Being a Parent

What is being a parent? Donating sperm or giving birth doesn’t make you a parent.  Not donating sperm or giving birth, also doesn’t make you NOT a parent. Love, kindness, discipline, sacrifice, giving into the well-being of another human being – that’s what makes you a parent.

God has given me many gifts.  Most of all, he has given me the opportunity on several occasions to be a parent. I haven’t always been a good parent. I haven’t always made all the right decisions. I have made some really bad choices and made some really bad mistakes.  There’s no ‘but’ in that, either.  I’ve learned some things along the way, mostly from my mistakes.  I suffer still some of the consequences of those choices and mistakes.

I’ve come a long way.  I’ve come a very long way from being that scared young girl facing the decision of becoming a teen mother.  I was terrified.  I lived in hell and felt I had no one in this world I could trust.  I had no one to take care of me. Yet, there was this life growing inside of me – a defenseless child that I would be responsible to care for, to protect, and to provide simple everyday things. I couldn’t even provide those things for myself.  I had dreams. I had an escape plan to run off to the military that was going to take me away from the abuse I lived under and secure me a future – but if I chose her – I couldn’t escape – not yet.  There were days I hated the choices I had. There were times I wanted to give up, to die, especially when I was ridiculed and called names at school (Yes, I was that popular high-school slut wobbling down the halls everyone felt sorry for, or made fun of, or called names, or glared at with their disapproving eyes.) Yet, every time I felt my daughter move within my stomach, my hands would cradle my big belly and hope would grow – hope for a great life, a good future, a little bit of love in my dark gray world.  I would pay the price to make it happen – no matter what it cost me. I was young (16), scared, and didn’t know ANYTHING about being a parent. Hell, I didn’t even know how to be an adult. So, I made some mistakes.  But, everything I did – I did in love – love for her – love for the hope that she was going to one day bring into this world.  I don’t care how she was made – I’m the one that made the decision to bring her into this world.  EVERYONE I knew wanted me to give her up or abort her.  The religious didn’t want me to have an abortion, but they didn’t want me to raise her either.  The rest told me on a regular basis I was wasting my life, sacrificing my future, giving up my freedom when I had another choice.  I didn’t know much, but I already loved her and I wanted her – so I chose her.  It kills me that as an adult she doesn’t choose me, but I still have hope, and not for a millisecond regret my choice. She’s a beautiful, loving, kind woman and I am so proud of her.

I have two other children, who are also now adults, who make me smile every time I hear their voice, or see their texts, or video chat, or am able to wrap my arms around and hug them.  I also have the most beautiful grand-daughter. I love them with a love that is indescribable.  Not because I gave birth to them or genetically related to them.  Not because they’re good human beings.  But, for love.  The love I feel from them and for them. That love isn’t granted just because of genetics.  I never had that love for or from my parents.  Not ONCE, not EVER did they ever hug me – and if they had, I would have not felt that love.  My parents gave birth to me, but they were not parents – they were manipulative abusers that took a long time for me to escape. 

I now have another child, another chance to be a mother to someone who needs a mother.  I look at this kid and see the manipulation and emotional abuse he’s been through and I remember that lost, scared, angry little girl I used to be – and I try to be the mother I needed, the friend I could have used, and the love that was desperately missing in my life.  Maybe he won’t have to face the same hard choices I had to face – and he will make better decisions, and his life will reach even greater opportunities.  Most of all – he is loved. Every day.  I am hard on him, I don’t let him get away with anything, and every day is a constant learning lesson – because I want him to be a good man. I want to teach him the things of this world that is going to make him a descent, caring, productive, and good man.  I find it ironic - He now has the opportunity to escape his abusers and run off to the military and secure himself a future.

Being a parent is hard.  It’s sacrifice. It’s constant love, constant worry, constant energy, constant demand, constant giving of your time, your focus, your life, your space, your money, your peace, and your choices. It’s about providing what is NEEDED, not wanted. It’s providing a place of understanding, communication, and learning – constantly.  I can’t give up.  I want to give up at least once a day – but he’s worth it.  He is worth every little inconsequential sacrifice. Just like my daughter was worth it. Just like my other two children were worth it. Just like my grandbaby was worth it.  Love is worth it. Hope is worth it. 

Being a parent is a privilege, not a right.  There are some really shitty parents out there. I’ve been one at times, but I wouldn’t change one single solitary moment, not even the bad moments – because it was from those moments I learned most.  I didn’t give birth to Anthony, but I am his parent, I am his mother – because I love him and he’s worth everything I do for him. I get the best part of this relationship – his love in return. That is being a parent.  Those who pour love into him …are his mothers and fathers, not genetics. This young man is lucky – because he is now being surrounded by people pouring love, life lessons, instruction, and encouragement into him (thank you Scott).  When he gets into the Navy he is going to be surrounded by new brothers and a new family …and once again I am filled with hope.

Till next time,

~T.L. Gray

The Stories We Tell

Last week I listened to a podcast on #MikeDrop; Navy SEAL Mike Ritland’s show, a podcast I’ve grown to love to listen to while I’m working.  In this episode, Ritland interviewed a woman named Emily Joy “GunbunnyActual” Hill. This badass was an Army Apache helicopter pilot and is as tough and vulgar as any sailor I’ve ever heard. At first I was a little reluctant to listen to the podcast, especially when I saw it was 4 hours long.  Not because it was with a woman, but because it wasn’t about a SEAL.  I’m in SEAL mode at the moment, learning, studying, listening, and being amazed at this branch of our Armed Special Forces. However, the Army will always hold a special place in my heart, and I wanted to see the insights this woman had to offer. I wanted to know what this Navy SEAL found so interesting about her. I was not disappointed.

Ms. Joy, who I’ll refer to as Gunbunny, came out of the gate flying, tossing around f-bombs like beaded necklaces in a Mardi-Gras parade. It sounded like she was fighting a head cold, sniffling into a napkin or two, or three, but she was also full of confidence and blunt honesty.  That got my attention right away.  I hate fake politeness.  It didn’t take long before she dropped the first of many, many hard subjects and truths into our laps when she started talking about being sexually molested by a family member when she was a young adult.

I struggled with wanting to turn the podcast off, or continue to listen. I have a hard time with victims, because victims often don’t face their shit. They lay blame, make excuses, and break beneath shame and low self-esteem and become weak and needy. I suppose it’s understandable … just not by me. It’s actually one of my triggers and I get angry around victims. I want to scream at them to suck it up, shut the fuck up, pull up their big girl britches, and fight for themselves – don’t let the world tell them they’re a victim; become a survivor, which only makes me a bully to already weak people. So, I tune it out, turn it off, or walk away. But, Gunbunny sounded strong and confident, so I stuck it out a little longer and I’m glad I did.  She has a terrible, sad, amazing and strong story to tell.  Her nerves are still raw, her voice quivered a time or two, and she struggled between what she wanted to say and what she thought was appropriate to say, but said what was in her heart anyway. So, I give her props. I became more impressed with her as the podcast went on – and 4 hours passed quickly.

But, she wasn’t the only inspiration during that podcast, Mike Ritland did an amazing job being kind, thoughtful, and respectful during the broadcast.  He didn’t TREAT her as a victim, he didn’t placate to her sensibilities or feelings, and he didn’t avoid the hard topic with kid gloves.  He wasn’t an asshole. I could tell at moments from the tenor of his voice that he struggled with some of the things she was telling him. A listener could tell he was hearing them for the first time. I could only imagine that warrior protector inside of him wanting to burst out and slay the world, defend the girl, and make things right struggle like Hell inside him. Yet, he kept his cool, and tackled some hard issues like rape, abuse, adoption, chauvinistic assholes, military demands and failures, women’s roles in special forces, death, struggles with identity and finding purpose AFTER service, etc. 

This isn’t a podcast for everyone, but it’s one I wish everyone could hear.  I admire Gunbunny for her courage to tell her story, and I hope she continues to tell it even more, as often as she can. I don’t personally know her. She could be an asshole, or she could be a saint.  She’s human like the rest of us and had to deal with some hard shit.  I don’t know how her tomorrow’s are going to be, but I’m hoping she finds that purpose she’s seeking and with it a little peace.

If you’ve got the guts, check out the podcast. If you do, get some tissues. 

https://youtu.be/RacEiK7cFgs

Till next time,

~T.L. Gray

First Steps

No matter what struggle or difficulty or achievement or success we find ourselves, whether it’s physical, emotional, or spiritual, we are not stationary in our positions.  ALL life is fluid.  Everything is always moving, changing, and transforming.  Even within our bodies, we are constantly evolving.  Our feelings change. Our ideas change. Our faith changes.  Our knowledge changes. We are born. We live. We die.  In the midst of that journey, based on our understanding and observation we make decisions that effect that life. Some good. Some bad. Some really good and some really bad. Regardless of the state – it won’t remain in that state for long.

Going through a huge heartbreak and recent death, I have felt many times that it’s too much for me, that I can’t even breathe.  The world I imagined, I had hoped for, and I had loved with my whole heart crumbled around me. I saw the destruction coming, I felt the change in the wind, and I noticed the warning signs long before the walls fell. And I fought like hell to stop them, but I was powerless. For me, the reasons why were not good enough to justify the pain. But the pain came anyway. The storm came and blew against the walls, and the house fell. 

All life is fluid.  The storm has passed. Now comes the calm. At times I thought the storm would kill me, and sweep me away with its waves into the abyss, but I survived. I’m standing in the middle of the destruction, but I’m still standing.  Nothing is recognizable around me, except me.  I’m still here. I’m battered, bruised, but I’m standing. My life has changed from what it was, to what it is, and will change again to what it will be …to change even beyond.

I still see the storm raging in the distance.  I still feel the wind blowing. I still see dark clouds hovering, the lightning striking, and the waves beating against the shore. The storm still exists.  It didn’t fade and its winds are still causing destruction, but it’s moved on from me. I’m not part of it anymore.  I can’t save those within it, but I pray they survive. I pray they get out of the storm, but the only way out requires a first step – as with every program and every faith that exists in this world, the road to recovery, to escape, and to freedom is - acceptance.  

The moment I accepted I was powerless to change anything, that I could see the truth of my situation, my life, and my circumstances as they were -  instead of struggling to hold tight to my hope of what had been and what could be, that’s when the storm finally swept me away. We can’t move forward in our life without acceptance.  We can’t change in ANY positive or good way without the acceptance of the truth. We can lie to ourselves and continue to circle the same issues over and over and over and over again – deceiving ourselves into thinking we can change things, or that WE are in control, but that keeps us bound to our destruction, bound to our pain, bound to chains that weigh us down, making us addicts to our own destruction.  Just as an addict or someone involved in destructive behavior will not, nor cannot, change their behavior until they first accept the truth about themselves.  No matter how much we hope for them, plead with them, try to reason with them – they cannot hear ANYTHING until they accept the truth.  Until then, it is a vicious cycle – over and over and over and over and over – some NEVER overcome.  Healing will NEVER come until acceptance. That is the first step.  In faith – acceptance of who we are and that we are not in control of the universe around us, but that there is a higher power – is the first step. 

I took my first step. I accepted. I am surviving.

Till next time,

~T.L. Gray

No Aplology

I'm a hopeless romantic. While logically I know there is no such thing as happily ever after, there is also very little true repentence, Prince Charming doesn't exist, and people don't often have existential moments where they apologize for being the assholes they are, and there are no best friends forever. Not in the real world. But that doesn't stop me from hoping, believing and wanting that Hallmark, Disney and Lifetime ending. I make no apology for that hope. I make no apology for believing humanity can be kind and love one another the way God says is possible. I know its true, because I exist and I have chosen that kind of love.

This world is so beautiful, so amazing. I can just watch the fish swim around my boyfriends saltwater tank and be overcome by its simplicity and complexity at the same time. Just trying to understand all the elements that have to come together in order to be the beautiful display is overwhelming. Jon has to work so much, so precise, and with such care to get it to that beautiful state. It takes lots of time, devotion, money, and care. Only in nature can the world produce such beauty, yet he's recreated it in a small tank.

But that beauty didn't happen overnight and with no effort. Its not magic. It takes dedication and sacrifice, it requires attention and priority.  Jon can stand back and be proud of his effort because he puts in what it takes to be successful.

The same kind of effort has to be put into raising our children. They don't wake up being lazy, disrespectful assholes. Those traits are developed over time, and it will take even more time to retrain their brains IF we want them to be kind, thoughtful and reaponsible adults. Isn't that ultimately our job as a parent?  Life isn't magical and people dont just wake up and decide to change who they are. It usually takes a tragedy or great loss to move people to change. Lazy parents expect adulthood will change their disrespectful children. It doesn't. It just produces lazy, disrespectful and neglectful adults. Lazy parents are abusive parents.

I've experienced true physical, mental and emotional abuse since before I was born. My drug addict mother was shot in a bad drug deal when she was 6 mos pregnant with me, and since being born I've died twice, been beat, raped, neglected, and abandoned by those who claimed to love me most. My soldier love and hero died and left me alone. I have fought cancer, obesity, and Southern religious condemnation. I was married for 20 years with love, but no passion, feeling unwanted every day of my life. I've had my children run away from me and lived in torture every day scared not knowing if they were safe, hurt, dead or alive, feeling hated and rejected, praying everyday for mercy and protection. I have to fight thoughts of giving up and killing myself on a regular basis. But I'm a fighter and survivor, and I love myself, and I love my family whether they love me back or not. I understand abuse. In my experience - the most damaging abuse isnt physical,
 ... its neglect, apathy and indifference.

In spite of all that I've endured, I'm a passionate person. I care. I love. Because I care and love ...I will scream, shout, cry, pitch a fit, apologize, talk it out, say the hard things, and then do the hard things again and again and again, even if it costs me everything. My relationships are like that fish tank. It takes a lot of work to gain the right balance, the right salinity, the right buoyancy, the right light, the right temperature, the right filtration, and the right maintenance to be something beautiful, or become a pool of ugliness and decay. I won't aplogize for that, even if it means I end up alone.

Want to abuse me - its easy, just ignore me, be indifferent, neglect me, be a coward, make excuses, push me out, unfriend me, put your fingers in your ears and act like a 5-year old spoiled brat, neglect or not provide for your children, see me hurting and not comfort me, take advantage of me, use me to pick up your responsibility, don't hug me, make me feel unwanted, ignore my needs and then break your neck helping others that use and abuse you, don't respect me, my time, or my space.

No, life isn't a Hallmark, Disney or Lifetime Movie. Meghan may have married a prince, but there is no happily ever after. There's pain and tears and lots of heartache, but ...I have hope that someday someone will care enough about me to help me create my beautiful aquarium. I dont apologize for having that hope. In fact, it breaks my heart because I know its possible, even in the middle of all the shit.

So, be an asshole all you want. I'm not going to apologize for caring and loving, even when I'm not loved back, and I lose friends or everything for it. I can stand in front of my mirror and know that I give and have given my best. Fuck everyone that can't or won't appreciate that about me. Just as other friends in my life ...keep abusing, neglecting, or ignoring me and I will walk away. If you dont care about that, then I've lost nothing.

The Whimsical World of T.L. Gray - The Story - My Story - Meeting God

Everyone has their own journey, their own experiences, and their own meeting God moments.  As a human being, there comes a time in our lives when we face our mortality and understand that our time and presence is limited on this rotating rock.  We finally see how small we are compared to the vastness of the universe. Or we finally understand the physics that the world doesn’t revolve around us. Yet “our” worlds do revolve around us, we are at the center of it, and everything that happens to us or comes from us, stems from the center of our being.  We don’t experience what’s going on across the universe – only what is within our scope, our reach, and our influence.  Some of us have a very limited reach, while others have a vast one, but we all have one, even if it’s only within ourselves.

I’ve heard the name of God my whole life. Most often in a damning expression when something went wrong or someone was angry, or when danger was present, which was during most of my childhood.  God was damned about every four to five words that escaped the cigarette or joint-ridden mouths of my parents. The concept that while God gave life to all things, my parents were ultimately responsible for my birth, and they alone had the right to take that life from me should they choose. I do believe the words were, “I brought you into this world, and if I damned-well please, I’ll take you out of it.” Have you really thought about the phrase ‘damned-well’?  That’s an oxymoron.  Nothing damned is well.

I’ve had a few meeting God moments, but one stands out in particular.  It wasn’t when I died after being attacked by a Doberman Pincher at age 5, or when I rode on top of a car through a barbed-wire fence, or when I fell off the back of a pick-up and got ran over, or any of those life-threatening moments. No, Meeting God moment that sticks out to me was a happy moment, a peaceful moment, a vision of beauty and grace, surrounded by nature and probably one of the first instances of human love.

I was about five years old. From my life time-line, this was some time after the burned-down house, the place where my little yellow canopy bed was destroyed and where I was attacked by the dog following my fifth birthday, and some time before we moved to Texas where I started Kindergarten, so sometime before my 6^th birthday.  We lived on what my parents refer to as ‘the farm’.  I’m not sure what the farm really looked like because my memories are brittle pieces. I do remember some scenes, such as a log shack with a fold up cot me and my brothers would play in, until we got bed bugs.  This is the place I learned about chiggers, muddy wells, horses, and how to hoe a vegetable garden, and the first time I heard the name William Smith.  I’m still not sure who he was, only that he was on the farm with my family, had dark-curly hair, and couldn’t ride a horse. 

Next door lived an old black couple. I wish I could remember their names, but I can’t.  I do, however, remember their hands, and their smiles, and their chickens, and their red-painted barn.  I remember happiness riding on the back of an old Chevy pick-up truck, (my father hated Fords – so it isn’t ironic that I grew up loving them) through bumpy, dusty, red clay dirt roads and mazes of corn. To this day I still love riding down winding dirt roads among corn fields. Our old neighbors had a bunch of chickens that ran around the yard. I loved chasing them, feeding them, picking their eggs, and then running from them as they chased me back.  It was carefree fun. It was a moment I got to just be kid. I didn’t have many of those moments, but that was one of them.  The old lady, who I will call Henrietta, told me stories about the farm, about her animals, about love, and about God.  I remember her telling me that God was watching me, and watching over me, and sending angels down to protect me. It as a nice thought because I always felt danger. 

I remember my Meeting God moment.  I was lying in the deep green grass next to Fred and Henrietta’s red barn.  A tin pail sat beneath a water spigot that dripped crystal drops in a constant rhythm, creating a harmony with the universe, with the birdsong, with the wind that swayed the tops of trees.  It was like the universe in that moment was singing a universal song and they had allowed me to hear them, to see them worshiping in harmony with the sun, the grass, the wind, the trees, the air, the animals, all of life and all of nature, and even with a little five-year old girl lying in the grass, touching their cool with the tips of her little fingers.  I turned my head to the side and watched a tiny ant meander through the forest of blades and wondered if he knew he was being watched, if he realized how small he was to the world I knew? Wondered if this was how God watched over me? 

I looked into the sky above me, realized how small I was in the universe, and tried to imagine the world beyond the clouds, beyond space, beyond everything – not in distance, but in reality, beyond deeper than what we could see, and wondered if that’s where God lived and if he could see me on this side of the veil, to see little ol’ me lying in the grass. I can still feel the warm tears slide out the corners of my eyes and trickle down the side of my face as I yearned to know THAT God.  Not the god of my father, not the god that damned everything, not the god that people were killing for, but the God that all the universe was apart, the God that watched over me and sent his angels to protect me. I wanted to know him with all of my being, all of my heart, and all of my hope. I believe I met God in that moment. I believe that He heard me, and He touched me, and He smiled because He loved his creation, and his creation loved him back.

After that moment there would be many angry times, hurt times, and lots and lots of doubting. There still are because life is hard, it is complicated, and it’s formed with many different levels and layers. But, anytime I stray too far from my faith, I’m always drawn back to that moment, back to that Meeting of God, and I’m reminded of that experience and my faith is restored. I still have lots of doubts. I still believe with my whole heart that we’ve got it all wrong, for the most part, when it comes to God. I hate religion.  I hate the things men do in the name of God. I hate the way humanity treats one another.  But, sometimes I get a glimpse of the beauty of nature, of the universe, and even of humanity and am reminded that God is love – and love (not the world’s version of love, but pure love) is not of this world, is not of nature, but it is something more, something beyond the veil, something I can’t really describe because it must be experienced to understand.  I’m never afraid to meet God, but of man I am terrified.

The Farm was a brief happy moment in my life.  I always think of it with a smile every time I smell burning wood, or see a corn field, or a red barn, or chickens, or a tin pail, or a water spigot, or a horse.  Many nightmares follow the Farm, but that’s another part of this story. This is where I met God.

This is the story. This is my story.  This is my life.

Till next time,

~T.L. Gray ©2017

The Whimsical World of T.L. Gray - The Story - My Story - My Name

I think one of the biggest misconceptions in faith is that once we accept the concept and authority of God, we expect our lives will to of sudden come together and be perfect, that all our prayers are instantly answered, and when adversity comes God will intervene on our behalf, saving us from the consequences of our actions.  God never promised that we would have perfect lives or that we wouldn’t reap the things we sowed, only that we wouldn’t be alone as we travel through this life and face those consequences.  Nor did he promise that we would be perfect people.  Our hearts, minds and souls are not made perfect by faith, but through the fires and trials of life we have the opportunity to become perfected by that faith; but it’s a life- long transformation.  Just as we are not born to hate, we are also not born to love, forgive, be humble, or to care. These are developed traits made by the choices we make in life.

I live by two concepts.  Number one – I cannot always control what happens to me.  Sometimes bad shit happens that is beyond my control that I did not earn or deserve. Sometimes great things happen that I had nothing to do with.  I can’t control the universe and the decisions of others that affect or directly impact me. However, I have 100% control on how I respond the good or bad that happens to me. Number two – It is not my job to save the world.  God did not grant me the power to save another human being’s soul. It’s not my job to condemn them, either.  It is not my job to make sure they understand the error of their ways, to repent for their sins, or to live their lives in any particular fashion.  God gave me only two commands, and declares that ALL other laws and commands are wrapped in essence of these two commands: Love God, and to love my neighbor AS I love myself. 

Many of us forget that last part… and I believe it is just as important as the first two.  Just as God is a tri-part being, so is his Word -   Love Him, Love each other, Love ourselves.  So, my job is to focus on myself. I truly believe with my whole heart that if I concentrate on loving God and allowing His love to fill me, I will love myself, and then with the love “of” God, and the love within myself, I am able to love others – my family, my friends, my neighbors – humanity – unconditionally. That is my heart.

But that hasn’t always been my heart. Throughout many times of my life I was lost, angry, filled with hate and rage.  I hated God, I hated the world, and I hated all the people within it, especially myself. But that hate wasn’t born in me; it was made, forged through the fires of adversity, at the hands of abuse, at the devastation of loss.  Yet, I have survived.  I am not perfect, by a very, very, very long shot.  But, I am working hard to keep that love of God inside me, so that I continue to love myself and love the world around me.  I don’t know where this strength comes from, but I have seen it rise within me during many low times in my life.  That love reveres itself within the many names that I have accumulated through the years.

I’ve already told the story of how I received my birth name, now is the time for the story of how I received my childhood nickname, the name known to my family, a name I have attached to a lost little girl. In my dreams she is always the six-year old me – a cute little tomboy with long, straight brown hair, big hazel eyes, and set of dimples. I don’t have any pictures of me as a child, so she’s directly from my memories only.  I can’t really tell you how I truly got my nickname, only how it’s been used over the years. I’ve heard a few different stories of its origin, but I can’t validate any of them.

My name is Sap.  I was once told it was given to me because my older brother had a speech impediment and couldn’t say the word “sissy” correctly, and it came out ‘sappy’ instead.  Another story was that I was so sassy when I was a toddler that my parents called me “sappy” in reference to the sweet-bitter tree gum.  But, if either of those were true, what was I called when I was brought home from the hospital until I got old enough to talk, old enough to be ‘sassy’ or ‘sappy’?  I don’t know, I can’t remember, and as far as anyone has ever told me, I was never called anything other than ‘sappy’ or ‘sap’.  But there is a memory I will never, or can never forget that solidified the name for me. I was about six or seven and I had just witnessed my father beat my mother, yelling at her about flirting with man named William Smith.  This is a name I would hear many times in my childhood as my father beat my mother.  I never knew a William Smith, but I had grown up hating that name.   

Anyway, watching my mother cowered in the corner of the kitchen as my father held her by the hair, hitting her, I grew angry and I ran into the room, jumped on my father and started hitting him.  I knew he would turn on me, but I couldn’t just stand there and be silent.  I only remember how the first hit took a few moments before I could even feel it and the room to grow dark.  I couldn’t open my eyes all the way; they stung when I tried because they had been swelled shut.  But, I didn’t wake up to a mother holding me, telling me everything was going to be okay, that she was going to protect me, or protect herself.  I woke up to meet the glare from another swollen face, one full of anger. 

She threw a cold rag at me and told me to put it on my face and her voice was cold and she said, “You’re so stupid.  Do you know why I call you sap?  It’s because you’re just like tree sap, that nasty, sticky mess that impossible to wipe off.”

That was the moment I began to hate to my mother. I hated her for not protecting her children. I hated her for not standing up to my father. I hated her for not saving me, for being weak, for being a coward.  She didn’t protect me. She never did. For many years she would remain silent and look the other way, and teach my brothers to look the other way. It took me nearly 40 years to learn to forgive her weakness.  It took until the birth of my oldest daughter for me to see her as a victim.  From that day I saw her just as much as my abuser as my father. I believe I blamed her even more than my father.  I believe even to this day, because of her, there is an anger that rises within me when I see a mother neglect her children, acts cruelly toward them, doesn’t put their needs first, or doesn’t protect them. It’s definitely a weak spot in me.

When I became a mother, I didn’t know how to be a mother, not realizing I had been born a mother – a mother of my five brothers. Needless to say, I was confused.  I was lost.  But, the day I put the needs of my children first, and made the decision to leave my old family behind – to walk away from them, was the day I shed the name Sap. I don’t think my brother’s ever understood my decision to leave them, to walk away from that family, to separate myself.  They felt I abandoned them, and I suppose I did.  But, I chose to be the mother I never had, and my first true act of motherhood was to protect my children from that family.

I had always hated the name Sap, but for a long time that was the only name I knew, not until my first day of Kindergarten.  Mrs. Bonnet was my teacher. I can remember she was tall, skinny and had this beautiful long, black hair.  She called my name, but I didn’t recognize the name she called.  She called my name again, looking right at me, but I still didn’t answer. I was confused.  She walked up to me and said, “Tonya, dear.  I’m calling your name. When I call your name, you’re to answer Present.”

“But, you didn’t call my name,” I replied.

“Are you not Tonya?”

“Tonya? That’s not my name.”

“Yes, dear, it is. You are Tonya Lynnette.” Mrs. Bonnet pointed down to the name on top of a packet 

of papers on the desk.  “This is you.”

I already knew how to read and write. I was an early learner, having started reading the newspaper at age four.  One of my earliest memories of reading the paper was reading about the death of Elvis Presley, I had just turned five. My name written in neat blocked letters never looked so pretty in all my life.  Tonya Lynnette was a beautiful name. I don’t know why it was so beautiful to me, but I loved it in that moment, and from that day forward, when I went to school, away from home, away from my family, I was known as someone else, I was Tonya Lynnette.  At school I wasn’t a sticky mess someone hated.  I was praised for being smart, being sweet, being kind, and being pretty. I was the little girl that had lots of friends, and I was the pretty little girl Chris Brown kissed under the table in art class and said he was going to marry someday.  I was the girl that played marbles with the boys on the playground.

Names are powerful. Their meanings are powerful. All my names have power over and within me.  God has given me a new name, a name even I don’t know, that is written in the Book of Life. I have a feeling the day I see that name written in that book it’s going to feel as pretty as the first time I ever saw the writing of my name Tonya.  Tonya means “priceless – beyond praise.” Many times throughout my life, people, even strangers, have approached me and told me that I was precious, priceless.  Prophets have spoken over me telling me God says I am precious, priceless.  Lynnette is derived from Eluned which means rescuer, image or idol.  In the Arthurian tales she is a servant from the Lady of the Fountain who rescued Owain.  I have spent my life rescuing.

All I know is that a name is powerful, but as I stated above, it’s not about what happens to us or what names are given to us, it’s what we do with them and the choices of how we respond that make us who we truly become.  I choose to forgive. I choose to be kind. I choose to love.  I choose to protect.  I choose to fight. I choose to be Tonya, to be priceless, to be beyond praise.  I don’t believe it was an accident that my grandmother chose that name for me, or that it was nurse I was named after.   However, Tonya is not the only name I have, there are few more and I will eventually get to them, too. 

Till next time,

~T.L. Gray ©2017

Livin' Out Loud - Liar

Our biggest obstacle when it comes to health, fitness, and even love, is our propensity to make excuses. We have them. We have plenty of them. Our mindset is where the largest part of our battle resides.

We lie to ourselves. We tell ourselves we need or deserve the destructive behavior we commit. We tell ourselves it’s okay to abuse our bodies, our hearts and our minds, after all it’s our period and we deserve that damn chocolate. We’ve been good and deserve to cheat on our diet. We did a lot more activity today than normal so we can skip our workout. We'll start tomorrow, and on and on. The excuses never stop.

Until we recognize we are out biggest abuser, see us for who we really are, we won’t win, we won’t succeed, we won’t break free. It’s nobody’s fault we are like we are. It’s not our past, not our genetics, it’s not our environment, it’s not the food industry, it’s not our religion, it’s not our disease, it’s not our drugs, it’s not ANYTHING but our own choices. We are exactly where we want to be, allow ourselves to be, choose to be, or choose not to change.

Only we can choose to put down the doughnuts, pick up the jump rope, and continue to make that choice everyday.

We don’t need to have a lot of money, personal trainer, expensive food, diet drugs, or the right workout clothes or equipment. Before we pick up or use any of these tools we have to first strip ourselves of our excuses, stand in front of our mirrors naked, look at ourselves in the eye, and truly see ourselves for who we truly are, not the lie we tell ourselves.

We are not victims. We are the abusers of our own self. We are the ones that gorge on the whole box of snack cakes, doughnuts, bag of chips, soft drinks, chicken nuggets, ice cream, and chocolate. We can take all the diet pills we want, drink all the diet drinks we want, eat off the little plates filled with seconds and thirds, but it doesn’t change that we neglect what we need, feed our feelings, and cheat ourselves out of living our lives to our best potential. We see ourselves as victims - and victims are slaves. We are slaves to our addictions. We are slaves to our excuses. We are slaves to our abuses. We are taskmasters to our own depravity.

We are the asshole that stops ourselves. Until we acknowledge our truth and see our truth, we can never change it. We're killing ourselves. We are an abuser, a neglector, and a selfish bitch. Stop lying to our selves. Have the courage to face our own truth and learn to live.

Then… naked, bare, exposed, and determined… change our story, change our stars, change our life.

Till next time,

Freed Slave, Survivor

Mansion by NF (feat. Fleurie)

Someone very dear to me (thank you Jonathan Smith) sent me this song a couple weeks ago, and it’s not one that was easy for me to listen, more than that… it’s hard to hear. The first line caught my attention and then slammed me right into the middle of my own room in my own mansion.  I’ve actually tried NOT to listen to it.  It touches something inside me that I don’t like to give a moment, a second, or even part of a second.  However, there’s another effect this song is having on me too.  It’s sort of a release.  There’s still an anger, a hurt, a part of me that’s still deep inside fighting Fear and still scribbling on my blank walls.  It’s banging to be heard, to be felt, to be acknowledged because it really effects every part of me; every broken part of me. Dealing with this kind of pain isn’t something healed in a single ‘moment’ and then all’s good.  No, this is a life long journey.

“Insidious is blind inception
What's reality with all these questions?
Feels like I missed my alarm and slept in (slept in)
Broken legs but I chase perfection
These walls are my blank expression
My mind is a home I'm trapped in
And it's lonely inside this mansion”

Wow.  I could just play that intro over and over and over and over, and find I’ve only just begun.  And the following words NF releases throughout this song is like he pulled them right out of my own basement, right out of the darkest part of my soul, the part that still bleeds. Let me be clear, I’m not coming from a place of anger, but a place of pain. Not as a victim, but as a survivor.  It’s not about blame, it’s about healing.

“Yo my mind is a house with walls covered in lyrics
They're all over the place, there's songs in the mirrors
Written all over the floors, all over the chairs
And you get the uncut version of life when I go downstairs
That's where I write when I'm in a bad place and need to release
And let out the version of NF you don't want to see
I put holes in the walls with both of my fists 'til they bleed
You might get a glimpse of how I cope with all this anger in me”

I’m a wordsmith, but I can’t even begin to express the imagery that clicked with this first verse. It’s like NF just kicked open a locked door, white light spilling into a dark room, exposing a small, broken little girl huddled into a dark corner, scribbling more dark lines on a dark room already covered floor to ceiling with words… words of pain, words of hope, words of fear, words of love, words scribbled over and over and over.   

“Physically abused, now that's the room that I don't want to be in
That picture ain't blurry at all, I just don't want to see it
And these walls ain't blank, I just think I don't want to see 'em
But why not? I'm in here, so I might as well read 'em
I gotta thank you for this anger that I carry around
Wish I could take a match and burn this whole room to the ground
Matter of fact I think Ima burn this room right now
So now this memory for some reason just won't come down”

Shit!  I thought burning the house down would stop the nightmares, but it didn’t.  Flames might have burned a physical building and given me a peace when I smell the scent of burning wood, but it didn’t clear the room in my mind. I don’t despise this room.  It is a place where my gift flows, where my pain goes, and where my soul grows.  This song says so much, I don’t need to say more myself.

“Yo my mind is a house with walls covered in pain
See my problem is I don't fix things
I just try to repaint, cover em up, like it never happen
Say I wish I could change. Are you confused?
Come upstairs and I'll show you what I mean
This room's full of regrets, just keeps getting fuller it seems
The moment I walk in to it is the same moment that I wanna leave
I get sick to my stomach every time I look at these things
But it's hard to look past when this is the room where I sleep”

“But I should just stop now, we ain't got enough room in this song
And I regret the fact that I struggled trying to find who I am
And I lie to myself and say I do the best that I can
Shrug it off like it ain't nothing like it’s out of my hands
Then get ticked off whenever I see it affecting my plans
And I regret watching these trust issues eat me alive
And at the rate I'm going they'll probably still be there when I die
Congratulations, you'll always have a room in my mind
The question is, will I ever clean the walls off in time?”

“So this part of my house, no one's been in it for years
I built the safe room and I don't let no one in there
'Cause if I do, there's a chance
That they might disappear and not come back
And I admit I am emotionally scared to let anyone inside
So I just leave my doors locked
You might get other doors to open up but this doors not
'Cause I don't want you to have the opportunity to hurt me
And I'll be the only person that I can blame when you desert me
I'm barricaded inside
So stop watching
I'm not coming to the door
So stop knocking, stop knocking
I'm trapped here
God keep saying I'm not locked in
I chose this
I am lost in my own conscience
I know that shutting the wall down ain't solving the problem
But I didn't build this house because I thought it would solve ´em
I built it because I thought that it would be safer in there
But it's not, I'm not the only thing that's living in here
Fear came to my house years ago I let 'em in
Maybe that's the problem
'Cause I've been dealing with this ever since
I thought that he would leave, but it's obvious he never did
He must have picked the room and got comfortable and settled in
Now I'm in the position it's either sit here and let him win
Or put him back outside where he came from, but I never can
'Cause in order to do that I'd have to open the doors
Is that me or the fear talking?
I don't know anymore”

I’m here and I’m still writing, but Fear doesn’t keep me trapped inside anymore. He still haunts me, still taunts me, still exposes my own scribbled lines, and he’s still slamming doors, but he doesn’t control me anymore.  I’m no longer afraid to read my own lines. I can read my walls, see the pictures I don’t like to see, because there’s a bright light within me that illuminates them all. I can run my fingers over them, for all these lines have made me who I am.  What I see now is a beam of refracted light, filled with all the colors of my imagination, shining over those thick black lines. Making them come alive, making them sing a new verse. I no longer huddle in a corner, but I dance all around like a beautiful ballerina, ‘cause my legs ain’t broke anymore.

“Insidious is blind inception
What's reality with all these questions?
Feels like I missed my alarm and slept in (slept in)
Broken legs but I chase perfection
These walls are my blank expression
My mind is a home I'm *not* trapped in
And it's *no longer* lonely inside this mansion”

I thank NF for writing this song, for being brave enough to allow us a small glimpse inside his mansion, his mind, his heart.  I’m sure this song will always have a special room inside my mind. I thank Jon for introducing me to this song and I hope he finds his own courage to face his own room. I hope we all do.

Till next time,

~Angel of Light

If... If... If... People Lie

If. I was once told that “if” was the biggest little word to ever exist. That isn’t a lie.

Everyone posts these meme’s all the time with messages that sound good, but has anyone ever stopped and really read them, tried to understand what they’re really saying, or did they get caught up in the moment because they said something itching ears wanted to hear? Everyone has the answer… to every problem. Yet all those answers come with a hitch, a ransom, a sacrifice, an obligation, or/and a price. If… If… If… You know what I’ve learned? It’s all bullshit. I lived my life believing IF… If I obeyed, then life would be okay. Well, I tested that theory many, many, many, many times. People lie. Let me tell you a story.

I can remember being about seven years old and sneaking off one morning to catch a church bus. I wanted to be like my next door neighbor, I can still remember her last name – Janosek. I wanted to be a regular girl, wear frilly pretty dresses, have girl toys, have two normal parents that weren’t handicapped or abusive, parents who had real jobs and not drug dealers, who went to church and PTA meetings. I wanted to be free to laugh and be silly, be anything but who and what I was. It didn’t seem like such an impossible dream, but to me at seven it seemed alien and a world away; impossible. But impossible didn’t stop me, it never did. So, I dressed as much like a girl (I was an extreme tomboy with five brothers) as I could and stood at the road, determined to wave that church bus down. I caught that bouncy bus not knowing where it’d take me, what would happen to me, or when or if it’d ever bring me home. People lie.

I ended up being delivered to a little country church where I was shuffled off to a gymnasium with several other children and told a story about a man sacrificing his son for his faith. I thought it barbaric that God would tempt a man to kill his own son in order to test his faith. Wasn’t it supposed to be the other way around, parents sacrifice themselves to save their children? That, of course, wasn’t the life lessons I’d learned by that age. A parent killing their kid for their own interest… that was easy, that was normal. What a manipulation. People lie.

I was pulled to the side and asked if I wanted to go to heaven, yet I had no concept of heaven. All I’d heard of heaven was a place in the fluffy white clouds, wings, and golden harps. That sounded boring to me, so I told the lady that I didn’t want heaven, I just wanted an earth where people didn’t hurt each other, that I didn’t think this place was so bad, except for the people in it. I thought the earth was beautiful, even magical, if the people in it would stop hurting it and each other. She quickly informed me that in heaven there was only peace and that nobody ever cried. I didn’t believe that, because I cried all the time. I didn’t cry to just cry, and I sure as hell didn’t cry where other people could see me. My dad beat me so bad one time I passed out, because he wanted to see me cry. I refused. In private I cried because I hurt, because I was scared, because I hoped and constantly had those hopes dashed with violence. Crying made me realize I was real, it reminded me that I could feel pain, but also joy. Why did I want to go somewhere and not feel anything? They were not selling me on this whole heaven thing. I guess she could see that, so she changed her tactics and started telling me of the OTHER consequences of not being saved – the idea of eternal damnation, a life filled with violence and pain. I wondered in that moment what I had possibly done at seven years old to have been damned while I was still alive. I was a little smartass and told the woman, “It’s not so bad. You get used to it.” Obviously that wasn’t the right answer. So, I soon learned of the lake of fire, torture, demons, the devil and brimstone. I still wasn’t scared. I was raised with a pack pit bulls, after all. People lie.

So, this determined lady was hell bent on saving my soul, she changed her tactics once again and asked me if I loved anyone enough to die for them and started telling me about the story of Jesus, how he was an innocent man yet tortured, beaten, and then killed to save us all. It was the only story that really peaked my interest, but I couldn’t understand why this one man’s sacrifice was any different than what I had done regularly to protect my brothers, or to protect my mother. I’d taken beatings for them, I’d given them my food at times, I’d kept my mouth shut and endured the worst of humiliation and abuse at the threat of losing them, being taken from them, or separated. I know, had given the choice, I would have died for them, taken a bullet in their place. I dreamed of doing that very thing quite often. That was an easy decision. So what made this man’s decision any better than mine, or any other human being that would do the same for someone they loved? I’d learned enough history by this time to know people died for other people all the time, yet we didn’t worship them. Why him? Telling me that I was supposed to love somebody because they first loved me and died for me, was a hard concept for me to understand. I wanted to scream, “Prove it!” People lie.

It took me nearly 20 years to reconsider that answer, because the next thing this lady did was scare the hell out of me by making statements like I needed to be washed in this man’s blood in order to be redeemed, dunked in some water to be cleaned, and then I needed to obey him and keep all his commands so that I will be worthy enough to enter heaven. I knew I’d already flunked this test, because I sure as hell wasn’t about to let somebody pour their blood over me, nobody was going to push me under the water, and I was too stubborn to blindly obey a bunch of rules I didn’t understand. I just smiled, shook my head to tell her what she wanted to hear, watched her shed a few fake tears for me, schedule a baptism for the next Sunday, gave me a Bible, gave me some candy, and then put me back on the bus that brought me home. I never went back to that church. But, I never forgot that day. People lie.

I kept hearing that woman’s voice in my head saying, “If you believe in Jesus, he will save you.” I needed saving in the worst way. I once wished in the middle of a hurricane for Superman to save me, but he never came. He ended up being a lie, a figment of someone else’s imagination. Don’t even get me started on Santa. Biggest disappointment of all. People lie.

My next memory had me lying in the grass, staring into the sky, wondering what was beyond the clouds, beyond the blue, beyond the stars. I watched the treetops sway in the wind, the ants crawl between the blades of glass, the beauty of the sunlight in a drop of water falling from the spigot into a tin bucket. It’s the most peaceful and profound moment I’d ever felt in my life. I was just a child, a human, and for the first time in my miserable life, I wondered why I existed at all, why I lived the life I lived, who I was, what was my purpose, and that if a real god existed, did he see me, know what I endured, know how I hurt? That was the first time I ever prayed. I whispered into the wind, “If you’re real then I want to know the real you. Let me see the truth. People lie. Save me, please.”

There was a wooden plaque that I’d sometimes stare at for hours. It read, “If Christianity were a crime, would there be enough evidence to convict you?” I can’t even begin to tell you the amount of hypocrisy it represented, especially for this waif of an abused Jewish girl, but I’ll never forget it. I sometimes wonder whatever happened to that plaque. It shaped my mind more than I ever realized. Needless to say, Jesus never showed up at my doorstep to save me. Until the time I was 23, I lived in hell, in survival mode, hating the world, determined not to let it beat me. I honestly don’t know how I survived those years, but it was at this time I traded one hell for another, a different kind of hell, a hell that transferred the outside pain to the inside. I was no longer fighting for my life every day, instead I was fighting for my soul. When I lost my first hope at real love, a part of me died. I finally became a Janosek, I hid among middle-class idealism, I became it’s poster child, only it wasn’t what I thought it would be. People lie.

For the next twenty years I obeyed, I lived a life of obedience, to my family, to my husband, to my church, to my god, to my community, to everything. My dream was that my children would not have the life I had, no matter what it cost me. I gave it my everything – I gave it my faith, my trust, my loyalty, my gifts, my skills, my heart… I gave it my all. I studied, I learned, I volunteered, I tithed (everything – money, time, gifts, abilities), I prayed EVERY DAY with sincerity. If ANYONE in this world could pray more sincere that I did with my nose in the carpet for 20 years, then NO ONE has hope. I believed with every ounce of my being… that IF… ‘my people who are called by my name will humble themselves, seek my face, turn from their sins, then will I open the floodgates of heaven and pour out a blessing they’d not have room enough to contain. If… I believed I would receive. If… I was obedient and faithful… my husband would love me, my kids would love me, my family would love me, my church would love me. People lie.

I didn’t just pray once and expected the world to just fall into place in an instant. I prayed faithfully for nearly 20 years. I have journals and journals and journals of my prayers. I’d crawl into bed next to a husband every night who didn’t want me, most nights crying myself to sleep, wondering why I wasn’t enough. I watched one of my kids run away from home, leave me worried for years if they were even alive or suffering, blaming myself for being too hard. I watched a family that promised to love me forever disappear along with the divorce papers, along with other family members that stole from me, lied to me, and used me. I watched a church full of people who told me they loved me nearly every day just vanish behind their church doors. I suppose as long as I looked like them, talked like them, and walked into their doors I was worthy. Hmmmm? I wonder where the lost sheep really gather? People lie.

So, here I am, bombarded everyday with the meme’s of life, seeking my own truth, trying to save my own soul, not for a heaven or to avoid a hell, and not to find love. People lie, especially to themselves. That includes me. I don’t have any answers, but I know they’re not found in “if”. That’s all bullshit. I found love only when I chose to love myself. Salvation? Everyone has their own faith, even if they think they have something else. Quoting scripture to me is fruitless. Quoting meme’s, philosophies, logic, ideals… those are all fruitless too. Quit trying to save me or change me, just love me. If you can’t do that, just go away. I don’t want you. I sure as hell don’t need you. I’m still lying in the grass, staring up into the heavens, wondering, whispering into the wind, “People lie. Are you real, because I sure as hell know I am.”

Till next time,

~T.L. Gray



Image by: sympathyforlove.blogspot.com - Lying in the Grass by Hermann Hesse

What in the World Were You Born to Do?

Photo by T.L. Gray – Flying over Washington ©2013

Partial Lyrics posted by artist Hugo - Born 

My son introduced me to a new artist yesterday, Hugo. I came across one of his songs, Born, and I can’t get it out of my heart or my mind.  It’s got a catchy tune, a great beat, and a beautiful message.  It starts out, “What in the world were you born to do? Beat me and tease me, I’ll take the abuse, ‘cause I know that I was born to love you.”  For me… this song is a glaring confession of what I feel I was born to do – I was born to write and help others do the same.

“You’re so electric and I’m on fire. These roads I take all lead to you. Can’t find the exit, just let me through.”  I didn’t come to this life-path revelation early in my life. For many years I begged, sought, prayed, tried my hand in many different areas (which now all help in fulfilling my purpose), and cried many nights desperate for just a hint or glimpse so I could step into my purpose, with purpose.  No one understood me. The things I wanted didn’t seem to be accepted or supported by anyone else.  I kept being pushed into the direction of the practical (business, office, corporate, career) or ministerial.  Though I was good in these areas, my heart yearned for the artistic. I kept trying to find the thing my inner child approved.   

The other side I found frustrating was watching passionate people uprooting their practical lives to chase what they felt was their ‘calling’, but it seemed to only pertain to political or religious contexts. No one thought twice about a man uprooting his family and asking that family to sacrifice their practical way of living for him to fulfill his mandate and mission called by God, or what he felt was a political aspiration to help ‘the people’. Can you imagine the reaction, even from such people, when it came to the idea of asking the same sacrifice to chase the dream of being a writer?

I worked for many years helping the homeless, hungry, elderly and sick, and even the occasional political rally …these are all ‘noble’ causes, but my heart always yearned to touch people in actions that helped me most as an abused child. My only friends during my turbulent childhood were my books; escaping into beautifully woven stories.  Those stories gave me courage, comfort and companionship until I became strong enough and old enough to escape that life.  If there is ONE thing in this world I desire most… it is being able to provide that same thing for someone else, either with my own stories, or with beautiful works by others. 

I couldn’t, nor wouldn’t, listen to words from people – people hurt me and I built tall and strong walls to keep me separated from them.  If someone tried to touch me or even talk to me, I fought or shut down.  People were liars and I didn’t trust them, but my heart and my mind was open to books and stories… and it was through those stories I found the courage to face my life.  I know there are many others out there who are the same.  It is for THEM I write and hope to one day encourage, inspire and reach.  I can only do that by writing and helping other writers get those stories out there, even if I never personally see or meet anyone we’ve touched. “It feels like home in your eyes.  Then we’ll stay alone until we try.”

Why then is that not a good-enough call for the world?  You know what -   I don’t care if it is good enough for them, it’s good enough for me ‘cause I know that is what in the world I was born to do. “The price that I pay ‘cause I don’t see the truth.  As long as you’re gone, you’re all I had to lose.”

Till next time,

~T.L. Gray