Deafening silence. Not a sound. Only the quiet vibrations from the internal, raucous roar of a beating heart. And oh, BOY! Is this heart ever beating away!

This blog entry isn't written by me. It's written by you, my sweet family, and the world around me.  It's written by today's forecasted serendipitous snow that will satisfy me to the core, the eggs my chickens and ducks lay daily, and the song "Sounds of Silence" I listen to as this blog post flows freely from the depths of my soul.

Sometimes we walk through life. Other times we barely crawl. Lately, through sleepy eyes and a healing body, I'm doing a power walk. Who'd have thought?

I'm leaving no time for my shadow to catch up with me. There will be no space or time between where I've been and where I'm going. After having had major surgery, I willed myself to recover physically in the same way I healed emotionally from my past abuse. No scalpel, sutures or even post-operative pain could steal my steam.  Not after what I've endured.

Raising five kids eight years apart. For so many reasons it was the right thing for me- for us- to do. After surviving an abusive childhood and undergoing years of therapy I was hopeful I would not perpetuate my abuse. Rearing my children while trying simultaneously to heal and love myself while learning to love them was an unequivocally wearisome and titanic feat. I believed that our kids would benefit from bonding together with one another. I strongly felt that having a large family would dilute my chances of saddling these innocent, loving souls with any remaining shards from my abuse. Piercing a heart is a heinous crime, especially when you know the life sentence it can bring. Sadly, it is our children, who at our hands will serve the life sentence.

 A life cracked, broken and shattered; no glue can fix the fact that this was/is a decision WE CHOSE to make. It's ALL on us. The healing that will be all on our victims' shoulders to bear. To have given such a heavy load to a soul so undeserving of the lingering pain they never signed up for is unconscionable. We... WE are the villain here. I will neither lie nor underestimate the gravity of this travesty.

Yesterday my dad died.

He also died the day before. Even the one before that. 

He first died on his 74th birthday, on March 24, 2003. But since that day, every day I say goodbye to a little more of him.

Every so often in the middle of mundane, monotonous tasks in my everyday life, I come across leftovers. Some say leftovers are even better the next day.  My opinion? Not so much. Really, never. 

I guess you can't escape abuse completely unscathed. Don't we wish we all could?