Final not fubar

Some stories are not mine to tell. And because of my association with those people, events surrounding those events are intentionally left vague. It's important to honor the privacy and feelings of a survivor. So if you happen across a chapter in my book that leaves you with questions, it's most likely because I had to omit..out of respect..information.
I haven't been able to completely map out the last few chapters of my book. I have written in bursts..and then a trickle. When I look at those chapters I realize that chunks of my life are missing. And if I didn't do it because I didn't want to betray or out someone...then I did it because the shit is painful. It hurts. Don't ever let anyone tell you not to honor your pain. I honor mine. Too many years spent squashing it down to make myself as little as possible. Still putting that stuff on a screen and eventually in ink, on pages, in books..sitting in someones lap or clutched in their hands...ugh.
I told a friend today..that I always wanted to share my story. Not because it was easy. Nay, it liked to have killed me. It hurts whether I talk about it or not. But maybe my story will help someone realize that they aren't that weird and maybe alone is sometimes better..when your contempararies make you feel like poo poo caca because you might be a bit quiet or awkward or even excruciatingly loud.
It's all kind of a compensation or a mask or a self-distraction, you see. Those behaviors are at times self-soothing or at other times, drown out that agonizing feeling inside that makes you want to die.

Yes, I wanted to die. Actually I have struggled with suicidal ideations most of my life. I just wanted the noise to stop. The pain to go away. To blend and live and not have to scrutinize my every word and movement to make sure I was palatable. It's exhausting being me. And that's not self-pity. It's my own truth.
I've stood on railroad tracks and I've clutched a bottle of pills in my hand and I've taken too much medication and tried to eat myself into a early heart attack. Because existing hurts. And yes I know it hurts for everybody. I don't ever begrudge anyone their feelings..but this is about me. And right now I'm telling you that this existence has been hell.
I'm good at some things, really great at a few, I suck at a lot and through this lifetime I have found the one thing that makes me...me.
I'm not giving up.
I'm not good at giving up.

So I trudge on day by day, a funny, slightly off kilter, lover, fighter, hellraiser, nurturer...hoping tomorrow will be better than today. I'm grateful for today. Still I've come to believe that I've healed as much as I'm going to. And it's realistic to think so. 43 years of life, and 42 of them filled with various trauma..decades of therapy, hugging trees, prayers in the moonlight, recitings of St. Michael, 58621 Hail Marys, pleas for intercession to Padre Pio, candlelight vigils, four leaf clovers and lucky pennies and gallons of ice cream and laughter and tears and decades of journal writing..
and I'm tired now.
This might be something I can't roll on over and force it to my will.
So I share my condition and limitations and cry over those very same things because it's not just me but my loved ones who are affected. I rage and I pick my skin and I isolate and I secret eat and I dream some nights about being bald or pooping my pants in public. Secretly I might be a bit embarassed that my brain has slowed down and my spelling and grammar skills went the way of stirrup pants. I guess it's ok. It gives me compassion for the elderly. It has a purpose right?
I need to believe everything has a purpose. It helps me cope. If people need prayer, religion, totems, superstitions whatever and they aren't hurting anyone, leave them alone! I'm not religious. I'm not Catholic. Yet I would be lying if I didn't admit that in desperation to feel better and supported and not alone I didn't try everything short of sweatlodges and clean eating to feel better.
I can't clean eat yet. Rome wasn't built in a day.

I have the attention span of a toilet plunger. My short term memory is horrid. People tell me something and I vow to remember and five minutes later I've never heard it and they just think we talked. To complete a task takes all day. My brain compartmentalize everything to survive and it was a measure of protection but now it doesn't work anymore. My own brain has set up a maze, trap doors and diversions and distractions and I really try hard to do everyday things.
Things I know I need to do. Like take a shower, brush my teeth, make appointments and keep them. Still find myself forgetting and apologizing and damn it seems like all I ever do somedays is apologize. It makes me angry at myself, you see, to incovenience others. I don't like people waiting on me. I don't like depending on others. I don't know why.

I ask myself all the time if all this is really necessary. Why is PTSD so bad?
I've hurt others, you know, with my ill intentions. I wasn't always healthy and I wasn't always so in touch with my being. I was angry for years. Raging inside. Screaming into balled up towels until tears rolled down my cheeks..and it was so easy to put on my "it's allergies" face and go back to pretending I was ok.
I'm tired.
Thank goodness for the internet. Because of it I found a lot of people like me. And we share our oddieties and weaknessess and fears and celebrate our good days. Sometimes the good days are spaced out and other times everything seems like we are finally given our wings and soaring into a cloudless sky away from all the bad memories. Only to have those wings clipped and plummet towards the ground..scared of what we will feel but wanting it to happen and be over with anyway.

I wonder if Renee would be like me if she had never died of cancer.
The more time passes, the obvious fact is that my entire family, my daughter included, is so scarred and fractured by the events of the last 30 plus years. I want to love everyone well. I want to love them for all the times they didn't get loved. I want to make it all better. Sometimes we get on each other's damn nerves. You don't go through all that monkey business to emerge a doormat. All of us have strong personalities and beliefs. We clash. Still I love every one of them. Maybe one or two from way far away, because I can't stand them. And the crap that falls out of their mouth is offensive, narcisstici and oblivious. I still love them.

Trauma creates trauma bonding. It's not a good thing. You establish this intimate bond which pushes others out. Cuz truly no one can really know how we feel but our families..we think..or maybe others that were there. That keeps us from seeking out others who understand and maybe even some who don't. I always thought I wanted friends and family who survived a violent crime. I thought I wanted a partner who had. And I guess I realized that it wasn't necessary. My partner has no history of violent crime victimhood. His upbringing and life was the opposite of mine. He balances me out like no other..and I'm a flighty, mostly chirpy, optimistic, person prone to getting carried away. We compliment each other. And not all of my friends have been hurt the same way, but what I realized was that in our lives we have all had pain. And we have all hurt. We should honor those feelings, be there for one another. Sit in silence holding a hand and or eating ice cream together. We should be there for one another, and say "I believe you..."

I learned that I have much to offer. My experiences taught me that life is precious, and every day is a gift. One day I might be on the ledge, but I push on to the next day, because that day, I might give another person a reason to live, or make somebody smile or change someones's mind about something that they don't quiet understand.
I celebrate birthdays in a big way, because I want that person to know the day they were born was a great day, because they are a gift. I say I love you quite often, and I don't hesitate to tell someone what they mean to me. Not anymore. It might be the last time I see them. No chances taken here.

I read a saying once.. "The scar is where the light entered.." and when I read that, I remembered I have multiple scars from surviving attempted murder. I almost died that day. The things that happened that night and since have helped me develop compassion and understanding..and even if those are the only things I have to give, that's ok.
I want to be a light. I want to make sure to say what so many cannot say..as they have been silenced by fear, intimidation, murder, abuse, coersion, blackmail. Being quiet is not an option anymore. That secret shame....it's a relic from years of pain..abuse, invalidation. No one has the right to tell me anymore that I shouldn't speak. My pain is my pain and dammit it needs to be talked about. I needn't put it in pretty flowery words anymore. It's like a person telling me that my truth is a downer or it's depressing or ruining their good time in so many words "Use better language.."
Please don't pin respectability on victims. It's not fair. It's not right. It's not kind.
Be kind.

Be kind.

Amy..San Diego

Hmm..wonderful sleep….the feel of Amy next to me..her perfume drifts over and caresses my nose. We were running through a lavender field, primping and preening, pretending we were French supermodels. I made a box with my fingers and she posed, haughtily piling her blonde hair above her head land laughing as I snapped an imaginary picture. It was good to goof off ; there was no one around for miles. I could see a dirt road past the old broken  fence.

When she collapsed into a grassy glen, she said she was exhausted. I stood over her, the sun behind me, the rays shining past me to her face. The vibrant grass made her eyes seem azure, a pool of the deepest water. I plopped down next to her and rolled on to my  left side. She lay on her right hip, blades poking her in the forehead. It was so high around us that we wouldn’t be seen unless someone walked right up to us. Suddenly serious, she rolled lavender between her fingers and asked:

“Do you think you’ll always be confused? I kind of knew I was a lesbian when I was four. My dolls rode dirt bikes and had buzz cuts…”

An embarrassed giggle burst from my throat. “Not sure. I’ve been confused ever since I could remember.” She caressed my cheek with her rough hands. Mechanic hands..she always said. But really, it was from stripping her paintbrushes in her art studio. Hours spent etching her angst onto boards showed up between her fingers and on her nails. “I quit dipping my hands in the paint thinner. Grams told me to cover my hands in Vaseline and sleep with my hands in socks. Be soft soon…” but I didn’t never about her hands. I cared about her heart.

“I don‘t want to hurt you…” I was sad. Every good thing in my life ended because I was fumbling blindly through it all.

“Why do you say that? Every time it (*HONK*) gets good (*HONK HONK*) you go getting depressed on me,” she looked mad, but I was wondering why it sounded like a car was in the field.

“Damn dykes! Learn to drive!”  

The blue sky was suddenly a different color. Pain shot through my head, and bile rushed into my throat. Had I thrown up recently?   There was no soft bed of clover grass beneath me. I could smell bus exhaust. What the fresh hell? I looked to my left, and Amy was fast asleep. I started to sit up, but my head hurt. Rushing wind, the knowledge of being in an open moving vehicle and a sudden panic made me feel like I had to puke.

We were in the back of a strange white truck, barreling down highway 70. Gingerly, I twisted around until I could see the driver of the truck. Were we kidnapped by ax murderers? I could see a man in a flannel shirt, with a crew cut. Next to him, a woman in a baseball hat. OMG..

“Amy!” Shaking her shoulder, I tried to whisper..but the wind was loud. “Amy, you gotta wake up! I don’t know where we are!”  Panic rose in my gut..and just as I ready to pinch her forearm, her eyes flew open. Her eyes crossed slightly, and it was apparent she was trying to focus. She tried to shade her eyes from the bright sun, and peered at me from underneath her hand.

“What the fuck? Who are those people? Where are we? Where’s my fucking car?” I hated when she woke up cranky, because the next 3 hours would be all about “the fucking fuck” and “godddamn sonofabitch.” She only woke up that way when she’d partied too much the night before. When hung over,  those words would take the place of nouns..which was annoying because I would have to decode.

“I don’t fucking know! Last I  remember is sitting with you in the piano bar with Fred and Sean…and then that guy came up and tried to convince us not to be lesbians.”
“Did he buy that Hurricane you were drinking?”…oh no…

“I was broke before you even picked me up from my house. Aw man…” suddenly I felt very stupid. Of course she would pick up on the situation right away, but I still existed in a rosy bubble believing everyone was mostly good.

“Um…yeah. Fucking asshole.  He probably drugged us. Check your underwear! Rapists steal underwear for souvenirs!”  We both lay on our back and pulled down the front of our jeans. I could see black and white checks. She had much less to work with. A tiny red piece of fabric was visible.

She twisted to check out the people in the cab.  

“Welp, we both have our underwear. No rape. But how did we end up in the back of this hillbillies truck? Probably gonna take us to his farm and feed us to his pigs…” Now I was alarmed. “I’m gonna go make his acquaintance. He isn’t gonna chop me up without knowing me first.”

She knew my history, and normally wouldn’t make a statement like that. However, she had drank jack and coke all night..and her brain was working at a quarter capacity. She stuck her head through the open window between the cab and bed.

“Hey dude! Oh damn….I mean Dudette! Sorry, I’m kind of hung over here. I’m sorry! Anyway, do we know you?”  

When Amy got a good luck at the face, she  knew immediately that possible ax murdering driver was a woman. Who had boobs. The wind was whipping around the truck’s cab and pummeling Amy in the face. “Ew, fuck!  I swallowed a fly! Gross!” She spit it out and flashed me a reassuring smile. Amy had talked us out of a few near misses already, and she wanted me to have faith. “Anyway, where are we headed?”  This was definitely not anywhere near East St. Louis.

“We’re going to our apartment to change, then we’ll take you to get your car, ok?”

“Ah man, that would be awesome. Thanks!”

She grabbed me in a hug and pulled me up to sit between her legs.   “See, I told you it was gonna be ok. You worry too damn much,”

“You did not tell me that. You made me think he was a hillbilly ax murderer. That shit isn’t ok. “

“Oh..god..I’m a lame. But it’s gonna be ok now. Let’s chill.”

Fifteen minutes later, we found ourselves in the Grove area of the city. After the truck came to a stop on a private street, we sat up and looked around. Hmm..not an area where an ax-murderer might live. These were historic houses in a historic district. “Hey, you can get out now.”  The driver turned out to be Andy, short for Andrea. The passenger, her girlfriend Memory. We were invited inside to eat some “grub” before getting on with our “travels”.

We sat at their breakfast table shoveling omelets in our mouth while Andy narrated.  “We saw you guys earlier in the night. One of your friends is a flamer. He’s like short..and has a lisp…kind of a rude little shit. Kept bumping into us at the bar and never even apologized. ”

“Fred,” Amy offered.

“Yeah anyway, we ran into him around 3 in the morning and he asked if we saw his friends. He described you guys to us. Said you left him without a ride home. He was pissed.”

“Ah shit….”

“Well anyway, we hadn’t. But then we walked out to leave about 5 in the morning, and you guys were sitting on the filthy ground next to a car in the back lot. I couldn’t leave you there.  Memory came back in and asked the bartender what to do, but she said it wasn’t their problem. So you see my conundrum. We’re in an area where people get sliced and diced, and you’re two women. My sister got raped at a college party and fucked her up for life.  You there, “ she gestured at me, “You were passed out in her lap.”

“And you..” she said to Amy, “You were barely there. I had to yell at you a lot before you woke up. But finally you woke up. I asked you if you needed help, and you told me you locked your keys in the car. I tried to get your windows and tried to jimmy the car open, but nothing worked. And while I was was working to get your car open, you passed the fuck out. So like, I’m stuck. I had to get big old Titanic Mary to help me load ya’ll into the back of my truck. Memory fucked her back up at the factory. “

Amy grimaced. Mary was a hulking, burly old queen with a long memory. She helped you, she’d remind you about it every time she saw you.

“Well by now it was like, almost sunup. So I’m loading ya’ll drunk asses into the truck with Mary. Neither of you two woke up.  Titanic Mary is moving ya’ll close together so you can share my old military blanket. Amy, you roll over and out come your keys out your pocket. But I can’t unlock your car and put you two in there because nobody is out there in the daytime and you can get robbed and killed then too. So I kept ya’ll. Figured you’d sober up and then take you back to your car.”

“I’m grateful, I really am. Thank you for looking out. But I feel like an ass. You could’ve been a rapist. I could be a skin shirt or lamp by now. So yeah..no more drinking for a while,” It didn’t seem necessary to mention the roofies.

I am going to start saving my book excerpts in here, I think.

Phoenix Rising

A year and a half ago I bought a new laptop. My reasoning was that my daughter needed mine. I'd sent it to her because hers died. Plus, I love to write..so I felt justified in buying a new laptop so I could finish writing my memoir.
I haven't written jack in months. I kept moving my laptop around to different spots in my room, thinking if I saw it, I'd be motivated to write. I love writing so much that it's a treat to write! I almost feel guilty at times because it feels so great to do so.
So much has happened since the last time I wrote in my blog. It would take me 6 updates to fully explain. So..I'll just say..somewhere deep inside, I felt like a bad person. I felt guilty. Now that I know what I know, it makes sense that I would feel that way. I didn't write because I was punishing myself. Only now do I understand why I felt I needed to do penance.
I realized that I put the wrong man in prison, around Thanksgiving.

I owe the realization to Crime Watch Daily. I watched my interview with them. My cousin and I could not even finish watching the first few minutes. There were graphic crime scene pics, and none of us was prepared for that. The next morning, before work, I tried again to watch. I saw the mugshots. I had such a visceral reaction to Tommy Lynn Sells that I knew something was there.I walked to work that morning replaying that moment in my head that I saw his mugshots. I'd felt frightened, scared, horrified. I'd felt I had to hide in my home. I felt he might try to kill me.
I had no idea that he had been executed in Texas in 2014. What I did feel, is that the night my mom died, he was there, I was feeling, but my brain kept blocking exploring that thought.
"Do you remember what you remember, or are you remembering what you think you are supposed to remember?"
I did not know.

I watched the rest of the show at work that morning. Filled with anxiety, I knew that my life was about to change drastically. I didn't know how, but it felt like it was beginning to tip on it's axis. I spent a restless night or two unable to sleep. Trying to reach back into my memory proved to be tough. It was almost like the area surrounding the truth was a tangible membrane made of tar. It felt like every time I was near a realization, I would again be surrounded by muck. I could hardly move around in my own memory. I had set so many traps and walls to keep me from the truth.
I knew I needed to really think on what I knew, but I was so scared of the end result. I'd grown up reciting a memory that I was no longer sure was a true recollection. The ramifications were daunting.
My cousin came back from Thanksgiving with my family....
She tiptoed around it to get a feel for my mental state, and when she realized I would be ok, she told me things I never knew. And honestly it was such a freaking relief that I wanted to cry right then. My family always had doubts about Rodney's guilt. I was so fragile that no one wanted to talk to me about it. I was heartened by the loyalty and saddened that I was never strong enough to endure the truth.
I sat in the quiet of my living room that day. Relaxing was tough. I realized I was dealing with 7 year old me, the gatekeeper. The protector and truth teller. She felt she had to defend herself, her mom her sister. She was angry that she had told the truth, and all these years later, it was not enough. I had to tell her, the child, that it was ok. That I needed to go back. That it might hurt a bit, but the bad man could no longer hurt us. She visibly softened, and stepped aside.
I told her we were going to look, and it was ok to not see Rodney Lincoln in those memories. We were going to look back and whatever we saw was going to be ok. I felt like I was fighting my own self, which is weird, and akin to what it's like when I argue with my daughter, who is a mini version of me, lol.
That day was the last day I saw Rodney in my memories.
Because when I looked back that moment, I was incredibly heartbroken. Rodney was never there. How the FUCK did he get there? WHO put him there?
He was not in my home the night my momma died. He did not hurt us.
Tommy stalked around stabbing and stomping and brutalizing...viciously slicing us up..and destroying our innocence. He felt no shame or fear. He loved hurting us.

I didn't think about it..I contacted Rodney's daughter Kay on Facebook. She was so freaking kind it still makes me cry when I think about it. We talked on the phone. We both cried like babies.

I had to do the right thing. You can't be all about doing the right thing and NOT do the right thing yourself.
The horrible, horrible night mama died, it was awful. I still hear the screams. I still feel the pain, the hopelessness, the anger, the fear. I remember thinking I was going to die. I couldn't fix anything. I couldn't make it stop.
It is what it is.
It is the night that changed everything.
What I know for certain now is that I gave the police all the right information. When it didn't pan out, they focused on Rodney, because he was already in the system. My heart absolutely squeezes painfully when I realize I was misled. When I realize that the police chased a bad lead and made it the one they got a conviction from. When I realize I stole Kay's dad..and took him away from his kids, and put him in prison, where he was beaten, ostracized, caged, mistreated.
My heart breaks and cries spring from within the depths of my soul..they are now are coming from a place that remembers what it is like to be sad, ignored, dismissed, broken, lonely. I did that to another human being.

I snuck into the prison to see Rodney...I wanted him to know I KNOW he didn't do it. He says he forgives me, and that is so humbling. My gratitude is eternal, because I knew I had no right to expect it.
Still, I stole something from him he will never get back, and I have battled depression for over the last month. I have fought depression my whole life, and suicidal ideations too. Since discovering that I irreparably harmed Rodney, his family....I have fought them both. How do you make up for something so priceless? One's life..freedom, sanity..time...I cannot repay it. A month ago I wished I had the courage to jump in front of a train . I felt like the only way to repay is give up my own life.
My reasoning doesn't make sense to some. But his life was stolen..and omg....I feel so bad. Yes, I was a kid. Yes, I was traumatized. Gullible.
PTSD is a fucking blessing and curse. Because how I coped was to repress and compartmentalize. WHY did I not remember? Why did it take the show to remember? Why was I so fragile? Why am I still so fragile?
I KNOW it's not all about me, but this is my blog.
I need to get this out somewhere.

I went to the Circuit Attorneys office. I told them the truth, that Rodney did not hurt us.
I went to the prison to see Rodney.
I am sure I will fly back into STL soon, hopefully to see Rodney walk free.

Mostly, I have been dealing with personal issues about self expression.
My ADD and PTSD have had a severe impact on my writing, grammar and speaking skills. My short term memory is so bad now. I worry that my communication, or decline in skills will reduce my credibility. It's become pretty obvious as I get older that my symptoms are worsening. It makes me reluctant to talk, because of the obvious...
"The traumatized survivor is a hot, incoherent mess. Look at how she struggles to use basic terminology and look how she has become someone who used to be steady but now she's emotional and easily triggered. We can all stop listening now."
Can I just tell you how embarrassing that is?
Sitting down and writing all of this has been something I put off for months.
I will do everything and anything to avoid writing, because I feel I don't deserve the joy. I'm not looking for anyone to say I do. I'm just telling you that I lived my life feeling like a failure and a liar and only now do I know why. I felt like I hurt someone, obviously, I hurt a whole lot of them, because I didn't have the ability to turn the police back to Tommy Lynn Sells.
So an innocent man languished in prison for a horrible, horrible crime. I was adamant and an asshole about it...and he didn't do it. And I only realized it when I started having flashbacks after watching the show..
I can't give Rodney back what he lost..and I feel horrible. I grew up so twitchy and damaged after surviving that brutal night. I lost my mom. I know what it's like to have the priceless snatched away from you for no fucking reason.
If I live to be 200, it won't be long enough to fix what I broke. And it's not enough to bring my mom and sister back..and I feel so responsible.
I guess the good news is that the little girl inside me, the gatekeeper, realized she no longer had to protect things..and keep me safe, and she has begun to grow up.
I no longer wake up angry about Mama...and I don't fear so much.
I guess now is healing time.
Thank you for letting me write. More to come soon.

But..

Right now I just need to get a car. What are the chances that the $15,000 I am owed will find it's way to me by Christmas?
I am so grateful for my blessed life and all the wonderful events in it. My life is made beautiful by great friends and family. I am rich beyond measure in many ways.
Still, I want to be independent again.

Questions

"Mom, why did you dress me like that when I was a kid"?
"I genuinely thought you looked cute. Let's blame it on leftover pregnancy hormones...."
"Um, I was 6 in the worst ones....."
*side-eye Minaj level*

I know this conversation is coming. The pics are very telling.

Jackie's Senior Pics

This one is my favorite. It's so her!