Tag Archives: family healing

November 11

10 Nov

November 11, Veteran’s Day, can be a hard day for many U.S. residents.  It is a day of patriotism and recognition of the men and women who enlist to serve and protect our country.  It is a day of celebration, it is also a day that reminds…

For those who suffer the loss of their veteran, or for those whose veteran is deployed, it is a day of non-avoidance.  As we know, my veteran is no longer with me.  Funny, my dad was also a veteran, and I miss him too.  This past Saturday I opened the door to my son’s bedroom.  I looked around and thought, “ok Cole, enough of this already, it’s time to come home!”  Some would say to me as response, “he is home.”  And you know what?  My spirit agrees, but my maternal heart and mind does not.

Tomorrow when I raise the American flag (U.S.A) I will be moved to a place of non-avoidance.  The “missing” of Cole is hitting pretty hard these days.  Shock has side stepped as time has traipsed upon its reigning hour, and the missing is taking center stage–for us all.

I will share a photo here, only because I intend to honor the many veterans whose bravery is incomprehensible to me.  The picture is of the folded flag our family was presented at Cole’s posthumous honor ceremony, the medals are not his (those are placeholders awaiting his mom, me, to finish the shadow box presentation–a task I do not wish to accomplish as it would imply I am moving into a place of acceptance of my loss, which I am not).  Yet by doing something difficult for me, facing this reality upon the shelf, I hope to honor our men and women veterans and their inspirational tenacity, their example of bravery, and in doing so honor those same qualities once held by my son.

For those reading this post, may you be reminded to extend gratitude tomorrow (and every opportunity henceforth) by saying, “thank you for your service,” to the women and men who willingly stand up and defend our rights and freedom.

Happy Veteran’s Day

honor flag U.S.A.

Cole, thank you for your service.

Note:  The following organizations were instrumental in assisting my son, I also thank them for their service to him and to others.  Their work is a blessing to many:  http://semperfifund.org  —  http://www.woundedwarriorproject.org/#

This Side of Crazy

20 May

I don’t mean to be a broken record, or beat a dead horse, or spin my wheels, or as all of the idioms suggest, repeat myself until my listener tires of the message; But–these past several years I have been much occupied with my familial affairs.  First caring for my son, assisting him in his recovery from surgery and all aspects of his militarily connected life, to wading through this past year of grief for myself, my husband and our daughter.  Thus my time, since about March 12, 2011, has been allocated to most things Bent!  As result, I have many friends who endearingly tell me, I am missed.

The problem is, I miss me too.

I feel as if I am in a quasi rendition of a “Where’s Waldo?” book.  Only my title reads, “Where’s Rivka?!”  I vacillate so frequently in my position on things, I hardly recognize my own opinion!  One day I’m aching to have a vacation away, then when the opportunity presents, I have no desire.  I know I love sushi, but when faced with pangs of hunger I cannot decide for what it is I crave.  I used to find a therapeutic remedy in my exploration of culinary arts, now I settle for a bowl of cereal.  I have many friends with whom I would often visit, and now I prefer solitude.  “Where’s Rivka??”  I honestly miss her!!

Not only do I want her back, I need her back.  She has work to do…she has an entire VA system to fight and reform– with veterans in need of compassionate advocacy.  She has friends she loves who were previously surviving on her sloppy seconds.  She has interests left waiting for her return.  “Where’s Rivka?”

Well folks, regardless of where she is (where I am) and whether we shall ever truly see her again, she must resume her place in life.  A year of mourning has, this past weekend, been fulfilled.  The time is upon her to gain ground and “get at it.”  I hope the next series of posts will be reflective of that attempt.  The attempt to find my place within a world that is different, and with a person who is altered–me.

**Note: This post is written with the sole purpose of exposing the melancholy within a grief stricken soul.  It is sometimes helpful for others to know that sentiments of grief manifest within the realm of crazy.  And within that state, a functioning being exists.  


Every Once in a While

29 Aug

Sometimes I don’t want to brush my teeth, sometimes I don’t want to wash my face.                                                                                                     But cavities and zits I never do want, so brushing and washing it is.

Sometimes I don’t want to talk, sometimes I don’t want to smile.                                                                                                                                             But hurting ones feelings I never do want, so my mouth keeps an upturned display.

Sometimes I want to run.  To a place far, far away.                                                                                                                                                                            But being a deserter I never do want, so I stuff it and here I do stay.

…I went to bed, last night, with the above nonsensical rhetoric running through my mind.  I awoke in the middle of the night, creating more stanzas.  And this morning I cannot seem to escape the monotonous drone of the opening, “sometimes I don’t…”  Yet the way my mind works, which is a way that always connects music and lyrics to my thoughts, I now cannot stop singing the song, by The Cure titled, Charlotte Sometimes.  And even though you might expect me to leave a video clip of the song, because I often share ‘YouTube’ videos of music, I am obstinately not doing so.  Only because we both expect me to….oh the rebellion within!

This piss poor attitude, from whence does it come?  An overstressed mama, an emotionally tired mama, and a worn out mama. Period.  And last night I abstained from the facial wash and the brushing of teeth…my reckless abandon.  I reckon it a fairly sad story when the product of rebellion lie only in a hygienic form.  But hey, it’s all I’ve got at present.  Oh, and writing useless poetry of a repetitious nature.  Let us not forget the above stanzas.

The full and complete details of how I have gotten to this place are unnecessary to the message at hand.  Thus I will control the evil tongue, or in this case, computer keyboard to keep certain happenings under wraps.  It is more the results of  said, ‘mystery happenings’, in which I care to illuminate.  The results being fear, hives, more fear, and more hives.  They aren’t real hives, for there is no sign of rash.  Only incessant epidermal itching.  And fear, is never to be indulged in by offering it a title of “real”.  Yet fearful thoughts are weighing me down.  One such thought, “will the energy and emotional strength I invest into the life of my son eventually prove to be a worthless endeavor?  After the countless hours of pouring forth love, compassion, care, and time into his well being, will he still choose to throw in the towel of life?”

Itch, itch, itchy, itch

After the many hours, days, nights, and years invested into the teaching and encouragement of my children, will they still rebel against the good path?  Itch, itch, itchy, itch. (Oops, I just rubbed yesterday’s eye makeup into my eye ball…the detriment of rebellion.)  This type of questioning is not profound if connected to unfounded doubt, but my thoughts are not unfounded making the doubt quite profound.

My son, last week, dropped a familial A-bomb off in our life–and the next day left town to visit with family for four days.  The emotional fall out is wreaking havoc upon my tired soul (not to mention that of my husband as well).  The bomb?  A grudge against his father he confessed to holding onto for roughly ten years.  Now granted, his intent for sharing is to cleanse a relational roadblock with his dad (he and I were unaware it existed).  And sadly, the details of his ten year mental strife are concretely based.  Now how do I take this filth and get to where I want to go with this writing?  Well similar to the charred ground at the site of destruction, the chosen ammunition wiped out the living species within its midst.  All living species, or in our case, living memories.  The good and the bad.  My husband’s only question, as he undertakes full responsibility for the injurious effect of his own fear-based actions which inflicted the emotional pain for our son, is: “but weren’t there some good times as well?”  The answer of course is “yes”, but a bomb was dropped and nothing lives in its wake.

Thankfully we are not so daft as to miss out on the understanding that with a charred soil comes new opportunity.  And in the case of a parent-child rift, having a new opportunity to plant new seeds–together, and forge new directions–together, is a gift of goodwill bestowed upon the undeserved.  A gift given from our son, for which my husband and I are (more than) profoundly grateful.  Funny thing is, at the start of this year, our ‘Bent Motto’ has been “fear begone!”  It dons on me now, as I write, that our motto is in motion.  Why else would our son feel safe enough to divulge his angst?  Because fear is being ‘taken down’ and we are battling against its control.  Which is why my own insecurities, rooted in fear, are not allowed to flourish.  Not on this new waste land expanse.  Not in this nutrient deprived soil.  Not now.

…my son is lying on the couch next to me, sharing the details of his current physical experience, as he is detoxing from the prescribed anti-anxiety medication and narcotics.  Amidst his utterings he says to me, “I’m so tired I am just going to sleep until noon.”  To which I reply, “Good.  Then please stop talking to me so I can write!”  We laugh together at the ridiculous exchange between us.  And it dons on me once again, as I write, that my son feels safe.  He is weaning from the mind numbing effects of the meds that he felt he needed to keep him calm.  His choice.  An action which reflects there are nutrients present in the soil.  I am encouraged by the possibility of new growth.  I am not in a waste land after all.

“Fear begone.  And come again no more.  Not even sometimes.  Not even, Charlotte Sometimes.”  …I am back to square one, The Cure, though the mysterious hives have subsided for the moment.  Thank you, my readers, for providing me a therapeutic path.  A ground of expression, a medium of release.  I am grateful.


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