Christmas in a new Home

Well, it has been quite awhile since I have written anything on here. I have been working on settling into my new home since you last heard from me, and although this should not be a hard task (after all what is more exciting then buying a new house), it has been hard for me. It just is not feeling like home to me.

This holiday season is especially hard. My grandmother died last year, and even though last Christmas was the first without her, this Christmas really feels different. Maybe the loss has finally sunken in... I don't know.

I put my tree up at Thanksgiving, but have only plugged it in maybe six times. Then, my husband took on the task of putting up lights outside by himself. I know I am not typically much help with this, as with my vertigo I have trouble with ladder, but our new house has a low roof line I can reach. I just couldn't get in the spirit this year.

There is no smooth fudge, no cinnamon smell coming from the kitchen, and there isn't even presents under the tree. Being as it is just me and my husband, our presents don't usually make it Christmas morning anyway, but this year we agreed no gifts. Last year I felt the same lack of spirit, but hoped making my goodies for everyone (something I do every year) would bring me out of my funk. It did not so, this year I decided no faking the Holiday Spirit.

This lack of joy seems to have been building over time. It seems over the last few years I have more trouble enjoying my Christmas specials, light up the tree less, and want to hold up in my house even more. 

If you were to ask me why, it would be extremely difficult to pinpoint one reason, but I think the biggest is most likely lack of family and camaraderie. Not only do I miss having family around during the holidays, I am tired of holidays and gift giving making me feel inadequate. Having to scrounge every last penny to get a gift for someone who cannot take time to speak to me the rest of the year just seems wrong, especially when you live within the poverty margin.

I miss seeing the goodwill between people this time of year. Maybe it is because I remember so much through the naive eyes of a child, or maybe I have just become a cynic. Whatever the problem is, this Christmas, when I should be enjoying the twinkle of lights on my new porch, all I can think about is how I just cannot wait for my flowers in the Spring.

I try to feel different, I really do. I fear if this keeps up I'll soon turn into a modern day Scrooge.

Making Changes

Change is a big challenge for me. I like things to be the same.. safe and stable, that is my motto. Okay, not really because I get restless extremely easy, but I do not like big changes. and, right now, my husband and I are getting ready for a BIG change.

Soon, we will be closing on a new house, and will be moving our of our home of nine years. I am scared, which I guess is a normal response. But, I am also overcome with joy!

See, I live two yard from my childhood home (well, one of them), and am reminded daily of the tortures I endured in that house. WE will be moving to a new town, and I am so grateful.

We are moving to a small town called Weidman. I love small towns, and just cannot wait for the move to be done. I will keep everyone updated on it, but this is not the point of my post today.

Why does it seem like change is something so hard to accept? We are constantly changing and aging, but I am so scared of doing something new. Even when I was a kid, I was scared for anything to change in the least.

Is anyone else like this? How do you cope? I find the close I come to change, the better I am handling the idea of it, but how will I deal with the reality? I guess time will tell...

High on misery?

I always hear people talk about being high on life. If I am to be honest, I do not have much of a life. I spend most of my day playing with my dogs, doing school work online, and reading a book now and then. This all depends on the season however. When it's warm out I am outside as much as humanly possible while still getting my coursework done.

I do not understand what it means to be high on life. I do however feel I am high on misery.

Okay... Not exactly high on misery, but the fact that I am no longer miserable. I love my life, as dull as it might sound to others. Yes I am sick, yes I get bored and restless, but I am happy, safe, and content.

I spent a childhood not knowing who was going to hurt me next, physically,mentally, emotionally, and yes sexually. Even though they will deny it to their deaths, I was even molested by my own sisters at a point in my childhood. Of course at the time I did not know better, but I do remember threats against my life if I told our parents. So, yeah, BIG red flag.

I cried myself to sleep at night because I had no hold on happiness, only misery. I knew what I wanted happiness to be, and sure was not what I had.

So now, I have a safe happy home. A adorable, loving husband who will do whatever it takes to make me happy. A mother-in-law who has done more for me in the last 12 years them my birth mother has done my entire life. I have found happiness, and I would not know it if was not for my misery.

I love seeing sunshine and blooms.

I love this time of year. The flowers are blooming, the sun is shining, and my dogs are running through the woods like it's a whole new world.

I remember as a kid loving May because it meant Summer break was close, and two months of freedom was just around the corner. Then I got to spend time tending the flowers, wandering the woods, and watching the animals in said woods. It is amazing the amount of nature one can find in the middle of a city.

I spent a lot of time dragged alongside my older sister as she went to visit some very shady friends, as well. I hated going to this house, but I was forced by my family to go with her. In this house I experienced a lot of dark moments while my sister was locked Ina bedroom with her boyfriend, but I was always able to escape into the woods.

Even today when the World begins to close in on me I go to my back acreage and breathing the scent of leaves, dirt, and fresh air and everything begins to float away. When I see the colorful blooms in my yard I remember all the times I spent in my grandparents' gardens and how I felt safe in their yard. When I pull a weed I pull out a bit of that anger I hold inside of me.

Summer weather is like a release for me. I think we all need a release of our own, for one reason or another. I'm just glad I can find mine in the simple things.

Spring is officially here...

It is time for e my neighbor town, Shepherd, Michigan, to have their annual Maple Syrup Festival. That means Spring is officially here! Even though it is really friggin' cold outside...

The daffodils are in almost full bloom, with the tulips following right behind them. The garage sales, that my in-laws love so much, have officially started with the Syrup Fest. And best of all the grass is GREEN!

I love Spring time. I think it is my favorite time of the year. I get to plan my new annuals for my flower gardens, I get to see the baby robins in the nest under my porch. Best of all are my dogs in the Spring.

 Even though it has been warm for a while now, they still bound out the door ready for a new adventure and animals to chase. It is like their entering a new world every Spring. I guess it might seem that way when you live in the moment like them. This is Bella's first Spring, and she is absolutely loving it. And Toby goes crazy everyday digging in his pen in the back yard. He is so smart not digging anywhere else. And Maci just loves lying in the sun warming her old bones. My old gal is going to be 12 years old this Summer, and she seems to be loving every moment of her old age.

Jordan, my husband, is starting a new job tomorrow making this an extra special season. Wish him luck! This is a job he has been working on for a long time.

Another late night...

I sit here at 2:00 AM, and sit wondering what it is keeping me up this time.

Is it the fear of my dreams of past occurrences?

Is it the migraine making my head pulse and throb?

Maybe it is just a chemical imbalance??? I have no idea, and even if I did know, I do not think it would make sleeping any easier.

All I know is I am tired of now being able to lay next to my husband and relax. I am tired of feeling so jumpy, like at any moment someone is going to hurt me.

My councilor has old me it is Post Traumatic Stress disorder (PTSD) from all of my past abuse. I think the biggest cause is the molestations I suffered more then anything that is a possible cause. For some reason, these memories hurt me more than anything, and make relaxing and letting go very difficult.

Letting go of the thought that the attacks were my fault took years. But still, I fear of falling into the same old patterns of abuse. Not that I fear my husband. Far from it! I just wonder if there is something about me that brings out the worst in people.

I wonder if this is something other victims worry about...

Lack of love

I just learned my middle sister got married again. This is her third husband, and she is only 30. Granted, she married her first husband when she was like 19-20 years old, but still, three seems like a lot in such a little time.

When I think of my marriage compared to those of my family members, and especially my parents' marriage, I am shocked how much love we have. My sisters and I grew up with so little love, we did not even know how to show love to one another, if there was any at all. 

My oldest sister claims she loves her husband, but when I have seen them together they both seem to despise each other. He cannot seem to get away from her fast enough, an she just scowls at him constantly, as if he is never up to her immeasurable standards. 

My middles sister and her first husband  (I did not have contact with her since their divorce) had a rocky relationship from day one. They  were always fighting and calling one another names so horrid, it brought tears to my eyes. After their first born, things settled down on his side, but she only seemed to get worse as years went by, escalating to the point that after about 4 years she was beating him up in front of the children. The poor man was so ashamed he just dealt with it, until she was cheating on him and decided the best way to get rid of him was to accuse him of rape. When I stuck to the victim's side, I created a great wedge between me and my family. 

Sadly though, I do not regret the lack of communication I have had with my mother and sisters in the past years. It has been a sort of calm in my life. A lack of guilt for not feeling enough towards them, and a lack of need for them to feel more for me.

My parents' relationship was of a whole other situation all together. My dad claimed that the day my mother told him she was pregnant with my oldest sister, he was packed and ready to leave. I guess his habit of using her was beginning to become boring, so he was ready to move on to another victim. But, since he had already walked away from one child as a teenager (something he made sure to punish us for with incessant mistrust through the years) he could not walk away from another, and so they married out of duty. There was never a sense of love between them, although they did both make efforts every so often. Just never at the same time.

My father lived years with one foot out the door, running around on my mom. He claimed he only started cheating on her after I was born, but I believe he did it all along. My mother knew of his cheating, and just turned a blind eye, denying all of his actions. Even to the point of trying to blame other women for trying to steal him. But, there was always a tension between them, and the two rarely spent any time in the same room unless it was in bed.

Father claimed Mother was a horrible and controlling woman, but I know otherwise. She would bow to his feet if he wanted her too. His second wife is the same way, and I just do not understand it one bit. Mother spent their years together hoping he would come to his senses and grow up, while he wished she would drop off the face of the Earth.

Meanwhile, they consistently reminded us girls how horrible it was to be together through words and actions. Mother always commented on how horrible it was having three young children; oh, how she wished she waited longer to have all of us. Then Dad could never spend a whole day with his family. Even when we went on vacation he would become a tyrant after only a couple of days. One time, he became so enraged folding up a tent, literally bit a hole in it. When I mentioned this to his new wife years later he claimed it was because no one helped with the tent, but when I attempted to help him he yelled at me that I would just mess it up. That is my father, nothing is ever his fault.

So, there was a huge lack of love in my childhood. Even my favorite person in the world, my Grandma, could not hug me in a loving way often. Of course she would embrace me when she had not seen me for awhile, and I relished those hugs. but, she was not one to sit with me and read a book, or stroke my head out of kindness. Not that it was not there, I knew it was and saw it in her eyes and action. She just had trouble showing affection from the abuse of her husband. Something I came to better understand over the years.

I find it strange when my husbands Aunt, absentmindedly rubs her hand down my hair, or his Grandmother rubs my shoulders when I am ill. I even have trouble when they offer to help me with house work during my really bad months. But, I find my reactions are positive. I enjoy knowing the lack of affection in my childhood was not because of me, as I was often told. 

My mother even once told my husband I was too hard to love. Which, it might be true it is too hard for her to love me, but it is not true that I am hard to love. Without my husband and the family of his I have become to love so dearly, I would never have known the love I hold in my heart could be returned. This was something I was so afraid of as a child. And, I hope that anyone out there who is not given the love they deserve will once find all they deserve. A lack of love is something no one ever deserves.

Started my greenhouse!

I am so freaking excited!!!!

 I know to a lot of people it might not sound like much, but I planted my first seeds!

Not my first seeds my whole life of course... but the first ones in my greenhouse. 

My wonderful husband built it for me before I even had a chance to purchase the kit I was looking at, and so when my seedling flats came today, I was able to plant my new seeds.

I have been wanting a greenhouse for so long that it all seems unreal. I do not ask for much in life, but I love my flowers! Now that I am able start my own seeds early I am no longer dependent on what is available in the stores and nurseries. I feel like a artist who has discovered new colors to work with. 

I find it kind of funny though... I have been waiting for years to build a greenhouse thinking it was going to be something so expensive, but the most expensive part has been buying the seeds and flats. This is all thanks to my husband. He such an intelligent, and wonderful man. I do not know what I would have ever done without him.

But, now I get to plant new flowers I cannot find for sale, I get to grow common flowers in rarely found colors, and I get to make my own hanging basket arrangements like I have never been able to. 

One plant I am super excited about is a special rose I found that is blue and black. I, personally, cannot stand roses, but when I saw these I thought of Jordan (my husband) and had to get them. I know he will absolutely love them. 

Sick of being Sick

How man of you out there suffered from unknown, or undiagnosed ailments?

I you do, I feel your pain and have an immense amount of sympathy for you! My entire life I have struggled with one ailment after another.

In my first post I mentioned a nasty skin condition I had at the age of four. This was my first memorable mystery medical issue. I had developed rashes of blister all over my hands, feet, and back. I had to be carried from one place to another because of the blisters on the bottoms of my feet. My skin was so damaged it was bitterly falling off of me.

I went to so many doctors! One specialist after another. Multiple and extremely painful skin scrapings, blood drawings, and pokes of needles. All to no avail. The doctors finally threw their hands up and said, "It's stress. That's all that is left for a cause." My parents reaction was, "What kind of 4-year-old has so much stress their skin falls off?"

I can tell you what kind...The kind that is beaten by her mother, tortured by her two older sisters, and raped by her father! All with not having one friend in the world, and no one in the world to turn to.

I spent my entire summer with this skin condition indoors because my tender skin could not be in the sun. I spent endless hours by myself inside watching my cartoons, visiting with the unseen spooks of our home, and playing with my lovely dog. She would even let me ride on her back to get to the bathroom. Good thing she as a BIG dog.

In the first grade I began getting open sores on my scalp. By this time, my family was living in town, and the beatings had stopped for fear the neighbors would, heaven forbid, see my mothers true side. And my father was no longer a normal accessory in the home. In the garage yes, but not in the house. Even though, he was never around too much before.

I, again, was sent to specialist, only to no avail. My hair (which was beautiful, brown with natural blond highlights, and wavy and thick) began to fall out, and some sores even oozed. But, all I could do was wait it out. It took almost two years to be completely gone, and I still, to this day, suffer from breakouts every once in awhile.

Then, in the third grade, I was struck in the head by a flying kickball on the playground. The ball was kicked by a kid named Nick who was, with no doubt and exaggeration, the biggest kid in the whole 7 grades of our elementary, and he was only one grade above me. With his strength behind the flying missile, I was in for a hell of a bang.

I stood there talking with a friend waiting for the bell to ring for us to line up and minute, and BAM! I heard the tonk of the ball, that strange ringing sound kickballs are able to make, and everything went black.

I woke up to find the playground attendant, a lovely, mousy, college student who was extremely kind and a friend to all of us students. She had a worried look, and then I looked around to see a blur of student looking at me in astonishment. In the background I heard Nick, "Oh my God, oh my God! I am so sorry!"

I slowly stood, and felt an overwhelming wave nausea, and the whole Earth seemed to be tilting oddly on its axis. I was guided to the office, holding my now broken glasses in my hand. All I could think of was how furious my parents would be over my glasses. I remember being sat in a chair and hearing the secretary calling every number she could find to contact my parents. Finally, my mother called back from work only to refuse my leaving of school. She could not be bothered to leave work, and did not think the state I was in (which was short of passing out once again) was worth leaving over.

From this event, and the lack of care I received I believe my incessant migraine developed. I have yet to find a medication that limits the pain from my headaches.

I suffer from digesting issues, recurrent infections throughout my body, pelvic pain, and even swollen lymph nodes in my abdomen. All with no medical explanations. But, as I look back at my childhood I find all of these incidents, like the kickball incident, that seem to tie to a cause for my issues.

I am so sick of being sick. I cannot tell you of one year, shit... one month of my life where I was not sick, or in chronic pain of some sort. But, even with all of the pain I find I get a different look on life. I take full advantage of my good days, and I look at my past differently. I remember my good moments, yes, but I find a strange comfort in being able to tie this ailment to that event. At least when I cannot find a medical explanation.

It is amazing the impact our emotions and state of mentality has on our physical state. So, if I cannot find a treatment, I can at least understand my life a little differently.

Dreams are not mine alone

I have often heard other victims of abuse say they find it hard to dream. I understand this, but it makes me so sad.😥 To live with out dreams of what-might-be.... That is the same as living with no hope, and I cannot imagine this.

My councilor once told me she was concerned because I could not think of one thing I wanted just for myself when asked what I wanted to do just for me. I guess that is as close as I have ever come to feeling hopeless. Simply because, I have never lived with the thought of how to help only myself. I do not have kids, and have been asked how I can be so consumed with others' needs when I have so little to do in my life. I just laugh at these critics.

All of my dreams, and hopes are for myself, but I also think of how my actions will benefit those around me. When I plant my flowers, I wonder how they will be pleasing to others. When I began college, I thought only of how it would benefit my family. I know this might sound like an exaggeration, but it is true.

I never used to dream for myself. I never had a moment for myself. I was treated as a slave by my family, and whenever I attempted to act selfish I was reminded how worthless I was. But, my husband faught against my punitive side and I am grateful. Without him, I would be one who can't dream and hope.

Instead I am able to dream of a big beautiful greenhouse as I make plans to build and begin my little starter greenhouse this year. This, in fact, is what made me stop and think of how my husband has brought dreaming back for me. This greenhouse is my first solely selfish act for as long as I can remember. And, I do not think I have ever been more excited.

If you find trouble dreaming, please find your way back to hope. Reach out to those who care, and reach out for their support. We are all worthy of dreams... Even if we know they will never come to fruition. Our dreams are only part of who we are, but it is one way we show ourselves love. And, no matter what we have been told, no matter what people have done or said, we all deserve love.

My Earliest Memory

I often wonder what people's first memories are. Are they happy, sad, confusing? Are you five, eight, or even three-years-old?


My earliest memory is when I was three. I remember my age because I was three. I remember the age, because when I was four I came down with a very strange skin condition, and doctors were unable to find a cause or a cure. This event I will recall happened when I had chicken pox, previous to my mystery illness.

It was a warm Autumn day. My sisters had recently started school, and I was home alone with my mother. My father, as usual, was no where in sight. Whether he was toiling in the garage, or at the restaurant having coffee with friends, I am unsure. But What I do know is he was not at work, since he only worked when absolutely necessary.

I had a doctors appointment because of my chicken pox symptoms. I dreaded going to the doctors. My mother would act phony, and make me act like a perfect little child. I was not allowed to complain of boredom, and had to sit quietly seen but not heard. This was a favorite expression of my parents during my first six years. Until they finally realized there was no taming my mouth.

It was a very warm day, almost shorts weather as I recall, and my mother packed away our summer clothes. This was a yearly ritual we did to make room in our dressers for our seasonal clothing, and it was often performed too early. This year, 1991, was no exception. So, I was forced to stuff into hot denim, with my pox itching and burning, only the pants I had in my dresser where all too small for me.

My mother made me squeeze in and out of each pair of pants we could find. All the while she is growing angrier with each change, and I begin crying, afraid of what her anger will result in.

After a few changes my mother began yelling, "Quit that damn crying! If you would quit gaining so much fucking weight we wouldn't have a problem."

(You may wonder how I can remember and event from such a young age with so much accuracy... Well, the answer is simple: This was not a one time occurrence.)

I began to cry harder. Now, not only was I scared, I felt guilty. Devastated I was so fat, and was causing my mother so much grief. This only agitated her more, and I saw a change in her eyes. Almost a blackness that seeped in.

She thrust another pair at me, "Here," she scowled, "you put these on, and you make them fit."

I tried my hardest. I pulled until I pinched myself to the point of bruising pulling up those pants with no avail. I began to cry so hard I was hyperventilating. My mother began to scream at me, and quickly became incoherent. I tried buckling the pants, which I still could not do with ones that fit, let alone these ones where the buttons were not even close to one another.

With my nervous energy, my mother continually yelling and blaming me for being a growing child, and the squeezing of my stomach, I wet myself.

"Oh you dirty little brat," she scorned in a low, guttural voice.

I was quickly thrown to the floor on my back, and the pants painfully ripped off of my legs. As I attempted to get up and go to the bathroom to clean myself, as at the age of three my parents thought it fitting for me to bathe myself. My mother pushed me down again, and began to whip me with the wet pants.

At first I was in such shock I did not realize what she was doing or that I was being hit by the buttons of the button-fly-pants. One hit to my legs, another to my head, and she reared her arm back as far as she could, and hit my side. I now felt the pain, and howled for her to stop.

"Mommy, I'm sorry," I wailed to her, but she was beyond hearing me at this point. I knew the routine by know, and knew it best to curl in a ball and ride it out. Only, this time she pulled me up, and took off my shirt to whip me all up and down my back. A place no one would see.

I do not know how long this torture continued, but I do remember crying so hard, my tears dried and my sobs hurt my chest. The damage was done, and there was no hiding it this time. She sent me to the bathroom, and canceled my appointment.

When I entered the bathroom, I walked to the sink, grabbed a washcloth from underneath, and gave myself a bird bath after removing my soiled underwear. I knew with my beating, a bath would only cause me more pain. I then wrapped in a towel, and walked to my bedroom which was next to the bathroom on the east side of our house, directly connected to livingroom.

My mother was sitting in her recliner smoking a cigarette, her face red and sweaty from her efforts. I tried not to look at her. More ashamed of myself, then angry with her. I did not know yet this was not a common occurrence. Although this is my earliest memory now, I do remember having the know-how of this event being a repeat.

"Go in there and put pajamas on," she sad quietly, almost a whisper. "Your not going to the doctor; you're going to bed."

I did as she told me putting on my softest nightgown, and when I crawled in bed, belly-down to avoid pain, my best friend, our dog, crawled in with me and kissed away my tears. I don't think I would have survived if not for our Great Dane/ Boxer who was my greatest companion.

Found at http://www.dreamstime.com/stock-image-artistic-crying-girl-image21896401

I quickly drifted off to sleep, only to have my sisters come home from school, enter the bedroom all three of us shared, and ask what I did to be sent to bed. My mother was at the doorway, covered by an old quilt hung on the door frame, and said I was sick and needed rest... nothing more, just needed rest.

There was never a word uttered about this incident, until 12 years later, I had the nerve to confront my mother of her abuse. She, of course, denied ever laying a hand on me in such a manner. and her response was, "I can't remember anything from being so young, so neither can you."

But, I do remember. Scientist have proven our brains retain negative memories better than positive. Maybe she did not have such negative                                                                                       memories as I have to this day.

A Glance at my Life

When I look back at my last 27 years in this life, I find it amazing the things I have endured, fought for, and fought against in order to be the person I am. I do not want to sound like I have a large head, and am a huge egomaniac... But, I am a good person. I love whole heartedly, I care for everyone and everything, and do the best I am able to do. 

Sure, I am not perfect! I will NEVER in my life say I am perfect, because I do not think there is one perfect person on this Earth (Yes, even the Dalai Lama himself has faults). But, I live by the Five Precepts as best I can, I meditate, I do for others when I can, and I, of all things, did not turn out like my family (but this is a whole other topic for many other posts). 

Today I live in a quaint, but in need of repair, home with my wonderful, loving, and supportive husband, and our three dogs. My husband is the smartest, most capable person I have ever known. I love him so much, that sometimes it hurts. We have one of those almost fairytale love stories. Boy and Girl meet, Girl's horrible family hates Boy, love endures and Boy rescues Girl from the terrible "What Could Have Beens". As much as I may hate marriage sometimes, there is nothing that will ever make me stop loving him.

 Our dogs are an odd mix of characters. We have a Mini Dachshund, who was our first dog of the bunch. She is loving and needy at the same time, loves to give kisses and be held. She is a wonderful and compassionate companion on the days I am sick. Sometime, even t the point of mimicking my symptoms. Everyone loves her, and she loves everyone.

 Our Parson Russell was the second to our horde. He is a high-strung energy machine, who has very little patience for those who go against his wishes (this is becoming more relevant with our latest addition). But, he is a baby, and I love him. We have a special bond, unlike any I have ever had with my pets, and it started right from the moment I held him. After he fell asleep in my hands, that little bundle of fur would not leave my side. He, truly and honestly, is a baby; he even lays in your arms like one, and if he is sitting with you while rocking, he conks right out.

 The Pit Bull is our latest addition (the one that tests the Parson's patients). She is rambunctious and pushy, and bull-headed like a Pit bull should be. She also loves to rough house, lay in my lap, and loves her brother and sister. Everyday she gives them kisses, and cuddles with the Dachshund at night. She is a lover of all lovers, and I am so proud of the dog she is. She is smart, inquisitive, and gives wonderful hugs. At eight months old, she is wise beyond her time, and is we're working on controlling her rambunctiousness. 

In a nutshell, this is my life today. I attend school online, my husband and I are both on disability for multiple reasons (please do not judge us for it, we worked hard to not get to this point), and love gardening. I am very close with my husband's side of our family, and have no contact with anyone on my side after the demise of my grandmother. I am in counseling for my traumatic childhood, but have finally gotten to a point where my every thought is not consumed by nightmares. 

As time goes on I will share more details of my life, but I wanted to give you a glance of where I am today. The point of this blog is not to make anyone feel sorry for me, not to justify the things that have happened to me or anything I have or have not done. It is simply to spread word that we, those who have been abused in any way, are not alone. We are not responsible for what happened to us, but are responsible for what we do with the pain, sadness, and heartache the abuse causes us.

Please, follow me on my journey through my life. Some days I will discuss my past, some my present, and some my hopes for the future. But, most of all, I will be healing through my words. Letting go with every keystroke... and hopefully it will allow those of you who hold it all in, like I have been doing to let it go as well.