No More

Today is the anniversary of the day my good, sweet, smart, big hearted friend left her abuser.

You know the kind of friend who holds you when you cry?  I sure hope you have that kind of friend.  She is that kind of friend.  You can call her in fear or frustration when things are scary or upsetting in your life, and she will manage to take the call in the middle of her work day and talk you off your ledge.

She is magic in the kitchen.  She creates whole meals from absolutely nothing at all.

She is wicked smart.  She finished her undergrad and graduate degrees while working full-time and raising two kids on her own.

She's someone you can laugh with. I have laughed harder with her than I knew I could.

My sweet, kind, amazingly talented friend was pregnant with her second and had a young child when she said no more. Eleven years ago today, she left the man who had fathered her children, built a life with her for years, and emotionally and physically abused her.  

She did not have resources, she did not have family support, she did not have money or a college degree.  It was years before she told anyone the truth, and even then it was years before she told more of her story.

I did not know her then, in those years.  I met her after, when she had made a life for herself and her children, when she was starting to tell her story.  

I never forget that I might not have met her. That without her decision eleven years ago, she might not be here.

So today we celebrate that anniversary.  Eleven years ago she said "no more".

If you want to celebrate with us, my friend suggests donating to her local domestic violence center.  She says "Instead of expressing sympathy or rage, please consider donating to Albion Fellows Bacon Center .  Click the "Donate Now" button.  If was all donated 1 hour of pay, we can make a huge difference!" 

I'm going to say that you can donate in your community, as well.  But just as important, I am going to ask you, today, to speak up.  

I have come to trust her and rely on my friend for many things, and one thing I never question is her sense when another woman is being abused.  She, who lived in shame for so long, is not afraid to see it. She is not afraid to name it. She is not afraid to say "this is not right".

My friend might not have been alive if she had not made that decision eleven years ago.  My heart breaks at that thought.  So, please, if you know a person who is living that nightmare, speak up.  Do you suspect that things aren't quite right?  Say something.  Do you know, without a shadow of a doubt, that what your friend deals with is emotional abuse?  Tell her.  

Silence is not helping your friend.  Silence says "this is okay".  It is not okay.

So today, I beg you to have the courage to speak up, to reach out, to risk a friendship in order to save a life.  Domestic violence lives everywhere. It's in the nice neighborhoods and it happens to people we know, people we love. 

Today, I wish you a happy and healthy Valentine's Day.  I wish you the gift of loving yourself.  I wish you a long life free from violence of any kind.  And I am thankful for the decisions, people, and interventions that brought my friend to a safe, happy life.



The National Domestic Violence Helpline

1-800-799-SAFE (7233) 

I carry it in my heart

I'm not an expert on mothers. I had a mother and I am a mother, but that doesn't make me an expert, except on my own life. 

I'm not even the most reliable narrator of my own mother's life, because children never are. We see our mothers through our lens, not theirs. We don't see them as their friends do, or their spouses. We see them weighted with our own myopic view. We see them as part of our story, not the center of theirs. 

So I will never know the true story of my mother's life. I will only know how it affected me. 

Today would have been her 68th birthday. I remember when 2013 dawned, I was a little sad because I had to say goodbye to the last year my mom was alive. 2012 is the last year that held her in this world. 65 was the last age she turned. 

In some ways, her passing defines my life in the same way that the birth of my daughter does. Bookmarks of significance that shaped me as a woman, a human being. I find myself telling the story of her death and my starting grad school as inextricably linked. If you haven't seen me for years, you need to know this about me. These things happened. They matter. 

My mother liked to say that the last birthday she celebrated, the last one she wanted to celebrate, was her 29th. It started on a Thursday. She went out with her work girlfriends that night. On Friday she celebrated with my dad and their friends. Saturday night was for her and my dad. Sunday her mom made dinner and they had a family celebration. 

I loved this story. I loved the idea that my mom had this weekend in which she got to see all the people in her life, all those little groups that made up her world. It seemed wonderfully right to me, just the sort of way you should celebrate your birthday. I can't remember where I was in that story - I was 16 months old at the time - but for once, it didn't matter to me. I didn't take center stage in this story. This was purely about my mom. That's what I cared about. What did she wear, who was there, what did they eat? Did she have four birthday cakes? What went into this perfect celebration of life? I wanted all the details. 

For years, she wore an apron that said "29 Forever". She might have been two decades past that, but the apron lived on. I know my mother got older, but she never seemed to age. I don't mean that she aged well, because she did, despite the ravages of near-constant chemo. I mean that she never seemed old. Some people are old at 30, and some never truly seem to age. 

I asked her once how old she was in her head. At the time I was probably 37 and felt 25. She said her internal age did get older but it was never past her late 40s. She just felt young, and fun. We would both point out signs of her aging with shock. How could she ever look old? Impossible. 

She did get older, but not old enough. Not for me. I would take many more years with her. But if given my choice, one of those magic wishes that don't exist, one of those that move time or mess with order, I would travel to February 1976. To the weekend when my mom was the star of the story, alive and beautiful and young. I would just take it in, see a tiny part of the story she lived. See her last official birthday. 

I don't think it would make me miss her any less, or stop me from wishing for more birthdays with her. But it sounds like fun. Today, though I will not have that option. Instead, I will try to carry her with me. Her sense of humor, her love for our family, her ability to recognize strong smart women and make them her best friends. Those qualities and so many more. 

i carry your heart with me (i carry it in my heart) i am never without it

-ee cummings

My  mom and I not-celebrating her last birthday.  She would kill me for posting this photo.