I believe the soul is infinite. The spirit is good for a lifetime. It filters what the soul needs. Why am I fearful to say that I believe in reincarnation? Maybe because I have had the "clutch the pearls" reaction too many times. I am basically conservative in life and this idea even surprises me. I feel like I have lived before and will go on to live another life, and another...I just see God letting us go off into the world at birth, we find our way, and ultimately I think God waits for us to find our way back to him. In a way that makes us better and better every go around. There are no failures, just a varied amount of lessons to be learned.

“Leave just one of them!” my mother screamed as she reached through the front
passenger window of our old four door Ford. I sat in the middle of the bench seat with my father behind the steering wheel to my left. I was just learning to talk and my language skills were limited. I loved both of my brothers who were sitting in the back seat, but I hoped not to be the one to be left behind. My mother’s fingers biting into my right upper arm was my only physical sensation. The rest of my body was without feeling. My heart was introduced to a world of terror and my body was paralyzed with fear. “Lock the doors.” My father’s matter of fact statement was directed at my older brother Eric. “Let go!” He leaned across me, peeled her fingers from my arm, shielded me with his body, cranked up the window, and locked the door all in one swift movement. I never saw her look like this before. What was wrong with her? She had recently lost a significant amount of weight. Her eyes looked
straight ahead but not at anyone or anything in particular. She had something on her
mind. Her lips involuntarily moved in and out like she was going to give a gentle kiss. I would see this look several times over the next fifteen years until I was old
enough to leave the house for college. It never got any easier.
My father died suddenly three years later, months prior to my seventh birthday,
and I began to shield myself. From that day forward, I woke up every morning not
knowing whether the day would be based on fact or fiction. Love and fear became my
parallel reality. Everything else was to be determined.
My mother was a delusional schizophrenic. Sporadically she took the prescribed medication, and when she did, she was coherent, kind, and loving. As her medication would keep her balanced so were our lives. She was consistent with our homework and bedtime rules. She fixed us a snack after school so that we would not be hungry while she cooked dinner. She was awake early cooking breakfast. I never owned an alarm clock until I moved out. She woke me for school, never upset when I complained or went back to sleep. She always had a pleasant gentle smile on her face. She put out clean clothes every morning and I was not allowed to wear anything with a stain or tear in the fabric. When my mother would return from being hospitalized (usually two weeks at a time), she was like an angel truly sent from above. She had a genuine heart. A heart that I continue to strive for today in my own personal dealings with people. My mother would talk to anyone, anywhere, about anything. The meanest person in the world would soften and begin to smile (even if ever so slightly) at least once while interacting with her. They softened not because she was funny, but because it was obvious that she did not have a mean bone in her body. Her kind heart had a contagious affect. She related on any level. She was generally good to everyone, and she loved me (unconditionally). She loved me no matter who I was, or what I said or did.
She struggled with her disease and tried to maintain a normal existence. She would be hospitalized each time she decided that she felt well enough to stop taking her medications. The medication balanced her chemically when it was in her system. The more distance between her and the medication resulted in an increased severity of her symptoms which included hallucinations (visual, auditory and cognitive), aggressive behavior, religious rituals, and being completely unreachable by anyone outside of her current reality.
I remember the time I was safely tucked away in my small town elementary school and the principal was knocking at the classroom door asking me to go to the front office with him. “Have things been going o.k. at home for you?” he asked as we walked down the hallway together. I didn’t answer. I was afraid that if I were to respond verbally that I would burst into tears. I nodded as if to indicate that everything was o.k.
I saw my mother and little brother standing inside of the main entrance to the school, which was all glass with two big heavy swinging doors. I could see the snow outside and wondered why mom didn’t look tired after walking four miles in the middle of a Maine winter. We did not own a car, and even if we did, she couldn’t drive. She looked completely ready for the walk back. My mother was accusing the principal of losing one of her children. “Where is Robby's twin brother….Kevin?”
“Noreen and Robby are the only children of yours that have ever been in my care” he explained carefully. Again, that paralyzed feeling. Robby was thirteen months younger than me, and I would have gone to any length to protect him. If I had another brother---where was he? Was he ok? I needed to go find him. Why did my heart suddenly feel like a rock in the middle of my chest? My mother walked home and I went back to my fourth grade classroom. A few days later she was at the end of our driveway. I tried to talk her into going back inside of our mobile home. I was afraid she might get lost or get hit by a car and never come home; and sometimes; a small part of the back of my mind wished for that to happen. Things were much easier when she would stay in bed for days on end. She said “Look, there’s daddy. See? He’s in the doorway.” “Mom….” I said “that’s the Santa face you put there. Remember?”.
I thought back to a few weeks prior. Mom, Robby, and I had decorated the tree and our small mobile home for the Christmas holiday. I didn’t feel like celebrating today. The mere mention of my father brought tears to my eyes. He had died less than a year ago and I needed him so much. Especially at that moment in time. I wanted to be able to see my father’s face with her. I squinted my eyes and tried to see him. For a moment I thought that I could see him. I knew that it wasn’t him and my heart was breaking. Shortly thereafter she was admitted to the hospital.
I was afraid of her disease. I realize now that a psychological disease is the center of one’s personality; therefore being fearful of the disease is being fearful of the person. Fear became as comfortable and “normal” for me as safety does for many others.

I was running for my life and my mother was standing in the doorway of our mobile home with a sinister grin on her face. I was running hard but I could not cover any ground because my feet were not moving. Shattered glass pieces of the window she had just broken were strewn around on the floor. Her hand was bleeding as she clutched a large jagged piece of glass.

My eyes opened and every muscle was tense in my body. I lay flat on my back in my own bed. I was cold and the moisture from my perspiration made the sheets stick to my body. It was so real though…I was paralyzed with fear. I wanted to leave the house and go to my grandmother’s but I could potentially run into my mother on the way out. I could here her footsteps in the hallway stop outside of my closed bedroom door. My heart was racing and I felt as though I would rather be dead than where I was at that given moment in time. It felt as though the world has stopped spinning and it was all created by my subconscious mind.

I miss my "Sticky" dog. She passed away last April.

Why do hearts have to break?

She was 13 years old, and boy was she cranky. She adored me though. Anyone else she would nash her teeth and grumble from down deep inside. She saw me through my addiction and my recovery. No matter what... her feelings for me were rock solid, and no matter what...she never changed her mind about me. The incredible amount of sadness and tears remind me of the price of love...although the price was high, it was the bargain of a lifetime.

-DH

The smallest gestures in life touch my heart the most. Reliving the horrors of my past and losing everything...(my job, my home, my husband)...I went through a nasty seperation. I had a two dollar bill, my little dog, an old truck (that had a locked gas cap, no key, and no gas in the tank). I never wanted to spend the two dollar bill. Needless to say, I spent the two dollars.
As I relived the memories with my current husband he listened quietly and gave me a hug. The next day as I cleaned off my desk, I found an envelope with my name on it. Inside was a card and a two dollar bill. The note said "I want you to have your two dollar bill. I love you."