Survivor....why I am who I am... Part 2

Part 2

By the time I was 11 years old, I was pretty self-sufficient. Evidence suggests, in my Hello Kitty diary, that I was writing in even then. Sharing my thoughts with my older self, knowing that one day I would look back and read what was written. My 5^th grade handwriting indented the pages when I was angry and danced playfully on the pages when I had some peace. I revisit that place on occasion. The nights when I would wake up and look into the night sky and pray. When I would get out my diary and write. I guess nothing much has changed since then.

This was the year, when my life would change. We moved into a new house and I started public school after years of Christian School. This was the year that I was defiled, almost raped and innocence stolen. This was the year I learned to not just survive, but fight, push back and live. It is amazing how it happens. How we, the victim are convinced that we brought this on ourselves, that we are the ones who invited it.

I started public school 2 months later. I had always gone to Christian School and had been sheltered from the wickedness public school thrives in. I was sexually assaulted by the boys in my class. I matured early on in life, so my breasts protruded more than most girls my age. Young boys grabbed and prodded at my protrusions and I learned how to fight. With words and fists I began to fight back. I sang a Christian song on stage for the talent, and punched with a Mike Tyson blow on the playground.

I made friends, who lived near my house and we took the same bus to school. One day, when we started walking home from school, a white van with blocked out windows drove up next to my friend and I as we walked on the sidewalk. The man, brown hair, hazel eyes, cleanly shaven started talking to us about what, I don’t remember. It felt wrong and forced and so I began to puff up my being to look bigger than I was. I started to be rude and disrespectful to let the man know we were not game. It enraged him. I could see his eyes turn from hazel to black and his sweet alluring tone turned violent.

He pulled out a gun, pointed it at me. “Run!” I told my friend. We started running the opposite direction of the way his van was faced. Thankfully it was the direction of home. We didn’t want him to know where we lived so we ran down a court and hid in the bushes. We could see the van as he slowly drove past the block trying to locate us. He kept driving and then turned the corner onto another street. We jumped out of the bushes and started running again. My friend ran to her house and I ran to mine. I hopped over bushes, ran through the roses and tore up my clothes and flesh and into my backyard. I grabbed the hidden key and then hid behind some bushes in the corner. I wasn’t sure if he saw me go into my backyard or not. I caught the van out of the corner of my eye as I pushed open the gate to my backyard. I sat there quietly for what seemed forever.

I waited. I heard my doorbell ring. I waited. I heard people talking. I waited. Finally, when I heard no more sounds, I peeked through the crack in the fence to see if the coast was clear. I noticed my window was not locked, so I pried it open and climbed into my house that way, instead of going to the front to unlock the door. I called my mom and told her what happened. She called the police.

The next day, at school, the police came and asked us to give a description to a sketch artist. We did. We never really talked about it again. To this day, I don’t even know if my friend has ever really talked about it. It all just got brushed under the rug. I didn’t remember the incident until a few years ago and it infuriated me.

By the time I got to 7^th grade, I had almost lost my innocence and had an encounter with a kidnapper. I went to middle school, but only found more sexual assaults. Young boys would grab my breast and laugh, others would grab me between my legs. It was degrading and devaluing. I felt powerless and the anger rose inside of me. At the same time, I was still raising my siblings, still making breakfast in the morning for them, still helping with homework in the evening, doing chores and making dinner. I still had to do my own homework, I played sports and ran for student office.

I began to realize that people in authority were not there to help me. Rather, they took the path of least resistance. This is about the time I started taking things into my own hands. At first I was pretty violent. I had zero tolerance for bullies. A boy grabbed my chest, I punched him in the face. The next one taunted me, grabbed my chest, and I punched him so hard, I broke his nose. The Vice Principal called me in, the parents of the boy told him they were going to press charges for assault. I told my mom what happened and she told the principal, “My daughter acted in self-defense.” When the parents realized what had really happened, they dropped their case.

At this point I realized I had a power. I did not have to stand back and allow bullies to abuse me. I could fight back. I could advocate for others. And I did. I began a life long journey of standing up to bullies, young and old. Fighting on behalf of those who have no voice. I learned how to beat the bullies at their own game. I used their own tactics against them, freeing many people from their oppression.

Starting line....

Why I am who I am... Part 1

I am an extreme advocate for those who are oppressed, discriminated against, demeaned and devalued, wounded, beat down, discouraged, timid and forgotten.

I am very vocal about my discontent to those who oppress. I had a revelation that people who intimidate, oppress, devalue or wound are really just BULLIES, grown up.

With that revelation, it made me realize that the people who dislike me, are the very people who are bullies. They don't like that I stand up for myself or others. They don't like that they can’t intimidate me or scare me or push me around. So they try to get others to dislike me by lying and gossiping about me and my family. Their way of life, BULLYING, is challenged by how I live my life, and it infuriates them.

Even my husband, at times, has a hard time swallowing my “in your face” approach to life, as he was created by God to embrace the world differently. Yet, he laughs at my rants and raves and hugs me as tears flow down my face in frustration at the pure wickedness that saturates the hearts of mankind. He, is patient, diplomatic, patient, quiet, and demolishes mindsets and oppression in a very covert manner. I wish I was more like him. It is an amazing gift and character trait that the Lord has given him.

I was not created that way. I was told my whole life that the way I approach this life is harsh, angry, aggressive, conflicting, intense, intimidating. So I spent the better part of my early years, denying who God created me to be. My denial did not change me, in fact, the more I tried to pretend I was someone else, that was acceptable to our society and the "church", the more I relied on who God made me to be to survive.

I am almost forty, arguably close to the half-way point of my life. The last 20 years have been spent in Parentland. Raising kids with the sole purpose of protecting them from what I experienced my first 20 years. I didn’t realize it at the time, but it solidified my being in Christ. The concrete of my soul set and I began to appreciate the raw nature of my existence.

Many people wonder at why I am the way I am. I did for many years and I am finally coming to that revelation. Let me show you, if you will, a glimpse into the making of Teresa Beukers:

I was born in the mid 70’s. Mom was a hippie, dad was a military man. Both grew up with extreme rejection. Dad was a product of rape, born to a 15 year old girl who had no one to turn to for help. Mom, was born to a mom who was treated like dirt by her husband, unfaithful and angry. Both were neglected. Dad ended up in an orphanage at the age of 7 and mom ended up raising her siblings in fear.

It was not a match made in heaven. They were both broken and lacked the experience of true love. I was the first born. They loved me and doted on me. I was their savior. I was looked at as the child who would keep their marriage intact. 3 years later, when my newness wore off, and marriage problems persisted, my mom announced a baby boy. The golden child, the very thing my father wanted more than anything. They worshiped him. They adored him. Even still, his deity was not enough to save their marriage. My father cheated on my mom, countless times and she was slipping into a world of hopelessness and depression, that she never recovered from.

My mom ended up in the hospital for “back surgery” after my brother was born. Years later, hints from friends and neighbors and herself told me otherwise. We stayed with Dorothy Woods, our next door neighbor, during her stay in the hospital. Dorothy, my surrogate mother, African American, funny, beautiful, amazing cook. She treated us like her own children. Rocked me on her lap as she sang to me. I loved her. I did not know that she was a “different color.” She was just Dorothy. A woman who loved my brother and I. She became the foundation of my love for people of all colors and races and religions.

By the time my mother came home from the hospital, my parents’ marriage was over. I recall fights and broken items around the house from my dad’s fits of rage. My mom was always sad. She was being bullied by him and did not know how to stand up for herself. She watched her father do it to her mom, and her mom slip into manic depression, so lacked the knowledge of skills to cope with the abuse. She stayed married to my father, tried to work it out, and tried to find faith.
She started going to different religions to find solace and healing. Not long after, she became pregnant with my sister. By this time, she was putting me on a bus every Sunday to go to the local Baptist church. I learned about Jesus. I felt love. I felt empowered. I felt peace. I learned that I had a voice. People listened when I spoke and were amazed at my hunger for truth.

One day, as I was playing my Fischer Price record player, with my Christian records, my dad yelled at me and told me to turn it off. I asked him why. I was 5 years old. I remember it vividly to this day. He was laying on the deep brown velvet couch in the living room. He didn’t want to listen to that Jesus nonsense and told me so. I remember thinking that he was wrong for telling me I couldn’t listen to something, just because he didn’t believe. I told him “no!’ He flipped out on me, grabbed me by the arm, threw me into my room and told me to stay there for being defiant. I did not cry. I refused to cry.  Looking back, I see now that at an early age, I saw the hypocrisy of his actions. He was being defiant towards God, but expected me not to be defiant towards him.

My mom carried my sister full term, and she was born 3 days after Christmas when I was 5 ½. Six months later, right before my 6^th birthday, my father walked out on his family. My mom was in her robe, holding my six month old sister, my brother, had just turned 3. I was standing there, next to my mom, holding my brothers hand, watching as he drove away. When he turned the corner, my mom walked into the house, put my sister in the swing, went into her room and just cried. It shattered her very core. So deep, that she was never able to recover. Even as she sat on her porch, diagnosed with pancreatic cancer, given 6 months to live, she told me how much she loved my father and how she had never fully healed from his abandonment and rejection.

She remarried 2 years later and I was swooped into another life of pain, rejection and abandonment. The first 5 years of my life proved to be the very foundation for who I am, even now. For me, life was cruel and unfair. It was unpredictable and harsh. I had to learn how to survive. I took care of my brother and sister as both my mom and step dad worked crazy hours. We had a nanny take care of us, when they were at work, so I was being raised by someone else’s standards during the day, and my mom and step dad’s standards during the evenings and my father’s standards on the weekends. It taught me how to be flexible and aware.

A year later they had a son, and so began my life of servitude. He was treated like a Raja, like I had read in Secret Garden. I started taking care of him when he was in his crib. Waking up in the middle of the night to give him a bottle or rock him to sleep. His room was upstairs next to mine and my parent’s room was downstairs on the other side of the house. They didn’t have monitors back then, they had older siblings. I became a mother at 10 years old. I did my sisters hair before school, I made lunches for all 3 of us. I helped with homework, set the table, did the dishes and changed diapers. I changed sheets when my sibling wet the bed and helped them with baths and chores. I was no longer a child, although I desperately wanted to be one.

Faith in the midst of hardship

The hardest thing about faith is the ability to hold on to something that is not tangible. To believe that, no matter what my eyes see, God is right beside me.

Since we closed the restaurant, we have lived by faith. Trusting God, that no matter what our circumstances look like, He will always provide. I have cried and cussed and laughed and been seriously depressed in the process. I am not one who looks at the possibility of being homeless, or carless or foodless and says, "Praise the Lord!"

I am one who says, "What the F Lord?!?!!?" I don't talk to my God like He is some distant deity, I talk to Him like He is my best friend. Flaws and all, realistic, honest, organic, true me.

I sit here... waiting... waiting for life to take a turn. A financial turn, a job, a home, a car. Still in the same place we were when the restaurant closed. 6 years of hardship... 6 years of lack... 6 years of hoping and believing BY FAITH.

I don't see it. I don't see when it will end, but I believe, BY FAITH in a God who loves me that is soon. It is not easy. Money continues to evade us, cars continue to fall apart on us, and a home continues to be out of reach. I breathe... my heart rate rises, my head pounds. It’s getting old, worn out, tired.

Aren't you, the reader, tired of hearing the same old story about the Beukers? Still without a job or a steady means of income to sustain us? Haven't you questioned our motives, intentions or work ethic, due to the situation we are in? I would, if I were on the other side of this.

God always provides. He doesn't fail us. But it doesn't make the reality any easier. It doesn't make waiting until the final hour any better. I still cry when we don't get the job applied for. I still cuss when the car doesn't work and we have no money to fix it. I still get depressed when I don't know how we are going to feed our kids. I don't share it as much. I don't want to be "that person." You know the ones. The ones who always need something, who are always down on their luck. I want to be the person that is always helping, always giving, always encouraging.

I wrote a blog when my mom was dying called, “Jesus wept.” It was about the notion that Jesus cried when he heard that Lazarus died, EVEN THOUGH, even though he knew he was going to raise him from the dead. The emotion of a friend dying was so great, that even the Son of God, who knows the beginning from the end, let out an emotional burst of tears.

That is where I am today. EVEN THOUGH I know my God will provide, THROUGH FAITH, the emotion behind the reality burst out of me with great intensity. I am ready for this season of my life to be over. I realized the other day, that half of Elijah’s schooling years have been hardship. HALF! It started his 6^th grade year and now he is in 12^th, getting ready to graduate. It’s pretty much all my other two kids know. They were too little to remember the debt free, stay at home homeschooling mom. They mostly remember loss and lack.

That overwhelms my emotions, and pours out of me. No matter how hard we have tried, there has not been much respite. It has been a constant pounding of the waves of financial hardship. My legs shake from the weariness of trying to stand in the pounding. My body shakes from the cold water that just pushed me over and tossed me around.

We, Bill and I, made a decision. We need to be in a place where he can work, where there are opportunities for employment in his field. So our eyes are including areas that are not in the Central Valley. Fresno, is our home. It has been the city we have chosen to raise our kids. Twelve years we have lived here. We are faced with the certainty that without a job, with unemployment benefits gone, living on faith and food stamps, a borrowed car and a rented house going up for sale… we are in the same situation we were when we lost the restaurant…two steps away from being homeless, AGAIN!!!

Have we not learned the lesson? Have we missed something? I am waiting for the moment. You know the moment when you finally make it to the other side. When you can look back and say, “Awe, I did it, I pushed through and overcame.” The Joseph moment. That is what I affectionately refer to. The moment, when, after all the hardship he went to, was finally released from prison and made ruler of all of Egypt, right beneath Pharaoh. Or how about the Job moment. After losing everything, he remained faithful, never turning his back on God, and God restored all that he had lost, 7 times over. Even Job told the Lord to curse the day he was born, because the hardship was so great. I have never done that. I just say, “What the F?!?!?” to Him.

There is only so much you can do, only so much you can say. For me and my family, homelessness and serving God is so much more fulfilling than doing something unethical to make a living. But it doesn’t make it easy. In fact, it is excruciatingly painful and exhausting to keep having FAITH in extreme hardship. In addition to the financial burdens, we have been faced with the death of both of my parents, and the emotional trauma that came with their rejection of me as a person.

Then there are my kids, who I try to protect. They too have experienced hardship. My older son faced racism- yes, my predominately “white” son was discriminated against by his coach, who is African American. It has torn me up. Infuriated me. I have found myself looking to Martin Luther King Jr. for quotes and encouragement. It has made me have even more empathy than I ever did before for ANYONE who has been discriminated against due to the color of their skin or race. More hardship, but for my child. My daughter experienced bullying from her cheer coach. She learned to stand up in the face of hardship and was then punished for it. My sweet little girl, who loves everyone, began to turn cynical and angry. She saw injustice and experienced the ugly side of nepotism. We had to help her process the pain of watching the bully stay and coach and her being asked to leave her team for standing up to her. Even today, she is fighting through it, learning to overcome the abuse of a coach. My middle, highly dyslexic, struggles academically. We had to fight and claw for him to be tested for a 504 plan, so that he would have an equal opportunity to succeed in school. He fights stigma of having a disability with humor and being goofy, but I know it hard for him.

FAITH… more faith… believing the hardship my children have faced will benefit their character. I try to show them the positives of being discriminated against, being bullied and having a disability. Empathy, being an overcomer, loving your enemies… I try to stay positive and let it drive their love for all people. Let is marinate to give them savory faith. The financial hardship gives them a broader spectrum of compassion for others. They are blessed! I mean blessed! My extended family floods them with blessings… Aunts, uncles, grandparents… they shower them with the things we cannot. So they do not lack in material things. They do not live in poverty. They know they are loved, they know they are safe. They know what it is to have plenty and they know what it is to have lack.

So faith remains to be the constant in our lives. The one thing that never changes, the one thing that we can all depend on. Faith, is being sure of what we hope for and certain of what we do not see. That is the story of our life. The story that has carved the deep crevices of character and compassion into our hearts.

I write, to help me process, to help me breathe. My heart rate is slowing down, my blood pressure is lowering. It is my therapy. My way to live. It gives me a canvas in which I can paint the picture of my heart. I stand back and see color. There is no rhyme of reason to the strokes, but it is our life. There is no more room to paint. I hope that soon the Lord will give us a new canvas to paint, a new book to write.

For now, I will go back to my reality, hoping, believing, and living by FAITH. 

Tea Time with God

Sleepless nights are familiar to me. I have never been one who has had a consistent sleep schedule or pattern. When sleep evades me, I try to write. To process the reality of my lack of ZZZZZ’s. As a young child I was usually tormented. Dreams that had me strangled or dying. Waking up in a panic and screaming for help, only not words or sound could leave my throat. Helpless, I learned to fight at a young age. I learned to be vigilant in how and where I slept. If anything, that became my pattern. The ability to wake at the slightest sound.

After I married, I fought long and hard to overcome. I was on my way, until my first child was born. Checking on him several times throughout the night to ensure his safety. It heightened as our second son was born. I would walk the halls, pacing, trying to tire myself, all the while praying for protection for my children. Then, as my baby girl was placed in my arms, I started ten long years of insomnia. Sleeping no more than 4 hours at a time, my fear controlled me and I was a wreck. I gained weight, had panic attacks and suffered from deep depression.

I am a great actress and learned how to hide those unsightly things from those around me, but they soon began to torment me in the silent moments of the night. I had to break free and so, started a long journey to recovery. I had to determine the root, the cause and effect. I had to overcome the fear from the root and then I had to learn to trust the Lord. Trust. Trust my God. A whole new can opened, that took even more years to unpack. More depth of insight to understand. Lots of pain, lots of tears, lots of fear.

So here I am. Twenty years later. Up at 4am, unable to sleep. I am wiped, exhausted, yet I am covered with peace, a gift I never had before. So I welcome the open eyes to explore my Father’s heart. I lay in bed, praying, realizing that fear is not upon me. I pray, for my children, my husband, our finances, our direction. Tossing and turning hoping I will soon be weary from the thoughts and fall back to sleep.

I glance at the time and see 5:17am. Still awake, still tossing. I start to pray some more. I start praying for my oldest. The one who endures great adversity. I dialogue with the Lord about the journey. My heart starts racing in my chest, I start to breathe hard and before I can catch it, rage fills my being. I feel overwhelmed with anger and I want to scream. I start to tell the Lord I am angry, as if He doesn’t know. I share my heart and my frustration, tell him what I desire for my son.

He listens. I can actually hear Him listening. Peace surrounds me, but does not penetrate my heart of rage. “What is it that upsets you the most?” His voice echoes with serene perfection. I ponder. I wonder. I start to bubble up with tears. What is it? Is it the pain my son has had to endure? Is it the discrimination? The unfair treatment? Maybe the curses spoken over my son by unhealed, wounded people? Perhaps the fear that it will break him and I failed. Then it hits me. I sigh, “It’s not that I am angry because he has had to endure trials, I am angry because I do not have control to keep it from happening. No matter how hard I try, no matter what steps I take to protect him, I can’t control the situation.”

“Awww,” I hear the Lord say. “You are upset and filled with rage, because you don’t have control.” Of course I argued with Him that that was not the case. That I was more upset that my son was getting hurt and I couldn’t protect him from that. I usually don’t take what the Lord tells me without some sort of rebuttal. I cannot fathom the notion that His answers to my deepest and most painful issues usually are answered in short, one or two sentence answers. In fact, that make me mad too. Like this answer.

Essentially He is telling me that if I relinquish control, I won’t feel rage. I will not be as frustrated and I will be able to rest in His presence. That resting in Him will secure my peace and peace will help aid in sleeping through the night. I toss and turn some more, frustrated at the concept of control. THAT’S IT! I am getting out of bed! I can’t sleep anyway and now I am fired up.

I walk downstairs and put on the pot of water for tea. I stir inside. Brew with intensity. I hate not being in control. I hate it. I will use that powerful word too. I despise the concept. Yet, and that is a big YET… I know that the choice between God being in control and me being in control is not even a comparison. I know that God’s way, God’s journey for us, God’s purpose is perfect. He sees the beginning and the end, and I just have a little puzzle piece of my life.

The pot starts to hum. I walk over and pour the hot water into my cup. The bag of black tea and spices starts to permeate the clear water and steam rises from the cup. I let it steep. Waiting for all the flavors of the contents to transform the water in to a flavorful beverage. I sweeten with honey and add some mild to soften the bitterness of the essence. I wait for it to cool and begin to write. I can smell the sweet spices and can almost taste them before the liquid ever touches my mouth.

“That is you,” the Lord says to me. “You are the water. I created you, pure and undefiled. I made you flexible and transparent. Able to change with your environment. You can be so cold that you are hard, like ice. Your can be so hot, that your structure changes you and becomes steam. You can be lukewarm and put a bad taste in people’s mouth. I want you to be extremely hot and extremely cold.

 When you are extremely hot, you can receive from me and take on the flavors and aromas of my character, like your tea. When you do, I will add grace and mercy, like the honey to make life a little sweeter. Then I will add some love and joy to soften the flavors, so it will be more palatable for those who think I am too intense of a flavor.

 

 

 

When you are extremely cold, you bring hope to a dying world. You are refreshing and lifesaving. The water is you and the pieces of ice bring a fresh perspective to a cynical world. Cold water calms the overheating of rage and anger and bitterness. It brings life to those who feel like they are dying in the dessert. It holds hope for those who thought all was lost and they would just die, alone in the emptiness of their hearts.

Either way, it is I, who controls the outcome. Not you. I just want you to be. Just be transparent and able to reflect me. Be available to be cold and give refreshment and hope or hot and bring mercy, grace, love and joy.”

A yawn escapes me. I sip on the tea and look at the time. 6:51am. The sun is rising and shedding light on the earth; much like my Lord rises to the occasion and sheds light on my heart. I process, wonder how I can let go of the control I have. Tell the Lord I don’t know how.

I can almost see Him smile when He says, “All you have to do is trust me.”

I take the last sip of my tea, water stained with color. I exhale. The rage has left my heart and the beating of my heart slows down. The scripture I learned as a child enters my mind:

“Trust in the Lord, with ALL your heart, and lean not on your own understanding. In ALL your ways acknowledge him and He will direct your paths.” Proverbs 3:5 & 6

Song of the wanderer

There seems to be a stirring, something murmuring around me. I cannot see it, but know it is there.

My heart pounds so loud, I can feel the motion in my throat. I breathe so hard it hurts. What is it? What is out there?

The undeniable reality of my existence has finally caught up to me. I am here. I have value. My isms are exactly as they should be. I walk around on the earth with the fervor of purpose and am driven to do so. In time. In time, I should say, as I don’t want to go before the Lord. I want to be in His will, in His time, in His atmosphere.

I breathe again. My chest echoes the pain of the deep landscape of my innermost parts. I am isolated, yet comforted; I am uncertain, yet sure. I am chastised, yet delight in it; I am misunderstood, yet authentic. My mind wanders to the place of unquestionable confidence that I am a wanderer.

I spoke of this once before. The mind blowing quote that reshaped the scenery of my life. “Not all who wander are lost.” I am not lost as I wander. I am not looking for answers or a place to rest my head; a place to settle or work. I wander, because that is the path that has been set out for me. I struggle with the notion that this is my life. I once dreamed of buying a house in the country with a barn and veranda and a white picket fence that my kids and grandkids grew up in. However, the truth of my life has been altered by the greatest desire in my heart, “to live by faith.”

There it is again. The stirring. It is making me restless, uncomfortable. I hear it moving closer, with a greater definition of sound. Like a rhythm it moves.

My heart begins to pound. Loud and fierce. It starts to skip beats and move around in pattern. Soon I notice that my heart is synchronizing with the rhythm all the around me. Yet I still do not see what it is. Its moving closer and I can just make out the words:

All that is gold does not glitter,

Not all those who wander are lost;

The old that is strong does not wither,

Deep roots are not reached by the frost.

From the ashes a fire shall be woken,

A light from the shadows shall spring;

Renewed shall be blade that was broken,

The crownless again shall be king.

 

The words, written with such beauty and craftsmanship, floating across the page in timeless wonder, J.R.R. Tolkien. It is my language, the written word, left hanging in the air for interpretation and inspiration.

The song is sung on my heart and I harmonize to the tune as the notes fly through the air.

 

The road to home is long

It cannot be measured in miles

Signs do not tell the way

You hear the directions in a song

Marked by the pain and the trials

A new vision comes today

The path had been there all along

Covered by many large ash piles

As we step in the array

Of all the things that went wrong

A process that proved to be vital

When heart wants to obey

And so we continue on

Even though it will take a while

 

My heart beating to the same drum. I push on. Knowing that there is an end.

I walk, enjoying the ever changing landscape around me, taking in the sites like a tourist visiting for just a while. Knowing that soon I will be home.

I am being deleted...

I am being deleted…

Yes. That is me… I see the bar in front of my face, you know the one that slowly moves to show you that the computer is working. The one that takes FOREVER because your internet sucks. Yes, that is me… I am slowly being deleted.

I noticed it as my mom was dying. I was not valid, not valued, not important. I was just the hard drive of the computer. The thing that makes the machine work, but does not run any programs. I am the one that keeps going and going, even when it seem the computer is off. Yes, that is me. A hard drive that is no longer needed because a new hard drive had been installed.

I am being deleted….

I see that bar is moving faster. It started after my mom died. I did not see my step dad for over a year… he was slowly deleting me from his life. It is not the first time I have been deleted. My father did this to me just five years before.

Yes. That is me… slowly disappearing from a family that existed for 30 years. A family, broken, but filled with forgiveness and second chances. Yet, the reality of my mom gone has changed the DNA of a man who was my dad, so much that he does not even acknowledge my existence.

I am being deleted….

It’s about half way through. He met a woman who will become his wife. I barely saw him the second year after my mom’s death. I met the woman who would be his wife. She is kind and just. She is broken. Yet, she was honest and open and I appreciated that. I thought, perhaps, she would make the bar go backwards, but I was wrong.

Yes. That is me. The oldest daughter who has been forgotten. The one who has kids that were his grandkids that have not seen their grandpa for over a year. He did not go to a single football game to see his two grandsons play together. Not one. Yet I had hope that his new wife would encourage him to support his family. That did not happen.

I am being deleted….

It is three quarters of the way to the end. I am almost gone. He called me to tell me I needed to get all my mom’s stuff or he would give it away. I ran. I packed. I graciously walked around the half packed house that had no remnants of my mother.

Yes. That is me. In the photo albums he is giving me. Yes that is my wedding photo that he no longer wants. Yes, those are all the photos I gave to him and mom, of my kids, from 0 to now. I took it all. Even the stuff that was new. These things will be the items that will keep my mom alive. The memory of a time gone by. There is nothing left in his possession that shows there was ever a life of 30 years with my mother.

I am being deleted….

It’s almost at the end. The bar is slowly moving to the end and I will be no more. His wedding to the new woman is tomorrow. I was not invited. My sister was not invited. My brother was not invited. Only his biological children were. There is no more room in his heart for us. I think he may even be relieved.

Yes, that is me. The girl that is not allowed in his new life. That is my sister, and brother. They are not allowed in. We are being deleted. We are being forgotten. He is only looking forward, and we are not included in the future with his new wife. We are almost gone. He has rid himself of the evidence that we once existed in his life.

I am being deleted…

It will be complete when he says, “I do.” Everyone who carries the same blood is there. We, my sister and brother and I, do not. Our blood is from another man. Our father, who also deleted me and my sister. They are celebrating and starting a new life and we are being left behind.

Yes, that is me. I am the girl who speaks of such matters when others pretend all is well. I do not live that way. I cannot. My heart is bleeding. I lost my mother, then my father. Now I am losing the man who raised me. He was not perfect and hurt me more than he valued me, but he was my dad for 30 years.

I am deleted.

Now, I have no parents. They are all gone. I hear the music playing in the background. It is an orchestra of a slow and sorrowful nature. I close my eyes. Tears well behind the lids.

Yes that is me.

Beukers Family Year in Review