...from there to here, and why to 'do the good'...

Usually, I write things here and then post them to social media.
It's a system that works.

But on occasion, I find that I have written something there that needs to go here...or, that needs to come here to be worked on...written in...fleshed out...

This is one of those things:

(and it comes with this caveat: My estranged husband read this piece , as posted to social media and prior to some minor edits I am making in the current iteration, and disagreed vigorously with my word choice and my portrayal of his childrens' needs and experiences.  I allowed him the opportunity to present evidence to the contrary, and reminded him that these words of mine were given substance by his descriptions and his revelations.  He is not quoted  verbatim at any point in this piece.)
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This may be long, and you may not like it.

You may not agree with what I say or how I say it.

You may not like that I am so brash in sharing my own experience.

You may not like the way it makes you feel.

You may not ever look at me the same way, or read my words without reading this experience into them.

But please afford me the courtesy of reading it through anyway...and watch the accompanying video. Please allow your heart to be touched, just enough so that you raise your children to be empathetic. 

I have been broken.

I have been left.

I have scrambled to recover from violence and loss and pick up the pieces of a shattered life.

I have watched, helpless, as the man and marriage I believed in imploded and exploded...and eroded every bit of my foundation.

I have survived abuse in the barest sense...finding my way clear to the other side, but losing myself in the process.

I have raised a boy without a father.

I have stretched myself thin trying to make up for the empty spaces that were left behind.

I have worked 80 hour weeks only to see a negative balance in my account when my ex-husband drained the funds despite the multiple copies of my restraining order being on file at the bank. I have dissolved into tears when that meant my rent would be late and that I'd be on the hook for late fees.  I have shaken with rage when that meant I could not afford my son's therapy co-pay.

I have used foodstamps to feed my child. I have visited food pantries to subsidize my income, when I made too much to qualify but not enough to cover the bills and his therapies and still be able to fill his belly.

I have gone without.

Without breakfast and lunch and dinner for days, filling myself up on sugar water and praying I wouldn't faint at work.

I have used the same tea bag in my cup four times, dipping it in and pulling it out quickly to save some of that flavor for the next cup.

I have watered down a can of soup and made it stretch into four meals.

I have rationed our food and our medicine and our vitamins.

I have grabbed handfuls of ketchup packets and creamers and sugar packets when buying 1 single burger and stretched them into sustenance.

I have gratefully and with no pride left in me, accepted bags of groceries from a friend and felt I could not look her in the eye in my shame.

I have patched our clothing and our socks.

I have turned down invitations and closed the proverbial door to friendships, knowing I couldn't afford to sit with them in a coffee shop or restaurant, or spare the gas money to drive to their homes.

I have heated water on the stove so my son could bathe when I couldn't afford to keep the hot water heater running. I have tucked him into bed in layers and winter gloves and hats when I couldn't keep the heat on.

I have sent my son to school with lunches that meant I would not eat that day. 

I have been humbled and humiliated and desperate.

He?

He has had his lunchbag stolen from him. Thrown away.

He has had it grabbed from his 6 year old hands and kicked down the hallway.

He has had a student dump their drink, purposely, right into his food.

He has had another middleschooler throw garbage at his table and into his meal.

He has come home and told me I need to send more food in with him because his friend doesn't get enough to eat at lunch. He has asked me to send in the snacks his friends prefer because he likes to be able to share them. He has asked me to call his friend's parents and tell them to buy a better lunch plan because the 1 piece of pizza isn't enough to fill a teenage boy. (I called the guidance counselor instead.)

He has helped me sponsor a child with his allowance.

He has agreed to reduce our budget so we can help subsidize the needs of my step-children, his half-siblings.

Love: grow it, share it.

He has lived, as have I, on both sides of the equation.

Our pantry is full these days. Our fridge is stocked with healthy foods and unhealthy treats.  We've heat and hot water when needed.  When his toes dig a hole into a sock, I turn it into a rag for clean-up and polishing...and I buy the new socks. 

I have two step-children now.

Apparently I did for some years, as they are 12 and 9. But it's only recently that I have been made aware of, and stepped into the responsibility that comes with, that title.

They have grown up in neglect and in poverty, and in the abuse that their parents create. They have and would go without breakfast were it not for the free breakfast program at their school. Each week, come Friday, they are handed a bag of processed food to take home so that there will be something for them to eat over the weekend. I have heard that my step-daughter has complained that the free lunch at school doesn't begin to fill the gnawing hole. I have heard that my step-son, when given free reign, will eat until he makes himself sick. There are agencies and programs seeing to their very basic welfare.  They know what poverty looks like and feels like and tastes like.

I have sent money and giftcards and boxes of food and treats and clothing. 

I have tried to plug the leak from afar; watching in dismay as they go under, over and again.

I have tried, desperately, to find a way to honour vows I made so long ago, by being there in the diminished capacity of living 8 hours away.

I have tried to build a bridge for them to cross when they have need of me.

I have argued with myself, debating the intensity of their need vs. my own comfort and self-respect.  I have struggled to push aside my own fear and anger, and find room in my heart to be present and accountable and dependable...to do the next right thing even though it hurts.

(And all of this, and so much more beyond, is why I have been silent here so very long.)

If you've made it this far in the reading, I wonder how you feel? 

Are you shocked by my admissions?

Embarrassed for me? 

Do you think less of me?

Does my experience or his or theirs make you uncomfortable?

Do you wonder what I did wrong to earn that part of my life?

Are you reminding yourself that you would never-could never-sink so low?

Are you thinking you are better than that?

Are you reading this, jaw gone slack, thinking that I should never have had the nerve to put these words to page?

I wonder how you feel.

I wonder what sentence struck a chord with you.

I wonder if my words here, change anything there...where you are..

I hope they do.

I hope my open-vein on this page has poured life into the black and white facts regarding poverty and childhood hunger.  I hope you see people and faces now, instead of numbers.

And if you do...

If my words reached you...

Donate that canned good.

Fulfill that angel tree wish.

Fill up useable purses and backpacks with supplies and turn them over to foster-care programs.

Buy that extra box of diapers or tampons or toilet paper and take it to that shelter.

Send in the extra snack or snacks or lunches.

Encourage your school to keep a "free" food station for children whose parents couldn't or didn't send in lunch.

Check in with the guidance counselor and let him/her know if you can help...I guarantee you, they not only know exactly which kids need your help but how to do so with the discretion and anonymity those kids and their families deserve.

Ask your Food Days reps to set aside the unused portions and take them to a pantry or a family in need.  Ask your PTO to purchase a fridge to put those unused meals into, so an anonymous family in need can pick  up dinner for their children that night from the guidance office.

If your school provides those weekend-rescue-bags, donate healthy options to go in them.

And hear me...loudly, clearly...hear me when I tell you we would not have made it, were it not for those already doing the good.

~Leanna

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Below is the link the video mentioned above, which triggered this whole post from me.

https://www.facebook.com/powerofpositivity/videos/10154818617787371/?v=10154818617787371