Seven Months

Seven[1]It’s only fitting that it has been seven months since I last wrote. Seven pops up a lot for me. It is probably one of the most significant ages in my life, as is every seven years after. Major life events occur in my life every seven years.

At age seven the sexual abuse started. At seven my sister was born and my mom sent me to my gram’s house. At seven I was pretty much abolished from my family as my mom coddled her new bundle in pink. At seven it became obvious that I would never fit in to the family I was born to. Luckily for me my gram loved me and made up for all that I had been lacking. We had always been close, but at seven I believe our relationship grew. It was then that I knew that she was where I belonged.

Seven years later, at age fourteen, I was put into foster care after I finally disclosed information regarding the sexual abuse. Again, I was abolished from my family. I was lucky to be able to live with my best friend and her family, and later my gram. When I was thrown away there were always people there to brush me off and help me shine.

Seven years later, at age twenty-one, I was pregnant for my first child. I was seven months pregnant when I learned that my sister had been sexually abused by the same man who had abused me. The difference this time was that she was not thrown out, he was. The anger inside me changed to guilt as I questioned how I could have let this happen to her. At that moment I was not hurt by the circumstances. I was hurt knowing that I had not protected my sister.

Seven years later, at age twenty-eight my world went black as the only person that ever loved me died. My gram died, as did I. When she died I did not know how to live. I lost my security, my love, and my purpose. I had three children by this time which was the only reason I did not commit suicide. I pushed through the pain and the darkness to make it through each day. After a year the pain and loss had not eased up, it was just as raw as it was the first day.

Seven years later, at age thirty-five I accidentally stumbled upon my path to healing. I learned that I developed Post Traumatic Stress Disorder after my gram died. I worked on the past hurts and scars that I had been hiding. I opened up and was honest with myself about a lot of things. Most importantly I forgave. I forgave all the people who hurt me, and I forgave myself. For the first time since my gram died I was in an okay place as the anniversary approached and passed. Seven days later my mom was rushed to the hospital by ambulance. She died three days later.

The last words I told her while she was still conscious were, “I forgive you. I love you.” Although I discovered many times in my life where she “threw me away,” I know that she had her reasons and her own demons. I understood that she did her best for me. My best was to let her know that she was loved and to take any thing off her shoulders she may have been carrying. Those three days are still sketched into my memory, and will be for a while. I saw some of the most gruesome and terrifying images those three days that haunt me if I let them. My mom’s death itself was beautiful, and nothing more I could have asked for her. That is what I try to bring my thoughts to when I start ruminating over the days leading up to it.

My mom’s death was the first one that I had been present for. I had spent the past ten years working with the aging and dying population, and had lost many people who I have loved. I had been to many funerals and seen many dead bodies, but I had never been there for the moment. The moment where the spirit leaves the body. As I did Reiki on her feet I felt as she released. That brought me peace and comfort and made the next few minutes tolerable. It was beautiful and she is free.

It has been almost a year since then, and I am now only six years from my next seven years. I cannot worry what it will bring, because it would steal my potential for joy from me. I will live and learn along the way. I will dream and I will reach goals. I will not let any more of my time pass me by. I may fall down every once in a while, that just makes getting up so much more rewarding.

To seven years.

To seven months.

To seven weeks.

To seven days.

To seven hours.

To seven minutes.

To seven seconds.


To seven.



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