10-12 Months

High chair sitting, I don’t make noise. Seat makes sticks of wood stick in me if I move too much. Ma yells when I cry or call her name . Ma doesn’t look my way. If I move my rattle too much, she looks at me mean. Ma talks to the Boy. I hear “sister….carriage…out….need to sleep.” The Boy shakes his head, ma yells, the Boy leaves the room.
Boy comes back. I get happy when he starts to take me out of the highchair. I flap my arms and laugh, boy says shutup and sit still. Boy grabs my rattle and sticks it in his pocket.
Boy lifts me out of highchair scraping my legs. No pants on me, just diaper and shirt with old spit up on it. I start to cry, boy and ma say “shutup or you won’t go anywhere.” I stop crying. If I don’t, big hands hit me. I get scared because it hurts.
Boy carries me to moving bed with wheels. Lets me fall in, I hit my head on the side, but it’s okay because Boy throws my rattle next to me. I still don’t cry.
Love going for these rides in the moving bed with wheels. See the bright light in the sky, see trees, and sometimes birdies. Not smoky like inside house, my nose likes it too. I flap my arms and giggle.
Boy pushes bed on wheels and my eyes close and open, close and open and then close.
Eyes open. Back of my head is wet. Leaves up in sky all around me. Bed on wheels isn’t moving. Eyes want to close again. I move my rattle. Boy’s head looks inside bed on wheels. He has spots on his face, and lots of hair on his head. Sometimes people call him Red. Boy says, “close your eyes and go back to sleep.” Boy stands in front of bed on wheels throwing a bouncy ball up in the sky and catches it. I flap my arms, to play. Boy turns away. I move my rattle lots of times, boy still doesn’t look.
Eyes close.
Eyes open fast and wide. Boy is tugging at my diaper. I wave my arms. Is Boy picking me up?
Boy looks at me funny. Boy puts his hand inside my diaper. Boy is smiling. I’m making boy happy. I flap my arms and giggle. Boy is never happy.
OUCH! Something under my belly hurts. Something hurts really bad. I cry. Boy says “shutup”. Something is pushing inside of me so hard it makes my head bump against the top soft part of the bed on wheels. My whole body goes back and forth against the top soft part of the bed on wheels. I’m scared. Where’s ma? I’m still crying. Boy is smiling and pushing harder. Boy says. “shutup, mommy says you’re a bastard, shutup you bastard”! I cry more, drop my rattle. Can’t find my rattle, Want my rattle, want my ma. Want boy to stop. I kick my legs, the more I kick the more it hurts.
Boy takes hand out of diaper. Diaper is wet. “Mommy will change your diaper, you wet bastard. Mommy doesn’t like wet bastards.” Boy pushes bed on wheels back home. I am wet, tired and scared.

No Exits

It was an exceptionally painful group last night. Anniversaries and birthdays crop up from traumas past, certainly not yet forgotten, nor will they ever be. Old wounds reappear as if they happened yesterday. Raw and painful, they seem to almost physically present themselves.

There is something sacred about sitting in a room with women who are mourning so deeply. We grieve as if alone. When we speak it’s as if we are thinking thoughts outloud that we dare not say in front of anyone.

A secret society of sorts I guess.

As I drove home on this cold, dark, and rainy winter night, a sadness so palpable begins to set in. Not only for myself but for the others in the group.

It’s taken me a year to finally learn how to “just sit” with the sadness of others and myself. Sit with a hole so deeply embedded in your heart and soul, no one can understand it. There is no way around it.

No one can fix it. No one can make it better. No one can change it.

Years ago I couldn’t even think about the sadness.

Last year I couldn’t sit still thinking about the sadness. It occupied every waking moment, intruded every dream I had at night, and blinded me to any hope or aspiration.

I saw fear and sadness at each and every turn. It was everywhere. No escape. Like the Satre novel, No Exits, where different levels of hell exist for everyone. You are stuck in your own personal hell with every despicable character and perpetrator that crossed your path.

There have been many profound moments in this group.

Last night something clicked that makes so much sense to me now.

As the trauma is dissected in front of us all, TGD gently and quietly guides us through the reality and maze of tragedy and trauma.

TGD is a healer in every sense of the word. The healing is magical when you consider the depths at which you once were.

How this woman does this is beyond me. I see the healing powers with others and not just myself. And I look- I actually watch to see how she does this and it’s still a mystery to me. Her answers and even her questions just flow. It seems so natural to her, like laughing or driving or reading a book. But it’s not as trite as that. It’s her passion, her cause, her gift to others.


“You cannot alter the tragedy”, she says, “No one can take away your pain. It will never go away. It is embedded in your being. It cannot be fixed.”

“What you can do,” she continued, “is to recognize it for what it was, a horrible, senseless tragedy that has changed your life. Once that is recognized and that tragedy is put in its place, you can continue to rebuild the life that was taken. Make changes, takes risks, and begin to trust yourselves.”

Was this the first time I’ve heard these words?
Was this the first time TGD said these words?
Was this the first time I was ready to hear these words?

Maybe a combination of all three. I don’t know.
I do know that sitting with the trauma, seeing it, dissecting it outloud with others and facing it has somehow put the trauma in remission.

Yes, the trauma has happened.

But that was then and this is now.

Today remission. Tomorrow perhaps I'll discover the cure.