The Honesty Place

To be truthfully emotional, I need a place to release my honesty. It is not all science and logic up in here. I house fear, bigger than my nightmares, and I house panic under that fearful emotion.

I should start with my boundaries. One of my valuable boundaries is honesty. I’m not always great at it, and sometimes I flat out lie to protect people I care for with an intent of knowing “it” is not personal, “it” is my fear. Like the clown. It is your subconscious screaming at you that you are trapped in a nightmare in which you have no control over. So you adjust.
I have had to adjust my feelings for a lot of circumstances over the years. I can tell you I am NOT good at not showing my panic. It comes out in PTSD Borderline jumbles, quickly spoken from the ADHD that my brain understands to be a different sort of categorization from the norm. ( I do not blame these diagnoses, I see the diagnoses as pathways to creative thinking. This is a perk in my life in many ways.) But sometimes it does require inner solitude and thought to say what it is I want to convey to everyone else. This is my disclaimer for speculation.

Right now, in my personal life, we came from being homeless for 7 months. Being without a home sucks. It shakes your very core and if you believe in Maslow’s theory, you can understand how a need is not being met when you cannot feel safe, when you have no walls, when life has you by the throat and all you can do is go to work and hope that’s enough… I lived this, therefore I know. I wish I could be like a normal person who just reads a book about it, but ohhhh noooo…Not me. I have to “experience” it first hand.

So we camp on my folks property. Ok. We have a room for my youngest daughter and ourselves to share. Its loud and a compressor keeps going off in the middle of the night, which reminds me of the scene in My Cousin Vinny, where no matter where they went to try and get sleep, they were interrupted. The compressor made us all sit upright in bed when it would go off every 3 days or so. Folks from the building would come and go into the commons room, because, well, we were living in their space. At this time, my oldest daughter, who was 18 at the time, came to us with news that she was pregnant. My husband did a lot of driving that night, and I cried for the pain she would go through, and prayed for her to have the best life she would ever want.

We left this intrusion to live on the beach in first a tent, then a camper. My youngest daughter Gwen went to live with her dad, locally. I cried a lot. Then we find our dream duplex, move into the duplex a week before school starts and we are off at break neck speeds.

It took almost a month to come up with the funds to switch the power into our name, and a loan from my parents for 1/3 of the move in sum. Carlton’s parents helped immensely as well, and we felt the full impact of love from our families and friends. And here we are. Except one thing. I’m going to be an Oma today, and Carlton, at 28, is a Pappy. My oldest daughter is having her daughter today.

My reaction has been through a lot of tears. I think about when Willow (my oldest) was born. My mom was there, Willow’s Aunt Eve from her fathers side, and her father. They were all there to hold my hands (and legs) while Willow made her transition into the world. Now, 19 years later, my baby Willow is in labor, and I am at home.

Willow and I had a tough time during her childhood. I was 18, and her father had completely disappeared. My parents helped me raise her. I was not a great mother. My intent was always to be a great mother, but my actions rivaled something else. Willow grew up in a broken home, from my choices, and never felt important. She was my world, as is Gwen my youngest, they both gave me life. But I have not relayed these feelings through action to my children. Which is why I am sitting at home now, taking my punishment. Willow wants to experience this without me, and I have to be ok, and also empathetic to her needs, even though I do not understand them in the entirety. I accept the blame. No shitty Oma’s allowed. This hurts, but I deserve it and I take it on the chin if it means being closer with my kids.

The father…I want to embrace him in love but I am scared of him. I fear he will hurt my daughter to a point of irreparable damage. I fear he will hurt my granddaughter. I fear he will hurt my parents. Are my fears fact based? Historically, yes. But if I refer to him as a monster, he has no motivation to be anyone else. And this is bigger than me and my feelings, this is for my children and their children.

Carlton took me on a day date to a local Wine Bar, where we had 3 different sorts of cheeses and a bottle of Champagne.

And now we wait. We wait for the world to change. I sit and ponder how I can make everything alright, and I wish for the reset button that doesn’t exist. And I couldn’t have Carlton in that timing and space, so I wouldn’t be who I am now. Carlton was in, like, 5th grade. No, this has purpose in timing. I see that.
Now, I accept it.
Cheers to today

One Comment on “The Honesty Place

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