Writing. Music. Life.

“We’re all grieving, lost and bleeding”—Evanescence

I’m home for 2.5 weeks, the first time I’ve been back in VA since Christmas. I desperately needed a vacation, a break not only from work but from the West Coast. I’m thrilled to get plenty of time with my family and friends.

But…

I’m staying in my old room. In my parents’ house. The first night (last night), I slept fine and everything was okay. Tonight, cue the nightmares and flashbacks. Part of me expected that; I mean, it’s happened—to greater or lesser degrees—each time I’ve been home in the past nine years. But I had hoped that maybe the emotional and spiritual healing I’ve gotten over the past year would have somehow prevented the nightmares, and especially the flashbacks. No dice.

And then, because I’m just a brilliant person, I decided to read back through some of my old journals, since I couldn’t get back to sleep. I am an idiot. The first journal I pulled off my bookshelf was from 2003—the year that everything happened. In fact, the second entry in that journal was written the day my dad moved out. The day all hell broke loose. Why I continued toreadthat entry—and several subsequent entries—once I realized what it was about is beyond me; I must be a complete masochist. But read it I did, and of course I ended up crying. I’m such a baby.

What upset me the most about reading it is how detached I was at the time it was written; I was in such complete denial about what was happening in my family. And the words I wrote back in January 2003 conflict so much with my memories of that time. I don’t rememberfeelingas calm and composed as my journal entries would indicate; quite the opposite. I remember that entire winter as a time when I felt like I was drowning. Everything had changed in one afternoon—because of me, I might add—and suddenly my dad was gone, my family was ripped apart, and almost no one in our lives knew that it had even happened. My family is really good at keeping secrets, and that one was an especially important one to keep. To this day, my own grandparents don’t even know that my parents split up that winter.

I don’t know why I’m even writing this. I just…needed to try to process this, I guess. And of course it’s weird to be back in my parents’ house and having to sit through family dinners while the nightmares and flashbacks are happening again. I honestly do not know how I was able to manage this on a daily basis when I lived at home for four years or so after everything happened. I can’t believe I didn’t have a nervous breakdown or something. Sheesh.

I hate that my past keeps coming up and ruining what should be quality time with my family and an amazing trip home. I’m only here twice a year…does it really have to be this difficult every time? I want to be able to have real conversations with my dad, to enjoy the healing that’s happened in our relationship, without the past intruding. Apparently my stupid subconscious doesn’t want to let that happen.

April 24th, 2012

“It went on for six months and your mom never noticed something was wrong? Didn’t she suspect that something was going on?”

Someone asked me that the other day, someone who knows my story fairly well, and I was at a loss as to how to reply. I mean, what could I say:She probably suspected, but she didn’t want to do anything about it? Or:I don’t think she noticed anything at all.In all honesty, that’s probably closer to the truth…but saying that sounds so callous. It makes my mom sound like an awful person, which she most certainly is NOT.

This whole healing process is proving to be a lot more diffcult than I ever would have expected. At least I’m still working through it, I guess.