Every rose is beautiful, save for its thorns.

I've been try to gather up the courage to tell my story, and I think that now is finally the time to screw my courage to the sticking post and do it. I'm going to start at the beginning, because that's where everything starts-- at the beginning. I'll warn you, dear reader, that this will be long and it may contain some things that seem incredibly odd, because my life has been incredibly odd from the moment I was a twinkle in my fathe's eye.

Things started to unravel before I was born. I was supposed to be a twin. My brother was going to be named Mark, and his heart stopped beating three months before we were supposed to be born. My mother was a drug user, even throughout the pregnancy, and my father was a drug dealer (as well as a narc and a bounty hunter) who was abusive. Between his abuse and my mother's drug use, my brother lost his life before it even got a chance to start. I was a difficult labor that lasted five days and culminated in a c-section. According to my mother, I was born laughing. Things were alright for the first two weeks of my life; then the meth lab in the basement had a rather awful accident. The smoke almost fried my lungs- shortly after, my mother put me down in bed for the night and (thank the PTB) had a sudden need to check on me. I was blue and unresponsive. They strapped my carrier to the nitrous tank of the thunderbird and hauled ass to the hospital. I was put in the neo-natal intensive care unit (nicu) until my breathing returned to normal and I stabilized. After several more trips to the hospital for that reason, they concluded that I had apnea. I spent quite a lot of time in the nicu—enough that my nurse made me a blanket and I earned the nickname “Snow White”, because my hair was jet black, my lips were ruby red and my skin was pale as pale can be.

Obviously I lived, and time flew by. My mother ran from my father when I was two months old, and moved in with her parents. We stayed living with them for twelve years. My grandpa, who I called Daddy, was an amazing man who accomplished so much in his life. I lived in an area called Rolling Hills Estates (which is one of the wealthiest areas recorded in the census), and had few friends. The ones that I did have befriended me for the wrong reasons—money, who I was related to, and in a few cases, to humiliate me. After a few years of that, I decided that the only friends I needed were the neighborhood dogs, neighbor’s horses and cats. My family jokes that I speak animal—and they’re partly right.

When I was 12, my mother got a job with Warner Bros., my grandparents sold the house and moved to northern California and my mother and I went a little town called El Segundo.

I suppose I’m stalling, keeping myself from talking about The Event that dropped me into hell. I was 13, and was delighted that I had made friends with a young man (of 15) at church. We hung out, watched TV, played video games… all those things that young people do. It was summer- June 13^th to be exact—and we’d been swimming in his family’s pool; I’d changed out of my swimsuit and into a denim catsuit that was very 80’s. J (lets call him J) asked me to sit next to him to watch TV, and I did. He put his hand on my leg. I brushed it aside. He did it again. I told him I didn’t like that. After that, he shoved me down and kissed me, bruising my lip. I tried to stand to get out of the room, but he blocked the door and told me that if I screamed for help, he’d kill me. The next I remember, he was pushing me backwards onto his bed (he had a bunk bed) and I cracked my head against the bar. I struggled. I tried to fight. I said no. I begged and begged and cried. He hit me multiple times, and unzipped my outfit enough to force me to take it off. After… I couldn’t stop him. I was a virgin. He stole that from me. I remember when the fight went out of me and I stopped struggling and just kept begging for him to stop, sobbing and asking him why he was doing this. He told me it was my birthday present.

When I got home, I couldn’t tell anyone. I went to shower and scrubbed till my skin was raw. When I have flashbacks now, 12 years later, sometimes I end up in the shower with all my clothes on scrubbing myself till I bleed. I felt helpless and terrified. He’d told me that if I told anyone, he’d find my and kill me and kill everyone who knew. I had started my period several months prior. It was a regular thing, and I could set a clock by it.

I missed it. Two months, I missed it. I was pregnant. I hated myself, I hated that I didn’t feel any love for the little thing growing in me. I curled up in bed all day, I wouldn’t eat and I barely touched water. I couldn’t stand myself and I felt so dirty. A few weeks later, I miscarried. I still didn’t tell. I didn’t go for help or to the doctor, because I was terrified J would find out and kill me. I was in so much pain, sobbing into my pillow and holding my kitten, Pandora. She stayed with me that’s whole time, only leaving to eat, drink and use her litter box. I remember that at one point, she started licking my hair and purring as loudly as she could; it was like she was trying to comfort her broken human, and singing me a cat’s lullaby.

After more time had passed, I told my mother. I was running out of excuses to not go with her to church. When I did go, I panicked as soon as I got out of the car. I fought it down and went to group, praying that J wouldn’t be there. He was, and I ran. Our church shared a fence with the same cemetery that my great-grandparents are buried in, and I ran to their graves, collapsed on the ground and cried. A few years later, I told my grandmother and after telling her the details of what happened, she told me that I had been inviting it by wearing that outfit and that he probably couldn’t help his urges. What little of me that had healed broke again at that point.

By the time a year had passed, my life had gone from bad to worse. My mother started drinking, and I found out that she was incredibly abusive when she drinks. Emotionally and physically abusive. She was smart though, and hit me where it wouldn’t show. One of her favorite things was hitting me with the cast iron skillet; she cracked my ribs that way. Things were getting worse and worse with me. My mind was cracking and I developed severe depression and anxiety. I barely ate, because there wasn’t much food in the house since my mother’s paychecks (until she lost her job) mostly went to booze.

One day, she threw me into the fridge. My wrist hit the edge of it with enough force to crack it. I remember feeling my bones break, and then everything went black. It was like I was floating in a space where I was safe. A few moments later, the world came back and I found my mother lying on the floor; my wrist was throbbing. My mother had a fist-sized red mark on her face. I found out later that this was my first disassocaitive episode and the first instance that I “lost time”. I have Disassocative Identity Disorder (formerly known as Multiple Personality Disorder) in a rare form that presents as being symbiotic with my alters and that I can “communicate” (it’s more like I think and they know, since that’s how this sort of thing works) with them. Those things are usually associated with schizophrenia, but that was ruled out. I also place on the Autism Spectrum, as I have Asperger’s. But anyway, back to the story. That alter became known as Arson. He surfaces and takes over in times of extreme stress or fear, or when I need to defend myself. He was incredibly violent in the beginning. Now, all these years later, he’s mellowed.

Toward the end of my senior year in high school, I finally had had enough abuse and enough hurt. I tried to kill myself. I felt myself getting light-headed from blood loss and I realized that I didn’t want to die. My mother was passed out drunk on her bed, so I went out the front door in a daze, dripping blood down my hands. The first people I ran into were two amazing guys. One of them started calling 911, and the other removed his shirt and used it as a compression bandage over my wrists. I was taken to the hospital and then admitted to UCLA’s juvenile psych ward, 2 South. After two weeks, I went home to my mother. A week of hellish abuse later, I tried it again. This time, my mother found me and called 911 herself. They did the same they’d done the first time, right down to the ward… and then they put me in the foster system.

There are few things that terrify me now more than social workers. I panic when I see one. I can’t breather and my heart threatens to vibrate right out of my chest. I was taken from the ward late at night and went back to the LA DCFS office with my social worker. She didn’t have a placement for me. I ended up sleeping on the floor, until I was woken and told that I was going to be placed on a ranch. That was the happiest I’d been in years. My foster mom was amazing; she held me when I woke up screaming at night, she knew how to handle it when I had a nightmare turn into a flashback and I woke up swinging, she didn’t judge me for sleeping on the couch with “my” dog who was a gigantic wolf with a bit of malamute in her. Then we added another foster. We’ll call her Z. She was a terror. She had a knack for finding out those things that you keep guarded closer than anything, and using them against you. My stay in heaven ended when she reduced me to a breakdown, during which I shaved my head and (sadly) attempted killing myself one more time. I was determined to do it right and the scars show that had my foster mom not rushed me to the hospital, I would have succeeded. Z also had triggered Arson, which ended up in him flying out of the bathroom where I’d dismantled a razor and sliced my arms open. He shoved her against the wall and told her he’d find her and destroy her if this attempt worked.

Obviously… I’m alive. But things didn’t get better. I bounced from psych ward to psych ward, foster home to foster home, until I was placed in a group home called David & Margaret’s Home. It’s because of them that I can’t put any belongings of mine into a trashbag without panicking and losing every ounce of control I have. When you move from foster home to foster home, you have to put all your things in these big, black trash bags. Then, when you get there, especially at a group home, they dump it all out in the largest area (which was the common room there) and go through it for all the rest of the girls to see. There’s no privacy. There’s nothing sacred. Things you love are taken away. Things are stolen when you aren’t looking. You’re judged, even before you get to open your mouth. The put it very accurately on the show, Bones. “You have to put all your things in trash bags. Then your clothes smell like trash and that’s what you feel like. Trash. Just a file and a last name.”.

I begged my social worked to put me in transitional housing, which if she’d done the correct thing, could have changed everything. Instead, she put me in a transitional housing unit that was for recovering drug users and alcoholics. I was put in a small building with two bedrooms and no locks on the doors. There was no security and no cameras. The person in the other room was a much older man who I later learned would take me right back to the darkest part of hell again. Forgive the term, but this housing unit was ghetto, and it was located in a very low-income area. The man in my building, whom we’ll call P, took advantage of our being able to come and go so long as we complied with the people back at housing. Those people didn’t care what anyone did.

To shorten an already long story, P grabbed me one day and threw me onto the bed. Before I could scream or fight, he was on me. He used lotion with a strong essential oil in it for lubricant, I’ve guessed, and took me from behind. When I begged, he laughed. When I cried, he hit me. This got repeated until he told me that I was going to go and make him some money. If I didn’t, he threatened a number of things and backed up his point by hitting me. Never in the face though… nobody would want to sleep with a bruised up whore. I went out onto the street at night and was a prostitute. Last year, I told my husband about it. It was one of my secrets that I’ve been and still am incredibly ashamed of. I know I did it to survive, but that doesn’t make me feel any less like I’m a piece of shit. I never told anyone what was going on, while it was going on. Who would believe me? I’d given up. My spirit was broken.

Close to a year later, I was at court. They ruled that I was to go back with my mother and be released from the foster system. It was amazing for a few months. I went with my mother to her AA meetings, there was food in the house, she wasn’t drinking… I think that everything would be better like this forever. I was deluded. I don’t know why I was stupid enough to let myself believe it. She started lying to her friends at AA, even taking her birthday chip when a few days prior she’d polished off a large bottle of brandy in a night. The abuse slowly returned. At the time, I was dating a beautiful young women named Meg. She lived 500 miles away, I was in the Los Angeles area, she in the San Francisco area. After figuring out a few things with Meg, I gave my mother an ultimatum- stop drinking, and stop hitting me, or I’m going to leave. That night, she got blackout drunk and beat the ever-loving crap out of me. Meg saved my life. She paid for a plane ticket to get me up there the following morning. I packed two bags, kissed my cats goodbye and left. My mother was in a drunken stupor at the time. I lived up north for close to three years.

Fast forward to 2010. I met my now husband, Robby two years back. Meg and I weren’t right, so we split up and I started dating him. I’d moved back down to the Orange County area. In 2009, we were married. June of 2010, I found out I was pregnant,. It was a miracle—with my health issues, I was told it would be incredibly difficult to get pregnant. But this little one not only made it to implantation, it also snuck past three different forms of birth control. We were terrified, then excited beyond belief. We got tiny outfits, we were given a changing table by a friend, I was hardly getting sick at all August 2, I realized suddenly that I was bleeding. I called my husband at work and said I needed to get to the hospital. I can’t drive, so I had to wait for him to get home and then we rushed to the hospital. We went to the ER, and after a short wait, they took us back. K They made us sit in chairs in the hall, because I “just wasn’t a high priority, since [I] was otherwise fine”. When I finally got into a hospital gown and an ER room, they took me for an ultrasound. I asked the tech if she could tell me if my baby, my Dahlia Rose, was alright. She told me that she wasn’t allowed to give medical options to people, and that she just had to scan me. They sent me back to the waiting room after that. A nurse brought me pain medicine at one point and I remember wondering if that was going to hurt the baby. I think I knew in my heart of hearts that it was over. We were taken back to a room and the doctor came in.

“I got the results of your ultrasound and your baby’s heart stopped beating. From what we can tell, it died several weeks ago. You’ll need to go to your doctor and get a prescription to help your uterus expel the tissue.”

Our hearts broke. We were devastated, crying and clinging to each other. I called a close family friend and she rushed to our apartment so she could meet us there when we came home. I laid my head in her lap and cried. The next day, we went to the doctor and he gave me this medicine to “jump-start things” as he put it. Every time someone referred to Dahlia as it or treated the situation lightly, my heart broke even further. I took the medication that night and within 30 minutes, we realized that the doctor had prescribed too strong of a dose. I went into what I found out later was labor. I went through all the stages. I made it four hours screaming into pillows, pacing, growing and sobbing that I wouldn’t have a beautiful little girl to hold at the end of this. Then I had to get to the hospital. I was bleeding heavily, and I was delirious with grief. The ER stabilized me and sent me home. I went to the doctor for a followup the next day, and he prescribed me another dose of the medication because there was still “dead matter”. That night, I ended up right back at the ER. I don’t really remember the next few days. I was admitted to the hospital, and I know I lost quite a lot of blood. I didn’t want to live. I wanted to die. I hated myself and I hated my body.

I have nightmares now, about so many things. I dream my mother is beating me. I dream I’m being raped again and again. I dream about having a strange man hand me money for twenty minutes of service in his car. I dream about someone hurting my son (I have a healthy, amazing little boy now). I dream that Dahlia is mad at me for my body robbing her chance at life. I’m terrified of thunder and fireworks, because they remind me of when my mother threw me out the door into a thunderstorm and I slept in a park, frozen to the bone. I’m terrified of wrestling because that’s what was on the tv when The Event happened. I feel weak and scared and useless. I fight PTSD, DID, bipolar disorder, asperger’s, fibromyalgia, degenerative disc disease and live with a weakened immune system. I feel like there are pieces of me missing and I go to bed scared that I’ll have a nightmare and wake up in a flashback, and that I’ll try to swing at my husband (it’s happened before, and he forgives me even though I’ll never forgive myself). I just want to feel whole again. I want to feel safe and protected and not petrified that one day, I’ll look up and J will be standing there. I feel like I’ve fallen apart, and there’s no-one who can put me back together without those holes being there.

If you've read all of this, you’re a saint. There’s more story, but I wanted to just stick to the things that are relevant to this group. I love all of you and thank you for your support.

(written for a private support group on facebook to share bits of my history) 

To my pride and joy, my smile and my light for your first birthday

Elijah Liam,

My little Treefrog. My bubbie. My monkey, my darling, my little Timelord-in-training, my favorite little geekling... you're the light of my life, and you're the reason that I smile when the world feels like it's crumbling. It never matters how hard my day has been or how sick and hurting I am- one smile, one giggle from you and everything is sunshine and sparkles.

I can't believe that you're just a few days away from being a year old. You've grown so, so much in the last year my love. I remember when you were born, you fit in the crook of my arm and your hips were so skinny that we had to go out and buy preemie diapers for you. Now, you're my big boy. You grin and giggle, you cruise around your playpen ("Attica! Attica!") and you LOVE all kinds of food-- except for peas, and greenbeans until you figure out they're not peas in disguise. So far, your favorite has been the wheat bread with apple-cinnamon yogurt on it. You made an epic mess (and hid yogurt in your diaper for several hours) but you loved it and chattered at me until I made you more.

You've taught me so much in the last almost two years, from the flutter of excitement, fear and amazement when those two little lines popped up on the test to tonight when you shared your binky with everybody, including the cat and the alligator I made with my hand.

You've taught me courage, through the sleepless nights when I just felt you dance in my belly, when I was so scared that I wasn't ever going to get to meet you. I found out just how deep that courage runs in me now when I held you in my arms as you struggled to breathe with RSV. I was so proud of you, little man, when you didn't even cry when they started your new IV for your bronchioscopy. You fussed, of course, but you chirped and cooed the second that first poke was done. I haven't ever been that brave, love.

You taught me about fear, too darling. When you came into the world outside of Club Mom, you didn't cry. I remember asking why you weren't crying, and why you were sort of greyish-- I found out later that you'd come out wearing a necklace... your umbilical cord. You started squalling pretty quickly, but I remember the chill and the feeling that my heart had stopped before I heard that first, beautiful noise. I remember the fear when the nurses told me that if we hadn't brought you to the ER or been as insistent about your treatment, that we could've lost you in the night to that devil RSV. You're my little fighter, though! You've never once given up.

You showed me that a single person, who I've never met before, could be such a strong support during labor. I can't wait to tell you the stories of our L&D nurse, Murtaza. He was our nurse when I was in the hospital during my two weeks of pre-labor. I remember him waking me up in the night to turn me on my side, because you'd decided to establish a new baseline. He was there through the majority of my active labor, calming me and rubbing my back, explaining all the little things that I needed to know because I was so, so afraid. He understood and even helped me get a pen, when I told him I wanted to write something on your foot. Labor with you, and with him as our nurse, gave me a chance to learn about another culture and another religion. In making me a mom, you also reminded me that I'm an anthropologist and that my dreams of that haven't ended, they just have another component.

You taught me about a pride so strong that it makes me feel like my smile is going to break my face, and that I'll just about burst. I've been so proud of you for so many little things that I never would've even thought about before. You've been learning at a breakneck speed, just this last week you figured out waving byebye and playing peek-a-boo. You even say "BOO!" sometimes! Usually, it's "Ga!" or "Buh!", but I'm proud as a peacock about that, too. You're amazing at sharing and like to give me and daddy your bink. It's always slimy, but it's the slimy love of babies. Tonight, you would've made your Auntie Beth SO proud of you! She showed you how to bump it and 'splode it at Cal's celebration, and tonight... you got it. I hold up my fist and say "Bump it!" and you do! You even figured out how to make a fist, and you dissolved into giggles whenever I made the explosion noise. Granted, I also taught you how to headbutt tonight, but that was more of mommy being silly and not really thinking about a baby trying to headbutt. You have your daddy's forehead, that's for sure! I'm still smarting from when you cracked me.

Honey, you make me so happy to say "This is Eli. My son.". Every morning when I wake up to you talking and babbling at us, standing up in your crib so happy to just see me blink at you, it's a good morning. When I go to bed at night, I always stop and check on you. I brush the hair off your forehead, listen to you breathe and tell you "I'll love you forever, I'll like you for always, as long as I'm living my baby you'll be.". You always sigh like you're relaxed and happy, and then settle back into your dreams. Lately, you've been turning on and off your music/light toy on your crib. You love it when lights come on! Well, you love anything electronic. The remote, my phone, the computer, the tv, anything! You love music, too. Especially theme songs-- Archer is your favorite. You're only going to get to watch that one a little longer, though, mister man. It's a little too grown-up once you start being a tiny anger sponge.

I don't know where the time has flown. I can remember the weird smell you had when you were born (it stuck around for days, and it was funky, but it was *you*) and how I didn't sleep for over 24 hours after labor, because I just couldn't take my eyes off of you. There was a good dose of "What do I do? I'm not ready! I can't get him to stop cry or nurse or anything and-" and then you'd be snuggle up against my chest, so happy to be skin-to-skin with my heartbeat in your ears. I remember you being so, so tiny in your sheep swing- and the day that you proved too big for it. The time has slipped by so fast. I want the years to slow down, so that I can cuddle you while you're little, so you'll reach for me to hold your hand or how you just want me to be sitting near you while you're playing. It doesn't matter if just the tip of my toe is touching you, that's good enough.

I can see all of my hopes and dreams in you. I have irrational fears and deep, profound, sometimes terrifying love. Ever little accomplishment that you make fills me with pride. I'm so glad to get to say that my body created you and brought you to this world, and that my arms have always been there for you to snuggle close in. I will always be there for you when you're scared, just the same as when you're happy.

Li-li, no matter where life take you or me, even if some day I'm gone (it will always been too soon when you have to say goodbye to someone), I'm proud of you. It doesn't matter who you love, what you want to be, what clothes you wear or music you listen to-- I will always and forever love you. When you tell me you hate me because you're angry, I'll love you. When you're a grown up, you'll still be my baby, because that's how mommies work. Right now, daddy and I are your world, and there's nothing like seeing your face light up when you see us. When things get rough, when we fight (and we will), just remember this:

"I love you, baby. Yana, my love. Yana."

Your mommy,

Loki

Do you have spare burn care supplies? PLEASE READ

** Warning: This blog post contains pictures of a 2nd degree burn. If that's something that bothers you, please end reading at the warning lower on this page**

As many of you already know (since I talk to most of you on facebook) on Friday I managed to spill a cup of water that had been heated for 1:30 in the microwave down my lower right leg. The burn is 2nd degree and is considered a major burn due to the amount of skin that it covers. It's ridiculously painful, and I've learned that 2nd degree burns continue to blister, take 3+ weeks to heal and require supplies for care that insurance doesn't cover. 

That's why I'm asking if anyone reading this has extra, sterile wound care supplies that they wouldn't mind sending my way. I need:

- Rolled gauze, at least 3in in width

- Non-stick, non-latex pads

- Bacitracin with zinc

- Small size, non-latex, disposable gloves

- Cooling burn pads, large (non-latex)

- Aloe gel, as pure aloe as possible

I put together a wishlist on amazon to give ya'll a visual for what I'm looking for. I have to change my dressing 3 times a day, minimum. The blister often ooze (it's gross, I'm sorry) and make it so I need to change the dressing a 4th time, to keep the area as clean as possible.

Wishlist for reference: http://www.amazon.com/gp/registry/wishlist/RNGUWW3G21W7/ref=cm_wl_huc_view

If you can send supplies, please contact me to get my info. 

Facebook: Loki Cornelow

Email: Crossroadcat@gmail.com

Thank you all so much. If you don't have anything extra around, could you please share this on your social network of choice? 

Here's a picture of my adorable child napping to put some space between this and the icky pictures of my burns.

**WARNING BELOW ARE PHOTOS OF MY BURN**

Walking the halls of Trenzalore

This last Thursday Erica, Sebastian, Froggy and I packed up the car and drove up to Salinas to spend time with the family and attend my grandpa's memorial service. It was a nice drive up, and was pretty easy even with Froggy fussing a bit toward the end (he didn't want to nap and kept asking for his dada). Robby couldn't come with because of work, so that was a bit of extra stress, but thankfully our friends were able to go and were understanding of my being a nervous, stressed, neurotic mess. We got up at around 8 Thursday night and Froggy was whisked away by his Oma, who was all smiles to see him. It was really good to see her that happy with everything that's been going on.

My cousin, Mitchell, showed up a bit later that night and it was AWESOME to see him. I grew up with him, so he's more like a brother than a cousin, and after not getting to hang out or see him for way longer than family should be away from each other, it was great to catch up. After dinner, we all tried to crash... but Froggy decided that sleep was for the week and screamed until 2am.

The next day, Friday, was Grandpa's memorial. We woke up early-ish to get ready and left the house about half after noon. We got a bit turned around while we were trying to find the church (if you ever go to Salinas, be warned that it's a land of eternal no reception) and got there with about 15 minutes to spare till the service. I was incredibly nervous... being in a church certainly didn't help that. I tried to focus, said hello to a few old friends (including someone who was very perceptive and didn't take my answer of "I'm doing okay." when they asked me how I was, and got the truth out of me) and went over the lyrics to the song I was going to be singing during the service.

We sat in the front, and it was a really pretty setup. At this point, though, I wasn't really doing all that well. I was freaking out HARD. I stuck it out till it was my time to go up on the stage-area (I'm not sure what that's called in a church... pulpit?) and sing. I gave it my all, and despite my knowing every spot I messed up, nobody noticed. I'd picked "Into the West", and it felt fitting. After I was done, I sat down and lasted about ten minutes before I had to politely excuse myself from the service. I ended up having a panic attack, which honestly wasn't unexpected, and I think that my expecting it helped me last as long as I did. We went home to rest until dinner (we skipped the reception, which is okay, because there were just too many people).

Things went okay for the rest of the evening, until it started to get later at night. I'd noticed that my joints were really starting to hurt, my muscles all felt like I'd been running marathons again and my stomach abruptly decided that it wanted to return all items to sender. I ended up having several seizures, and it shot the pain up to the kind of levels that make me decide that going to the ER is a good idea. I'd tried my usual "lets see if we can do X to get this to stop"- meditation, my meds, deep breathing, a hot shower, tea, eating something, resting... nothing had worked. So, we made the call that I needed to go in and Erica and I headed down there. The doctors as Salinas Memorial were great, and actually listened to me. We were able to get things under control really quickly, and I was able to get back to a stable level.

Saturday was relaxing, we didn't really do much else aside from spend time with family. It was really great to catch up with everybody, and it was nice to get to sit out in the gorgeous yard and get some fresh air.

I'm starting to get a headache thinking all this so I'm going to wrap up my summary for now and do a 'part two' later. But here, have some pictures!

The big 25.

My birthday is coming up-- June 5, and this year, I'm turning 25. It's a big deal to me. I usually attempt to not make a gigantic thing out of my birthdays. I'm happy with seeing my friends and family, sharing a meal with them and laughing at various things till I cry. But this year, even though I don't have a party or anything planned, it's a Big Deal. When I was little, I was sick. Really, really sick at times. First, they didn't think I'd make it to 6 months. Then a year, then three, then five, so on and so forth. The last age that they "capped" me at is 25. Eight more days, and the doctors get to eat crow pie, because I'm still very much alive and kicking.

I'm excited to be turning 25. There's so much that's happened in my life that I never thought would- I've found a great guy, I have amazing friends, I have the most beautiful little boy in the world... I have family, love and acceptance. Everything that I've always dreamed of. And in the next year, I'll have my health to work on.

I've gotten a few requests to post up a wishlist, so here goes in no specific order:

- A bread machine. The one that I have is both quite old and was partially borked when it was handed down to me. It's a great machine, but it's hit the stage that I have to do quite a bit of percussive adjustment when I'm using it or it tries to send the mixing handle flying off into my bread. Sometimes, it randomly turns itself off halfway thorough the loaf. It's not a nessicity to have a new bread machine... but I like making bread and jam and other such tasties with it.

- Small jars for my spices/herbs/cooking extras. Right now, they're chilling out in plastic baggies, crammed into a box. I love mason jars, but I haven't been able to find any of the smooth-sided ones that are tiny. Since I buy my herbs in bulk, I really need a better way to store them.

- Doctor Who things! I don't really care what, even if I already have it. I love the show. My favorite things are the Weeping Angles, 10, 11, Jack Harkness and River Song.

- Anything hand made. I have a deep, deep love of anything that someone has made, sewn, drawn, baked or otherwise crafted with their own two hands. Even if it's silly or might be odd, or odd looking, I will love it. Handmade things are full of love.

- Sheets for our bed. We only have one set, and it's full of holes.

- If you're a gift-card type person, I'd love anything to shop at Michael's, Target, WalMart, Glamor Doll Eyes (a website that sells eyeshadow), Lush, Macy's or any other store that you think I'd enjoy something from!

- An immersible blender, aka: 'motor blender' 'stick blender' 'death-blade-stick-thing'.

- Spices and tea, anything without banana or chili pepper is my friend.

- A glass teapot with a strainer. The one that I'd saved up to get a few years ago cracked when we moved from the old apartment to here, and I hadn't even gotten to use it yet. Sadface.

- Weird foods I like: anchovies, maple sugar candies (the hard candies are good, but I'm talkin' about the super sugary ones that melt in your mouth and you usually only find at Costplus World Market around Christmas), brownies, Tiger's Milk peanut butter and honey protein/energy bars, dried squid (I find it at Marukai, and it's the one that doesn't have the chili pepper in it), hominy and australian ginger beer.

Like I say every time I post up a list like this, I'm the sort of person that's just happy to have people remember it's my birthday. A card, a photo of something that reminded you of me, cheery birthday wishes, those are all things that I love just as much as any other gift. <3

Allons-y!

- Loki

The King and the Changeling

Once upon a time, an old king took in a little changeling without a second thought, and raised it like his very own. He taught the little one how to do all sorts of Kingly things-- like changing the oil in the royal carriage, how to properly grow tomatoes (it should be of note that the little changeling never had the self-control not to pick the plant clean as soon as the fruit was ripe), what stars would always take a person home and how to coax fire out of two pieces of wood. He taught the little changeling many, many things-- too many things for the little creature to remember all at once, but lessons that would stay with it over the years to come.

But the most important lesson that the old king ever taught the little changeling was that even though the seasons changed, and the leaves fell from the trees, spring would bring everything back again. It made the little creature cry when the leaves fell- every year, it would sit and sadly watch the trees become bare. The old king would bring a goblet of cider, and wrap a blanket around  the child's shoulders before explaining that everything has it's time, and everything had to pass eventually or else the new leaves would never be able to come in the spring. As time went on, and spring brought flowers, leaves and a world of new things, the little changeling grew to believe the old king.

Time kept going (as time does), and the little changeling grew, learning as much as it could from its dear old king before it had to leave, and start a grand adventure of its own. The changeling was never gone for long-- it and the king send missives and letters back and forth, and kept in contact. But as the king's years grew greater and greater, the changeling noticed winter hanging around the noble man. It gathered at his temples, turning his hair to snow, and brought a great weight to the king's shoulders, stooping them. It brought the chills of the cold to his bones, and froze his mind slowly. The little changeling (who wasn't so little anymore) knew that it couldn't stop winter for its king; it heard the words of the man, telling him that all leaves fell so that new ones could come in the spring.

The changeling waited through the world's winter with the old king, with springtime rumbling in its belly. Soon, the changeling brought new life to the world (which is a different story, as the king would say), and the king saw that the new life was good and strong. Spring and winter met, and the little changeling cried when the old king greeted the newest member of the world. His hands were wrinkled and spotted, and trembled with age, but held tight to the fragile new life. The little changeling knew in its heart that this would be the only time that the old king would meet the new child, and treasured every minute of it, though the thought only brought sadness.

The winter continued to creep into the old king's bones, and soon the end was awaited. The world crept into springtime, as the old king's blooms and leaves began to fade. His queen stood steadfast at his side, and the family said goodbye. The little changeling's heart broke when the message arrived that the king had fallen. As the changeling cried, it heard the words of the old king from many, many years before, telling it how all things must come to pass, from the stars to the trees, to old kings.

---

Today, my grandfather passed. He was (it feels so odd to use past tense) the most amazing man that I've ever known; he took my mother and I in when I was barely two months old, without a second thought. He and my grandma did their best to raise me while my mother went to school and did whatever it was that she did. He was (and is) my knight in shining armor, my hero and the person that someday, I hope I have as many amazing stories as he did in the end, and I hope that when I pass, it'll be surrounded my by my children with the love of my life at my side.

He went peacefully. We knew it was coming, so it wasn't a surprise-- I think that having seen how much he was hurting in the end is making it a little bit easier to accept that he's gone. Or I'm numb. I haven't quite figured it out. I'm betting more on the latter than the former. I can only cry so much before I don't have anything left for crying with, you know? I think all people are like that.

I was able to call yesterday and say my goodbyes to him. I told him that he was an amazing dad, and that he made such an impact on so many lives that I hoped he knew how much he meant to not just me, but to everyone else. I told him about Froggy, and how he's got teeth now and is always trying to stand up. I told him happy news, I told him how much I missed him and that I understood. I ended by saying that I hoped he had a good rest and sweet dreams, that I loved him and 'bye'. I don't know how, but I knew that I'd be getting a phone call this morning saying that he'd passed. I dreamed about it last night. We were at the father/daughter dance for cotillion, one of my favorite stories to tell about daddy. He'd fallen off the roof and broken his ankle that day, but didn't say anything to anyone and still did the jitterbug and the twist and the foxtrot with me that night. He knew how important it was to me, and just how much I viewed him as my dad-- not just my grandpa. He didn't want me to have to miss the father/daughter dance at all. When we got home, he couldn't get his shoe off because his ankle/foot was so swollen.... and purple. Anyway, that's the story. But my dream last night, his ankle wasn't broken and I wasn't 9. I was the age I am now, and we were dancing to Frank Sinatra's "You Make Me Feel So Young", just like at my wedding. He told me that things were okay, but that after the dance, he'd have to go. He promised to hug my daughter for me, kissed my forehead and then left. I woke up feeling oddly peaceful and knowing that today, he'd be leaving Midgard for Valhalla.

I'm going to wrap this up here. I have so many more things to say, and no words for them at the moment. I love you, daddy. Thank you for raising me to be able to become the person I am today.

- The little changeling

The weekend (with pictures!)

This last weekend, I went up north to visit my grandparents and my mother, with Froggy and Robby. It was a fun visit, with a lot of bittersweet moments. Grandpa had definitely gone down hill. His Alzheimer's has really started to effect him. He tries to speak, and his words just won't come-- I know how frustrating that is. It happens to me after a seizure.

We did a lot this weekend. We shopped for some new clothes for Froggy, we went to the aquarium with my mother and her boyfriend, David, and we had dinner over at my mother's house (she made a fish that wasn't the most delicious thing in the world, to me, but i'm not fan of cooked fish).... we did a bunch. Some things were ridiculously stressful (like dinner at my mother's). Some of them were amazingly fun, like the aquarium! Right now, I'm not entirely sure what to say-- I have an update that I'm working on that's full of feels. But I wanted to share some of the pictures and highlights of the trip with you!

This is one of the jellies from the aquarium. I was so happy that I got this up-close shot of it's 'frills'.

I was surprised at how well this shot turned out. I didn't edit it was resizing it for this blog. I honestly think I'm improving in my ability to gauge light and work out unique composition. 

Froggy LOVED these little spotted jellies. He kept shrieking and grinning.

Obligatory goofy face!

This fellow is a leafy pipehorse. He'd been hiding under the shelf there while some kids were pestering him. When they went away, I waited patiently and he came out to show off how gorgeous he is.

This is Froggy's new best friend, Otter-watter Jr. II. We got him at the aquarium for him, and the second we put Otter-watter in the stroller with him, Froggy sat up and burst into a fit of giggles, smiles, coo's and shrieks. He loves. His. Otter.

Opa (my grandpa) and Froggy, goofing off and having fun. Grandpa really enjoyed holding him, and was beyond excited to get to meet him.

I want this to become a meme-- "Oh yeah? Well I just crapped my pants."

I want this one to be a meme too... "Okay, so sell all my stocks in Gerber and buy all you can from Butt Paste." 

*trigger* To my angel on her birthday

Midnight.

As soon as the clock clicks onto Valentine's Day, I feel the gloom starting to creep forward, climbing out of the shadows where I try to keep it locked for the majority of the year. The little whispers that start off as just a feeling that isn't right, then that take form. They say "Don't you remember what this day is? What this day way supposed to be?"

"Don't you remember what you were supposed to have?"

And in those moments, I have a choice put to me. I can crumble, and choose to curl up in the grief and sadness that today holds for me. Or I could celebrate the love we have now, and the memory of a too-brief visit with a part of my soul.

Dahlia, today is your birthday. We lost you three years ago, this year. Valentine's Day was your due-date, and when the doctor told us, we were elated! It would make the day, that I've always loved so much, even more special. To get the best Valentine ever on that day? We were on board with that.

I was excited from the moment that I saw the little lines on the test saying that I was pregnant. I was over the moon. I was also terrified-- what would we do for finances? How would I raise a child when we were only renting a room in a house with others? We figured things out, and within a month, we'd moved to an apartment of our own. It was magical for those few weeks. I planned, your daddy unpacked, we talked about the future, the things that we wanted for you, our plans to be silly, our plans to be serious. I started saving so that I'd be able to get you a crib (your brother still doesn't have a crib. I hate to say I've cried over that, because it sounds materialistic and stupid, but I have. I've always had a dream of laying my babies down to sleep in a beautiful crib.), we got a few outfits from friends... we still have them. I haven't been able to give them away. I put one outfit on your brother. Another, I tried to roll up and send to a friend that just had a baby a few weeks ago... I couldn't do it. I'm sorry, Heather. It was something I really, really wanted to send to you, but I wasn't ready. I don't think that I'm ready yet, either. Grief is a slow, sad monster, Dahlia.

One afternoon in august, when I was supposed to be 12 weeks along, I was talking to your Oma and something suddenly didn't feel right. I suddenly didn't feel you, this tiny spot of brightness that had been letting me know of her presence since before I was two weeks along. You knew, maybe, that you wouldn't have a long time with us. Maybe that's why you told us early. I went to check to see what was going on, and discovered I was bleeding. I called your daddy-- he ran straight home from work, and broke some speed limits getting to the hospital. I remember getting the news. Your daddy was trying his best to reassure me that everything was okay, because a whole bunch of women have bleeding during the first trimester. The doctor came in, right as I was getting my hopes back up, so very carefully. If the look on her face hadn't said it all, then when she sat, it did. She handled it poorly--- "Your ultrasound came back with no heartbeat, the fetus is dead. It last had a heartbeat at 8 weeks 2 days.".

The last ultrasound I have of you alive is from 8 weeks on the dot. Who knew that I'd only have you here for two days longer?

The next few days were hell. The doctor that I went to gave me the option of having a D and C, which I would have to wait a week for, or this medication that would, the doctor said, "effectively stimulate the uterus to expel the fetal tissue.". Not knowing that that meant "Induce labor", I agreed to that one. I didn't think that I could live through a week of carrying around a life that I knew had left. They gave me the first dose of the medication to take at home. I followed the directions, and without knowing it, overdosed the amount. I followed the instructions to a T, triple checking it. They said "take a vicodin and lie down, it won't feel worse than menstrual cramps".

They lied, darling. It was hell. It was every ounce of emotional pain made physical. My body went in to hard labor, pushing you to the world hard and fast. There was nothing to hold. They made me repeat the dose the next day; I don't remember much of what happened then. I remember being told at one point that I could request an epidural if only I were in "actual labor". The nurse was very upset that they couldn't offer me anything other than diloted to help with the pain. I ended up hospitalized and bleeding very badly for several days. I left the hospital with a broken heart.

Going home from the hospital with an empty belly, and empty arms was the most heartbreaking, hardest thing that I've ever had to do. I wanted to run back, screaming, "just let me stay here, let me stay where I lost her. Don't send me away, I want my baby!"

I grieved for over a year, Dahlia. But now... I'm seeing the future, past the blinding grief. I'm learning to celebrate the life that you had, however short it was. That I was given a special gift- noone else on this earth knows you like I do. No matter what anyone tells me. I know I felt you flutter when you left. I'd thought I'd felt you move, but hadn't said anything-- it couldn't be, it's too soon for that!-- but I know that it was you saying goodbye, stay strong in the only way you could. This year, sweetheart, you'd be turning 3 years old! You'd be such a big girl, swinging around in dresses and marveling over your little brother. You'd be learning around the world, and crawling into our bed at night to be protected from the monster under/in/near the bed.

I love you, little angel. Yours was a short life, but it blazed brightly for me. Knowing you for that time burned me.... but those are scars I'm proud to wear. Fly to us tonight and give your brother and I visit to let us know you're here. Say hello to my brother up there, Uncle Mark. I love you, sweetheart. Your brother is the part of my heart and soul that I carry around outside me. You're the part of my heart and soul that I keep tucked inside, in the most treasured part of my heart.

I love you, Dahlia Rose.

- Mommy

Time has wings

My love,

Froggy, you're everything to me. Time is speeding by-- it seems just yesterday,  you were wet and gooey on my chest, looking at me like you were amazed. Amazed by me, amazed by this world. You still haven't lost that look of wonder-- I hope beyond all hopes that you never lose it. You're going to be six months old soon; you're sitting up, rolling over... reaching for things even! You know what toys you like, and how you like to be held to go to sleep. I'm slightly sad that you prefer Daddy over me, but that's what happens when I have a chronic illness and he does a lot of the things that involve you. I know you love me though, little boy. You light up when I walk in the room, and want me by you. I remember yesterday, you whined and reached for me to be next to you on your mat. So I laid down next to you and you were happy as a clam.

You're going to be a big boy, soon. I don't want the time to fly so fast, but it does. I'll cherish every moment that I have you in my arms, or my lap or even just next to me. Those moments are the ones that my heart will hold forever. And remember our secret, my love. What mommy whispers to you when we're alone and the world is still around us. Remember it your whole life.

I love you,

Mommy