Updated: January 18, 2015
Seems impossible that it has been that long. I never imagined that one day I would be forced to live life without my kids. It just wasn’t a choice I would have made deliberately.
I still cry when I watch those numbers unroll. With each roll, the last nine years flash before my eyes – every night I couldn’t tuck them in bed, every morning I couldn’t kiss their cheeks, every school day I couldn’t pack their lunch, every load of laundry I couldn’t wash, every picture I couldn’t take or memory I couldn’t make, every birthday or baseball game missed, every phone call or weekend I wasn’t allowed, every tear-stained pillow and desperate squeeze to the lifeless forms, every time I had to watch them walk away, every friend that turned their back, every person that judged me before they knew me, every humiliating moment, every hour spent in hiding, every day wishing that suicide really was the answer, and every year I have spent without – all the pain and anger and hate that has coursed through my veins over the years releases itself back into the forefront of my memory.
So finding continual happyness in a lifestyle where the pain can still be so real and so raw has not been easy. In fact, it has been extremely difficult.
BUT I AM A SURVIVOR. AND THIS IS WHERE I SHARE MY STORY.
UPDATE, MAY 2014: Brandon & Dylan are now 14 and 12. They still live primarily with their dad, as they have since October 4, 2005. Ethan and I live in the next town over, about 15 minutes away, and they stay with us every other weekend – sometimes more, sometimes less – just depends on our schedules. Ethan, my youngest, came on the scene in 2008, almost three years after my branding.
Warning: It gets a little emotional in here. Entries under Reality Check are purely raw, unobstructed and emotive. Shame is not allowed. Neither is fear.