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Since I lost my dad when I was ten years old I have been fascinated, and a little scared of death. Death has always been something that I thought about, either with fear or wonder. I was afraid to lose the person I loved, but I always wondered what happened after. What is it like for them on their next journey? Who will they see? What will it feel like?

The fear of my life being different without them is what stopped me from fully being at peace with death. Change in how life as I know it caused me to worry about losing people I love. Never being able to hear their voice or feel their skin filled my being with panic. Never being able to have a two-sided conversation again or feel the squeeze of the hand took the breath right out of me.

As I ran from the fear of death, there was always something pushing me toward my fear. As the fear swam around in my head, the questions I had bobbed to the surface. Each time I attempted to push death under and out of my thoughts, it came straight to the surface. My mind was full of either thoughts about dying and death, or thoughts of trying not to think about it all.

Fear of losing my Gram consumed my early thoughts, and followed me straight to her death, and held on tight for seven years after. The pain and longing to see her, to hear her, to touch her was all I could concentrate on. Every waking thought included my desire to have her back in my life again. The longing to have her back stole parts of me, and weighed me down so much so that there were days I did not think I would survive the pain.

Misery overshadowed me. The one constant through this period, was my continued interactions with death. The one career path I vowed to never take was the one that won my heart. Something inside me was stronger than I knew and pushed me to the path I was meant to travel.

No other population called to me like this one. The aging and disabled were who I knew how to help. With aging and disabilities, also came death. Outside my comfort zone, I slowly lost more and more clients. The first few years, the pain was almost too much. I felt like I was failing them; how was I helping them when they were dying? How did my time with them make a difference?

As family members grieved, I did not know what to do, or what to say. I could not hold the tears in. The feelings of gratitude and love seeped out my eyes. This could not be where I was meant to be. Could it? I felt their pain, and could not offer their loved one back to them. I could not give them anything. Or could I?

When I stopped feeling like I was letting them down, I looked at what I was doing. I was holding their hand and talking about the hard things no one else wanted to talk about. I sat at their bedside as they talked about how the life they had lived had went wrong and how it went right. I listened to their regrets and their joys. I developed a relationship with them as they packed up their things and headed to the door.

Death was not stealing people from me, it was sending people to me. Together, we were learning from each other. I was receiving so much when I pushed through the fear. I saw people in their most vulnerable state. Their strength transferred to me. Their love and ability to give in to what is filled my heart. The empty spaces that death had created for me was being filled in. With each interaction the pull towards death tugged me closer. This. This was what I was meant to do.

These lessons helped teach me that time is precious. The time that we do have should be spent living. My fear and sorrow changed. Something inside me shifted, and the weight lifted. The transformation from fear to healing made me realize I had to peruse this gift that was given to me. Death is not going away, and I can help those who need it. I can share the gifts that I had been given.

Having the majority of the people in my life on the other side now, I know there is more than here. I know that just because the body is gone, the person is not. I believe with everything I have that there is more. More time to love and learn. With these beliefs, as I am with a person that is dying I am overcome with peace. I know that what comes next for them is something of beauty. Death is not something to fear. Death is not the end.

I feel connected to the dead because I know they cannot hurt me. I know that all of the evilness of their worldly body is gone, and the spirit remains. They are free to be who they are, without the toxins of their surroundings. Death no longer brings fear, but comfort.

Last week I completed an eight-week certification program to become a death doula. I am now certified to help people find comfort in their death. Life experience led me to this path. Something that most people run from is now what I am running to.

I want to offer peace and love to those who are afraid. I want to help people leave something behind for the people they love. I want to listen to their fears and their dreams. I want to be a pillar of strength when they feel like crumbling. This is my reason for existing. This is why I was given so much pain; to get ready to help others through theirs. I have lost so much in my lifetime, now I am ready to give back.

Sometimes pain can bring joy. I know my suffering was for something.

To my next journey.

As I wrote The Monster That Ate My Mommy, I never thought past the end of the last page. I had dreamed of holding my book since before I could even spell my name. The excitement of finally being finished with the pain that filled the pages was all that I could think about. A final product that I could hold in my hands. A book. My book, would have pages for me to turn. I made it happen; I did the impossible. The excitement of my accomplishment filled me with pride.

I wanted my book released in October, for Domestic Violence Awareness month, but someone, something wanted it released earlier. September 8, 2017, The Monster That Ate My Mommy went live. There was no time to mentally prepare for the thoughts that followed. My story was now available to anyone. There were no more secrets. No more hiding.

Now what? What do authors do next? I thought authors just wrote books, told stories. I was shocked to learn what is involved with the title of author. Self-promoting. I am just learning to like myself, how am I going to self-promote? “I wrote a book…about my life…” How do you promote that?

I joined groups on Facebook and researched the next steps. As I entered the indie author groups, anxiety flooded me when I read about book launch parties, readings and signings.

I had never thought that I would have to face the world after bearing my soul. I shared my deepest, darkest secrets…but not in whispers…in print…to be immortalized. Immortalized. When the thoughts began to swirl around in my head, sweat beaded on my forehead, and I struggled to swallow the panic. The room started to spin, and slowly turned dark. What had I done?

After a few days of sadness, people who read my story sent me messages with stories of how my book helped them. I was receiving reviews from readers, some from people I had never spoken to before, thanking me for sharing my story. My demons I spent so much energy protecting for so long were now free, and they were helping others. The pain they had caused me was for something, and I remembered why I wanted to write my memoir in the first place.

After the initial fear of speaking in front of people, I began to plan. The first venue I wanted to use was a place of great meaning to me, but I was turned down because I am self-published. I contacted another place and was welcomed with gracious, open arms. Catamount Arts was available on October 20^th, a date close to my heart; Tom Petty’s birthday and the anniversary of my protection order. I also wanted to share the event with someone, who came into my life at the right time, and helped me see that I deserved to be happy and safe. Mary-Elizabeth Briscoe had just published her memoir, The First Signs of April three days before mine “self-published.” She was available, and things were aligning perfectly.

I chose passages to read for the event. I read and reread them to myself and out loud. I read them so much, I didn’t want to hear those words again. Two emotionally charged pieces, and a lighter, hopeful one, with Tom Petty as the star. On October 2^nd, that happy, hopeful piece brought me to tears after the news of Tom Petty’s passing. I put the book away and grieved the loss of my idol. After some time, I picked it back up and tried again. Tears fell as soon as I saw his name on the page. How was I ever going to get through this now?

The days were running out, just a week before the event, Amy Ash Nixon of the Caledonian-Record connected with me for an interview for Domestic Violence Awareness month. The title of the article; “I Won’t Back Down: A Domestic Violence Survivor Finds Courage.” The title reminded me that I had to continue on, even if it hurt, I had to keep going. The event went on as planned.

I stood in front of thirty people as my body trembled, and every spec of moisture left my mouth. I took a deep breath and grounded myself with Reiki as I began. I honored and remembered three women who lost their lives to domestic violence just this past summer and I started to read. My voice echoed my story throughout the room as I swallowed the tears that rose to the surface.

In the middle of my second reading, I noticed a man enter the room. From the corner of my eye I saw my high school English teacher and I continued to read. When I finished that piece I looked up to focus in on the new guest. Not my former teacher, but instead, my former step-father. Bill. I tried to block his presence and continued on. He was not stealing this from me, he would never again be allowed to steal anything from me. As I read my last section, about Tom Petty and finding my strength and courage, I looked up at him, and saw that he smiled and nodded at me.

Bill had not come to cause me harm, he had come to take pride in my accomplishment. He was taking credit for who I had become. In that moment I saw him for the sick individual he is. He lives in an alternate reality, where the abuse he caused is forgotten, and the years of my life he stole from me are erased. I do not live in his world, and I am relieved that my fear of him is replaced with sadness. A part of me felt sorry for him. As with all the others who have hurt me, I forgive him. I let go of the pain he caused me to be free from his grip. I forgive, but I will never forget.

Bill was asked to leave before he had a chance to speak to me. He was not given the chance to celebrate with me, or for me. He is not part of my circle, my circle is now filled with people who love me, and continue to build me up, and replace the pieces stolen from me from people like Bill.

Thank you to all who were able to attend, who sent messages of encouragement and support, and for the people who held me close in thought for the night. Sharing personal details of my life is scary at times, but I know it is helping people. The messages and reviews I receive help me know I did the right thing. I will never again hide behind fear. Together we can help fight the evils of the world.

With gratitude and love.

To Purchase or Review The Monster That Ate My Mommy

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.

 

 

Sometimes I forget.

Sometimes I forget that you are gone.

 Sometimes I pick up the phone to call you to tell you about my day, and as I start to dial the phone I remember that you are gone.

Sometimes I can’t wait to tell you the news when something exciting happens, and then my joy fades as I remember you are gone.

Sometimes I crave the sound of your voice.

Sometimes I miss the way that you smell.

Sometimes I miss the comfort that you gave me.

And then I remember.

You are gone.

Gone from the physical world.

Never gone from my world.

Even death could not take you from me.

Even death could not weaken our bound.

Death could not stop our love.

And then I remember I will never forget you.