The Uninvited

 I've struggled with finding my words--massive writer's block (let's call it a boulder)--for almost three years.  Wow.  Three years.  That hurts so, so much.  While grief was the original reason and is still a major player, I've recently had a huge awakening as to the other, perhaps root-reason my brain shuts down each time I come here to pour out my thoughts in my own personal space.  I've seen so few posts through to completion.  There are currently over 75 drafts of started-never-finished-never-published posts.  Some of them are only a few sentences, others are completed but feel unfinished.  Bits and pieces of insight, life as I know it, inexplicable anguish, raw motherhood...

I started this blog as a safe outlet for myself.  Our then-ten year old had just been diagnosed with ADHD and autism, and we had an infant.  We were trying to homeschool Noah, I was trying to hang on to my volunteer position at a grief center, I was trying to do everything and be everyone--while attempting to maintain (what was left of) my sanity.  I needed a place to vent, and I knew I'd eventually want to look back on those years to see how far we'd come.  I needed a place to keep memories and the deepest parts of myself for my kids to have one day.  This was a sacred place where I could yell, scream, curse the night, pray, cry, rejoice, share news, laugh, encourage others and just be myself.  Things I never dared say out loud could safely go right here.  Writing has always been a healthy form of unraveling myself.  Therapy, yes, but there have still been things I've always held back.  This has been where I could come to not only get everything out of my head, but even to actually get out of my own head.  The words flowed so effortlessly from my brain through my fingertips, to the keyboard, onto the screen.  At the end of a writing session, I would walk away feeling less burdened and less weary.  There was extreme relief with such release.  So much freedom.  Many times, my posts have been unspoken prayers, crying out to Abba or outright screaming at Him, safely put here.  So many tears have been shed while sitting at this keyboard.  Over the years, I've also come to hope this space would be a welcome place of laughter, solace and camaraderie, even a place of being able to explain myself, autism, depression and our lives--and so much more--to others.

This boulder standing in my path has left me wondering if my time as a writer has just run its own natural course.  Perhaps I've finally gotten all the words out of my head (haha) and it's time to just close down my blog.  After all, these long, parched months in between each post have been the longest I've gone without writing in the ten years since I typed my first sentence.  But no, that's not it.  I still have so much to say, so many mamas to encourage, so many things to teach the world (I hope).

So, what is it?  What causes my brain to instantly shut down every time I sit at my computer?  

The uninvited.  

I'm not talking about complete strangers (I actually prefer an audience of outsiders.  There's something to be said for anonymity, for not knowing--not having to know--who is on the other side of my screen.).  My blog has always been, and will remain, a public forum.  I briefly considered making my blog invitation only, or starting an entirely new private one, but I know deep in my heart, that is not the solution to this problem.  Running and hiding is not the answer. (Edit: Yes, after some deep soul searching and a moment of clarity, I did change the name and domain, but not for the reason of hiding.  I did so because it's just the right time for a new name.)  I routinely post my blogs to my social media account, use the website as a tagline in my emails and refer other struggling mamas to my place for love and encouragement.  

Rather, I'm talking about those who have no right to be here, but believe themselves entitled.  People who made choices and continue to refuse to accept consequences.  They long ago forfeited any right to a place at my table, yet I keep finding them behind the bushes, lying in wait for the next round of 'news.'  Some would love for you to believe it's their way of continuing to be a part of my life, the only possible way for them to do so (never believe a narcissist--and please, PLEASE remember there are always three sides to any story--Person A's, Person B's and the truth; a narcissist's so-called side seldom contains any semblance of the truth), because *palm to forehead* I ruthlessly cut them out.  

As much as I hate admitting it, it's also related to fear and anger.  Without doubt, my brain's refusal to budge is a form of self protection.  As hard as I've worked as an adult to overcome past trauma, I still so often resort back to that scared little girl, silently willing myself and everyone else in the house to please just not rock the boat.  Please don't make her mad.  Please don't do this.  I've come so far--but I still have so much further to go.  I am angry with myself for allowing the fear and shame to creep back in.  The shame never belonged on my shoulders to begin with.  I am angry with these blog-poachers, these unwell information seekers who ultimately lost any privilege they could've possibly had to be privy to my innermost thoughts and feelings.

How dare these people presume they are still welcome after everything, how dare they even think of coming here--knowing they aren't welcome, giggling as they get one over on me.  But I know why they do--you can't stop a narcissist from narcissisting.  Quite simply, it is one particular person's way of continuing to attempt to maintain control over my life and I'm sick to death of it.  

You know who you are.  My blog is not your personal newsstand or gossip rag, nor was it ever intended as such once you left our lives.  With your toxic behavior and your unsafe actions, you made your choice glaringly clear.  You set the precedent for the ugly ways in which my sister and I spoke to ourselves, as well as how we allowed others to treat us and speak to us.  You were supposed to keep us safe from danger; instead, the whole time, you were the danger lurking behind the closed doors of what we so desperately wanted to call home, lying to friends and family alike, just a couple of little girls playing pretend.  As much as we wanted someone to see it and believe us, we turned on those very, very few who did recognize your behavior patterns for what they were, out of fear of how you'd react.  You began a vicious cycle of abuse--a campaign of utter hatred--against us, your daughters.  Your rage-filled efforts to control us even into our adulthoods, plunged us into complete chaos, never knowing which end was up and what would set you off.  A lifetime of fight or flight.  Memories of your tantrums and tirades are still enough to leave me quaking.  I had to watch while Nancy perpetuated your cycle, building on it with her own, completely left without any tools to end it.  She ran from you, the fire, to him, the frying pan.  And now I have to watch as her children do the same with their children.  It's taken me years to shake it, to confront it, to make sure I pass as little of it as possible on to my own children.  In our home, we say "I'm sorry," we say, "I love you," (and mean it), we don't gaslight each other, we respect each other, we don't demand affection, we don't demand perfection, we allow our kids to be kids, we allow our kids to be our teachers.  I hate--hate--what you got away with and think you still can.  You are not welcome here.  Nancy may not have gotten out alive, but I sure as hell did.  I will no longer allow you to make the little girl in me afraid of putting myself, my thoughts, my feelings and my choices here, or anywhere else I choose to put them.  I'm taking back my voice.  It ends here.  It ends now.