7 Years Ago

Seven years ago today.

Seven years ago I chose to tell someone. For the first time I didn’t feel compelled to tell, as if the words couldn’t stay in any more. Seven years ago, I wanted to tell.

Seven years ago, I opened my heart, just a little, but more than I had ever done before.

Seven years ago, I decided something- someone- was more important than my fear. I decided to listen to my heart instead of the destructive voices that had controlled me for years. I decided that the regret of saying nothing would be worse than the fear I was feeling.

Seven years ago, I received love, patience, and understanding. Seven years ago, I was accepted for the beautifully broken person I didn’t know I was.

Seven years ago, I started down a path that would not only change my life, but save it too. Seven years ago, I finally started to live.

Seven years ago, I made the best decision of my life.

Happy 7th anniversary Robby. Here’s to 70 more.

The anniversary I wish I didn’t have

Last Thursday was the one year anniversary of losing our baby Jamie. Needless to say, it was a very emotional and trying day. Part of me didn’t even want to acknowledge the day because I was worried that if I let myself remember the pain then it would consume me. Last year after losing Jamie I lost several weeks. I have vague memories but the first thing I truly remember was August 4th, one month after losing Jamie. I was scared that would happen again. It was the most difficult time of my life and I did not want to repeat it. At Robby’s urging I did allow myself to break down a little. Robby held me while I cried, and I wrote a poem which I would like to share with you today

7/4/13

If you look at me and see that I’m overweight, do you judge me?

If you ask me what I do and I say I don’t work do you look down on me?

If I brush my hair out of my eyes and you see my tattoo do you label me?

I can see it in your eyes when you’ve found my category. When you’ve decided who I am.

Do you know the weight,

the stigma,

the shame I feel?

Because you don’t really see me

 

You don’t see that the weight is from overeating as a child, trying to protect myself.

Trying to turn into someone no one would want

Someone no one would molest again

 

You don’t hear that I cannot work because of the PTSD, all you hear is that I don’t work.

That I don’t ‘earn my way’

You don’t hear that I wish I could work,

wish I could control it,

wish I could ‘get over it’

But I can’t.

 

You don’t know that my tattoo is the heartbeat of the baby I never got to hold.

You don’t know that when you ask me if I have kids my heart breaks a little more.

 

You don’t see me

hear me

know me.

Please don’t judge me.

 

I am so much more