Open Thoughts to My Daughters~

Luna, Kalina & Sabrina
(From left to right)

If I were to ever lose my sense of lucidity, I’d want my daughters to know that every lucid day of my life I doubted myself.  


I doubted my ability to be a good mother.  I doubted my ability to know the different between a happy day and a sad day because most days seemed like a struggle to me no matter what.  


That I would dream of the day that I would not give a damn about whether I scrubbed the toilet or hand washed their favorite dress because deep down inside of me, I knew that they wouldn’t care either way.  


I would want for them to know how I would often think of ways to make a difference without sacrificing my own needs but in the end, my needs were always sacrificed.  


I would want them to know that in the late hours of the night, I would walk into their bedroom and watch each of them sleep while listening to the cadence of their little breaths and I’d hold my own breath because the sight of them in slumber was so moving.   


I’d want them to see me for what I was to them and not for what others said I lacked or wasn’t good at.  I would want them to know that even when I needed to step out of the house because I’d be so overwhelmed with the noise, the neediness of them and the suffocating job of being a Mom, as soon as I was half a block away from the house, I would miss them terribly and would want to come rushing back home.  


I would also want for them to know that there were days that I wished I could’ve left altogether and hoped that they wouldn’t miss me.  


I would want them to know that I lived and breathed their very existence but that I questioned my own capability to live and breath in my own skin because motherhood is difficult, awareness is a challenge and loving them can sometimes drain you.  

I’d want them to know that the fact that they are my daughters was one of the reasons I told myself that I was bound to make mistakes, that they were bound to hate me, that I was bound to not like them sometimes, that they were bound to wish they had another Mom, that I was bound to cry myself to sleep from the guilt, that they were bound to always want to see me smile and while I did my very best to mother them with my entire existence, I knew that I’d sometimes fail and I’d also disappoint.  


But the one thing I knew for sure was that, I loved them to their core, no matter how much I doubted myself, no matter how drained I felt, no matter what time of day it was and no matter the amount of times I forgot to scrub the damn toilet because the toilet was crap compared to them.  


All my love,
Mommy~

I Lost It and Then I Cried...

Image via Tumblr

It took one little trigger.  A petty one at best.  She had left it right there, on the kitchen counter top among all the other things I had strewn all over it.  The 'Title' to her jalopy, my Mom's piece of crap jalopy.  "I gave it to you and you had it here, right here on the counter"  she told me.  "I don't loose things, I may be a bit scatter brained but I don't loose things" I stammered.  I felt my anxiety start to creep up my spine and into my nape as I continued pacing from my desk and back to the kitchen counter and back to my desk and back again and back and forth and back and forth trying to locate the effing jalopy Title so that she could go and junk it for $450.

My husband was trying to help me as I would continue repeating "I don't loose things."  Finally, my Mother resorted to trying to go and get a duplicate copy from a tag agency.  Within ten minutes she called us to let us know that is was going to cost $150 just for a simple duplicate.  My husband was on the phone with her and he asked her, once again, if she was absolutely SURE that she had left here with me, "Do you think that you took it home?" he asked her.  She was positive that she gave it to me and I did remember that but again, I don't loose things.  Is anyone listening to me?! 


Within the time of the searching and the pacing and the doubting of myself, I inevitably started to blame my husband for me not having my desk organized, papers filed away, bills paid on time, bags of documents and crap that need shredding because I am simply OVERWHELMED and tired and up to my chin in responsibilities and never being able to get ahead and worrying way too much about others and tired of the bullshit that others bring into my life because they don't know what a day in my life is...!

I lost it, the Title.  I lost it, my temper.  I lost it, my need to keep it together.  I lost it, my sense of worth.  I yelled and I insulted and I took it out on the closest person in my proximity that I show this raw, broken down side to, my husband.

Five minutes after ALL that, my Mother called him and told him that she had found the Title sitting on her dresser and that she was so sorry to have put me through that.  Then I cried...


'Experience is simply the name we give our mistakes.- Oscar Wilde~

Shhh...Don't Wake The Kids!

Image via Mia

'Hurry up!', 'Shhh!', 'Wait, did you hear something?', 'Let's do it in the garage' are all statements that my husband and I have used, more than once, when we've wanted to get our freak on.  If you have kids, you know exactly what I'm talking about and you also know what a challenge it can be to sometimes simply have sex with your significant other.  But there is ALWAYS a way to make it happen.  This isn't a preachy little tale of 'All the ways you can have more sex even when you've got kids' (and I hate it when that type of unsolicited advice comes rolling off the tongues of 'those' individuals) so I'll simply skip to the nitty gritty and share MY experiences with you.

We have thee children (duh, we knew that!) so when it comes to, as my darling husband likes to put it, 'sexy time', we have to get creative (sometimes).  It wasn't always this way but in the past 'almost' uh, nine years of our marriage, we've had to adjust to changes of all kinds.  First it was the 'Do we do it with the baby sleeping in our bed?' Now this was probably the BIGGEST question of all the instances.  Did we have sex with our infant sleeping in our bed?  The answer is, YES! And? Yes, we did and it was perfectly fine.  First because she was 1) asleep, 2) an oblivious infant (do they KNOW you're having sex? NO!), and 3) we have a King sized bed ;)  This was our method with daughter number one.  Of course sometimes we'd end up having our little intimate moments in the baby's nursery and that's exactly where we conceived daughter number two.  Yes, she was conceived on a plush, round pink and cream colored with elephants all around it Pottery Barn Kids rug.  Oh please! I'm sure that there are other 'weirder' places that you've done it.  Come on now! At least we can tell her that her conception was 'elephantastic'!

So once baby number two came around, and I was nursing an infant and a twenty month old toddler and co-sleeping with BOTH of them, my husband and I took our 'sexy time' to other parts of the house, i.e, the shower, the living room, the kids room, the floor in our bedroom, well, you get the picture.  We took advantage of any given space in our home.  It's just what these parents did to have some alone time!

Then we decided that it was time to shoot for baby number three after number two turned two.  While our first two daughters slept soundly and cozily in our King sized bed, hubby and I schlepped our baby making selves over to the living room and under a brilliantly bright full moon peering through the large picture window and us on a lime green modern styled couch, our baby number three was conceived.  Once number three was born, our first two were sleeping in their own room so we were back to square one and yes, we did have sex with our infant in our bed and again, it was perfectly fine.  She was never smothered, or bumped, or awoken, or scared, or EVER noticed a thing.

We adjusted our intimate time according to our children's ages and have done the very best we could under each circumstance.  Now that our third daughter is three years old, we don't do and won't do anything with her in our bed because I know that it would not be a pleasant sight for her and it's just inappropriate at this impressionable age. If she happens to be in our bed sleeping then we either put her back in her own little bed or we leave and go do our thing somewhere else.  

They each sleep in one room together in their respective beds and my husband and I finally have our King sized bed to ourselves, well, at least until 3am because that's when number three comes stumbling in half awake with her curls bouncing all over the place and nuzzles her way onto my side of the bed.  I'm always happy to hear her little feet clapping on the tile during this time.  I welcome her every time and hold her close to me because I know that one day I'll be wishing to have one more moment like this.   In the meantime, hubby and I have zero qualms having to raise the TV volume to 50 in the event we have the worry about saying, 'shhh....don't wake the kids!'  because for some reason, they never wake up to a loud TV.  Just our luck!

'What a happy and holy fashion it is that those who love one another should rest on the same pillow'-Nathaniel Hawthorne

Gentle hands communicate...

Hands image via BlackCanvas

My husband is in pain.  His pain is tiring and debilitating and frustrating.  But he's connected to his body probably more so because he is a Chiropractor.  He honors the power of touch, the power of hands, the power of communication through the hands.  Our hands hold light and energy and words that one cannot express with the voice.  Chiropractors envelop their art through the use of their hands to heal and hear what the body is saying.

This morning, our daughter Luna walked up to her Daddy, still sleepy eyed and shuffling her her bare feet as he was slumped over beside me on the cold, quartz counter with a discomfort in his back that started out of nowhere, as I drank my coffee.   Luna came and placed her little, delicate and gentle hand over his back.  She didn't speak but she knew that her gentle touch would somehow communicate something powerful to him.  To his pain.  To his discomfort.  To his energy.  She rubbed his back slowly and placed her forehead on his arm and stayed there, comforting him.  Her hands were communicating something more powerful to him than "Does your back hurt, Daddy?"  


Sometimes a simple touch to let someone know that you understand, can feel their pain, that you care, that you love them, that you can 'hear' the discomfort without an exchange of words just may be what we need to feel validated, refreshed, renewed, appreciated, loved and understood.  A gentle act of communicating through the hands with a touch of one's shoulder, one hand placed over another in sympathy or joy or simply to 'say' I'm here, here for you is better medicine for the soul, better for the heart, better for one's own existence and oftentimes simply better for the world as a whole.

Today I want you to communicate something beautiful, magical, mysterious and moving by using your hands to 'speak' your love for someone, your empathy for someone's pain (be it emotionally or physical), your understanding of the human condition.  Remember that your hands are the first things you extend to the world to either embrace a loved one, introduce yourself, make amends, accept a promotion, accept a demotion, accept a hard earned degree, hold your baby for the very first time, to release a dove and to sometimes cup a child's innocent face and tell them that you love them.

Your hands communicate what you cannot put into words...vj

As you grow older you will discover that you have two hands, one for helping yourself, the other for helping others- Audrey Hepburn~ 

Fucked up or not we're family after all!

Image courtesy of Flickr (psycho_pixie)

Hesitant.  Ambivalent.  Wary.  These were the feelings rushing through my existence this past weekend.  Why?, you ask.  Because all of those tags were directly related to my maternal family.  Before I had a moment to realize what was in store for the weekend, I was faced with having to:  Re-unite.  Re-connect.  Re-discover (in a way).  The interesting part would be that I would be pleasantly surprised at the turn of events.  Here's an in a 'nut shell' break down of my Mother's past.

My Mom is one of ten children. She was born in 1955 (1 Brother deceased since 2005).  My Mother's Father (I don't regard him as my Grandpa because he barely knows my name, nevertheless, which kid of his kid's I belong to-I'm not bitter...), according to my Mother, was barely there for his children.  He was known as 'the beater' or severe authoritative parent because he worked too much and loved too little, except when he'd get his submissive wife (my Mom's Mom) knocked-up year after year with little to no breaks in between child births.  So my Mom was child number seven and the first girl after six boys so she inevitably became "Daddy's Little Girl" (sort of).  When her Father wasn't whipping them with a cherry branch, he was probably making one of his son's kneel on sand paper while holding two brick blocks in either hand for hours on end.  Her Father considers himself a 'Man of God' because after all, your terrible sins will be wiped clean no matter how much damage you've caused your child. Right?  So all ten children grew up but they were ALL undoubtedly *fucked up*.  Don't worry, my Mother is the FIRST one to attest to this fact.  So let's fast forward to 2011...

I attended a BBQ in honor of a 'mini-reunion' hosted and coordinated by one of the ten siblings.  There were hugs and kisses and new dentures to admire and 'My how you've grown!' statements tossed around and belly laughs and chuckles that gave me and the others stomach cramps.  It was fun.  It was different.  It was an unusually small gathering which was nice for a change.  My Mom's Dad admired my three little girls and nervously mentioned how 'she looks like you when you were little' while I smiled at his statement and thought, how in the world would you remember?  But I carried on and engaged with the family, my family, my blood, my Mother's past and my present.  It was peculiar and amazing all at once.  Sharing a gathering with someone (Mom's Dad) whom had never cared to spend any time with his children and now grandchildren and great-grandchildren.  He's 92 years old now.  So strange...


My pleasant surprise would not reveal itself until I initiated a conversation with one of my Uncles.  It started like "So, how have you been, Tio (spanish for Uncle)?" and we'd carry on for what would seem to be hours but in all reality was probably just forty-five minutes.  We'd talk about his past and his pain.  We'd talk about my past and my pain.  We'd both share our sexual abuse stories.  We'd cry together, hug each other, listen, cry some more, and hug some more.  He'd finally tell me that all his siblings are fucked up and that every single one of them were, to some degree, abused.  Suddenly, I'd get to see a glimpse of him.  The un-jaded, unscathed, trauma free little boy still trapped inside of him.  That same little boy was screaming and asking for help for love and compassion.  I would then look at him and tell him, 'I see YOU.  I see that beautiful loving, sweet you and I love him.'  He'd confide some terrible truths of his past and how he was never loved by his Father and how his Mother had too many children to give her undivided attention to.  Then of course, my conversation would be interrupted by one of my children telling me that her sister poked her cheek and said "I don't like you!"  But then I would have another opportunity to share the glimpse of beauty and rawness I saw in my Uncle during our heartfelt conversation just moments before.

After the dinner, some family members would go around speaking a few words.  Words of appreciation. Words of delight.  Words of thankfulness that we could share this short but special moment together.  My Mother would inevitably cry and not be able to utter a single word, just sniffles and moist eyes.  That same Uncle's turn would snake it's way around the long table and he'd turn down the moment to speak.  He'd simply lower his head and be silent.  Then I'd stand up and decide that I would speak for that Uncle of mine.   I'd share with everyone present that he 'is a special man that is full of love and full of life.' I'd mention how him and I have a common thread and how in the most unlikely of places and moments little glimpses would reveal themselves and how 'I saw HIM and his beauty.  And that 'in spite of our flaws, and differences and complicated lives, the one constant reminder is that we are family.  We are raw, not perfect but simply real.'  


Because, fucked up or not we're family after all!


Happy families are all alike; every unhappy family is unhappy in its own way. -L. Tolstoy from Anna Karenina, Ch. 1, first line

  

ANNOUNCEMENT!

I'd like to officially announce the 'birth' of 'Voice It-To Stop Childhood Sexual Abuse' via voiceitplease(dot)blogspot(dot)com  Please visit this new blog and show your support to my cause to VOICE Sexual Abuse.

This is a rampant issue that needs to be SPOKEN and SHARED.  Victims can come forward either anonymously or openly to share their stories of sexual abuse.  You can e-mail your story to me at vjubis@gmail.com  Please let me know if you wish to remain anonymous in your sharing.  I will ALWAYS honor your anonymity if you so choose.  This form of abuse not only affects the victim but everyone in that person's life as well.

Again, thank YOU for your support, encouragement and STORIES!

Openly and gratefully,
Vanessa Jubis 

"Be the change you want to see in the world" -Mahatma Gandhi

Doing...the speck dance

Image via Google

This morning I woke up to a long trail of teensy-weensy black ants that were deliberately trailing in a very straight line from my kitchen garbage can, down the step to the living room and back out through the side crack of the rear door of the house.  I watched them for a while.  I kinda just stood there, half awake and half contemplating whether I should go pee or walk to my desk, pull out the checkbook and write out the overdue mortgage payment.  But there I was, standing, watching and completely mesmerized at the idea that I was this ginormous thing starring down on these little specks of an 'ant' working along and doing what they do in their world.   So off I went to do my own speck dance and left the ants there because it was just too damn early to engage in THAT much housework.

This idea of constant movement, dealing with life itself is tiring.  The thought brings me back to a blog post I wrote back in 2009 right here on Mama Scribble, 'We're all just specks...  Thanks to a video one of my MANY Sister's shared with me last night, she got my thought process jogging.  Thanks M!

What is it about us having to DO so much?  I know I'm not the only person 'doing' something at any given moment.  What I mean is that I'm not alone in my need or obligation to do this or that and believe you me, it doesn't always entail things that are remotely pleasurable.  You know, like having to spray, wipe, spray, wipe my cheeky Pomeranian's piss on the tile floor because the thunder scared the crap out of her (no pun intended.) Or the lift, dump, spray and rinse my three year old's little adorable lime green potty seat.  No, not the most pleasant of tasks but I must DO them, nevertheless.

We're all just doing the speck dance! That's what I like to call it (it places some perspective in my own little world here).  Now don't think this is some kind of epiphany of mine, heck NO! It simply is what it is.  We worry too much, we enjoy too little and we can never find the right anything to sit back and say 'Ah, now this, this I like...'  

It's true, if you look at the grand scheme of things, we're just these tiny specks in this immensely large Universe and we're doing the speck dance, i.e., running around doing errands, trying to live an 'authentic life', tapping into our 'higher consciousness', worrying about mundane things, hurting those we love, making a difference, making dreams come true and squashing others, preaching our religion to the world, expressing a compassionate side, thinking that two wrongs make a right, expressing our passions without any restraints, loving everything we surround ourselves with, dropping an issue and picking up another, severing relationships, falling in love, killing our children, advocating our 'truths', being human, making mistakes, living in 'denial', being outspoken, kowtowing to man and woman, correcting a wrongdoing, healing our wounds, writing our own bullshit on a blog (LOL!), yada, yada, yada and everything else in between.

There is no perfect anything.  We create what we want when we want it and while there are many things out of our immediate control, there are simple things that we can make matter most.  I don't need to list them or point them out because we all have different truths, different priorities and very different lives in general.  Sure, there are similarities that we may share and common interests and what not but we are ALL unique in the grand scheme of things.

I'm no better than anyone else out there and vice versa.  Vanessa is a human being that makes a TON of mistakes, says the wrong things, comes down on herself, contemplates a little too much, is severely obsessed with cleanliness and tidiness, blames herself FIRST, is never a 'good enough' Mom, pencils in time to have more sex with her husband for always being so fucking exhausted, yells a tad bit too much when overwhelmed, sometimes wishes she could run away for twelve hours straight and would hope that no one would miss her,  is a trapped poet struggling to pen her words, is REALLY scared of the dark (no joke!) and cries in her car when she's completely alone BUT with all of those things (and much too much to list here) she also picks herself right back up and continues to do the speck dance because that's what we do here on planet Earth.

Openly,
Vanessa~ 


The miracle is not to fly in the air, or to walk on the water, but to walk on the earth.- Chinese Proverb

Hey now, let your hair down...

Just as I was walking toward the living room with my daily 'hair tools' in hand (2 brushes-one for detangling and the other for smoothing, a spray water bottle, a tube of leave in conditioner and of course, the hair accessories), Sabrina (my eldest) sees me approaching and asks me for the umpteenth time, "Mommy, please just make ONE ponytail, pleeease..."  

Okay, so the hair issue in this household is indeed an 'issue' because let's face it, there is a ton of hair to brush and fix and braid or two and make the best of times THREE.  Three different hair textures, three different hair colors, three different hair styles and three different voices saying, 'Ouchie!', 'Hurry up, Mom!' or 'Can I paint my hair purple today?'  It's quite a sight!  Now mind you, I make it a 'point' to brush their hair out with as much leave in conditioner in order to avoid the complaints that I may be pulling their hair.  Yeah, sure! They STILL complain.  Of course they do!  It's a no win situation for me.   Then comes the Mommy 'guilt trip tone' of, 'Girls, you know MY Mom didn't make gentle brushing of my hair, she would brush my curly hair out DRY, so ZIP it and sit STILL!'  Then follows the lip pouting and the crossing of the arms and the furrowed eyebrows to which I simply leave it at that, oh and maybe a deep inhale in through my already flaring nostrils will finish it off.  So I continue to brush and braid or tie up.    

Now that we're on the hair issue, something quite interesting came about my own Hair Story.  Here goes:

On July 6th I had a conversation with my husband about my state of happiness (for most of my life).  I had written this update on my facebook page that day:

I have more sad days than happy days and not because my life isn't meaningful but rather because life is simply complex and don't think that I have all my things in order because on the outside I'm all dolled up but on the inside I hurt and I struggle with things you could not imagine but I keep on living because the one thing that never fails me is my beating heart and my will to do the best I can... vj

Hubby was concerned and somewhat sad himself that my life had been so difficult to the point that I was numb to what real happiness 'could be.'  But I assured him that he didn't have to worry too much because for so long I had been used to this emotion and I was ok with it.  I gave him a kiss, told him that I loved him and went to bed.  He stayed up and thought...

That night I had the dream:  

I dreamt that I faced my abuser.  I was in a large house with many people, I believe that it was a gathering or party of some kind.  Intuitively, I feel that it was the gathering of my courage, strength and determination and everyone there were my witnesses.  I remember feeling a rush of energy and courage that took over my entire body (very similar to the feeling when you're about to give birth) when I spotted him in the room.  I simply stared at him, stoically.  My eyes followed him around the room but my head did not move.  He looked over and saw me starring at him and with his condescending grin he said, "So this is how you say 'hello' to your Father?"  I immediately mustered up some serious moxie and took heavy, deliberate steps toward him and in my strongest, loudest and matter of fact voice I responded, "You are NOT my Father.  You NEVER were my Father and you NEVER will be.  You're NOT bigger than me.  I have a VOICE and YOU are the one that needs to know that the way you abused me DID NOT break me.  I'm bigger now and my VOICE is STRONGER.  You are FULL of SHAME and GUILT, NOT me."  The cacophony of the room broke and all was silent and all eyes were on him and he shrank.  Then I woke up. 

On July 7th I woke up feeling different.  I felt empowered and determined and ready to change Vanessa.  Later that afternoon I made an appointment to get my hair done.  Then I sent a text message to my hairdresser telling him that I wanted to cut my hair to ear length.  I was going to go from mid back length to ear length.  I told no one that I was going to make a drastic change.  He asked me to come in that same day to get my hair done, I was excited! I walked in the salon ready to change my appearance.  I was ready to do something to cut away anything that was weighing me down and while I didn't realize it at the time, my hair was a symbolic way of me shedding the trapped 'little girl' that was carrying around the burden of the sexual abuse pain.  I had never cut my hair so short but for some mysterious and magical reason, I knew that the shortest length was what I needed.  Camilo (my hairdresser) chopped off the long ponytail I had tied back and I immediately felt a release of some sort.  I had striped that 'girl' away and I had finally become the 'woman' I always knew I was.  Removing my 'girl' hair was pivotal in my 'voicing' my story and feeling this release and change.  I thank my dream for this wisdom, for this opportunity to face my 'fear' and to finally leave behind the suffering child (hair and all) but not her VOICE.   

Cutting my hair off and freeing the trapped child...

A dear friend told me that my new hair has attitude, a bold confidence and a renewed sense to my being.  Thank you, Kamala for helping me channel this insight.  I feel changed and forever empowered.  

Hair carries a symbolic meaning in my life.  Hair is the representation of who you are.  Your hair is what you carry around and show off to the world and in some interesting way your hair carries a story, be it positive or negative or whatever it means to you.  

My hair has power.  My hair gives me a sense of grounded self and a notion of something bigger than me.  I love my hair and I hope you love yours too because at the end of the day when you let your hair down (or not), it is a part of you and what you feel inside that makes it beautiful.  


Openly,
Vanessa~


Forget not that the earth delights to feel your bare feet and the winds long to play with your hair.- 
Kahlil Gibran~

Sisters...

My four maternal sisters at my wedding 2003
(left to right)
Melissa, Michelle, Me, Carie & Mercy

I have three Daughters.  Yes, THREE Daughters!  And, so?  Um-hm! Oh please tell us, Vanessa, what does that mean?  Three Daughters basically means that I have three of everything to deal with.  Three times the whining.  Three times the bickering.  Three times the, Mom! (So and So) touched me!, Mom! (So and So) looked at me!, Mom! (So and So) put a booger in my hair! Three times the girly-girl, life is coming to a stand still, hold the phone, what just happened?, DRAMA.  Period.

Daughters are lovely, and sweet and adorable and all but they are also SO very emotionally draining.  When they're not arguing in the background of my husband and I trying to watch a flick, they're whacking each other over the head because someone tore the head off the other's Polly Pocket.

The dynamic of three little girls is nothing less than, Oh my fucking goodness! What the hell did I get into?!  Seriously, I feel like this often because it's almost surreal to witness the amount of high intensity and sheer panic these little darlings emit in less than twenty seconds flat! UNREAL!

Okay, okay, all the drama aside, these three little girls of mine are true Sisters.  It's the law of Sisters, I suppose.  You know, to fight, to argue, to yell at to then make up, laugh again, hug each other and love one another no matter what.  It's what they do.  It's how they live with one another.  It's how they love each other day after day in spite of the bickering and yelling and the tearing off of each others Polly Pocket doll heads.  I get it.

I have Sisters.  I have MANY Sisters.  I have four Sisters on my Mother's side and two Sisters on my Father's side.  Yes, you read that correctly, no lie.  Please, do explain, Vanessa... 

Well, it goes a little like this:  My Mother had two gorgeous little girls before me (I'm Daughter #3 on my Mom's side).  But I was Daughter #1 on my Father's side.  Follow?  So my Mother had me (her #3) and then another Daughter (her #4) and then another Daughter (her #5).  That covers Mom!

After I was born and my parents divorced, my Father went on to have a Son (his #2) and a Daughter (his #3) with his second marriage.  Then he got divorced (AGAIN), re-married and had two more after that, a Son (his #4) and a Daughter (his #5).  Did I lose you, because I may have lost my train of thought already?! But this is about Sisters! Okay, so, as I was saying...Basically, I'm the only child between my Mother and Father.  Here comes the BUT...But I have a relationship with at least four of the six Sisters I have.  Gee, isn't that nice! 

It's a little complicated because not all of them live in the same city or State as me.  Having so many siblings from different Fathers and Mothers makes things a little wacky, nevertheless.  I obviously wasn't raised with all of them (especially my Mother's first two) but that's a whole other story.  I was raised with my Mother's #4 and partially with her #5 (until she was two years old).  I never really felt like I had a real sibling because we never shared the same Father.  It's kind of a big deal having the same Mom but not the same Dad because there are so many disparities between the siblings.  It's difficult to explain.

In any case, having so many Sisters is interesting but difficult at the same time.  Why difficult?  If it were up to me, I would have extremely close relationships with ALL of them.  I've tried and I've failed miserably.  I would want to share my entire life with them without any emotional barriers.  The fact is, we all come with our own set of traumas and issues and bias'.  It's what comes with being partly related as Sisters.  I want to feel like I can count on any of them.  I probably feel like I can partly count on one or two of them, if that.  I love them all.  I miss them all and I wish that I could simply be a true Sister just like my own Daughters are with each other.

In the meantime, I'll continue to work on the relationships I have with the ones that try to have one with me.  I will always be open to the others because I have nothing keep and everything to share...

To all of my Sisters (M, M, C, M, L, A), I love you, I'm here and I will always be...

Openly,
Vanessa 


A sister is a gift to the heart, a friend to the spirit, a golden thread to the meaning of life.- 
Isadora James~

Think

I think that people that read my post on my 'childhood sexual abuse' were in shock.  Not so much that it 'happened' to me (I think) but that I chose to share it with the world.  Okay, yes, my story isn't the worst that people have heard or perhaps read about but it's still a true story told by the adult that the little innocent child lives inside of.  

My post created a wave of people who came forward, shared their stories (some for the very first time!) and supported my desire to 'voice' my story.  These stories make you think.  They make you think about all the people out there that haven't come forward.  Think about all the ways that these people are afraid.  Think about how they think that they have done something wrong or worse, that it's their fault that this has happened to them.  Think about that.  

Think about the little child that has no one to turn to because they are afraid that they will be called a 'liar', a 'bad person', a 'sick person' or whatever else you want to tag on to that statement.  Now think about the parent(s) of that child.  The parents that would never do something like this to their very own child.  Think about how they feel when the learn that their sweet, innocent, loving child has been violated in such a way.  I can only think that this is an awful reality.  Also think about those children that are hurt by their very own parent, not step-parent but their biological parent.  This thought is stomach turning, heart wrenching and simply horrific.  However you slice it, the thought of all these images is painful, pitiful and fucked up.  

I've since been thinking of the many ways that we can do something to help this atrociously rampant issue of Childhood Sexual Abuse.  It's simple.  Talk about it.  Share it.  Voice it.  Be a tool in this fight.  Think of all the ways that one more story will make a different.  Think of how loud that voice will be if you let it be heard.  I've thought of this. So while you may have read my story, you may have commented on it, you may have mentioned it to one or two or ten or twenty people, you can also become a part of this mission to voice it and help one more person down their healing journey.  I will be creating an organization apart from this blog where abused victims can come and 'voice' their stories either anonymously or openly.  It will be called 'Voice It' and it will allow individuals the opportunity to start healing.  This is in the early stages of development but I will gladly keep you abreast of further advances.  

We all have something to share in this world and if you've found it, more power to you.  This issue of Childhood Sexual Abuse is all around me and so avoiding it is not an option for me.  Voicing it will only fuel the pendulum to swing higher than it already has.  I can only thank all the people that have come forward so far and all the ones that have shared their stories with me.  Thank you again for all of your support.  

Openly,

Vanessa Jubis

If you can dream it, you can do it.- Walt Disney~

A Breech Birth Story...Guest post by Isa Ruiz Marino

Hello MamaScribble readers! Today I bring to you a guest post by an amazing woman, mother and friend. Her name is Isa Ruiz Marino.  Here she shares her incredible 'Breech Birth' story for you to know the profound power that words can have on us all including those about to enter this world.  Enjoy!

“We drove an hour for YOU!”
The 52-hour Journey of our Breech Birth- by Isa Ruiz Marino

Here we are...a place I hoped we’d never be... it’s 3:30am and time to discuss a hospital transfer...

I’ve been out of the birthing pool for just over two hours and am laying on our couch wrapped in all the towels and blankets we could find. I’m freezing cold and shivering as I hear my midwife say, “It’s time to discuss the options”. We had previously selected a specific hospital for transfer - if needed - but that no longer seems to be our best option so we run down a list of nearby hospitals. The house suddenly turns into a command center. Both of my midwives and my doula are walking around the 1st floor of our townhouse calling hospitals to see who is on-call and how they will handle my case.

You see...I’m breech. Well, my baby is breech and I’ve been in labor for 48 hours now. I’m seven centimeters and entering transition as we decide to make the transfer. All the nearby hospitals say they will do an automatic C-section if I’m brought in but I don’t want a C-section...I know I can deliver my baby vaginally even with a breech presentation. The midwives begin calling OBs directly. They know of one female OB in the area that will allow moms to deliver vaginally for breech presentations but she says she won’t take me because it’s my first baby. The odds are against me. It isn’t looking like I’ll be able to deliver vaginally after all. I’ve worked so hard these past two days to get to where I am and can’t believe I’ll have to be cut. The feelings of defeat begin to set in. There is one more possibility though. It’s a male OB that is in another county. It’s an hour drive to get to him. We make the call and wake him. I’m not expecting him to say anything different than the others but within a few minutes my midwife enters my living room and says, “He’ll take you! I told him you were breech and wanted to deliver vaginally and he said to bring you in.” Thank you God! Off we go...
It’s after 4am and my midwife is driving at the head of the pack. We’re on the Florida Turnpike with a general idea of where the hospital is. We’re relying on her memory for what exit to take. My husband is driving me and my parents are following us. Behind them is my doula. It’s a four-car caravan in the middle of the night driving north for my last chance to deliver our baby naturally.

Surprisingly, I remember most of the drive. My pain is more intense and constant than it has been. I’m shivering cold and telling my husband to turn off the a/c one minute and taking everything off and asking for the a/c colder the next. I can’t get comfortable. I ask him to slow down. Each and every bump makes the contractions all the more difficult to manage. I’m screaming in pain. I’m in and out of sleep the entire ride.

My parents must think I’m crazy. I didn’t prepare them for this. They don’t know that there’s plenty of time before the baby arrives. They must be scared that I’ll have the baby in the middle of the road. I had told them I’d go to the nearest hospital if I needed a transfer. That hospital is a three-minute drive from my house to the emergency room entrance. But I can’t go there. I can’t walk in there knowing that I won’t be given a chance to birth my baby. I have to make this journey to the one place where I have a shot at a natural birth.

About an hour later we arrive at the hospital and I am admitted. The OB enters my room and does an internal exam to check how I’m doing. I’m still seven centimeters. He then announces, “This is an automatic C-section”. In that moment the last bit of hope that I had remaining of delivering my baby naturally disappeared...
~
Over forty-eight hours ago my mucus plug released and my contractions started at six minutes apart. I wasn’t expecting it to happen like that. I know plenty of women who lose their mucus plug and don’t go into labor for days or even a week. I settle into the couch downstairs and keep timing the contractions to be sure this is the real thing before I wake anyone up. It’s 4am and I’m certain I’ll meet my baby within this day.

Two hours later, my contractions are going strong and are now about four minutes apart. I wake my husband with the good news and text my midwife to give her a heads up. I begin what turns into a marathon of vomiting. My contractions continue. My midwife and doula come by. Halfway through the day I am one centimeter dilated and 100% thinned. Seems unreal but I know better than to let the actual number disappoint me. It could be worse so I take it in as progress.
My midwife leaves to return later in the day. My doula stays. I ride out the contractions sitting on my recliner with my husband on his knees in front of me. The warmth of his hands on my thighs alleviates my pain more than he can understand. I sleep if only for a few seconds between each contraction. My midwife returns. Time passes. I shower. It’s nighttime. This should do it. I am more or a night person anyway. I’ll feel more relaxed and make good progress once the sun is down and I’m surrounded by darkness. We all spend this first night together as my contractions continue. The TV is on and although I am not focused on it, I am relieved that it is helping the time pass for everyone else. Everyone (except for me) takes a few hours to nap. In the morning, I am three centimeters - progress but a long way to go still. My midwife and doula leave for several hours. My husband is exhausted. I decide to call my mom and ask her to come stay with me while everyone rests. I don’t tell her over the phone that I’ve been in labor for over 24 hours already but she suspects something is going on.

I continue to vomit and feel tremendous strain as I get every bit of liquid bile out of my stomach. The next time I go to the bathroom I see a dark colored discharge that I hadn’t seen before. I’m concerned it may be meconium. I call my midwife. My other midwife is closer to my home and gets here quicker to check my discharge. It is meconium. My contractions continue. My mom spends the day with me while I continue to labor. She leaves in the early evening to return later on with my father who stays upstairs without my ever seeing him. Nighttime arrives for a second time as my midwife and my doula return. All are present now along with my husband who was able to get some rest upstairs. They are concerned about the marathon vomiting and are trying to get me to drink and eat as much as I can keep down. I manage to keep down some drinks and miso soup but only temporarily.

My pain is increasing. The sleep I’ve gotten between each contraction over the last day and a half gives me the stamina to continue. But the pain is increasing and I need to try something else. I ask for my birthing pool. My husband and doula prepare the water. I get in. It is absolutely magical! I am so happy to be in the water. I am so impressed with how much pain relief it provides. I enjoy this stage of my birthing process as much as one can while experiencing the mounting contractions. My contractions intensify and my body temperature begins to fluctuate. This was one of my concerns (the other was fear of having a migraine during labor). As a thyroid cancer survivor, my body’s temperature tends to fall lower than normal. I am hot from the birthing pool but my entire body is shivering.

I have been in the birthing pool for some time now and it looks like my midwives feel things are moving along. I hear them preparing for the birth. They start to set up the table with all the birthing supplies they will need when the baby is born. My midwife wants to check me again while I’m still in the water. I am five centimeters. Five centimeters! Five centimeters...unreal. I have the stamina to continue. I’m not giving up. But I become aware of the time. I see that we are about to hit the 48-hour mark. And I start to worry about what that means...

My emotions begin to speak. Internally, I call upon every woman that has ever birthed naturally. I ask for their support, their wisdom, their guidance and their presence. I call upon the spirit world to give me the strength that I need in this moment. I find myself getting upset as I silently scream for help. I hear myself saying, “Where are you?” as if the generations of women birthers had forgotten to come for me. I call on my own birth experience as I was born weighing almost 12 pounds to a five-foot mother who birthed me without drugs or interventions. It’s in my genes! I can do this! And as I am going through this catharsis internally, my baby’s heart rate starts to rise.
I am no longer in the comfort of the birthing pool. I am cold, wet and shivering wrapped in all the towels and blankets we own laying on the couch as I hear the words I never wanted to hear. “It’s time to discuss the options”. Options, what options? I don’t want options. I want to birth my baby. That’s my only option. But I trust my midwife wholeheartedly. She didn’t use the words but I know if she is saying this then it really is time to discuss a transfer. And a hospital transfer is what we do at 4:30 in the morning just over 48 hours from the time my contractions started on that early Tuesday morning.
~
It’s now almost 6am on Thursday morning and my one last chance at a vaginal delivery has just announced that I should be given an automatic C-section. You see my baby is not just breech but a bit transverse. My
water has broken and I have meconium present. I’ve been vomiting for days and apparently I broke a fever on the drive up. My baby’s heart rate continues to reach peaks that are too high and begins to plunge below the norm and let’s get real...I’ve been in labor for two days now and am still at seven centimeters.

As the sound of the word “C-section” rolls off the OB’s lips I hear my husband’s voice. He’s speaking with full certainty and with a clarity that I’ve never before heard from him. He says to the OB, “We drove an hour for YOU!” My heart stops. My leg kicks my husband. I’m not breathing. I’m thinking, “Shut up!” Such few words but so much is implied. I’m even begin to feel fear. I think it’s because I don’t want my husband to lose his temper with the OB. I think it’s because I don’t want this OB to be upset with us since we need him on our side. But the truth is that those words solidified our destiny. What I felt was the power of those words and how in that split second my life took the path that I was born to take...

The OB didn’t skip a beat. He said “OK, let’s see what she can do” and left the room. He too must have felt the power of those words. By now my concept of time is nonexistent. All I know is that I’m in the hospital room with my husband, midwife and doula. The hospital nurse also comes in and out. She insists I lay on my back. I beg to be able to sit up. My midwife turns me on my side. I’m no longer vomiting but the pain is unbearable. I’m hardly awake. All I remember is darkness and the voices of my birth team. They say I’m doing great but deep inside I am waiting for my C-section. You see I begin to believe that it’s over. It’s not so much that I believe that I can’t do it but I feel the C-section knocking at my door. It’s in the air. It’s seducing me and I surrender to it – emotionally I give in.

The OB returns and I’m eight centimeters now. I fall back to sleep and don’t hear if there is a decision made. More and more time passes as I wait. I’m confused. Why are my husband, midwife and doula encouraging me? Why do they want me to keep bringing my breath and energy down? Why do they want me to keep laboring? Don’t they know I’m having a C-section? Don’t they feel the devastation that I’m feeling? Aren’t they in as much disbelief as I am in? I’m awake for so little time between contractions that I can’t ask them why they are saying all those things to me. I remain confused and continue waiting to be taken away to the OR.

I manage to get some words out and ask the infamous “How many more?” referring to contractions. I know there is no answer but I can’t help asking. I hear the OBs voice pierce through the darkness “Do you want an epidural?” Before I even get a chance to consider, he says “No? Ok.” It’s as if he doesn’t want me to have one. He asked but wasn’t really offering. That’s interesting. And why did he say No? Don’t I need one for my C- section? I fall back to sleep before I can think this through.
~
I’m lying on my left side facing my husband and midwife. They are holding my hand and touching my thigh. I see their faces go blank. I feel the fear that just came over them. I suspect it has something to do with what I just felt. I see them staring at the external monitor - there is no heartbeat. I know what has happened and do my best to get the words out. My baby’s heart didn’t stop. I look at my midwife and say “I PUSHED! I can’t not push! I HAVE to PUSH!”
It was such a divine feeling. My body had to push. It wasn’t mental or even physical. It was divine. I was moved by spirit to push. My body knew exactly when and how. It was time for my baby to be born...
Because of the baby’s breech position I knew I’d be checked again. Everyone had made it clear that they needed to be certain that I was a full 10 centimeters before pushing to avoid the baby’s head getting trapped once the body had come through butt and feet first. A possible complication with breech births since the head is bigger than the body. The hospital nurse checks me but neither my husband nor my midwife feel confident with her so we wait for my OB. My contractions stop and in those moments I feel a rush of life and absolute ecstasy come through me. After all we’ve been through, after giving in emotionally to a C-section, after more than two days of natural labor...the moment was finally here. I was going to PUSH my baby out!

About seven minutes later, at 7:55am on Thursday morning, I gave birth to a baby boy weighing 5 lbs. 14 ounces and measuring 19 inches long. He was born in front of an audience. Seems that the rumors had spread across the hospital that there was going to be a vaginal delivery of a breech presentation and the hospital staff wanted to witness something they thought they’d never see. My husband recalls hearing a few of them say “She’s going to do it natural? But they didn’t teach us natural birth for breech presentations in medical school!” to which he responded, “Watch her do it”. And that I did. Our son came out butt cheek, foot and testicle first. A strange sight indeed but a true testament to all that birth can be when allowed to take its natural raw course.

My son is about to turn 1 and is as healthy and as full of life as can be. Over this first year of his life I have come to fully understand the power of those words my husband spoke. Those words that he spoke for me when I couldn’t speak them for myself. Those words that set us on course for a natural vaginal delivery when we came as close as one can possibly come to getting a C-section. It was those words that paved the way for me to slip right through the massive “C-section Net” that catches so many of us. It was those very words that saved me. Not just from getting a C-section but also from losing a piece of myself that I know I’d never get back. Had I ended up with a C-section that day an essential piece of me would have died on that operating table. You may not understand but I know I would have lost the very piece that makes me who I am. I would not have been aligned with what I know to be truth. The self-betrayal would have cut so deeply that I would have remained wounded for life far deeper than the scar I would have had on my abdomen. I would have been changed in a way so profoundly that I would not have survived the experience as myself. It would have affected my mothering and it would have affected my marriage. My life would not be as it is. I would not be as I am – as I was born to be.

We live at a time when it’s the norm to make people feel comfortable about what happens in their lives. A time when we allow people to feel like they’ve done everything they possibly can even if things don’t go their way. But I feel we do each other a disservice in doing this. I didn’t need my birth team to make me feel ok with getting a C-section...I needed them to hold my vision of a natural vaginal birth when I couldn’t do it for myself. I needed my husband to speak my truth when I couldn’t. I needed to be able to surrender to the devastation of having a C-section at the depths of my inner being while my birth team held my destiny in check so that I could peek out from within the disparity I was feeling and still feel the presence of the possibility of having a natural birth.

We are survivors. With that said, we adapt to what comes our way and make peace with it in order to continue to live. I assume I would have done some form of this had I ended up with a C-section and would today be a profoundly altered version of myself. But in all honesty, I thank my midwives, my doula, my OB, my baby, myself and most of all, my husband, each and every day because I don’t have to do that. It is because of this that I know birth. It is because of this that I know birth in the way that I was born to know it. It is because of this that I know myself.

As I prepare for my son’s first birthday I feel into the gift my husband and I gave him on his BIRTH-day. I remind myself of what we transmitted to our son with every choice we made and I remind my son to never betray himself as we did not betray ourselves throughout his birthing journey.

Isa Ruiz Marino is a mother, wife and daughter. She has been a professional editor for Film & Television since 1994; a birth doula since 2001; and owns a healing day spa with her husband David in Miami, FL www.WavesSpaFIU.com

How I cope with my past of being molested...I VOICE it.

The last thing that any parent ever wants to think or worry about is their child being sexually abused by anyone.  Some of you may or may not know but I was a victim of sexual molestation that started at the age of six.

My abuser was a man my Mother had partnered up with and subsequently had a child with.  Now most people are often confused about what is considered child sexual abuse because some think that if you were not raped then your case is not serious.

Here is the answer:  ANY form of a violation to one's body, including genital fondling, is considered 'Child Sexual Abuse.'  It is NOT limited to penetration.

My case of molestation included the abuser coming into my bedroom in the late hours of the night, usually after he had engaged in a significant amount of snorting cocaine (he was a drug dealer).  He would then sneak into my bed and I was always awoken by him fondling my genital area and telling me that if I EVER told ANYONE, the Devil would come get me and do very bad things to me.

I suffered from bedwetting until I was eleven years of age.  I was always afraid to get up and go to the bathroom at night just to avoid stirring his attention.

The very first incident of my sexual abuse occurred after my mother had given birth to my younger sister.  He would always strike when my mother was asleep and probably exhausted from caring for a newborn.  That day, he called me to the back room (the only bedroom) in the small dark apartment we resided in.

My Mother had fallen asleep with my sister on the couch.  The bedroom door was ajar and he was standing behind the door peeking his head out to one side asking me to walk in.  He was standing behind the door with his jeans and underwear down to his knees.  When I came around the door and saw what he was doing I was stunned and paralyzed with fear, not being able to utter a single word.  Being six years old, my height was directly in front of his genital area and I remember the sour stench of his private area.

He wanted me to touch his penis and all I remember doing was nodding my head answering 'no' and wanting to squint my little eyes from seeing the terrible sight of his nakedness.  I was afraid, confused and wanting my Mother to wake up and save me.  That incident passed and I never told her because I was afraid of her not believing me.

For the next five years, just about every single night, my bedroom was invaded by a sexual predator that I was forced to call 'Papi' (spanish for Daddy), I was forced to obey his orders and never talk back because otherwise, he'd threaten to flush me down the toilet or burn my fingers on the stove.  He once turned the stove burners on high, they were bright orange, and placed my hand so close to the heat I was afraid that I would never be able to use my hands again.  This was his way of 'keeping me in line', something I never understood.

His mode of discipline included a cruel and often tormenting style that would leave any child completely dumbstruck.  The worst part for me was that I knew that he was NOT my biological Father.

How terrible, huh?! Why would a six year old be afraid of telling the truth?  This happens all the time and it's a terrible tactic that the abuser will use to control the child and their sick addiction of abusing an innocent child.  

My Mother never realized what was occurring right in her home.  I've gone through my moments of anger toward her and how she was not completely attuned to my needs and issues.  It has taken me many years to process and know that my Mother would have NEVER have allowed for me to be hurt in such a way had she'd been privy to the reality of my nightmare.

As as child, I was often recluse in school, I'd shy away from adults and I'd never talk about how I felt, never mind sharing my fear of the bad man that terrorized me when the moon was out and the the house was silent.

Many years later I would find out that Mother too had her own set of traumas and issues that did not and has not allowed her to escape the confines of her own turmoil.  It would not be until my Mother was in her early fifties that she would finally confess to me that she too was sexually abused by her very own Brother when she was ten years of age.  He would threaten her with statments like "If you tell Daddy, I'll kill you, Bitch".  She would cry and fear for her life as he tried to make her give him oral sex.  It's a vicious cycle that continues until one person takes a stand and says 'enough is enough', this cannot continue.

It took me four years after the abuse had stopped for me to come forward and confess to my Mother what had been done to me.  It was the Summer of 1992.

My abuser had been incarcerated for dealing drugs in the Spring of 1988.  Although his jail time was due to drug dealing, I thank his incarceration to feeing me from his prowess as a sexual predator.  I mustered up the courage to share my fear and shame with my Mother because I knew he was locked up.

The day I told her, I stumbled upon every single word that was uttered from my mouth until it all spilled out of me like a toxic fume under pressure.  I was about to implode from the angst and the years of fear that were seared in my mind, body and soul.  Upon learning of my story, my Mother exhibited rage and sadness and hatred and a brief moment of denial because she could not swallow the idea of her daughter being harmed in such a way.

It was a terrible and liberating day for me.

Today I choose to be open and candid about my experience with childhood sexual abuse.  I've suffered the pains of depression, shame and anger for what happened to me.  It is NEVER the child's fault and the predator will do everything in their sick power to make that child believe that they have done something wrong because they are the ones full of sick shame.

The very act of talking and sharing my story with all of you helps me to cope with that negative episode in my early life.

I WILL continue to be a VOICE and a SAFE HARBOR for anyone who needs support, a compassionate ear, an open heart and a mission to keep the shame and guilt OUT of this horrid experience.

My journey to healing my wounds begins with my story and my desire to let this outrage be known to ALL.  It is real, it happens and NO CHILD should ever be second guessed when it relates to ANY form of abuse, especially 'sexual abuse.'  VOICE your story and STOP the vicious cycle!

I will not stay quiet.  I will not give up this fight.  I will not allow for another loved one to be violated so long as I have a VOICE.  I will not tolerate the SILENCE.  I am a Woman, Wife, Mother, Daughter, Sister, Niece and Friend and I WILL NOT SHUT UP on this issue...

Openly,
Vanessa Jubis~ 

I will close with one of my favorite quotes by Carl G. Jung:
"I am not what happened to me, I am what I choose to become"~