INNOCENCE LOST: my heart aches

EYES . . my eyes were drawn to their eyes, as pictures of the children who survived last week's Sandy Hook Elementary School massacre were published.  

I saw "that" look - the dilated pupils and staring lackluster eyes of innocent children who have witnessed incomprehensible violence.  I know that look.  I recognized that look and I know that those children will, never again, be children. 

The audacity.   

What gives me the right to identify with children who have lived through the unspeakable . . . children who have survived the inconceivable - children who will struggle, for the rest of their lives, to find a level of normalcy after the world, as they knew it, ceased to exist.  What gives me the right?     

I was seven years old when I witnessed my birth mother's bloody, violent murder.  

Times have changed.  I'm grateful.  Back in my day there was no help available.  My mother died on Sunday afternoon;  my father was immediately taken to the Jail Ward of the Los Angeles County Hospital - where he died a few months later. Neighbors took us in until more permanent arrangements could be found.  The morning after, Monday, I  was sitting in my second grade classroom surrounded by school friends.  One of the boys brought,  for Show and Tell, the front page newspaper story with my father's photograph displayed front and center.  Immediately, and completely, ostracized - my school "friends" evaporated in the blink of a lackluster eye.  From that time forward,  I spent recesses and lunch times standing at the chain link fence that separated the kindergarten and "big kids" playgrounds .. my arm reaching through the fence so I could hold my little sister's hand.

The children who survived Sandy Hook will receive in-depth counseling, support and whatever else is needed for the most positive outcome possible.  It takes a lifetime - violence, at that level, is not something you "deal with" and move on.   God bless them, and those who work with them, on that long and difficult journey.

On a personal level, as a survivor, I am okay with me.  I'd traveled a long, difficult - and very lonely - road before understanding, and admitting, that I needed help.  I'm still adjusting to the intense level of *really* hard work that living with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD) requires.  I've told my children that I'm sorry for - and regret - the "mom challenges" they lived with as they were growing up.  I've mended as many fences as I could and I'm at peace with those that couldn't be fixed . . I've given it my best.

So, my friends . . if you've noticed that I tend, at times, to be reclusive or if you've  wondered why I've chosen to live in "hidden away" basement apartments, or behind the electronic gates of a storage facility or out "in the middle of nowhere" ..  my reasons are valid ones and I'm very okay with those decisions.  If you've wondered why I don't watch television, why I often seek out quiet corners in a group setting or why I'm fiercely protective of the *safe space* my homes (virtual and electronic) represent .. there you have it.   

Those of you who see my quirks, and love me in spite of them, are beyond amazing.  I am blessed with kind, supportive, understanding and - such incredibly - accepting people who populate my small world!   I love you and I'm so grateful for your presence in my life. 

On a closing note:  I rarely cry . . another thing I'm working on changing (for the better).  For so many years I saw tears as a sign of weakness and I needed to be strong - for me and for those who depended on me.  Poor Wisp .. my little cat is not used to tears and she's distressed.  She has attached herself to me, like Gorilla Glue, all morning.  This hasn't been easy to type with a little cat climbing into my arms, with comforting purrs, every few minutes!