TRUTH

She wears her truth on her arms

            Never to be forgotten.

Each day she waits for the marks to fade

Time is an eraser?

She tries to hide them when she’s out

People don’t understand.

But one day she sees the scars differently

Badges of courage.

Marks of where she’s been, who she is

The demons she fought.

So she walks a little taller, head a little higher

Because she is a survivor.

Because she is alive.

Beauty is my eldest daughter.  My first born, my angel, my first experience at motherhood all wrapped in a beautiful and perfect looking package.  Beauty came to me when I was just 2 months into my 22^nd year.  She didn’t come willingly, but was coaxed forth with IV infused drugs arriving as the day had all but eked out its final minutes.   She was perfect in every way.  Nurse and grandmas alike couldn’t help but gasp, “Look at how perfect she is!”, “Look at all that golden hair!”, “She looks like a cesarean delivery!  Not a single marked or smashed feature!”  Beauty looks like me and nothing like me all at the same time.  She has flawless skin that tans to a golden perfection with just a few minutes of sun exposure where I am fair and freckled.  Her hair is golden blonde and smooth and wavy.  My hairy is red and frizzy and curly and generally out of control.  She has a beautiful nose, neither too big nor too small.  Mine is too large and bulbous and slightly flattened on one side.  Her lips are full and pouty and always the perfect shade of pink.  My lips are so pail they often blend into my face, unnoticeable. Her eyes are shaped like her fathers, more almond with long sweeping lashes but her eye color is all mine.  Blue-green. . . sometimes blue and sometimes green and sometimes blue-green.  Depends on the day, the color, and the mood what color her eyes may be, but they are always beautiful.    When Beauty was very young I would often be stopped and told by strangers how beautiful she was, and then with questioning expressions, they would ask if she were mine.  She looked like the daughter of a goddess, and me? Not so much.

During Beauty’s 7^th year her Beast made his first appearance.  Lurking in the corners and padding around the periphery, I first caught glimpse of him.  No mother ever expects the Beast to come for her child, to be a part of her life, and I was no different.  I didn’t know what to do and so I sought help.  Medication was to be the answer and medication did work for a little while, keeping the Beast at bay for several years. But, he was still there in the shadows just waiting for the right moment.

A few months after Beauty’s 15^th birthday Beast decided it was time for his reappearance.  Medication had been a by word for a few years and he had been creeping closer and closer.  I was too distracted by life, and work, and my other children and his moves were slow and stealth and virtually unnoticeable.  Then he was there, the distance closed, and he lunged forward to claim my Beauty.   With his massive jaws clenched down tight on her legs he drew her back with him towards the darkness, his darkness.  Beauty screamed out for me and I came, running with my heart in my throat.  I knew what the cry meant. . . I knew that my fears had been realized and I had missed my watch.  My feet couldn’t carry me fast enough and then I was there, clutching her to my breast, holding her for dear life.  The Beast growled in protest.  I could smell his fetid breath and the dank smell of his matted fur filled my protesting nostrils.   I looked deep into his yellow, evil eyes, only inches from mine and I firmly stood my ground.  I would not let him have her. . . not this time.  He pulled and I pulled back.  We danced this strange tango for days, neither of us refusing to let go.  He is the Beast but I am a lioness, born under the sign of the lion.  I have lion like hair and the desire to kill for my offspring.  As we struggle and fight I call out for help.  The help rushes in and gives Beauty medication.  She hates this medication because it disconnects her from herself and places her in a deep and dreamless sleep.  I hate this too.  I hate that I lose her to slumber, her light and vibrancy temporarily shut down.  I hate that this is our life and our struggle.  For now I know no other way, for when Beauty sleeps so does her Beast.   And so it goes, until I find another way, that Beauty will sleep and I will go hunting for answers. I cannot stop, I cannot rest, I cannot give up until I find a way to kill the Beast.

This is my first post in the blogging world.  I am a pretend writer, as you will soon learn, so please don’t judge too harshly.  I know that grammar is a little rusty (eek).

I originally intended to blog only pictures of my daughter. . . a ‘you are beautiful and strong’ project.  She is 15 and suffers from chemical depression and ADD.  We have been on a roller coaster of medication and therapy since she was 7.  I would like to say we have had more ups than downs. . . but in all honesty, it’s probably 50/50.  The more I thought about it, the more I felt that I would like to blog for my own sanity- a release, and outlet.  I am also optimistic and believe that we will find something that works for us and perhaps by sharing I can help shorten another mothers journey and lessen a burden somewhere.