I always tell you the bad stuff, so here's some of the good stuff instead.

Life is actually going pretty well. It sucks, from time to time, as life often does. But for the most part we're doing well. The money's coming in - not as steadliy as we'd like it to, but it's coming in. Both businesses are starting to flourish and I've recently realized that for all of our faults, Dearest and I are actually better off than many couples who have been together longer than us.

Except, really, for one thing. I still miss my first boyfriend, because he was my best friend for so long, and if it were up to me we'd still be finding a way to be friends. But my Dearest can't handle it, he can't understand - even though he also has someone he still wishes he were friends with who he was once in love with. So we don't talk anymore, and there are a lot of times when I wish we did. And I really, really, really hope he's happy.

So are you?

It's obviously not fair for me to keep doing this, to keep shooting off messages into the void and hoping you'll see them. It's obviously not fair to you, or to him, and probably not to me either. But you were my best friend for so many years, and it feels so much easier to talk to you than anyone else. I should probably apologize, but I can't bring myself to.

I only talk to you when I'm feeling down. That's probably not fair to you. But when I'm up and life is good, I don't need support. I don't need someone who can just listen and nod and try to understand, except when life is hard.

Today life is hard. Our Pastor has called the church to a weeklong fast, and I'm trying so hard but it's only day 2 and I'm at the point of tears. I haven't had solid food since lunch on Sunday, because my husband doesn't fully listen to me most of the time and didn't hear me very clearly stating that I would wait for him to get home from a meeting and we would have dinner after that. He came home at two in the morning, tired and not hungry and not wiling to stay up with me while I ate.

We've had protein drinks and gatorade. One protein drink per day, and as much gatorade as it takes for our stomachs to not make a nuisance of us in public. But it's so difficult. He's already lost 7 pounds and I've gained 5. He feels great and I feel like I've just run a two day marathon. He's focused and emotionally doing really well and it's taking me everything in me just to not burst into tears right now.

The worst part is, I don't understand why we're doing it. I feel like we should, I feel like being in compliance with this is the right thing to do. But I don't understand why. I just know that we're not eating any solid foods and we're going most of the day on just gatorade and I still feel like a lousy christian because there are other people who are going the whole week on water. Because I have a splitting headache and I can taste blood when I breathe and my stomach is cramping like crazy and I'm dizzy and can't focus and everyone else seems to be doing fine.

I don't know what to do. I want to quit, but at the same time now it's more than just obeying. It's proving to myself that I can do it, that food doesn't have to control me, that I'm strong enough to handle not eating for a few days. And so far I'm failing.

I don't know the purpose. I don't understand why God seems to want this of me. I don't understand why God wants this of me and my husband decided we should do it and it hurts me so much and is just making him feel better. I don't understand why God seems to want me to be a prayer leader in the church and it would do worlds of good for me to do so but my husband won't let me. I don't understand why I feel an equal pull to these two things, and one of them my husband allows and the other he won't, and one of them hurts me more than I thought it would and the other would benefit me more than I can probably know.

Perhaps the worst part is not seeing the light at the end of this particular tunnel. I don't understand the purpose and so I don't understand the benefit and so the whole thing just feels like torture.

Then, my husband has to go and point out to me that everyone else is doing it without a hitch. And he has to decide that he's going to "fast" more often and use hunger as a tool to motivate himself. And he has to keep doing all of these things that just make it increasingly evident that he's so much better at being a Christian and a strong person than I am... that I'm probably holding him back and that my need for emotional support and for understanding and for comfort is a hindrance. He continues to run a business without even a protein shake and I can't even manage the laundry.

I feel like such an absolute failure, and I don't know how to combat it. The only thing I can think of is to make it through this week victorious, but I'm not sure that I'll be able to manage it. My first fast ever and it's a complete fast, for a whole week, that just happens to be during the one week this year that I'm working the whole week through.

Thank you for listening. Even if you're not really listening, thinking that you are makes me feel better. At least I can pretend that someone is.

Being a grownup is...

Not saying something you desperately want to say because no matter how much good it will do you, it will do unspeakable damage to two people you care deeply about.

So this is me, not saying anything.

This blog has a few different purposes. The first is as a space to put the things I need to get out but don't want my mom to read. She reads my other blogs, and whereas a journal would have worked before, I've gotten away from journalling recently because of the pain physical writing causes me. It sucks, honestly, to be so close to incapable of writing by hand long enough to even get my thoughts onto paper.

The other main purpose is to remind me where I've been, as my journals do. Someday, my life just might make a good story. Aside from that, I do think I find comfort in knowing you read these, which really isn't fair to you. I'm sorry if this hurts you. And if it does, please do stop reading them.

I realized something recently. All this time, for five years since my parents split and magically got back together, and for almost three years since J put my heart through the proverbial meat grinder, I've been waiting for an apology. I've been waiting, all the time, for someone to acknowledge the injustice. But not just anyone, someone involved. My parents, or their pastor who tried to force me into respecting someone who had earned every shred of disrespect I had for him. J, or one of his close-circle friends - the "Masters" who praised my attentiveness and eagerness to serve one day, and readily believed whatever venom J spewed about me the next. I've been waiting for someone to call me, to send me a letter or an email, to contact me somehow and apologize. It doesn't have to be lengthy. The words I most want to hear are simple:

What happened, what we did, was not okay. And I'm sorry you had to suffer through it.

The sad truth is that no matter how much my still wounded heart yearns and aches for these words, it will have to find a way to heal without them. I  thought I had healed, but facing myself honestly I know that I have not. There are still times, early in the morning or late at night, on slow days when my mind is not properly occupied, when the pain still grips me. I become lost in the memories and aware of the ache in my heart. All I want to hear is someone, anyone who was involved, admit that what happened was wrong, that they know that it hurt me, and that they feel any remorse over the idea that their poor choices and wrong actions caused me pain. I'll probably never get that from any of them.

I have a hard time letting go, that's part of the reason I still write knowing that you'll read it. But I think it would help me be able to move on if someone would just say it. They won't, though, so I have to figure out how to do this on my own. How to stop the nightmares and flashbacks that interrupt my otherwise mostly happy life.

It's not that I don't believe prayer works. I do, and I have been praying. But something inside me still holds on to the hurt. The little girl inside still cowers under the bed, waiting for someone to stop the pain. And God won't force his will on us. I have to figure out how to let go enough for him to take it.

Although, I can take some comfort in the situation with J. Hundreds of others said what the culprits wouldn't. Hundreds of others, people who only knew me enough to know that I had given everything to him only to be tossed aside when I stopped meeting his every whim, supported me. And I got a chance to see at least one of the group after the fact, after I'd picked up the pieces enough to function. I saw the utter shame in her eyes when we happened upon each other in the everyday world. It was satisfying, that instant recognition, followed by surprise, followed by shame. Almost as though I could read her thoughts: "Oh god, that's J's former slave. She looks like she's doing great. I can't believe what we've been saying about her, what we've been letting him say about her, she really tried her best for him."

Maybe that's why his hurt doesn't hurt as much, and most of my nightmares and flashbacks are easily written up to my mind and body and soul taking time to recover from the extensive abuse.

My parents, however, are a different story. They've apologized, sure. But they have apologized for a lot in my life without ever changing. I want to hear it from the pastor who demanded I respect my father, from the members of that church who sat back and judged me, involving themselves only when they had an opportunity to criticize my choices.

I gave everything I did and didn't have to my family during that time. I protected them, looked out for them, went weeks at a time with only a few hours of sleep each day for them. I ruined my GPA and any chance of scholarships to colleges or universities to take care of them, sacrificed my sanity and my youth and all of my friendships to keep them safe. My hopes of having one of those classic father/daughter relationships or of even having a man who I could say was a good dad were destroyed because I sought out what was best for the children and my mother. And then, a mere three days later, when I was still in shock and pain from that, everything was suddenly all better. They chose him. And because I wouldn't insta-heal and get with whatever program they were running, I was left out.

But it's not even my family I want apologies from. I'm not sure I'd believe it if my parents said it and my siblings didn't understand what they were doing, just that they wanted and needed their father. It's the church. The church that did not even offer to help, whose members never once stopped by with a casserole, or diapers, or an offer to watch the children so I could even do homework. I want my apology from the church who abandoned us in our time of need, and scolded us at every opportunity for not showing up in services. The church who judged me, who frowned on my silence and the dark cloud that hovered over and around me once my parents were back together. The church who tried to force me to respect and submit to and obey a man who not only hadn't earned my respect and submission and obedience, but who had very clearly won his right to be treated like the scum of the earth. The church who offered me no comfort, no solace, the church who would not have taken me into their homes if I requested it on bent knee; but who saw so fit to tell me what a mistake I was making, what a bad example I was setting, how terribly I was failing by choosing to escape.

The church who did not welcome me back when I returned, broken and confused, and who only heaped on judgement all the heavier when I left again. I want my apology from them.

But, I'll never get it. In fact, I'll probably be the one forced to apologize once I return to my hometown. In all honesty, that's part of the reason I haven't made concerted efforts to return thus far. I don't want to face the day when those who owe an apology to me try to force one from me.

So the question remains, for now unanswered: How do I move on? How do I stop hurting?

I had a horrible dream last night. I was with my parents, and all of my siblings, and there were a lot of things that were very, very wrong. I tried to tell my mom about them, to convince her that something was wrong and we had to escape where we were, but she didn't listen. She was so wrapped up in one of the children having a toothache and another having a bad day at school and one of her plays, she just didn't want to hear me. The situation kept getting worse and worse, and I kept trying to get to her and tell her that something was wrong and we were all in danger and we needed to leave. But she wouldn't listen. She completely ignored me except to insult me. It went on forever. Toward the end, I was in terrible pain and I was screaming at her about how she needed to stop paying attention to stupid things and help me, about how we were all in danger. But she just wouldn't listen. Eventually, I ignored my own physical pain because the emotional pain was worse, and my screaming turned from warnings to accusations. I told her she was a horrible mother to me and now that she had other kids she didn't want to be my mom at all.

I woke up crying.

I don't know why I dreamed this, but I have dreams like this a lot. They're not always about the same thing, but the same things always happen: We're in danger, and I have to save us, and I end up hurt, and my mom doesn't care.

That's how I felt when my parents got back together after their split. You know the story. It's like, for some reason, my subconscious is pulling that story line directly from the past and applying it to different settings, just to hurt me. Every time I have one of these dreams, my heart hurts when I wake up.

I've tried to forgive them, I've tried to ignore how very much they hurt me and just forgive them. So far, I guess it hasn't worked, because I'm still having these dreams. Nothing seems to be able to comfort me when this happens. I don't know how to deal with it.

I keep wanting someone, anyone who was involved back then - my parents, the pastor, the counsellors, anybody - to just be honest with me. To tell me that what happened was not okay, and that it is okay for me to be hurt, and that everyone is very sorry.

But, they won't. Because they're all convinced that it was okay, that it wasn't even any of my business and was just between my parents. All of them were convinced I shouldn't be hurt, that I should just bounce back like everyone else did and pretend the bad part never happened.

How could they do that? And why can't I stop hurting over it?

I would post this on my normal blog, except that I don't want to hurt my mom any more. I know she cries when I talk about how much that time hurt me. I don't want to make her cry. I honestly just want to forget it. But I keep having these dreams.

Thank you, for listening and being here. It would do me good to just journal this - and I probably would, except that physically writing hurts my hands too much lately. But also, it helps knowing that someone who really understands, who felt the pain with me, is listening. Thanks.

I think you may have misunderstood me, because I don't see anything in what I was trying to communicate that you should feel a need to apologize for. You didn't do anything wrong, it's not your fault.

It is hard for me, having to give up the friendship we've maintained. It's like severing a limb. But better a limb than the heart, and I think it will be good for you too. I need to let you move on, as much as I need to move on. Maybe more.

I appreciate your offer to watch the blog, to be there for me as much as you can. Know that I haven't stopped watching yours, you just haven't posted anything. I probably won't take you up on your offer after today, it's too much like sneaking. I can't allow that to enter my life with him. The ways that I'm screwed up do enough interfering in our relationship, and he's so important to me. I can't do anything that would increase the chances of doing damage this time.

I didn't have a very good Easter. Wounds from five years ago surfaced again, and ruined everything. I hate that it still hurts so much, and I hate that I didn't realize why I was so emotional and it caused a massive fight with him. I hate that the deepest wounds I've ever endured in my entire life were from family. From my father, and then my mom and siblings, and then the church. They're apparently much deeper than I thought and haven't healed yet. I just want to be done dealing with them. That's why I wanted to talk last night, because only two people were actually there for me through that. One of them is dead, and one of them is you.

I hope you enjoy life from here. I hope you go to heights you've never imagined, and find a happiness you've denied yourself since your mom died. I hope things work out for you.