there... maybe"? Or am I supposed to tell people it is okay to treat life like an unwritten story like I do? That could be the opposite of what they need! I do not have an anchor down, how do I show anyone else what it is to not get taken by the storm? I don't feel like I am drifting, by any means... but I don't have any clue how I would tell anyone else how to stop drifting without throwing down anchor. If you ask me, I have no idea how I saved myself... other than maybe winning the genetics lottery that gave me the smarts to process things the way I did.

One might argue that writing is my anchor. I guess it isn't wrong. But it isn't an answer for everyone else, and trying to guide others feels like the blind leading the blind sometimes.

Unsatisfied. This one is sticky. I AM satisfied with who I am, though I hope I keep growing and understanding. I AM satisfied with how far I have placed myself from where I could have been. But I am not satisfied that I have reached a place where I can tell anyone else how to get there. I still want to do so much, be so much, accomplish so much. How can I feel worthy of giving guidance when I feel like I am only a few chapters into my own travels? I look around me and I am just beginning. I have lived so much life... gone through so much and done so much, but it is a drop in the bucket in relation to the shenanigans I have on my list of things to do. I am still working and living paycheck to paycheck (sorta), I still have relationship issues with friends/family/lovers, and I am still mad sometimes.

I guess that flows into Unfinished pretty effortlessly. Truth is, I am not done getting better. Am I a mess? No. Am I bitter? No. But I still get mad sometimes. I still have little bits of hurt and confusion and anger that exist within me... and though I have done amazingly to not let them become me or what I am about, they are there. I cannot smile and tell someone it will be okay, that they should let it all go, and that I figured it out when I am not done figuring it out. I don't know how to evict all of the negative thoughts and shake it all away, because sometimes I still want to shake my mother and punch my adoptive father. Sometimes I still want to scream. Sometimes I still cry... out of no fucking where. Sure, it is like 2% problem at this point, absolutely nowhere near a common occurrence or thought or rumination. But even if it's minute, how can I act like I figured out how to leave it all in the dust when every few months I still wish I could just have a few minutes to tell those people how much they suck?

The friend I was camping with said something that is obviously true... she said "Maybe you aren't supposed to write about how to beat it. Maybe you are supposed to write about how to keep moving through it and survive it"

I know she is probably right. I don't have to wait until my life glistens to talk about finally wading through and out of the muck. But I still feel grossly unqualified to have a single person looking to me for much of anything. Not because I feel that I am not awesome (cause, well, I am most of the time), but because my awesome might be their terrible and that is a lot of responsibility.

Magic

There's been this ongoing theme to my life...a theme of uncertainty and slightly whimsical disregard for a final story to be written out as the pattern for what my life should look like. I have ideas and they change. I see visions of what I might have outside of my kitchen window one day... but whether I actually have a kitchen window and what is outside of it never remains a constant or solid picture. Cityscapes morph into country sides which fade into farms and back around to industrial landscapes. Sometimes I am in an old barn with no walls and only lofts and beams to plot out the rough and fluid spaces within my home. Other times I am in a 100 year old home with original woodwork, fireplaces, and huge windows. Then , the appeal of a small and simple repurposed shipping crate sounds amazing, only to be followed by the idea that a hut in Africa wouldn't suck at all.

Rigidity is almost like a four letter word for me.. I have no idea what I will end up doing or where I will go. It could be Africa or New York, Ohio or Scotland. It sounds scattered and flighty, and in a way I suppose it is, but sometimes I wonder if it is just a way of protecting myself from disappointment. If I don't set anything in stone, when it washes away, I can just write something else down in its place. That doesn't mean my heart was never in it... it just means my heart has gotten really good at treading water and waiting for the tide to go back out again. It feels like it is drowning in the mean time, but it always finds solid ground eventually.

But does that mean I am anti-settled down? I don't think so. I think I always keep my options floating around in my head, but that any one of them could result in just as much happiness as the next. If I end up in a warehouse loft in New York, I will be no more or less able to feel at home as I would in a farmhouse in Ohio. I won't suddenly feel like I am too tied down and run away, or become bitter about all of the places I didn't get to live. I would, of course, be dead set on still having options in my life... they are the soil that dreams find sustenance within, after all. But I don't have a checklist of places I want to live that needs to be crossed off, with no sign of stopping in sight. I want to be able to go if I so choose and if my family so chooses... I want to be able to write our own story completely independent of what society and others think a family's story should look like.

Sometimes, the picture I see out of the window in my head surprises me. Sometimes... the place where I end up standing and the warmth I get from it is not what I ever thought it would be, and I love that about myself. The fact that I can get faced with what I would have said is not 'me' and welcome it, hug it, and accept that it might be a part of my world that just hadn't been given enough thought until now; that I have come to a place in life where I know there are no lines to color inside of when it comes to painting a picture of who I am... there is only an expansive canvas and shit tons of colors to mix and throw at it. Pink may not have been my color, but it could be. And not because someone said it should be... but because, why not?

Lately, the picture I have been seeing was a little surprising. It wasn't a loft apartment in New York or a big house upstate. It was a cozy house and a barn and land with chickens and gardens and love. It was hugs that felt like they encased me, and passion that knew no boundaries. It was bonfires and bike rides and kids and hound dogs. Naturally, a trip to save orphans and build houses for people in need here and there would be in the works... but the picture out of my window has been a sunset, apple trees, and a barn full of projects. It has been a place where a feeling of home and safety and music and laughter not only existed, but wrapped around us like big ass blankets.

Of course, I would want to jump out of planes still... I would still want to put a stripper pole somewhere so I could learn to dance on it, go out for sushi once in a while, hop a plane to the city, and spend exhilarating days or weeks saving the world. That is never going to go away no matter where I land long term. I am always going to be too big to fit in one box all of the time. But the place I come home to has been looking lately like one of creativity mixed with love and beauty... with beat up trucks and fast toys. And a lot of love.

That is the one thing that never changes when my vision or my story morphs... there will be love. The kind that makes you smile when you are 40 years into it and still think about them when you are away. The kind that you dance in the kitchen to, stay up all night fixing the cars in the barn with, and the kind where you are still you and they are still them and together everything just fits.

I read a few days ago that you can tell when someone loves someone because they look at them like they are magic. Nothing is ever trouble free, but I believe there is going to be someone with me, looking out of whatever window I end up with, that will think I am magic. THAT is not an option, it is a must.

In Your Court

I took a step before, and I had your hand in mine. But when I landed on the other side, I looked back to see you headed off in the other direction. I let you go with plans to never return to that crossing again, because watching you walk away killed me. Somehow... I feel like I have found myself there again.. or at least close enough to see it. There is no way I am going to ask you to meet me there this time, though... because last time I asked, you agreed only to try to prevent my pain and you bailed at the last minute. I don't want to ask and have you agree out of confusion or pity or conceived pressure. There is no way I am walking to that point again unless I know it is what you want, not what you are willing to go along with. I need you to ask me, so I can feel like I will still have your hand in mine when I get to the other side.

I was so close to that edge before, and I was as ready to take a flying leap off as anyone can be. Not only did you pull me back; you threw me back down the other side. I am not scared of falling, but I AM scared of stepping to that edge again if the person the with me is scared to go with. There is no sense in stepping off if I am just going to land alone. I know you can't promise things last forever... no one can. But if you want to toe the edge again, you will have to lead me there this time. You have to show me that you aren't just following along until you see a way out again. Not because I need to be coaxed or guided or talked into coming with you. But if you lead, I know you are headed where you want to go. Because as much as I want to take care of and protect you... I have to feel safe too.

Temporary

Hello long, lost blog. Hello and all apologies for being so absent. I have treated you like a fair-weather friend, but in the reverse, as I only spend time with you when I need something from you... when I need some sort of piece of mind or translation of my thoughts and feelings. I only come to you when I need help navigating my own mind, or finding answers to questions that keep coming up unanswerable otherwise. I treat you like my last option, my back-up, my therapy dispenser. I suppose it is a good thing you are not a living thing, and therefore not hurt by my neglect. One could argue that by being my outlet, the neglect I burden you with is actually neglect unto myself. One could argue it... and they would be right. I don't spend enough time processing and sorting and defining, at least not in the way I am able to here. Not like I can when I write. I can think for years, but it never comes to the same end as it does on paper. So, I am here.

Neglect... boy that word can mean and stand for so many things. I think we all envision a starving or dirty child when we hear that word. But doesn't it also describe someone starved for love or affection? Doesn't it also include someone not looked after or thought of? Doesn't neglect envelope so much more than the basic needs not being met? We don't like to use it for these things, despite its perfect definition as such, because then we have to face what our actions actually cause, both physically and emotionally. Everyone knows neglect brings terrible consequences, so if we define something under it, then we have to see that it has left scars or open wounds where before we thought all was healed. This was, and probably still is, the hardest thing for me to realize in my life... the hardest thing to accept. Because if I admitted that all of these things were neglect, in every single sense of the word, then I would have to see that there were results and pain and fear and that I was, in fact, affected. I keep using that word, right? Affected. I just feels heavy to say it in my head, let alone trying to say it out loud. Why? Because I have never struggled with my story. I have never questioned the accuracy of what I recall or the turn of events that has been my life. But what I have struggles with was the acknowledgment that I was harmed, changed, molded, and enlightened by all of it. I was affected. I didn't get out unscathed or impervious. I thought I did. That is why that word means so much. Because I have never been so wrong.

Everyone that is neglected is affected. Period.

There are no what-if's or not-all-the-time's about it. It may be a tiny or unnoticed scar, but everyone who experiences neglect carries with them a souvenir of that journey. It may change how they react to something previously not bothersome. It may make them cling tighter to something previously unimportant. Or it may leave them feeling scared to let in something that was once welcome to come in whenever it chose. When you neglect to show someone you love affection, they may be scared to show it to others as well, since those people may withhold it like you did.  When you neglect to tell someone how you are feeling, they may think you are feelings someway you are not, leaving them to carry the burden of confusion or hurt. When you neglect to ask how someone's day was or tell your wife she is beautiful or tell your brother you love him... what does that do? What does that leave them missing?

It is easy for us to remember how badly the obvious instances of neglect can harm someone, but what about the little ones that happen more often? If you stack a penny every day, eventually you still end up with a dollars worth. It just takes more time. And it takes more time for them to realize that what they are getting is neglect. You could say, that might even be worse than sudden and severe neglect. That it might make for longer lasting and deeper scars.

For anecdotal sake, and lord knows I can provide plenty of evidence of this through more avenues than I care to count, let's look at how I went from wide-open to shell shocked, and hopefully am rounding the corner back to free again. Anyone who knows me would have no trouble saying that I was absolutely affectionate in my teenage/early twenties years. I hugged a lot, I told people I loved them a lot, I touched my bf/husband a lot, and I cuddled a lot. I had no fear. Well, let me rephrase... I had fear, but it was that I would leave people feeling unloved like my mother did. So, I made sure everyone knew that I adored them or liked them or appreciated them. I tried to anyway. I am sure I failed in some cases and there is someone out there right now who thought I was a bitch for some reason or another. The point is, I never thought twice about showing my feelings. It wasn't until I put my heart in the hands of someone right after my divorce and he played with it like play-do that it all started to change. He was nice to me in private, but in public he almost ignored me. Touching him could mean pushing him away. He told no one about us but made me feel loved when we were alone. I began to be scared to show my affection for him with people around, because it often made him withdraw. I know now that it was because he had no intentions of us every really becoming US. But at the time, that neglect left me feeling like my desire for acknowledgment and titles and public affection was unreasonable and needy.

And in true heartbroken fashion, I went after or accepted the advances of guys who acted just the same way for the next majority of my relationships. Eventually, it left me feeling like they were embarrassed of me, that I wasn't good enough, and that I was clearly just temporary. They didn't starve me or leave me out int he dirt or cold. But I was neglected. And I was affected.

As much as I have done well to know myself and recognize the things I am carrying onto the next stop in life, this is the lasting effect I have the hardest time shaking in new relationships. No matter how much I try not to make the next person suffer for the pain caused by the one before them, I have repeatedly caught myself struggling to remember that touching them or reaching for their hand won't send them running. I almost come into new relationships with the acceptance that they are likely ashamed of me and that I should let them set the pace for everything from affection to commitment. I still want to be sure they know I care, but I am scared to do it first. It is not fear of rejection so much as it is fear of neglect. If I reach for their hand and it pushes them away, they will withhold more than they already do. Or leave altogether. It sounds silly to say, write, and read... but it is the scar left after years of allowing myself to feel responsible when I loved someone neglectful.

For the first time in a long time, I am not scared to want someone... to need someone. I am not scared to touch them or smother them in kisses. I am not scared to tell them I miss them. For the first time in years, I feel like I did when I was a kid and all I wanted to do was make someone happy and protect them and make them feel so, so loved. It is a good feeling to have. It isn't all sunshine and roses... she is taking her time telling important people in her life about us and even though that is okay, it is hard for me not to default back to those feelings of not being good enough or being an embarrassment. It is hard to not feel temporary. It is really hard not to feel temporary. The circumstances are different, but the results can still be the same. I may know the reasons why, or at least the ones given to me, but the way I am affected won't waver much if the position of the players is the same. And frankly, even the reasons I am given will only be good reasons for so long. Some of them already no longer make a whole lot of sense.

The thing is, before, I looked at each new time I was being neglected as a chance to prove I could change it... and it just ate more of me away each time. It left me affected, but in two ways. I not only came out of it with fear but I also came out of it with knowledge. And that knowledge will prevent me from ever letting myself take responsibility for someone else's issues again. I may have taken a long time to see that I am Affected, but I am seeing that not all consequences are bad.

Being affected isn't always bad.