I'm moving.

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A Sneak Peek at A-Frame of Mind

The story is a little funny, at least from a distance. I can't remember exactly when we realized we had outgrown our small two bedroom apartment, but it's never been more evident then this last year. Personally, I hadn't minded being cooped up here, but the kids have. Since Ava started walking she took to running laps around our couch all day long and now Baxter has joined her in this common occurrence. I've tried to explain to them that our allergies are so sever it's best to stay in-doors. However, God created children to run free and unabashed. And it seems with my babies, they each got a double dose of this hard wiring.

After getting our finances where they needed to be, which I thought would be the hard part of home buying, we began our search. To say I was wrong about the hard part would be an understatement. Going on-line we found a sweet little bungalow near where our friends live. Little being the operative word. So was bungalow. On the bright side, we found our Relator. We quickly opted for a home in Paradise, a beautiful A-Frame home. To be honest, I never gave those types of homes any notice. But Aaron loved it the moment he saw the photos on-line. It wasn't until we drove up to the house that I fell for it too. It was the first home we put an offer on. It was also the first heartbreak we had in home-buying.

We were too late. It was a short sale and the owner accepted an offer just before ours and we fell into the "back-up" slot. Completely devastated we continued searching for the home that was meant for our family. We saw houses, condos- you name it, we saw it. We had even put in several offers but nothing materialized. I was so completely frustrated and swore I'd never look at any more homes again.

But then, we got word the bank foreclosed on the owner, rejected the original offer and took the property off the market. Then it happened. Three very long months later the house came back on the market. Frantic we scramble to get everything in order and our sweet Relator worked hard for us. The second offer we submitted was rejected, felt my heart break all over again. Turns out they changed the type of mortgage. Even quicker we rushed to change the paper work and for the third time, we put in our offer.

I got the news from a text Aaron sent me. It was simple: Guess what.
I knew what he was telling me but I held my breath. We got it! We got it. Those three little words filled me with great joy and great trepidation at the same time.

So, We are moving from a two bedroom apartment to a three bedroom house in the foothills. That is, we are moving from my home town of Chico California, to Paradise California, which is just up the hill from Chico. What made me decide we needed to buy this home was it reminded me of the ski chalet we spent the first night of our honeymoon in before heading up to Oregon where ‘Goonies’ had been filmed. Our daughter, Ava, was born on our first wedding anniversary so we haven’t ever really been able to celebrate our time together and with this home, I feel as though it’s a daily visual reminder of our love and covenant we share.

The house is absolutely beautiful; unfortunately the same thing that makes our future home amazing also makes it frustrating: It’s an A-frame.




















































































But, you know, we are in escrow so anything can happen...

My Dear Sweet Boy a.k.a Terry Bradshaw

I had perhaps put it off too long. But this was something that I as a mother had not experienced until now. I had been a hair dresser for over ten years and part of that time I worked in a kids salon. I can't even begin to recall how many first haircuts I've given. I had gotten to the point where all I had to do was look at the child and would be able to know exactly how it would go. There were the screamers, the climbers and the terrified. With each case there were perks and draw backs. With the screamers, you'd have a headache the rest of the day, the climbers you were destined to cut yourself and with the terrified, you'd have their frozen expression of pure terror suck in your mind, knowing YOU were the reason why they'd have nightmares when they went to bed that night. But with each case, I'd just jump in, work my fastest as I tripped over worried parents and dodging cameras. I think there was just a handful of times that I wasn't able to finish a haircut. With experience you can tell the moment they walk up to you. With this experience, I would ignore the parents instruction for their child's 1 fade to finger length on top and get a 3 on the sides and back before being kicked and punched.

So for the last month, I watched my son. He's such a sweet child who cries if you look at him the wrong way. And of course, he has my hair, fine and very blond. The kind of blond most hair dressers dread.

With his blond hair growing wildly on the sides and back, I couldn't ignore the fact that my sweet child looked more and more like Terry Bradshaw with every passing day.



























This was it. My in laws are visiting for the weekend and I figured it just had to be done.

My husband has his own set of over the counter Wahl's so I knew it would be better to use those instead of my industrial Oster's. Although, I do miss the grind of my clippers, their weight in my hand and the comforting smell of grease. It was an odd feeling for me. I held his clippers in my hand as Baxter sat unknowingly in Grandma Lord's lap. Since I retired from cosmetology, it was rare for me to cut hair. It had been years since I last stood behind an over-grown head. I found the guard, snapped it on and set the clippers down. I have a favorite set of shears and setting both pairs next to each other and then separately holding each one up to study the blade before selecting my favorite. I knew I wouldn't be able to do anything too fancy with Baxter but I wanted to cut off some of the rear comb-forward and that required shears. Just slipping my fingers into the handle, I knew this just might be one of the last haircuts I was to give. I hadn't felt that kind of restricted pain before but as it shot through my hand and fingers, my arm seized with familiarity. I ignored the pain, set down my shears and grabbed the clippers. Looking at my beautiful son I turned the Whal's on and tried to show my son how they worked. This did not go over well. I'll let you decide what kind of kid he is by the pictures:


















Shifting into stylist mode I dove in and got to work. The haircut didn't take long and as I trimmed the top of his blond locks, Daddy watched nervously. As soon as I was done I swooped my baby into my arms and flooded him with kisses. After he settled down we showed him how handsome he was with his new haircut. Turns out, he couldn't have cared less however, I can't stop looking at my boy and am in awe how a simple haircut could make such a difference. When I look at my child, I no longer see my baby, I see my sweet toddler. My little man, my pumpkin growing-up. I do miss the cuddle bug baby but at the same time I'm amazed how big my son is and as I pull him down off the desk for the tenth time today, I'm eager to see all he grows into.

And I Held My Breath

Sitting in the exam room I felt myself hoping for another surgery. It's not as though I love having surgeries, in fact, I dread them. Praying hard for the two weeks after my MRI, I begged God to open the surgeons eyes and help him see what's shown in the abstract black and white jungle on the screen.

A torn tendon would be simple. It's torn. The surgeon goes in, sews it up and my arm is fixed! The last five years of living in pain that has prevented me from being a wife and mother is finished, as if my prison sentence is fulfilled and I am released to be a functioning member of society. Although, I have forgotten how.

My stomach in knots, I pull out my eyeglasses and put them on. I sat fidgeting until he walked in.
Briskly he opened the door and made little attempt at small talk as he opened my chart and wheeled his stool next to me.

He reviewed the notes from my MRI and then he walked me thru what they read. Some scarring where my cubital tunnel/carpal tunnel surgery was, which was normal. I thought it odd how normal it was, after all, the reason for that surgery was to remove five inches of scar tissue that had compressed my ulnar nerve to less than half it's normal size. He also brushed off the finding of a bone spur and finished by saying my arm looked normal. My heart sank as he turned off the light and pulled up my MRI images. He nodded in agreement with the report: no visible signs of tearing.

In that instant I felt like I had when my problems first began. The numbness and tingling came about so gradual that it was hard for me to even pinpoint exactly when it started. Then the twinge of pain crept up in my elbow and wrist. And the weakness. And sensitivity. I had gotten to the point that during each haircut I would pause, drop my right arm down and shake it. I did this so often that I wasn't even aware I was doing it. During the last few hours of my shift I found it necessary to excuses myself from haircuts and stifle tears as I rummaged in the break-room for Ibuprofen.

I sat in bed, icing my arm after a long shift trying to relax, center myself in hope I could curb whatever it was that threatened my vocation. What this pain was I couldn't describe it. I didn't have the words to tell the Doctor what was going on. The pain was now constant. It only varied mildly in severity and even it's location. All my fingers were numb with a sharp pain in my wrist that felt like I was wearing a bracelet of fine wire that was cutting into my wrist down to the bone. My elbow hurt in every position it made. At times it felt as if a sledge hammer was crushing my joint. Other times the pain was piercing, sending streaks of pain throughout my forearm. But in every case, the pain spread it's way up my arm and stretched to my shoulder, neck and lower head. And every night after hours of tossing, trying to find a place that would help me sleep, I always ended up in the shower with the hot water cranked as high as it could go.

For the first two years of this, I was seeing workman's compensation Doctors at Enloe. Every week it was a new Doctor and every week it was a new diagnosis. I didn't know what to do. I cried a lot. Not only was I in ceaseless agony, I was slowly being pulled away from the one thing I was really good at. I was a hairstylist. I was in my element with hair and I did my job with ease and skill and my client list was longer then I had realized. But now, this thing that I loved, my body just couldn't do and no Doctor could tell me why.

My surgeon flipped the lights back on but I was still in the state of confusion and hopelessness I was in five years ago. I choked back the impending tears and I asked him how long ago had he done my surgery. Nine months ago. Then what's wrong with me? Is this just tendinitis? I don't understand. I feel the same as before my surgery. The only difference is the tingling in my fingers has subsided.

He nodded. Wheeled closer to me again and examined my arm. Pressing, stretching and manipulating my useless arm. "Yes. I'd say it's tendinitis," he answered. "Don't lose hope. We'll treat it with the shots. We might need to really work on this tendon but for now, I'll give you the injection and come back in a month and we'll see where you are."

Four long years I felt alone. Hurting and thinking that I was the only one who believed what I was going through. I felt overwhelming relief and joy when I had my second nerve condition test. The first one was done very poorly and rudely since it was a workman's comp Doctor. This second one was done years later by a specialist who, after testing my right arm and finding it tested borderline he looked at me and said it didn't seem right so he tested my left arm to get a comparison. And thats when my heart leapt for joy! Right there, it was evident that my right arm was so much slower then my left arm and my diagnosis was clear: cubital tunnel.

I longed to have that same relief again. I wanted a clear answer. I sincerely believe that tendinitis dose not inflict this amount of pain. Although I understand that the difficulty of diagnosing my arm lies in the fact that there's multiple things going wrong with it. Each problem needing to be fixed in order to see the next issue. I still found myself begging God for a clear and simple answer.

These past years, my prayers have ended the same way: me begging God and His silence. But I still pray, and I wait.

The Siege and Uncertainty.

As I lay here, in my darkened room I realized I'm in a very difficult moment in my life. I have ran out of my pain medication again and find myself waiting on the pharmacy, again. The relentless pain drilling into a blurry throb I am tearing up and relying on God. I had, in the past relied on Him unknowingly. That is, I lived in chaos. I was lost in my depression; fueling it with alcohol, endless nights, self inflicting torment and inward rage. Never calling on my Heavenly Father to protect me and save me. My soul had called out for God and relied on Him.

This is vastly different. Every step I take I am praying and actively urging myself to rely on Gods strength and wisdom. From buying a home to dealing with my hated arm and everything in-between.

Perhaps one can live their life without relying wholly or even partially on God. However, as I live in a siege of pain, uncertainty and depression; I would be a fool if I didn't run to God.

A Mild Disclaimer

As a comment to my Blog link on Facebook, I wrote:

The thing about Depression that I'm afraid of the most is it's secrecy. Secrecy implies shame and shame implies wrong doing. At first I hesitated publishing this blog post because I was afraid of what others might think, if I'd scare them or usher them to action in calling CPS. But the thing is, I have done nothing wrong and despite the workings of my brain, I am a good mommy. For years I had longed for someone to tell me that's it's ok, & I'm not alone. Living under a shroud of secrecy is so binding and isolating. I hope someone benefits from my post. Recognize they need to talk openly, candidly and get the help that's out there so they no longer fell like I had. So when the Bible says that we have been set free, they can fully understand it and fully feel their freedom.

I feel as though it is necessary to publish it here as well, just to qualify my previous blog entry. You know, "just in case".

And It Never Stops.

It's just too hard and exhausting. As if my body wasn't heavy enough, weighed down with lead and my mind a deepening grey fog I just can't see past. I have to hold it all together, pretend everything is good. And for as much as it looks like I'm not holding things together, there's a cracking dam with the weight of fifty monsoons held behind it that you don't see.

But I'm desperate to hide what's going on and it takes more energy than I have. With two sweet babies to care for, every action and emotion I live is nothing more than ammunition against me. And with everything able to trigger an outburst of anger and tears, I try to let little things brush off. But most of the time, I'm unsuccessful. It's those little things that some how carry more than they ought to. I've lost it, breaking down over too many boxes of cereal or anticipating a treat which never comes and even missing a green light when I had nowhere important to be. But, it's the uncontrollable sobbing I hate and it lingers for days.

When I was first married, I tried to hide my tears. Locking myself in our bathroom I would turn on the faucet and shower. I tried so hard to keep my tears and the deep sadness that can only be vocalized in aching moans muffled under the sound of steady water. He knew. And he didn't quit understand. After three years of marriage he still doesn't understand and to be honest, I'm not sure I do either. I've tried so hard to recall a moment from my childhood where I was completely, fully happy. The kind of unabashed happiness that only a child could feel. And I came up empty handed for so long, I stopped trying.

Depression is something I've lived with for almost my whole life. It was normal, my normal and I thought that was how everyone felt. Many afternoons were spent laying on the fresh grass, feeling the leaves under my body, sliding thru my fingertips and watching the perfect soft white clouds float by while I fantasized about killing myself. Just to finally be done, to see past the iron fog and be free. My fantasies gave me comfort.

It wasn't until Junior High when I was finally given the label of depression. And it was that label which caused many people to tell me that I have this illness because of a secret, un-repented sin. It was when a family member told me that all I had to do was repent to God and my illness would go away, I listened. I repented for everything I could think of and even things I hadn't done but I possibly would do. I begged God but God hadn't taken this thing away, so I hid. I spent too many years closed off, living shackled to an illness I did not want.

I spent my early adult years going on and off my medication and drinking. Drinking so much I never remembered what happened those nights. Each night before going out I knew, I knew I wanted to drink until I forgot. I wanted to forget me.

It was the grace of God that delivered me from those circumstances and gave my life accountability. When I was twenty-eight I married the man I had always dreamed of. I met him at church years ago and I knew that night, that Halloween night he was the man God made me for. He didn't even know I was alive. When we both finally grew up we met again and a little over three months after our first date we were married.

It wasn't until after I was married and had my children that I saw a mental health professional. She explained that I had moderate to sever depression. This was nothing new to me. I even have a family history of mental illness. She adjusted my medication and what she said next was the most comforting thing I have ever heard. She told me that I am not "broken" or "defective" as I spent my life believing. She looked me in the eye and said: your fantasies of suicide are just symptoms of your illness. They are there to tell you something is wrong and your medication needs to be checked. She adjusted my medication, added a booster which is not in generic form and thus costing a little over a hundred dollars a month. Yes, those pills are worth it but the guilt is what is more costly. That money is being taken away from my kids, the household finances and is squandered solely on me. As if I did not feel selfish enough, with my many illnesses, physical problems and destructive emotional baggage. I feel it's as if Aaron would spend over a hundred dollars on allergy medicine every month just because he has a runny nose. Somehow, the booster just doesn't seem so worth it anymore. Not when there's diapers needed and fresh fruits and vegetables and clothes for my children because they just grow too fast.

My children, my babies. I never thought I would have these two incredible kids. And it was 'my babies' I answered when the Doctor asked me what stops me. The answer seemed obvious, a truth buried so deep in my heart and mind I didn't even need to think about it. Looking at me closely, she asked: When you think about killing yourself, what stops you from doing it.

I didn't expect my throat to close up, to spasm as I replied, Who would take care of my babies?I'm their mommy.

Out of the suffocating life of a disassembled, in-cohesive mind, that one clear truth is solid. The depressed mind is different. We process things in away that makes no sense to us. My mind is weak and unsteady. It seems as though everything is defined differently for me. My bad days do not stand for having a bad hair day or a series of inconvenient incidents. My bad days are marked by me being numbed, laying in bed and staring at the same spot on the wall for hours. Being drained of everything to the point when the tears trickle down my face on their own accord and not caring enough to stop them, not being able to stop them. My bad days are marked by me longing to die. And my good days, I'm dressed and able to smile, even if its for a moment.

Since my mind processes things differently, when I read "The Yellow Wallpaper", I honestly couldn't see that where she was, was a mental institution. I just didn't see it as everyone else did. And because of this, I am constantly assessing my responses and behaviors. I have a mental script of how normal people would react and I follow that to a large extent.

My husband asks me if I've taken my pills, usually when I have a normal response to something he's done or said, or didn't do. That's when I reassess my response, just in case and yes, it's what a "normal" wife would do, I angrily yell, YES! Because what he's really saying to me is he's perfect in his behavior and I'm just the crazy wife. Then I quietly think, did I? I think I took them when I gave Ava her Tinker Medicines. I must be taking them, my thirty day supply is steadily decreasing...

My Little Lost Boy

I was more than uncomfortable, I was miserable. Every few minutes I'd squirm and re-adjust my fat butt and even fatter belly. Nothing helped. Trying to focus on the finale of 'Lost' did not help either. I continued to push the excitement and fear out of my mind. Taking slow, deep silent breathes I tried to mentally prepare myself. We were scheduled to meet our son, Baxter in the morning. In my mind, I played the birth of our daughter over and over, taking mental notes of what I needed to do differently. Her birth was fast, a little painful but terrifying. By time I was moved out of triage, into a delivery bed and my neubane shot administered, she came. Ava came so fast I was not able to center myself, breath, focus and my pain medicine hadn't even had a chance to kick in. But this time would be different. It HAD to be different.

I took a deep breath, cuddled a little closer to my husband. Listening to the comforting thump of his heartbeat, I watched the last few minutes of the show with security. The security only a husband could give. Well, that and the knowledge that I was just several hours away from my inducement. I was relieved, knowing I would be in that hospital bed with my pain medicine and a chance to prepare during labor.

The show ended. Looking at the blank screen we were somewhat bewildered. Shaking my head I stood up. "Is that it? THAT'S how they wanted to end it? Whatever."

Laying in bed, waiting for Aaron to lock up I was feeling so lonely without Ava in the house. I also felt like I could not empty my bladder. As he nestled in bed next to me I contemplated making yet one more trip to the bathroom before surrendering to sleep. With a sound of frustration I flung back the covers, grabbed onto the bed post and hoisted myself up.

As I walked out of the bathroom I peeked inside the kids' room. I stood looking at Ava's empty crib. Soon, there would be another baby in that room. Turning to our bedroom, the strongest, loudest contraction overwhelmed my body. Grabbing onto the wall I braced myself. I breathed, closed my eyes and as soon as the contraction ended my body tried to push the baby out. I had missed the sign my water had broken. Perhaps I expected it to be like in the movies or on the television. Getting down the stairs and into the car was harder than I thought it to be. It was a dark, cold clear night and I struggled to keep myself from succumbing to what my body needed to do.

Possibly the worst experience of my life to date, but it was worth every F-bomb. Especially the one F-bomb which lasted five whole minutes. Baxter decided he did not want to wait six hours. Apparently, I had the look of a woman laboring as we made our way through the emergency room. Various strangers in various stages of emergency watched, stared as we headed straight to the Security stand which blocked our path to the Maternity Ward. The guard looked slightly stunned as he asked if I needed a wheelchair. Trying to smile the question off I mumbled the baby would come before he got us the chair. And waddled as fast as I could down the hall and thru the double doors.

At the desk I told her my name and it seemed they had lost my previously dropped off Admit paperwork. Standing there legs crossed I preceded to fill out the forms for the second time. Glancing at the triage waiting area I noticed a quiet, very pregnant young girl. Her face betrayed the fear she was holding in as she watched me. Trying to smile as not to scare her I looked at the nurse behind the desk and calmly stated that this baby was coming, RIGHT NOW. skipping me past triage they placed me in the delivery room they continued to call the on-call Doctor.

Being reassured he was on the way, I continued to stress the fact I wanted my neubane shot. NOW. I was and still am in shock at the unprofessional attitude of the nurses. More then once I was on the receiving end of snarky comments. They liked to point out that I was taking them away from their patients. Patients who were in labor before me, and thus ahead of me on their list.

Meanwhile, Baxter was on his way out and I was ordered to hold him in, breathe like I was blowing out a candle and wait for the Doctor. I remember pleading with the nurses to just let me push him out, all they had to do was stand there and catch him. When the on-call Doctor came, I felt relieved. However, that was short lived. I asked if I could PLEASE start pushing NOW, his reply: whenever. whenever, what kind of answer was that? So I pushed. I looked to the Doctor for guidance, he just sat there, waiting to catch the baby. Looking to Aaron, I asked how Schwabe did it. Was it three pushes and a rest? I think that was right. After flailing around, cussing and hurting a nurse I met my son in less than an hour.

He hurt, more than I thought he would. I actually was mad at the little big-headed boy. Soon Ava arrived and was able to meet her new little brother. She didn't know exactly how to react, but she did want to pick him up, hold him and kiss him, we let her. Since it was after one am, we had to let Ava go back to Grandma's and get to sleep. They gave me my after birth pills and sent me off to my private room. It was there where I was able to have our quiet, intimate bonding time. The sweet moments where I felt the deepest love for my son since he was born.

I could go on and on with more complaints of the hospital staff, but this blog post is in celebration of the birth of my sweet Baxter Isaac.

The hospital was quiet, lights in my room dimmed, and Aaron asleep on the pull-out. I laid Baxter on my chest, gently unwrapped him. Counting his toes on his chubby little feet, studying every sweet curve and dimple. Kissing his soft skin, trying not to wake him, but secretly hoping he would. Marveling at his blonde hair and dimpled chin, I held him to my heart, feeling his small heart beating, hearing it's rhythm, I fell asleep.














Born at 1:21am
7 lb 4oz 19in

I Know You Will Not Read This

But there are things I need to say to you. It took me so long to finally breakdown the wall which stood between our friendship. You were the only Dad I had. I don't remember my birth father all that much. Although I am thankful for the blocked memories of my childhood, I have carried around the pain my whole life. Because of what we lived through before you, it made it so hard for me to let you into my heart.

When I first met you, I was nervous and terrified. There were so many thoughts and questions flooding my mind, making it hard to focus. I hid. I didn't want to meet you because I was afraid I would grow to love you and then you'd leave. Do you remember that day? I close my eyes and I am instantly brought back to that moment. You brought us ice cream. You drove from Sacramento to meet us and take our mom on a date. I was on edge the whole afternoon, picking out the solid chunks of cookie dough, leaving the vanilla ice cream till the end. Waiting for your date to be over, waiting to see how my mom truly felt for you. But mostly, waiting to see how I felt for you.

My heart yearned to be close to you but as a defense, I withdrew and made life hard. For that I apologize. I don't believe you will ever fully understand how much you accepting us meant. You chose to love my sister and I, not out of obligation to our mother but because you grew to love us as if we were your children. When you called me Baby Girl, I knew to the core of who I was that I truly belonged.

My favorite part of the day was dinner time. You'd come home, turn on music and pull my mom away from making dinner to dance with you. You held her tight, twirled her around and both laugh so genuinely your eyes sparkled. I watched. I saw you love. And I watched you slowly fade away. You stopped dancing, you stopped laughing. It happened seemingly so gradually that our normal consisted of you coming home from work, shutting yourself away in your office only to be bothered by one of us bringing you dinner.

You stood with me at my wedding, so nervous I shook and words could not find their way. My Dad looked at me. You looked at me and asked if I was alright. Perhaps I should have asked that of you.

I know now you weren't alright, you haven't been for years. That my life as I knew it was pretend. You showed up for my wedding, the birth of my children but you weren't fully there. We only had the shell of you while the real you was in Sacramento.

It shouldn't be hard for you to understand that you did not only betray my mom, you betrayed all of us. The life you have chosen broke so many little hearts. Hearts that believed you were their world. So many tears have been shed. So many words have been yelled and you are not here to see them, to feel their sting, to look me in the eye and tell me what is going on.

The last phone call I made to you ended with me sobbing in a voicemail. Pleading with you, telling you that I needed my Daddy. My heart was crushed and I needed my Daddy. You never called. Is this the last thing you want me to remember of you?

Already I feel those good memories fading away. Becoming overshadowed by the bad and, and I am okay with that. At the first mention of separation I struggled with how we could be a family but not. I struggled with how I would be your Baby Girl while you were not with my mom. How often would we see you? How would Birthdays and Holidays work? Now I understand. The disgusting choices you have made helped make my decision. With every lie you told, with every moment you and she took from my family, you determined the outcome. You are a person of no integrity and I do not want that kind of person in my life. I do not want a person with such twisted, deceitful morals to be in my children's life.

I do not grieve the loss of a father, I do not cry pointless tears for you. I hurt because the people I love have been hurt by you and your actions. I regret you. I regret loving you. My adoration has been wasted on a figment and I will not allow my children's love and adoration be wasted on something worthless.

I am not as gracious as my sister.

It's Not My Fight

But it feels like it is. As a mother, my heart breaks when my children hurt. As a daughter, my heart aches when my mother's heart breaks. For so long, I have seen my mom through a stoic lens. But, as I have grown and become a woman and mother, I have slowly loosened the veil and am now seeing my mother for who she is, a woman. A person with her own identity separate from myself. This enlightenment has come from a tremendous betrayal in which I have tried to be removed from. My breath has been ripped from my lungs and I find it all too easy to hide in bed, hoping this nightmare is just that, a nightmare. One which dissipates when the soft glow of morning rises...but I know it won't. And we are left with vestiges honoring someone who is all too human.

I have always seen Divorce as a good thing.

Perhaps that's why I struggled so hard the first year of my marriage. While my older sister married at eighteen. I was twenty eight.

I try so hard at times, closing my eyes and lifting boulders off all my repressed memories. But I can't. I see instead old, worn snapshots I had spent hours staring at in the album. Memorizing each smiling face, each simple gesture caught, praying that I could be in that moment. I try and recall the smell of the spring air. The warm sun on my face as a gentle breeze blows my blonde curls across my forehead. But I'm not there. I studied his face the most. Searching for any resemblance. My sister is the one who looks like him, I am a replica of our mother. We were so young then.

Our mom always tried to protect us. She was a weak, beaten down young mother with a monster as her husband. The strength she lacked for herself, she made up in her love for us. She left him. We left him.

The one constant in my adolescence were nights huddled together in bed. Mom holding us tight and through the darkness she would whisper, "It's ok. We are together. The three of us." It was the three of us for so long. Boyfriends came and went, none fitting the task of husband and father.

I was born to be a daddy's girl. But when she did re-marry, I was terrified. I felt at any moment, he would leave. They were married when I was finishing Junior High, it was a time in my life when I desperately needed a dad. Daily I evaluated our family. 'If he left now, it would be okay. He's just Mike.' As years carried out, my evaluations turned from daily to weekly and slowly just once a year. Somewhere the distinction was lost. I grew to love and trust him. I could no longer bring myself to call him Mike. He was my Daddy and in my thirties, I still called him Daddy.

Now my evaluation is real and it is more involved than I ever could have imagined.