Remembering a moment of happiness~

I was surprised that this was what first came to mind with the prompt, "Tell me about a time you were happy." I've been happier since then, but I think that this was when I started to blossom, the moment the wall of darkness around my heart began to crack and give way....

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The first thing she did when she brought an exhausted, nervous me with all of my luggage home with her that first night from the airport was sit down right behind me. She pulled my hair out of it's messy pony-tail and proceeded to brush it gently for about ten minutes. We didn't talk, she just brushed and I tried not to cry. I could feel each brush stroke radiate warmth over my entire body. I was here, I was safe and I was being touched. I couldn't remember the last time someone had just touched me, hugged me, loved me. I felt happy in a raw, hopeful sort of way. Later I was happiest in the car with her, holding hands while we both sang at the top of our lungs. She was as physically stunning as she was kind. People would turn to get a second glance because of her long, silky brown hair and her full breasts, but they'd keep staring because of her deep aqua-green eyes and friendly smile. It was as if she wore her kind heart on the outside, instead of keeping it tucked away and protected on the inside like everyone else. I loved looking at her. I never got over the amazement I felt when she'd reassure me that she was my home. I remember all the songs we sang those years together in Texas. Everytime I hear music from that time frame I'm reminded of her and it brings me mixed emotions. Mostly happiness and a little pain as all things seem to bring in life. We ate out at restuarants nearly every night. She was tired after cooking for her ex-husband seventeen years. She bought me new clothes, she dressed me like her little doll and every day felt like a celebration. We lived in a fantasy world, our own separate little fantasy worlds, but gosh was I ever happy. I wouldn't trade any of it for a minute.

Remembering a time when I was alone~

I was alone for about thirty minutes after giving birth to Jace. They moved me from the labor and delivery room to the room I was to spend the next twenty-four hours in. They kept Jace in the room he was born in longer to do whatever tests they do on new little babies. Michelle and Abby had left for the grocery store to get me some food. I'm always starving after I give birth, it's as if my body is instantly trying to replace the missing weight of the baby. Michelle's mom June stayed with Jace while the doctor's looked him over. It's her fondest memory of the whole birth. She gets these big smiles and her eyes light up whenever she tells anyone about those thirty minutes. "It was just me and him and he looked right into my eyes! I told him, Welcome to my world." Then she laughs her big belly laugh. So pleased with herself.

I was alone. Those thirty minutes were pure hell for me. Being away from my baby those first minutes drew out something primal in me. I could have climbed out of my skin with all the anxiety I felt. Where was my baby? What was taking them so long? I wanted to be able to see him, have more time to memorize his face. I still feel in the core of my being that it's wrong to take a new baby away from it's mother. That experience would make me choose to have a home birth if only we lived closer to a hospital.

Michelle and Abby made it back to me before Jace. "Where's the baby?" they asked.

"I don't know. He's been gone FOREVER!" I snapped.

Michelle went out of the room and like a hero came back moments later, pushing Jace's bassinet in front of her with her mom following close behind. "They kept him too long." I complained.

"Oh don't be ridiculous, they did not." June said with irritation, just dismissing my feelings. At that moment, I'd have given anything to kick that woman out of the room. A part of me wishes she hadn't had been there for the birth. She came with a cold, for crying out loud! She spins the story so it's all about her, her saving the day, her grandson. Every story she tells is the same. It's as if I wasn't even present for Jace's birth and if I was it was only to annoy her. If there's a next time, another birth. It WILL be different.

What did you learn from your father?~ Another writing topic

My Daddy Bill taught me how to turn the lights on and off. I remember feeling small in his arms as he carried me around the house from light switch to light switch. I remember the scratchy, tickle of his mustache on my temple as I'd lean over and flick the switch up and then down, off-on, off-on. It took all of my concentration to get my fingers just right to make the switch work, then we were off speeding, whirling through the kitchen, the den, the garage, he let me practice with the lights in every room. I can remember the low echos of his laughter, feel the vibration of his words against my body, but his voice has become muddled as if it's under six feet of water in my mind. I doubt I'd be able to recognize his voice if I heard it now. If I look up in my memory, at the place where his face should be all I can see is a giant black smear, almost like a thumb print. I think it's a good visual for the smudge he left on so many hearts when he chose to end his life.

My Daddy Bill never got to graduate to the title of just dad. He missed all of my life, he didn't protect me, he didn't hug me and he certainly wasn't there to tell me he loved me. The lessons he taught me came from the pain he caused to everyone that ever cared about him when he commited suicide. Even those that didn't care all that much for him were left with a burden of guilt, the agonizing question,"I wonder if things would have been different if I'd talked to him?"

My older brother struggles with meth addiction and I haven't seen him in three years. During the times I've spent with him in the past he goes on and on about our father's suicide. Do I think it was a conspiracy? What do I remember seeing? Would I let him talk to my uncle who was also there? My father died twenty-five years ago, but my brother can talk as if it happened yesterday. He has all this rage and pain brewing inside of him that I don't think he'll ever be able to come to grips with. It's not all my father's fault, but I'd hate to even be partly responsible for the wounds my brother carries.

Ending my life, destroying other people's lives in the process has never been an option I'd think about. I don't care how bad things have been or get. I've had oppurtunities to try things like Meth and Coke, but I've never considered it. My Daddy Bill's life went down the tubes with that crap and I have learned from his mistakes. Those are the only things he left behind for me to learn.