By Begin Again
Despondency blanketed the room.
Six red chairs formed a large circle with plenty of space between each one. A small desk with a computer was near the window. A corner area was home to a stack of large bulky pillows. Welcome to Group Therapy.
The door opened and five teenagers, ranging from thirteen to seventeen, quietly shuffled into the room. Four of them chose chairs, but the last girl, Kaitlyn, remained near the door.
“Kaitlyn, won’t you join the others?” The therapist waved his hand toward the group.
Kaitlyn shook her head. The therapist smiled at her but didn’t press any further. Instead, he focused on the other four teenagers.
“Good morning.”
The group responded, “Good morning.”
“Can we recite our motto?” Groans answered his question. “Come on, join hands.”
The four teenagers extended their hands and recited, “Talk to me; I’ll talk to you. Your problem isn’t the same as my problem, but together we can climb this mountain. So talk to me; I’ll talk to you.”
“Now it wasn’t that difficult, was it?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “Who wants to begin today?”
Bob sat sideways, his feet toward the empty chair and his eyes on the floor. At fifteen, he was an alcoholic. One crazy night defined his life. Drunk, he’d "borrowed" the family car, crashing into a tree, killing his best friend.
Samantha tugged at the team sweatshirt tied around her waist. Her eyes were red and swollen from this morning’s meltdown. Injuries had sidelined her from sports, leaving Sam adrift without an identity. She believed her achievements on the field made her a person; unable to participate; she felt worthless.
The sound of someone’s stomach growling penetrated the silence. Tom rubbed his stomach as the others chuckled.
“Hmmm … missing those extra pizzas, Tom?” The therapist teased the young man.
Tom smiled. “Eating, yes, the puking afterward, not so much.” He struggled with bulimia.
His sister was a beautiful rising star in the modeling profession. Tom saw himself as the ugly duckling in the family. He’d reward himself with pizzas, eating until he couldn’t cram another ounce into his stomach, and then spend the night hugging the porcelain throne, purging the vile food. He hated who he saw in the mirror, and he hated the purging. It was a vicious cycle.
Abby was the oldest in the group. Six weeks ago, she’d swallowed a handful of her mother’s prescribed medication. Her diagnosis had been severe depression. By most standards, Abby was a privileged child. Her affluent family life provided her with the best school, a membership at the country club, and popularity among her peers. Abby had a secret, and it had almost claimed her life.
Quietly, Kaitlyn had sought refuge among the pillows. She pressed herself into the corner, resting her head against the wall.
Abby left her chair and joined Kaitlyn on the pillows. She pushed one behind her back and leaned against it.
Kaitlyn turned her head toward Abby, annoyed. “I don’t care to talk.”
Abby smiled. “That’s fine. You’ve chosen the most comfortable spot in the room. I use to sit here a lot.”
“Be quiet.” Kaitlyn snapped.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you.”
Kaitlyn hadn’t realized she’d spoken out loud. Her head jerked toward Abby. “I wasn’t talking to you.”
“But ... “
“It’s a voice in my head.” Kaitlyn regretted saying it the second the words were out. She fidgeted with the cuff on her sleeve.
“Someone’s talking to you?”
“Yeah, she wants me to cut myself again.”
“Oh… Kaitlyn, that’s bad. Should I get the instructor?”
“Noooo! I don’t want them to know. I promised my parents … but they don’t understand.”
“They can’t if you don’t tell them.” Abby touched Kaitlyn’s arm. She whispered, “I kept secrets too.”
“You did? About what?”
Abby waited a moment before answering, “I was raped.”
Kaitlyn gasped. “Oh, my God, how awful.”
“Yes, by a boy who’d been my friend since kindergarten. He was a star athlete, everyone’s friend… the high school president.”
“Did you tell the police?”
“No, I thought no one would believe me. Just like you. That was my mistake.”
“I’m sorry that happened, but it’s not the same.”
“We’ve all got problems, Kaitlyn. Not the same as yours, but just as complicated and troublesome. Believe me, talking to each other does help. I’ve been here six weeks. When I came, I was just like you. I thought no one would understand.”
Abby stood and extended her hand to Kaitlyn. “Give it a try. If you don’t like it, you don’t have to stay. No one’s going to force you to talk.”
Kaitlyn took Abby’s hand and pulled herself off the pillows. The two girls walked to the group and sat down.
I watched through the one-way mirror. Tears streamed down my face. Watching my beautiful granddaughter take one step, one baby step, toward recovery was more than my heart could stand.
“Thank you, Lord.”
By Begin Again
Three weeks ago, hell visited my house. The devil had already been living there for some time, but everybody pretended they didn't know. I was the last to learn about it.
It was Mother's Day. Instead of going out to dinner, I offered to make a turkey dinner with all the trimmings. That meant the meal would consist of turkey, ham, meatballs and sausage, pasta, stuffing, corn casserole, salad... well, you get the idea. My dinners include every recipe that crosses my mind. I love cooking, so the thought of feeding fifteen people didn't bother me.
Getting a call at 4:30 in the morning, now that bothered me. My daughter, Corrie, called and said she'd had my granddaughter, Kaitlyn, in the emergency room all night. Of course, the adrenaline pumped, and I was fully awake.
Thirteen-year-old Kaitlyn is the middle child. Her brother, Gavin, is nineteen, and her sister, Karlee, is four. She's not old enough to do things Gavin does, but she's too old to do the things her sister does. She often wonders where she fits into the scheme of things.
When she said she liked a boy, her father "terrorized" her by saying he would hurt the first boy who touched her. So, then she said she liked girls. It would take another story to get into that conversation.
Covid and homeschooling isolated her from her friends. Locked away in her bedroom, alone, her A's and B's slipped to C's and D's, and finally,6 PM F claimed its fame as well.
Having seen the personality change in Kaitlyn, I waited to hear what the problem was this time. There'd been numerous visits for intestine problems, migraines, and other disorders.
It wasn't what I had expected. It was much worse. My granddaughter had carved a K in her stomach and cut numerous slashes on her wrist. Much later, I would learn this had been going on for months.
Dinner was moved from 1 PM to 6 PM so they could get some sleep. When they arrived, the atmosphere was so cold that I thought Mother's Day had been moved to December. The day was a disaster. People nibbled (no one ate) food, minimal conversation was shared, and Kaitlyn and her cousins hid in the other room. By 8 PM, everyone went home.
The next day, Corrie called and said everything was fine. It was just an anger issue, and Kaitlyn had done it to get back at her father. At that moment, I felt things were being swept under the rug, but then who am I.
On May 19th, ten days since the first phone call, I received another one. There'd been a frightening episode at school. Medical assistance from Rosecrance (our mental health facility) had been requested. In the middle of class, Kaitlyn began flailing her arms, hitting herself. She moved to a corner of the room and started sobbing hysterically. Once she was stabilized, she was transported to Swedish American Hospital, where she was admitted.
Over the next five or six days, counseling, evaluations, and tests were the major happenings in her life. We were not allowed to see her, but my daughter was updated several times a day. Later, I would learn that what parts of those updates she shared depended on who she was talking to about Kaitlyn.
I also learned that Kaitlyn refused visitors. When she finally decided we could visit, she chose all women except my son, Matthew. (Not her dad, not her brother, not her grandfather, not her cousin).
Over a few more days, we learned (or at least I did for the first time) that Kaitlyn heard voices, and they were getting louder and louder. She said sometimes she couldn't even hear herself. The cuttings had been going on for months, with her father threatening to cut himself with a knife too.
On May 29th, after visiting Kaitlyn at the hospital, I wrote a story that I posted as fiction called "Can We Talk About It? Parts of it were non-fiction, and parts of it were bits and pieces I picked up on during our talks. I had no control, no possible way of helping, my sweet Kaitlyn. Needless to say, her "I'll fix it" Nana was terrified. At night I would wake, fearing I'd done something wrong, tormented because I'd missed something. I stopped sleeping. (Now you know why I could write so much and review too.)
Roy, a very dear friend, wrote a poem called David's Harp and dedicated it to Begin Again (me). His prayers and thoughts helped me plant my feet on the ground again. During those brief moments when my faith was shaken, I would read the poem over and over. I will be forever grateful for his friendship and the lifesaver I found in his extended hand.
A few hours ago, I received another call from my daughter, Corrie. She was on cloud nine. Kaitlyn is being released and is coming home tomorrow.
When I asked about her diagnosis and what was being done, I was stunned. First, she said the voices were gone, and Kaitlyn had promised never to cut herself again. Now I don't have a degree, but it's been a holiday weekend without normal personnel, and the other days were filled with tests, evaluations, etc. How is my granddaughter miraculously cured?
The second statement threw me off the balcony, so to speak, and I am free-falling. She said that the voices started when Kaitlyn was seven or eight (and I'm just hearing this now) and that the conclusion was drawn (by whom) that it must have been around the time my other daughter, Wendy, passed away (2014). The therapist said trauma was at the root of Kaitlyn's problem. Corrie decided it made perfect sense to say that since she was traumatized by her sister's death, Kaitlyn was. It's a cut and dry, closed case.
If that was the case, why didn't someone do something about it in the last seven years? And why did she stop all men from coming to the hospital? Why did it just manifest and explode now?
Bad things happen in my life. Not that I like it, but I've learned to live with it. Bad things aren't supposed to happen to my babies. I can take the hits, but they are too young. I am terrified that the problem is going to be swept under the rug and hidden. I live because of my faith and I believe in the power of prayer.
Thus, the reason for this post. I am asking for prayers for Kaitlyn to help her find the "footings" she needs to work her way through whatever this is. It appears to me that her parents are grasping at straws so they can turn a blind eye to the problem. What's going to prevent her father from being angry because she turned her back on him? Why won't the voices return? Are my daughter's fears transferring to Kaitlyn, or is that just a cover-up?
Everything is bubbly and happy in their home tonight. In my home, I'm writing this post, praying for God's help and good vibes from each of you. Matthew agrees that the devil is still lurking about, and something terrible is waiting to happen. Do you agree, or as her Nana, am I just losing it?
Right now... Despondency is blanketing my room. I know I've made many friends who feel close to God; please put us in your prayers tonight. I thank you from the bottom of my heart.
By Begin Again
A blanket of ominous storm clouds smothered the moon and the stars. The pitch-black night filtered through the windows and doors. It was 3:23 AM, and the eerie silence was deafening. The glow of my computer illuminated the lines of sadness carved into my weary face. Despair wrapped its black arms around my heart and soul. A whirlwind of jumbled thoughts crashed inside my mind like the angry sea against the jagged cliffs.
I’d been sitting in the same place for hours. Not unusual, except I wasn’t writing or even imagining the next bit of prose. I arched my aching back, stretching the kinks from my spine. My tear-stained eyes stared into the darkness. I wasn’t alone.
Fear, an avid antagonist, was comfortably resting on one of the leather chairs. I couldn’t see him, but the ripples of goosebumps racing up and down my body were ample proof of his presence. The ragged, irregular breathing was mine, not his.
“My bags are packed. I’m out of here.”
A long heavy sigh escaped my chest and blew through my parched lips. I’d forgotten about my inspiration, my muse. She’d been silent for so many hours; maybe it had been days. Time seemed irrelevant at the moment.
“Either he has to go, or we’re done.”
“Wait!” My mind whimpered. “It’s not the first time we’ve battled his oppression. I can do it again.”
“Really? We’re supposed to be polishing your dream story. One phone call and euphoria dissipated. You’ve sat there frozen for hours.”
“That’s not fair. It’s just that I feel helpless. There’s nothing I can do but sit and wait.”
“You’re wrong. Fear is blinding you to the truth. He’s laughing at how easily he’s manipulated your thoughts.”
“The aging warrior in me is tired. How many times am I expected to charge into battle, protecting our family from the pain and agony of life? I can’t do this alone.”
“And that’s where you faltered, my sweet friend. You were never alone.”
“What? Can you, my muse, conjure up a flurry of words to make this all disappear?” My bitter sarcasm stung my ears.
“No, I merely walk the corridors of your mind. I brush away a few cobwebs and rattle a few lost thoughts, and together our imagination explodes across the paper. You need a much greater power than me.”
As the dawning sun peeked above the horizon, I remembered what my muse had said.
I was never alone.
The stranglehold of fear had blinded me from the flickering light that tried to show me the way. Once again, I’d stumbled and forgotten that God was always there. Throughout the night, as I sat stagnant in the darkness, he’d waited patiently. I do not doubt his gracious and powerful hands held me close until I surrendered in prayer.
Ashamed, I faced the morning with hope. I may bear the painful scars of battle, but God’s love carried me. My useless tear washed away my fears. My muse unpacked her bags and encouraged me to share my thoughts. So, I began to write.
Last month, I shared a story about my granddaughter, Kaitlyn. She’s a young teenager struggling in a world no one else can enter. Her twisted fear exists in her thoughts, and she punishes her body by cutting herself. She was hospitalized and counseled, but like most medical professionals today, they believed her to be stabilized and sent her home.
Yesterday, the other shoe dropped.
I received a phone call that Kaitlyn was vomiting blood, and she’d been rushed to the hospital. After hours and hours of examinations and questions, we learned that the happy, cheerful face she’d worn for weeks was a perfect mask for what she hid behind it. Fearing she’d disrupt their family again, she’d hidden the pounding headaches, the sadness, and the sleepless nights. My beautiful granddaughter started swallowing handfuls of ibuprofen, not thinking they were powerful drugs.
She requested to return to the juvenile mental center, though I’m sure that would have been the doctors’ option as well. In my personal opinion, which carries little value, her parents blind themselves to the severity of this problem, expecting medication to be the solution. Kaitlyn is forced to carry the burden of her illness and undeserved “guilt” for disrupting her family life.
In morning’s light, I knelt at the feet of my Lord and ask for his forgiveness and for his power to protect and heal Kaitlyn. Dear FanStory friends, I ask that you include her in your prayers.
I thank you with a basket filled with smiles, hugs, and love. It appears as it is time to begin again.
| Author Notes | The events and story are true... though talking to my muse took place in my thoughts. Thank you for taking the time to read my post. I appreciate it very much and your prayers are most welcomed. |
By Begin Again
After I posted this morning’s story about my granddaughter, Kaitlyn, I went through a whirlwind of emotions.
First, I felt hopeless and empty. I sat there thinking I’d done everything I could do, but none of it was going to save Kaitlyn from the dire future I feared. I even berated myself for laying my troubles for everyone to see. I didn’t think it was possible, but I felt worse than before writing the post.
I tried to busy myself. I went through the motions of preparing a to-go lunch for Matt and his filming crew. When I finished and everything was packed in the cambros (hot and cold coolers, I cleaned the kitchen, washed the dishes, and polished the surfaces of my appliances. I should have been proud of my morning accomplishments, but I wasn’t. I’d completed jobs expected of me, and that was that. I had made busy work instead of facing what was troubling me.
So once again, I found myself sitting in front of the computer again. The strangest thing, though I had posted Kaitlyn’s story and asked for prayers, I was suddenly afraid to open FanStory. I know it wasn’t that I thought people wouldn’t understand or care; I knew that would never be the case. I just felt like I shouldn't have been looking there for my answers.
I believe the Lord has placed many, many people on this site not only to write their thoughts but to reach out to others and lift them as well. In a way, I think he has placed me here as well to give and receive his blessings. But… something stopped me. It was crazy! I asked for help, but then I didn't want to see what everyone had to say. Now that sounds like the workings of a "dumb blonde."
Instead, I started scrolling the internet looking for inspirational prayers and encouragement. Maybe….that was the Lord’s way of showing me the light I couldn’t see.
Well, that was a punch between the eyes. I have been praying and praying for direction when if I’d listened, I’d have already known the answer. Clarification on the "dumb blonde" syndrome.
Underneath the picture was another message. Through my tears, I read it and then reread it.
So do not fear for I am with you; do not be dismayed, for I am your God. I will strengthen you and help you.
For I am the Lord your God who takes hold of your right hand and says to you, “Do not fear; I will help you. Isaiah 41:10-13
There were many more quotes, psalms, and messages, but these were meant for me, and hopefully, you will gain from them too.
I took a deep breath, opened up my google docs, and wrote so I could share this with you. My struggles and tears weren’t necessary if I had only placed my trust where it belonged, in the hands of my Lord. I’m not saying I am not worried about Kaitlyn because I definitely am. All I am saying is I was reminded to be patient, and in God’s time and his way, Kaitlyn will find her way. I needed to trust in the Lord. Saying "I do" is easy, but practicing it is harder. I am sure he laughs when he watches me trying to control the reins that were already in his hands.
For me, patience and waiting is not an easy journey. As the caretaker, I have always believed it is my responsibility to make things right. This time it is out of my hands. Whatever happens, though I will do it anyway, the fault does not lie with me or the guilt.
Thanks for reading and walking this dark path with me today. I am blessed to have the ability to express my fears as well as my hopes through my writing. Today, I have done both. I am blessed!
| Author Notes | I thank you for your continued prayers and support. I have a strong faith in the Lord, but I often am impatient to wait for his replies. |
By Begin Again
This morning, with a coffee cup in hand, I sat on my deck, waiting for the sun to rise above the horizon. Shades of misty gray, much like my thoughts of late, drifted across the water. The darkness of night was disappearing, and the birds were singing their songs as they greeted the day. Two gorgeous cardinals flitted from branch to branch. It was a peaceful, serene beginning of a new day.
For the first time in months, I slept almost an entire night. My mind wasn't overwhelmed with thoughts of Kaitlyn, of my childhood with Dad, or a mountain of other worries I tend to accumulate. Of course, I am well aware my mind has tucked all those problems away momentarily, but I am willing to take a deep breath and appreciate my blessings for now.
My thought for the day is a simple one. I need to remember that whether asleep or awake, I'm not alone. I don't have to be in the midst of someone else's battle, carrying the weight of their problems and making them mine. God is always with me. When the storm clouds gather around me, and I feel lost, he is there. Like the footsteps in the sand, I need not worry because he will carry me whenever I can not find the strength to go forward and face the darkness.
No bridge exists that the Lord won't help me cross, no matter how turbulent the waters. My heart must believe and trust in his wisdom to see the battles I face and show me the way to win. And when my heart weighs heavy with sadness and grief, I must believe that his words will show me how to find the light.
Even the biggest battles become small if we place ourselves in the hands of the Lord. Embrace the day. Go forward with a smile and a helping hand, knowing God will take care of you as you care for others.
I know that I slip and fall, forgetting the words I often share with you. I also know it's okay. Because it is not how many times I fail, it is making sure I accept his hand and rise again.
I hope I wasn't too preachy this morning. I believe my angels shared the morning with me and brought their words of wisdom for me to share. Take what you wish and find peace, love, and tranquility in your day. May you be blessed in his sunshine.
By Begin Again
“Please help me.” Unlike days before, my pleading voice is faint, and it falters as the words slip across my dry, cracked lips. “I know you are there.”
Inside, CBS Morning News with Anne-Marie Greene offers world events, but the television screen really serves as a night light in the dark. Outside, early morning traffic and the neighborhood are waking up to another day. Oblivious to the nightmare unfolding inside my home, everyday life continues on its way.
Standing in the solitude of morning, I pray, “Dear Lord, forgive me, but I am blind as I walk this path of darkness. My heart breaks with each breath as I stumble, searching for your answer. A sea of despair cloaks my family as they gather together, lost and terrified of what’s to come. As I stand between the parted sea, I believe I am safe within your arms, but a stray thought worries the walls will fall, and we all shall drown.”
“Innocent, yet still ashamed, I can not expose the truth except to you. I know I must wait, but I fear for my family. The wheels of justice grind slowly and often come off track. A plan set in motion by anger, misguided suggestions, and mental confusion has grown a life of its own, smothering us in its wake.”
“I do not pray for immediate answers, nor do I doubt that you hear my prayers. Instead, I pray for strength as I tremble with my weakness. As these dark hours surround us, I know somewhere the light remains. Protect my family and shield them from all we can not control.”
As tears of desperation brush my cheeks, I whisper a final plea, “Light a candle for me as I struggle to find the way. Amen.”
Sitting at my computer, I find my lifeline and begin to compose a prayer, knowing my friends are there. I close my eyes and imagine the flickering candles they share. For a moment, my heart embraces their warmth, and my strength returns. I am blessed.
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