There are days that just have a fragile, delicate feel to them. Days so special and cherished it would take a catastrophe to disrupt it. Days when you get up at the crack of dawn just because you can’t sleep for thinking about the wonderful things that are to happen over the coming hours. Days when laughter comes easy, work doesn’t feel like work, walking for miles doesn’t wipe you out and you don’t need bubble baths with music to help ease a wearied heart.

Yesterday was one of those days for me. I got up after only two hours sleep, packed our picnic cooler and a bag of things we’d need. I checked the mental list in my head, made sure everything was ready, then went and woke each girl gently. We snuggled for a few minutes, savoring the fact that TODAY was the day, then excitement took hold and they leaped out of bed, donned clothes and off we scampered. Giggled at how there were no more days to mark off on our Countdown Calendar. An hour and a half later, we were there.

Beech Bend Amusement Park & Splash Lagoon in Bowling Green, KY.

The forecast called not only for rain but thunderstorms throughout the day but rain wasn’t going to spoil this. You see, we’ve been going to Beech Bend for nigh on seven years now. Each year, we get season passes and go about five times over a summer. The first year we went, we were amazed that we stayed from the time they opened the gates to the time the park closed. We knew then that we had found a treasure. That treasure has become quite priceless to our family; it represents a place where time seems unlimited, kindness is ordinary and memories are appreciated as they are captured.

The magic is in more than the nearly forty kid-oriented rides and water park. It actually starts with the dream. All year, we talk about this place. We make a list of all the things we’re going to do when we get there. And we make everything related to the adventure special. On the ride up, I told them how my sister and I used to pull our bent ours up and down whenever we passed a semi-truck because some of the truck drivers would honk at you if you did that. We decided to try it out. Sure enough, the very first trucker obliged, pulling his horn and eliciting shrieks of delight from the backseat. Another follow suit. We talked about CB radios and A said hers was “angel.” We sang.

We got to Beech Bend half an hour before the gates opened and had to wait. At least three times, A asked: “Are we in a dream?” It felt like it was because we had waited and waited…. seven months is a long time to wait! The gates opened and we made it through. We always go to the water park first. Water slides, wave pool, lazy river, a 10ft deep pool that’s bigger than an Olympic sized one and features a lily pad crossing water obstacle for the adventurous kid–or double chocolate dared mom.

The only way I can enter water that’s known to be cold is to dive in. So I am usually the second in; Breathe will slide into the water, laugh at how cold it is, then duck under the water all before I have a chance to shed coverings and just jump into the freezing depths. Alight will jump in but it takes her longer; she prefers the hard way-easing one toe in at a time. Her “best” place to be is the obstacle lily pad course. She loves “swinging”, crossing by holding the ropes as though it’s a monkey bar set. She’ll do it time and time again, blisters and all.

Once we’ve spent an hour or two splashing in the pool, it’s time for the first round of rides. They like the ones that could compete for the Most Likely to Cause Hurling Award: Scat, Hurricane, Moby Dick, Tilt A Whirl things that no six year old should possibly want to ride. And they like doing these crazy rides multiple times in a row, until I can barely walk away from the ride upright.

It was during the first round the my daughter said: “I can’t believe we’re really here.” It was hard to believe. It was hard to believe that sometimes time does stand still; hard to believe that sometimes the moments you’re living can be so lovely you don’t even have to wonder if they will linger in each other’s memories. No one, after all, forgets being worthy of another’s undivided attention. No one forgets holding hands while flying high only to drop quickly, as you do on the Sea Dragon. No one forgets the time talking to someone else was so fun you didn’t stop talking even while you were flying around in circles while sitting in a car that rocked from side to side, as is what happened to my daughter Breathe and I while on the Flying Bobs. It’s hard to forget getting stuck highway up the big incline on the log ride while your mom laughs about how fast your heart is going (she knows because you’re leaned against her and your heart is racing so hard her palm can feel it a your belly). The rides are fun but sharing the experience with someone makes it priceless.

After rides comes the magic show with tricks we saw last year but are still memorized by: a girl disappearing, a card trick, a magician eating fire. Magic is special to us: Dinky Gowen, the magician who performs daily at Beech Bend, is who got the girls hooked on magic. Last year, we bought home his magic kit; this year, the girls go to a local magic club where they learn more magic tricks. It inspires confidence in them–and gives hours of fun.

We stopped by Granny’s Petting Farm. A goat was pregnant; my oldest was thrilled by this news. Hours later, we’d return to the petting farm a second time and discover that the tiny kid had been born while we played. Fragile, delicate, beautiful new life. It felt perfect.

By this time, we’re hungry so it’s time for pizza, hot dogs, nachos and ice cream. While we eat, we talk about what we are going to do next. This time, we were ready for another round at the pool. So we flip flop between the water park and the amusement park. Every so often, one of the girls asked: “Do we still have lots of time?”

Finally, time runs low. We get out of our swim suits, change into our pajamas and head out of the park. Mrs. Queenie, one of the employees, greets us at the gate, asks if the baby dolls we’re carrying had fun. I didn’t realize it until I saw some of the same employees from last year, but I’d missed even the employees. They are unfailingly kind; they treat you like you’re family. We didn’t have to stand in any significant lines, all the rides were open and for 9 straight hours, the outside world simply didn’t exist. No disturbing calls, no checking of emails… just precious time spent laughing and talking with each other.

We’d packed our umbrellas because thunderstorms had been forecasted–but not a single drop of rain fell all day. We’d waited for this day all year and it turned out to be a beautiful day, even in weather. No one argued, no one cried. It was too precious a day to be spoiled by frivolities. It had been about seven months, since last August, that we had been to Beech Bend. During that time, I don’t know how many maps of the park we’d drawn, or how many times we created a mini Beech Bend using our hot tub and zipline as the attractions. Seven months is a long wait, especially when you’re six and nine. But, after such a delicate, beautiful day, I know the wait was worth it. Beech Bend is an amusement/water park with all the rides (they have the Rumbler, Power Surge and Vortex for those truly brave thrill seekers) plus the added bonus of a downhome feel, genuine people who are so kind even my six year old commented on it when the employee at the log ride picked her up to help her into and out of the log. We’ve been to bigger amusement parks–Dollywood was last year–but all agree that the bigger parks seem to be lacking a special ingredient only found at Beech Bend: magic.

When we arrived home, the girls collapsed into exhausted sleep and I took a bath. Only this bath wasn’t to self-console, it was simply to ease aching muscles. Frankly, I work really hard to provide days like this all yea: we go on adventurous outings three or four times a week and even when we stay home, I am deeply involved in their playtime. I don’t believe in saying “go play”; I strive to stimulate their imaginations into growing beyond video games or movies. It also serves to strengthen the bond we have with one another: it’s why we have memberships to so many different places around town. Still, sometimes, we all feel the exact same joy at the exact same time and, when that happens, it’s as though the whole day is gift-wrapped just for us as a way of reminding us that life is precious, fun and can even feel like a dream come true.

And rainy thunderstorms had been predicted.

I have epiphanies in the bathtub. Really, really important ones that shock me right back into breathing. Because sometimes I forget to breathe, particularly during stressful days like today. Not breathing is one of my defense mechanisms that works because it lets me feel like I have at least some semblance of control. Here’s how it works: when one mini crisis comes, I unconsciously hold my breath for a few seconds, then breathe out so I don’t pass out and repeat until said mini crisis is over. The bigger the crisis, the longer I hold my breath, or take really short, shallow breaths which don’t allow my lungs to fill with oxygen. At the time, I truly don’t realize what I’m doing. Not until about twenty minutes after the storm and I’ve had time to mentally recuperate and assess any damage do I finally drag a long breath in until I can feel my lungs expanding. Then, I go about my day as if it was all sunshine and roses because, if I don’t, I’ll get caught in the Pessimistic Quicksand I so fear.

This trait probably helped me survive a traumatic childhood but it has its flaws. Namely, the part where I just go about the day, refusing to personally acknowledge any struggle. This is bad for probably lots of reasons but, mainly, because it means I forget to take care of me. Rather a lot.

It was a bad, bad day. At the end of the bad day, once the girls were asleep, I started running a bubble bath without consciously thinking about it. I lit one candle and lay back in the bubbles. My eyes open, I spied my phone sitting on the back of the toilet. Without thinking, I sat up and created a playlist that had three songs: Tanya Tucker’s “Strong Enough to Bend” which is kind of like my personal motto, Travis Tritt’s “Drift off to Dream” because it gives me a reason to keep dreaming of a fairytale and Lady Antebellum’s “Golden” because every word in that song melts my heart. Turned the volume down low, put the playlist on repeat. Then, I lay back in the tub and closed my eyes.

I never, ever do this. Ever. Not once. My bi-weekly, candle lit bubble baths embrace silence; in fact, silence is sought after as a means of comfort during my bubble baths. But. The thing is, you see, music has an analgesic effect on my heart. Writing helps heal my wounds; music awakens my soul to the presence of joy. It soothes me and can lift my mood by the second chorus. Singing happens without thought and regardless if I’m alone or with strangers. If I know the words, I sing. And by so doing, I walk out of any sadness I feel. Music, and singing, are rather magic in the way they propel me into a circle of peace.

In short, music soothes me.

I lay in the bubbles and sang along. The first time. The second time through the playlist, though, I didn’t sing. I closed my eyes and made a concentrated effort to just listen. The deep beauty stirred my heart and then a thought whispered through my mind like wind through a willow tree: “Be good to yourself“

An epiphany.

I joke that there isn’t time to take care of myself: I’m fine. It’s everybody else that needs something: food to eat, a lesson to learn, a new manuscript, a speech, a birthday surprise, etc. I don’t use sticky notes or a calendar but everything is etched in my mind and the list never ends. That’s the reason progress has killed or maimed so many–because if we don’t get everything on today’s list done, it’ll be bigger tomorrow and we’ll get behind and, if we get behind, we’ll never find Utopia. So we work round the clock, we invent reasons to be busy, and we say it’s all for a family we never get to see because we never get caught up. I’m not in the corporate world–but I feel the rat race anyway. Somehow, I find a way to meet the expectations. I’m very, very good at that because I want people to have a reason to let me be a part of their lives.

Until I stop breathing.

Tonight, in the bath, it occurred to me that, as long as I am neglecting myself, I will never be able to give 100% to anyone else — even my girls. I needed a space to stitch up little holes the day had torn in my confidence and heart. A bubble bath helped–but didn’t provide enough thread to mend all the holes. I needed another bit of selfish indulgence. Tonight, that missing piece was music. And only after soaking up the beat and the bubbles was I ready to shake the day’s debris off. When I don’t care for myself, a crumb of the day’s sour taste lingers on.

I have a hard time indulging myself with frivolous things like bubble baths because I am so dreadfully afraid of being selfish. But if I refuse to take a bubble bath or listen to music because it’s not “the right day” (I’ve done that), if I deny myself the things that make me happy and give rest to my heart, then ultimately, I’m little more than an American-made car that’s running on empty. Soon, my fuel will run out and then what?

And then my girls will become women who believe they aren’t worthy of happiness. They will deny themselves the things that bring them pleasure because they’ll think it makes them bad people. They will never learn to look in a mirror and see themselves as lovely but will instead feel like they are climbing a never ending ladder trying to find recognition and acceptance.

I can’t let that happen. Life is too beautiful and precious and lovely to live drained and ashamed that you exist. It’s too much of a gift to believe you have to earn the right to be happy, like I do. Humans are the only species, out of millions, that have the level of intelligence and abilities that we have: failing to believe in ourselves is failing to acknowledge the massive potential that exists in each of us. God didn’t make the world–and then me as an afterthought; instead, He made me for a purpose and out of immense love. Taking care of ourselves and remembering to breathe real breaths is like giving ourselves a hug. And everybody knows that hugs are the best at inspiring hope, solace and peace.

And so, I can’t feel guilty for the hour it took to soak the crumbs of the day away instead of finishing work for my classes or packing for another adventure-laden, fun day tomorrow. Instead, I think I’ll break my self-imposed rule of only having one bubble bath every other week and have one again tomorrow. With music.

I needed today in a way I can’t even begin to explain.  I needed today like you need a drink of water when you’re running a marathon on a hot Summer day.  We really didn’t do anything all that spectacular.  We just went to the creek;  we played there for almost four hours before driving the forty-five minutes home.   The girls double chocolate dared me to climb up to the top of the jungle gym,  so I did.  We waded in the creek;  it stole one of my flip flops.  We played with balloons, ate PB&J sandwiches for lunch and McDonalds for dinner.   Snapping pictures on my phone, and making the occasional update on Facebook, was the extent of stress.  Alight scratched her hand pretty bad;  some park rangers on scene came to her rescue with a band-aid and smile.  A stranger at the park asked me if I’d like her to take a picture of the girls and I atop the jungle gym.  And a friend or two totally made my day by graciously spending a few minutes communicating with me.   It was a good day, one I needed in order to stop putting off announcing the book’s release.

So, without further ado, Broken is available!

Retailers like Barnes and Noble, Books-A-Million and others won’t have it in their inventories until May 6, 2013 but you can purchase it online at Amazon now.  It is selling for $12.99 on Amazon, but if you’d like to save $2.00, you can click here and enter code LC4PJ7JK .  This discount code expires on Monday, May 6th at 12:01 am, though. 

I needed a good day to remind me that life isn’t all about the pain.  Life is about the sunshine and putting our bare feet in the grass;  it’s about playing with our kids and making memories that aren’t just cool pictures on Pinterest.  I needed a good day to remind me that pain is just a rushing river.  It’s mighty and sometimes the current gets strong;  but, with time, compassion and grace, all rivers can be crossed.

Thank you for reading, for commenting, for e-mailing and messaging and otherwise spending time communicating with me—-about the books and about your own passion in life!  If you purchase the novel or take the time to comment on one of its many excerpts found within the pages of this blog,  be sure to let me know so I can return the favor by reading and commenting on your blogs!

HAPPY  READING!

Dear Abba:

The book is about to be released, officially.   Like, for real.  The ugly negotiations with distributors, the back and forth on cover price, the endless nights writing, editing and drawing… it’s about done.  Usually, at this point in the process, I’m rather excited.  But, as You know, the book has been available at select outlets for a couple days now;  I just haven’t announced it officially.  Which is weird.  Very, very weird.  Usually, I can’t wait to share a new story;  usually, all I do is wait with child-like giddiness for the first e-mail from the first reader to pop up in my inbox or Facebook newsfeed.  Usually, I am happy right about now.   And proud.  And, have I mentioned happy?

Not so much right now.

Instead, I’m finding myself fighting tears every time I think of the book.  I’ve tried to re-read it, and can’t.  Taya’s no longer shadowing me.  I haven’t felt her for days now.  Her story’s been told, so she’s gone.  I miss her.  But not the same way I missed Ash or Michael or Jessie,  Abrielle,  Clayton, Alexi or any of the dozens of others.  Taya’s absence makes my heart hurt;  it makes me ache for a little girl who used to have my name and features.  It makes me remember all that has been lost.  Permanently.  Forever, gone.   Taya blocked feeling by cutting herself,  by destroying her own body.  Even today, “healed” as I am, I’m not all that different still.  I block feeling by writing.   Refuse to let anything other than optimism breach my walls.  I might break down in tears in the bath but no one is ever going to see that.   I’m sad because her story is mine and I am scared.

I could talk about The Character.   I can talk about that part of it now.  I can tell others what happened in that area now;  I can hold conversations about it.  I’m strong enough to do that now.  It hurts, but it’s doable.  I see it as a sign of growth.   It’s a truth that needs to be shared;  others are going through it right now,  and it might help.  Knowing I wasn’t alone and that it was not normal might have helped me.  I can talk about the memory of being carried into another room, away from my sister who was sleeping beside me.  I can talk about the physical pain;  the memory of it tearing.  You’ve gotten me through that storm into a place of peace.  I don’t understand it and I still mourn for that little girl, but it’s a pain I know how to deal with.

Taya’s is my story too.  I might not have attempted suicide… but I understand the thought.  I was a foreigner in school too.  Once, in the ninth grade, some girls wadded up a page of my book and threw it in the trash can;  they also poured catsup on a sanitary pad, stuck it to the classroom television and told the teacher I did it;  I know what being targeted at school feels like.  I moved too.  I was searched waiting to see a dad who told other inmates lies about me too.  Violence was commonplace in my home too.   I can tell you the difference in decor between Comfort Inn and Holiday Inn too;  I pretended I was an Olympic swimmer also.  I wrote Last Wills and Testaments out when I was eighteen and nineteen years old, almost nightly.  See,  I’ve got a handle on the physical pain.  I’ve got a grip on what that is and how it changed my life.  But I’ve only written one or two articles on the feelings it inspired in me as a teenager.  I’ve never written about having a father in prison, not in any depth.   I’ve not written about the bruises I inflicted upon myself, or why.  I’ve never written about how scared I was because I didn’t feel things the way others seemed to.  When others were happy, I smiled and acted happy.  When others were sad, I cried without really feeling the sadness.  I was numbed for years.  Frankly, I still sometimes am.   I still don’t know how to express sadness when I am in the presence of another human being.  I cry when no one can hear the tears.  Because, when it comes right down to it,  I’m afraid I’m only serving a purpose if I’ve got something positive to say, or do.  We invest in our friends;  why would someone, anyone, invest in someone else who wasn’t happy?

I don’t know the answer to that question.  So I make sure I have something to offer, something positive and worthwhile.  I write about what happened to that little girl You made me once because other women (and men) were that little girl once too and they don’t have the words You’ve given me.  I work hard to fill every day with optimism and resilience because it brings purpose.  I can stand in front of a crowd and relive those terrible nights when I was five, seven, ten, those terrible nights when I felt the pain of being violated, but only because I believe truth connects us, draws us closer and helps support healing. I can tell anyone that there’s hope—because I’ve felt it.  I can tell anyone that the memory of being torn can be overcome by a meaningful and strong enough hug–because I’ve felt it.  I can tell anyone I understand the pain they’re in as a result of childhood sexual abuse–because I was that child.

But what am I supposed to say the first time someone asks me why choosing a life that hurts is better than choosing death?

I’m very proud of this book.  Probably one of the most proud I’ve ever felt of a character.   Taya totally encapsulates the vision of her that was with me for so long.  She’s very strong—but she’s vulnerable too.  I’m proud.  And I’m thankful for the words that seemed to come so easily.  But I’m also a little nervous.   I’m excited about the chance to connect with others—You’ve given me a truly beautiful gift and, with it, the opportunity to really connect with others, to meet them where they are.  I’m excited to hear others’ stories of survival and journey to hope.  I’m excited to learn how others keep optimism alive in the face of such overwhelming evil.  I’m humbled by the opportunity to realize, again, that I was never really alone; others have had it far worse than me.  That knowledge that has always brought me hope, and comfort.  Excited, humbled, proud… but also just a little scared and tired.   Scared of trying to confront very personal battles I have not dealt with in front of an audience of any size and tired of seeing all the pain people face.

So.

This book is in Your hands;  be with it and with me as it goes forward.  Guide my words, and my steps.  May those for whom You could make it a blessing read it;  let those for whom it could pain ignore it.  It’s not about sales in my world, it’s about people and connecting with them and making a whole lot of hurt into something better.   Remember when I was eight years old and I ran into the kitchen to tell Mama that I could write a book like the Baby Sitter’s Club too?   I’d written “Sweet Shelby” when I was six, but I didn’t remember doing it.  Mickey was the first book I remember writing and I was so excited.  I thought,  ”I know I can do it!”  I didn’t know what “it” was.  I did not know it was what was going to get me through.  I didn’t know it would introduce me to the women who said,  ”I wish I’d seen Ash too”  before breaking into tears.  I didn’t know it would make a woman I barely knew stop me in front of a vending machine to talk about it.  I didn’t know I would be able to channel everything I was feeling into characters.  I didn’t know it would be part of what kept me sane.  I was just excited about being able to do something well;  one of the only things I have ever been able to do well.   I didn’t know that it was the tool by which You wanted me to heal, or the avenue by which You would guide me to speaking in public and at schools.  I met and talked privately with two Holocaust survivors, one of whom survived the camps.  There are no words for the awe-inspiring healing those experiences brought.  I didn’t know writing would lead to any of that.  But You did.  Today, I called Barnes and Noble, asked if they had  The Character.  They did.  Isn’t that something amazing?   After that, I checked the sales stats;  they made me cry.  People I don’t even know are reading the books;  people come to this blog from countries I have never even heard of, like Qatar and Mauritius (no kidding).   What is hope, if not that?   The healing that has followed has been amazing.  I’ve learned that maybe all children are innocent—not just every child but me.  I’ve learned that no matter how hard any one day is,  a beautiful stranger could quite possibly change my life tomorrow.

And, for me, that’s the answer, isn’t it?
That’s why choosing life is better than death.

Because hope comes when we least expect it.   Hope is about counting the small, easily overlooked blessings as often as we notice the daggers.  It’s about putting more weight in the warm smiles and unexpected gifts we’re given than in the arrows that sometimes piece our hearts.  This book, it might remind me that, as far as I’ve come, I’ve still got a long road to go.   It might  remind me of memories I’d rather forget.  It might make me confront questions I don’t especially want to answer.  But it also gives me a reason to go back to high school, so I might give Stackhouse his new book.    It might scare me a little, because there’s more truth to this novel than I really want to acknowledge, but I trust You.  Remember when I was very little and I laid in the dark, holding my palm up toward the sky, asking You to hold my hand?  You always did.  Every, single time.  I would bask in the unexpected warmth that had settled over my palm and I would carefully lay my upturned, warm palm on my pillow, terrified that if I accidentally moved my hand during sleep, Your hand might slip out of mine.  Except it never did.  I’d wake up feeling secure still.  And, while I might be a little unconventional, despite everything, I still believe in people.  Because I know without doubt some of them truly care. 

The book ends with the lyrics to a song.

“This little light of mine, I’m going to let it shine.   This little light of mine, I’m going to let it shine.  This little light of mine, I’m going to let it shine, let it shine, let it shine, let it shine.  Hide it under a bushel, NO! I’m going to let it shine,  Hide it under a bushel, NO!  I’m going to let it shine.  Hide it under a bushel, NO!  I’m going to let it shine, let it shine, let it shine, let it shine.”

I can keep the pain—that which I’ve conquered and/or that which I have not— to myself or I can let You take it and use it.  You see further than I do,  You know who might read this book and why,  I don’t.   I can keep it under a bushel, guard it and let it keep me in a tomb of fear all my life or I can share it and learn that maybe, just maybe,  I can overcome this too.  There was a time when the mere thought of anyone knowing I laid on a bed and let really bad things happen to me filled my entire core with shame and panic.   Now,  I feel the sadness for a little girl lost, but can stand in front of a crowd and say words I could never have said aloud ten years ago.  The light has shone;  friends have been made;  healing has been felt;  hope has been alive.   So.    I’ll take a deep breath and turn this part of my past over to You too:  let the light shine.

Thank You for writing.  Thank You for a supportive mother, sister and children.  Thank You for the teachers and friends I’ve met along the way who have sewn hope so deep into my soul I can’t forget what it looks and feels like.  Thank You for letting me dream like Cinderella and daughters that let me play.  Thank You for songs that resonate in my head when I am hurting, and memories of things like horses, homeless angels, creeks and the smell of old books that have wrapped me up in warmth on nights when the past made me feel cold.  Thank You for a church that feels like home, a city that beats in my heart and, most of all, thank You for allowing me to still care so deeply.  Caring, you see, that has been the key.  Caring enough to trust despite all logic screaming not to;  caring enough to get up even, and maybe especially, when I want to hide instead;  caring enough to see the homeless man’s smile;  caring enough to notice a stranger was holding a door open for me….  maybe I don’t have anything to offer anyone.  Maybe Taya’s right and my life doesn’t really matter.  Maybe my worst fear will happen, and I’ll be totally forgotten.   She said,  ”caring doesn’t matter”,  Taya did.  But she was wrong.  If you stop caring, that’s when the sky turns dark and you’re in real danger.   But as long as I care about others, there exists a reason to hope.
And so,  very, very soon I’ll announce the official release of  the book.  Because I believe in writing and in all the truths my writing holds.  Because I believe in strangers and in others.  And because I believe in You.

Love,

A very special reading of one of my favorite  chapters, one that makes me very proud of Taya.  Broken is the story of 15 yr old Taya, and how desperation can lead to teenage suicide.  You can purchase Broken for $12.99 online now here and in bookstores nationwide on May 1st 2013!

Recently, a fellow writer, Caleb Tyler,  interviewed me regarding the new book, “Broken.”    He had a ton of questions;  though they were all excellent questions, these are the ones that stood out.   The interview took place via telephone;  with his permission and prior approval to ensure I did so correctly, the questions have been paraphrased for the purposes of documenting them in writing.  You can read excerpts from the novelhere, here and here.  

Teenage suicide is a sensitive issue scarcely fictionalized like in Broken.  What made you choose this as a topic? 

I don’t feel like I really choose the stories.  I do know that it’s a topic I considered on more than one occasion prior to writing Broken.  Anyone who glances at the statistics behind teenage suicide would be scared.  1 in 6 high schoolers in the United States has seriously considered suicide, says a recent study by the Center for Disease Control and Prevention.  1 in 12 have attempted suicide.  13% of students aged 14-16 years of age admitted to having created a suicide plan.  In research for this book, I interviewed several teenagers between 14-16 years of age. None of them seem particularly afraid of dying;  in fact,  death seems almost a logical alternative to suffering through bullying of either the traditional kind or through cyberspace.  These are our teens.  These are vulnerable, impressionable, precious beating hearts that feel they are being ignored, underappreciated or flat-out targeted by media stereotypes, their peers and/or their parents.  They are hurting.  And that hurts me.

Still, I am very much character-driven.  I would not have been able to write this story without Taya.

Do you think Taya bought the bullying upon herself?  Do you think she went too far in trying to gain the affection of her peers?

I think Taya was a normal fifteen-year-old.  Even adults want the admiration and respect of our peers;  teenagers need that affirmation.  If they are denied peer relationships, they instinctively believe it’s because they lack beauty or intelligence or athleticism—whatever it is they admire most in others.  They internalize criticism from their peers in a way healthy adults simply don’t. Right now, there is a challenge being circulated amongst teenagers called the Cinnamon Challenge.  Basically, they are dared to gulp down a tablespoon of ground cinnamon without water in sixty seconds or less.  But cinnamon is caustic and is not easily broken down.  This challenge has resulted in dozens of hospitalizations over the past year.  It can make the lungs collapse.  And yet, there remain dozens of youtube videos depicting teens attempting the challenge.  In these videos, you can hear their friends laughing as orange fie-like breath is expelled from the challenger’s mouth.  Many teens, particularly those with previously established low self-esteem, crave attention and praise from their peers more than they care about physical safety.  So no, I don’t think Taya went too far or bought the bullying upon herself.  I think she reacted to bullying in a realistic and sadly common way.

How much of the book is autobiographical?  Did you ever have a suicide plan?

No I did not.  Like most hurting teenagers, I never consciously, truly wanted to die.  But I wrote Last Wills and Testaments out almost nightly.  And I deliberately denied myself food to the point where all I could think about was food.  I took hair brushes and repeatedly hit my arms until bruises appeared.  Like Taya, my father spent mine and my sister’s childhoods running from the police for things like writing fraudulent checks and fraud.  As a result, we were transient and attended multiple schools a year.  Like Taya, I was sexually abused on and off from around age five to age sixteen and, also like Taya, I suffered silently.  Like Taya, I am fortunate to have a mother who completely devoted herself to my sister and I, taught us how to pray and the importance of maintaining close immediate familial relationships.  My mother anointed my forehead with oil and sang songs to me too.  But unlike Taya, I was doubly blessed in the form of a younger sister. I am convinced that the two of them supported and taught me invaluable lessons on love and hope that helped me survive.

What made you finally break your silence and tell others about the abuse?”

My daughter.  I was pregnant with my oldest and my father was about to be released from prison, just like Taya’s dad.  My father hadn’t been home in about seven years but I was still very much afraid.  I was unable to accept the idea that he would be allowed near my little girl.  I wasn’t strong enough to ask for help for myself but I was inspired to seek protection for my daughter.  And that’s an important thing to note for any teen who may feel like there’s no hope.  I wasn’t particularly enthusiastically living life.  I did not have a wellspring of hope or optimism.  Indeed, I was scared to death of the idea of my dad living under the same room as I again.  But love for someone else, an innocent little girl who depended on me for protection, lit a fuse in my heart.  Being pregnant surprised me greatly—I had not planned it.  No matter how mundane life seems, you never really know what  tomorrow brings until you live it.

What does the title, Broken, mean to you?

There are some types of pain from which we never completely heal.  If  the only thing Taya had to combat was the bullying, I believe the power of her caring mother would have gotten her through it alive.  Although wrong and tragic, the bullying wasn’t really what caused Taya to do what she did.  She could have healed from those wounds.  But there were other scars, deeper ones, from which she could not simply walk away.

Taya self-harms by cutting.  Why was this included in the book, and is it really that common?

It was included because that’s what Taya’s coping mechanism was.  Good or bad, we all have one.  Taya’s was cutting.  And it provided a way to shine a light on the issue. 50% of teens who are sexually abused will go on to self-harm.  It is common.  1 in 5 girls self-harm;  1 in 7 boys.  90% of those who self-harm start doing so between the ages of 14 and 18.   Taya chose cutting.  Cutting does provide temporary relief from pain,  it’s like putting a Band-Aid on it. It works because, when you get physically hurt, whether it be through cutting or stumping your toe, your body releases endorphins.  The job of endorphins is pain relief.  So if you cut, then your body knows you’re hurt and sends endorphins to help.  Those endorphins temporarily make you feel a stronger sense of relief and control,  thus the reason why self-harm is common.  Eventually, however, your body will grow used to having so many endorphins around and they will stop being so effective.

You mentioned we all have coping mechanisms.  What was yours?

Writing, thank God. I truly believe God gave me the gift of writing as a way of carrying me through violent storms.  I couldn’t talk about any of it, but I could write about it. And through writing, I healed.   Also, volunteerism.  I started volunteering at age 18 with several different organizations.  Volunteerism changed my life by reminding me tangibly that we are all in need.

You drew and designed the cover.  What is the story behind it?

I love the final cover but I initially struggled with choosing between two concepts.  The other choice was no picture, just the title against the black cover.  I would look at one, then look at the other, and throw my hands up in abject despair.  Finally, I showed both versions to my sister and asked her to tell me in one word what each option made her think or feel.  For the first choice, the stark black with nothing but the title, her word was “sadness.”  For the current version, the published one, her word was  “fragile.”

That sold me.

While Taya’s story is sad, what I most want readers to think about is how fragile we all are and how little it takes to damage us emotionally.  And the pearls added the human touch, the one tangible possession Taya was unable to give away,  the one thing that could have been a reason to hope.   It is perfect for the book.

Do you draw a lot?

No.  Only for the books and only when I have to.

Did Taya ever do anything that surprised you?

Oh, absolutely.  I had no idea she was capable of picking up a phone at all, much less arranging it.  That surprised and delighted me.  I also had no idea of the game or her behavior when I started the book.  All of that is very atypical of my female characters, so it took me very much by surprise. To tell you the truth,  Taya is the most complex character I’ve ever written.  If I sound proud, it’s because I am.

Was there a scene or line from the book that resonated with you, maybe crossed your mind more than once after it was already written?

Yes.  After cutting once, Taya counted her scars and said that the scars were  “proof I was hurt.”   That breaks my heart.  No one should feel the need to justify or prove pain.

What do you hope people take away from your books?

I hope it lingers in their minds, makes them see someone they might otherwise have overlooked.  I hope it makes them cognizant of the people around them and to the presence of hope.

Broken is out ten months after Holding Home.  Does that mean we can look forward to another book in ten months? 

 Hm, I don’t know.  I write very late at night and only when a character inspires a story.   I will wait until I have another piercing character before starting a new novel.  What I do know is that writing is in my blood;  it’s a part of who I am.  In order to be completely happy or whole, my life has to include writing.  So there will be another story—I just don’t know when!  Until then, I will write my blogs and speak in public and at schools.  And I will continue to treat each day as precious, to think creatively and to teach my girls to live passionately.

It is unbelievable how tantalizingly close I am to finishing this book, y’all.    And I really, really had my heart set on writing the very, very last word of it by tomorrow night.  Don’t get your hopes up, there’s no way in heaven that is going to happen.  But that’s how close I am to finishing it.  And I thought I’d put these blog posts on hold for a week or so, to give me that little bit of extra time to focus on the novel.  Because, after just less than a year, I am tantalizingly close to doing just that.  But then…  this  and everything about this case happened.  I watched the news coverage when I should have been writing.  Like everyone else,  fear coursed through my body as the word “terrorism” floated around my brain.  Horrific memories of 9-11 and, more recently,  the sweet children and caring adults of Sandy Hook Elementary’s premature deaths twisted my heart.   I prayed for all involved.   I cried, too.   Sometimes I still wake up in the middle of the night, needing answers to unsolvable questions.  I spent most of my young adulthood studying all the famous philosophers and psychologists.  I can tell you numerous different psychological models that offer up explanations for evil.  But none of them really seem to answer the questions I have.   None of them offer me a guaranteed way to keep my children safe from all the delusional, fanatical, insane people who, for whatever reason, act out in violent, evil ways.  None of them offer me a way to make sure my children are only ever surrounded by those who understand that all life is a precious gift from God, that all human beings are fragile and should be treated with compassion and care.  Nothing I’ve ever read or studied really tells me anything.

And, selfish though it may seem, I truly have to be careful because if I let myself watch too much of the coverage, if I give in and engage in Facebook commentary on the state of evil in our world, if I look at that big, brown-eyed, smiling little boy who held a sign advocating peace for too long….  I risk losing my hard-won trust in humanity,  I risk losing hope.   If I try, even just a little bit, I can think of numerous ways to justify living a life of  solitude.  I already home-school my children and shop on the Internet most of the time.   Almost all of my communications take place via text.   It is scary how easy it would be for me to believe that all people are evil and to see the world as an unsafe place from which I should hide my children and myself.   Just when I start to think that people are at least trying to balance technology with traditional friendships, just when I start to think that maybe strangers are still nice to one another on at least somewhat regular basis,  unspeakable tragedies like the Boston Marathon or Sandy Hook happens.  A day or so ago, a friend private messaged me on Facebook and asked if I could come see her.  She said she was tired of being strong.  Not but a couple hours later,  I received an e-mail from a man who’s daughter had read  “The Character” and came to him in tears,  ready finally to tell yet another story of horror.  Everywhere I turn,  something is there to remind me that we’re hurting.  Human beings are not being mindful of how frail others are….instead, they just seem hell-bent on proving a point or of satisfying something within their own troubled minds,  no matter who or what the cost may be.  The current book I’m writing is on teenage suicide.  The research I’ve done for this work has left me emotionally drained and reeling.  Bodies are being seen not as something in which to take pride, not as something to respect and love, but proof that we, as human beings, are nothing but ugly and useless.  I cannot count the number of nightmares I have had as a result of this book in the past year.   I cannot count the number I will have this coming year as a result of acts of violence and tragedy that serve the harden our hearts and heighten the walls that block trust.

Those lives were important.

They meant something.

And they were precious.

And innocent.

And I could be one of them tomorrow.

In those lines lie truth.  But only part of it.   Only half of it.   The truth is, there’s another side to fear.  There’s another side to evil.  There’s another side to grief and despair, hopelessness and tragedy.  I don’t just think there is.  I don’t just hope there is.  I know there is.

Yesterday was a very special day for my girls and I.   It wasn’t a holiday.  It wasn’t anyone’s birthday.  But after lessons, I took my girls on a forty minute drive to a charming little town called Spring Hill.  There’s a park there that is beautiful and bright and peaceful—-and a creek runs along the perimeter of that park.  It’s an inviting creek with water that rushes over rocks.   Theoretically, it could be dangerous as it does have a whole lot of slippery rocks that coat its bottom.  In fact, as we waded in it yesterday,  I kept remembering what I’ve learned from white water rafting with my sister every year:  the rocks are the most dangerous part of a river.  Not because they can cut you open, although they can, but because instinct tells you to stand up when you start to drown.  But if you stand up  your foot can slip between the rocks and get trapped and, if that happens, no matter how good of a swimmer you are, you will eventually go under the water.  For that reason, they teach you in white water rafting that if you fall out of the boat  to roll on your back so that you can breathe and float with your toes pointed at the sky.  I thought of that yesterday as I was wading in this creek, trying to find a secure spot to put my foot and watching my girls do the same.  It would have been easy to call it dangerous and get us out, even though the water isn’t deep.

But I didn’t.

Instead, I pushed that thought away and reminded myself that we weren’t in a rushing class four river.   We weren’t in white-water.  We were in a creek.   And children have played in creeks just like that one for generations before technology started trying to scare our children into doing nothing but playing video games and watching SpongeBob.  So we poured buckets of icy water over our heads and then climbed out of the water to let the hot sunshine warm us up.  We threw a ball around an open field and chased each other.   We celebrated my daughter’s success at crossing a unique, swinging monkey bar set (it’s not bars, it’s three discs that spin as you grab hold:  crossing this set was a big deal).   But it was a special day not only because we played and laughed together but because of where we were.

You see…

Not so long ago,  we lived in that Andy Griffith, idyllic place.  I was in love with it.  And then disaster struck,  our hearts were wounded and we came back home to Nashville scared and alone.  It was a very, very painful time.  One I rarely talk about and have not really written about, even.   My heart was broken.  And even though I had deeply loved Spring Hill, I was unable to go back.  Even going for mundane, necessary tasks became almost impossible.  Grief and fear choked the life and beauty right out of that place for me.  I  forced the issue once, and we went back, played on a playground.  But the air around us that time was fragile and filled with silence.  It wasn’t really fun.  Yesterday was the first time we’ve been able to go back and spend all day long at the park.  We even drove the small-town streets to the Dollar Store and to McDonalds.  And, for the first time, my heart wasn’t caught in a vicious vice.  I wasn’t choking back tears and counting down the minutes until I could justify leaving.  I didn’t feel like I was walking on a tightrope, waiting for disaster to strike.  Instead, the park was a beautiful and inviting place again.  Peaceful, just as it had been when it originally drew me in like a magnet.  The air was clean and refreshing.  It proved to me that healing does happen.

Something else happened while we were at the park.

Strangers talked to me.  We marveled together over the wonder of that creek and how we found it to be a sort of storybook magic that our children were playing in its waters.  We smiled at one another and no one mentioned Boston.  No one mentioned Sandy Hook.  Or guns.  Not one child was teased or pushed off the tire swing.  When I went to gather up our things from beside the creek, a father who was there with his three boys gathered up two of my items and handed them to me.  I wanted to hug him.  Not because I couldn’t do it.  Not because I was exhausted.  But because he was being nice for no reason except for being nice.  We left the park and went to church;  I taught my usual Wednesday night class and our director came around to distribute baby bottles to the girls.  They are to fill them with change over the next two weeks and return them to the church so that our missions department can use the money to purchase necessities for expectant teenage mothers.  All of the girls in my class promised to bring their bottles back full next week and talked about how much money they have in their little girls’ purses or piggy banks at home.   I came home and put the girls to bed and sat down to start writing my book.  The one I was hoping to finish this week.  But, I couldn’t do it.  I couldn’t write a single word in that terribly sad book.  I decided that I couldn’t spend that night thinking about all the evil that happens.  I didn’t want to ruin what had been such a sweet day full of hope and optimism.  So instead I played games and laughed.

And this morning, I woke up stronger.

We did school again this morning.  We stayed home and played in the backyard.  We spent a lot of time coloring and we ran away from a bee.  We played with our chicken and we stared at the five caterpillars who are now in chrysalises, willing them to hatch while we were watching.  We didn’t interact with another face to face human being all day long.  At dinner, my daughter told me I have a nose like Scootaloo’s.  Scootloo is a horse on My Little Pony.  I laughed.  When they went to bed, I showered.  I stood for a long time looking in the mirror.  I’m not very pretty.  My hair needs its dead ends cut off.  A 32 year old probably should own some sort of real makeup.  I have a scar that’s right on my neck, which makes it hard to hide.  But I start each day with a prayer to thank God for being alive, and for all of the kind people He has put in my life.  We go somewhere almost every day of the week.   It’s quite possible that our local Publix could be robbed at gunpoint while we’re shopping for ice cream tomorrow.   Or maybe we’ll go to the YMCA and some fanatic will walk in shooting everyone.  Maybe something horrible I can’t contemplate right now will happen.  My life really isn’t a good definition of safety, after all.  It would be naive to think evil doesn’t live a few houses over from us. But I can’t let the evil that exists in this world overshadow the multitude of compassionate and kind people I’ve seen every day of my life.  I can’t let fear of death keep me from teaching my children how to wade in a rocky creek.  I can’t let tragedy lock me in a cage because true joy doesn’t come from within one person;  it comes from interacting with other human beings.  No matter how beautiful the mountains,   the truth is, they can’t hug me.   No matter how peaceful the ocean, the truth is,  it can’t love me back.   No matter how tempting isolation is, the truth is,  isolation isn’t safe:  it’s more damaging to the soul than risking being in the wrong place at the wrong time.   No matter how easy it is to be cynical, I have to remind myself that a trusting, vulnerable heart that actively fights against building walls of self-protection is the only way to live life loved.  No matter how easy it is to believe that an enemy is around every corner,  I have to see strangers as good because, if I don’t, I could walk right past what could have been a best friend or husband.  I can’t let a past that’s riddled with all sorts of reasons to distrust people, or a media that chooses to highlight tragedies instead of victories, steal my joy for waking up every morning.   I believe in life with a passion that’s strong enough to keep me motivated even through the roughest storms.  But if I start to see kindness as a waste of time, then that passion that allows me to marvel over the metamorphosis of a caterpillar, falls into jeopardy.  If I start to see compassion as pointless since, after all, someone, somewhere is being attacked right now, then my passion for laughing and creating falls into jeopardy.  For me, the only way to live alongside evil is to combat it with an extra dose of smiles, goodwill and faith.  Maybe these things will never stop evil from happening…. but just as I remember the face of every, single person who has ever held my hand or given me a hug when I was in need,  I promise you the surviving families of Sandy Hook and 9-11 and the Boston Marathon remember the people who gather at the schools and the finish line and Ground Zero to light candles, leave flowers and pray.  Kindness etches a memory too, and sometimes that memory is so powerful, it changes someone’s life.  I know because when I was a very young teenager, a stranger held a door to a restaurant open for me and in so doing changed my life with a random act of kindness that told me  good people still existed.

And they do today too.  My church is full of them.   My family, as dysfunctional and crazy as it well may be,  has them too.  They’re in the hospitals and the courtrooms and check-out lanes at the grocery stores.  They’re in the parks and in the cars next to us at the stop light.  They’re in the faces of the homeless people on the street corners.  They’re in the promise written so clearly in our children’s eyes.   It’s in the feeling of unity that falls like a blanket over us when a member from our community or our state or our group or our country or our species is attacked.

I still don’t know the answers to all the world’s unsolvable questions.  I have no idea what could ever possess men like Kermit Gossnell to do the things they do.  I have no idea what could make someone see a group of happy people and want to turn their laughter into tears.  I don’t know why some little girls make it all the way to adulthood without ever being touched inappropriately while some have their innocence and so much more stolen.  I don’t know why so many of us are hurting but hiding behind bright smiles we don’t feel.  I don’t know why life has to be so hard sometimes.  What I do know is that, no matter how Facebook makes it appear,  we’re all in the same boat.  We’re all struggling with something and what we need the most, besides God, is each other.  Not a diploma.  Not a bank account.  Not strength.  Not time.  But a good laugh with a friend.  A meaningful conversation.  Seeing a warmth in someone’s eyes that proves she’s happy to talk to us.  Tragedy gives us a choice:  we can retreat into hiding, or we can open our arms and feel the power of the kind of compassion that inspires a reason to get up tomorrow.

I heard Chris Tomlin sing  a rather stark version of  “Amazing Grace” on the radio today.  I’d wager almost everyone who reads this knows at least some of the words to that song, regardless of which country you’re in.  It doesn’t matter how many ways we’re different.  I can disagree with you on politics, on education, on social reform, even on religion—-none of that changes either of our worth as human beings.  No matter how different we are,  I am bound by a basic human code of ethics to care for you if you are sick and to feed you if you are hungry and to hug you if you are heartbroken.  Hope comes through these actions, things only other people can offer.   I’ve felt all sorts of betrayal.  I’ve known all sorts of pain from being sexually violated as a child to simple heartbreak to  cancer.  And yet, strangely, what I remember most vividly are the moments in which someone took the time to comfort or reassure me.  The hug from a teacher.  The 8th grade student who proudly said he was going to frame Ms Tiffini’s letter.  The people read my books and wrote to tell me their lives were impacted.   My mom and sister.   My pastor standing beside me and singing.  A friend spending time and effort to build a connection.  Someone mysteriously nominating me for big awards like a free photography package worth a thousand dollars (which I won!).  My daughter claiming that the thing she most enjoys in the whole world is  “spending time with Mama.”  My daughter squealing with laughter as I bounce her around in a piggyback ride through the house.    All of us making cards to distribute to sick children in the hospital and then being invited by the parent to sing happy birthday to one of the critically ill children we met.   Perhaps none of these things will ever make front page news.  Maybe heartwarming stories like those in my life (what are some in yours?) will feel like footnotes most days.  But when we are old and waiting to be gathered like flowers for the Master’s bouquet, what we will remember is the sound of pillow talk with our spouse  and the sound of laughter as little feet race through the house.  What we will remember is the warmth of a hug someone gave us when we felt insignificant or broken;  what we will hear are all the sounds of hope that we gave and that were given to us.   And those are the sounds that make life worthwhile, even when we don’t understand it, even when it hurts beyond what we think we can bear.

  

Below is  an excerpt from the forth coming novel Broken by Tiffini Johnson, tentatively scheduled to be released in late Summer 2013.  Broken compassionately portrays what can pave the road to teenage suicide.  It is the story of fifteen year old Taya’s life of instability, bullying, abuse and violence.    It is raw and it is unedited.  It is hard to read.  Many things in it could potentially be triggers for anyone in the midst of suicidal thoughts, self-harm behaviors or for any type of abuse survivor.  It is being posted in the hopes that, as it stands alone, it will resonate with someone who may need it.  Please read only if you are certain you are safe.

Enjoy!

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I have to write this letter.  If you’re reading this, then it means you found me. I put the    towels on the floor and tried real hard to keep it as clean as I could.  I know it was still shocking and probably scary to find, though.  I’m sorry about that.  If I could have done it so nobody would ever know what happened to me, I would have.  But I don’t want anyone worrying about me, wondering where I was or anything like that.  My mom needs to know that I haven’t run away;  she needs to know what happened to me.  So there was no way to avoid the mess.

Whoever is reading this, I hope you’re not Mom.

I don’t want to hurt Mom.  She’s the only person who ever really loved me and she’s the only person I ever really, really loved.  If it wasn’t for her, I’d have done this a long, long time ago.  Mom told me to be strong.  She told me to have courage.  But I can’t anymore.  Staying alive is too hard, it takes too much courage.  You have to get up, hoping for a good day, but in your heart of hearts, you just know that it’s going to be a day just like every day before.   Staying alive is brave because, if you’re alive, you have to keep trusting people.  You have to trust them not to hurt you.  You have to trust them to tell you the truth. You have to trust them to take care of you. But nobody does that.  Nobody tells the truth anymore, nobody wants to take care of me and I’m just not strong enough to take care of myself.  I don’t want to.  It hurts too much.

I’ve thought of Mom a lot lately.  Ever since I realized there was no other way than this, I been thinking about her.  I remember when I was a little girl how she’d tuck me in every night.  Sometimes when she thought I was asleep, she would come in my room, put oil on my forehead and pray.  Sometimes she would pray out loud.  She always asked God to protect me.  I don’t know what I think about God.  It would be nice to think that I’m going to Heaven.  When I was a little girl, I remember walking down the aisle at church in front of everybody to get saved.  A preacher,  Brother James, put his hand on my head, made me recite a prayer after him, and hugged me.  He told me I was for sure going to Heaven.  I was saved.

But that was before.

Before I got bad.  I mean, I hadn’t done anything too bad at that point.  I really was a pretty good girl all my life up til then.  I obeyed my mom and my dad.  And I didn’t try to get away with anything too stupid. I didn’t say bad words just to say them or anything.  I said my prayers every night too. I don’t think there would have been too many reason to keep me out of Heaven then.  But then I turned bad.  Bad things started happening at nighttime, and I didn’t say nothing about it.  I mean, it wasn’t that big a deal, it wasn’t like I was being beat or nothing.  I didn’t have bruises on me.  At least not any that anybody could see.  It wasn’t as bad as it could have been, but it made me feel weird.  It kept me from having any friends.

And friends is what I’ve wanted most of my life.

I thought I had them one night. One night, I thought I was part of a group.  I thought I fit in.  We laughed.  I thought we were having fun.  Really, they were just laughing at me.  But I didn’t know that then. Once, I thought I had some friends.  I thought I was normal.  Maybe I thought that because I wanted friends so much.  I wanted to fit in.  I wanted them to like me.  So I did stupid stuff, stupid stuff I knew I shouldn’t have been doing.

And they laughed at me.

I just wanted someone to talk to me.  I just wanted someone to care.  Nobody did. I’m just a freak.  It’s all over me.  I’ve got cuts all over me.  Nobody else has cuts on them. But I do.  Last week, I carved the word FREAK on my right arm.  I carved it so deep it’s there forever now.  It’s like a tattoo.  There ain’t no point in denying what you really are.  If you are something, you might as well own it.  And I am a freak.  Everybody at school knows it. 

Dad knows it.

Anyway.  I don’t know if God is real anymore.  I don’t know how He can be.  It seems like if He were, He wouldn’t put up with all the crap that goes on down here.  It seems like He would stop it right quick when good people got a crappy hand dealt them.  The bullies are heroes, and their victims are freaks. Does that sound like something the God of the Bible would be ok with?  I don’t know.  I hope Heaven is real, though.  Tell Mom not to worry, I asked Him for forgiveness for what I’m doing tonight, so, if there is a Heaven, maybe He’ll let me in.  I hope there is one.  Even if there ain’t, though, or even if I go to Hell for what I’m doing, it’s better than being hated or ignored here every day and messed with every night.

I’m not doing this just because I’m bored.  Or because I want attention.  Or maybe I am.  Maybe that’s right, what they say about my kind.  Maybe that is what we want, after all.  I mean, if I had a real friend, even just one,  maybe I would have had a good reason not to do it.  But I don’t think it’s because I want attention. Mom always said, “You only fight after you’ve tried every other way.”  I tried everything.   I  tried so hard.   Nothing worked.  So this has to.  My whole life is ruined.  Nobody is ever going to see me as anything else anymore.  Nobody is ever going to want to be my friend.  I can’t get the bugs off of me, just like I can’t get the scars off my arms.  I’m doing it because I’m tired of waking up crying every night. I’m tired of being scared of the dark.  I’m doing it because, even if I turned eighteen and moved out, nobody would ever love me if I didn’t do it for him a lot, but even once is a lot, and I just can’t handle it.  It wouldn’t be real love, because if I was tired one night or sick or just didn’t feel like it, he could say he didn’t love me anymore.

Mom used to tell me think of my future.  She used to say that whenever I got sad, I should think about all the things I had to look forward to.  Maybe I would have been a teacher.  That’s what I wanted to be, when I was little. I remember getting paper and writing addition and subtraction problems for my baby dolls to practice.  I taught them.  And I always did real good in school.  Other kids, even the popular ones, would say tests were hard, but I never thought they were.  I always made straight A’s, so I think I could have made a good teacher.  Except that nobody would let me teach their kids, cause I’ve got scars on my arms and besides, I’d only mess it up like I messed up the game.  I’d probably scare the kids, or pass somebody that couldn’t even read. And the first time I ever saw a student bully another student, I’d fail him for the whole year even if he got real good grades on the tests. Yeah, I wouldn’t make a good teacher after all. You have to be normal to have that kind of job. I’d probably end up a waitress or something like that.  Besides, it don’t matter.  None of it matters if you’re not loved and nobody loves me.  Nick said he never loved me even a little, even though he told me he did. He was just lying, I guess.  Cause everybody lies.  And you can’t be happy if nobody loves you.  If you’re just one of those people, like me, that is never going to get somebody to love you, then why bother being strong?  What does it matter if you’re brave, if nobody can stand being in the same room as you?  He said I was ugly.  He called me a freak, and everybody else did too.  They said I was trash. And I know they’re right cause Dad thinks the same thing. He told me so. How could you ever possibly be good if your own dad thinks you’re trash?  Why even try?  Mom used to sing me a song every night that said,  “This little light of mine, I’m going to let it shine.”   But what are you supposed to do when you don’t have a light at all?

So you understand, right, why I had to do this?  You understand that there really was no other way for me.  I just wasn’t ever as strong or as brave as everybody else.  I was never really meant to be here.  When Mom told Dad that she was pregnant with me, he cried, he was so sad.  That’s what he told me.  I was a mistake right from the start.  I’m just trying to erase the mistake, that’s all.  But I want my Mom to know that it wasn’t her fault.  She did everything she could for me.  She prayed.  She made me go to school, even if I didn’t want to.  She used to play peek-a-boo with me when I was a baby, for crying out loud.  I know because I saw the pictures of her doing it.  And she wasn’t afraid to hug me.  I don’t want her to think I don’t remember all the good things she did for me.  I don’t want her to think none of those things mattered to me, because they all did.  She was a really good mother.  She’s probably the only one who will cry at my funeral.  But I don’t want her to.  I don’t even really want a funeral at all.  What I wish is that I could just be burned and have my ashes thrown out to the sea.  I don’t like the idea of being in the ground.  I’ve always been real scared of the dark. But it don’t matter, I won’t really be there, right?

One more thing has to be said.

Maybe no one knows, Dad.  Maybe no one ever will.  And maybe it wasn’t that big a deal.  I’m sure lots of kids have it worse than I ever did, just like you said.  Maybe no one will ever know all the things you did, or made me do.  Maybe no one will ever know all the things you said, even when you didn’t say anything at all.  Maybe no judge will ever send you to jail for it. Maybe you’ll live to be a very, very old man who always drinks coffee without cream and two things of sugar every morning.   Maybe you’ll never  feel a need to tell anybody about me.  Maybe you’ll forget all about it.  I don’t know.  No matter what else happens, though, I want you to know one thing:  you are the real reason I’m dead. In fact, I really died a long time ago, when I was just nine years old, didn’t I?   At least, most of me did.  And no matter what else happens, now you’ll know that, and maybe you’ll remember it every time I’m not there for you to touch.

So then.
It’s time.
Forgive me.

We have a chicken.   A very, very cute baby chicken we got about a week ago.   Her name is Chicky Lagoon.   I’d like to share with you a few of things that Chicky Lagoon has done today because that cute little rascal chicken has totally restored my faith in human kind, nay,  life itself.  After a totally yucky day yesterday,  today has been one full of joy and hope, due in large part to Chicky Lagoon.

I didn’t grow up on a farm.  We had pets sporadically while I grew up.  We had a couple dogs, mainly.  But it’s hard to travel with dogs and since what we did best was travel, we never kept the pets for any substantial amount of time.  My mom grew up around farm animals—goats, chickens, etc—and often regaled my sister and I with antics pulled by those animals.  But, in all of those stories she told, somehow I don’t remember her telling me how much chickens poop.  But they do.  At least ours do.   Chicky Lagoon has pooped on my floors too many times for me to count.  Whenever we get her out of the box and put her on the floor, she poops.  She walks a step, then she poops again.  When she’s not pooping, she’s eating.  One chicken eats more than a whole gang of eleven year old boys might.  She eats, she poops and she chirps.  All the time, sometimes quite violently.   Two nights ago, she woke me at 4:30 in the morning because of her chirping.  She was chirping so loudly I was convinced the whole house must be falling down around us and she, endowed with that animal instinct, was trying to save us.  But no.  She was just out of food.  I filled her food bowl up and,  magically, that little chick stopped chirping. 

Taking care of something makes you care about it.  We have all cheered Chicky Lagoon on.  We love petting her, poop and all.   We were very excited today to notice that she is molting out of her bright yellow color and gaining some white streaks on her feathers.  How quickly babies grow.   We watched her hop out of her secure little box about half a dozen times and all wondered how to keep her from doing that.  Cute though she is, I really need to know where she’s at…. I don’t want to find poop in my closets or my bathtub or, you know, anywhere in my house that I don’t know about so it’s rather important that Chicky Lagoon stay where she’s supposed to stay.  We scratched our heads.  She’s too young to stay outside—-the colder night temperatures would kill her.  Stray cats that jump the fence would scare her.  Can’t stay outside.  But can’t jump out of box either.  So, today, I got busy working on an enclosure that would keep her warm, but contained until she’s big enough to stay outside.  While I was doing that, I put Chicky Lagoon in her box on the ground.  I stepped inside for, like, a second.   When I came back out,  Chicky Lagoon was not in the box.

I thought one of my girls might have grabbed her but, no, they hadn’t.  I called them over to help me look for our chicken.  We looked everywhere.  Then, all of a sudden, my eldest daughter caught sight of her!!   Chicky Lagoon squeezed her body out of her fence.  We started chasing her and that chicken walked around to the front porch, climbed up the steps and stopped  right in front of the front door.  If I didn’t know better, I’d swear she was about to knock and say, “you dummy, you put me outside.”   Whoever knew that chickens are smart!

So then, Chicky Lagoon goes back in her box.  It’s been made bigger now, with lots of bedding, food and water.   We take her outside to play with her in the backyard.   We think it’s too sweet and cute and hilarious how, whenever we get her out of the box, she follows whoever puts her on the ground around, chirping happily all the while.  The girls were doing that and then put her in her box.   I don’t know why but they didn’t bring the box inside.  They left Chicky Lagoon in her box, with the top closed, sitting on the top of the hot tub.   Sometime later, I hear chirping, but it’s not as close as it should be.  That makes me worried that Chicky Lagoon has hopped out of the box again and is wondering loose, pooping at will in my house.  I go to investigate and that’s when I discover that the box is outside, sitting on the top of the hot tub.  I go to bring Chicky Lagoon in and…. that chicken is not in the box!!!!    I would have been extremely freaked out about this, except that I could hear her chirping, so I knew she was closeby.  I just didn’t know where.  I called to the girls to once again help me locate the chicken.

Then I looked up.

Chicky Lagoon was in the rain gutter.  The  rain gutter is on top of our roof.   By this point, it’s pretty late in the afternoon and I’ve been playing Chase the Chicken all day so I actually throw my hands in the air and start laughing.   “How did you get up there?  Who knew that you could fly that high!  Way to go!  Now, come down.”  I waved her  toward me, like she was really going to obey me.  After a few seconds, I realized that chicken wasn’t flying off that roof.  Because chickens are smart.  So I retrieve the ladder, climb up and effectively rescue Chicky Lagoon to the sounds of my girls cheers.  I do not break my neck in the process, so I’m happy about that too.

Chicky Lagoon is back in her box.  Inside my house.  I’ve warned her that she better not jump out of that box tonight because if she does, I will make her clean her own poop up.

I don’t know why Chicky Lagoon has made me so happy today.  I mean, literally, I’ve just been chasing her and rounding her up all day long. And cleaning up the poop of course.  But the thing that has struck me the most about her today is that she is quite the curious rascal.  And so social is that chicken: she chirps the loudest when she cannot hear us around her.   Albert Einstein once said,  “It is not that I am so intelligent.  I am just very curious.”  Chicky Lagoon is curious too.  Curious enough to fly up onto the roof, and to wonder around the yard until she was back on the front steps.  She depends on us right now to keep her safe.  She depends on us for food, heat and water.  She also depends on us for socialization.  She trusts that we’re going to give her those things.  And we do because it’s the right thing to do, and because we love our little chicken.

I’ve always had a soft spot for hyper or “rowdy” children.   I used to want to be my sister, because she was always so fiercely independent and sure of herself.  She didn’t care what anyone thought, she was determined to live her life by her own standards.  She got a tattoo, even though my mother was fiercely against the idea.  I’ve never wanted a tattoo, but I admired her for going after what she wanted.  Just like whenever I see children who are rambunctious, my heart melts.  I don’t think they’re a “handful.”  I think they are beautiful.  For me, they symbolize life.  They are hyper and active and energetic and they are chasing life instead of watching it pass by.   I wish I was more like them, the “hyper” children.  And adults.  Chicky Lagoon is like that…. never still, always on the move, trying to explore the land around her,  even if it means crossing boundaries.  And yet… if one of those hyper kids falls off the jungle gym, she’s going to want her mother to hug her and bandage the scrape up.  At night time, she’s going to want a bedtime hug and kiss.  And, in the morning, she’s going to need breakfast.  No matter how active they are, no matter how independent, they still instinctively know how to rely on others for help…. even for the basic necessities.  They aren’t ashamed to say “Hey!  Feed me already!”  Asking for help isn’t a big deal, it’s the way to a full stomach or peaceful dreams.

Tonight, after the kids went to bed, I went to Chicky Lagoon’s box.  I reached in and petted her.  Then I told her goodnight.  Maybe it was a silly thing to do.  She’s a chicken.  But it made me happy.  And it made me remember that the point of life isn’t to worry about other people’s perspective.  The stranger that hurt my feelings yesterday didn’t know me,  and I don’t have to care what he thinks or what his reasons were.   He isn’t important in my life.  All I have to remember is to live life curiously,  to take the time to rescue chickens who have flown onto roofs,  have tea parties with my daughters, lean on others every once in awhile and to do the best that I can in whatever I do.  If I do all those things, then I will succeed in truly having happy children and a worthwhile legacy.  If I remember to breathe and ask questions and play and read the same book for storytime ten thousand and five times in one week,  then my story will be about more than money.   It will be about more than fame;  my story will be about more than work.   It will instead be a story seasoned with a lasting respect for life and a renewed sense of purpose that brings in its wake joy.   It will be a story that matters.

And it is for that reminder that tonight I love and am thankful for a mischievous little chicken.

I’m going to tell you a secret.

This is such a big, important secret that by telling it to you, I will be revealing parts of myself I normally pretend don’t even exist.  Even to myself, which says a whole lot, since I usually make a concentrated effort to self-analyze and over-analyze every single minute detail about … everything I do, think or say.   It’s the kind of secret that you know is true, but it makes you sad so you work extra, extra hard to make it not true.  It’s the kind of secret that you’re terrified of admitting because, if you voice it, life might get harder.   Or fear might get bigger.    But today was the kind of day that makes me want to cuddle with Lambie, my pillow, and hide in the bed and never get up again because, I mean, what’s the point?  No matter how hard you try, no matter how many ways you fight it, no matter how good you are, something is going to go wrong every day.

I live each day by walking a tightrope.   I come up with creative games and lessons and activities for the girls and I to do.  We are never still;  we go somewhere almost every day of the week.   Holding memberships to multiple places in and around Nashville gives us lots of choices.  We can go to the zoo.  We can go to either of the two children’s science museums.  There are about a dozen wonderful parks and playgrounds.  We hold a membership to the Y.  We hold memberships to Chattanooga’s best places including the Aquarium and the Creative Discovery Museum.  In other words, we have no shortage of fun and wonderful things to do.  I made it that way because making the most out of every, single day of my life is absolutely crucial to me.  We don’t watch much TV.  It’s not because I think the tube depletes their brain cells (although it likely does).  It’s because I’m terrified of their biggest memory of childhood being of watching television.  I don’t really care about, or  aim to be, Supermom.  I don’t need any awards or accolades for parenting.  But I do need them to remember me. And the only way they would remember me in five, ten years if, God forbid, something should happen to me tomorrow, is if I spend time today playing with them today.  So we go outside a lot.  We have scavenger hunts.  We play Lost, a game in which we get in the car and they take turns telling me which way to drive until we are truly lost.  This game started because, one day,  we were driving and I really did get lost.  The girls knew I was lost and got scared.  I didn’t want them to be afraid.  I wanted them to realize that, even if you make a wrong turn, the trick to joy is seeing it as an adventure rather than a mistake.  So, instead of getting frustrated that I was lost, I relaxed and lightened my tone.   I told them to tell me which way they thought we should go.  They were nervous, asked me if we would ever get home.  I laughed and said, ‘of course.’  I would just stop when we were done and ask for directions (another lesson:  no one can do it alone:  asking for help is not a bad thing.  Sometimes it gets you home).   Eventually, they warmed to the game and it has since become a favorite.  We take the easel outside and paint in the warm sunshine because, when my oldest was born, I made a very conscious decision that I wanted her to see the earth as a bright and beautiful thing because I never had:  I’d been too worried about obeying all the spoken and unspoken rules to notice the exact shade of grass.  My point is that, while I may seem playful and relaxed all day, I’m really not.  I’m really on a mission.  I’m trying to secure childhood memories for my daughters that I do not have.   It’s a balancing act because it doesn’t matter if I’m tired.  I don’t have time to be sad.  I don’t have time to be stressed out.  I don’t have time to get overwhelmed.  I don’t have time to hide.  I don’t have time to be mad.  Any one of those negative things will burn an image in my girls’ heads that I don’t want them to have.

I want them to remember me happy.

But, every once in awhile, the world  crashes in on me and makes me just too tired to be happy.  That lost little girl inside me knows how to walk that tightrope though.  She did it under far worse circumstances for many, many years.  So I go, go, go until they go to sleep.   And then I write.  And in the meantime, I deny any negative feeling.  If I’m busy, I don’t have time to think about it.  If I’m writing, then it’s not really my pain, it’s my character’s.  If I’m busy, nothing has time to hurt me.

Except people.

Are you ready for my secret?

Going outside is an act of bravery.

As long as you stay confined between the four walls of your house, you can control what happens.  If you limit the people with whom you interact to children, the likelihood of someone hurting you significantly fades. Going outside means interacting with other adults, even if it’s just the clerk at the grocery store.  Today, we decided to make our own ice cream sundaes.  We live very close to Publix so we decided to go there to get the stuff we’d need to make the sundaes. So off we go.  I should also point out that we live in a safe neighborhood and, to my knowledge, nothing violent or unsavory has taken place at this Publix location. It’s a fairy new store:  we were here a few years ago when it first opened.  We go in, the girls push their baby dolls in the carts, we find the stuff we need and we check out.  The girls are both in the car and I’m slamming the trunk shut when a man approaches me.  He’s white, got a scraggly looking bear and he’s wearing a baseball cap.  He’s not really muscular but enough to look strong.  He’s got blue eyes.  And, in his hand, he’s got a piece of paper.

“Hi,”  he says.  “I just wanted to see if maybe you could use a little extra cash?”

I am confused. I have no idea why he’s asking me that.  True, I don’t dress like a real diva (it’s hard to play in fancy clothes),  but I care enough to make sure I look fairly decent before leaving the house.  True, I don’t drive a BMW but I do drive a decent SUV.  I just put grocery bags in my car and although they only contain the ingredients to make sundaes, this man doesn’t know that.   In other words, I’ve given him no indication that I might possibly be in need of cash. So I have no idea why he’s asking me that question.   I shake my head, mumble, “No, thank you,” and head to get into the car.  Then he gets a funny look on his face and says,  “Well, that’s a shame.  A girl like you could sure make a bundle having a little fun.  Here, why don’t you take this?  I’ve got a nice place not far,  you could come have a look see.  Anytime.”   I’m still confused, although the words are beginning to make a weird knot form in my stomach.  I take the paper.  He winks and then turns to leave.  I look down at the paper, and see a handwritten phone number and three dollar signs under it.  My body turns cold, then very hot.  I quickly get in the car and start it.  The girls ask me to turn music on, and I do automatically, but I don’t hear any of the lyrics.  I don’t hear them singing along or laughing n the background.  Instead,  I’m staring straight out the windshield without even seeing.  A semi truck could have been about to crash headfirst into my car and I wouldn’t have noticed.  I’m not crying.  I’m just shell shocked.   We make it home and somehow I manage to help the girls make sundaes.  I don’t make one for me.  Instead, while they eat, I sit on the couch and stare out at the world.  It is not colorful, it is grey.  The only thing piercing through is the fact that I was just propositioned.  My heart hurt something awful.  I spent the rest of the day waiting for night to fall so that I could finally crawl into the bed and hide.  I didn’t intend to write this.  I didn’t intend to write anything.  I didn’t even intend to self-console by taking a bubble bath.  I just wanted to lay down and hide for a really long time.

I don’t even know how to adequately explain all this.

Every since I can remember,  I’ve sought to be good.  I wanted to be good more than I wanted friends.  I wanted to be good more than I wanted anything.  I have never put a cigarette in my mouth.  I have never tasted alcohol.  I have only voluntarily had intercourse with one man, ever.  I didn’t go to clubs.  I made straight As.  I volunteer as much as possible.  If I wanted anything, I never did it without permission first.  When I was in college, living at the dormitory, I couldn’t go across campus if it wasn’t during school hours without calling my mom to tell her what I was doing.  Not because she told me to, but because I wanted to make sure it was accepted.  People would ask me if I was alright and my standard reply has always been,  “Oh, I’m fine, how about you?”  If they pressed beyond that, I’d shake it off saying,  “Really, I’m good.  See, I’m smiling?” while giving my brightest smile.   I want,  so desperately, to be important to others.  I want it so much that I’ve always been willing to ignore pain.  I chose not to tell, in part, because I thought I’d be messing up my mother and sister’s lives.  After all, he was her husband, her father and I knew telling would mean taking him out of their lives as well as mine.  I’ve sought to please the people in my life, all my life.  I don’t want praise.  I don’t want to be given awards.  I just want acceptance, I want to feel like I’m someone’s  friend.  People don’t want someone with baggage.  They don’t want someone who’s always complaining or sad.  So I don’t complain, and I go out of my way to avoid sadness in person.  I write about it because if I don’t, it’s caged up inside of me and I’m smart enough to know that’s dangerous.  I write about it so that I can process it by myself, so that I don’t have to ask for help.  Even today, a very independent mother of two,  I won’t make any big moves without permission.  I’m afraid of disagreeing with others because I’m afraid of them seeing the real me, the one that isn’t good.  I’m afraid of showing sadness because I’m afraid they’ll see I’m not really worth the effort.  And I never, ever get mad.  That would risk total alienation.  Even showing simple frustration is difficult for me.  I preface everything with an apology because I realize I’m more of an intrusion into others’ lives than anything.  I want to be good.

The problem with this of course is that I’m not good.  I can make that sound better than it is by saying no one really is good but that doesn’t change the fact that I’m not.  No one knows this better than me.  So I always come up short.  I’m never good enough for friends.  I’m never good enough for a lasting, meaningful relationship.  I’m never good enough.  But, for years now, I’m consoled myself by telling myself that I’ve risen above all the anguish and all the pain.  While I’d be lying if I said I never, ever think about a bad memory,  I’m not consumed by it anymore.  I don’t wake up every night in tears from a nightmare.  While it’s true that I still prefer sleeping with the bathroom light on rather than in  complete darkness,  I don’t lie there seeing The Little Girl as often. I comfort myself by saying that, while I’m not intrinsically good, I’m doing good things.  I make an honest effort to help any and all who email me after speaking engagements.  I speak in public because I want the pain to serve a purpose;  I want it to reach someone and offer help.  While I’m not intrinsically good,  I do try hard.  I give myself bonus points every time the girls laugh, or I trumpet around the floor like an elephant with them on my back.  While I’m not intrinsically good, I truly, truly do mean well.  I do care about people.  And I do want to see the good in the world.  Basically, I try hard.  And sometimes, when I re-read the “fan email” or am able to surprise someone with a gift,  I’m able to believe that maybe I can be worthy of friendship and companionship.  Maybe I can overcome.  Maybe I can become good after all.

That man today hurt me in more ways than he could have ever imagined because he chose me to come up to.   There were other women in the parking lot.  Prettier women.  Younger women.  I was really just an ordinary mom.  What would make him choose someone like me?  I can’t think of a good reason except that something about me told him that I was that kind of person, that I might casually accept dollar bills in exchange for my body.  Something about me told him I was vulnerable.  Something about me told him I was the one he should approach.  The other women in the parking lot were too good.  Too confident, maybe?   So pretty they wouldn’t need to barter their affections?   I don’t know but whatever they had, it was something I obviously don’t.  His approach told me that, no matter how hard I’m trying, no matter how many good things I do, I am still unworthy.  I am still not good.

I tell myself that people are good.  I read the same headlines you do.  I know about the school shootings, about terrorists, about mothers who kill their own children.  I know about Sudan.  I know that in one of the houses on my very street, some little girl is being hurt tonight and having her entire life forever altered.  Despite all that, I choose to focus on the good that people do unto others.  A couple of friends have asked me to go to lunch with them—they are willing to give up some of their time to talk to me.  People buy my books—they think I’m a decent enough writer to spend hard earned money on.   Others trust me enough to let their children sleep over at my house so that my girls can feel surrounded by friends.  Leaders at my church trust me to teach children.  The people around whom I am surrounded give me more than I deserve.

Tonight,  tired and hurt, I posted the following on Facebook:  “You know how some days just seem like they never, ever end?  Longest.  Day.  Ever.  “  I didn’t say anything about what happened at the grocery store.  Just that it was a long day.  I hesitated to post that as opposed to what we had for supper or about how much I enjoy storytime.  But I didn’t.  I felt it bottled up inside, all those awful feelings of being different, and had to post something about the day.  So I wrote that it had been a long one.  And a friend I barely know wrote the most thoughtful reply.  She told me it was okay to be myself.  She told me I didn’t have to end everything with a smile.  She said that having a bad day didn’t mean “they” (she meant my dad) won.  She skipped the formalities of being polite and cut straight to the heart by telling the truth.  And she touched my heart, she made me cry.  And she reminded me that sometimes being good means being honest with your emotions.  Honestly, I don’t really care about winning or overcoming the past.  In a lot of ways, no matter how hard it is to hear, those who sexually hurt children do win.  I mean, no matter how good we make our lives afterward, our hearts are scarred by memories we shouldn’t have.  We see someone we should trust as dangerous.  In my case,  every time I see a picture of a loving father,  or hear a song about a father/daughter relationship,  I feel a distinct void in my heart.  Sometimes I even break down in tears.  I will never respond to intimacy the way I would have if I had not been introduced to it in the way that I was.  So… in a lot of ways, he has won.  But I don’t care.  What I care about is making the rest of my life count,  what I care about is making sure that the rest of my life is beautiful and colorful and full of all the things  I didn’t get a chance to do as a child because I was living in fear.    I don’t care about vengeance,  I don’t care about blame or  “justice.”   But I was reminded of something tonight.  I was reminded of it when that man hurt my heart by suggesting I might sell him my body like it’s not worth anything valuable.  I was also reminded of it in a different way when a friend told me my feelings mattered.  It struck me that I care.   I may not be the prettiest.  I may not be the most confident.  I may be scarred.   But no matter how grey it is outside, or how hard it rains on any particular day,  I don’t give up hope of seeing the rainbow.   I may be lost sometimes but I turn it into an adventure.   I haven’t given up hope on people;  I still believe they are good.  My body may not be as enticing as another’s, but it’s mine.  And I care about what happens to it.

Going outside is brave.  You can come face to face with thoughtless people who could very well make the rest of your day miserable.  You could die before getting home too.  If you’re me, you shield yourself with a carefree smile before you walk out the door so that others will see a reason to stay.  It’s almost 1 in the morning now.    It’s been a very long day.   It’s been an emotional day full of self-doubt and bad memories.  It’s been an exhausting and draining day.  But as I type these last few lines, what I’m thinking about is the Ritz crackers downstairs and how I’m going to go get some soon.  Hanging on the wall above my desk are two pictures the girls drew for me.  One of them is a picture of a bunch of monkeys hanging from trees and I’m in the middle.  Alight drew it for me because I love monkeys.  The other is a picture of a mermaid and two dolphins.  Breathe drew it for me and said that I was the beautiful mermaid.  And as I look at those drawings,  a verse in the Bible about love comes to mind and peace settles like a warm blanket over my heart because no matter how exhausting the journey, no matter how scary the world,  it is love that never fails.