You Would Have Been Three

The May I found out I was pregnant for the second time, I was happy. It was the right time. We were ready. The due date was January 20th - The Boy's birthday.

That August - in my 16th week - I had a missed miscarriage. 

This is an open letter to my baby in heaven: 

I don't even know if you were a boy or a girl. In my mind, I imagine you as a girl. A little girl with bobbed curls, dimpled cheeks and bright eyes. You are the little sister, Norrin asks for. I would have named you Leia. 

You would have been three years old. 

There is not a day that passes that I do not think of you. But the days in August and January are the ones that make my heart ache the most. August is when I lost you and I mourn for my loss. And January, I mourn for you and all the things you could have been. 

As I shop and prepare for Norrin's 8th birthday. I think of you. And I have to stop to catch my breath and blink my tears away. I think about how fun three can be. And what party theme you would have wanted. 

I think about how unfair my grief is to Norrin. It's hard to celebrate another year of life, when I am reminded of loss. When he sees me crying, he sits besides me and asks if I've been watching a sad movie. And I envy his innocence. He is unaware I am crying for you. 

On the 20th, I hold my tears in. It is Norrin's day and I celebrate him. When we light his candles, I think about all the progress he's made over the course of the year.  And when he blows out the candles, I make a wish for Norrin and say a prayer for you. 

While I was pregnant, people asked me if I was scared of having another child with autism. But this week as I think of you at three years old. I don't think of autism or special education or more therapists in our home. 

All I think about is how much joy you would have brought us. I think about how I would have loved tucking you in and reading you bedtime stories. I think about what an awesome big brother Norrin would have made. I think about how wonderful it would have been for Norrin to have a sibling, to have someone else in this world, someone he could depend on after I am gone. I think about all the memories and milestones we have been denied.

I think how much I would have loved to hold you, even if just once.

      

So Now What?

I am home from my very last night of class. Last week I turned in my thesis.


I. Am. Done. Finally. After five years of graduate school. It's over.


All that's left is my graduation.


People keep asking me how it feels, if I'm excited. And I smile or shrug my shoulders. But I honestly? It feels anti-climatic.


"I don't think it really means anything," I told my therapist. (Yes - I've been seeing a therapist, that's for another PYHO post)


"Are you depressed?" she asked.


I could only nod because admitting to my depression is something I not ready to say out loud. 


I don't know what it means. I'm trying to be excited about it but the finality of it scares me.


The Now What has been looming for the last few months. And now it's here. 


I have spent the last five years in graduate school. Fifteen years struggling to obtain my B.A. It's been twenty years of studying, writing, registering and reading. Nearly twenty years trying to juggle work and school and in these last eight raising family. I've moved and gotten married, had a baby, had that baby diagnosed with autism, got pregnant again and suffered an overwhelming loss. I have started this blog and become a writer.


And still. I don't know what it means. I wonder what was the point? And has it been worth it. I've said all along that this degree was for me but I think deep down I wanted it to be more. And right now, it feels like it means nothing.


I will never have to register for another class or fight with the bursar or wait for a grade. I will never have to write another paper or leave work early to make it to class on time. I will never need to sacrifice a weekend to read I don't want to read. And I will never have to write a short story or essay ever again. I should be feeling a sense of freedom.


Instead I feel this overwhelming sense of emptiness. Because now what? Now what do I do with this time? What do I do with this degree, this piece of paper that has no value in my world? Being a student has been a part of my identity that without it - I feel lost.
I started this blog as a class assignment. I was going through a difficult time, mourning a loss and  frustrated with the Turning 5 process. I didn't know what I was doing, I didn't over think things - I just wrote. 


I've loved and appreciated every opportunity that has come with this blog but these last few months, I have been struggling with it. Struggling to keep up. My confidence in my writing has been shaken and I'm constantly questioning every post I publish. Is it good enough? Will people 'like' it, share it or leave a comment? Stressing over my Google page rank, SEO, analytics and Alexa score and social media reach. 


I'm questioning whether I can or should continue. I'm wondering what's the point, if my writing means anything? And is it worth the pressure?


So now what? I don't know. 


I'm giving myself till September to figure it out. 
 

A Painful Reminder While Sitting in the Waiting Room

Walking into my Ob/Gyn's office, I breathed a sigh of relief. There was no one else in the office. I sat down and filled out all the insurance paperwork. Then the door opened and a woman walked in. Then other. And then another. 

Within ten minutes there were six women in the waiting room. All of them noticeable pregnant.

Then there was me. I am not pregnant. 

This week is hard. The Boy will be seven years old on Sunday. The 20th. 

January 20th was also the due date of the baby that would have been born had I not had a missed miscarriage. The baby would have been two years old. 

I may have moved on but there's no getting over my loss. I will always love and long for the baby I never held, whose heartbeat I only heard. 

So this week I celebrate in company. This week I mourn alone.

Once someone asked me:

Do you think your miscarriage was a blessing - considering all the things you have to go through with your son? 

Without even blinking, I said "No, it wasn't a blessing." 

And I meant it when I said it. But I would be lying if I said, that person's question wasn't something I've wrestled with over the last two years. Especially on days, when things are really hard and I'm not feeling so lucky about raising a kid with autism. And some days I have to stop myself from wondering about how another baby would have altered our lives.  

Sitting in the waiting room, was a painful reminder. Yesterday there was no wrestling. Yesterday I allowed myself to wonder. Yesterday I felt the emptiness of my womb. Yesterday, it definitely didn't feel like a blessing.     

      

 photo credit: notsogoodphotography via photopin cc

How I Do It

I work full time.  I go to grad school part time. I write this blog.  I write a weekly post for Parents.com/To The Max. And occasionally someone else will ask that I write for them. And sometimes because of my writing, I have the opportunity to travel.

All this and I have a 6.5 year old kid with autism.

People often ask me, how I do it.

And when asked this question, I shrug my shoulders and dismiss all I do.  Because most days, I don’t give it much thought.

I do it on very little sleep...sometimes none at all. 

I do it with very little thanks but know that I am appreciated.

I do it because I am lucky to have a husband who is supportive.

I do with coffee every morning and - at times - one too many glasses of wine at night.

I do it without making the beds in the morning and leaving dishes overnight in the sink.

I do it without cooking, dusting or mopping as much as I should.  

I do it with constant guilt and fear of failure.

I do it because I need to work, I am eager to learn and I want to be known for something more as Norrin's mom, Joseph's wife and someone's secretary.

I do it on less than a six figure salary. (That’s right Mitt, I’m part of that 47%) 

I do it without mani's, pedi's and trips to the spa.

I do it with very little help from family and with less help from friends.

I do it uncertain whether anything I do will make a difference.

I do it on days when all I want to do is stay in bed and cry. And on days when I believe anything is possible.

I do it while being physically present but my mind is usually someplace else.

Most days I do it hanging by a thread. 

I do it by smiling with a cheerful, "I'm okay" even on days when it hurts. 

I do it with laughter because humor gets me by.      

I do it knowing I can't change the past but hoping to change the future.

I do it because on the day The Boy was born, I promised I would love him unconditionally.

I do it because I cannot control how others will treat him, but I can control how I will support him.

I do it living in a black and white world, The Boy is the only color I see.

(originally posted on October 12)

A Walk In My Shoes

I remember how happy I was, bringing them home. My purple wedge Lucky sandals. They weren't on sale but they were well worth the price.  The moment I tried them on, they fit perfectly on my feet.  I was starting to gain weight, my back was beginning to ache and the shoes provided the support and comfort that I would need in the coming months.  

I immediately took them out of the box and held them up for The Husband.  

"What do you think?" I asked.

"I don't," he said. 

I wasn't surprised. I figured he wouldn't like them.  But I didn't care, he wasn't the one that was 8 weeks pregnant.

I wore them almost daily, revolving my outfits around my purple shoes. I wore white, pink and navy. The only other purple item I owned was a scarf and I carried that with me, to wrap around my shoulders on the subway. I was able to wear my shoes all day at work and then walk home through the park on my way home without my feet aching at the end of the day.  

They were the best shoes ever. 

I remember wearing them on that day in early August.  Walking up the block to my OB/GYNs office for my 16 week appointment.  Dressed in all white and my purple shoes.  I walked with confidence, excited to hear the heartbeat of the baby growing inside me.  

I remember the look on my OB/GYNs face as she told me, there was no heartbeat to be heard.  

I remember how heavy my feet felt walking out of the doctors office.

I remember the next day dressed in a navy blue dress and purple shoes walking alone to the hospital.  Walking slowly, with my hand round my belly protecting the lifeless baby that needed to be removed.

I remember the echo of my purple shoes as I walked down the hospital hall.

And when it was all over, I remember The Husband slipping off my hospital socks one by one.  I remember how gentle he was as he placed a purple shoe gingerly on each foot.  And how he held me up and helped me walk; his arm around my waist and me leaning against him.  

I remember putting those purple shoes in the closest and not wearing them for the rest of the summer.

Then the following summer, I reached into the closet and pulled out my purple shoes.  And every morning, as I got dressed, I looked at those shoes, wondering if I could wear them. Even though I loved them.  Even though I wanted to wear them.  Even though I looked at them at least twice a week, only to put on another pair.  As silly as it seemed, I was afraid to walk in my own shoes.  And at the end of last summer, back in the closet they went.

This summer, once again, I pulled the purple shoes from my closet.  Every morning, I dressed and looked over the shoes I longed to wear.  

As I prepared for BlogHer, I shopped my closet, trying to figure out what to wear.  I knew I wanted to wear my white dress and I needed to decide on a pair of shoes.  They needed to be comfortable.  I looked at my purple shoes, they would be perfect I thought. Except the Saturday I wanted to wear my white dress, marked two years since the day I lost the baby.

Could I wear them?  Was I strong enough to walk in my own shoes?    

I spent the last days of July and the first days of August crying myself to sleep.  Fighting back tears on the subway, grateful to hide behind my big dark glasses.  Going into the bathroom at work to collect myself. I wondered, why. I wondered how different my life would be, had the baby been born.  Wondering how a baby would have changed our life? Would I be writing? I wondered what kind of brother The Boy would be?       
    
On Saturday, August 4th, I slipped into my white eyelet cotton dress and stepped into my purple shoes.  I looked at myself in the mirror for a long time. I have spent the last two years, trying to accept. Trying to forget.  Trying to tell myself, these things happen for a reason.  I just haven't figured out the reason.  

I walked out my door wearing my purple shoes. The shoes felt a little lighter, it was my heart that was heavy.  
        
I walked around BlogHer that Saturday, mostly alone, unable to focus on the sessions. None of it seemed important to me. Though hearing Katie & Soledad made me forget my sadness for a little while.  

I went to the Serenity Suite for a few moments of quiet.

I wandered around, met up with some friends and waited to see another friend in the fashion show.  And after the fashion show, I even danced.

I danced in the shoes I had been scared to walk in.

It was a little after midnight when I stepped out of the cab and walked up the block into my building. After walking around the whole day, after dancing into the night my feet didn't ache.  And my heart felt a little lighter.

I remembered how much I loved my purple shoes and how happy they made me.

And I knew I could wear them again.                   

Wearing my purple shoes for the 1st time in 2 years @BlogHer 

He Basically Failed Kindergarten & I'm Okay With It

Today was the the last day of school for New York City Public School kids.  It's also the day  parents start bragging on Facebook about their kids grades. 


Don't get me wrong, I'm not hating on those parents.  I'm the first one to brag about my kid when he does something amazing.  It's just that based on his report card, I have nothing to brag about.  Because The Boy pretty much failed kindergarten and if he were a 'typical' kid - he could have gotten left back.  


When I was a kid there were letter grades, now kids are graded by numbers: 


4 - Exceeds grade-level standards
3 - Meets grade-level standards
2 - Approaches grade-level standards
1 - Far below grade-level standards


And even though it's supposed to be a special education class for children with autism, The Boy got a 1 in almost every single subject.  It was no surprise to me that he got a 3 in Reading.  But everything else?  A big fat 1.   

For the most part, I don't care.  Because I have an understanding of The Boy's autism.  I know that the way the material was being taught was both inappropriate and difficult for him.  


I also understand that grades - in the grand scheme of things - don't matter.  Because I know a grade will not determine how much The Boy actually knows.  And I know goals are what really matter.  And he's met a lot of personal goals this year.  


Which is why I don't understand why The Boy got a 1 in Personal and Social Growth?  (Okay, maybe this grade bothers me a little bit.)


This year, The Boy had a friend from school over.  They played all afternoon and since then he's been asking for her and his other classmates.


This year, The Boy asked "Hey where's Dad?" when he realized he wasn't home yet.


This year, The Boy has made gains in potty training and self help skills like dressing and grooming.  


This year, The Boy's spontaneous speech has made me stop dead in my tracks. 


This year, The Boy learned how to count to 100.  


This year, The Boy started typing on the iPad - searching for things he wanted to watch.  


This year, The Boy's handwriting improved.


This year, The Boy drew a picture (rather than writing what he was asked to draw).


This year, The Boy raised his hand in class when he wanted to speak.


This year, The Boy sat in a crowded cafeteria and managed to eat his lunch.


This year, The Boy succeeded in an environment where he was set up to fail.


This year, in spite of all his challenges at school he has toughed it out.  And he's made progress.  Maybe it's not up to the teacher's standards but The Boy continues to surpass mine.  


Because I know the amount of work he puts in.


Because I know the effort he makes.  


Because I see how hard he tries.


And it's a shame that The Boy's teacher couldn't see the same.     




  

Living with Stigma #SpeakUpForKids

Earlier this week I attended a press conference at the Child Mind Institute to kick off National Children's Mental Health Awareness Week and the Child Mind Institute's Speak Up For Kids campaign.  Some of the statistics were really difficult for me.  Not only because The Boy has autism/ADHD but because some of the statistics applied to me.

I have lived with depression and anxiety for more than half of my life.  And I remember exactly when it started.  I was in the 6th grade. 

My mother thought it was a phase.  She thought I would grow out of it.  She told me I needed to be strong.   

I remember the first time she took me to see a therapist.  She sat next to me for the first part of the session and I just couldn't get the words out.  For the second half of the session, it was me and the therapist.  But I still couldn't speak, knowing my mother was right outside.  Probably with her ear pressed against the door.  When we left, my mother said if I wasn't going to talk - she wasn't bringing me back. 

My mother said that seeing a therapist would probably go on my permanent record, teachers would label me as crazy and that I wouldn't be able to get a job.  She said, if I talked people would blame her for being a bad mother.  

I've talked about the El Que Diran before.  My mother wasn't a bad mother.  I knew she was scared for me.  But she was more scared of what people would say/think about me.  

Old school Puerto Ricans (or Latinos in general) don't talk about depression or having problems.  My mother was raised to keep things private.  What went on at home stayed at home - it was nobody's business.  And you certainly didn't pay a stranger to listen to you talk about your feelings.

My mother believed in prayer and tough love.  And I am grateful for both.  (What's that saying? "I blame my mother for nothing, but forgive her for everything.")  I don't know if it was her prayers or tough love but the fear of my mother's holy wrath kept me from straying too far.

But there were dark days - especially after high school and my early 20s.  I won't go into the details...but my life was out of control and I was lost.  And when I hit bottom; I knew it.  

I had to speak up for myself.  I found a therapist who I felt comfortable talking to. 

My closest friends knew I was seeing a therapist.  Though one of them believed that I was wasting my money and that I should just "get over it."  We are no longer friends.  And I remember telling a guy I was dating, I was seeing a therapist and the look on his face completely changed.  Obviously we didn't date for very long.  As for my mother - she still couldn't understand.  They made me feel ashamed - asking for help. 

They thought I was crazy.  They couldn't understand why I couldn't snap out it.  They thought it made me weak.

So I understand the stigma of dealing with mental health.       

Walking into that therapist's office was the best decision I made.  It took strength to recognize what I needed.  And that's the moment, I started to heal.

There's no quick fix solution for depression.  I believe it's a process.  It's something I am incredibly conscious of.  My therapist taught me how to be more self aware.  There are moments when I slip but I pick myself up and I keep going.  

 

Yes.  Some days are harder than others.  And I no longer see a therapist (I just don't have the time.)  But I have family and friends to talk to.  I have a husband who gets it.  And I have a son who needs me.  And my writing has helped me so much.  It's my own private practice. 

 

But I also know where to go when my friends, husband, son and writing are not enough to keep me going.          

There is no shame in needing someone to talk to.  There is no shame in depression.  There is only shame when you choose to do nothing about it.

On Friday, May 11, at 12PM ET the Child Mind Institute will be hosting a live Speak Up for Kids talk on Facebook in honor of Children's Mental Health Awareness Week.

For more events please visit the Events page on Child Mind Institute - http://www.childmind.org/en/events/ 

And for more information on mental health:

• http://www.childmind.org/
• Child Mind Institue: Myths about Depression 
• Healthy Place (website)

Disclaimer: I am not a therapist nor am I providing any medical/pyschiatric advice - I am just sharing my own personal experience, thoughts and opinions.

"You Have To Own It" ~ My Lesson Learned From #Hispz12

I've worked in Corporate America for more than a decade.  I've always been the minority.  The receptionist, the secretary - the person no one wants to hear from.  The person whose opinion does not matter.

And being a Creative Writing major in Graduate School?  I am still the minority.  Even though my school is in Harlem.  While I've been told my writing is good, I've heard how much harder it will be for me to get published - because I'm Latina.


And whenever I go into any kind of meeting for The Boy, I'm treated as if my thoughts regarding my own child mean nothing.


So it's easy to feel, well...?  As if no one is listening.  And that what I have to say - doesn't matter.  


I mean, this blog started out as a class assignment.  And out of 30 students in my class? Only 3 people read it - including my professor (he was grading me, after all).


So when I was invited to speak on a panel - Blogging for Cause - at Hispanicize 2012.  I was surprised.  Because...who the hell am I?  


I walked into the JW Marriot, not knowing a single person in real life - not even my roommate.


It was overwhelming those first few hours.  A whirlwind of fabulous Latino bloggers,  journalists, philanthropists, film makers, writers, celebrities, media folks - all jam packed into one place.  I don't think I've ever been in a room with so many influential Latinos.  It was truly inspiring. 


And then there was me?  And I thought to myself, "I have no business being here."


I'm not a professional.  I don't get paid for writing this.  It's just something I do, because I like to write.  It's a distraction for many things.  And since I don't have the time or the energy to focus on writing fiction - this blog, keeps me writing.  


I know why this blog is important to me.  But I never considered it to be important to anyone else.  


Sure there were bloggers that I had established an on line relationship but I can be painfully shy.  I'm not the kind of person to walk up to a stranger and say "Hi!  My name is...blah blah blah."  No matter how many comments we've exchanged on line.  And I could quite easily hold up a wall.


So when I started to mingle and introduce myself, I was hesitant.  Assuming that no one in that room had ever even heard of me and my little blog.   


Obviously, it's a great big blogosphere, so there were people who did not know me.  But they were interested in talking to me.


Then there were the ones who knew of me.  Like Angelica, Bren, Eva and Aurelia - who greeted me with open arms, telling me how happy they were to meet me.  And in my head I'm all like, "Seriously?  Me?" 


And then I met a mom blogger (I'm not tagging her because I don't think she writes publicly about her son) who cried when she met me.  We hugged and cried for a good ten minutes.  Then I met another mom blogger (again, not tagging because I don't believe she writes about her son) who said "Had it not been for your blog, I would have never known what to look for."  I don't even have the words to say how moved I was by these two women and listening to them speak about their children.  And there were a few more mom bloggers who had children on the spectrum, who I connected with.


Even after all this, I still had that feeling of not belonging.  


And then on the second day, after lunch a few us were sitting around chatting with Piera aka Jolly Mom.  We had attended her session earlier in the day and were picking her brain.  I expressed some of my insecurity.  And she said five words I'll never forget:  You have to own it.


I knew she was right.  I don't own what I do.  Don't get me wrong, I believe in what I'm writing.  And I believe that my writing is good.  But I am too quick to dismiss it.  I am too quick to think that I don't have a place within the blogosphere.  And I've been suppressed for so long in other aspects of my life, I find it hard to believe that my voice matters.  


My three days at Hispanicize, I learned that it does.  


I want The Boy to believe in himself and take pride in the things he does well.  I want him to be confident and know that he has a place in this world.  I want him to own whatever it is that he does.  


How can I expect these things from The Boy when I have such a hard time expecting it of myself?   


I have to look in the mirror and raise my own expectations.  I have to get out of my own way.  I have to assure myself that my voice matters.  That this blog matters.  And I have to own it.
                    

All I Want for The Boy

The Turning 5 process for parents of Special Needs children is tough.  And this year has been even tougher.  We're in the process all over again...

And I thought back to this post I wrote last year.  When I was in the midst of applying to schools, filling out applications and hoping for the best, ugh - I mean the most appropriate. 

Anyway, several applications asked this question:

What are your long term concerns and wishes for your child?

This is my answer -  

Our greatest concern is that we won't be able to secure the most appropriate academic environment to meet Norrin's needs.  What if there isn't a school that can nurture his strengths as well as his weaknesses?  And if we can't find a school that can nuture his strengths as well as support his weaknesses - how will that impact his future? 

We know for many parents, mainstream is the holy grail.  That does not matter to us. We are realistic about what he can and can't do.  If mainstream is a possibility, fine. And if not - then that's fine too. 

We would never want to push him into an environment where he may be set up to fail. We know that he's bright and that he has the capacity to learn.  We don't need general education to prove that. 

Norrin doesn't need to be the popular kid. But if he wants friendship, we want him to have the tools to develop one.

We just want him to be happy.  To feel good about himself.  To enjoy his life. To be productive.   

We want Norrin to be himself and know that he's okay.  We want him to know that he doesn't need to be cured or fixed.  Norrin is a lovable little boy with a charming smile.  He is fast on his feet, he has a quirky sense of humor, his laugh is infectious.  And we never want him to lose the qualities that make him special.  

We hope that as he gets older, people will appreciate him just as he is.  We hope people will want to understand him.  All we want is for him to have a place in this world.  All we want for him is to have the same opportunities as any one else. 

Isn't this what all parents want for their children?

What do you want for your child?

Breaking Up Is Hard To Do

Before you get the wrong idea.  I am not talking about me and The Husband.  I'm talking about another kind of break up - just as painful as breaking up with a spouse or partner.  

I'm talking about breaking up with your best friend.

Remember the other day when I said going back and forth to the Kennedy Center was bringing back all these old feelings?

I've been thinking about the difference between 4 years ago and now.

The week The Boy was diagnosed with autism, The Husband and I had a baby shower to attend.  Not just any one's baby shower.  My best friend's baby shower.  Had it been anyone else I would have cancelled.  

So that Sunday, as I watched my best friend and her husband open up their baby shower gifts, I smiled and clapped and oohed and aahed along with everyone else.  

Was I happy for her?  Of course I was.  Was I in pain?  Absolutely.  

It reminded me of my own baby shower.  And how happy and hopeful I was.  And after the diagnosis, all that happiness and hope just crumbled on the day the doctor said, "Your son has autism and global developmental delay."

And I had so many questions.  Doubts.  Fears.  And there wasn't a single person in my circle of friends or family who understood all the things I was feeling.

The months prior to The Boy's diagnosis, I was juggling full time work, full time school, applying to graduate school and having The Boy evaluated.  It wasn't easy.  

The day my best friend gave birth, we had just started ABA home therapy 2 weeks prior. 15 hours.  5 days a week from 4 - 7 pm.  Some days the therapist didn't leave until after 8 pm.  In those first few weeks, I would sit in the room to observe, ask questions and sometimes walk out of the room when The Boy's crying got to be too much for me to take.

The therapist suggested we repaint The Boy's room to a more soothing color.  The Husband and I had planned to paint that very weekend.  It just so happened, my best friend went into labor the day before we were to start painting.  

I wasn't going to go the hospital.  I wanted to paint.  Back then I think I believed, if I painted the room the right color, if I did everything the doctors and therapists told me to do, The Boy could be "fixed."

It was my mother who said, the painting could wait.  And so, I went.

I spent the remainder of that summer, living and breathing ABA, OT, PT & Speech.  I spent my free time reading autism books and doing research.  I didn't call anyone and I didn't go anywhere other than work.  Thank goodness for Facebook - it was the only social interaction I had.    

Fast forward a few months later, maybe close to a year - the time frame is murky.

I get an email from my best friend, a 3 page letter.  

In the letter she pretty much told me what a horrible friend I had been.  How unsupportive I was during the months of her pregnancy and after she gave birth.  How I never called or made time for her.  How I didn't love her baby the way she loved mine.  In the letter she wrote how she did so much for me during my pregnancy.  How she rushed to the hospital the night I was induced.  How she worked so hard to plan my baby shower.  And how I failed to help make her shower favors.  How I failed to show up until the day after she gave birth.  How The Boy wasn't going to die from autism and neither was I.

A few emails went back and forth until I called her.  We cried.  We made up.  But our bond had been broken.  Too much had been said.  And even though I forgave.  I could not forget.  I found myself walking on eggshells whenever we spoke.  Our conversations were careful, cordial - neither one of us wanting to upset the other.  

For months I carried that letter with me.  And even after I threw it away.  I saved it in my yahoo inbox.  And I'd return to it.  Rereading it.  Dissecting every single sentence.  Reflecting on every single moment, she had mentioned in the letter.  Wondering if I was really that horrible of a person.  Wondering how long she had those feelings about me.  Wondering how I could salvage a 15+ year friendship.  Wondering why anyone would want to be friends with me at all.  I don't think anyone or anything has made me feel like I was the worst human being in the world.

And eventually, our friendship dissolved.  This Christmas came and went - no cards were exchanged.  Not even a Merry Christmas text.  

Do I miss her?  Of course.  Can we be friends the way were?  No.  It's taken a while for me to realize that I'm not a bad person.  She's not a bad person.  (I still think she's a really good person, amazing mother and a fabulous teacher - so please don't say anything against her here.) We're just not good together.  Just like some romantic relationships need to end, sometimes friendships need to end too.    

Not having her in my life hasn't been easy.  My mother asks for her.  My Madrina (godmother) asks for her.  The other night, a mutual friend asked if I heard from her.  But aside from people asking me about her.  I still think about her.  There are days, when I want to pick up the phone and call her.  And then I remember that letter.  And I put the phone down.  

And on those days, I go to her FB page - because that's the extent of our friendship - and look at pictures of her with her family.  But I don't comment.  I just like to look and see how big and beautiful her son is.  And for a few fleeting moments, I wonder if her son and mine could have been better friends to each other than the way we were.  

~~~
Whew...that was tough.  It's definitely one of those posts where I wish this blog was totally anonymous.  But I guess that's the whole point of "Pour Your Heart Out" with Shel.