Processing Abandonment Emotions

My brother was my best friend. He was my dude. This morning I woke up with a deep ache. I miss him. It’s been ten months since he passed on. Grief is an ornery little cuss. This workbook: “Processing Through Grief” has been helpful.

Today, I felt abandoned and even a little angry, because I am about to release a new book that my brother was a large part of.

During the process of writing I was traveling and talking with scientists I met through dear friends.

My brother was the one I shared this excitement with. He held my secrets like a trustworthy stead. He left before it was finished. I feel so sad. I wish he could hold this book in his hands, my first work of science fiction. We were so excited together.

“Knowing Maude Seven” will be available in hardback on Amazon, and in e-stories, which will only be available at The Thriving Nook. Sign up for a free membership if you’d like to read it. Also sign up for The Thriving Nook Newsletter to be notified of this book’s launch.

Because I was struggling emotionally, I decided to head into nature and see how many other abandoned things I could find. As I walked inside the trees letting some needed tears flow, I spotted these abandoned things.

This book, beat up by rain that is slowly erasing the ink holding its purpose in life.
This lonely wrapper, left empty in the cold.
These two solitary lamp posts who can’t even touch one another or hug.
This bear, abandoned on a rock, it’s eyes dark blank stares beneath an upside down smile.
This plastic bag, torn and tattered, yet still holding onto its smile.
These two headless ducks.
A pile of leaf bodies just thrown on dead sticks.
This bridge to nowhere.
This graffiti on an old sign.

I remember once in 2012, my brother, nephew and some of our friends were in Olympia, WA at Tugboat Annie’s. I was singing at an open mic night.

I looked over at the wall on the booth we were in as we waited for our turn to go up, and on the wall was a quote.

I am nobody. Nobody is perfect. Therefore I am perfect.

I have never forgotten that quote and how it stuck me. As I walked off the stinging in my throat, I embraced the truth that I have not been abandoned. My older brother is still here with me. I hear him in the smart ass way I say things and the hollow underbelly of my laughter.

He’s floating in his home dimension where he can always be the dungeon master; the best DND dungeon master I have ever met, just for the record.

It Starts Inside

We trauma survivors can have a little habit. Avoidance. I know. I’ve been there. For many years I burrowed myself into every other person and/or project that distracted my mind away from myself.

I was so frightened by what I had to face in myself; the pain, the anger, the memories of a tortured childhood, but the ultimate bi-product of my avoidance was more pain, more volatility in my connections because I was projecting all of my gunk into things outside of myself.

Then I realized that everything I was avoiding inside of myself was eating my from the inside out; emotionally and physically.

I believe without question that the answer to global change starts within individual hearts. I can do my part of contributing to my personal healing.

I’ll tell you something I found out. Facing ourselves really isn’t the horrible journey we expect. Did I cry a lot? Oh, yes. I wept torrents from my body.

It was worth it. I’m further along in my healing than I expected to be by now. I am still working on myself. I’m traveling the strands of my healing into my childhood memories and supporting my inner child as she develops trust and emotional maturity.

Take the journey into yourself, loves. It’s so worth it.

Grief Has It’s Own Ebb and Flow

I was so triggered the other day by a neighbor who wanted to talk. I said, “I’m really not up to it. I’m having a down day.” Her response, “Oh, get over it.”

Immediately I wanted to snap on her. Then this calm came over me, and I said,”Never speak to me that way again. My brother just passed in March.” She then tried to back peddle, said she was joking, I said, not funny and went on my way.

I’ve been civil because – neighbor – but it truly bothers me how people forget or don’t care what grief does to us.

My grief over the loss of my brother fired off a horrible inflammation flare in my physical body. I am now on month 5 of fighting it. We experienced a lot of trauma as children. Now I feel like a lone duck on an island of normal people who don’t understand why I am the way I am, not in the way my older brother did.

and I’m processing it as best as I can. It seems the more I am forced into situational normalcy, the more my body screams no.

My brother had a warlock energy. As teenagers we had D&D tournaments that would last for weeks. We talked for hours on the phone at least once or twice a week up to the week he passed.

He created such beautiful necklaces. He special made this one I’m wearing here.

The ache I feel missing him is extremely deep; sitting at the base of my spine, and it has me physically ill. 😢

I know time will heal this hole in my heart. I am processing the stages of grieving. I have relaxed into this slow pace. I cannot fight against this process.

So, I am flowing as best as I can, while focusing on self care, rest and nature feeding.

Grieving Through the Body

I have been unable to cry since my brother died, March 12, 2021, two days before my birthday. I held his hand, along with his son, as they turned the machines off. It was the most peaceful parting. I’d never experienced this before. I sang to him. I feel him every day.

But the grief has been locking my physical body up with inflammation and pain. I have known I needed to cry, but nothing would make the tears come.

Tonight, after a short stint at the hospital for steroid infusing for shoulder lock, I decided to write my brother a long text to his phone. I can’t take him out of my favorites, this photo of him and his grandson. He was a good Pappa Bear. He had redemption as a grandfather.

That beard grab though…

And so I began to write to him…

Miss you so much. This may be how I need to grieve. To just talk to you because you’re the one who I always called when I was crying.

I miss your way of making laughter from the macabre, your satirical wildness and your crazy Trump dance. We’re trying to figure out what to do with all those coins, by the way.

Your son is amazing and strong. You taught him the value of hard work and perseverance.

I know grieving is for the ones left behind, but I gotta get the pain out, bro and right now, I can only cry it out like I used to, pouring it out in small novella text convos.

My body is in pain and inflamed with grief. I talked to Dad on Father’s Day. Janet said he’s sleeping a lot, so he’ll probably be back in the mothership with you soon.

Meanwhile I am being as strong as I can and reminding the boys to stay a clan; that gangster Viking lineage they have. They are gifting such beautiful babies and breaking the trauma bonds, and my heart sings for them.

But gottamn bro I miss you so much. I kinda feel alone on this matriarchal island.

And I’m weeping hard, and so grateful for these tears because my body has been ripped with pain as I tried to stay high functioning for others. No. I’m gonna grieve as I need to. Cry when I feel it. No shoving it down, right?


Clock says 919

You say look it up.

Number 919 meaning is that it appears around a person who has abilities to make big things in their life, but usually, something stops them in that intention. They have big dreams, but something always distracts their attention.

Why you gotta call me out like that, fucker.

Don’t laugh. 🖕🏻

I laugh through my tears.

If the number 919 appears in your enclosure, it is a deep spiritual message that you are closer to achieve the deeper, ultimate spirituality. It means that you are being aware of yourself and your beloved ones and your understanding of them becomes bigger and deeper. If you are dealing with huge, life-changing decisions, seeing a number 919 is a sign that your solution will appear sooner than expected and you’re about to make the right choice.

Number 919 is a truly unique number. It is a powerful combination of numbers 9 (it appears twice) and number 1. Number 9 represents philanthropy and eternal love. It is also related to endings and conclusions.

Number 1 stands for leadership. It means that you are a hard-working person and you can create your own destiny. It is a sign that you are truly unique and able to control your life.

Combining these two numbers you are getting number 919, which gives you a strong message about your destiny. If you’re seeing it, it means that you are on the right path in your life.

If you have a challenging period in your life, number seeing number 919 is a sign that a difficult period is about to an end.

One of the reasons you’re seeing 919 is a spiritual message that you need to have more courage. Your guardian DNA is telling you that it is keeping an eye on you.

Your cellular wisdom is taking care of you and you don’t need to worry. New, positive events in your life will occur sooner than you expect. You just need to believe in yourself.”

Thank you bro. Just thank you. I needed this one tonight. I love you. Your lil sis.

Let Go of a Prayer For You

Prayer: an earnest hope or wish. This part of the definition sits well with me as an atheist.

The way Frank Ocean states the phrase, “Let go of a prayer for you.” has always sat in deep resonance with me.

Frank is in the top ten best artists my son has recommended to me.

Letting go of a prayer means we stop hoping and wishing. We release. We let go. This doesn’t meant we don’t love or we don’t care. For me, it means allowing. Being. And letting life proceed as it will.

Wishing you godspeed, an expression of good wishes to those starting a journey.

Good Decisions Can Still Hurt

Today, I am feeling great sadness as I reflect and do some personal journal writing. Human rejection began in my life at just three years of age. I was ripped from my father and rejected by my own mother who literally handed me over to horrific abusers.

Understand that from ages 3-7 years old, I was not ALLOWED to even speak to my mother. Just sit quiet for a moment and imagine this life. Imagine my brother and sister who were made to do the same. Imagine seeing your mother across a dining hall and not being allowed to speak to her, touch her, be held, loved or even acknowledged. Imagine every day being filled only with being beaten and labored. Zero love. No kisses. Not allowed to laugh.

If you cannot image it, READ MY BOOK.

I was rejected by the people around me as I grew up, forced to sit in silence and disallowed any identity development. As a young adult I became abused and rejected by men. My family has rejected me. They find me weird. They are uncomfortable with my advocacy work and won’t tell me why. I am flawed and the weird white lady unworthy of being in their presence. I don’t say the right things. I don’t believe the right way. I’m this. I’m that. I’m never enough no matter what. I should never have an opinion and if I do, it shouldn’t be different than theirs or I’m a bad person.

I’m exhausted of living this type of life.

If I choose to be silent, comply and never have my own voice, allow myself to be the target for blame, then I might be allowed back around my family. Welcome to my childhood, being treated like a piece of dirt, a beast, a thing, an irrelevant child only worthy of abuse, having every action and behavior analyzed and turned on me.

I believe the only way to break this pattern of being in the target position of shunning and blame, is to disconnect from anyone who believes it to be ok to treat me this way. Anyone who thinks shunning a human, who is a decent person deserving of love, is an okay practice, is not in a positive place in life.

Anyone who wants to put me in a position of having to fold myself inward and become invisible in order to be accepted does not have my well being in mind at all and hasn’t taken the time to understand how abusive this behavior is. I will always be walking on eggshells around them, waiting to be accused again without any care to understand me.

Anyone who doesn’t care about the grave damage that shunning a person and dissecting families does to the spirit is not emotionally safe. I cannot allow myself to be attached to these energies anymore.

So, today I have made the heart breaking decision to do just that; not allow anyone back into my life who has enacted shunning or dissection on me. In order to continue healing my own deep wounding and keep growing as an individual, I have to continue building some very high boundaries. This decision comes with the knowing that it is alright to put my well being first.

Self love does not make us selfish.

I spent 2020 grieving extreme pain on many levels. I will not spend any more days of my life in pain. I am exhausted of it. I am officially moving on to new ventures intended to let me experience this life being surrounded by those who don’t have the intention of using me, targeting me or beating me down. I have to stay connected to individuals who are safe for my emotional well being.

I’m done with ever being belittled, abused or treated indifferently ever again. I share this for those who experience the same and understand how messy the practice of shunning is.

I’m traveling The Feeling Wheel.

How I Found Life Beyond Incest and Adult Rape

Survivor Voices contribution by Sherri Callahan

I was born in Boston on April 14 to young parents who met on a blind date. I suppose one could say the cliche’ “the rest is history.”  I have seen pictures of our life during that time. The pictures of my father make me mostly look away. I gaze at my mother in photos wondering what she was thinking.

My mother always wanted to be a mom. She had me at the age of twenty-two. One of the first pictures that stands out to me was taken July 4, 1975.  I was four months old. Our family was at the beach. I appeared to be comfortable in my mom’s arms.  I looked content and happy.  On this same day, another photo was taken of my father holding me. I was crying in this photo. Even as a baby, I appeared to be able to feel the monster inside of my father.

Me as a toddler

My mom told me of how my father would tell her to go take a bath; that he would take care of me for a while. My mom said I screamed the entire time. We lived in Boston, Massachusetts until I was four years old, at which time my father took a job in Texas, and we moved away. I don’t have many memories of my first four years of life in Boston.

I have vague memories of being part of a research study at Harvard.  There was that time that I fell out of a window. I ended up being alright. I had a Basset Hound named Woody who would get out each night and go sniffing around the local Chinese restaurants.  My best friend was Crystal. There are photos of us sitting on the front porch smoking those candy cigarettes. My memories are derived of stories from  my family and photos I have viewed.

After we moved to Texas, we were isolated away from all of our family and support in Boston. Looking back, I believe this was my father’s intent of taking a job halfway across the country.

Once we’d moved, life went from bad to worse. This is where my memories become clearer for me. When I was around my father I became scared and unable to move. 

I don’t believe my first memory of being terrified was the first time I was scared. It’s just my first clear memory. Just the thought of my father would scare me. He was indeed a terrifying man. I carry with me a confusion about why my mother didn’t intervene in my father’s abuse of me. In this memory, I was laying on my parents’ waterbed.  I was rubbing the vinyl side rails. I remember wanting to be anywhere except in this bed. I would wait for my father’s body to jump a bit. This was the signal that he was asleep and it was safe for me to leave.  

This specific night I recall seeing his hand reaching over me. He was a shadow in the dark reaching under my pajamas. I was just four, five years old. I remember thinking clearly, that it must be okay; that he probably thought I was my mom. My little mind was already trying to reason his abuse of me. Over and over in my head, I remember thinking, “He thinks I am my mom. It’s ok.” 

My father groomed me very quickly. By the time that I was in Kindergarten being raped was a normal part of my life. I lived in this bubble, I watched the world going on around me, yet I felt incredibly different and detached from it.  Once, in Kindergarten, I was standing in the big room where they had all of the toys. Everyone was dancing and laughing. I stood to the side watching them. There was a joyfulness in them I didn’t feel was a part of me.  I didn’t belong with them.

I lived each day in that general mindset.

Google stock photo representing how I felt as a child.

School was extremely difficult for me. I was usually exhausted from the night before. I was in sleep deprivation and could not keep up with the pace of class work. I felt like an outsider in their world. I found joy in more solitary things like my animals, little plants, and my stuffed animals.  That was my world where I felt safest. I knew those things wouldn’t hurt me. I was a well-mannered, polite child who went out of my way to try and stay invisible. I always smiled.  Still, forcing myself to be the best child I thought I could be still did not make anyone ever notice me.  

Then we moved to another city in Texas where my mother ran a daycare from our home. She babysat a little boy who had a nineteen year old brother. Albert came to pick up his younger brother every night. Albert also became my next abuser.

The first time Albert abused me, he cornered me behind the screen door. I can still see the steam coming up from a pot on the stove in the kitchen were my mother was cooking dinner.  After Albert put his hands all under my dress, I ran inside crying. No one spoke to me or even asked me if I was alright. Even at such young ages of five, six, seven, I had accepted and resolved that I was on my own.

Google stock photo representing my emotions

Albert also came to see that I was fair game because there was no one paying attention to me.  Albert became a fixture within my family unit.  I was being raped times two, my father and Albert.  He accompanied my family on picnics and weekend trips, which all involved me being harmed. Albert was innately mean, rough, and uncaring. His very existence in my life was a threat.

Once, we went to a little park where there were many other younger kids playing. We were all in the creek playing with little tadpoles.  I was to be seen and not heard, yet I was talking to them, carrying on some kind of deep conversation.  There was a creek and large trees providing shade.  It was such a beautiful day. 

I remember Albert calling me. I put my little bucket of tadpoles by the stone picnic table. He took my hand and brought me to the back of the red van.  He took my shorts off and he raped me. When he was finished he told me to put my shorts back on.  I stood there trying, but my child legs were shaking and my body hurt.  I finally got my shorts up and made it over to the picnic table. When I reached for my tadpoles he knocked the bucket over and started stepping on the tadpoles with his big boots. He said next time I wouldn’t fight him.

I scrambled to save my tadpoles and put them back in my bucket. I couldn’t pick them up fast enough.  I was a nail biter and I just couldn’t pick them up. I was mad at myself for not having fingernails to help me scoop them to safety. As a child, my desperation to save the tadpoles seemed to be a way to override the pain of having just been raped.

Albert abused me until I was eight years old. The only reason I escaped Albert is because he moved back to New York.  While I was relieved he was gone, I was still left to deal with the abuse by my father. 

Life was already difficult and unimaginable for me, and I was only still in elementary school. Looking back, it’s sometimes difficult to wrap my head around how I survived. I feel sad for myself as a child who could barely read in the third grade. So many red flags that went unnoticed by my teachers. I was the quiet, little girl who obeyed. No one recognized that I was spaced out and fearful most times.

Google stock photo representing my emotions

Then, I had a lucky moment when my third grade teacher noticed me, which resulted in me learning to read. I still remember her scent and her raspy voice. She was the first person who ever noticed me in my short time of having been alive. I was grateful. I felt important, because she liked me. I needed that spark of hope as a child. 

As the years went on, so did the abuse by my father. I deeply hated him. Yet, I would do everything I could to try and make him love me. I thought if I could make him love me, he would be nice to me. Nothing ever worked. Nothing would ever work because my father was an abuser.

I came to abhor being in my own skin. I hated being female as I felt we had terrible jobs to do. I pulled further away from everyone and everything the longer the abuse continued.  I was barely breathing, constantly clenched and struggling for someone to notice that I was not alright.  I got my period in fifth grade. This made my father furious. I believe his anger stemmed from knowing that now he had to be aware of pregnancy.  

My father was evil and cruel in every way. I smiled. I tried to live, but I was a mess. My parents became deeply involved in the church.  The church became their answer for fixing me as I was now a thirteen year old. I was mature beyond my age so I was placed in the oldest youth group at church. I highly disliked it and felt like I stuck out because of my age.

How it feels being shunned and bullied at church. (Google stock image)

I wasn’t sure if I believed in God or at least the god they all talked about. I watched the men who raped me receive communion every Sunday. It was an unimaginable feeling. Even as a family we used to walk and deliver the communion and wine to the altar. While quietly in the shadows of night, my innocence was sacrificed.  My father was the epitome of the model Christian man. I was an outcast daughter. 

Once, we had a Christian Youth weekend. It was held at a college.  I went with the youth group.  There were talks, dances and pretty much everything that I abhorred.  I wasn’t like the rest of them. I wasn’t a carefree or happy kid.  There were much bigger things that I had to worry about I recall laying there on the gym floor as everyone was settling for sleep. I watched them all eating Twizzler candy and felt that at least for that night I would be safe.  I was thirteen.  There was an older boy named Don who noticed me. I couldn’t believe that I was noticed by anyone, much less a male. We danced at the dance. He smiled at  me during the church service on Sunday. He kissed me goodbye after that service and said that he would see me again. 

When my “crush” came to visit me at my home, he was not the nice guy that I had met. He raped me right in the front hall of my house. Rape was something which when it happened to me I froze, became a robot, and then shoved it down inside of me. 

One weekend my parents decided to go away for the weekend to a healing conference, and they left me home alone.  Don showed up at my house with five friends. What proceeded to happen included me being raped throughout the day. They had brought guns with them, and the way they terrorized me is beyond anything I wish to detail. I will always wonder if my father helped Don gain access to me, since I don’t believe in coincidences. I was taken completely by surprise. Had I told what had happened, I felt I would be blamed, so I just held it inside of me.

image credit: Times of India

That day marked a time that almost broke me completely. I didn’t want to live. I was getting through high school as a robotic child. There was nothing about my high school experience that anyone would want to live.  Don would came yet another time. This time, to avoid the rape, I unbuttoned my pants and laid down. There was no fight left in my heart and soul. That was the last time that he raped me. School was terrifying to me. I always had to worry about seeing Don and his friends or being cornered by them. I was in constant fear.

The summer I went to Florida, I had no intentions of returning. I had no plan. I just knew I couldn’t live at home any longer. Every day I woke up to the sound of the ocean and a pelican on my balcony. I spilled my guts to that bird the entire time that I was there. I went to Sea World for the first time. That was the Summer I touched a whale and for the first time I felt a connection to something beyond my own skin. From that moment on whales became my passion and what I lived for.  I went home and graduated high school.

image credit: “Whale Rider”

My parents divorced when I was in my early twenties. I was glad my father was gone but always hyper-aware. There were no more lewd comments about my body, no more kissing and no more abuse from him, but I still lived life in fear. I had been conditioned from birth to be fearful. I went on to Community College. College was a better experience. I learned to breathe a little.  There were a few crushes.

I met a man in one of my psyche classes who was awesome. Yet, I wouldn’t go out with him. I felt too damaged and used. I didn’t feel good enough for him.

He would hold doors open for me and smiled when I said, “Save the whales!”

He saw me for me. I am grateful for that experience. I was working two jobs while going to school. I acquired my first car, a black Geo Metro, which was perfect for me at the time. I began work as a Montessori teacher. I got a live-in nanny job.  I was a psychology Major. Psychology came naturally to my understanding, and I loved studying it. I wanted to help little kids so they would never have to feel the things that I did growing up.   After what felt like forever, I graduated with my associates degree and moved on to the University of Northern Texas. 

During my first semester at UNT my world came crashing back down.

image by Frisco Domingo

I found out that my father was getting remarried. His fiance’ had a young daughter. My heart shattered into a million pieces. There was no way that I was going to let that happen. I decided to talk with a detective from a neighboring town.  The detective stated that a third party report wouldn’t do anything because it would just get filed away. I was shocked. The detective was not a kind man. He was pretty cold and distant. At that point so was I. 

The detective told me that I would need to go to the town I was abused in and press criminal charges at the police station. He was disgustingly dismissive.  He stated that he would make me take a lie detector test. I looked him back in his eyes and told him that I would do whatever it took to protect that child from my father. I had no idea the toll that trying to protect this little girl would have on me.

I went home called the police station in the city where I grew up and pressed charges that evening. It was indeed an abusive experience. There was a lot of gawking and trying to talk me out of it.  I was even told that forgiveness was the answer. The next day I got a phone call from a detective. There was a message on my bed with a number. The message asked if I was alright. For the first time ever, someone actually seemed to care. I called him back and the first thing out of his mouth was to ask about my well being. I will never forget how much that meant to me.

In that moment, I felt I had an ally.

The process of charges against my father lasted two years. It was unbelievably difficult. I did it alone and on auto pilot wanting to keep the world safe.  Somehow I managed going to school full time, working full time, and going through the court system.  I kept myself busy and focused on keeping that little girl safe. Finally on September 22 we took a plea deal, and just like that it was over.  My father plead guilty to a lesser offense and received probation. He didn’t have to register as a sex offender. I was utterly exhausted with no will power to go on. The toll that the court system took out of me was vicious. There will always be a part or me that regrets not taking the case to trial. My father ended up violating probation, which resulted to him spending one year in jail, not even remotely an appropriate sentence for a pedophile such as him.   

I continued with schooling.  I worked to stay busy, trying to pretend all was well with me, meanwhile collapsing inside. I found out that my father moved back to Boston taking his wife and his daughter. I went into my mode of trying to keep that child safe. There were allegations of abuse, and foster care was involved.  I ended up traveling to Boston on three different occasions. On the third trip I  testified for that little girl. Her mother’s rights were taken away, she would never have to see my father ever again.  She was permanently placed in foster care and was adopted by her family.  There was relief, but my heart was not well.  I was on a collision course. I didn’t care what happened to me anymore. I was going downhill very fast. 

There was nothing more in this life that I wanted than to just feel normal.  I met someone online. We hit it off and went shopping, to get lunch, everything I that I felt would give me a sense of normalcy in a partner.  On one such occasion, it was August 22,  2003.  He came to my house with no intentions of going anywhere. I froze as he trapped me and one of my orange pillows was pressed over my face. I remember saying stop, please, we were supposed to shopping, but my words fell on deaf ears.  When he had finished raping me, he got up and put his pants on.  I remember following him to the front door where he commented on how pretty and shiny his BMW was . I closed the door and fell onto my bed crying. I felt that this is the life I was destined for. Two weeks later I found out that I was pregnant. 

I was at a loss when I found out. I laid on the floor, holding my dog and crying.  I wanted to be a mother more than anything. Then in December I found out that I was having twins, and they were all that mattered. I never cared more or took better care of myself. I ate healthy food. I took my vitamins. This new life inside me became my spark and my reason for living. My babies were born on April 22, 2004.  Their arrival was one of the best days of my life.

stock photo by Bethany Mattioli

The birth of my twins is where a lot of my healing began. I was able to give my children the life that I only imagined as a little girl. I wanted them to know each and every day how important they were and that I was always there. I wanted to be the best mom that I could for them.  I wanted to be a cycle breaker and do things different. I wanted them to have all the life experiences that I never had. 

I went back to school often bringing them with me to my college classes. In 2014 I graduated with my teaching degree. That same year I was in a documentary “Off The Record.”  I got to know people who were amazing. They cared, listened, and heard me. The film was entered into film festivals and went on to win awards. 

Off The Record from Pursuit of Truth Film on Vimeo.

It is important to me that children never have to go through what I have gone through. The abyss of aloneness in abuse is too vast for words.  Surviving childhood and adult abuse made me I view life differently. There will always be another level to attain in my healing. I used to think I was going to come to a point in my life where I would be finished.  Healing doesn’t work like that. 

Today I teach Special Education.  I love my job every single day.  My Twins turned sixteen in April.  They are the light of my life.  I still connect with those who worked on the documentary. They truly care for my heart, and for that I am grateful. I write and blog to get out the things that are in my head. I still create art journals representing the emotions for which there are no words, just pictures projecting from my head. I have a therapist committed to me for the long run who  hears me and makes me feel valued. My therapist takes the time to read what I write and sees the importance of journaling, something which has been my lifeline for so long.

I have come a long way in this life. I still have a long way to go. I know that I will never stop healing and growing. I will never stop fighting for others. I believe that one day, my heart won’t be so heavy anymore.

I heart your heart.

Sherri Callahan is a strong survivor voice. Follow her blog at:

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