It’s been awhile since I’ve had a guest post, but today we are lucky to have an incredible entry from one of my readers who wishes to remain anonymous. This is one of the most raw and brutally honest pieces I have ever read. It’s a post about her painful history, the struggle to overcome, and the blessing that has forced her to become better. If you’d like to contribute a guest post, please read the guidelines and contact me. You can read the other guest posts by clicking on the personal stories link in the sidebar.

I had an angry father.

A very angry and silencing father.

He was large in size and in temperament. Growing up the force of my dad’s anger could almost be seen in the air. It stuffed near-spoken words back into my mouth, down my throat, and into the cells of my body. And there they rotted into insecurity, self-doubt, confusion and silence.

Always silence. Silent about my heart. My life and longings. My own passions. And when I stuck my heart out there once, it was mutilated beyond relational repair to this day.

For the most part I became an agreer. The lines were clearly drawn. They were written on his brow and when his eyes and forehead began to twist I became placid like a dog before it’s owner’s command.

Always silence. For years. Words on the tip of my tongue seeped upwards into my brain, sideways into my jaw and in that delicate unseeable connection between mind, body and emotions, I became sick.

These days the naming of the truth I was raised in is finally bringing understanding , health and a strength to release. To become. To separate. This is new for me. I am choosing it for the first time without remorse and with strength. And there is, as there always is, a reason for that.

You see I married a man with strength, but his is silent. And in his silence I exploded. And imploded for that matter. My matter literally did. Chronic depression. Endless pain. And verbal outbursts of anguish.

The protector I desired, the wall from that scary history and future of pain, the one I knew no words to navigate, I was denied. He was silent. His own wall. I was on my own.

And I was a trapped deer caught in barbed wire. The more I thrashed against these new confines, the more I bled. And the more he backed away like a scared tourist stumbling on unexpected wounded wildlife. I emitted primal screams of captivity. Loss. Ungrieved things I did not know. Pain and a complete and utter vulnerability.

And then she came.

We had become pregnant very early on in our marriage and in quick succession we lost several sweet babies we loved.

But babies I never wanted.

I was smart enough to know they would break me. But they came for other reasons and so did she.

The truth seer. My progeny. The one who could read me and tremble at my caged wrath. At my undealt with grieving. At my unpredictability. My swings from acute tenderness to devastating depression and the tightrope of rage in-between. An intuition far too sharpened for one so young. At times I was the frying pan sitting on the hot burner of history and the slightest bit of pain thrown on me could make me spit and sizzle.

And she became my nemesis. My downfall. My joy. She arrived with a key in hand but will not give it, as she is it.

They say to young mothers, we’ve all heard it, to savor the days our children are young. And for all intents and purposes we try very hard. We grab chubby cheeks in two hands and plant oodles of smashed kisses on their rosebud, wet mouths. We look and absorb into our very fiber the color, the depths of their eyes. We sit and read and hold and cuddle and play tea party and blocks and build train tracks. We bake cookies, let them dump cups of flour and stir the pancake mix all over the floor. We stamp play-doh molds and dress up and tie the umpteenth little shoe and then rub baby lotion on wet, bathed skin at the end of the day. And we pull their little bodies close and we smell that skin and close our eyes and long and long to be better. To become. To be. To savor.

But she is still here. Still young. And she waits because she cannot go anywhere. Nor can I. I can neither run nor banish. And in her waiting she has become angry. And I see it. I know it. She is caged and I am her master. I hold her key. I am her key.

And I am hell-bent on releasing her.

She. She alone at such a young age has become my greatest inspiration. I could not break free from an angry father. Can not be free even for my husband. And have never been free for myself.

But they say truth is freedom, right? And so I have begun.

I heard a saying once; “A harsh word stirs up wrath but a kind, a gentle word dissipates anger.”

I am trembling with the hope that I can say no to anger. To instead be gentle. Full of grace and not scorn. I have chosen – because I can do that I now see – to turn away, stop, and break generations of family patterns. It’s terrifying. Lonely. Exhausting. Sad. Call me simplistic, but I think saying no is the key to close those doors behind us. She has the key to open and I have the key to shut. Or better yet, she is the key to opening it and I am the key to finishing it. It’s just believing that it’s possible. Like ending alcohol addiction, you wonder, will it ever really go away? Can I really not be angry?

Saying no to silence. No to intrusions. No to people who have no business being in our lives. No to being so distracted that I can’t choose gentleness, choose patience. No to so many, many things. And thereby I am learning comes safety. Protection. Reality. Truth.

And me. I am emerging.

And thanks to my daughter, so is she. It will take time, no doubt. New set backs, new habits, new “no’s” – but I want to teach her to swim these waters. To feel the beauty of freedom. Freedom to choose gentleness, release, truth, freedom and the enjoyment that ensues from being yourself. From being loved.

I read an essay by the writer Ellen Gilchrest who is looking back on her life from the joy and freedom of being a very independent, well-traveled, accomplished writer, teacher and grandmother. She talks of the sacrifices she made and the ones she didn’t.

She says: “One of the reasons I am happy now is that I did the work I had always dreamed of doing. But I didn’t start doing it seriously and professionally until I was forty years old.… In the end happiness is always a balance. I hope the young women of our fortunate world find ways to balance their young lives. I hope they learn to rejoice and wait.”

It’s that last sentence that struck me through the heart. Wait. To learn to rejoice and wait. Therein is the hope for me. It is something I can learn. Not a genetically-doomed destiny. To be patient with me is to be patient with her. The freedom will come. The gentle words that put away anger will seep, seep through seams of hundreds of daily choices and many, many times of turning away.

God truly gives us the gifts we don’t even know we need. See, this tiny angel, this little fiery beauty, this seer became my mirror.

And I’ll be damned – most literally – if I don’t become hers. Because she is lovely. And due to her, slowly my loveliness comes softly. Gently. Kindly. With grace. My choices unfold into freedom. My daughter - you have come to me as the most inspiring woman I’ve known. We will journey together and we will wait for this new family of ours to bloom. Thank you, sweet girl. I love you.

— Anonymous

I recently stumbled upon the blog Where Am I Going, and Why Am I In This Handbasket? and it immediately became one of my new favorites. The blog’s author Katherine is able to narrate seamlessly between side-splitting hilarity and utter heartbreak. I held my breath when I saw her email in my inbox containing her guest post- I knew it was going to be good. I wasn’t disappointed. I love the message in this story. When a tragedy happens to someone we know, sometimes it can be frustrating that we can’t ease the burden of their grief. It’s good to know that the little things we are able to do really can make a big difference.

I don’t remember much about the day my mother died; it’s a blur. I remember collapsing when she was pronounced dead and throwing up on the floor of the Nurses’ Station. I remember nurses hunched over me, asking me to stop screaming. I remember falling into my father’s arms when he walked in the room, sobbing on his shoulder, and going down to sit in the Family Room as my friends and family took turns holding and hugging me.

During the days before my mom died a close friend of mine, Virginia, was one of my biggest supports. She sat in my mom’s room while I went home to eat, shower or grab a quick nap. She sat by my mom’s bedside through the night the day before she died so I could spend a full night at my apartment with my husband. She made herself available to me at all costs, making food for us, taking time off of work to be at the hospital and offering me a shoulder to cry on and an ear to listen with.

She came to the hospital as soon as she got the news and to my apartment afterward to sit with me while my husband made phone calls. That evening, my mother’s boyfriend treated several of my friends and family members to dinner and we stayed at the restaurant long after closing, drinking wine, laughing, crying and sharing memories of my mother. Virginia was there, and she came back to my apartment with me, staying up to talk to me for a bit before falling asleep on our couch.

The next morning my husband and I had to meet with the lawyer at 9am, and as I walked out the door I couldn’t help but be embarrassed about the state of our apartment; it was a disaster. Dishes were stacked in and around the sink, the garbage was overflowing, clothes were piled everywhere and the cat box desperately needed changing. I apologized to Virginia for the mess and told her to lock the door on her way out.

As we drove home that afternoon, exhausted after meetings with both the lawyer and funeral director, I remembered how messy our apartment was and began to dread going home. All I wanted to do was fall into bed but I knew I’d have to at least wash the dishes and tend to the litter box before I could. I braced myself as I turned the key in the lock.

To my shock, the apartment was spotless – so clean, in fact, that I checked the number on the door to make sure we had the right place. Virginia had cleaned from top to bottom before she’d left – she’d conquered the mountain of dishes, changed the cat box and garbage, folded our clothes, swept the floors and watered the plants. She’d left a little note on our coffee table telling us to take a nap.

I burst into tears.

I will never, ever forget that. Much of that time in my life is a blur but I will always remember the overwhelming feeling that someone cared enough to help me out like that. I was amazed then, and I’m amazed now, that I have a friend who is so selfless and genuinely kind. Her taking the time to clean my apartment meant more to me than I could express to her and it’s that kind of ‘random act of kindness’ that, since then, I’ve always tried to pay forward to others.

- Katherine, from Where Am I Going, and Why Am I In This Handbasket?

This is a guest post that was submitted to me anonymously. It literally brought me to tears, and I am so glad that I can share it with all of you. I know it will mean a lot to so many women. If you would like to submit a guest post, please email me at karli at momonawire dot com.

There are not many women in my life who have inspired me. My relationship with my mother had been more of a child parenting an adult during my childhood and young adulthood. But there was one woman who reached out to me at the lowest point in my life, a woman who not only literally saved me, but who set my future on a course to do the same for others.

I was the victim of a brutal sexual assault that left me drowning in anxiety, guilt, and feelings of worthlessness. I had no one to reach out to, and in a moment of utter despair and tremendous emotional pain, I decided that not living was preferable to the emotional pain that was slowly eating away at me. I sat down to a bottle of prescription sleeping pills and a fifth of cheap vodka, truly believing that I had no other choice.

I thank God every day that someone found me in time to save me. And I thank God for the smiling face I woke to, the face of a woman who had been where I was, and who was determined to help me save myself. The first thing she said to me was, “You are not alone. You can choose to continue to be his victim, or you can take back your power, and survive this.” Those words struck me so profoundly, that I wept, and she held me tightly and let me pour my grief and pain onto her.

Some years later, in the same professional field as she, I encountered my first rape victim, in the same place emotionally that I had been long ago. My heart was beating wildly, and I was so afraid to talk to her, afraid of the familiarity of her raw wounds. My hands were shaking. I sat next to her on her hospital bed, desperately struggling to keep my own emotions in check. My mind went back to those words that were so simple, yet which had managed to start the healing process for me.

“You are not alone,” I told her. “You can choose to continue to be his victim, or you can take back your power, and survive this.” I know she saw my own ghosts when she looked into my eyes, and that connection, that knowing that someone understood, that healing was possible, no matter how impossible it seemed, was the beginning of that woman’s survival.

That moment, when I knew I had given to her what she needed, which was what I had needed long ago, was the moment that I was able to finally set my ghosts free. Not only had I survived my ordeal and gone on to help others overcome their emotional problems, but I had given to that sexual assault victim the same gift that I had received - hope. Sometimes, that’s what we need the most.

– Anonymous

This entry was originally posted to Woulda Coulda Shoulda on July 18th, 2005. I am re-posting it with permission from the unsinkable Mir. She told me that it is one of her favorite posts, even though it was from a very raw time. She said that “it’s about the kind of comfort that only your very best girlfriends can give,” and I hope you are as touched as I was by this simple and beautiful tribute to the women in her life.

If I close my eyes, the part of my mind that is adrift will actually impose an undercurrent of motion on my senses. It’s a slight but steady pull. My eyes always pop open before it gets so strong that I’m washed away. But I’m tired, you know. Bone tired. And when I’m too tired to lift my eyelids again, I half-expect I will be taken out to sea.

It must be the rain.

Anyway, if you thought I was in a jovial mood this morning, you shoulda been around this afternoon! Murphy has a bone to pick with me. I don’t know what I did to anger him so, but it was a doozy. I don’t think he’s done with me yet, either.

But that’s not what’s on my mind. I mean, yes, it’s on my mind every single nanosecond, but that’s not what I want to tell you about.

I have friends that I don’t deserve. I love each and every one of them and wonder if they know that I would be lost without them.

I love the friends who answered my distress call with a barrage of emails designed to buoy me and stop my self-torture.

I love the friend who listened to me cry into my phone as I sat huddled in my car, trying to pull myself together before I got the kids. I love that she lectured me about the ulcer I’m working on, and how mean ulcer-creating people suck.

I love the friend who came to get me out of the car, who held me while I stood there and bawled until my chest hurt. I love that she kept trying to feed me until I told her I was afraid that if I ate I would puke. I love that then she said if I did, the dog would clean it up.

I love the friend who just sat with me and held my hand, and then chatted with me about this and that and didn’t mind that I mostly just nodded. I love that she laughed when I suggested we drown one of my kids in the pool, just to see if it was possible that I could feel worse.

I love the friend who hugged me in the middle of a crowd, and made me look her in the eyes so that she could tell me I’ll be okay. I love that she called me later to tell me again. I love that she understands that I don’t know it yet.

I love the friends who are reaching across to me however they can, to tell me I’m allowed to feel. That they’re sorry I feel this way, but I’m allowed.

Thank you.

— Mir, of Woulda, Coulda, Shoulda

Jenna, who I spoke of in my post yesterday, has honored us with a guest post for the “inspire: personal stories” section. September 11th affected us all very differently, and this beautiful essay captures the anguish- and love- she experienced when she visited Ground Zero on the 4th anniversary of the attack. If you’d like to submit a guest post, please see the guidelines under “what is inspire?”.

I moved to New York with an apartment waiting for me that I’d never seen before – I just knew it was downtown, a bit of a commute from where I go to school. As we emerged from the tunnel and started navigating the streets, using our mapquested directions to try and find the address, my dad remarked, “I think we’re pretty close to Ground Zero.”

He was right. My apartment lies just two and a half blocks away from the site of the tragedy. Friends asked if I would be scared to live so close by, but I was more saddened than anything else. Political insanity and hoopla and hype aside, September 11 was tragic. Think of losing someone you love. Magnify that loss by thousands. Think about seeing a tangible reminder of that kind of loss every time you buy new jeans or want to walk to the movie theater or go to the post office that stays open ’till midnight.

The fourth anniversary of the attacks rolled around shortly after I’d moved to the city, and I was unsure of how to mark the day. In the morning, I chose to simply continue with my every Sunday actions, committed to being a part of the toughness of New Yorkers who’d decided that, no matter what, life went on. But as evening fell, the Tribute in Light was lit – two spotlights stretching miles into the sky that originate, and fill the place on the skyline, where the towers once were. They speak of hope and light and goodness and life going on. But they also speak of absence. They evoke the magnitude of what once was there, in my neighborhood – that life, those people, those buildings – and what isn’t anymore. I went to the site to see for myself.

I sobbed. I sobbed for all the obvious reasons. I sobbed because they were playing Josh Groban. I sobbed for the group of people who read every single New York Times profile of every single victim out loud, from dawn to dusk. I sobbed because of the flowers left and the other people sobbing. I sobbed because my brain kept flashing on a line from an old poem: “Where you used to be, there is a hole in the world…”

And in the midst of it all, a woman, a stranger, came up to me, made eye contact with me, and gently, reassuringly, gripped my forearm.

It sounds so simple, even when I write it now. A woman saw that another woman was hurting and made a gesture of kindness to her. But in New York City – in life – to step out of your box is a risk. To approach a stranger is a risk. To be vulnerable is a risk. To show love to another person – always – is a risk. Sometimes the women who inspire us perform Herculean feats. Midwives deliver our babies, therapists and friends deliver us from mental anguish, pastors and spiritual leaders deliver messages of hope and love through their actions. And sometimes, we’re touched and inspired by the smallest of gestures. We’re touched and inspired by simple acts of love and kindness. I took my comfort from that woman, who never spoke to me and who I’ll probably never see again, because she took the time to be kind, to show tenderness, to love in a city where disconnection and a stiff upper lip are the norm. She took care of me. And she reminded me to always have my eyes open, to look for ways to care. Life goes on in Manhattan when we remember to live it fully, sharing love in any way we can. I’m so glad she was there.

–Jenna, of “Defying Labels, Gravity, and Sleep Deprivation”