This post is more personal than anything. I just need to write about it and get some of it off my chest. For years I have been working on a book about my father. Yes, I know that we are very estranged. But I hold no malice towards him for his actions. There is something about choosing to be offended, when it comes to him I am not. I forgive him. I need to tell his story but the more that I work on it I am finding that it is not just his story. I have never known about my Grandmother on his side of the family. In fact, I felt and still do feel that I was alienated from her. I have never talked to her let alone know who she is. I don’t have an answer for why this is the way it was.

I know that my family as a whole might not want to know what I know. I know that when I told my story of abuse many did not listen or if they did they did not believe. That is something all of those who were abused have to deal with. #noexcuseforabuse But when I started working on my Grandmother something happened. Something I cannot explain feelings that permeate my home every time she enters the story. I am not a Christain don’t mistake me for one. But I know she is here when I am doing research about her. There is a link to her that brings me to tears with every word that is written or researched about her.

I have written to a number of Native American tribes in Oaklahoma and in Texas trying to figure out who she was. I finally found someone that is a beautiful person that has been working on this crazy mystery with me and my Aunt. We figured out that she might not have been a “Stolen” child. But there is a mystery of who she was. My Aunt tells as a witness the story that my Grandmother was given away to my Great Grandmother Taylor when she was 10. There was a photo of my Grandmother under a cactus with her birth mother. But we don’t know where that photo went to. My Aunt grew up with her and she is the last Daughter to know my Grandmother. I would love to figure this story out for the Truth to be known before it is too late. But there is a sadness that tells me it might never be figured out. I am at a point where I am not really sure what to do if we reach that destination.

At some point, I think she needs peace or justice. I cannot figure out why I am so consumed by her story. Just when I think I have it figured out, I don’t, I run into another wall. Sure I could just leave it as a simple story the one where my Great Grandfather rescued her from an abusive parent. But I feel pushed to dig deeper and find out the truth. I cannot explain why I feel like this. I cannot explain the reason why I am awash of tears and there is a lump in my throat every time I work on her story. Or that it lasts for about an hour every time. Then it just leaves with a feeling of peace and comfort in my home. I also feel mentally sharper once the peace sets in. Fuck me I am confused.

I am sure that my sisters who might read this will say a few things. One would pass it off and not bother with it. The other one who is very religious would be saying something thing to the tune of “It’s her spirit” then adding in something else that does not really hold much to me about her religion. Yeah I kind of figured it out that it was her spirit at the second part when the house is filled with comfort and peace. But before that there is a great sadness that comes before that. It is vastly different feelings both to myself and in the house.

Well, I do need to take a break form writings about her or even looking into the story. I only get so much time before I am drained of emotional energy. If I figure out more I will write about it again.