Tumoulin Girl

Maybe...

I might have news. In a few hours I might have news. Big news. Historical kind of news. This is a fact. Actually it could be a fact. It will be a fact.

Just know this: entries are now closed for the stats competition. Sorry peoples. Nature doesn't wait around for late comers.

~~~~~~~~~

(three hours later)

No news, not really. But I've just been surfing randomly through old blogs of people I once kept up with more faithfully than I have recently (shame on me) and now, after touching base in these old familiar hangouts, I find myself full of a thousand more thoughts and feelings.

Plus my right hand is cramping with the cold. This is indeed an old familiar sensation and strangely enough, almost comforting. The smoke, however, is new. Half way through one blog post it finally hit me my eyes were smarting from more than just the glare. I got up to investigate, found the kitchen full of smoke and the flu shut on our wood stove. I open said flu and a window besides and things have improved from there. This typing now is helping to warm up my fingers.

One post by a girl I met on a forum upwards of three years ago hit me the hardest. Through events I won't try to explain, I found out about her Dad once...from her. She told me she'd never told anyone, not even her best friend of whom I also knew closer at the time. I'll always remember that. You can never pick them, you know.

I may seem crazy
Or painfully shy
And these scars wouldn't be so hidden
If you would just look me in the eye

It makes me wonder. Leaves me sober. When I was at my sickest and I was fighting the worse of my depression I remember once thinking just how ironic it was how close to a cutter I was without really being one. I didn't have to cut for the pain, I just let myself hurt; the physical was already there for the emotional. In fact, it all happened backward: in my own morbidness I remember thinking I didn't have to think about how to kill myself becaues I knew I was already dying.

I feel alone here and cold here
Though I don't want to die
But the only anesthetic that makes me feel anything kills inside

Then in moments like these I find myself back at Sara. A little more of the life she tried so valiantly to hide is revealed and here, within the depth of a cold night, I realise I know nothing. In light of her shattered world I'm a china doll with barely a crack, living and breathing in a near perfect haven. My Daddy's never been on drugs, he's never stolen from me.

I remember two other girls I've known in real life. One is one of the sweetest girls I have ever met. Her Dad was a salvation army minister. He turned abusive, alcoholic, and emotionally abused each of his children individually through e-mail after being banned by the courts to ever have contact with his family again. For ages they tried to get help but nobody would believe them because her dad was a respected minister at the time. Now her mum is an unstable alcolic and her sister is almost permanently in a psychiatric award.

I do not want to be afraid
I do not want to die inside just to breathe in
I'm tired of feeling so numb
Relief exists I find it when
I am cut

The other girl's father is closer to home. He can see her, she has to see him and even now at twenty-one she's still having to fight the emotional abuse he dishes at her. Both of these girls are terrified of their real fathers. They were on my Cambodian missions team and all the time we were away they lived with the fear their dads would have somehow managed to find out what returning flight they would be on and would be there in the airport upon their return to kidnap or abuse them. What gets me the most is how two of these three men were ex-pastors, the two worst at that.

A fragile flame aged
Is misery
And when our hearts meet
I know you see

If this is reality then the word in and of itself is ugly. I'm waiting to find out for sure that I've become an aunt while, on the other side of the world, a girl one year younger than I is wondering if shoving a knife under her dad's door would be message sufficient enough to let him know of her anger and hurt.

I'm not a stranger
No I am yours
With crippled anger
And tears that still drip sore

A guy once said: "Others keep saying how people now a days need to hear about Jesus so they don't do drugs, go with girls and all that other stuff. And I find myself disagreeing. They don't need to know about Jesus so they won't do those things...they need to know about Jesus because they need a saviour."

All this makes me wonder, you know. It puts my life in perspective. Leaves me sober.

posted by Lydia @ 12:02 am