...weathered...

I feel, lately...or rather...in this last year of May to May, as though I'm very barely balancing on the edge of a precipice.  I'm utterly off-balance.   Wholly subject to the slightest tremor or breeze.

Or perhaps...to draw a clearer picture...as though I'm braced at the epicenter of a multitude of storms.  

Yes. That.

Some...completely manageable...if they were solo.  A sprinkling.  An annoying drip-drop-drip hitting the back of your neck and sending a shiver through your spine, or landing square in the middle of your white t-shirt on the day you risked the colored bra.

Some...terrible but not devastating.  Damaging, but not wholly unexpected.  The sort you brace for, locking your knees  and the doors and the shutters, and piling up sandbags.  The storms you absolutely know will break off bits and pieces of the trimming, but will get diluted before they can damage the frame.

And others.

The disasters.

The blizzards and the floods and the hurricanes.

The ones that leave rubble in their wake.

The storms that tear through every inch and every corner and destroy everything they touch.

The storms that leave the landscape permanently altered.

The storms that continue to damage long after they've passed through...with mildew and landslides and toxic waste.

And there am I.

At the crossroads or the center or the eye.

Everything whirling about.
Trying to keep my footing and my wits.

Trying to peer out through the clouds and see what's coming

Trying to apply some sort of preemptive safety strategy to things I can't even see coming or understand the long-term significance of.  

Trying...

...to hold on to myself while chunks keep getting yanked off and ripped open.

Trying...

...to keep the storm from ever reaching him by using my own self as a shield.

I have spent years under the umbrella.  Patching the leaks.  Replacing the spines.  Damp about the edges but otherwise safe from any downpour.  I have kept him at the very center of it...surrounded on all sides by the barrier and by myself...making certain that any unexpected debris will exhaust its effect on the way through me.

Time and distance and silence created a shelter here, tucked away from the obvious reach of the storm. We could, and did, exist removed from it all...knowing the storm still raged and calmed and raged again...but never so close that we had to worry.  Knowing that the inevitable damage continued to accrue, but detached from any real-life implications...far enough away that it didn't show up on the radar unless we went looking for it. 

Don't get me wrong.

I knew it wasn't over.

I knew that we were never completely free and clear.

But I welcomed distraction and relaxed into this new life of ours as best I could.  Shoring up the damaged bits and gradually replacing them altogether.  And I remained, in the quiet moments and dark of night, alert.

Never doubting that the storm continued.

Finding new places...new faces...

...to damage.

But I had this umbrella to cover us.

I had taken us all the way to the other side where, even if we squinted in the right direction from time to time, we still couldn't really make out any clear view of the old landscape or the threat that had sent us running.

Here, on the other side, under the umbrella, we were "mostly safe".  Damaged, perhaps.  Different, certainly.  Permanently thrown off our original course.

"Mostly safe". 

 So long as I didn't toss in any pebbles or splash about our boundary, there were no obvious ripples to disrupt the placid surface near us.  

And, now...here and now...

Ego, on my part: To think that I could permanently hold back the storm with just this umbrella.

Hubris: The line-drawing and the fleeing and the rebuilding.

Utter foolishness.

I know that now, here, at the center.

Here.  Where all the storms meet and whirl about...where the ice and rain go sideways and shred holes through everything I thought so solid.  

Here.  Where the cold finds its way through all the cracks left behind from the storm's first devastating pass.

Here.

And now.

All these years later.

I've tossed aside the umbrella.  Tugged him in close behind me and screamed into the winds as though I'm King Lear himself.

"Try me.  I'm ready.  I'm stronger.

I knew you'd come for me.  And I've been preparing. 

You won't win.

You can't get to him.

You can't hurt him.

I won't let you."

And the winds answered back.  Laughing at my bravado.  Whipping through anyway.  The storm tossed its debris right into my face.  All those places and faces it had continued to batter.

It came bursting through the smallest little fissure and swirled up about me, dragging in other storm-clouds I thought long depleted.  

And here I am.  Standing, but barely.  Trembling.

At the center of so much potential damage and desperately trying to keep us both safe.

Weak.  By the damage I sustained the first time.

Strengthened.  By the scar-tissue.

Praying. That the hurt doesn't spill over too much onto him...into him...

Trying to fortify the barrier to him by dismantling the one to me.

And...

More than that...

More than just protecting him from the storm...

Also...

Trying to mitigate the inevitable damage to those it replaced us with...

~Leanna

...wasted breath...

"I'm tired of wasting my breath."

Those words...last night...in a phone call.

Not mine.

Nor the caller's.

Rather, a related message from a third-party...someone tired of 'wasting his breath' in expectation of what was both absolutely due him and realistically never going to happen.

For some reason, those are the words that stuck with me, rattling around in this skull of mine...pinging off the various other detritus of the day.

6 words.

Strung together.

A simple sentence.

Fully loaded.

Bearing the weight of disappointment. Of frustration.  Of neglect and need and willful ignorance.

6 words that triggered in me a flood of response.

Righteous anger...disgust...pity.

And under it all, the ever-present spark of disbelief...the "how can this possibly be?" of taking 2 + 2 and somehow not getting 4.  

"I'm tired of wasting my breath."

The answer to "why not ask...why not try...why not...?"

And, honestly, given the extenuating circumstances of the conversation that prompted the reply?  Completely justified.  Completely appropriate.  Completely expected.

Completely devastating.

We've been there, you and I.  Countless times.  We know the feeling well.

"I'm tired of wasting my breath..."

~explaining my feelings

~defending myself

~hoping to be recognized

~asking for help

~reminding you

~holding you accountable

~teaching you

~trying to help

I lay in bed, hours after that phone call, book in hand...but the pages were empty to sightless eyes as my brain puzzled out all the bits and pieces of fact and apparent fiction.

"I'm tired of wasting my breath."

We've been there, you and I.

I've been there.

Years ago.

Moments ago.

We've our limits, you and I.

The walls we bang our heads against until, one day, we're simply done.

Bruised.

And done.

We've our limits.

Some of them clear and well-defined.  Lit up like neon signs.  Do not pass go!

Others, stealth bombers...sneaking up from beyond the periphery to drop us on our asses in the midst of what we thought heroic effort.

Limits we set for ourselves, founded in self-love and self-care.

Limits of nature and physicality and strength...or weakness.

Limits of experiential knowledge and growth and perception.

Limits that define what we can do and what we can take.

Limits that define what we are able to shake off.

He had reached his, the speaker of those 6 words.

He had reached his limit of what he could do and what he could expect would be done.

He had reached the limit...finally conceding the loss of hope to grim reality.

He had felt the wasted effort of words...of wants and wishes and needs expressed...of his very breath.

And I, a phone call and an intermediary of repeated words away, heard.  Understood.  Recognized the declaration and the desperation and the devastation. 

I heard those words and felt the welling up of emotion...familiar with those feelings from my own experience and righteously indignant that someone else should be similarly impacted.  I heard them, and they burrowed deep within me...finding their kin amongst my own disappointments.  

I heard those words and knew them to be true, even as I wished they were but the stuff of melodrama.

"I'm tired of wasting my breath."

I agree.

I, too, am tired.

I, too, have hit the limit.

I, too, see the waste of my breath and my time and my effort.

You are tired.  And rightly so.

You have not been afforded what you should have been.

You have not been cared for the way you should have been.

You have not been helped and taught and nurtured in any of the ways you should have been.

And they are remarkable...your 6 words.

A statement of fact that you, somehow, inherently or instinctively know that you deserve more, but know, as well, that more is unlikely to manifest.


Your breath has been wasted.

Mine, too.

You are allowed to be tired.

You are allowed to give up.

You are allowed to break.

You are allowed to give in to the considerable odds stacked up against  you.

I am too far away to be of any consequence, and yet, I will be here...hoping...

Hoping that after you give in and give up, that you will be able to get back up again...

That you will start breathing again...

And blow away the pain and the heartache like so many dandelion seeds...

Just Breathe

~Leanna

...the holes...

We rent.

We rent what, by some standards, would be considered a postage-stamp sized apartment.  It's the 'garage apartment' of our landlords' home...an afterthought of sorts...a subdivided use of what was extra space, walled off and renovated into living quarters.    

It is, by some standards, far too small for family life.

It is, by all standards, in constant need of t.l.c. after countless (preceeding occupant) years of neglect.

It is also, seemingly, forever in need of fixing.  Something of a d.i.y. renovator's daydream, I suppose.  I have done what I can.  I do what I can.  There's been sanding and scrubbing.  Tightening of screws and replacing of fixtures.  Refitting and refurbishment.  Caulking and re-caulking.  Painting and repainting.  Little fixes and big fixes.

And it remains.  Unchanged.  In steady decline.

Pieced together of spare parts and looking every bit the temporary shelter that it is.

It is...

At best...

Quirky.

Cantankerous, even.

Floors sloping in all directions.  Cabinets that won't be orderly no matter how often I re-organize.  Drawers that stick or jam.  Surfaces stained by age, bleach-resistant.  Walls that show their seams.

And holes.

Oh, the holes.

Round the frames and doors and windows.  Where the insulation has rotted away. In the roof and in the ceiling.  In the walls, before I filled them.  The cracks and holes of mis-measured and old and settling.  The holes of nature wearing away.  And, in some cases, the holes we've made throughout the years...from the ever-changing displays of elementary art projects and holiday decorations.

I've fixed them all.  Or, rather, I've tried.  I've bought the spackle and the drywall.  Applied it liberally, then sanded.  I've fixed so many.  Too many.  I've filled in the cracks and the crevasses.  I've color-corrected with woodpaint in hopes of blending.  I've covered up with photos and artwork; those shiny happy things that distract from the disorder they hide.

But there are more. Always more.

I have fixed the holes in the walls.  Countless hours of labor consumed by delicate work.

Fill...Sand...Paint.

I have fixed the ones that are in ready view...the ones at eye-level...the obvious ones.

But there are more.

There are cracks in the ceiling.  Stains, as well.

Holes in the roof that let in all manner of waste and weather and wildlife.

Those holes remain.

They continue...they grow.

(They are, most would agree, not my responsibility.  But they are my burden.)

I know they are there.

I know there is erosion in the very framework.

I have fixed what I can of the obvious gaps...fixed that which others would easily see.

But the structural damage remains.

(The kitchen ceiling)

The holes in the very construction remain.  Out of sight...sometimes even out of mind...but there, nonetheless.  Impactful, nonetheless.  Burdensome, nonetheless.  Slowly and steadily eating away at themselves until they chew right through the walls and ceilings in more obvious ways.  Sure to suddenly reveal themselves only once it is far too late for damage control.

The holes remain.

Where this person ripped off a piece.

Where that person tore out a chunk.

Where someone else left without shoring things up.

The holes remain.

In him.

In me.

In this quirky, cantankerous life made up of spare parts and temporary fixes.

~Leanna

...well, bully for you...

(From March 19, 2019)

We are, in my personal opinion, the sum of our experiences:

ever-growing, ever-changing.

Marked by the passage of each day and what it brings into our orbit.

We bend and fracture with the punches.

We grow scar tissue over deep hurts; that "different tissue" that closes the wound but can never quite be what it replaced.

Some of us soften and blossom.

Others of us harden and refine. 

Our intellectual functions adjust to the tasks presented...worrying over the problems specific to our experiences...gradually becoming habitual users of the same processes over time.

Our physical bodies attune to repetitive needs in much the same way.

Even our emotional cores, our inner spirits, are gradually rewritten as we experience all those ups and downs.

My son is, right now, the product of his first 16 years. He is buoyed by the confidence created at home, and battered by the distrust created at school. He is shut down, shut out, from the social-emotional experience of school life (and, often, community life if school peers are present) by a learned "battening down the hatches" auto-response. He tells me how much energy he expends daily, in the rigorous process of shutting everything out. He arrives home, exhausted, just in time for those temporary walls of his to burst. He is crushed under the weight of those walls every afternoon.

I rebuild my son every day, after school. I let him crush my hand as we walk up the driveway, releasing all that inner turmoil into my very bones. I sit with him as he falls apart and catch, in my hands, the words that he'll need back. I listen to the ones unspoken and hear the cry of his defeat. And then I help him rebuild. It takes all night and all morning.

And then, he goes back to school. 

It's different now..

now that he's in high school...now that he's 16.

"Selectively Solitary-or-Safely So"

He's different now.

More guarded.

Less open.

Purposely numb.

Missing out just because he can't take the risk.

His efforts to protect himself, because everyone else (including me) failed to protect him, have cut him off from who he was.

I am different now, too...

I pull no punches now. I set aside "kindness" and stand at the offensive ready.

Gone are the days when I played only defense..only re-action. I have learned what to expect and grown accordingly.

This post:6 years old today. 

Part of the why...

(From March 19, 2013) 

So to clarify, calmly now that I've had some time, I received a call from school yesterday letting me know that another student had pushed my son and that he had fallen, hard. He did go to the nurse, and was checked out by her, and she felt that he could continue on with the school day. Once the individual who called was done sharing that information, it was time for the standard "cover our rears" speech. 

Generally it sounds very basically the same each and every time an incident like this occurs.

I am informed that my son is fine, and that the incident will be investigated.

I am informed that the other student has never displayed this sort of behavior before.

I am informed that while they will look into the incident, that they don't feel that anyone intended to harm my son.

So, four years in to this now, I'm used to hearing this same scenario or variations on the same.

And quite frankly I'm sick to death of it.

I knew even during that phone call that my child was going to come home to me at the end of today with some physical mark: either a bruise or a cut or scrape or a black and blue mark. And yet, despite the fact that he did not have that mark on him when he left for school that day, the administration does not feel that returning him in "damaged" condition is worth their time or concern.

So when things like this happen as they seem to do at least once a week, I play the waiting game.

I wait until my child gets off school bus and until he says something that triggers the conversation.

Yesterday was no different. Right off the hop, as soon as he got off the bus, he said he was sick and tired of being treated badly by the student who had hurt him that day. After listening to his side of what actually transpired, I left voicemail messages for several of the administrators at the school. And then waited. And waited. When I finally did get a return phone call I was treated with a good deal of oppositional defiance. Right from the start of the phone call, the principal attempted to first talk me out of my concerns, and when that didn't work, inform me that they were unfounded and melodramatic. She took great offense to my word choice when I describes my son as being a victim. Her only explanation was that all children in that age range put their hands on one another. Additionally, she did not like being told that my son is afraid to attend her school. In fact, she argued with me on that very same point, stating loudly that every time she sees him he is smiling and happy to be there. During the course of the conversation, which took over an hour away from my being attentive to my child, she continued to negate what I was saying and to talk over me and through me, interrupting me at every turn. It doesn't help lend credence to her cause, when she can't formulate a straight sentence without using at least one word inappropriately in each. I kept thinking to myself that this was quite literally the equivalent of banging my head against brick wall. Attempting to reason with someone who is not your intellectual equal is beyond frustrating. Particularly when that person thinks that they are in a defensive position. At any rate I stayed firm in what I was saying, which I know to be the truth.

My son has been at the school for four years.

He has been bullied relentlessly during those four years.

He is afraid to go to school.

We wake up hours before most other schoolchildren do, in order to spend valuable time addressing his fears and concerns, and providing appropriate therapy choices to help him combat them.

Every single day, every single morning that he has to go to school, I have to persuade him to do so.

He is afraid to go there.

He is afraid to get on the bus.

He's afraid of unpredictable classmates who wish to harm him.

Trying to reason with a now 10-year-old and explain to him that school ought to be a safe place for him becomes increasingly difficult with each new incident.

I could not believe the audacity of the administrator in her aggressive approach to handling my concerns. It was almost as though she felt that the appropriate way to manage me was to bully me and berate me until I gave in. Bully the parent of a bullied child. Are you kidding me?!? Thankfully I am rather talented at compartmentalizing (hey, thanks, crappy life-experiences!), and not letting my emotions get the best of me. So rather then letting her know how angry I was increasingly becoming, I maintained my composure. 

Which forced her to switch tactics.

Her next choice was to blame my son's autism.

Because clearly, when someone is physically harmed there's this area of gray that can be interpreted differently by an autistic brain...Right? (WRONG!)

 Again I'm dumbfounded by the idiocy of that sort of thinking. We're not discussing a verbal squabble on the schoolyard in which my son may have taken something personally that was never intended to be cruel. What we're discussing is physical assault. Correct me if I'm wrong, but there's no gray area there. This isn't a matter of my autistic son reading the situation inappropriately. It's physical assault, plain and simple! 

When the administrator once again realized that the course she had taken was the wrong one and that she was making no headway, she changed her tactics once again. This time claiming that the other child never engages with anyone. That his own special needs render him almost completely nonverbal, and that therefore he couldn't possibly have been teasing my son and my son's friend. And that he is adverse to touch, and therefore could not possibly have purposefully harmed my child.

And here, my friends, we deal with an out right lie.

This same child rides on the bus which a friend of mine drives. She informed me that he is quite verbal, and teases everyone all the time. Additionally she let me know that he is not nearly as vegetative as the principal would have implied. In fact, he's gone after my son and my son's friends routinely on the bus. 

Long story short, by the end of the phone conversation, the principal did come to some degree of her senses, and apologize for the tone she had taken with me. I held fast with what I was saying and reiterated that whether or not she was in fact sorry or even chose to believe what I'm saying, she needed to be informed of the fact that my son is afraid to be in her school. And for that, I hold her accountable. 

At the turnaround point in the conversation, she then played a different hand altogether. It was apparently trying to brainstorm with me, about what might make the situation better. She stated time and again over the next 15 or so minutes that she didn't know what to do and that if I had any suggestions she would greatly appreciate that.

Now, while I am well inclined in my daily life to be a bit of a brainstormer and to research possible solutions, it's hardly my responsibility to make her job easier. I did make a few suggestions (because I can hardly resist doing so) but I reiterated that it is her responsibility to investigate these incidents to the fullest extent of her capabilities, and based off of her findings then come up with solutions that actually work. 

And the administration wonders why I'm so frustrated?!?

...imperfectly perfect...

Bear with me, readers...it's crossposting time again (with yet one more to come, I think) as I attempt to "house" a few things I've written elsewhere (in this case, facebook), here in the safe environs of my blog-world...

From March 20th...and...apparently...from 3:47pm!

It is 3:47 as I sit now to write.

3:47 on Wednesday afternoon. 

3:47 on the first day of spring. 

The sun is bright, streaming through the windows. It's hit the crystal at just the right angle so rainbows dance up the walls and across the floor and ceiling.

Outside, if I listen carefully, I can hear the chirrup of birds at the feeder. Dissonant chaos of species-inclusion. Water-cooler chatter, no doubt.

Here in the house, though, it is silent.

Remarkably so.

A towel bundled into the crack where the door and floor meet, dulls the sound of the outside world. The phones are on mute. I've unplugged the refrigerator to silence its whirr and whine.

Here in the house it is silent, and my boy is asleep.

Napping.

He had...a day... 

A hard day.

No particular reason.

No particular cause.

A hundred reasons and a thousand causes.

But nothing that one could simply pinpoint and say "alright, let's remove that...let's prevent that". He was, simply, overwhelmed.

There was a quiz grade posted. He took it personally. Not in the "offended" way, but in the personal way of "I am the failure that the grade represents". (The grade was not a failing one...not to you and I...but it wasn't an A, and therefore to him it was failure with a big red F...branded on his forehead)

So he came home. Defeated. Overwhelmed. Self-loathing.

We made it up the driveway, his hand limp and hot in mine.

We made it into the house and through the routine of after-school.

We even made it through the conversation...the one where I remind him that "grades don't matter. effort matters. mistakes are how we learn."

And then I told him to take a nap. I bundled him up and turned off the refrigerator and muted the phones and blocked the door.

He protested. Nervous about homework. Stressed about the time. 

I held firm.

I smoothed back the hair from his feverish forehead. I gave him a kiss on one flushed cheek and then

I walked away.

5 minutes later I snuck back in and he was asleep. 

Soon enough, I'll have to wake him.

Soon enough, he'll be back at the table and hunched over homework.

Soon enough he'll be holding himself to impossibly high standards.

Soon enough he'll be listening to some inner voice that tells him he isn't good enough.

But for right now...

He's asleep. 

And I can dream that he believes that he is the perfection I know him to be...

~Leanna

...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.)
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

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