The Diaries….Final Thoughts.


In anticipation of writing my upcoming memoir (working title: “Show My Ugly”) I decided that I needed to read my old teenaged diaries which I kept from age 12 to 17, and included 7th through 12th grade. I’ve written two pieces of poetry about the torture of this endeavor, (See “The Diaries” and “The Diaries-Part Deux”, previously published) and, full disclosure, I have not yet finished this most unsettling project but I am going to – I must pace myself, honestly; it’s that awful. I’m doing this because I need the context of people and timing, and most of all I need the proof of my memoir title, “Show My Ugly”. When writing a memoir, one must be reminded that although they are the hero of their own story, one must also be brutally honest and own up to one’s part in the misery of it all. I’m sure not everyone has torturous childhoods recorded in diaries; some have written about lovely childhoods, but who wants to read about that? The bottom line is, when you wait forty-plus years to read them, they are at the very least cringe worthy and at the most, will spiral you into a never ending PTSD episode. Mine was definitely on the latter end of the scale, thus the reading breaks I’ve had to take, and reading in very small doses. I have 26 volumes and as of this writing I am only on volume 12 at the age of 14.

Even in that seemingly short amount of time (ages 12-14, seventh through ninth grade) I must share my most constant thought throughout this reading and that is, Adolescence Should Be Outlawed. I mean c’mon, let’s face it: there are absolutely no redeeming qualities to living through something like that – not for the adolescent OR for their long-suffering parents.

I knew that I had a tumultuous childhood with more than a few sprinkles of true trauma thrown in, and living through it again has been very painful, if I’m being honest. There isn’t much that I’ve forgotten, but reliving it through my own adolescent eyes has brought some necessary clarity to what I remember, and more importantly, why these things happened. There was definitely some questionable parenting going on, but I now know that they were just people with their own problems saddled with a posse of unruly kids. That doesn’t alleviate the trauma by any means, because let’s face it, they were the parents and we really were just kids. I have an ongoing reflection in my head that I just can’t shake, and as a parent myself, really don’t want to. This mantra is, “As a parent, you have one job: to keep your children safe. One job”.

That wasn’t the childhood that I lived. There was a lot of ugly going on back then and while I recognize my part in it, I need to stop carrying the entire weight of it on my own shoulders. I was just a kid. I needed taken care of. I needed boundaries. I needed stability. I needed my siblings. I needed to be heard. I needed to hear that I was loved, (and not, “I love you, but I don’t like you at all”). Sure, I was fed and clothed, but there was so much more that I needed. Childhood trauma can be defined in a number of ways, from basic neglect to overt physical, mental or sexual abuse. I fell somewhere in the middle of that, but my adult emotional needs are greater than most, and I frankly resent it. I resent that I live in fear of rejection, that I’m so intense that some people just can’t cope with me. (They are uncoping, my new favorite, personally coined word, which really should be in the dictionary, which it is not). I’m sad that my own children have had to see and experience the negative affects of what I’ve been through. My own husband had a self-described idyllic childhood, and he lovingly aches for me because sometimes he just doesn’t understand me and I can’t blame him. Thank God for him because our children are well past their way of coping rather than uncoping with that horrific time of adolescence. They seem to have made it through relatively unscathed. I hope.

Meanwhile, I remain tormented on many levels due to the circumstances of my adolescence. It was a horrific period in my life and if I were forced to come up with one single good outcome from it, it is that I am very independent and self-sufficient. Shit gets done, because who else is going to do it, right? But I have suffered immensely, which some of you many have already inferred from many of my previous essays and poetry. My best writing comes from my pain, and I am in a hell of a lot of pain. It’s definitely the rule, not the exception.

You may wonder why I’m tasking myself with writing a memoir and I can honestly tell you that I need to get this flotsam and detritus out of my brain and onto paper because I’m running out of  space in my brain for happy thoughts. I’ve simply got to try and heal myself since my attempts at hiring professionals (25 years of talk therapy – I’m so sick of myself!), taking medication for the depression, anxiety and PTSD that I continue to suffer from, haven’t seemed to reveal any permanent healing, only temporary bandaids.

As I have been reading these tomes of torment, I have a few other observations: life is full of missed opportunities, some good, some bad. I’ve always relied on my own personal belief that I only regret the things I don’t do, but I’ve now realized that very often I wasn’t given a choice. I wasn’t given a voice. I feel a lot of sadness in what could have been had different choices been made for me, or if I hadn’t been afraid to speak up for myself, and I think the saddest thing of all is realizing that I never knew any different. See, that’s one of the fatal flaws of childhood versus maturity into adulthood: as a child, everything you learn you inherently know to be true. You trust the adults in your life because it’s all you know. It isn’t until much later that you can look back and say, “Oh, hell no! That ain’t right!”. And generally, by the time you reach that realization, it’s likely too late and you’ve suffered the consequences on a long term, macro scale. This is how I would define myself at this point. Fortunately for me, I was able to make some good choices in picking my spouse and parenting my children (though one never knows for sure, does one?), but I live with a great deal of anguish which is clearly hindering my success at the goal of acceptance and happiness, and for that I do remain resentful and even unforgiving, which I happen to know intellectually, is just self-torment.

I stand by my earlier statement: Adolescence Should Be Outlawed. It was the worst of times and the worst of times for me. I’m not yet convinced that I will ever get over it. But I’m trying, I’m doing the best I can with the very few tools I was given along the way. In that regard, my parents failed me. They did not keep me safe and I am paying the price. Nobody wins, and that’s probably the saddest denouement of all.


Why Do They Call It Heartbreak?

Why do they call it heartbreak?

It’s really a whole body break, isn’t it?

When you’re rejected, your whole body reacts.

And just like any trauma to your body

Sometimes you have to learn to walk again.

You take it step by step by step.

And when your heart is broken,

You take it breath by breath by breath.


And you wonder all the time

What did I do?

And you ask,

Please, please come back to me

Or, please, can I come back?

Because I’m broken, can’t you see?


A child in her crib feels her whole body break when her father leaves her.

An eleven year old girl feels her whole body break when her mother rejects her.

And she has to learn how to breathe again.

Breath by breath by breath.


Every time she experiences traumatic rejection,

It is not just a matter of mending a broken heart.

Her whole body is broken.

And she takes one step, one breath at a time

Hoping the next one comes.

And each time

She valiantly tells herself

That when that final breath comes

She hopes she’s going to heaven

Seeing as she’s already been to hell.

It must be where she came from in the beginning

Because it’s the only explanation, isn’t it?


Why does she suffer so much rejection?

No one wants her

Because she’s hell to live with.



Grieving For The Living

I’ve had the unfortunate experience of having to attend three funerals in the last week and a half. While none of them were unexpected, it’s always sad for the grieving families. But in an odd juxtaposition, I can’t help but think about how to grieve for the living, the Ghosts.

I’ve suffered many losses. Not by death, but by abandonment, also sometimes known as Ghosting in today’s vernacular. I feel like I’ve spent my entire life grieving on some level. It began with my biological father, who left when I was six months old, followed by my mother, who abandoned me when I was 11 years old, and then my adoptive father, who abandoned me when I was 15 years old. So even though those people are still living, I’ve had to grieve for those losses. At this juncture, they’ve come back into my life, somewhat hovering around as if they don’t quite know what to do with me, given the actions of their pasts. I know that I can say, on some level, I never got over those losses. And I certainly didn’t have the tools to properly grieve for them, then or now.

Meanwhile, due to so many upheavals during my past, I’ve lost many friends. And that has been the most difficult of all in my grieving process. I missed out on long term friendships because I was always moving away. In seventh grade, twice in eighth grade, and again in 10th grade. Anyone who’s ever been a teenager, especially between the ages of 11 to 15, can appreciate how painful it must be to say goodbye forever to your closest friends, your allies, your first loves, your lifelines.

As an adult, I have suffered additional losses by those I call the living ghosts. Those who have decided to leave me and not let me know why. And while I suspect I know what their reasons are, and feel I have no choice but to respect them, I just feel tremendous grief and loss, all the time.

As I reflect on these funerals that I’ve attended recently, I observed that the survivors are understood and nurtured in their grief. While painful for them, it is a finality of sorts which usually allows them to begin the process of learning to live without their loved one for the rest of their lives. However, when dealing with abandonment and ghosting, I am not afforded the same comfort. The person lives on, sometimes in my midst, and I am left wondering what could have been. I will always wonder what could have been done differently or what I could have done differently to avoid the pain of so much loss. It is simply a variant, unvalidated form of grieving that never seems to abate or heal. I can’t help but wonder how I’ll feel when the loss is final, once they’ve reached the end of their lives. Will I then finally be able to grieve and accept the loss and heal?


Keeper Of My Feelings

The last thing you said to me

Before we were forced to part

Was, “I will wait for you”.

I entrusted you

With my deepest feelings

To hold close to your heart

Until we could meet again.


You were the keeper of my feelings

You said you would wait for me.


You did neither.

I  was abandoned

And I am bereft of feelings


And I am empty and alone.


Random Thoughts: My Six Word Stories-Volume Nine: Featuring Teenage Angst Edition

“Wanna go out with me?” “Ewww….”

Oh, who should I like today?

Who is gonna like me today?

Meet me behind the bleachers ok?

I’m grounded for like, forever, man.

My parents are so fucking stupid.

Why doesn’t anyone ever understand me?

You are my best friend today.

He only sent twenty texts today.

He likes her. I hate her.

Dear Diary, my life is shit.

OMG he did NOT say that!

School sucks. Can’t wait to graduate.

Real life is gonna be easy.

What in the actual fuck, bruh?

Did you seriously just say that?

Teachers have no clue about anything.

I’m getting my driver’s license today!

I failed my driver’s test. Fuck!

I have to get a job?

Do I have to go to college?

He’s suck a dick. Love him!


The Floodgates At The Abyss

I stand at the abyss.

I don’t know how I got here.

But I look down and I see the gates.

The floodgates.

And I don’t want them to open.

I don’t want the floodgates open,

Because I don’t want to fall into the abyss.

It’s too hard to climb out of it.

But I do

Every time

And I walk away,

Wipe the tears.

And I go on.

But I’m always back.

Back at the abyss.

The floodgates are always there.

And I fight and I fight and I fight.

Hoping they won’t open.

But they do, always do.

Back into the abyss I go

One day, I will stop fighting

I’ll just stay in the abyss

Because why not?


The Diaries – Part Deux

Aren’t most teenaged angst diaries supposed to be filled with lovelorn, treacly drivel?

Constant jealousy amongst friends, puppy love?

Dramatic makeups and breakups from one day to the next?

Aren’t these diaries supposed to be cringe-worthy musings from she who didn’t yet know true heartache?

Shouldn’t they be about boring school stuff? Boring parents? Feeling totally misunderstood?

Then we read the diaries a half century later and we chuckle at our naïveté? Laughing at our ridiculous drama of what was, at the time, just puberty and hormones?

Shouldn’t reading them now be fun and funny? Hilarious even, in our immature notion that we were so sophisticated? That our parents were the hopeless naiveté’s?

Shouldn’t it be just a gas to reach back in time and find our long-promised-best-friends-for-life and giggle hysterically just like we did then?

Then why, oh why, am I transported back into so much pain? Why am I putting myself through this? Do I really think it will help to heal me as I continue to spiral into despair? Am I that desperate?

Some came out unscathed; others either died young or wish they had. Like me.

We were a MESS back then and things didn’t improve for many of us.

Those of us who survived, some did okay, I suppose. Others, like myself, suffer to this day.

These diaries…….

Why can I only read a few month’s worth at a time?

Afterwards, I come out of a fugue state of abject depression and just want to throw myself off a cliff.

After several days of recovery, I dive back in. Because I must.

If I’d known now what I knew then, there would be no now. And God help me, there’s more to come.

Stay tuned……


And On The 8,686th Day, She Rested

An Unconventional Thank You Note To My Children

November 5, 1995. The day my first child was born. August 16, 2019. The day my youngest child left for college. 8,686 days; 1,240 weeks, 6 days; 285 months, 12 days; 23 years, 9 months, 12 days…… you get the picture.

My three charges, of whom I am no longer in charge. Now young adults, living too far away, but exactly where they are meant to be.

From the day they were born, it was my job to kick them out. To prepare them to leave. To teach them how to live without me. I taught them how to walk, how to talk, how to eat, how to dress, when to sleep. I taught them to ask for what they need (if you don’t ask, the answer’s always no); I taught them not how to think, but how to think for themselves. I taught them how to learn, how to listen, how to feel compassion, how to love. I taught not how to see, but what to look for. Every single day, I taught them how to leave. And leave they did.

So here I am. All this time I’ve been teaching, guiding, leading. And I’m tired. I’m resting now. I’m reflecting. I’m wandering. I’m wondering. How did I do it? How did I do? I can check off a few boxes: they all graduated high school; they all went to college; they are all healthy; they are all safe; they are all loved. So I suppose I did fairly well.

I want to say a few more things to my kids though. I wasn’t quite finished when they left. I have a bit more to share with them. Give me a few more moments, won’t you? Here’s what I want to say. In case you didn’t know this yet.

Thank you. Thank you so much. Thank you for coming into my life. Thank you for giving me a family. This has been the hardest job I will ever have. Every single minute (12,507,840 minutes), has been a challenge. I learned so much more than I taught. I learned that my life as I knew it before you would never be the same. I learned that each of you was born with a unique personality and that I had to get to know you individually. I learned to understand that there is no template for parenting.

I learned the deeper, truest meaning of words like joy; love; sorrow; happiness; fear; laughter; trust; excitement; kindness; hurt; loss; honesty; betrayal; exhaustion; thrilled; proud; glee; partnership; heartache; perception; reality; time.

Time. That which we cannot control. No pause, no rewind, no fast-forward, no stopping. So here we are, all this time gone by. But I have my memories. And you have yours. I wonder: are our collective memories somewhat parallel? Or do they diverge wildly?

I remember the moment that each of you became known to me. One of you took several months. One of you had two misfires before you finally took. And one of you came as a pleasantly quick addition.

I remember the moment each of you emerged and separated from my womb. Moments full of drama, joy, tears, awe.

And I remember the moment each of you walked out the door, to begin the independent life I so carefully prepared you for. The heartache of saying goodbye was more painful than the physical pain of giving birth, but I’m managing.

You were sent to me with a message: Becoming a Mom brings joy and heartache, great memories and memory loss, patience and always hurrying, teaching and learning, knowing and not wanting to know, gales of laughter and oceans of tears, and most of all, the truest form of giving and receiving unconditional love.

Someone once told me that my children aren’t perfect because nobody’s perfect, right? I, however, know perfection when I see it. And I see it every single day in all of you. Thank you Alana, Heath & Gwyneth, for defining perfection for me.


The Ice Storm and the Meltdown

I opened my eyes very slowly, carefully. I was extremely groggy and confused. And I looked at the end of my bed, and Darlene was there, my beloved Darlene.

“Darlene, is that really you, or are you an angel? Am I really awake or am I dreaming?”

“No, Sweetie,” she said. “It’s really me, I’m really here. It’s really me. You’re not dreaming.”

Looking around, I realized that I was in a hospital room. I was hooked up to IV’s and dressed in a hospital gown. I saw that I was in a hospital bed. There was a whiteboard on the wall with my name, and date of admittance. My attending doctors and nurses were listed as well.I also observed a stranger, a woman who was not dressed in hospital garb, sitting in the corner of my room. And I was needing to be convinced that I wasn’t still hallucinating. Gradually I slowly began remembering what I’d done. I’d taken an overdose of pills. I’d tried to kill myself. And apparently, I’d failed.


The previous Friday was March 7, 2014. Greensboro, NC, was smacked with a terrible ice storm. Everyone knows that if you live in North Carolina, any thought of even a single snowflake falling from the heavens is cause for widespread panic and a run to the grocery store to buy out all the bread and milk. A three-loaf alert, it’s often called. And an impending ice storm is the worst case scenario, because it is sure to knock out electrical power across the region. We in NC are simply not prepared for this. And when we lose power out where we live, in the country, we lose water as well because we have an electric well pump

When the ice storm hit, we lost power on that Friday, March 7. We found the last available hotel room in Greensboro at a 5-star hotel, paying $400 a night.

The five of us, Alan, my husband, our oldest daughter, Alana, 18 years old, our son Heath, age 16, our youngest daughter, Gwyneth, age 12, and myself, all stayed in one room together. Saturday morning, we checked out of the hotel to go home, hoping that the power would be back on. When we got home, the power was indeed on, but the heat was not working. So it was freezing cold inside our house. I was just losing my shit, minute by minute because I hate living out in the country; it’s not my thing but it’s what I signed up for when I married Alan in 1994. I absolutely hate it when the power goes out, I hate living without water; it’s simply barbaric. I was just hating everything.

“This is such bullshit!” I said. “I hate living out here with no electricity or water anytime the power goes out. I’m so sick of having to deal with this every single time. And now, it’s freezing because we have no goddamn heat! This is ridiculous and I hate it here!

“I’m going to Alamance Crossing with Sarah and Caroline,” Alana announced. Alamance Crossing was a shopping center about 15 miles away.

“No, you’re not.” I said. “There’s no way I’m going to let you drive in this ice.” I looked to Alan for support.

He shrugged. Alan was noncommittal. He knew that he was in a no-win situation and he avoids confrontation at all costs, especially when it comes to Alana’s and my disagreements. His passive non-involvement was typical because he didn’t want to side with either one of us. She and I are both so strong-willed and when an argument breaks out between us, Alan generally walks away. In reality, I suspect he didn’t really think it was that big of a deal for Alana to go with her friends because we’d just driven home from the hotel so he knew what the conditions were, but he could see my dismay and didn’t want to break ranks.

So she and I got into a huge fight over her rights as an adult at 18 years old, (even though she was still in high school and living under our care.) We escalated into a screaming match that included her yelling from her room upstairs.

I hate you!” she hollered. “YouI never let me do anything! This house is so boring being stuck here with you!” she screamed. “All my friends have so many more privileges!”

I yelled from the bottom of the steps in return, “ Alana, you’re exaggerating and you know it! We give you plenty of privileges and independence but we are still in charge as long as you are living here and my answer is NO!”

She demanded, “Why? Why can’t I go? Just tell me why?”

Still yelling upstairs to her, I said, “I am not comfortable with you driving in the melting ice given your inexperience with these conditions. I don’t think it’s safe.”

“The roads are fine!” she continued. “All my friends are allowed to go,” she repeated.

“You’re not allowed to go!,” I yelled back to her. “Just stop asking me. The answer is no!”

I was increasingly frustrated because everything I said was met with a comeback, mostly just Alana saying Why, why why, and repeating how much she hates me and can’t wait to leave for college in the fall. This went on and on and I was not handling the situation well because I was angry that she was disobeying me. I was also hurt by her words of hatred towards me and her life in general while living under our roof. I was devolving towards an ugly breaking point; I could feel myself losing my patience and control and becoming angrier and her and also angry with Alan for not stepping in to support me. Eventually she just insisted that she was going to go, whether I said she could or not. And that was not the norm in our household.

Alan’s and my parenting rules are that whatever we say goes. That being said, we’re very flexible, we allow our kids a tremendous amount of independence, and we rarely came across a situation like this where one of our children was being completely, blatantly, disobedient. I just was taken aback. I was losing my cool and losing my temper as we were hurling these fighting words at each other. And finally I just snapped. I said,”Well just go then! Just go down and live with with your damn Aunt Lisa and Uncle Andy! Just fucking go, since your life is so awful here!”

She said, “Okay I will!” This caused me to lose my shit altogether and then I screamed at her, “Oh no, you won’t,”

She screamed back at me, “I’m going!”

I said, “If you go down to their house, then you’re dead to me!” And I stomped off.

I was immediately horrified that I’d said those words. I’d never said those words. I’ve never thought those words about my children and I was just completely out of control.

But sure enough, she left.

By this time it was Saturday afternoon. I just slammed the door to my bedroom and locked it, and just ugly-cried and remained unreasonable, unapproachable and unavailable for the remainder of the day and night.

I was furious with Alan, because he let her go. Not that he would physically stop her. But, I just was losing control. When I get this way, I get in an ugly rage, and I get into a despairing mood, and I can’t cope. I can’t cope at all. I feel like I spent my whole childhood having no power, no control, and my mental illness was rearing its ugly head. I couldn’t figure out how to properly handle situations like this because I’d had no role-modeling or experience of my own. Even though I’d spent years in therapy, and some of that included family therapy with Alan and the kids, I just hadn’t reached that healthy space that I intellectually knew I should be in.

So, Saturday night, she didn’t come home at all because she was going to stay with Lisa and Andy. I don’t know if she went driving to the shopping center or not, but it was confirmed by Alan that she was safe and going to stay with them that night.

I was still in full-on despair on Sunday morning when I woke up. I was still in the foulest of moods, unreasonable, and completely hateful to everyone. I wanted Alana to come home and work with me to do whatever we could to resolve this situation, especially by my apologizing for my awful words I spoke to her regarding her being dead to me.

I called Lisa and I screamed at her to send my daughter home, and she was just a total nasty bitch like she always is. She and I have never seen eye to eye and I consider her a spoiled, ignorant, closed-minded brat. She’s eight years my junior, had lived in this area all her life and she lorded around like the fucking Queen of all things. We had nothing in common from day one of my marriage, and even though we’d made somewhat of an effort to get along in the earlier years, we’d both finally conceded that we were never going to be friends. This happened years earlier, when our mother-in-law died, and we knew we no longer had to operate under any pretense that we were a close family. Alan had never been close to his brother, Andy, who was four years younger than Alan. We lived totally different lifestyles and though they were always civil to one another, they were never friends. Once again I demanded that Alan go down there and get her, get my daughter and bring her home.

I was just absolutely out of my mind with the thought that she was staying with Andy and Lisa. Possibly permanently. The two people that I loathe the most out here in this godforsaken redneck place that we live. I had no power. I had no power.

And I felt like I felt when I was a kid. When I was just abandoned. I felt like Alana was abandoning me, she was leaving me, another person was excising me from their life. I grew up being left, abandoned, kicked out. I grew up being schlepped from parent to parent to grandparent to potentially foster care, one after another. And I just couldn’t bear it.

Lisa wouldn’t send her home; of course she wouldn’t. I was a crazy person and her niece was better off with her. Alana wouldn’t take my calls at all. I called Andy, Lisa’s husband, (Alan’s brother), and he just railed me, calling me every name in the book from psycho, to the fact that I belonged in the loony bin, to I don’t know what the hell is going on with you. “You’re crazy,” he said. “And we’re not sending her back to you. She doesn’t want to live with you.”

The situation had deteriorated exponentially and I was just absolutely out of my mind with grief. This went on all day Sunday. Not a word from Alana. Alan went down there again to bring her home and came back without her.

And I just screamed at him, “What the hell? Bring her home! She is our daughter and this is where she belongs!”

He said, “You told her to leave, Amy, you told her to leave.”

And he couldn’t reason with me, I was completely unreasonable. There was no reasoning. So, it just devolved into a big clusterfuck of a mess.

Eventually, I went back into my room, shut and locked the door and told Alan, “You go sleep upstairs with Heath. Just don’t come near me. Don’t come near me until you bring me my daughter. Bring me my daughter. Bring me my daughter!”


Some hours later, in the dark and loneliness of night, when I realized that she wasn’t coming home for the second night, I was just not coping at all. I just couldn’t get my head around the idea that she may stay away for good. I wasn’t thinking straight and I was overwhelmed. It was late, and I was alone and I was awake.

And so I just decided, I can’t do this. I can’t live, I can’t live without her. I cannot live without my daughter. I cannot, I cannot go through this, I cannot go through this abandonment. This loss, this grief. I cannot deal with this, and I was just not of any kind of sound mind at all. It had just escalated, completely out of control. And it was all on me, and poor Alan, there was nothing he could do to appease me or appease Alana and convince her to come home. There was no dealing with Andy and Lisa. It was just a nightmare, so I just impulsively swallowed as many pills as I could find. I had antidepressants and anti anxiety medications to treat my mental illness, and Alan had some Tramadol from a hip replacement surgery he’d had.

I just put every pill I could find in my mouth, I didn’t even think about Alan, I didn’t think about Heath and Gwyneth. I just knew that I didn’t want to live for one more second if Alana wasn’t coming home. So I went to bed, ready to die. I felt dead already. I felt I’d lost everything.


I woke up around 4am Monday morning. And I realized that I wasn’t dead, and I was pissed. And I was sick. Very sick. So I called Heath on his cell phone upstairs and told him to tell Daddy to come downstairs and Alan came down, and I was really, really sick and really, really out of it and I told him what I had done and he called 911, right away.


I was very sick. I was in the cardiac unit at the hospital, because I was having heart problems. And I remember hallucinating. And if you’ve never hallucinated, if you’ve ever wondered if you’re hallucinating, then you’re not, because if you are, you know it. I had so many hallucinogenic experiences during these two days or three days that I was hospitalized. I guess I woke up Wednesday. And when I woke up there was the Angel. Darlene. This angel, my angel. Darlene was my little sister from Big Brothers Big Sisters, and we’ve been together for 20 plus years. She was somewhat like my very first child in a way. There she was, and no one except family was even allowed in the room but somehow she just pushed her way in and came and sat there until I woke up. Meanwhile, Alan was visiting every day, but was essentially home taking care of the kids. Alana apparently came back home on Monday, after school.

While I was in the hospital, I had to have a babysitter in my room because I was on suicide watch. In the cardiac unit. And so along with the nurses, doctors, CNA’s, there was a sitter, literally called a Sitter, who was in there with me 24/7. Once I regained consciousness I was just in complete and total despair over what I had done, and what Alana’s status was. I asked Alan, “Did you tell the kids what I did?”

He replied, “Well, Heath and Gwyneth knew because they were there when the ambulance came and I went to the hospital with you so Heath had to stay home alone with Gwyneth. And, you know, he didn’t know whether you were alive or dead until I called and told him. And so he was scared and confused. He didn’t go to school Monday morning and the whole thing was just so horrific and terrifying for the kids.”

I asked him about Alana, “Did you tell her?”

“Yes, I did,” he replied. “And she was shocked. She was shocked that you had done that. And I explained to her that it was nobody’s fault. That Mom is sick. Mom has mental illness. We all know that. And she just went over the edge, and it was not her fault.”

I don’t think I’ll ever know if she accepted that. I suspect not.

It was my fault, but Alan didn’t blame me. It just happened. It’s a picture of what mental illness can do.

Once I was discharged from the main hospital, I was mandated to go to a psychiatric hospital which I tried to refuse but apparently the law said I had to go. In other words, according to the laws in my state, “If someone else has decided that you need to be in the hospital, these are the steps that must be followed:

An affidavit must be filed with the Clerk of Superior Court or Magistrate of District Court. The Clerk or Magistrate may issue an order to a law enforcement officer to take you into custody for examination by a qualified professional. If the qualified professional finds that you are mentally ill and dangerous to yourself or others, you will be taken to the psychiatric hospital.”

I was literally driven in a paddy wagon to Winston Salem, because Greensboro had no beds available. Straight to the loony bin, just as Andy said I should. I stayed there, probably three to four days of which 72 hours is the standard for an involuntary commitment; we don’t have any long term in-patient facilities in our area, only short term. Alan came every day.

I asked him if Alana would come. He said he would ask her.

Alan said to Alana, “Mom really wants you to come to see her at the psychiatric hospital.” His perception of her reaction was that she was quiet, humbled.

He went on reassuredly, “Mom is going to be okay,” and, “We feel like the reason that you should to come is to see that for yourself. Mom and I don’t blame you for what happened at all, and she really is going to be alright.” She agreed to come without any comment,

I remember that when Alan brought Alana to the psychiatric hospital, Heath was at baseball practice and could not stay home with Gwyneth, so Alan had to bring Gwyneth with him, but she was too young to come back into the hospital so she had to wait in the lobby area of the hospital all alone. At 12 years old. I felt absolutely awful and extremely guilty for what I’d put my family through.

Once they arrived, Alana was allowed to come back to see me. Alan had warned her about all the security measures and that they would need to search her and she couldn’t bring her phone or any other gadgets or potentially dangerous items with her. She came back alone and I was very upbeat, very happy to see her, and the only reference I made to what had happened was that I was very glad to see her and I appreciated that she agreed to come. She shrugged, noncommittally, not sure what to say. It was uncomfortable for her. I didn’t know if she harbored any hurt feelings of me having almost abandoning her by trying to kill myself, or if she felt any feelings of guilt that I felt like she was abandoning me by leaving.

My experience at the hospital was very, very good. I’d had previous experiences at the hospital in Greensboro, under voluntary admittance, that were not good, and that’s why I refused to go, but this particular hospital was very good. And I learned for the first time in my life that everyone has a story. Everyone, from the doctor’s wife, to the drug guy on the street, and everyone in between, has a story. We all have a story. And I thought about it and I thought, “Well you know, Alan, my husband, he doesn’t really have a story. He had a self-professed idyllic childhood and he is a happily married man with three great kids. And then I realized that I was his story. I am his story.”

Note: This is a chapter from my upcoming memoir, “Show My Ugly”. Thanks for reading. Stay tuned.


The Diaries

The Diaries

They are all that’s left

From a scattered, shattered childhood


In twenty-six tortuous volumes

In living color

Of what happened to me




The Diaries

From age twelve to seventeen

Are there any more tumultuous years in a child’s life?

The brutal ignorance

Of the ugliest of truths

It was all I knew




The Diaries


Reading them now

Forty-five years later

Determined to get through them

After several attempts in the past

This is my past

And I must do this

To heal?

Must I?




The Diaries


Day to day

Hour by hour

Of minutiae

Full of angst

Even some joy

But mostly pain

Was it really that awful?

Yes, indefensibly, it was.




The Diaries


A living, breathing record

Of the truth

I can only do small snippets

Then I must take a break

To recover

Before I move on to the next pages

Of what in the actual the fuck?

This is how it all went down?




The Diaries


They follow me

They haunt me

They hurt me

They are me




The Diaries


Don’t you dare try to change the narrative

It’s all there

They define me

Ugliness, pain, and truth




The Diaries

Bury them with me when I die.