I have scads of journals all over my house filled with stories, stories of so many things that have happened in my lifetime. There are many people out there that will tell others, "the memories of your life is what molds you into the person you are today"
There are many journals that are just dark, darker then the night sky, darker than being in cave with no light to guide you out. I always wondered for so many years where the light was at the end of my tunnel. I always took my mom's advice, "let her come to you, let her see what she is missing, she will need you someday and when she does, she will come running to you."
Years ago during one of the many Christmas's with my family, Savi would call to talk to everyone and still she would never ask to speak to me. I could hear her tell everyone "I love you and miss you so much" and it would just drive the stake in my heart even further often leaving me wondering just how deep my heart really goes.
I can't begin to share with you how many times I started a blog and then quit because the pain was far to much for me to endure. The nightmares I had over and over it was always the same faces yet different locations and very similar to what I was going through. It always consisted of Savi trying multiple ways to end my existence, to put the light of my world out, dispose of me, causing me the greatest pain that our dreams can take us to.
I hated and still hate telling people who many daughters I have because how can you tell someone that you have three daughters yet only two are actually with you. There are so many milestones of her life that I have not been a part of yet she includes everyone else in my family. There is no care in her heart for me not being there. There are countless questions to her by others often asking her, "when was the last time you talked to your mom" and she answers, "who are you talking about, I raised myself, I never had a mom" and of course that always got back to me from many other eagerly sharing what she said and did with me not being around.
I have tried over and over to not play the victim, I have tried over and over to be the strong one, to be the one that sees it as she is missing out not me but I have ultimately failed that role of not being a victim time and time again.
So, now that I have started this blog, I have dug through the books, I have gone page by page, the memories have flooded back. The nightmares have started once again. The anger now rears her ugly head through my very blood and body. I don't know if I started this blog to have a voice, to be heard, to hopefully share what NOT to do, or what TO DO I mean why does anyone start a blog?
I once heard the wisest words from someone...
"If you can talk about it and not get mad, then your over it, but if you talk about it and your still mad, then your not over it."
The only good memories I have versus the bad was bringing her home from the hospital. Seeing her tiny body wrapped like a papoose which gave her comfort. Putting her in her baby swing than cranking it watching it then give her comfort to her colic. There were so many people that came up to me in the grocery store telling me just how beautiful Savi was as a baby. So many were just drawn her to like bees following their Queen. I felt so blessed to having a daughter that was in fact so beautiful.
Now that I began this blog I cannot begin to share what it means to bring up Harry and now feeling like I missed out on something. Should I have just waited it out and maybe, just maybe, it would have worked out or would his tawdry ways ever be tamed? Now I am dreaming of Harry so many times yet right before he goes to hug me I wake up, I don't wake up typically, no I wake up in a pool of sweat often breathing so radically it takes me a few seconds to gather my thoughts of exactly where I am at. I am at home, a place that often haunts me of being here.
I remember the sweet love making, the soft talks, the pain, the crying, the countless guilt gifts he gave to me. I remember so many people telling me over and over how lucky I was to have found such a wonderful man yet they never really knew how he was. Oh I played the part very well, I had the staring role of a wife who had such a wonderful husband yet, she lived in secrecy of what it was really like and for that matter, would they ever believe he was a cheating scoundrel. Would I be blamed or would they understand why I felt the way I did?
Courage is something that actually does live inside of us and it takes courage to walk through the flames of ones past sharing in intimate detail just what really happened.
So, is blogging a form of cheap psychology? Does it really lead you to places of healing or does it take you where you were versus where you are now?