It’s been four long years since I first began my journey as a college student and as an independent person apart from my parents. Finding my identity along that path was difficult, and I’ve had to reevaluate where I stood on various issues. I’ve had to come to terms with the fact that the world my parents grew up in is vastly different from my own. Not everything they said about the world is true, and not everything I believed about the world is true.

After the fiasco with my parents’ divorce and the ensuing drama which accompanied it, I found myself feeling like I’d been hung out to dry. Tumultuous as it was, the family life I grew up with was still a source of solace and even comfort during times when my own life was in a state of disarray. Now, my mom and sisters would be moving over a thousand miles from me, and I was powerless to protect my sisters and our dog Daisy from the perils which would inevitably cross their paths. Further, my dad would be feeling disenfranchised because he would be left alone to readjust after nearly twenty years of living with a family.

I underwent the arduous process of grieving for a life which was now fast coming to a close. No more slightly tense dinners at Christmas time, and no more nights where we would prepare traditional Chinese, Thai, or Vietnamese dishes in the spacious kitchen. Whenever I see my dad from now on, it will necessarily be in the absence of the rest of my family. Whenever I see my sisters, mom and Daisy, it will be in the absence of my dad. The house we lived in for roughly seven long, hard years has now been rented out to someone else. The rooms and walls which contained the sadness, joy, frustration, and grief of our family’s story would now hold the joy and sadness of someone else’s life. My room is gone, and my family is still further away.

During those four long years of college, I underwent a drastic change in my attitude toward romance and love in general. I came from a place where my wounds still felt fresh to a place where I felt confident enough to open my heart to someone else besides my sisters and Daisy. I fought through my own insecurities, sometimes successfully and sometimes letting them get the better of me. I also learned to stand up for what I believed in and to assert my own personhood.

Now, I find myself standing on the edge of the unknown, transferring to a new school in the fall and studying music. I’m excited for the change and to finally be studying something I love. Yet, I find myself feeling lost again. I’m so tempted to have a pity party, wondering why things can’t ever go the way I want it to. For once, can I just be myself? For once, could things please just go smoothly and as I’d like for them to?

I know I take a terrible risk here when I lay myself out transparently like this in such a public forum. Here, everyone holds a more or less equal opportunity to come across these words and take away from them what they will, be it good or otherwise. Yet, I hope someone out there may find these words and perhaps be able to gain something from them.

It’s been forever since I’ve last updated, but I’ll try to condense my thoughts from these past few months.

If there’s one theme which has been a constant throughout these past two to three months, it’s been change, change and more change. also, due to some issues I’ve been having with my roommate, I’ve finally come to the realization that one’s emotional, psychological, and physical health should be the top priority in one’s life. As a side note I feel for all of you out there who have trouble either falling asleep or staying asleep at night. It sucks, especially when you’re a student! I also feel for those of you who have roommates or significant others who insist on pressing the “Snooze” button for an hour before they need to get up and who use multiple alarms just to wake up every morning. I truly do! That type of chronic exhaustion is like no other I have ever felt in my almost two and a half decades here on this Earth! As exhaustion gradually became a part of my everyday existence and reality, I began to seriously consider budgeting my energy and time. I guess, if nothing else, it taught me what my priorities were. Before, my projects were all completed a bit at a time, but during that phase when I was at my lowest, I had to choose which to let go, letting myself get a bad grade, and which absolutely needed to be done.

I’ve also had to learn a hard lesson, one that I’ve always had trouble accepting: You can’t help everyone, and you can’t fix everyone’s lives for them, giving or ensuring them a happy ending. At the beginning of this year, I was surprised to find my family was moving back to the West coast. This left me scrambling for a place to live over the summer break, hitting me with the realization that I was truly on my own now. Yet, I had built up enough confidence that I thought I’d be OK. Then, the real bomb was dropped on me just a little over two months ago. My parents are getting divorced.

I guess I should’ve expected it since I’d been praying and casting spells for change, but I guess that’s why hindsight’s always twenty-twenty. If you’ve read any my previous blog posts, you’ll quickly begin to see our family has been dealing with many, many psychological and emotional problems for a long, long, long time. I knew something had to break, seeing as my sisters were both coming up to critical rites of passage in their lives, one beginning to embrace adulthood and another beginning to embrace adolescence. I could tell the stress and strain was beginning to wear everyone to the breaking point. It’s pretty bad when guests come over and feel the tension in the air, commenting to you afterward it could’ve been cut through with a knife.

At first, I was completely OK with it. I knew it would come; it was just a matter of it taking place sooner or later. My mom had forewarned us of the possibility, but it was always kept in the distant future–after we’d all graduated and were out of the house or after we’d all settled down into our adult lives–not while we were just all trying to find ourselves. I tried to move on as best I could, knowing and grateful that this turn of events would lift a crushing burden from my family’s shoulders. Unexpectedly, though, I found myself grieving instead of coping and wishing everyone well. I found it beginning to haunt my other relationships, too. Just when I’d thought my relationship with my boyfriend was secure, an unwelcome voice in my head would frigidly remind me of that cruel reality and shake my faith in him and in myself. In all the years of my life, I have never had to fight such an intense urge to run, not due to some rational cause for panic, but due to my own intense fear of getting hurt. I had visions of a happy life in the future, one where I’d be married, have a wonderful job which I enjoyed, and wonderful pets to keep my husband and me company. Yet, the divorce always loomed over those happy visions as though it were an inevitable reality instead of a very avoidable possibility.

Between the constant exhaustion, the realization that my family would never be the same again, feeling as though part of my foundation was crumbling beneath me, and fearing my relationship with my boyfriend would end up like that of my parents, I cared less and less about school. I had been burnt out with my educational path for some time before that, and I knew I saw my education here as only a means to an end. When all of this hit, I was struck with just how little education and getting a degree really matters in the grand scheme of things. I was forced to realize that I could have a doctorate in psychology or a masters in vocal pedagogy and still have nothing. When you’re barely making it through each day because you’re fighting through the fog of chronic sleep-deprivation, certain things begin to fall by the wayside and tohers begin to matter to you more and more.

Well-meaning as they were, many friends comforted me by saying, “Well, sometimes relationships just don’t work out. Maybe they were incompatible to begin with.” Incompatible? What does that even mean? You mean to tell me that two, grown people can’t resolve conflict in a mature, civilized fashion? Do you mean to tell me that two people, who have pledged to love one another, until death do they part, can’t spare an ounce of their energy to listen, have a little compassion, or spare a little empathy? What we come to? Has love, in its purest form, become nonexistent?
“Well, sometimes things just don’t work out no matter how hard they try.” Well, what does that even mean? If both are trying to empathize, to listen, to forgive, to love, to be gracious, to be humble to each other, how can it not not eventually be resolved? Why has our society and culture become so pessimistic in love? Why? Have they conditioned us only to believe in chemistry-based relationships, where people are mere lock-and-key models desperately needing to find one just like them to survive in love? Oh, so is that how love works?

I’ve watched my family live in fear for all these years. It’s not just one specific kind of fear; it’s fear of the world in which they must live, fear of the world around them, yes, even of life itself. they’re afraid to live because they see the world as a cold, hopelessly cruel place. On the streets no one is kind, no one is willing to lend a helping hand, and very few have goodwill toward anyone but themselves. It’s a dog-eat-dog world out there, and the only one who can care for you best is yourself. Yet, I don’t want to live like that. After all I’ve been through, I know I can’t make it on my own. I’d destroy myself trying. Ughgh, it’s sad when all I can come up with are cliches and sappy one-liners, but we need each other.
As for my plans for the future, I’m planning to finish off my psychology degree, pursue a second degree in music, and look around for graduate programs which will accept me as a student of music therapy. I do like counseling, but I’ve decided that family and marriage counseling is probably not the right choice for me. I can just imagine myself either becoming very burdened with other people’s problems or else losing patience and telling all my clients they’re e stupid and should grow up already.

Well, it’s getting very close to midnight here, and class awaits me in the morning. As always, feel free to comment.
Gracesong

In light of the fact the holidays are here, I thought I’d post this simple yet heart-warming story. It goes to show that sometimes the greatest love can be found among the most unwanted and rejected members of our society. Enjoy!
___

“UGLY”

Everyone in the apartment complex I lived in knew who Ugly was. Ugly was the resident tomcat. Ugly loved three things in this world: fighting, eating garbage, and shall we say, love.
The combination of these things combined with a life spent outside had their effect on Ugly.
To start with, he had only one eye, and where the other should have been was a gaping hole. He was also missing his ear on the same side, his left foot has appeared to have been badly broken at one time, and had healed at an unnatural angle, making him look like he was always turning the corner.
His tail has long since been lost, leaving only the smallest stub, which he would constantly jerk and twitch. Ugly would have been a dark gray tabby striped-type, except for the sores covering his head, neck, even his shoulders with thick, yellowing scabs. Every time someone saw Ugly there was the same reaction. “That’s one UGLY cat!!”
All the children were warned not to touch him, the adults threw rocks at him, hosed him down, squirted him when he tried to come in their homes, or shut his paws in the door when he would not leave. Ugly always had the same reaction. If you turned the hose on him, he would stand there, getting soaked until you gave up and quit. If you threw things at him, he would curl his lanky body around feet in forgiveness. Whenever he spied children, he would come running meowing frantically and bump his head against their hands, begging for their love. If you ever picked him up he would immediately begin suckling on your shirt, earrings, whatever he could find.
One day Ugly shared his love with the neighbors huskies. They did not respond kindly, and Ugly was badly mauled. From my apartment I could hear his screams, and I tried to rush to his aid. By the time I got to where he was laying, it was apparent Ugly’s sad life was almost at an end.
Ugly lay in a wet circle, his back legs and lower back twisted grossly out of shape, a gaping tear in the white strip of fur that ran down his front. As I picked him up and tried to carry him home I could hear him wheezing and gasping, and could feel him struggling. I must be hurting him terribly I thought. Then I felt a familiar tugging, sucking sensation on my ear- Ugly, in so much pain, suffering and obviously dying was trying to suckle my ear. I pulled him closer to me, and he bumped the palm of my hand with his head, then he turned his one golden eye towards me, and I could hear the distinct sound of purring. Even in the greatest pain, that ugly battled-scarred cat was asking only for a little affection, perhaps some compassion.
At that moment I thought Ugly was the most beautiful, loving creature I had ever seen. Never once did he try to bite or scratch me, or even try to get away from me, or struggle in any way. Ugly just looked up at me completely trusting in me to relieve his pain.
Ugly died in my arms before I could get inside, but I sat and held him for a long time afterwards, thinking about how one scarred, deformed little stray could so alter my opinion about what it means to have true pureness of spirit, to love so totally and truly. Ugly taught me more about giving and compassion than a thousand books, lectures, or talk show specials ever could, and for that I will always be thankful.
He had been scarred on the outside, but I was scarred on the inside, and it was time for me to move on and learn to love truly and deeply. To give my total to those I cared for.
Many people want to be richer, more successful, well liked, beautiful, but for me, I will always try to be Ugly.

- Author Unknown

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People who are minorities must fight every day of their lives. This fight, though, isn’t political, financial, but it sure as Hell is social and psychological. Personally, I find myself fighting to be heard, fighting to be taken seriously, and fighting the critical voices within my own mind, which are oftentimes my greatest enemies.
four-foot eleven, under a hundred pounds, a childlike voice, Asian, blind, left-handed…need I elaborate further? Add all of those into a generally placid, somewhat passive, mostly abhorrent of conflict package, and you’ve got yourself a train wreck in the making.

Having two eyes which don’t work like everyone’s, if at all, is much the same as having two left feet in a fancy-schmancy ballroom where your performance on the dance floor is as much a judgment upon your own worth as it is a disaster for your social standing in the group. You’re having a great time, but people secretly stare, point, and snicker at your ineptness at executing a proper waltz or tango. Should you ever use dance as a form of artistic expression, people end up taking your opinions on the matter for granted because you just can’t dance and will never dance. Likewise, people assume that blind people must automatically be incapable of doing things for themselves as others can because they cannot imagine themselves in a world where the lights have been forever turned out or obscured.

I dare you to try it. Just try it. Ask any of your friends to spend an entire day doing simple things around the house with the caveat that they must be blindfolded. Under no circumstances, within reason, must the blindfold be removed. They must use all senses but sight to accomplish their mission, keeping in mind traditionally accepted social norms such as using a fork and knife to eat steak etc. Unless you have the privilege of meeting a person who is very open to other points of view, nine times out of ten, your average Joe will politely decline for one reason or another. “what if I hurt myself,” they’ll say, or “It must be hard for you, but I really would rather not.”
Yeah, and why not? why the hell not? What’s your answer? Are you scared that it could one day happen to you? OK, and if you are, is it so bad to walk in another person’s shoes for a mile, six inches, or even two?

We moan and groan about how minorities make such a huge good-for-nothing fuss about their plight. Oh, really? OK, if you want to complain, why don’t you step in their shoes for a while if you believe it to be so tolerable. From dawn ’til dusk you fight. You fight an uphill battle against the shopper’s assistant at the grocery store who must help you find the items on your shopping list from treating you like you’re an overgrown and overdeveloped two-year-old. You fight to keep people from doing stupid things like carry you out of a van for fear that you might break. If you happen to have a childlike, light, bright, soprano voice, you fight for every word to carry just as much weight as those of a rumbling bass. Your anger is no longer the heartfelt emotions of a person but the minute, insignificant squeaking of a mouse, barely audible and barely worth your conscious attention.

Sometimes, I get tired of trying. Sometimes, I even get tired of fighting. Why must I constantly struggle just to get equal treatment and respect that others take for granted? All too often it’s a case of, “Are you sure you can wash those knives?” “Be careful, those knives are sharp.” “Did you like listening to that movie?” “How do you get dressed in the morning?” “How do you eat?” “How do you sleep?” “How do you know when to go to the bathroom?”…
sometimes, I get tired of being a non-white, non-right-handed, non-male, non-sighted, non-rich, non-Christian, and non-lower-voiced individual. Sometimes, I get tired of being special.

Hey, guys. Just stopped in to plug a rather interesting blog I came across.
Andrew Corliss, a senior marketing major here at the university I attend, put up this blog, detailing various aspects of marketing, advertising, personal growth, and innovation. Check him out here!

http://fearlessfuture.posterous.com/

Hey, guys. Just stopped in to plug a rather interesting blog I came across.
Andrew Corliss, a senior marketing major here at the university I attend, put up this blog, detailing various aspects of marketing, advertising, personal growth, and innovation. Check him out here!

http://fearlessfuture.posterous.com/

Well, it seems like I’ve not posted here in forever! Over the course of these past few months, I’ve been slowly but surely making some changes in my life to help me overcome my past and pave a better future for myself. Don’t worry, I’ve not forgotten about my previous posts and will write them shortly.
A quick run-down? I’ve decided to finally become financially independent from my parents, removing myself from the shadow of guilt, shame and self-doubt which had loomed over me for as long as I can recall. Secondly, I’ve decided to start the process of healing by taking a chance on love. Yes, I just said “love”.
I now have a wonderful boyfriend, who has been more than patient and kind in the light of my many imperfections, and in roughly three days, it will be our one-month anniversary. Well, oK, technically it’s about 2-3 because I was stubborn and refused to admit I liked him at first, but that’s another story for another time.
At first, it was very, very hard to admit to myself I liked him or to even give him a chance. A certain relative of mine really screwed me over royally by taking certain actions that messed up my view of men.
Also, Iv’e decided to finally try out for the shcool of music again because that si truly what I want ot do in life. Lastly, I’ve declared a second major in sociology and can also take classes to complete a second minor in Chinese since I’m only two classes away from it. Oh, and the music thing would be tacked on as a second minor as well. Years and years of schooling, here i come!

In other news, I wanted to give a fellow wordpress blogger a shout-out. “Intrinsic Dignity” is a blog which discusses the various aspects of Fundamentalist Christianity and seeks to explore how it impacts various areas of our lives. Of particular interest to the author is Fundamentalist Christianity’s tendency to eliminate any sense of dignity the individual may have, choosing instead to focus on the vile, depraved innate nature of humankind.
To my mind, this blog is definitely worth keeping an eye on, so read and enjoy!

Well, it’s time to procrastinate some more, so I’ll see you guys later.

Last segment, I discussed the physical abuse which took place during my formative years. However, the wounds were more than skin-deep. I would now like to explore the emotional side of the abuse, bringing us up to the present.

While the physical abuse took place, the psychological and emotional abuse was also brewing beneath the surface. Not only was I a stubborn and strong-willed child, I was also rather sensitive and often took words to heart. Looking back, I know I clung onto my parents’ words as a source of validation. With their words and their love, or perceived lack thereof, I would either sink or fall. Based upon a few words strung together, I would either perceive life as a tremendous blessing or as an interminable hell.

Most of the words are now shrouded in the fuzzy cobwebs of time and have lost most of their sting, but the intention and emotion with which they were imprinted still remain today. Guilt, shame, rejection, and loyalty were branded onto my young mind, schewing the lens through which I perceived the concept of a happy family. The misdeeds of childhood were no longer opportunities for learning and growth. Instead, they spawned into battlefields, impenetrable castle walls, and a heart that no longer emotionally trusts or respects the ones who have brought her forth.

During the blur that was third and fourth grade, I hung out with Rebecca and Jane. They were my ticket into the sighted world, giving me a sense of belonging and friendship. My friendship with Rebecca blossomed, and we were practically inseparable. Yet, here was my first exposure to the effects of traumatic, psychological abuse and emotional neglect. I had a brief shock to my system as she one day determined to kill herself by running across the street while a car was passing. I remember heading up back to class crying and hysterical. After that, I clung to Rebecca even more tenaciously, allowing her to influence me to gossip about a dear aid who had treated me like family.

My mom’s reaction to the news that I had gossipped about the aid set her off into a cycle of physical and emotional abuse. She threw me around the room a few times and thereafter became more vocal about the burden of having a blind child. Piano lessons, the frustration of not being able to get through to me, and the difficulties of having a child with a disability were all laid out for me to see. I was never allowed to talk to Rebecca again, and fourth grade began in a world of emotional uncertainty.
We used to visit our paternal grandparents on a fairly regular basis. There, we watched hockey, ate dinner, and learned from my paternal grandfather, a wise man who had fled from the Communist Party of China. It was also there that I learned to truly feel shame and guilt.

As I stated before, Rebecca introduced me to the topic of sex when I was just a naive third grader. Looking back, I see now that perhaps she had been subjected to sexual abuse and thus tried to vent her pent-up frustrations to a friend. She told me of her exploits with boys in school and how they would ask her for sex. AT this time I hardly could understand the detrimental effects of gossip, let alone the act of procreation. Consequently, I began to become curious about sex. I asked my relatives what it was, getting no real answer which satisfied my inquisitive mind.
As a child I kept to myself when at home and stayed in my room, listening to music, writing, and singing. Therefore, I did not feel the need or desire to tell my mom or dad what was going on. I remember I was already learning to emotionally detach myself from my parents, feeling they were poor candidates for the coveted position of confidante and adviser.

Gradually, my curiosity got the better of me, and I decided to ask my uncle about the topics Rebecca was introducing to me. He lived in the basement of my grandfather’s house, having a converted livingroom and bedroom to himself. I used to go there and watch TV or listen to music while the adults upstairs occupied themselves by shouting at their favorite hockey team or by talking about Communist China. It was a pleasant place, and I often liked the silence and solitude it brought me. However, one night when I decided to sleep over at my grandparents’ house, my boundaries and innocent mind were violated beyond anything I could have hoped to imagine.

During that night I talked with my uncle and asked him questions about sex. He kept insisting that we not talk about it because it was “dirty”. I didn’t understand and kept pressing for answers, to my detriment. As time passed during that night, he insisted to me that he was scared and didn’t want to sleep alone. I, being naive and wanting to comfort anyone who was afraid of monsters, fell for it. Through the course of that night, he inappropriately touched me. Although I did not lose anything I have determined to give away only on my wedding night, I did lose my naive, innocent view of the world, the men, and the family around me.

When news of this violation came about, my mom vehemently denied my account of things, saying that perhaps I had been imagining things again. She shamed me later for even telling people what happened, almost causing a fistfight between the uncle and his brother later. To add salt to the already open wound, my uncle stayed on the floor of the basement and cried, threatening to kill himself. I had never wanted to run away so badly.

After that, I became an adolescent and hung with a different group of people. They, too, were blind and understood the difficulties of living in a sighted world. Gradually, I developed problems with sleep, often causing me to fall asleep or nod off during class. No one quite knew why, but I told them it was because of our upcoming move to the States.

In my next segment I’ll wrap this post up, and finally bring you here to the present.
As always, feel free to comment, and thanks for reading.

From my earliest memories of childhood, corporal punishment has always been made salient in my mind. I grew up in a semi-traditional, Chinese household which was very steeped in the traditional view that corporal punishment, though not the sole source of punishment, was the most effective way to teach children.
From moderately serious threats of, “If you don’t do this, I’m going to spank you.” to actually spanking the child, it was made clear to us children that this was the most effective way to teach children to behave well and have good manners. Over time, it became so ingrained in our minds that there was no questioning this philosophy. Any other method that chose not to incorporate this supposedly invaluable tool was considered ineffective and too lenient.
However, in my own personal experience, the time-outs at the wall and occasional spanking modulated into something worse.

As a child I was very stubborn and strong-willed. I was determined to stand my ground and not give in. However, I was also very sensitive and was hurt easily. I took jokes and other sleights to heart, crying if I was insulted. I remember that during those times, my mom would not comfort but instead joke about how sensitive I was. She would say, “You’re so sensitive. Fine, I won’t joke with you anymore.”

At the age of five, we moved to Montreal, Quebec and settled down there, enrolling me into a school for the blind. During that time there was at least one domestic call made to our house by a police officer because, I gathered, our neighbors had complained of excessive noise. I was very young then and don’t remember much.
All I am aware of was that these domestic altercations involved my mom wanting to hit her baby, who would eventually grow to be the middle child of the family. The only thing I remember is telling my dad not to hit the baby, but I don’t think I fully grasped the full picture of the situation then, seeing I was so young.
Prior to that incident, I had been witness to my biological father, my mom’s previous husband, attempting to strangle her. I also have vivid memories in which my mom tried to strangle me.

I remember a lull in the storm then, and things from that time seemed to be a blur. I went to the blind school, which I will not name, and socialized with children with multiple disabilities. From what I recall, I frequently went to school without having had breakfast, but I don’t remember if I had ever complained about not having done so.
Soon, I was enrolled into elementary school, integrating with my same-age peers. I learned to read Braille, had my first real taste of the sighted world, and made friends. The first two years of school held no particularly traumatic incidents, that I can remember, and life seemed to move on. Third grade came around and everything changed.

I met Jane and her friend Rebecca. Jane was relatively emotionally stable, while Rebecca was not. Looking back, I realize now that she came from an abusive home as well. It was Rebbecca who introduced me to the topic of sex at the tender age of about eight or so. Over time, Rebecca and I became very close friends, and I quickly incorporated her into my little world. We went everywhere together at school and talked about everything. However, she was influencing me negatively, resulting in my gossiping about a close aid that worked with me.

Well my mom found out eventually and freaked. I remember her yelling at me and hitting me. I don’t think I quite understood why, at the time, this was so bad. The problem was, I was mature in some ways but very immature and undeveloped in others.

After that time, the hitting, yellin insults, and abuse began. I remember times when I was pushed across the floor, and my hair was painfully grabbed and pulled. The loud shouting has since become a blur to me now, but the impact of the forgotten words still remains. I remember during one of these incidents that I desperately tried to tell my mom I loved her, but all I got in response was, “I don’t need your fucking love!”

Intermittently, the yelling of insults, hitting, and other forms of physical abuse continued. It was especially evident during my time of studying the piano against my will. I would be forced to stay up and practice a certain piece until it was flawless, free of mistakes. Yet, ironically, music has now become the air I breathe and my source of escape. Emotionally, I got to a point where I swore I could not ever trust my mom again. I remember laying in my bed at night, thinking through all the times which I was hit, and wishing I had a different mom. I wanted desperately a mom who would comfort, nurture, and listen to me. My dad seemingly, to me, did no good. He was always at work and did try to convince her nto to hit me.
It got to the point where a social worker visitied the house, and things seemed to calm down for a while after that.

Now, as a psychology major, I look back and wonder what it is that makes people want to use corporal punishment. It has been said that truly great leaders rely upon a strong, secure sense of confidence and self-assertion to guide those who follow them. Yet, my world was that which asserted that force and aggression were capstones in life. They were the means by which to get ahead and exert and have one’s will done.
The corporal punishment would commence, along with some very choice words, and when the storm cleared, the abuser was absolved almost completely of guilt or accountability.
The abused became the abuser, and not knowing how to channel their pent-up frustrations and anger, they took it out on the child. To them, the satisfaction of causing another pain somehow relieved the pain and frustration they felt inside.
In the next segment, I will cover what I ended up doing to cope and perhaps help others in healing a piece of themselves from the past.

As always, comments and questions are welcome, provided they are of a civil and related nature.