I think for those who have been abused...it is hard to find a place where you are comfortable...a place where you belong. Well, at least it has been for me. When I left home I found myself in an unfamiliar world. Granted, I had moved 800 miles away from home to go to college, but this new world offered acceptance and even love at times. It was as if I had landed in some dark corner in Africa and the people who surrounded me spoke a different language and practiced a different culture. I had never been free. I had never been asked what I "wanted". I had never not been responsible for only myself. It was not easy for me to settle down. In fact, I realized that I had never learned how to study. I was never given the time in my mother's house to sit down and do homework. Yet, she still found it odd that I made poor grades. That was often the her reason for beating me. I was stupid and lazy and I would spend my life flipping burgers. No one would marry me because I was a stupid b***h! Now I found myself without that ever present dictator and I had no idea what to do. I failed two classes in my first year of college. Not so ironically, they were both Bible classes. I went back the next year. My new life was better than the one I had left behind. My mother constantly whispered promises of failure and defeat in my ear...but I stayed. Somehow I had come to love freedom even if it ended in failure. I could come and go as I pleased. I had never been allowed to do that...I liked it.
After I was married, those feelings changed. I once again found myself in unfamiliar territory. I knew Evan was in love with me before we were married (obviously). But he always had to go home at the end of the night. He still had his own life and I had my own life both in our own dorm rooms. I don't know for sure but I wonder if I took our having to be apart as a small version of abandonment. Evan never left me and would have been outside my window if I had ever needed him. But every night I had to watch him drive away. It was heart wrenching. I am sure I behaved angrily so that his leaving wouldn't feel so bad. (I still don't have much of a clue as to why he married me!) After we were married and the literal honeymoon was over...I went into an odd depression. I was sad and angry most of the time. I had a very strong desire to go home...back home to Pennsylvania to be with my mother (choke!). I'd even cry myself to sleep most nights and I actually slept with a stuffed pig my mother had given me. I didn't understand what was wrong with me. I couldn't really make sense of anything. Evan was good to me but I was still unhappy. I loved him but I didn't know how to show it. I'd hold his hand as we fell asleep together. It was all that I could think of to show him I loved him and didn't want him to leave. We almost moved back to my hometown the next summer. I wanted to be rid of that college town but I could never feel settled or peaceful about moving back home. We never did.
I know now what was going on. After we were married, I was privy to 24/7 unconditional love and I COULD NOT handle it. Nothing I did would chase this man away. I couldn't put Evan in a box like I had with every other man/boy in my life. Every man or boyfriend in my past had hurt me or left me in some way. Every one of them had betrayed me. Here was this man standing before me who wouldn't move! I felt the need to run. Run where I didn't know, but I had to run. If I went back home...things would have made sense. My mother no longer hit me but her words still cut like a knife. That pain felt good next to the uncertainty I now found myself. I needed familiarity...I needed to live back inside my survival mode because my new life...in my new life I needed none of the old tricks. No one hit me and no one called me names. It almost felt like standing in front of a crowded room completely naked. All my defenses were completely useless. I was in a panic mode scrambling for something to make sense. I think I spent the next three years keeping my head above the water. So close to drowning in a world I couldn't understand. Our marriage was not bullet proof and was suffering. Evan went 75% of the way but I could not and would not meet him the rest of the way. I searched everywhere else for peace but couldn't find it anywhere. The rest was the long road that lead me to where I am sitting right now.
Still I feel a little restless. I don't like the town where we live now. I don't like the house we bought although it was a convenient and practical purchase. This is not my home. I don't feel like I belong here. With every change of the seasons something will remind my of my hometown in Pennsylvania. The smells of spring...that fresh gust of wind that somehow fills me with energy. The smells and sounds of Fall...my favorite time of year...makes my heart beat faster. I can recall Friday nights under the lights of the football field in my color guard uniform. Performing on Alumni Field...I had the time of my life. I remember the comfort that town brought me. I had my own special places to go and hide. My mother hated the place but I ALWAYS loved it. The cold winter days when my nose would freeze the moment I stepped outside. the snow...I loved the snow. Sledding down the steepest hill we could find and then regretting the climb back up. I never learned to ski. I have told Evan that is something I REALLY want to do. I want my children to grow up with snow. I want to be able to pass on the only happy pieces of my childhood onto them. I want to go home. Fall is here again. My heart it tugging to be brought back to the place that always made me happy. I miss is so so so so desperately. I have never been able to express this desperation in Evan's family. It has always been met with "Your family is here and that should make you happy" and things like that. I usually end up feeling guilty for wanting something so much. I feel like pieces are missing. The past is crushed and I want to put some pieces back together. I still have family there. People that have been through a hellish ordeal...couldn't we heal together? I won't sacrifice my children but we could certainly build a life. Who is to say living around Evan's family is so healthy? The people I have to hide this blog from in order to continue to write with freedom. I want to scream to them that it is my turn! I want back what was taken from me. I live in exile down here from a woman who no longer scares me. I am kept from the siblings I love simply because that woman still breathes? Are you kidding me? God knows I don't want to go away from where He will have me. Why then do I have such a longing? Sometimes it hurts to be so far away. I want to go home. God, I don't know.
Monday, October 19, 2009
Thursday, October 15, 2009
Addiction
I started really digging through some of the first journals I ever wrote. Jeez, talk about darkness. There is an abundance of pages. Page after page of anger and sorrow...pleading for release from whatever was wrong with me. I decided to go back to the beginning in case there was one soul out there who would see this blog. One person who still thinks no one could ever feel as bad as they do.
I actually have forgotten a lot of what I went through. Dirty diapers and 3 am feedings will do that to a woman! I tried to remember what brought me through childhood, especially, my teen years, without some kind of addiction. I mean, people with daily horror need some kind of outlet or they will explode. I couldn't remember what mine was. I know in adulthood I was addicted to being a victim and to being angry all the time. Those addictions ruin you from the inside out. Had I never had a more physical way of rebelling against my situation?
"The abused man or woman often handles the confusion of the soul by drowning his or her wounds in addictive activities. Addictive behavior is the use of any object or repetitive mode of functioning to handle stress, struggle, or sorrow that both impairs personal functioning and relationships and cannot be stopped without extensive outside intervention" (The Wounded Heart Workbook, page 27). Underneath, the author asks if I had any addictions or compulsions. Among the ones mentioned above, I wrote that I wanted to hurt myself. It all came flooding back. Taking the blade of a knife and pulling it across my skin and tearing my flesh. I remember the flood of release as the blood ran down my arm. Control! I had control of who hurt my body! I had control...for that instant...I had control. It was almost like having a good cry. My stress would evaporate and I could usually sleep soundly. My body was my own for a little while. It gave me proof. A reason to be sad or upset...I had a physical and visual wound to mourn over. It never hurt. I could feel it but it never hurt. I liked pain. I liked cuts and bruises...if I gave them to myself. They made me feel strong and in control. Maybe like I had beat my mother to the "punch". If I was already bruised than she couldn't make her mark. I hid them well. In the summer, I cut my legs and feet...no one looked there. In the winter, my wrists and my arms. I even used to bite the skin off my lips until they bled. I can actually recall a few times when I would pull my own hair. Do it to myself and it won't hurt so much when she did it to me. I fought back...unfortunately, I only hurt myself. I'd fight against this deep into my marriage. About seven months into my first group I had the second of two miscarriages. I think that was the absolute lowest I had ever been with God. I let go of all restraints when I found out we were finally having a baby. We'd lost one seven months before but I had been only 3 weeks along. This was different. Being a mother was so...warm. I gave up feeling my body was my own. I stopped punishing my body for what other people had done to me. I was a mother. I even felt different. I could feel the glow everyone else could see. Right before the ens of the first trimester we found out I had never been pregnant with an actual baby. The sac developed and the baby didn't. The world fell from under me. God had slapped me in the face. There was no one else to blame for that than Him. How could he? I hated myself for believing! I felt like such a fool. I had felt things and embraced life only to find out it was all a joke. I went back to punishing my body for the pain inside of me. I starved myself for months. Why nourish a barren body? The only thing I wouldn't do was devour the pain of miscarriage. The doctor told me I could wait to let things "end" naturally or I could have a short surgery and then it would be over. I wanted the pain. I wanted the labor. I couldn't do it. I had perverted everything else in my life but I could not let motherhood be tainted that way. I opted for the surgery. I was in love with a baby that never was...I just couldn't ruin it. That was the closest I ever got to becoming dependant on pain killers. The days that followed are a haze of percocet and sleep. I was in complete sorrow and I had to dull the pain in my heart. My husband watched over me and we cried together. He seemed the only one who could even get close to knowing how I felt. My mother-in-law responded to my decision to have the surgery in a numb way. She had had that same type of procedure before and said, "It isn't that bad". That added to my feeling defeated...like a fool.
I would lose 30 pounds in the next 8 months. I struggles with food...food would keep me alive and keep my heart beating. It all felt so hopeless. Slowly, the wound healed. I got pregnant again in less than 10 months. I was never again able to embrace pregnancy. I never trusted my body to do what it was meant to do. My body and I have never been on good terms. I often sit and realize that I am walking around in the same skin that my mother abused. I am in the same body that my father left behind. I am living inside the same body that other men have touched and I sometimes feel like their finger prints are all over me.
The pain and the memories don't have their hold on me so much anymore. But that is my reality. I will always be the Ashley who was abused by myself and others. The scars are still here and will be proof FOREVER. I can't change them. But how many years are ahead of me? I have a lifetime to make more, BIGGER memories with my kids, my husband, and my grandchildren. How many scars are from good things? Kind of like the wrinkles we get from smiling so much. Like my c-section scars...proof my babies are part of me. I still long for my body in heaven though. What a relief that will be. Nothing will sag or be disproportionate...scars are gone.
I actually have forgotten a lot of what I went through. Dirty diapers and 3 am feedings will do that to a woman! I tried to remember what brought me through childhood, especially, my teen years, without some kind of addiction. I mean, people with daily horror need some kind of outlet or they will explode. I couldn't remember what mine was. I know in adulthood I was addicted to being a victim and to being angry all the time. Those addictions ruin you from the inside out. Had I never had a more physical way of rebelling against my situation?
"The abused man or woman often handles the confusion of the soul by drowning his or her wounds in addictive activities. Addictive behavior is the use of any object or repetitive mode of functioning to handle stress, struggle, or sorrow that both impairs personal functioning and relationships and cannot be stopped without extensive outside intervention" (The Wounded Heart Workbook, page 27). Underneath, the author asks if I had any addictions or compulsions. Among the ones mentioned above, I wrote that I wanted to hurt myself. It all came flooding back. Taking the blade of a knife and pulling it across my skin and tearing my flesh. I remember the flood of release as the blood ran down my arm. Control! I had control of who hurt my body! I had control...for that instant...I had control. It was almost like having a good cry. My stress would evaporate and I could usually sleep soundly. My body was my own for a little while. It gave me proof. A reason to be sad or upset...I had a physical and visual wound to mourn over. It never hurt. I could feel it but it never hurt. I liked pain. I liked cuts and bruises...if I gave them to myself. They made me feel strong and in control. Maybe like I had beat my mother to the "punch". If I was already bruised than she couldn't make her mark. I hid them well. In the summer, I cut my legs and feet...no one looked there. In the winter, my wrists and my arms. I even used to bite the skin off my lips until they bled. I can actually recall a few times when I would pull my own hair. Do it to myself and it won't hurt so much when she did it to me. I fought back...unfortunately, I only hurt myself. I'd fight against this deep into my marriage. About seven months into my first group I had the second of two miscarriages. I think that was the absolute lowest I had ever been with God. I let go of all restraints when I found out we were finally having a baby. We'd lost one seven months before but I had been only 3 weeks along. This was different. Being a mother was so...warm. I gave up feeling my body was my own. I stopped punishing my body for what other people had done to me. I was a mother. I even felt different. I could feel the glow everyone else could see. Right before the ens of the first trimester we found out I had never been pregnant with an actual baby. The sac developed and the baby didn't. The world fell from under me. God had slapped me in the face. There was no one else to blame for that than Him. How could he? I hated myself for believing! I felt like such a fool. I had felt things and embraced life only to find out it was all a joke. I went back to punishing my body for the pain inside of me. I starved myself for months. Why nourish a barren body? The only thing I wouldn't do was devour the pain of miscarriage. The doctor told me I could wait to let things "end" naturally or I could have a short surgery and then it would be over. I wanted the pain. I wanted the labor. I couldn't do it. I had perverted everything else in my life but I could not let motherhood be tainted that way. I opted for the surgery. I was in love with a baby that never was...I just couldn't ruin it. That was the closest I ever got to becoming dependant on pain killers. The days that followed are a haze of percocet and sleep. I was in complete sorrow and I had to dull the pain in my heart. My husband watched over me and we cried together. He seemed the only one who could even get close to knowing how I felt. My mother-in-law responded to my decision to have the surgery in a numb way. She had had that same type of procedure before and said, "It isn't that bad". That added to my feeling defeated...like a fool.
I would lose 30 pounds in the next 8 months. I struggles with food...food would keep me alive and keep my heart beating. It all felt so hopeless. Slowly, the wound healed. I got pregnant again in less than 10 months. I was never again able to embrace pregnancy. I never trusted my body to do what it was meant to do. My body and I have never been on good terms. I often sit and realize that I am walking around in the same skin that my mother abused. I am in the same body that my father left behind. I am living inside the same body that other men have touched and I sometimes feel like their finger prints are all over me.
The pain and the memories don't have their hold on me so much anymore. But that is my reality. I will always be the Ashley who was abused by myself and others. The scars are still here and will be proof FOREVER. I can't change them. But how many years are ahead of me? I have a lifetime to make more, BIGGER memories with my kids, my husband, and my grandchildren. How many scars are from good things? Kind of like the wrinkles we get from smiling so much. Like my c-section scars...proof my babies are part of me. I still long for my body in heaven though. What a relief that will be. Nothing will sag or be disproportionate...scars are gone.
Thursday, October 8, 2009
Dreams
The other day I was reminded of the expanding wake my mother has left in the lives of the children that lived under her. I wonder if this is why forgiveness still eludes me. The effects are still fresh, maybe not for me, for those other little ones I left behind. It makes me angry and I feel helpless.
My brother told me a few days ago that he has nightmares where she is still hurting him. He hasn't lived with her for years. He hasn't spoken to her for months and still she can sneak into his dreams. The place where we should feel the safest. I used to be a protector of my siblings. When I lived at home they were "mine". A distraction, if you will. I would never be able to say it was a selfless thing for me to "take the blows" for them. I imagine it is a lot like the men and women who serve in the army. No one wants to run out on the battle field without knowing what they are fighting for. It was what needed to be done. I couldn't stand watching her beat my baby brother and sister...the oldest being only 9 when I left for college. I did it so that I never had to feel helpless over them. I couldn't do anything to save myself and it gave me some kind of peace to protect someone else. When I left for college they all took me to the airport. We sat and waited for the call to board the plane. As it grew near, my little brother's grip got tighter and tighter around my arm. We'd had a special bond. He was 8 years old then. He had always been a child that you really couldn't "read". A bit unemotional if you will. I don't know if that was personality or his environment. He smiled for me though. I have a picture of him now, my favorite of him, sitting on the counter stirring a jug of homemade tea...with the biggest smile. At the airport...it was time to go and he just broke down in sobs!!! I knew something was wrong and I knew he'd miss me. I knew I had to go but I wanted to stay at the same time. He cried and cried. We hugged and I had to walk away. I cried much of the 2 hour plane ride. His instincts were right. He knew he was walking back into his own personal hell and there was no one left to save him. Now he is haunted. I can remember having those same kind of dreams. They began when I started my first group "counseling". When I stopped speaking to my mother they came on with a vengeance. I'd wake up screaming or crying. Evan would have to soothe me back to sleep. I could actually feel the fists hitting me. When I woke up I would have to sort reality from what had happened in my dream. They were so real. When I was pregnant with Eli, my dreams were horrendous. I would dream that she had kidnapped me and tied me to a pole in the cellar. She kept me there until I went into labor and then would steal my son. I can remember, in real life, people accidentally bumping my stomach and I would immediately become defensive and grab my stomach with both hands. The fear was that real!!! But slowly the dreams changed. I was working, in real life, at overcoming a lot of my fear. I was beginning to realize how powerless she was. In my dreams she still kidnapped me, or beat me...but someone would come and rescue me. Sometimes it was Evan and other times it was his mother. They would come and find me. Being locked in my mother's basement did not mean I disappeared from the thoughts of everyone that loved me. She couldn't steal me away because they could not forget me. I had a place in life...in there lives. I had a place where I belonged and it was not in her basement!! In fact a few months would pass ans soon my dreams were changing again. I was the one beating her! When she hit me I would hit back!! I could actually feel the victorious feeling I might have had if I had ever been able to fight back as a child. In my dreams, I was even able to rescue my brothers and sisters. I got them out of the house and they came home with me...they were safe. I could stand up to her in my dreams and IT FELT GOOD!!! I know now if I were ever to come face to face with her she would wither. I am not afraid of the monster who used to haunt me. It is probably best that we don't see each other though...all I want to do is punch her in the face. I can also promise you that I would go "mother bear" on her if she ever ever EVER laid half a finger on one of my babies!!!
To my brother I say I am here, sweet little boy!
Then my youngest sister had a question for me. She is 12 and will be 13 in April. She will never be sent back home and is young enough to be considered for adoption. I know that the people who take care of her have told her that this is coming. She has asked me twice to adopt her. Believe me, I couldn't make this up! There is no precedent for something like that. It makes me so angry to be put in a situation like this! I can't adopt her. There are the monetary reasons and the fact that all the rooms in our home are occupied. The main reason is that I have never raised a teenager. I don't know what to do with the emotional needs of a teenager especially one with her damaging past. I am not what is best for her. I think she is scared and I would be too. I hate having to tell her that she can't come live with me. It weighs heavy on me. I feel like I am abandoning her...throwing her to the wolves. The worst part is my final reason for saying no to her. I don't know the details but the caseworkers who are in charge of the case against my mother have eluded to my youngest sister being a victim of sexual abuse. I believe that they have gotten her some help after finding this out but how can I bring her into my home? How could I put my own children at risk? Even if it is a small risk it is a risk just the same. I am not willing to sacrifice my children. What happened in that home is not my fault and therefore, not my responsibility. Now, if only I could really be at peace with that bit of truth.
My brother told me a few days ago that he has nightmares where she is still hurting him. He hasn't lived with her for years. He hasn't spoken to her for months and still she can sneak into his dreams. The place where we should feel the safest. I used to be a protector of my siblings. When I lived at home they were "mine". A distraction, if you will. I would never be able to say it was a selfless thing for me to "take the blows" for them. I imagine it is a lot like the men and women who serve in the army. No one wants to run out on the battle field without knowing what they are fighting for. It was what needed to be done. I couldn't stand watching her beat my baby brother and sister...the oldest being only 9 when I left for college. I did it so that I never had to feel helpless over them. I couldn't do anything to save myself and it gave me some kind of peace to protect someone else. When I left for college they all took me to the airport. We sat and waited for the call to board the plane. As it grew near, my little brother's grip got tighter and tighter around my arm. We'd had a special bond. He was 8 years old then. He had always been a child that you really couldn't "read". A bit unemotional if you will. I don't know if that was personality or his environment. He smiled for me though. I have a picture of him now, my favorite of him, sitting on the counter stirring a jug of homemade tea...with the biggest smile. At the airport...it was time to go and he just broke down in sobs!!! I knew something was wrong and I knew he'd miss me. I knew I had to go but I wanted to stay at the same time. He cried and cried. We hugged and I had to walk away. I cried much of the 2 hour plane ride. His instincts were right. He knew he was walking back into his own personal hell and there was no one left to save him. Now he is haunted. I can remember having those same kind of dreams. They began when I started my first group "counseling". When I stopped speaking to my mother they came on with a vengeance. I'd wake up screaming or crying. Evan would have to soothe me back to sleep. I could actually feel the fists hitting me. When I woke up I would have to sort reality from what had happened in my dream. They were so real. When I was pregnant with Eli, my dreams were horrendous. I would dream that she had kidnapped me and tied me to a pole in the cellar. She kept me there until I went into labor and then would steal my son. I can remember, in real life, people accidentally bumping my stomach and I would immediately become defensive and grab my stomach with both hands. The fear was that real!!! But slowly the dreams changed. I was working, in real life, at overcoming a lot of my fear. I was beginning to realize how powerless she was. In my dreams she still kidnapped me, or beat me...but someone would come and rescue me. Sometimes it was Evan and other times it was his mother. They would come and find me. Being locked in my mother's basement did not mean I disappeared from the thoughts of everyone that loved me. She couldn't steal me away because they could not forget me. I had a place in life...in there lives. I had a place where I belonged and it was not in her basement!! In fact a few months would pass ans soon my dreams were changing again. I was the one beating her! When she hit me I would hit back!! I could actually feel the victorious feeling I might have had if I had ever been able to fight back as a child. In my dreams, I was even able to rescue my brothers and sisters. I got them out of the house and they came home with me...they were safe. I could stand up to her in my dreams and IT FELT GOOD!!! I know now if I were ever to come face to face with her she would wither. I am not afraid of the monster who used to haunt me. It is probably best that we don't see each other though...all I want to do is punch her in the face. I can also promise you that I would go "mother bear" on her if she ever ever EVER laid half a finger on one of my babies!!!
To my brother I say I am here, sweet little boy!
Then my youngest sister had a question for me. She is 12 and will be 13 in April. She will never be sent back home and is young enough to be considered for adoption. I know that the people who take care of her have told her that this is coming. She has asked me twice to adopt her. Believe me, I couldn't make this up! There is no precedent for something like that. It makes me so angry to be put in a situation like this! I can't adopt her. There are the monetary reasons and the fact that all the rooms in our home are occupied. The main reason is that I have never raised a teenager. I don't know what to do with the emotional needs of a teenager especially one with her damaging past. I am not what is best for her. I think she is scared and I would be too. I hate having to tell her that she can't come live with me. It weighs heavy on me. I feel like I am abandoning her...throwing her to the wolves. The worst part is my final reason for saying no to her. I don't know the details but the caseworkers who are in charge of the case against my mother have eluded to my youngest sister being a victim of sexual abuse. I believe that they have gotten her some help after finding this out but how can I bring her into my home? How could I put my own children at risk? Even if it is a small risk it is a risk just the same. I am not willing to sacrifice my children. What happened in that home is not my fault and therefore, not my responsibility. Now, if only I could really be at peace with that bit of truth.
Monday, October 5, 2009
Sober
I know some of you may not hear or enjoy Kelly Clarkson's music, but I have one particular song of her's in my top 30 favorites. It is clearly a song about an alcohlic going through the process of becoming "sober". I couldn't find a reliable meaning from Clarkson herself, so we are left to our own interpretation. I know that some of the groups I have gone through have used a curriculum adapted from the AA (Alcoholics Anonymous®) curriculum. That has always amazed me. Alcoholics are that for life...always fighting the demon, the addiction. They fight a battle everyday not to take a sip...not even one sip. Alcohol was the best, not because it tasted good but because it rushed into their bodies and washed away all the pain and all the memories. No matter how much you try...the very thing you were trying to escape is back the next morning...with a vengeance. Don't we feel like that most days? Fighting to keep to the right side of the "journey". If we give in...we fall hard. Survivors are some of the bravest people you will ever know. People who fight an unseen foe who would likely kill them from the inside out. People who face the pain from the past...who fight for the best they can be...who fight for those they love...those are brave people. That is courage that no one speaks about. You never get a medal or a commendation. You just get to wake up the next day and fight all over again. Surviving isn't all fight. You start to see with clear eyes. You see things that you might never have seen before. Me, I sit in the moment when I watch my husband play with our children. I wonder if I would have ever know before to take census of all the love that surrounded me. Would I have ever felt peace? No!
This song always reminds me of how I felt in my body at going to my first group "therapy". I really thought, "This could break my heart or save me." I was weighed down by pure terror. Some days I...I wondered if I could ever breathe again, the pain threatened to choke me. It all seemed so hopeless and I wanted it to be over. I wanted to skip all the stuff in the middle...I just wanted to be better. If I had done that I wouldn't have been able to "get it right". I had to come to terms with the truth that it is never really over. This road I will walk till I die. Sometimes that is a blessing and a curse. My journey gives me good perspective but exhausts me somedays when my mind can't get past the memories.
This song always reminds me of how I felt in my body at going to my first group "therapy". I really thought, "This could break my heart or save me." I was weighed down by pure terror. Some days I...I wondered if I could ever breathe again, the pain threatened to choke me. It all seemed so hopeless and I wanted it to be over. I wanted to skip all the stuff in the middle...I just wanted to be better. If I had done that I wouldn't have been able to "get it right". I had to come to terms with the truth that it is never really over. This road I will walk till I die. Sometimes that is a blessing and a curse. My journey gives me good perspective but exhausts me somedays when my mind can't get past the memories.
SOBER
And I don’t know
This could break my heart or save me
Nothing’s real
Until you let go completely
So here I go with all my thoughts I’ve been saving
So here I go with all my fears weighing on me
Three months and I’m still sober
Picked all my weeds but kept the flowers
And I don’t know
I could crash and burn but maybe
At the end of this road I might catch a glimpse of me
Three months and I’m still breathing
Been a long road since those hands I left my tears in but
I know It’s never really over, no
Wake up
Three months and I’m still standing here
Three months and I’m getting better yeah
Three months and I still am
Three months and it’s still harder now
Three months I’ve been living here without you now
Three months yeah, three months
Three months and I’m still breathing
Three months and I still remember it
Three months and I wake up
Three months and I’m still sober
Picked all my weeds but kept the flowers
I have to tell you what I did the other day. I am really excited! I bought Maddie and I some pink shoes! That is right, I bought myself some pink shoes...and it is going to be awesome and freeing. One more chunk of my childhood is mine again!!!
If you need help: http://www.aa.org/
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