my careless contagion

Thank you, Lord, for these moments with her. Holding her hand in the theater and fighting back tears of happiness because this is what I always wanted. Here she was, and sitting next to me as if it was the easiest thing in the world. Thank you for letting me see her heart and to understand, at least in part, such a beautiful soul — a special soul that knows no equal. I get to hear what's in her heart, her mind, and to see your imprint on her. It's all over her, in, and through her.  Thank you for letting me be something in her life. Just to be here is a miracle for which I am beyond grateful. She makes me incredibly happy, and I can't help but see her as a gift. I get to enjoy her, feel her warmth radiating next to me, revel in the scent of her skin, and bask in her laughter. And what beautiful laughter! I'm in love with the sound of her voice. I don't think there's a single thing about her I haven't fallen in love with. The sum total of her is probably more...

Though I realize this blog is long in the tooth and probably isn't read much anymore, I still use it as a space to discuss and heal. It is a very personal journey. If I invited you into this space, I hope you realize I did not do so lightly. You may not understand everything I write, but I hope it gives you an accurate picture of my struggles and triumphs.  I used to think we all had weird families. That was my honest belief. The more I looked around, the more I realized, no, we do not all have an odd upbringing. We certainly did not all have abusive childhoods. Then I started to get upset. I started to really dislike those "normal" families and their picture-perfect lives. I used to keep photos of some on my walls. Now that's weird . But, it's true. There was a congressman from a town I lived in years ago. I kept photos of his family on my walls. His wife wasn't very nice to me when I interacted with her at my job. Their children are doubtless grown and beaut...

I don't know where to start with Gitchie Girl. It's a true story that took place in the 1970s. I found myself sobbing at the end of the book, so I don't know if that is a good recommendation or not. It is a truly incredible book. Why is it nonfiction seems so much more unbelievable than fiction?  The book gets its name from a nickname applied to the main character of the story, a girl who underwent unbelievable trauma, only to be retraumatized by society. (Also, from Gitchie Manitou, the park where the atrocities occurred.) Why is that the way it goes? You go through something horrible — and bravely — and somehow survive and society decides they don't want anything to do with you. That's an ugly truth about how the world works. I found myself nodding along. That is my life. I even whined and asked God, "Where is my happy ending?" God's reply: "Your story isn't over yet."  Young Sandra Cheskey during the trial. But this story is not my lif...