a fierce mind

Part III:

(If you haven’t already, read Part I, Part II)

I walk in to empty hallways. Everyone is already in their first period class.

I’m technically late, but I didn’t want to come here for first period, because I’m not really sure where I’m supposed to go. Walking into his class, even though I’ve been assured he is not going to be here, doesn’t seem like a place I want to be right now.

I put my stuff in my locker and grab my second period things. I decide to head to the counselor’s office. I’ll hang out in there until the bell rings for me to go to class.

When I walk in the counselor asks me to shut the door.

We discuss how I’m doing and he assures me he’s in my corner. He tells me about some of the discussions he’s been involved in, fills me in on what all he’s heard, and what I should expect moving forward.

My nerves are heightened when I look up at the clock in his office and realize I’m going to have to head to class soon. I anticipate a fair amount of questions and assumptions from my peers and my mental and emotional exhaustion is making the thought of it almost impossible to endure. I’m already wondering if I’ll even be able to make it through the day.

There’s a tennis ball sized lump in my throat radiating a burn so hostile I can feel it in my gut. The tears welling behind my eyes are so persistent and heavy I sense if I let a single one surface I won’t be able to stop the inundation.

Uncaring, the bell rings anyways.

Sitting in second period, I try to maintain my focus. Brushing off any questions or comments when suddenly I’m called out of class by the Principal herself.

She walks me down the empty hallway and pulls me into a small, empty office. She closes the door behind us.

As we both awkwardly stand there in close proximity. She puffed chested, me deflated. She tells me she thinks it’d be best if I meet with “her colleague” one-on-one. He would like to apologize for his behavior and she thinks all of this can be put to rest. She feels he really is sorry for what he’s done. “We all make mistakes.” she says.

I suddenly have this feeling of being watched. Like someone else is in the room. Like I’m being ambushed. Every hair on my body is standing tall. My ears are ringing. I can’t stop looking around the room assuring myself no one else is here.

I tell her “No, absolutely not.” as I reach for the door. She steps in front of me insisting I hear her out.

And there they go… the tears… pouring down my face in torrents. Completely unstoppable.

When she realizes I’m crying the obvious frustration washes over her face.

“You need to calm down. I can’t have you going back to class crying. Everyone is already talking about this and we can’t be adding fuel to the fire. If you can’t stop crying I think you should just go home.”

I push past her, open the door, and head for the bathroom to try and regain my composure.

I stand there in the mirror debating if I should just go home. Maybe things will calm down over the weekend and Monday will be easier.

I decide to head to my confidant’s office and see if she can help me calm down. She’s like another mother to me and I’m sure she’ll know just what to say to make me feel better.

When I tell her what the principal did and said she gives me the impression she too feels maybe that would be best. She thinks maybe I should just meet with him and let him explain his side of the story.  Let him apologize. Tell him how uncomfortable it made me feel. Then, maybe I’ll feel better and things can calm down around here, get things back to normal.

Now I’m enraged. Confused. Beyond emotional. I feel betrayed. I feel misled. Lied to.

Why has everyone who less than 24 hours ago was just as disgusted by him as me, now suddenly feeling the need to brush it all under the rug as swiftly as possible?

Once again, it’s the middle of the school day, and I find myself walking down the empty hall and out to my car.

“Mom, they want me to meet with him face to face…” I begin as I sit in my car in the high school parking lot with tears running down my face.

to be continued… Part IV

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At 17 I’d not yet experienced a true and thorough double-dealing. I really cannot put into words how contradictory these people’s reactions were from one day to the next.

It quickly became apparent that those in charge felt the best plan of action was to back pedal and pretend the entire incident wasn’t that big of a deal.

I can’t say for sure, because I was never personally privy to the meetings between the Superintendent and, I would imagine, some sort of attorney(s) and/or union reps, but my family and I were under the distinct impression the powers that be at the time realized getting rid of this teacher for this particular incident would require a certain amount of effort. It would likely bring negative attention to the district and quite possibly dredge up some valuable information that was already (and still is) on this particular teacher’s record. Information that I’m sure, if more publicly known, would raise question as to why this person is still entrusted with young female students.

As an adult, and even as the mature 17-year-old I once was, I understand there is a level of immorality that comes with anybody of power. There’s a pecking order. A good ol’ boys’ system. Let’s face it, if you get “in” with the right people, you can get away with a lot more than the next guy.

This particular teacher is a professional at finding his way “in”.

To be honest, the most hurtful part of all of this was having to learn the tough life lesson that most people are not willing to put their necks on the line simply because it’s the right thing to do. Nor are they willing to do so for the solitary sake of another person.

I would have been less damaged by this entire incident if the people I trusted would have been frank with me in admitting that while they know it isn’t right, they feel their hands were tied professionally.

That being said, I challenge each and every person reading this to step out of their comfort zone. Take a risk. If you are a victim yourself, please hear me when I say, you did not deserve what happened to you and you are strong enough to speak your truth. You may not have had much control of the situation then, but you certainly can take control of what is to come of it. Such an act of courage could save a life. Or maybe you are a person who is in a position that gives you the power to make a difference… what are you waiting for? Make a difference. Lastly, maybe you are more so a bystander who has remained quiet because that’s the easier, more popular thing to do… I ask that you take a moment to imagine…  if it were you or your child, you would hope others would do the right thing, the hard thing, the unpopular thing.

Part II:

(Haven’t read Part I yet? Be sure to read that here first.)

Standing there in the empty hall, with the exception of my friend and a starburst wrapper breezing around on the floor, I am flushed with panic, anxiety, and disbelief.

I am desperately trying to think of a way this could all be a mistake, a misunderstanding.

I continue to frantically re-search my phone, playing each step out carefully, hoping and praying this is not what it seems.

The bell rings and the emptiness is filled with instant chaos.

As I try to make my way down the crowded hallways while maintaining a poker face, feeling every ounce of what it is to be conflicted in my feelings of surrounded, yet alone, stoic, yet distraught. Kids are trying to talk to me, beckon me, get my attention, jumping all over, whooping and hollering, and all I can do is beeline it to the only female adult I trust in the entire building.

Finally, I reach her office.

“I need to show you something, it’s important.” I beg.

She says nothing, but I can see she understands it’s serious.

I sit down next to her and flip my phone open as I begin telling her every detail, breathlessly.

She is appalled. I suddenly realize I am in a state of shock when I see her speaking, but I am only hearing a few sporadic words.

“Inappropriate… unacceptable… disgusting… fired…” to name a few.

She insists I let her keep my phone so she can go tell the Principal what has happened immediately.

I reluctantly agree.

As I step into class and head towards the teacher with my late slip I am bombarded by the heat of the spring day, but more so by the smoldering rumors that fill the room.

I manage to keep my head down, desperately trying to keep my shit together.

When I’m pulled into the office, the principal, vice principal, and my confidant are all sitting there clearly nervous and uncomfortable.

First, they ask me to repeat my story while being transcribed. When I finish, they inform me they’ve spoken to “their colleague” and have heard “his side of the story”. They all admit, repeatedly, that his story changed numerous times within the short meeting with him. And, acknowledge that my story has remained consistent.

That’s the funny thing about facts, they don’t change.

From what I gather he began with complete, blatant denial. As the evidence was slowly revealed his story chameleonized along with it. Beginning with “confiscating a student’s phone as a disciplinary action”, but did NOT take pictures or make phone calls… then to “yes, made one phone call”, but no pictures… then to “yes, took a picture”, but did not send it… then to “yes, I sent it”, but only because he wanted more pictures for his office cork board.

When he was shown the images and questioned about their “nature” he claimed it was all innocent and anything that appeared not to be innocent must have simply been a mis-taken photo.

They all assured me they’ve each gone through my phone and replayed each step it would require to do everything he did. They are all in agreement there is absolutely no possible way such a thing could have been done without intention.

They all apologize profusely. Reiterate over and over that it is absolutely unacceptable, disgusting, inappropriate behavior in which the school district has zero tolerance for.

I am assured he has been placed on “leave” while they further “investigate” the situation, including confiscating his computer. The superintendent will be getting involved along with the police officer who is stationed on campus. And, they will call my mom and let her know what has transpired.

I am free to go… and my cell phone is returned to me.

So, I walk out of the office, down the hall, and out to my car.

I just need to go home.

“Thank God I have so many people who support me…” I hear myself say aloud as I close my car door.

to be continued… Part III

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By day’s end, I felt relieved to have so many supportive people in my corner. I felt reassured that doing the right thing… is the right thing to do.

My feelings of doubt and vulnerability were pushed aside as I gained my strength and footing from so many adults assuring me I’d made the right decision. Praising me for my bravery. Thanking me for speaking up so that such behavior could be taken care of.

I felt prepared for whatever rumors kids were already beginning to spread. I was confident within my maturity of knowing I may have to endure some of my peers not understanding the weight or seriousness of the situation.

Although, I was quickly realizing, most of my peers… as well as many other teachers and adults throughout the school… were not in the least bit surprised by this particular teacher’s behavior. It was becoming more and more clear that he had a well-established reputation for being inappropriate.

I sat down with my parents and they assured me I had nothing to worry about. They would take care of it and the school administrators were very aware of the gravity of the situation.

My mom told me I had done my part and there was no reason for me to speak to anyone at school any further about it without her present. She wanted me to get back to being a high school teenager and let the adults adult. She also told school admin not to speak to me in regard to the situation under any circumstance without her permission.

When I returned to school the next day… Every. Single. Thing. was turned upside down.

Part I:

The sun is beating on my face. I’m surrounded by Spring cheer. We can smell summer just around the corner.

“90…92…95…” I holler as they run past.

The weekend is near. My girlfriends and I have plans to meet up with a few cute boys.

“115…119…123…”

I have to say, junior year has been one for the books. 17 may be my best year yet.

“Hey, let me borrow your cell phone.” I hear his voice interrupting my thoughts.

Distracted, I reach around to my back pocket to grab it, but almost instantaneously realize that seems like a weird thing to do.

“Three minutes! 3:02…3:05… Why?”

“I need to call my coaches….” he stumbles over the oddness of it as it comes off his tongue. “Tell them the game is still on.” he continues.

“Why can’t you just call them after class?”

“You’re not supposed to have your phone in class anyways. Give it to me.” he orders… with a subtle chuckle. I can’t decide if it’s a power-chuckle or an I-know-I’m-being-ridiculous-chuckle.

“Fine.” I surrender as I toss my phone to him. “3:23…3:26…3:30”

When I look back at him, 20 feet from me, I realize he’s pointing my cell phone right at me.

“Are you taking a picture of me?” I demand.

“No, I’m dialing.” he rolls his eyes.

“Last lap! 4:46…4:51…4:52… it looks a lot like you’re taking a picture of me.” I push. I look to my friend, the only other girl in the class, to confirm she’s seeing what I see… Yep, she sees it too.

I look back at him. Now seemingly speaking to someone on my phone.

I stare at him waiting for him to hang up. Finally he does.

“Alright, give it back.”

“No. You aren’t supposed to have it during class. I’ll give it to you when class is over.” he says as we head in towards the weight room.

“Why do you need to be on it if you’re done calling your coaches?”

“One of them should be calling me back.” he shrugs.

“On my phone!? You told them to call you back on my phone? Why would you do that?”

“It’s not a big deal, he should be calling any minute.”

“Whatever.”

I keep my eye on him for the rest of the period. Watch him as he keeps looking through my phone. What could he possibly be looking at? Is he reading my text messages? Looking through my pictures? I hope I don’t have anything on there that could get me in trouble… or anyone else. Could I really get in trouble for this? This is bullshit.

I reach for it, “Give it back to me!”

He pulls it away just as my hand brushes his, “Nope. I’ll bring it to you in the hallway. You’re on duty outside the locker rooms. Make sure no one leaves early.”

Then he… and my phone… get up and walk into the boys locker room.

“Great…” I whisper to myself.

After waiting for what seems like a day… Finally! He comes out and hands me my phone.

My friend and I immediately look through it to see what he could have read or seen. Nothing glaring from what I can tell.

At first.

But, then, my mind flashes back to him pointing my phone at me.

I look in my photo album.

“I knew it!” I say to my friend as I turn my phone towards her.

“There are four pictures of me! All standing 20 feet away from him on the track. One of which is me pointing at him when I asked if he was taking pictures of me! What the fuck?” my gut turns.

Then, I get the distinct feeling I should look through my photo trash…

“Oh. My. God.” I show her.

A picture of just my chest… from below my chin to just above my belly button. Zoomed in. A picture taken from 20 feet away, but looks as if the photographer was standing within a couple feet of me.

I get another inclination… my sent messages trash.

Yep… of course. Right there. In front of my face. Five photos of me… sent to his personal email… then deleted… but not “emptied”.

I immediately go to the first person I can think of…

to be continued… Part II

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When I was 17 years old, my teacher “confiscated” my cell phone and proceeded to take pictures of my chest and send them to his personal email.

He later claimed he just wanted pictures of me for his office cork board…. *collective eye roll, shall we?*… but that’s a different story for a different day.

This teacher was my coach at one point. He gained knowledge, insight, and trust over the years. He used my naivety against me. And, now, looking back, I believe he sensed whatever it is predators leave on their victim for other predators to sniff out. I was quickly identified as prey and thoroughly groomed from that point on.

This teacher is still employed. As a matter of fact, they’ve been promoted, multiple times, with far more power and opportunity for one-on-one meetings with teenaged children now.

This teacher has also had multiple claims against him of similar nature… even worse offenses actually.

I know what you’re thinking. “She must not have told the proper authorities.”

Oh, but I did.

I, a seventeen year old girl, with lots of friends, aspirations, good grades, athletic achievements, a supportive family, a good Homelife… put my neck on the line to tell teachers, administration, my parents, the police, the superintendent, the school counselor… and anyone else who asked. I risked my privacy, my dignity, my reputation and any kind of backlash that comes from blowing a whistle that no one wants to hear.

I spoke up, because I recognized this was bigger than me.

And, at times, I regretted it. Because nothing happened. No justice was served. All I got out of the deal was a whole lot of rumors, a whole lot of bullying (by authority figures, not by my peers), questions and being made to feel like I was the one who did something wrong.

I graduated early because of it. The entire incident ruined the rest of my junior year and completely removed my willingness to be a senior in high school.

Today, I choose, again, to speak up. Nothing will happen, but that’s not my fault and I refuse to feel responsible for his victims since, his current victims, nor his future victims.

I’ve done my part.

For all of you who have been victimized by a predator who oh so conveniently sits at the throne of some sort of authority. Who’s continually given a “pass”, because he “seems like a nice guy” or “would help anyone out” or “is always there supporting our community” or whatever other bullshit that makes other people feel better. I am sorry for whatever it is you’ve suffered because of ever knowing such a disgusting excuse for a human being. I’m also sorry that you, most likely, were not their first victim, and most definitely won’t be their last.

And to all of you with all the bullshit excuses… God forbid you, or your child, have to learn this lesson the hard way.

If you are keeping a secret of this nature due to fear of backlash or humiliation or fear of people not believing you… I encourage you to be brave. To use your voice, fiercely. Don’t back down. Whatever was done to you is bigger than you. We, survivors, have an obligation to help each other, to empower each other, to protect each other and those who come after us. You’re stronger than you think. Tell your story. Your selfless courage could save a life.

Wrapped in the darkness, with the exception of the glowing streetlight peering in on us. In his bed, my bare legs tossed over the tops of his. I hear his sleepy muffled voice float out from under his heavy arm, “You know I love you, right?”…

And suddenly this falling feels like flying.

Six simple, complex, floating, heavy, sparkling, powerful words send me soaring.

In that moment I realize I am not only in love with him, which, to be honest, I’ve known for a while now… but I am in love with the way his voice crinkles like fire after 11 pm. I’m in love with the way his face touching mine sends electricity down through my temples and into the souls of my feet. I have fallen in love with the way he makes things I hate to do, like grocery shopping, fun. How he tucks t-shirts under his chin while folding the second sleeve. I am madly in love with how every time he steps out of the shower to dry off, his left eyebrow raises slightly as he peeks out to see if I’m waiting for him on the bed. I love watching him match his socks, ever so precisely. And, above all else, I love the way I know he loves me… not just despite all of my faults, but because of them.

It feels like all I’ve done, everything I’ve been through, everyone who’s crossed my path, every mistake, every success, all of my choices and all of the things I had no choice in… all of it lead me right here. In his bed. Wrapped in this exact darkness. With these precise legs which were made to fit ever so perfectly undermine.

It feels like I’ve arrived.

And with all that, I poke my face into the triangle of his sheltering arm and whisper “I love you, too” into his somnolent ear.

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When I thought to write about this pivotal moment of My Story, I first hesitated. I had a brief wave of doubt come over me. How could I put into words exactly how I felt in such a moment? The power of it is daunting and the fact that I was preparing myself to recollect my feelings, in detail, from nearly a decade ago… I almost convinced myself on giving up before I had even begun.

I’m so very glad I didn’t.

Once I sat down and began typing, I realized drawing on those decade old feelings wasn’t difficult in the least. It came pouring out of me just the same as it did the moment he said that one fateful sentence.

Nearly 10 years later, I love him far more than I did in that instant.

Putting that moment into words is easy. Putting what I feel for him today would be the real challenge.

I’ve lived a lot of life in my 30 years. And, I’m sure I have a lot more coming my way for the next 30. But, knowing I have this man beside me, knowing even if it’s all gone tomorrow, that I had what I have now. It truly makes it all worth it. Any of it. All of it.

Life is so unpredictable. So confusing and deceiving. But, if there’s one thing I’ve learned throughout it all… it’s for every bad thing that happens… at least 10 good things come to you in return. As long as you’re willing to receive them.

Forever grateful for he who is my lemonade.

The warm air of summer dusk breezes across the small of my back and sends a wisp of hair into my face right as the waitress comes to get our drink orders.

I brush the hair behind my ear as Joe tells her water for me and a glass of wine for him.

As we watch the bustle of people wander by the sliding barn doors open to the street just beside our table, we can’t help but giggle to ourselves with pure joy. Our little secret is nearly too exciting to contain.

Being here, surrounded by strangers, is a relief. We can talk about it aloud without worrying who will overhear.

We excitedly exchange all of the ideas we have been self chronicling, too dangerous to speak of with our family and friends around.

With a heap of Italian food in front of us, we bask in the thickness of our adoration for each other in this exciting time. I feel like I’ve been walking around wrapped in a hug for the past six weeks. It’s an overwhelming amount of joy, terrifying, and sensationally filling all at once.

As I look across the table at Joe, I wonder if my glow is as bright as his.

And suddenly everything changes.

Just like that.

In an instant.

I can feel myself falling. My stomach in my throat. Dizzying confusion and fear. Searing anger flushes my cheeks. The clenching pain is abrupt and aggressive and pulsating. It tears at my heart.

I know exactly what is happening, because I’ve been here before.

Tears flood my eyes as I try to contain my panic.

Joe puts cash on the table next to our unfinished food and takes his button down off. He helps me stand and wraps his shirt quickly around my waist before anyone notices.

We rush out as discreetly as possible. I feel so weak with devastation, the summer heat almost pushes me over as Joe opens the front door. As I step out onto the crowded sidewalk, desperately wishing the car wasn’t parked so far away, I am convinced everyone is staring at me. I’m positive they know. I see disappointment in their eyes.

The feeling of failure floods my mind, body, and soul. The tears finally become too heavy for my lower eyelids. Mascara streams down my cheeks as blatantly arrogant as the blood running down my legs.

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This was one of many miscarriages I experienced. Luckily, it was the only one I had in public.

It was devastating.

I was about 10 weeks pregnant and we were sure this one was going to last.

Growing up, I was always under the impression I would have no problem getting pregnant and pumping as many babies as my little heart desired out. In my defense, I have never had a problem getting pregnant. It’s more so staying pregnant I seem to be fairly inept at.

Life has a cruel way of pointing and laughing at you sometimes.

Rheumatoid Arthritis and the drugs doctors prescribe, irresponsibly in my opinion, have stolen a great deal away from me over the years. Unborn children being the most scarring of them all.

But, today, I have a five and half year old, stunningly gorgeous, brilliant, humorous, jovial, sassy, red haired little girl. And it would be impossible to love her and appreciate the gift of her to the full extent my heart understands without the loss my husband and I experienced over and over before and after we were blessed with the true miracle that is her.

I’ll always have a place in my heart for each of my babies, but I choose to believe everything really does happen for a reason. I choose to focus on what I do have. And I choose to speak out in hopes even just one person feels less alone in such a loss.

Stay hopeful. Miracles do happen.

The crisp morning air is full of excitable electricity. The sun seems to be warming me from the inside out. People bustling around us as we walk.

We make our way down the busy sidewalk and I take a moment to appreciate the beautiful simplicity I feel amongst such a crowd. I consciously feel his hand wrapped so perfectly around mine, our steps naturally in sync. I look up to my left and he looks back down at me with eyes full of love and a smile filled with hope.

Life is good.

The sign suddenly overhead reads “Welcome to Mt. Heavenly”. As we approach the gondola I realize we’re actually getting on. Excitement fills my bones. I squeeze his hand and give him a quick peck on the cheek before hoisting myself up into the seat. He slides in next time me, arm around me as we release the overwhelming joy with laughter.

The view is stunning.

The first terrace is the souvenir shop, the second is lively with a restaurant and some sort of giant blowup bouncy house. After exploring both we make our way to the ski lift. Looks like it’s not open to the general public.

“Bummer,” I say, “bet it’s beautiful up there.”

He grabs my hand and we’re walking up the steps to board. The kid working starts to say we can’t get on, but his training didn’t include bargaining with Joe Girres. He quickly ushers us on and off we go. Up, up, up, as the people below us get smaller and smaller, the view of the lake gets bigger and bigger.

The heat of the day is setting in. We’re both sweating. Laughing about how perfectly things worked out in finding ourselves here. When the lift reaches the platform we jump off. I look up the mountain to see a daunting, dusty trail ahead of us.

“Race-ya-to-the-top-ready-set-go!” I holler back over my shoulder.

Three seconds later, I’ve been scooped up and we’re bounding up the trail in a sweaty, breathless knot of laughter. 20 yards later he puts me down and we take a moment to enjoy the scenery that we are solely engulfed in.

As we approach the tippy top of the mountain, a ski deck comes in sight. Not a soul around, but us. We climb up onto the rickety deck and take in the view of the entire lake.

Breathtaking.

As I sit, overcome with peace, looking out over the landscape I hear Joe say, “Babe?”

I turn to find him in front of me, down on one knee.

Oh. My. God.

I gasp for the air stolen from my chest. I can hardly hear him over the sound of my heart flooding my throat.

“I love you. I’m always gonna love you. No matter what life brings us or takes away from us, my life will always be better with you by my side. I want to wake up next to you, proudly walk beside you, and love you from the inside out. I promise to make you feel seen and heard, every day for the rest of our lives. I promise to kiss you goodnight and hug you goodbye each and every morning. You are everything I’ve been waiting for and so much more, I would be honored to be your husband. To care for you and love you and make you feel safe and beautiful no matter what the future holds. Will you marry me?”

“Yes!” flings out of my mouth. I leap from my seat into his arms and seal every single promise with a kiss.

As we make our way off of the ski deck, he spots a glimmer. A nickel, heads up, dated 1994.

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My husband asked me to marry him on July 18, 2010 at the tippy top of Mt. Heavenly in Lake Tahoe.

I had known for quite a while before hand that he was the one I would marry. No question in my mind, but his proposal was a surprise. I was just so wrapped up in the amazing day we were having and the beautiful place we were vacationing, that I wasn’t much expecting it was going to get even better.

If you’ve been following this blog, my life story, you know by now that my life, much like many other’s, hadn’t been perfect per say. By the time I’d gotten engaged, I’d caught a lot of life’s curveballs… not always gracefully.

Joe always felt like home to me. He has a way of making me feel balanced and confident. Joe has given me the gift of feeling like I can be myself. He never judges me or makes me feel bad about who I am. And he has a steadfast way of believing in everything I want to become.

My husband knows all of my flaws, perhaps better than anyone, and he knows my weaknesses, but instead of using them against me, he’s always encouraged me to better myself, to check myself, and to love myself as fiercely as I love those around me.

Our marriage is a testament to hope, to growth, to open mindedness. An ode to taking responsibility for yourself, your life, deciding what it is you want and need and not settling until you find it.

This love found me when I was least expecting it. And the only way I can explain it is; I was smack dab in the middle of focusing on myself, bettering myself, concentrating on the positive and freeing myself of other peoples judgement as well as my own, when BAM, he walked in and never walked back out.

Life is full of situations and circumstances we don’t have a whole lot of choice in. So, when I’m fortunate enough to be blessed with one of life’s goodies, I cherish it. Consciously, every single day.

P.S. My dad passed away in 1994. Finding that nickel, heads up, was received by me as a good luck charm… and a Father’s Blessing. So, thanks Dad, for whatever hand you had in making sure I was in the right place at the right time… in so many ways.

I hear them jump the banister outside my window and rattle the back door open.

Sounds of tripping and fumbling over the living room items follows.

As I lay there imagining what it all looks like on the other side of the wall I realize I’m holding my breath. I let out a quiet, slow sigh. My eyes are pinned open, all senses on high alert. I’m sure I can hear the dirty carpet crunching under their filthy shoes. Step, step, step, fumble, thump, step,step… closer and closer.

I hear what I conclude to be one of them plop down onto the couch. The other two are snickering closer and closer to my closed bedroom door.

The door opens with a flood of light filling the room.

I roll over to face the wall.

Without even bothering to close the door behind them, they tumble into the bed across from me. The smell of alcohol and drugs… and sex pervades my nostrils. The grunts are unabashed, heavy, and unsteady.

Hiding under the covers I suddenly realize a shadow above me. I flip the covers back to meet a face within inches of mine. The couch plopper.

I shoot out of bed in a panic and race for the bathroom. I slam the door and hold it closed while my heart pounds at my ear drums.

I hear him pass by the door, back to the couch.

Cold and exhausted from my heightened senses and linoleum floor, I finally hear sleep throughout the house.

Cracking the door open, I convince myself to take a peek.

I mouse my way back to my bedroom, close and lock the door, and try to get back to sleep.

What seems like seconds later, my alarm wakes me. I grab my things, too scared to shower, I dress in the bathroom.

As I walk past the being on my couch I realize he’s rigged. Belt around his upper arm still, needle hanging lamely. I creep to him to see if he’s still alive. As I place my finger under his nose he snorts loudly. I leap back knocking everything off of the coffee table.

Upside down carpet pizza.

15 minutes later I sit down at a desk and my Color Theory Final smacks me in the face with the crack of dawn.

---

I grew up in the same home my entire childhood. In a small town, where I graduated with nearly every kid I went to kindergarten with.

When I was almost 19, I moved out to attend Art School. That day my mom dropped me off with a girl four or five years older than me who’d lived in that particular dorm room (one bedroom apartment) for a couple years on her own.

The carpets were blue… I think. She clearly didn’t own a vacuum. The smell was something I would describe as stale bong water with a Lush bath bomb floating in it. The sink was full of molding dishes. The outside of the bathtub was dripping Lush bath bars and the drain was clogged with what appeared to be a small rodent… luckily it was just hair.

“Our” room was very much still her room. Her things took up the vast majority of the space. She and her boyfriend, who owned his own house by the way, would stay at our apartment most nights of the week. They would trample in at all hours of the day and night. High, drunk, and shepherding sketchy characters along with them.

I witnessed sex, drugs, and near death experiences multiple times during my stay there.

Yet, I felt some sort of weird obligation to protect her, help her, befriend her and attempt to dig through all of her wreckage and rescue the beautiful soul I saw her to be.

I very obviously had no boundaries and, that, is the most horrifying part of it all to me.

Reflecting on this time of my life ensued the woman I am today to come face to face with the young girl who was so blindly searching for herself. And, boundaries abound, I can finally say, I am proud of who she sees.

I see the bubble pop up in the right hand corner of my screen. I have a new message.

Probably the press wondering where the newspaper is. I’d better check it.

I minimize my window and open my email. One unread message, but it’s not for work.

I open the message. I am instantly sweating. Flushed. Confused. In shock. Speechless. Motionless. Questioning realty.

I pick my jaw up off my desk and exit out of my email.

I don’t have time for this. We’re past deadline, the press will be calling any minute. I’ve got to get my work done. Why would he email me that? At work, of all times. To my work email. Is this some sort of joke?

I need to focus.

Just finish the paper and then you can figure this out. 

What an asshole.

Focus.

As I diligently try to maintain enough mindfulness to make it to press, the message keeps flashing through my mind over and over and over.

As I’m fixated on the words, the phone startles me. I pick it up. It’s the press shop confirming final file receipt. Next thing I know I’m putting the phone back down.

I hope I responded… I can’t remember. I think I did. Oh well.. I’ve got to get to my parents. 

I grab all my things and make a mad dash for the door. As I exit the office the summer heat slaps me in the face. I fumble my keys and finally get into my car and start the ignition.

Suddenly I’m in the driveway realizing, for the first time, it is shaped like a Y. His jeep is parked 50 yards away on my right at the pole barn and her car is parked in front of the house to my left. As I drive up the stem I can feel the V tear away at my heart.

Who do I go to first?

I feel myself yank the wheel sharply to the left at the last minute. I throw it in park and race into the house.

There’s Mom. Sitting on the couch. Alone. She looks up at me as I walk in the room and I instantly feel our roles reverse. I sit next to her and hold her, rocking her, calming her, comforting her best I can.

She confirms the news.

Once my brothers have arrived I head out to the shop.

There he is, bourbon in one hand, Copenhagen in lip. Sitting, pathetically, in a lawn chair with a fan blowing directly at him. Feet up on a cooler.

As if he’s camping.

He shoots me that timid smirk he gives when he is checking the temperature of the situation. The kind of smirk you silently toss towards your best friend while sharing an inside joke in public.

Again, I begin to sweat, flushed, confused… as the message flashes before my eyes.

“I’ve asked your mom for a divorce. I’ll be staying in the shop until I figure something else out. Thought you should know.”

---

My mom met the man I called my step-dad when I was nine years old. They married when I was 10. Almost exactly 13 years later he surprised her, and the rest of the family, with a divorce.

Growing up, I was close to him. Due to some of the things I went through as a kid… and being a teenage girl for a period of time… meant my mom and I butted heads fairly frequently.

My step-dad was never a disciplinarian and rarely involved himself in the actual disagreements my mom and I had over the years, but after Mom went to bed he would always stay up late and pretend everything was ok, which made me feel like it was too.

The way timing worked out, I was the kid who lived within that marriage for the most amount of time. I witnessed every fight. Every act of love and kindness. I watched him drink bourbon after bourbon and her stress over whether his car was in a ditch or if he was still just bellied up to the bar. Witnessed gift exchanges and hugs and kisses. I listened to her vent about his messiness and him whine about not getting enough attention from her. And, I walked on eggshells for a good portion of eight years.

To say I was surprised he thought about or considered divorce wouldn’t be accurate, but when he actually asked for it, I was.

Raised by a woman who believed, with every ounce of her being, that marriage is forever. Engraining in each of her kids that you be sure to choose the right person, because that will have a big impact on how much work your marriage will be. Not, how quickly it will end. How hard you will work to make it last.

That’s why their divorce actually happening was never on my radar.

I was 23 when my parents separated, 25 when the divorce was finalized. And let me tell you, divorce sucks at any age. Going through it as an adult, I honestly don’t understand how children survive it.

It was ugly. Trust was lost. Relationships shattered. My family, at times, felt like it was hanging from a raw thread.

But, today, we are better for it. My mom, my brothers, my sister, we’re all better for it. Not that we don’t have scars or that some wounds aren’t still healing. But, better because we survived another blow. Better because we’ve been reminded, again, no matter what life throws at us, no matter how much we disagree or how different we feel and see things… we’re still together. When the goin gets tough we still choose each other, over and over.

Today is the day.

I have never seen Dad cry before… or this happy.

A million questions are flooding my mind. When will he be here? Will he like me? Is he as nervous as I am? Will he feel like he doesn’t belong or will he fit right in? Will he be mad at us for living so long without him? Does he look like me? Does he look like the boys? Does he look like Dad?

I’m going to make sure he feels loved. I bet it would be hard to walk in here, five to one. All of us staring at him, picking his features apart, his mannerisms.

Will I recognize him? Will he see himself in us?

My palms are sweating. I can’t tell if I’m more nervous or excited.

Finally! I hear the truck pull into the driveway. He’s here!

When he walks in I feel as if I’ve known him my entire life. Like he’s been here all along. He looks like us, wow… so much like us.

Suddenly I realize I’ve come crashing into him, arms wrapped tight around his belly, squeezing over six years of “miss you” right out of him. I take his hand and walk him to the couch where I curl up as close as I can manage. I want him to feel like it’s at least two to four. I want to be beside him instead of ahead or behind.

As we sit and get to know each other, all of us, Mom, Dad, me… and all THREE of my brothers.Three. That’s how many brothers I have now. That’s how many I’ve had all along. He’s the piece of Dad’s heart that I never really realized was so gapping… until now, now that it’s been filled back up.

As I sit beside him I can’t help but notice how difficult it is for Dad to take his eyes off of him. I wonder if he notices it too.

“I love you, Jason.” I say aloud.

I finally get to call him by his name, to his face. A face to the name. My biggest brother. Today is the day our family, and Dad, become whole.

---

My entire life, as far back as I can remember, I’ve always known I had another brother. I’ve always know his name, his age, but never where he was or what he looked like.

Before my parents met, my dad had gotten Jason’s mom pregnant. Life took its course and for whatever reasons, Jason and my dad were on very different paths for a very long time.

But, my dad talked about him frequently. So frequently, I believe if you asked either of my other two brothers or my mom, they would agree, we very much always felt like we knew him, like he was a part of our family, albeit we never actually met or spoke until that one magical day… when we did.

I was six. I believe he was 18. My Dad had been looking for him, wondering about him, loving him… desperately missing him… for 18 years until they finally found each other.

About three short months later, my dad passed away suddenly. I remember, vividly, how heartbroken I was for Jason… and my dad… their time together cut so short.

Today is the day. For anyone out there looking for someone they love. Wondering if someone is looking for you too, hesitant to take action, nervous what may or may not happen. Take the leap. You never know how much time you have left. Every day is one less opportunity to get to know them or a piece of yourself. Be brave. You never know, maybe you’ll fit right in.

“I am addicted to heroin.”

And with those words ringing through my ears, swirling around my mind, and flushing down into every nerve in my body… my entire life literally flashes before my eyes.

I am so caught up in my own shock, wander, and internal chaos, I can’t even muster the voice to ask a single one of the thousand questions I have on the tip of my tongue.

I am suddenly plum full with feelings of anger, distraught, urgency, sadness, devastation, heartbreak and flight… more than fight… and all I can think, is how in the hell did I get here?

Abruptly, I hear all of those questions pour out of my mouth at an inundating pace. Questions with so much belligerence I don’t even recognize myself.

I feel so physically removed from the situation my ability to hear any answers seems to have escaped me. I’m completely entrenched in my own thoughts; how did I not know this? I did know this. How did I ignore all of those signs? Why am I still standing here? I love him. How can I possibly still love him? How long has this been going on? The first sign… from OVER A YEAR AGO smacks me in the face. Dear God what kind of life have I been living… and how could I ever possibly fix this?

My pride impedes me from calling for help. My loyalty blurs my vision. My codependency alters my common sense.

My attachment to four years with the same person, four years of dedication, devotion, love, memories, firsts and the paralyzing fear of change… make me stay.

I am a heroin addicts girlfriend… better put… a heroin addicts “mother”, “babysitter”, “stalker”, “monarch”, “caregiver”, “slave”, “bank”, “shelter”, “driver”… “silent assassin, clothed in love”.

There is nothing I like about who I have become.

---

I am the child of two father figures. Both alcoholics.

Adult children of alcoholics often either become alcoholics, marry them, or both. We have an overdeveloped sense of responsibility and it is easier for us to be concerned with others rather than ourselves. Children of addicts can easily become addicted to excitement, often confuse love and pity, and tend to “love” people we can “pity” and “rescue. We “stuff” our feelings, with ease, from our traumatic childhoods and often lose the ability to feel or express our feelings. Adults raised in this environment can be unrealistically judgmental of themselves and can obtain a very low sense of esteem. Becoming dependent personalities who are terrified of abandonment, and will do anything to hold on to a relationship in order not to experience painful abandonment feelings, which were often received living with sick people who were rarely there emotionally.

I dated my high school sweetheart for about four years. At 20 years old I found out he was a heroin addict… and had been, for quite some time.

Officially apart of the cycle, I resented so many others for putting me into in the first place. I was choosing the same path so many I knew and had previously judged were on.

Luckily, by the grace of God, I was released from this trap.

I buckled down, chose to focus on myself for once. Chose to face all of my demons and traumas and skeletons head on. I put all my focus and energy and efforts on becoming a better me, on setting boundaries, deciding what my firm expectations are, my deal breakers and what it is I truly want for my life, for my future husband, for my future children… for my future.

Today, just over a decade after I heard that shattering sentence, I am proud of who I am. I am happy and content.

I worked on myself and in turn I received healthy relationships within an amazing life, career, and sweet little family.

Never settle for less than what you truly deserve… not even for those you love.