Let Them Eat Cake

I was tired, angry and sad.

There.  I said it.

Oh, yes, fabulous things were happening.

Last Thursday I was causally and quickly perusing Twitter and noticed a few congratulatory tweets directed at yours truly.  They were tagged with @BlogHer.

I thought, “Hmm, did I get something featured?  I haven’t posted over there in a while.”

So, I traveled over to BlogHer and saw it.

I was within the list of honorees for BlogHer’s 2012 Voices of the Year.  In the OpEd category.  For my piece on sportscaster, Dan Patrick.

I forgot I submitted it.

Needless to say, I was surprised.  I hadn't noticed the email sent the previous day notifying me of the honor.

I was shocked.  

       

Astounded.

A voice?

Me?

I sobbed.  And sobbed.  And sobbed.

My daughter asked, “Are those happy tears?”

I said, “Well, yes, of course.”

But they weren't.

My head went a whirl trying to figure out if I could actually go to the BlogHer conference in New York City.  Even if I could afford the conference fee, the cost of a hotel room in NYC is fit for aliens.  Not foreigners.  People with expendable cash.  Those people, to me, because I know of none that exist, are aliens.

I want to go.

I want to experience the honor.

You know, that sort of ritual-type of thing, like walking in graduation.

I finished my last courses to obtain my B.A. last November.

I chose not to walk in the graduation.

It was in Iowa.  I could have afforded a hotel room in Iowa.  Normal people convene there, not aliens.

But I wouldn’t allow myself to figure out the logistics of getting on a plane, shuttling to campus, and finding the building that housed the caps and gowns.

My diploma arrived in the mail on Saturday.  Two days after receiving the BlogHer recognition.

M found it leaning on our front door in the morning.  His initial thought was that I bought yet another item that may help the girls get through the summer.  Like a swimsuit or something.

But the box was big.  And the oversized Ashford University logo printed on the box was clue enough for him to rush it upstairs where I was comfortably numb in front of the television and hand it to me.

He said, “It’s here!  Your diploma!  You did it!”

I sobbed.

He said, “Those are happy tears, right?”

More sobbing.

He said, “Open the box.”

More, more sobbing.

He said, “Let’s go out and celebrate.”

More, more, more sobbing.

With exasperation he said, “What is wrong?”

I told him of the time I went to my sister’s college graduation.  She was right on schedule, graduating after four years of studies.  I was standing next to my mother as we watched her being photographed with friends.  Inexplicably, my mother turned to me and said, “You’ll never graduate.”

At the time I was in my second year of college, doing well, and pretty much on track to graduate on time.

I didn’t understand her words.

“You’ll never graduate.”

She was right.  I didn't graduate.  Instead, I went to rehab.

It was then, as I told M the story of my mother's cruel words, that I understood the tears spawned from the BlogHer recognition and from my diploma arriving in the mail.  It was not that I felt sorry for myself because I could not afford to attend the conference.  It was not that I felt sorry for myself because I chose not to walk in graduation.

It was grief.

From what I understand about being a child growing up in a home where abuse is occurring, a victim is silenced.  She is threatened so that she does not tell anyone her dad is raping her at night.  She is threatened so she does not tell anyone that her mom knows and is doing nothing about it.  She has no words to describe the guilt that plagues her--guilt for being the chosen one, guilt for knowing her older sibling resents her for being shoved aside and replaced by her, the younger more appealing victim.

Even though I healed many of the wounds and learned to have a bit of love for myself, I worked very hard to deny my grief.  And it took a lot of energy.

"Pretending that everything is okay when it isn't, as an adult, is not helpful most of the time. The very same denial, that protected me as a child, worked against me as an adult. Denial comes at a high cost to the human body and mind."  ~Patricia Singleton

All of my grief came pouring out during moments when I expected to feel triumphant, elated.  However, life is a conundrum for which I am grateful.  Through my tears, I let go of denial.

I am going to ceremoniously open that box containing my diploma as I am surrounded by my daughters and M.  

Then we will eat cake. 

When I take the first bite, I will taste the sweet bliss of freedom--freedom of voice and freedom from denial.   

My daughters will ask, "Are those happy tears?"

"As you heal, joy and peace become a possibility that you can open yourself up to. Ask any survivor/thriver, if letting go of the denial and feeling the pain was worth what they have today. They will tell you that it was. Please do this for yourself. You are worth it." ~Patricia Singleton

I will respond, "Well, yes, of course"

Thank You BlogHer

for including me as a

2012 Voice of the Year Honoree

I am grateful!

photo credit: chotda via photo pin cc