with the feeling of having all my things trashed. It was mean spirited and cruel and can’t be undone. My insides just hurt. I’d been waiting to put my home back together. It sits on my mind like a weight. Hard as I try, I do not understand this level of deliberately hurting someone you love. It’s a bridge burned and that is so undoable, so final. The hate and anger she spews with her fingers – not saying it with her voice but with her hands –
V said she was sorry the arguement got so ugly. Yes, UGLY…the perfect word.
I feel the need to restructure. Re-nest. My things were all sentimental items. How do I redo sentimental? My sea shell I found on Jekyll Island, the ornaments I’d hand stitched for our tree, my indian things – my feathers, my diary, my genealogy papers and letters from my great grandfather, the pictures of all my kids growing through the years – Baby books, my grandma’s quilts and cast iron skillet. Vanessa’s wedding calender, kaiha’s birth pictures, Geoffrey’s baby book. A poem Greg had written for Vanessa right after she was born. A baseball card Steve tucked in G’s favorite book. A book Kansas wrote in for me. Geoffrey’s drum. MY birth pictures. Pictures of my gramma, of my mom and dad. I guess I need to write this stuff down. There were towels, blankets, dishes, pots and pans, our coats, our clothes, the cords to my computer storage, the teapot Taryn helped me pick out, all of our DVD’s and CDs, my printer – our Christmas stockings I’d made, my doll, the jewelry box Steve gave me, the jewelry I’d made, pictures of my grandkids, and all my craft stuff. Buckets of yarn, clay, items I’d made to give to people, things I intended to sell, too.
I HURT. I am angry and hurt. I have lost my things, and my precious daughter and grandsons. I feel like someone has died. FUCK. Brenda said move forward and be a warrior. HOW?
I don’t want to be a warrior.
I want somebody to fix it.