Over.

"It's fine." I heard myself say more than once, as if the weak sentiment would gain some sort of momentus strength on it's short journey from my lips to her ears. 

I watch as my words attempt to appear bigger and stronger than they are, falling from my mouth like inflated balloons that only remember and are stuck by the pin of their bare boned emptiness when they've already left the safety of silence. They fall quickly, but they're too feeble to fall hard. There's nothing strong about this. 

Upheaval. 

My head reprimands my heart as if they're unrelated, quietly begging it to simply be a grown ass woman, and refrain from acting as an unruly child. 

I knew this was happening. I knew what it meant.  I knew the consequences. 

"It's fine."

It's not a lie. 

It's just not completely true. 

It's the truth that my adult brain has accepted, which wrecks and wounds the child that is still me. 

"It's fine." 

But what about the really fun and wonderful memories that I still love and hold dear?

"It's fine." 

But what about the grand story we'd always ask you to tell about how you met and fell in love?

"It's fine." 

But what of the implications of a life born out of a love that ends like this?

"It's fine." 

But I'm not ready to celebrate about the future.

It's fine. But it's over.

 ...and somewhere, boxed up and hidden away only seen out of the far corner of my adult eye, there is a hope that will die alone. 

The child within me will mourn, and the adult in me will hold it close and gently hush it in moments where the grief begins to breach the barrier of these walls.

 "It's fine."

It's over. 

It will be fine. 

Whispers.

There was a whisper

It was the shadow of cobalt blue

It spoke of the struggle 

It waxed poetic about the tragedy 

It worshipped the choice of a long 

suffering love

It promised poverty

It vowed heartache and pain 

It breathed an oath to never let go

There was a whisper 

It bled the the aroma of oil and cedar 

It taught me to resign myself to the end before stepping through the threshold of the beginning

It directed me to always be prepared for the worst

It showed me that dreams were only of glorious suffering and the hope for the beautiful end

It convinced the small child that I was that fear was normal and only a symptom of needing to except the eventual conclusion of death

It persuaded me this was normal 

It demanded this was the only way 

There was a whisper 

It was distantly a shout 

No silence could deafen its resounding cries

Still echoes remain of these constant pronouncements from another time

Still there is a residual drip that requires attention that no one wants to give to it 

Still at times I fight the fear and worry

There is a whisper

It bears a glimmer of turquoise 

There is a whisper 

It's fragrance is that of a spring rain

It washes my eyes and asks me to look again

It believes that here in this moment there is dream to be born and a hope to be unfurled 

It holds

It rocks 

It breathes life 

There is a whisper 

It makes all things new 

If I'm honest.

I’ve spent the majority of my life trying to be understood.

That might sound dramatic, but I think most of us do. Somewhere much deeper than our own consciousness, we are begging all witnesses to understand why we are the way we are. I guess this goes hand in hand with the desire to be affirmed. The simple knowledge that yes, you are loved as you are. Period.



Within my insatiable desire to be understood, known, and affirmed, I spent most of my life dissecting myself internally and externally. I stretched my darkest and ugliest spots across the operating tables, located in the brightest rooms. I dared to hope that maybe this time they would go away. It was all black and white to me. Wrong or right. There was no middle ground; no grey areas. I loathed myself and all of my weaknesses. Therefore, I loathed anyone or anything that reminded me of them. They terrified me.



I’m writing this today because that part of me that has always wanted to be understood hasn’t vanished completely.  Despite the past few years of learning how to let go of that need and release peoples opinions, something in me still wants the story to be told in its truest earthly tone. Mine.



For as long as I can remember, I have been attracted to women. While other little girls were dreaming about Leonardo DiCaprio, I secretly hated myself for dreaming about older girls. I was disgusted with myself. I was the little girl who was deeply confused as to why I had a crush on my babysitter, instead of the babysitters' boyfriend. I would never dare tell anyone about this deeply loathed secret. I would rather hide it in the deepest recesses of my soul from those closest to me… including myself.



Let me be clear. I was raised in the Capital of Idealism. My childhood is a whirlwind of adventure, magic, love, and the idolized romanticism that was completely and utterly bound and married to the letter of the law, that is religiosity.



I knew how my life was supposed to look. The prediction was tattooed on the walls of my heart, like a chalkboard with the many written lines attempting to make right what was wrong.  I was supposed to meet a good man, fall in love, and eventually (which means quickly) marry him and start a family.  

This is what I wanted. I wanted to be good. I wanted to make my father proud. I wanted to make my mother glow. 

I wanted to be normal.


I tried hard to attract the boys around me. I tried to believe that I liked them for more than being friends, but instead I found myself being attracted to the girl friends that I had.

Shame.



Deep, pillowing, shame.



Somehow in my attempt to be normal and to do the right thing, I always ended up as the failure. I couldn’t blame this failure on my attraction to women, because this was still the secret that no one could ever know about me. This was  the secret that I dared not even whisper. So instead, I blamed these failures on how I dressed or whether I was making myself feminine and attractive enough. I focused on men not being attracted to me. I couldn’t admit to anyone, let alone myself, that I wasn’t attracted to them.



It didn’t take long for this secret and the symptoms of hiding it to grow into a toxic self-loathing. It consumed my body, soul, and mind. I hated myself.



I was a disease.



No, I wasn’t struggling with some deep secret about how I was molested as a child, because I wasn’t.

No, I wasn’t hiding some traumatic event that altered my internal makeup; the traumas I experienced were shared with all of my siblings. They were no secret.

No, it’s not rejection from my mom. My mother was the most loving and maternal woman that I could ever possibly call “mama.”



The list goes on. I did the exhausting diagnostics.

I pushed. I pulled. I prodded. I weighed. I measured. I hurt. I healed. I fasted. I prayed.



I begged God.



Results: inconclusive.  



The result was a woman lying wounded and beaten by her own beliefs and the echoes of the beliefs around her. The result was a woman who started to believe that she was the stain on her family’s lineage, but she hadn’t done anything to become so tarnished. Worst of all, it wasn’t going away.





It’s been over three years since I finally let the veil fall away and my secret out. It’s been over a year that I no longer hate myself for it, but rather embrace it and celebrate who I am.



The last three years have been incredibly painful, confusing and full of internally violent waged wars. I wrestled long and hard. I don’t feel the need to give a full account of my journey here.

I know what it was. I know how it felt. I know what it looked like.



More than that, I know who I am. I’m still the Hadassah that I always was; I’m just a little more honest about what that looks like.



This isn’t a plea for affirmation. This is simply an offering. This is an offering of truth to those who have invested their hearts in my life in some way. I know I do not owe this, but I also have nothing to hide. I love who I am and I know that I am loved. That is enough for me.



As all of us always are, there is no doubt in my mind that I am still on a journey. I am happy to now be at a much more peaceful and full mile marker on this beautiful and treacherous journey that we each face in such different and glorious ways.



Love, take courage. Remain steadfast. Do not grow weary of the process. 

Hope still clings to the barest of bones and sings a better word over the ashes of your yesteryear. 

And life.

I thought maybe it would help. I thought maybe if I see them and we laugh together, maybe it would feel good. 


It was once electric; our connection. Laughter was always easy, even when it was hard; it was easy. Because we've seen grief before. We've wrestled against our bloodline crying for relief; desperate for even the resemblance of peace. 


But. 
Something changed. Love grew into a broader place. It took on a different face; one more weathered, one more full of grace. 


And then there was life. It happened, just like it does. 


Weddings happened. Children followed. And life kept moving. 

Cousins became best friends. We were magical. We had adventures. We made movies about important things; or at least funny things. Some of us became moody teenagers. Some of us held onto childhood for dear life. We grew up. We fought. Our mothers staged a level 2 conflict resolution. We realized we were hurt. We cried. We hugged. We loved. 


You started dating again. But this time, you weren't playing any games. You knew exactly what you wanted. You wanted Mr. Rogers. But... a Presbyterian pastor would do. 


You remarried. We were relieved. You were happy. 


You watched your family grow. We became diverse. We became colorful. We wore our humanity on our sleeves. You loved. 


You were taken. 


Now when I see them I always expect to feel relief, but there is none. I know it's me. I know it's the illness of grief, but I can't help but feel the ache of that unfulfilled need. It's as if I see them not in the fullness of who I've always known them to be, but in the light that shines so cruelly on the missing. 


We are suddenly all found wanting. 


Your absence is louder than our laughter. And it is not without hope that I say this, but rather it is what seems to be my attempt to take one more step in the midst of this grief. 


You're not coming back. Not in this time. Not in this space. The pain of that separation continues to speak. I wonder if it fades, or if it merely takes a backseat to only raise it's head from time to time when memories find our mind's eye. 


I wonder when it gets better. I wonder if I'll ever miss you less. I didn't plan for this. 


I saw them yesterday. We laughed. We remembered you and your cute grumpy face. We loved. We missed. We silently knew we all needed comfort. When we said our goodbyes there were long, quiet, hugs. 

And life; it kept moving. 

Still.