Further entries from this journal novel can be found at http://www.webook.com/project/Journey-Home. If someone happens to be following the story and would prefer me to keep posting here please let me know.
Showing posts with label Novel - Journey. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Novel - Journey. Show all posts
Monday, July 21, 2008
Monday, July 7, 2008
Journey Home - Entry 11
To finish where I left off yesterday, my little girl was the first casualty. She was also the youngest victim by nearly twenty years. I on the other hand just ended up with a bullet in my thigh.
You know why my daughter died? Why a child, who had so much to give, lost her life? She died because some fifteen year old boy couldn’t handle being rejected. Some girl had told him she wasn’t interested in going out with him, “not to the movies and not ever,” according to what they printed in the newspaper.
If we all reacted to rejection that way everyone would be dead. I don’t care how extreme or stupid it may sound because that’s just the way it is. Rejection happens to everyone at some point in their lives. Okay so it happens more often for some than others but you don’t see everyone shooting people because of it. Rejection is a part of life, an unpleasant one certainly but still a part. We all have to deal with it and move on.
My baby died because another kid decided it was his right to shoot up a shopping centre when some girl said she didn’t want to go to the movies with him. That just doesn’t make sense. It also doesn’t seem fair. What exactly are we teaching our kids these days.
You know why my daughter died? Why a child, who had so much to give, lost her life? She died because some fifteen year old boy couldn’t handle being rejected. Some girl had told him she wasn’t interested in going out with him, “not to the movies and not ever,” according to what they printed in the newspaper.
If we all reacted to rejection that way everyone would be dead. I don’t care how extreme or stupid it may sound because that’s just the way it is. Rejection happens to everyone at some point in their lives. Okay so it happens more often for some than others but you don’t see everyone shooting people because of it. Rejection is a part of life, an unpleasant one certainly but still a part. We all have to deal with it and move on.
My baby died because another kid decided it was his right to shoot up a shopping centre when some girl said she didn’t want to go to the movies with him. That just doesn’t make sense. It also doesn’t seem fair. What exactly are we teaching our kids these days.
Tuesday, July 1, 2008
Journey Home - Entry 10
I couldn’t finish it yesterday so I’m going to try again today.
That particular Thursday we were finishing our ice-creams, her chocolate chip and my strawberry swirl, looking in the toy shop window. Jessica was listing off all the things she wanted for Christmas even though it was months away. It was at that place and time when my life fell apart.
It started with a loud noise, well noises actually, one after another in quick succession. I didn’t know it was gunfire until after the fact. Jessie fell down and I threw myself over her. People were screaming and glass was flying everywhere. There was so much happening all at once it’s difficult to describe. My only concern though was protecting Jessie.
When the gunfire stopped I sat up and picked Jessie up. I was going to hug her and reassure her that everything was all right. I’m not really sure what I said because that was my last semi-coherent thought, and I do mean semi-coherent because then I noticed all the blood. Some of it turned out to be mine but most of it was hers. That was when I think I screamed.
It took two paramedics to get her out of my arms. I didn’t want to let her go even though deep down I knew I had to.
Jessie died just as we got to the hospital. I was holding her hand. They managed to revive her and took her into surgery but she never regained consciousness. She was pronounced dead in the operating theatre. The doctor told me she wouldn’t have felt anything, wouldn’t have suffered. Like that was much of a consolation.
I was so numb. I think in many ways I still am.
That particular Thursday we were finishing our ice-creams, her chocolate chip and my strawberry swirl, looking in the toy shop window. Jessica was listing off all the things she wanted for Christmas even though it was months away. It was at that place and time when my life fell apart.
It started with a loud noise, well noises actually, one after another in quick succession. I didn’t know it was gunfire until after the fact. Jessie fell down and I threw myself over her. People were screaming and glass was flying everywhere. There was so much happening all at once it’s difficult to describe. My only concern though was protecting Jessie.
When the gunfire stopped I sat up and picked Jessie up. I was going to hug her and reassure her that everything was all right. I’m not really sure what I said because that was my last semi-coherent thought, and I do mean semi-coherent because then I noticed all the blood. Some of it turned out to be mine but most of it was hers. That was when I think I screamed.
It took two paramedics to get her out of my arms. I didn’t want to let her go even though deep down I knew I had to.
Jessie died just as we got to the hospital. I was holding her hand. They managed to revive her and took her into surgery but she never regained consciousness. She was pronounced dead in the operating theatre. The doctor told me she wouldn’t have felt anything, wouldn’t have suffered. Like that was much of a consolation.
I was so numb. I think in many ways I still am.
Saturday, June 28, 2008
Journey Home - Entry 9
I realise in all this I haven’t actually said what it was that happened to change my life so drastically. I’ve relived it again and again but I haven’t yet put it down in words. I guess I haven’t wanted to for much the same reason I haven’t wanted to talk about it with anyone, giving voice to it or words to it gives the whole thing more substance.
I wish I could live in denial but that isn’t realistic. I suppose I should be happy that my mind hasn’t shattered enough for it to be an option.
So anyway here it is in words.
It was a Thursday, just a normal Thursday afternoon, or at least that’s the way it started out. Jessica and I were doing our weekly shop. Like most people we were minding our own business, enjoying the time we were spending with each other.
I tried to make sure Jessie and I spent quality time together every week, so Thursday had become our shopping night. Let’s face it girls love to shop even if it is just window shopping. We would come home after school, get changed and prepare for battle. It was so much fun. We would disagree about everything from cereal to clothes. Usually starting at home with, ‘Mum you can’t wear that it’s sooooo embarrassing’ and I’d get changed. I used to plan in advance the most hideous outfits I could. It was all part of our weekly ritual. We’d shop, make wish lists and then grab an ice-cream before heading home. Thinking about it now hurts so much. I don’t know if I can keep writing.
I wish I could live in denial but that isn’t realistic. I suppose I should be happy that my mind hasn’t shattered enough for it to be an option.
So anyway here it is in words.
It was a Thursday, just a normal Thursday afternoon, or at least that’s the way it started out. Jessica and I were doing our weekly shop. Like most people we were minding our own business, enjoying the time we were spending with each other.
I tried to make sure Jessie and I spent quality time together every week, so Thursday had become our shopping night. Let’s face it girls love to shop even if it is just window shopping. We would come home after school, get changed and prepare for battle. It was so much fun. We would disagree about everything from cereal to clothes. Usually starting at home with, ‘Mum you can’t wear that it’s sooooo embarrassing’ and I’d get changed. I used to plan in advance the most hideous outfits I could. It was all part of our weekly ritual. We’d shop, make wish lists and then grab an ice-cream before heading home. Thinking about it now hurts so much. I don’t know if I can keep writing.
Monday, June 23, 2008
Journey Home - Entry 8
This is so much harder than I thought it would be. Not that this is something I ever thought about mind you. Then who does think about how they’ll cope with the death of their child? It just isn’t something anyone ever really considers. I suppose you think about it when you hear, see or read those stories about children being killed. Even so, you never really consider the possibility it could happen to you. I know I certainly didn’t.
The news headlines make it all sound so impersonal. I saw one that read “TRAGEDY: SEVEN DEAD IN SUPERMARKET SLAUGHTER”. In normal circumstances you would read that and think ‘oh how sad’ and maybe wonder about what this world is coming to, but it’s still something far removed from you personally.
The only problem was this time it wasn’t so far away. In fact it was so close I’m sure the scars I have will never completely fade.
Perhaps the public nature of it all is one reason I’m finding it so difficult to deal with. It’s so hard when a personal tragedy is laid out for all to see. People think they know me because of what they’ve read about me in the paper. They don’t. They don’t know the first thing about me, except my daughter was killed.
They mean well, I don’t doubt that, but it’s so hard to grieve when you don’t have the privacy to do so. It’s as if everything I’m feeling is amplified by the fact everyone seems to be watching me to see how I will cope.
I’ve only just got my privacy back so maybe things will start making sense again soon.
The news headlines make it all sound so impersonal. I saw one that read “TRAGEDY: SEVEN DEAD IN SUPERMARKET SLAUGHTER”. In normal circumstances you would read that and think ‘oh how sad’ and maybe wonder about what this world is coming to, but it’s still something far removed from you personally.
The only problem was this time it wasn’t so far away. In fact it was so close I’m sure the scars I have will never completely fade.
Perhaps the public nature of it all is one reason I’m finding it so difficult to deal with. It’s so hard when a personal tragedy is laid out for all to see. People think they know me because of what they’ve read about me in the paper. They don’t. They don’t know the first thing about me, except my daughter was killed.
They mean well, I don’t doubt that, but it’s so hard to grieve when you don’t have the privacy to do so. It’s as if everything I’m feeling is amplified by the fact everyone seems to be watching me to see how I will cope.
I’ve only just got my privacy back so maybe things will start making sense again soon.
Wednesday, June 18, 2008
Journey Home - Entry 7
I haven’t really talked about the funeral. I don’t know if I should or even if I can. However it is my journal and I can talk about anything I want without any concern for the etiquette of death, if such a thing exists.
I haven’t had a lot of experience with funerals. One of my grandfathers died when I was little but I don’t remember much about that. I’ve heard people say the funeral for so and so was beautiful and similar sentiments, but I’m not sure the words beautiful or lovely suit a funeral. It may be Jessica’s is still too fresh in my mind.
Her funeral was not what I would consider a private affair but then I shouldn’t have expected it to be. After all the way she died was horribly public. Jessie was the youngest victim and so many people came to express their condolences. I didn’t even know half of them. I just thanked them and moved on.
There were so many flowers as well. In fact I’ve received more flowers in the last few weeks than I probably will during the rest of my lifetime. What’s with flowers at a time like this? I don’t get it. What have flowers got to do with death? Why do people think they are a good thing to give to someone who’s grieving? Sure they’re pretty but they don’t last very long before they die too, doesn’t that make them a highly inappropriate thing to give?
It seems a tragedy like this brings, I don’t know, people’s hearts to life. So often we live day after day not caring about others. I know because I see it all the time; disdainful looks, poorly looked after children, abuses of many kinds. So many different things. Things we seem to become immune to until some sort of tragedy awakens the compassion in us. I know I’m being somewhat cynical, not all people are like that. I hope I’m not like that, but if I’m to be honest in many ways I am. I’ve turned my nose up at people, muttered about how they should look after themselves better. I’ve even seen things and thought someone should do something about it. It never crossed my mind to do anything about it myself. I’m just like everyone else.
Where was I? Jessica’s funeral. Sometimes it seems so long ago, sometimes it seems like yesterday and always I wish it were some horrible, terrible dream I could wake up from.
I haven’t had a lot of experience with funerals. One of my grandfathers died when I was little but I don’t remember much about that. I’ve heard people say the funeral for so and so was beautiful and similar sentiments, but I’m not sure the words beautiful or lovely suit a funeral. It may be Jessica’s is still too fresh in my mind.
Her funeral was not what I would consider a private affair but then I shouldn’t have expected it to be. After all the way she died was horribly public. Jessie was the youngest victim and so many people came to express their condolences. I didn’t even know half of them. I just thanked them and moved on.
There were so many flowers as well. In fact I’ve received more flowers in the last few weeks than I probably will during the rest of my lifetime. What’s with flowers at a time like this? I don’t get it. What have flowers got to do with death? Why do people think they are a good thing to give to someone who’s grieving? Sure they’re pretty but they don’t last very long before they die too, doesn’t that make them a highly inappropriate thing to give?
It seems a tragedy like this brings, I don’t know, people’s hearts to life. So often we live day after day not caring about others. I know because I see it all the time; disdainful looks, poorly looked after children, abuses of many kinds. So many different things. Things we seem to become immune to until some sort of tragedy awakens the compassion in us. I know I’m being somewhat cynical, not all people are like that. I hope I’m not like that, but if I’m to be honest in many ways I am. I’ve turned my nose up at people, muttered about how they should look after themselves better. I’ve even seen things and thought someone should do something about it. It never crossed my mind to do anything about it myself. I’m just like everyone else.
Where was I? Jessica’s funeral. Sometimes it seems so long ago, sometimes it seems like yesterday and always I wish it were some horrible, terrible dream I could wake up from.
Friday, June 13, 2008
Journey Home - Entry 6
The funeral was two weeks ago today and it’s still hard for me to accept Jessica won’t be coming home. I suppose only time can bring about that sort of acceptance.
It’s strange I know but I can’t help feeling she’s only away on holidays or over at Bree’s or Mum’s. Sometimes it even feels like she is just off playing somewhere and I expect her to come barrelling through the back door at any minute, dirty and bloody from climbing a tree or exploring.
She wasn’t a very girly girl. Dolls and ribbons weren’t really her thing. I suppose she got that from me. Physical stuff though, now that she loved. I took her to gymnastics classes once a week and she was trying to convince me that she needed to join the swimming club. I wish I’d let her. It might have put us in a different place that day.
When she was in a quiet mood she would play with her teddy bears, read or do something creative. She loved art, she had so many drawing and colouring books, scrap books filled with her own pictures.
But the feeling she’s out playing doesn’t last for very long before I once again realise it’s just not so. She is never again going to come running through the back door to give me a muddy hug, or any other door for that matter.
Sometimes I find myself wondering if it would have been easier if she’d been sick. That serious, terminal kind of sick where you’ve been told your child will only live so long. I guess though I probably wouldn’t have handled that any better. It probably would have been worse. I wouldn’t have liked to see her suffer and at least with the way she died, she didn’t. That’s what they told me anyway. I suppose I can always be grateful for that – but in reality?
Every day spent with your child is precious, special. There are times it doesn’t seem that way I know, but now I spend hours wishing I had just a little extra time with her. The thing is no matter how she died, even if I had of known her days were numbered, I would still feel as though she had been stolen from me.
It’s strange I know but I can’t help feeling she’s only away on holidays or over at Bree’s or Mum’s. Sometimes it even feels like she is just off playing somewhere and I expect her to come barrelling through the back door at any minute, dirty and bloody from climbing a tree or exploring.
She wasn’t a very girly girl. Dolls and ribbons weren’t really her thing. I suppose she got that from me. Physical stuff though, now that she loved. I took her to gymnastics classes once a week and she was trying to convince me that she needed to join the swimming club. I wish I’d let her. It might have put us in a different place that day.
When she was in a quiet mood she would play with her teddy bears, read or do something creative. She loved art, she had so many drawing and colouring books, scrap books filled with her own pictures.
But the feeling she’s out playing doesn’t last for very long before I once again realise it’s just not so. She is never again going to come running through the back door to give me a muddy hug, or any other door for that matter.
Sometimes I find myself wondering if it would have been easier if she’d been sick. That serious, terminal kind of sick where you’ve been told your child will only live so long. I guess though I probably wouldn’t have handled that any better. It probably would have been worse. I wouldn’t have liked to see her suffer and at least with the way she died, she didn’t. That’s what they told me anyway. I suppose I can always be grateful for that – but in reality?
Every day spent with your child is precious, special. There are times it doesn’t seem that way I know, but now I spend hours wishing I had just a little extra time with her. The thing is no matter how she died, even if I had of known her days were numbered, I would still feel as though she had been stolen from me.
Wednesday, June 11, 2008
Journey Home - Entry 5
I was saying yesterday that being at home isn’t any easier than being at my parents place. Well I’ve been thinking about that and I’ve come to realise in some ways it is. Oh there are certainly ways in which it isn’t but there is a sort of balance here I don’t get at Mum’s.
Sure there are far more things here to remind me of Jessie; her clothes, toys, photos of her, even a certificate from school that’s still on the fridge door (I’m obviously not the only one who thought she was wonderful).
All those things and the memories they bring are balanced out by the freedom I have here to grieve. The freedom I have to get angry and even cry. The freedom to scream and to throw things. In fact to express any of the number of emotions I can go through in one day, who am I kidding – in one hour. When I’m by myself I don’t have to watch what I do. I don’t have to constantly be aware of others watching and worrying about me. I can just feel without really having to think about it.
I’m not sure if it is better being here. I think it is. It’s got to be better to have the freedom to express my feelings rather than having to keep a close guard on them. The problem is I don’t think anywhere is a good place to be at the moment.
Sure there are far more things here to remind me of Jessie; her clothes, toys, photos of her, even a certificate from school that’s still on the fridge door (I’m obviously not the only one who thought she was wonderful).
All those things and the memories they bring are balanced out by the freedom I have here to grieve. The freedom I have to get angry and even cry. The freedom to scream and to throw things. In fact to express any of the number of emotions I can go through in one day, who am I kidding – in one hour. When I’m by myself I don’t have to watch what I do. I don’t have to constantly be aware of others watching and worrying about me. I can just feel without really having to think about it.
I’m not sure if it is better being here. I think it is. It’s got to be better to have the freedom to express my feelings rather than having to keep a close guard on them. The problem is I don’t think anywhere is a good place to be at the moment.
Monday, June 9, 2008
Journey Home - Entry 4
I came back home today. My home I mean. Since Jessica died I’ve been staying with my parents and that’s been fine but I know it’s been hard on them as well as on me. I haven’t exactly been the best of house guests. When you are surrounded twenty four hours a day, seven days a week by people who are treading on eggshells because they’re concerned about you, let’s just say it can make for a somewhat stressful situation.
I love my parents dearly. I really do. They’ve always been there for me. They certainly would never kick me out or say I was an inconvenience. It’s just, I don’t know, I feel I can’t keep staying there, relying on them and disrupting their home life. It also feels as though I’m hiding from the truth in some way. I’ve never been one to run away from a situation and as hard as it is for me, I know I shouldn’t start now.
Being back here is really difficult. There are so many things that remind me of Jessica and I don’t know what to do about them. In my head I know I should do something with her stuff, perhaps even something constructive like give some of it away. But in my heart, well my heart doesn’t want to let go, of any of it. It’s all I have left of her. I mean on one hand I know I have no further use for those things but on the other I’m scared to let them go. Scared that if I give them away I’ll be giving her away. It’s really difficult to explain but when I think about it I feel as though I am betraying her somehow. Giving her things away seems so final. I honestly don’t think I’m ready for that.
The really silly thing is I can’t even bring myself to go into her bedroom. Here I am thinking of giving her stuff away or rather how I would be betraying her if I did, yet I can’t even bring myself to look at it.
I didn’t really expect coming home to be this hard. For some reason I was expecting things to be better if I was in my own place, but they’re not. I don’t even know why I thought it would be easier here but I did, and I came back only to find out just how wrong I was. I spoke to Mum about it, all of it including the toys and stuff, and she said I wasn’t being silly. She said how I was feeling was perfectly normal considering the circumstances and I shouldn’t rush things. I should only do them when I felt I was ready.
I like her advice but if I followed it I might not even get out of bed in the morning. Besides how will I know when I’m ready? Will I wake up one day and say to myself ‘I think I’m ready to go through Jessie’s things today’? Maybe a better question at this point is; how can I know if I’ll ever be ready?
I suppose I’ll just have to do what Brianna suggested, cliché or not, and take it one day at a time.
The other thing Mum said was if I wanted to go back my old room at their place was still available. She hadn’t converted it back into her sewing room yet. I think she was trying to make me laugh, it didn’t really work. It did make me smile though. I know she wasn’t being serious, my mother only sews when the mood hits and a rough estimation of how often that happens is about once every three or four years.
I turned down the offer. I have made my decision and I am determined to try and stick it out. I’ve been told I can be quite stubborn at times.
I love my parents dearly. I really do. They’ve always been there for me. They certainly would never kick me out or say I was an inconvenience. It’s just, I don’t know, I feel I can’t keep staying there, relying on them and disrupting their home life. It also feels as though I’m hiding from the truth in some way. I’ve never been one to run away from a situation and as hard as it is for me, I know I shouldn’t start now.
Being back here is really difficult. There are so many things that remind me of Jessica and I don’t know what to do about them. In my head I know I should do something with her stuff, perhaps even something constructive like give some of it away. But in my heart, well my heart doesn’t want to let go, of any of it. It’s all I have left of her. I mean on one hand I know I have no further use for those things but on the other I’m scared to let them go. Scared that if I give them away I’ll be giving her away. It’s really difficult to explain but when I think about it I feel as though I am betraying her somehow. Giving her things away seems so final. I honestly don’t think I’m ready for that.
The really silly thing is I can’t even bring myself to go into her bedroom. Here I am thinking of giving her stuff away or rather how I would be betraying her if I did, yet I can’t even bring myself to look at it.
I didn’t really expect coming home to be this hard. For some reason I was expecting things to be better if I was in my own place, but they’re not. I don’t even know why I thought it would be easier here but I did, and I came back only to find out just how wrong I was. I spoke to Mum about it, all of it including the toys and stuff, and she said I wasn’t being silly. She said how I was feeling was perfectly normal considering the circumstances and I shouldn’t rush things. I should only do them when I felt I was ready.
I like her advice but if I followed it I might not even get out of bed in the morning. Besides how will I know when I’m ready? Will I wake up one day and say to myself ‘I think I’m ready to go through Jessie’s things today’? Maybe a better question at this point is; how can I know if I’ll ever be ready?
I suppose I’ll just have to do what Brianna suggested, cliché or not, and take it one day at a time.
The other thing Mum said was if I wanted to go back my old room at their place was still available. She hadn’t converted it back into her sewing room yet. I think she was trying to make me laugh, it didn’t really work. It did make me smile though. I know she wasn’t being serious, my mother only sews when the mood hits and a rough estimation of how often that happens is about once every three or four years.
I turned down the offer. I have made my decision and I am determined to try and stick it out. I’ve been told I can be quite stubborn at times.
Monday, June 2, 2008
Journey Home - Entry 3
I didn’t do too well yesterday. My emotions got the better of me, but as far as I‘m concerned there is absolutely nothing wrong with that. Women are emotional and I’ve just gone through... am going through, a highly emotional period in my life. Look at me I must be a mess I’m apologising to a book for crying out loud.
Anyway moving on. I have this crazy notion I should write down some of my story. Who knows this may even help me. I’m not sure how but hey, the experts say it’s good not to keep it all inside and I guess they can’t all be wrong.
I wouldn’t say I had a sheltered life but I certainly didn’t run with the wild crowd. I didn’t see the point and not being one of the really popular kids meant I didn’t get pressured to conform to the latest phase. Which probably wasn’t a bad thing as I doubt my parents would have let me go along with half of them. Actually I suppose you could cover it all by saying my school years were pretty average. Some things I did well, some I didn’t. Some days were good and others not so good. There were people I got along well with and others I didn’t. I got teased but heck who hasn’t been at some point in time. I learnt to ignore some of it and occasionally I even managed to get my own back.
On the home front I loved my parents and they loved me, still do in fact. I have a sister, Brianna and a brother Stephen. Both are younger than me and apart from regular sibling rivalry and bickering we got along great. Though I suppose that depends on your definition of normal sibling rivalry. I guess that’s another one of those things which becomes clearer with the perspective of time.
Every Sunday our parents took us to church. I grew up believing in God, mostly because it was a given fact in our house. It was something we just knew and never really questioned. Truthfully though, by the time I was old enough to question it my belief and faith were very much a part of my life. I officially committed my life to Christ, as they say, when I was twelve. It was at an Easter camp and it somehow seemed like the right thing to do. I did it because I felt I needed a point of reference for my faith, something definite I could look back on and say, “That was when…”
I never once let go of my faith. Until now. Not even when I found out I was pregnant. I never once blamed God for that. I didn’t need to, plenty of others tried doing that for me. Instead knowing I had Him to rely on, to lean on, really helped me through what was a very difficult time.
The pregnancy wasn’t a difficult one, just the circumstances. My favourite bible verse at the time was Psalm 46:1 ‘God is our refuge and our strength, a very present help in trouble.’ For a young Christian girl being pregnant out of marriage seemed to be a definitive description of trouble.
My family were all so wonderful, so supportive. Right from the word go there was never any question of me giving up the child. Not for abortion or adoption. Adoption was mentioned but I didn’t think I would be able to give my baby up despite the circumstances. Abortion though was never an option, not for me. I had a tiny little life growing inside me and there was no way I would have been able to bring myself to get rid of it.
Little Jessica Emily was born in March the year I turned nineteen. She was so tiny and from the moment I saw her I knew I had made the right decision. I had a love for my little girl that had begun from the time I found out about her. Sure I went through ups and downs during the pregnancy, what woman doesn’t? By eight months I was feeling so big and heavy I was wishing she would just get out of me but not once did I consider getting rid of her.
When I first held her, before they had cleaned her up, I made up my mind the circumstances surrounding her conception would never hurt her. I was going to love her and be the best mother I possibly could. I didn’t know how but I was determined to do it.
With the support of my family I went back to university and finished my degree in teaching. I won’t say it was easy because it wasn’t. There were times I felt like giving up but I didn’t. I couldn’t. It was all because of Jessie. Well that’s what I told myself. All the hard work was worth it because of her. She was my motivation to succeed.
You know through all of that I never let go of God. Back then I thought things happened for a reason, life goes on and you play the hand you’re dealt the best way you know how. But now? I just don’t know how He could have let this happen. How can I have been blessed with Jessie only to have her snatched away after so few years? It’s just so hard to get my head around it.
Anyway moving on. I have this crazy notion I should write down some of my story. Who knows this may even help me. I’m not sure how but hey, the experts say it’s good not to keep it all inside and I guess they can’t all be wrong.
I wouldn’t say I had a sheltered life but I certainly didn’t run with the wild crowd. I didn’t see the point and not being one of the really popular kids meant I didn’t get pressured to conform to the latest phase. Which probably wasn’t a bad thing as I doubt my parents would have let me go along with half of them. Actually I suppose you could cover it all by saying my school years were pretty average. Some things I did well, some I didn’t. Some days were good and others not so good. There were people I got along well with and others I didn’t. I got teased but heck who hasn’t been at some point in time. I learnt to ignore some of it and occasionally I even managed to get my own back.
On the home front I loved my parents and they loved me, still do in fact. I have a sister, Brianna and a brother Stephen. Both are younger than me and apart from regular sibling rivalry and bickering we got along great. Though I suppose that depends on your definition of normal sibling rivalry. I guess that’s another one of those things which becomes clearer with the perspective of time.
Every Sunday our parents took us to church. I grew up believing in God, mostly because it was a given fact in our house. It was something we just knew and never really questioned. Truthfully though, by the time I was old enough to question it my belief and faith were very much a part of my life. I officially committed my life to Christ, as they say, when I was twelve. It was at an Easter camp and it somehow seemed like the right thing to do. I did it because I felt I needed a point of reference for my faith, something definite I could look back on and say, “That was when…”
I never once let go of my faith. Until now. Not even when I found out I was pregnant. I never once blamed God for that. I didn’t need to, plenty of others tried doing that for me. Instead knowing I had Him to rely on, to lean on, really helped me through what was a very difficult time.
The pregnancy wasn’t a difficult one, just the circumstances. My favourite bible verse at the time was Psalm 46:1 ‘God is our refuge and our strength, a very present help in trouble.’ For a young Christian girl being pregnant out of marriage seemed to be a definitive description of trouble.
My family were all so wonderful, so supportive. Right from the word go there was never any question of me giving up the child. Not for abortion or adoption. Adoption was mentioned but I didn’t think I would be able to give my baby up despite the circumstances. Abortion though was never an option, not for me. I had a tiny little life growing inside me and there was no way I would have been able to bring myself to get rid of it.
Little Jessica Emily was born in March the year I turned nineteen. She was so tiny and from the moment I saw her I knew I had made the right decision. I had a love for my little girl that had begun from the time I found out about her. Sure I went through ups and downs during the pregnancy, what woman doesn’t? By eight months I was feeling so big and heavy I was wishing she would just get out of me but not once did I consider getting rid of her.
When I first held her, before they had cleaned her up, I made up my mind the circumstances surrounding her conception would never hurt her. I was going to love her and be the best mother I possibly could. I didn’t know how but I was determined to do it.
With the support of my family I went back to university and finished my degree in teaching. I won’t say it was easy because it wasn’t. There were times I felt like giving up but I didn’t. I couldn’t. It was all because of Jessie. Well that’s what I told myself. All the hard work was worth it because of her. She was my motivation to succeed.
You know through all of that I never let go of God. Back then I thought things happened for a reason, life goes on and you play the hand you’re dealt the best way you know how. But now? I just don’t know how He could have let this happen. How can I have been blessed with Jessie only to have her snatched away after so few years? It’s just so hard to get my head around it.
Saturday, May 31, 2008
Journey Home - Entry 2
It’s funny looking back on your life. Viewing the events that shaped you, made you the person you are today, through the perspective of time. I’ve been doing a lot of thinking, I’ve got plenty of time for it. Apart from a couple of things my life has been pretty normal. It was those two events that dramatically altered the course I thought my life was going to take.
I wonder if life ever takes the path we plan for ourselves? If the person you want to be as a kid, or even as a teenager, is ever the person you end up being? Perhaps that would be expecting too much. A life without hiccoughs, what a concept. Then again the person you think you’re going to be is pretty two dimensional I suppose.
They say (well that is to say I’ve heard it said somewhere) surviving difficult situations is something that makes you stronger. It supposedly develops your character.
They, whoever ‘they’ are, make it sound like it’s something that’s good for you. Well let me say I’m not sure I want to have my character developed any more. I have had enough of growing, maturing and adjusting to the results of other people’s problems.
I just want my life and my daughter back.
I wonder if life ever takes the path we plan for ourselves? If the person you want to be as a kid, or even as a teenager, is ever the person you end up being? Perhaps that would be expecting too much. A life without hiccoughs, what a concept. Then again the person you think you’re going to be is pretty two dimensional I suppose.
They say (well that is to say I’ve heard it said somewhere) surviving difficult situations is something that makes you stronger. It supposedly develops your character.
They, whoever ‘they’ are, make it sound like it’s something that’s good for you. Well let me say I’m not sure I want to have my character developed any more. I have had enough of growing, maturing and adjusting to the results of other people’s problems.
I just want my life and my daughter back.
Thursday, May 29, 2008
Journey Home - Entry 1
Where do I start? I’m not even sure why I’ve decided to put pen to paper. I haven’t kept a diary since I was a kid. Well I was actually sixteen and if anyone had have called me a kid I’d have thrown a fit. But I was. At least I’m honest enough to say that now. When you’re that age you think you know so much, maybe not everything but enough to know your parents can’t say anything you need to hear. Back then things were less complicated. Okay so they didn’t seem that way at the time, but from where I’m standing now…
Anyway back to this diary thing. I suppose the main reason I haven’t kept a diary all these years is that I haven’t really had the time. Life has been too full, too busy for me to spend my free time, on the rare occasions I had any, sitting on my butt rehashing the events of my day. I also haven’t had cause to keep one, even once they became the in thing to do. Now my situation is certainly different, I have both time and reason. Besides it sure beats talking to the wall.
Now where to start? I’m twenty seven, five feet and seven inches. I have longish dark brown hair and dark eyes. My hobbies include hiking, - wow this stuff isn’t necessary it sounds like I’m writing an ad for the personals. Something else I’ve never done by the way. Like keeping a diary it simply held no interest for me.
I told you I hadn’t done this in a while. I don’t even know why I’m writing it this way, like I’m talking to someone, it’s not like I’m hoping anyone will read it. I just need a way to get my feelings out, sort through the mess of emotions flying around in my head.
I’m looking for a way to fill in time. Time I used to spend being with my little girl and teaching. Not anymore though, work has given me as much time off as I need.
What is that anyway? ‘Take as much time as you need’. I know they’re trying to be understanding or sympathetic or something but please, as if I really need more empty time. I guess they figure that being around other people’s kids would just be too much for me. In actual fact I wish I was at work, at least then I would have something else to think about, to focus on.
I suppose put that way it sounds kind of cruel or cold but the truth is I’m at a loose end. I really don’t know what to say or do about it, about everything that’s happened in recent weeks. After all how to deal with a situation like this is not something you ever get taught.
So where does this all leave me? My daughter, my little girl, has been taken from me, violently and unexpectedly, and sometimes I even have trouble accepting that as my new reality.
Instead I try to focus on something else. Anything else really. I just try to forget. I know that isn’t really possible, nor is it practical, deep down I don’t want to forget her. I love her and I miss her. But what else can I do? I don’t know how to cope.
I’ve had enough for today.
Anyway back to this diary thing. I suppose the main reason I haven’t kept a diary all these years is that I haven’t really had the time. Life has been too full, too busy for me to spend my free time, on the rare occasions I had any, sitting on my butt rehashing the events of my day. I also haven’t had cause to keep one, even once they became the in thing to do. Now my situation is certainly different, I have both time and reason. Besides it sure beats talking to the wall.
Now where to start? I’m twenty seven, five feet and seven inches. I have longish dark brown hair and dark eyes. My hobbies include hiking, - wow this stuff isn’t necessary it sounds like I’m writing an ad for the personals. Something else I’ve never done by the way. Like keeping a diary it simply held no interest for me.
I told you I hadn’t done this in a while. I don’t even know why I’m writing it this way, like I’m talking to someone, it’s not like I’m hoping anyone will read it. I just need a way to get my feelings out, sort through the mess of emotions flying around in my head.
I’m looking for a way to fill in time. Time I used to spend being with my little girl and teaching. Not anymore though, work has given me as much time off as I need.
What is that anyway? ‘Take as much time as you need’. I know they’re trying to be understanding or sympathetic or something but please, as if I really need more empty time. I guess they figure that being around other people’s kids would just be too much for me. In actual fact I wish I was at work, at least then I would have something else to think about, to focus on.
I suppose put that way it sounds kind of cruel or cold but the truth is I’m at a loose end. I really don’t know what to say or do about it, about everything that’s happened in recent weeks. After all how to deal with a situation like this is not something you ever get taught.
So where does this all leave me? My daughter, my little girl, has been taken from me, violently and unexpectedly, and sometimes I even have trouble accepting that as my new reality.
Instead I try to focus on something else. Anything else really. I just try to forget. I know that isn’t really possible, nor is it practical, deep down I don’t want to forget her. I love her and I miss her. But what else can I do? I don’t know how to cope.
I’ve had enough for today.
Tuesday, May 27, 2008
Journey Home - Prologue
“Mummy, do monsters really exist?”
Those few words haunt my memory even now, months later. Though I no longer remember what my answer was that day, I know it should have been yes. I know that isn’t a very reassuring answer but it’s the truth. Maybe not the big, ugly, scary ones from under the bed or in the closet, but just the same I know without question real monsters do exist. And they look just as human as the next person.
Twice now they’ve changed my life forever. Once should have been enough. More than enough. Or at least that is what you would think.
The image of a child’s innocent and trusting eyes fills me with so much pain. She was only a little girl. A sweet, precious, little girl. So young. So innocent. So full of potential. And now…now it has all gone. Wiped out in a matter of moments. Never given the opportunity to even really live.
It just doesn’t seem right that it turned out this way. It doesn’t seem fair. It doesn’t seem possible. But I know it is. It has to be because I feel so empty. As though there is nothing good left inside anymore.
She was my reason for getting up every day. The reason I kept pushing on. Now what? How can I keep going when there is no real reason to? More to the point, why should I?
The eyes that stare back at me from the mirror seem lifeless. Unfocussed, as if unseeing. I shut them in an effort to forget. But now, instead of my own reflection, I see her. The way she looked that morning. That cheeky smile, the way it used to light up her whole face. A dimple denting her right cheek. Her eyes sparkling. It seems clichéd but that is what I see.
My mind screams, partly in denial and partly in anguish, as it replays the events of that afternoon.
I struggle to regain control of my emotions. I try to focus on the brush in my hand, but that image gets lost among others as memories of my daughter come flooding back.
Those few words haunt my memory even now, months later. Though I no longer remember what my answer was that day, I know it should have been yes. I know that isn’t a very reassuring answer but it’s the truth. Maybe not the big, ugly, scary ones from under the bed or in the closet, but just the same I know without question real monsters do exist. And they look just as human as the next person.
Twice now they’ve changed my life forever. Once should have been enough. More than enough. Or at least that is what you would think.
The image of a child’s innocent and trusting eyes fills me with so much pain. She was only a little girl. A sweet, precious, little girl. So young. So innocent. So full of potential. And now…now it has all gone. Wiped out in a matter of moments. Never given the opportunity to even really live.
It just doesn’t seem right that it turned out this way. It doesn’t seem fair. It doesn’t seem possible. But I know it is. It has to be because I feel so empty. As though there is nothing good left inside anymore.
She was my reason for getting up every day. The reason I kept pushing on. Now what? How can I keep going when there is no real reason to? More to the point, why should I?
The eyes that stare back at me from the mirror seem lifeless. Unfocussed, as if unseeing. I shut them in an effort to forget. But now, instead of my own reflection, I see her. The way she looked that morning. That cheeky smile, the way it used to light up her whole face. A dimple denting her right cheek. Her eyes sparkling. It seems clichéd but that is what I see.
My mind screams, partly in denial and partly in anguish, as it replays the events of that afternoon.
I struggle to regain control of my emotions. I try to focus on the brush in my hand, but that image gets lost among others as memories of my daughter come flooding back.
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