extended family
All about how to stay connected, strengthen ties and talk politics with your big, happy extended family.
Waiting for Me
I knew you before I knew myself; your smiles, laughter and eyes that sparkled, almond brown, back at me when I dared to look into any mirror, anywhere. You were blooming, not with sustenance nor with proper acknowledgement, you burrowed deeper, hidden behind my skateboard, my cigarettes, my unwanted peach fuzz. I resented you for being me; for stealing my place, my ease, my friendships. I despised you for pushing me forward, tossing me to the wolves, the haters, never caring to hold me tight. No one wants to be me, the unwanted babe, the banished boy in cohorts with a pushy budding young woman. I avoided you, I tried to smother you over and over for what, WHAT?; in this world what could you give me but rejection, hate and fear. I am like driftwood, washed up onto the rocky beach, stepped over, casted back to sea only to wash up again unwanted. I lost my father because of you, he unwanted me. You just had to take over my life, make my every moment hell. I sit in the shower broken; my body does not reflect you. My heart longs for love yet who will love this pain, this budding flame of dreams? I don't want me; how can anyone else? I have played and paid and now, with stacked dishes in my sink, dirty clothes on my floor, a room with a bed unmade I sit and I wonder why the hell I was born to be me in this creepy, stupid world. I am sensitive, smart and funny but that will never be enough. I am a weirdo to white guys with mohawks and big, black boots. Stomp, stomp, THUD! Will I one day be under their feet? Kicked, beaten to a bloody heap of white bones just like theirs? Will I relive my rejection from my father over and over and over or will there be a miracle? I lay low. Why the hell would I flaunt my femininity to appease those in charge at the clinic to recreate me? I am Frankenstein, an embarrassment to those whom I loved. My hair is falling out, I cry when I shave every morning. The one thing, the one person rather, I have is my mom. Somehow, for some I just don't know reason she keeps believing in me; she loves me and shows up. I have deceived her so many times, broken her heart and frightened her yet she continues to want me. I am never sure about anyone else. Never sure, never. I don't go outside unless I have no choice. The bus scares me; will my she in me be seen? She is stronger and emerging faster than my confidence. I keep my head down, stare at my phone in my oversized hoody hoping to just get to where I am supposed to be. When I get to where I am going I am still awkward and keep quiet. They see a brown boy, a lost case in a system of losers. At least that's what I think. Can I trust them to help me when I am amber in a porcelin boutique? Never know, never know. Mom texts me too much 'cause she worries. I guess she should be concerned; nothing seems to flow easily in my world, my burnt out boy, my screaming girl; my GOD, I am my twin. My eyelashes are long, my eyes are always wanting to cry, but I don't do so anymore, well, not that much. What does it do other than make my mom sad? Does anyone NOT see me as a freak of nature? I mean, other than mom? I don't understand why I should be PROUD when the whole damn world is grateful they don't have a kid like me. I get hugs from my mom, nice words from my doctor, sweet messages from far away aunt. I honestly do not know how long I can hold on to me. Alone. Me, myself and us. Transgender is not something I would have chosen. Why would anyone want to put a fucking sign on their door that said, "beat me"? That's where I am now. At the door. My life is wrapped up and placed in the bottom drawer of my dresser; there is no happiness, just lonesome, unwanted thoughts. My heart beats so loudly when I lay still; my she is free when we turn off the lights, look up at the stars and safely under the blankets look at texts from mom saying stuff like, " goodnight sweetie", "How are you?", " I miss you". When she says that I am her daughter, I shine, just a bit before my light goes out again.
One ring, one life story at a time.
My existence had always been one of light and warmth. Adorned on her finger, I caught the sun's gleams, reflecting them with a thousand tiny rainbows. I witnessed whispered secrets, nervous fidgets, and the quiet comfort of simply being held. I was more than an ornament; I was a silent part of her story, a whispered promise of a love story just beginning.
Rebecca Lynn IveyPublished 3 months ago in FamiliesLOST TREASURE
Once upon a time in the small village of Oakwood, there lived three brave and adventurous friends named Alex, Lily, and Max. They were known for their love of exploration and their thirst for excitement. One sunny morning, as they gathered at their favorite spot near the old oak tree, they stumbled upon a mysterious map hidden beneath a pile of leaves.
alaa ahmedPublished 3 months ago in FamiliesWhat are the best anti-aging skin products?
Anti-aging skin products are a popular choice for many individuals who want to maintain a youthful appearance. With so many options on the market, it can be overwhelming to determine which products are truly effective. However, by understanding the key ingredients and their benefits, you can make an informed decision about the best anti-aging products for your skin.
HEALTHY SPACE FOR YOUR LIFEPublished 3 months ago in FamiliesThe Significance of Family Love
1. Introduction: Recognizing the considerate effect of family love becomes progressively important in the fast-paced world of today. Let’s Join on a journey to explore the true essence of family bonds, as we discover the importance of cultivating and maintaining a connection based on love and respect. This perceptive preface sets the groundwork stage for discovering effective ways to form and maintain a familial bond that not only withstands challenges but thrives with long-term love and support.
Sad Songs
I knew who Roberta Flack was at a very early age; God knows I heard every song she sang. I love her still, yet undoubtedly she reminds me of him. Daddy sat with his record player on the floor, his legs crossed in what some called, "Indian style" which by the way is not correct to say now. I don't know any other word to describe it though. He would smoke Marlboros, drink cheap beer or dark wine and cry. Daddy cried a lot. I did not know why way back then. As a broken woman now, well, I guess he had good reason. Nothing soothes the soul more than music. We remember who we are, where we were, why we smiled, all because of music. Late at night I miss him despite his need to keep moving, not only place to place but woman to woman. I was his only until I wasn't. My Momma loved him even when he was cheating, threatened with statutory rape by an underage girl's parents and that left us broke, Momma scarred and lost in his wake. Momma took up more than one job and he didn't help us one bit. He told everybody he did help us though. He was always so charming, as smooth as chenille, and oh so handsome just like a movie star. His lies were so believable it made anyone who contradicted him look bad, let's just say, he had a hold on people; good people who believed in him sometimes questioned other good people who were also up against a wall with their truths, their own 'believe it or not stories', that were entwined with his lies. There were so many others than me with their own broken up dreams, their need to feel safe, to be heard. I was part of his tribe until I began to remember and as always girls like me are just considered delusional. I have half sisters and brothers, too. None of them really want to know my story 'cause it messes up theirs. I remember his fourth wife coming to live with us. She did not want a daughter older than she, I mean who would? She believed in him after I had given up a million times and damn, she was cold. It was clear there would be no place for me in my nostalgic, narcissistic, father's life once she set foot in the door. Where should I be, where should I go? She not only wanted me out from my father's home, but just gone, like in disappear. It was a slow burning fire and I was not about to see my, at that time, only baby sister be distanced from me. Suddenly, at least to me, this wife became the accessible one, the reliable one, the Alpha. Losing my baby sister's faith in me when I had taken care of her alone, when he was drunk and falling all over the place felt like a wasp sting in the heart, hell, a whole hive of wasps stinging me to near death. To watch him manipulate and groom this new woman younger than myself was, and still is, an unnerving experience. I know deep down my sister loves me, yet she became the good one and nobody saw the good in me anymore. So, back to my father's love of a good time I remember us flying down the highway in a convertible and blue grass music was blasting; I hated the wind so I was scrunched down into the backseat floorboard. He had a girlfriend I liked a lot who had a dachshund named Lucy. Anyway, in that little space between two leather bucket seats I saw my daddy's hand slip over to his girlfriend's legs, then he moved it up to the top of her pants and wedged it down the front. What the heck was he doing? He then started talking about cotton, rubbing her and saying how he missed her little cotton. I was frozen. It did not come to my mind until I was a young teen; after babysitting somebody from church's kids the father drove me home. He smelled like booze and at a side road he slowed the car down, he put his nasty hand on my thigh and leaned in to kiss me. I knew right then to push him away as no way he was going to try to touch my cotton. He said something about he had the wrong impression. I was fourteen, what impression did I give him? When I got home and went inside, just like always I said nothing. The wife of this man would call and ask me to babysit and I'd say no and Momma didn't understand; I was so afraid to tell her. What is wrong with me? I ask myself this a whole lot lately. My little me pushes through and wants grown up me to deal with my creepy past; I wish my memories could be stolen. I'd do anything to sleep through the night and not remember no more.
Provide Safety and Foster Independence by Answering Your Autistic Loved One’s Many Questions
“Why do we do it this way?” “Why is everyone mad?” “What does this mean?” “What did I do wrong?” As an autistic/ADHD person, I’m both a bottom-up thinker and an explicit learner, so the way I learn new information is by asking lots of questions and getting detailed explanations in response. The more details I receive, the better chance I have of forming a complete picture in my head of what’s expected of me–and being able to carry out that task.
The Articulate AutisticPublished 3 months ago in FamiliesThe Unexpected Sacrifice.
Some years ago I was reading a story about a young man that fell on tough times. He had no contact with his family, and he was homeless living on the streets. Somehow, he ran across an acquaintance that he grew up with. Later, this man found out that his friend was in business for himself and had built his own home. It turned out that his friend offered him a place to stay until he could get on his feet. Meanwhile, the man that was no longer homeless and now had a roof over his head found out he was terminally ill. Eventually, this man passed away. He had money that he had saved back, but it was not enough to pay for the whole funeral expense.
Baby in Womb
Of course! The uterus is described in detail below: The female reproductive system's pear-shaped uterus, sometimes referred to as the womb, is housed in the pelvic cavity. It is essential to reproduction because it is where the developing embryo is found throughout pregnancy.
Vijay KumarPublished 3 months ago in Families"Harmony in Adversity: A Tale of Two Neighbors"
In a quaint village, there were two neighbors: the prosperous Mr. Thornton and the humble Mr. Turner. Mr. Thornton, a wealthy merchant, lived in a grand mansion, surrounded by opulence. On the other side of the village, Mr. Turner and his family lived in a modest cottage, earning their livelihood from a small farm.
The Real Child
You found a nice place to sit and eat in this big wheat field. What have you bought? I am getting a nice smell. Really? I bought Mudda Pappu (plain dal curry). What did you get?
Arjun SahasyaPublished 3 months ago in FamiliesEchoes of Cinematic Majesty: Examining Five Iconic Film Works
There are stories in the shadowy passageways of history that are timeless, murmured in low voices that tingle the spine and accelerate the heartbeat. These are the ghost stories, the spooky folklore that have enthralled people for ages. These spectral encounters, which have place in both modern and old houses and defy rational explanation, leave believers shaking with fear and sceptics dumbfounded. In this investigation, we take a tour through the most famous ghost stories in the world, revealing the mysteries surrounding these eerie tales.
Alappari cityPublished 3 months ago in Families