He was eight years old when they finally made it to Ellis Island. It had taken them nearly a year to get there. Their journey started in Poland. I believe Krakow, but I’m not 100% sure.**

His grandfather had been talking about leaving for months, years even. Trying to convince the family to come with him. He had money, he could pay everyone’s way. Old crazy man is what they said to him. The German’s won’t come here. If they do, we’ll pay them. Not sure why they believed that would work, but they did.***

The boy was not yet seven when his father was killed. Killed is the nice word. Murdered is more accurate. They were Jews. In Poland. In the late 30’s. He was shot coming out of the temple. He’d been talking to the Rabbi about performing a Bris on his newborn son.

The next week, was when they left. They left at night. Hidden by a friend. A non-Jewish friend. The boy, his mother, his new baby brother and his grandfather, were the only one’s who left. The grandfather had convinced his daughter to leave it all behind. To leave with him, to save her sons.

The friend drove all night. He took them to another friend. After a few more days, they were taken, again at night, to another friend. Sometimes they stayed places weeks, sometimes days. It just depended on where the Germans were in the moment.

When they arrived in France, the grandfather “lost” his passport. A man his age wasn’t allowed passage to America, so he pretended to be his dead son-in-law. It took them a few months to get new papers and then a few more months to get on a ship to America. This was before Internet, hell even before television. The grandfather had tons of money, all on his person (he was a loom builder and a weaver. He wove the money into the lining of all of their clothes) but he wasn’t able to speed up the process.

Upon arriving on Ellis Island, the grandfather once again “lost” his papers. He claimed entry in his own name. Being that he’d already made the trip and was perfectly healthy, he was allowed to stay. They weren’t happy with his age, but they let it go. (whatever. The man lived to be 105 years old.) He changed their last name, left their religion behind and became Americans.

Eight years old. The little boy was eight years old. All innocence he’d previously had was completely gone by then. He’d watched his father get shot and subsequently buried. He’d helped his grandfather and his mother with his baby brother. His baby brother is a whole other story. He was well…now we’d say disabled. Brain damaged is the reality. The doctor who had delivered him and used too much force with the forceps is the story. No idea how valid it is. He was emotionally stuck at three years old, until the day he died at 27.

The little boy was a bit of a schmoozer. He’d learned some tricks on the boat. He’d found his way to get by in life. The bullshit. He was great at it. He could sell you your own mother if he wanted too. Even if he’d never met her. He was hardened by life. By the circumstances beyond his control. Nothing could change that. Not the little house in New Jersey that his mother and grandfather bought. Not the man who came into their lives a year later. The man was a great man, but the little boy was already hardened. He’d seen too much.

He wasn’t a bad person. He didn’t grow up to be a bad man. Just one who was constantly looking for the easy way. The easy money.

He worked so many different jobs and had so many different careers that I couldn’t even begin to name them all. I know he was in the Air Force during Korea. I know he once was a radio jockey for a few years. The rest is hazy. In his early twenties, he met a woman who was a bit older and eventually married her, once he got her pregnant. He left her after seven years of marriage and right after their forth child was born. He was at times a bit abusive. He was a womanizer. He was an occasional drunk. He was the guy who would call his kids, tell them he was coming and leave them sitting on the front porch.

Then I was born. See, that man…the little boy, the man he became; he was my grandfather. My father was his first born and I was his first born grandchild.

With me, he became a new man. A man who made promises and kept them. An involved participant in someone else’s life. A baby-sitter, a playmate, a soft spoken disciplinarian. He was patient and kind and willing to do anything for me. He was open with his love. For me. For my brothers. He took the term grandfather very seriously.

My grandfather had a hard life. When he came to this country he was a boy. But a boy who’d lost all innocence. In me and my brothers (and later, my cousins) I believe he found it again. His innocence. He took us to parks and zoos, he bought us toys and art supplies, he made special desserts just for us, he took us to double feature movies and restaurants where you could color on the table cloth. He always colored and played with us.

Others would tell you another story. His children for one. My grandmother, before she died. They weren’t all able to forgive. I understand that. You make your bed and you have to sleep in it. It is the way of the world. But sometimes a man, a scarred damaged man, gets a chance in a small little girl. And he took it. He took his chance. Every day, I’ll remember him. I know the things other people say about him. But I also know the man he was when he died. A good man. A honorable man. A man who regretted and tried to make amens for his prior life.

One thing he always said to me is this: you have to own up to your mistakes. Apologize and then move on. It’s the only way to live. He was right.

I could tell you only the good things about him. I considered it. In my life, he was a good man. I could tell you a million stories that involve him. I could share all the wonderful things and gloss over the rest. I don’t want to though. Each of us have things in our life we regret, things that make us who we are. I know I do.

If I just told you the wonderful things, I’d leave out the important things that made my grandfather who he was. A piece of him would be missing. That wouldn’t really be honoring him. He always looked at all sides of things and in sharing about him, he’d want me to tell you the whole thing.

Tomorrow my grandfather will have been gone six years. It is partially why I don’t like Halloween anymore. It was forever ruined by one phone call. The initial phone call had come earlier, nine days to be precise. But the day before Halloween, six years ago, I lost one of the most important men in my life.

Grandpa Elliot, I will never forget you. I miss you every day. Love you. -Melissa.

**Getting any details out of any of them was not easy. They didn’t like to talk about it. Any of it.

***My grandpa, his brother, mom and grandfather, were the only family that survived. There wasn’t a ton of family, but the remaining few died in the camps.

Looky, looky, I won an award. Becky at Life out of Focus gave it to me yesterday. Isn’t it purty?

I don’t normally do meme’s. Either I’ve done it before, or I say I’ll do it and I forget or something. I just don’t tend to do them. However this one I will do, because I love Becky and we go way back. She’s one of the sweetest people I know, so I’m humoring her. Also, her husbands a cop and you never know when you’ll need one of those around.

There are rules, which I am not going to fully follow. Because I’m me. I don’t like to tag people. It’s just not my thing. If you want to do it though, you can feel free.

Share “10 honest things” about yourself.

Here’s my 10:

1. I can pick up things with my toes. Socks, pens, random scraps of paper. They are long and skinny and flexible. In college I could peel a banana with them, but I doubt I could now. Because nothing else on the rest of me is long, skinny or flexible.

2. I adore apple juice. I could drink it all day. I don’t, but I could. Martinelli’s is my absolute favorite. I also love the Nantucket Nectar’s one.

3. I own Christmas dishes. Seriously I do. I heart them. They kind of look like this.

Same snowmen as the plates that are standing. But they are different colors.I get shit for it from my family, but it makes Christmas more festive. I adore Christmas.

4. When I clean my bathroom, I tend to just spray crap in the tub/shower and hope it magically cleans. Then I run steaming water for ten minutes and call it good.

5. I adore Top Chef and Chopped, but I fast forward the parts when the contestants argue with the judges. Makes me crazy to watch people argue.

6. The first boy I kissed was named Nathan. I was ten. However my first real boyfriend was Logan.

7. I am not an animal person. The fact that I have a dog is a fluke. But dam it, she’s six and it seems like she might be sticking around. She’s it though. Never again.

8. I have contact dermatitis. Which is lovely term for, Issa gets hives by touching just about everything. I needs a bubble.

9. I think fruity bagels are not real bagels. They are hard muffins. A bagel is only good if you could put lox on it without puking.

10. I despise the smell of syrup. However, I like the taste. I am my own little oxymoron.

Today’s guest post was written by my lovely friend Kirsten. Normally I put up an intro paragraph. But this time, I’m going to just let Kirsten’s words speak for themselves.

I’m going to ask you all to please do me two favors today. First, please be kind. If you disagree with the choice my friend made, that is one thing. It isn’t something everyone agrees with and I understand that. I won’t however tolerate hateful comments.  This is the first time she’s telling this story and she needs support. Two, please leave any comments to Kirsten  here, instead of her personal blog. Thanks. -Issa

This is quite possibly the scariest post I have ever written.  Every time I’ve sat down to write it, my heart beats faster, my hands start to shake a little and I have to walk away.  But I need to write it and Issa has been gracious enough to let me post it here. You see, I can’t post it on my own, because I am about to reveal something about myself that I have never even told my husband.   I sometimes go weeks without thinking about it, but it always creeps back into my thoughts and I think it always will.

My first job out of college was as a receptionist in a busy office in downtown San Francisco.  I loved it.  I got to dress up every day and the office was full of dynamic, high energy people that I learned so much from.   It was the perfect place to get my foot in the door and learn the ropes.

When I first met him I wondered how he came to work there.  He just seemed a little different that the rest of the people in the office.  He was more serious.  He didn’t join in on the after work drinks or linger in the kitchen while getting coffee to chat.  He was pleasant though and I tried to make small talk when he walked into the office in the morning.

Turns out we lived in the same neighborhood so we would often see each other on the train.  We developed a friendship, often stopping for coffee together on the way to work.  Occasionally we’d have lunch together.  He was easy to talk to and was one of the few people in the office who took me seriously.   I wasn’t just the fresh-faced, right out of college receptionist who had a lot to learn.  We had a genuine friendship.  I’d tell him about my latest adventures with my room mates and he’d tell me about his wife and daughter.  I knew his relationship with his wife was strained, but he never spoke ill of her.  She wanted more kids, he didn’t.  But he was crazy about his little girl.  I even babysat for them once or twice.

One night he asked me to work late to help him finish a presentation he was working on for the next morning.  We worked until about 8pm, and stopped at a bar on the way home.  That night was when I knew I had a crush on him.  I honestly had no idea if he had any kind of romantic feelings for me.  I knew he honest-to-goodness valued our friendship and never tried to hide it from his wife.   But did he feel the same?  He never showed it.    I thought we had chemistry.  I thought he could perhaps, possibly, maybe feel the same way.  But for all I know I was just a good friend from work who had the same taste in beer and lunch places.

Things continued for a couple of months.  Me with a school-girl crush on a married man some 12 years older than me and I could also tell that things were not improving for him at home.  He never told me and specifics, but it was obvious things were going downhill.

One night we went out to dinner.  Nothing was out of the ordinary.  We ate Mexican food, talked about music, traveling and our wacky coworkers.   He drove me home and while we were parked in my driveway, he told me his wife had asked him to move out.  I was speechless.  Then he kissed me.  I was so shocked I didn’t even kiss him back.  He said, “That is not exactly how I imagined our first kiss.”  I was just so taken off guard.  Truly, I had no idea he felt the same way about me.  I asked him to please kiss me again.  And after that I asked him to come up to my apartment.

(I want to make it clear that I was not the reason his marriage failed.  I found out much later that his wife was having an affair with one of their neighbors before they were even separated.  She subsequently married the neighbor and had another child.  There was never, ever anything between us while he was still with his wife.)

We certainly didn’t jump right into a relationship.  He was still dealing with the details of dissolving a marriage.  But we did continue to see each other outside of work.  A few weeks later I became extremely fatigued and just walking into a grocery store was enough to make me want to vomit.   I bought a pregnancy test and felt like every ounce of blood was leaving my body as the two lines showed up.  I was pregnant.

Never since that moment have I been so terrified or felt so stupid.  How could I let this happen??  I was 24 years old, a baby with a newly divorced man was not in my plan.   Just a few weeks ago I remarked to a friend of mine that if I got pregnant I would keep the baby.  But now…  now I was pregnant and oh my God I WAS PREGNANT and single and 24 years old and barely able to pay my rent each month on my receptionist salary.

I remember quite clearly sitting in the coffee shop where I told him.  His reaction, after the shock wore off, was “we can’t have a baby together.”   He wanted to know what I thought we should do.  I honestly had no idea.

I spent the next week or so in a hazy, foggy state.  There were two closer than close friends that I told who were amazingly supportive as only lifelong, amazing friends can be.  One in particular went to the doctor with me and held my hand through every crying fit.

Eventually I came to the decision that I just couldn’t do it.  I couldn’t have a baby with this man and I wasn’t brave enough to do it on my own.  Don’t get me wrong, he was/is a genuinely good person and I still have a lot of respect for him.  But I knew in my heart of hearts that he didn’t want this baby.  There was never any, “we’ll get through this together.”  No, “whatever you decide, I’ll be here for you, for us.”  I knew I had to terminate the pregnancy.  And that’s what I did.

There was a part of me that was angry at him.  My friends got me through it; drove me home, brought me cupcakes and flowers when it was over.  Not him.  We were never able to really be friends or anything else for that matter.  Almost exactly two months later, I met the man I would eventually marry.

I often think about how different my life would be if I made the other choice.  Obviously, Jay and I would never have started dating if I was pregnant with another man’s baby.  I look at my three precious kids and it nearly knocks the wind out of me sometimes.  They wouldn’t be here, these kids I adore.  I would have a thirteen year old.  His/her birthday would have been in June.  I’m sure I would look at him/her and not even be able to fathom the fact that he/she almost didn’t happen.  That’s what haunts me.  Would it have been hard to go it alone at 24?  Most definitely.  My life would have taken a completely different course, but would it have been any less wonderful?  Where would I be now, 13 years later.

I like my life.  I love my husband and I feel safe and loved in our marriage.  This family we are building together is what is supposed to be.  But I can’t shake the feeling that it’s all somewhat of a betrayal to someone else who was supposed to be here.  I’ll always hold a place in my heart for that baby.

So there you have it.  I had an abortion at the age of 24.  I regret it, and also, I don’t regret it.  Do you look at me any differently?  I look at myself differently.  Would my husband look at me any differently if he knew?  I really don’t know.  I’m still working toward accepting that it is part of my history and that’s probably why I’ve never told him.

Shocking, no? Sometimes it still shocks me. It always comes back to that though.

The Internet is just like real life.

Some people are awesome, some aren’t, some you have the probability of becoming life long friends with and others not. Some people you just dislike right away, some you know to be leery of. You get disappointed just as easy as you would if you saw someone ever day. You can be made to feel like a fool for trusting too much just as easily.

In real life and online, I am a very trusting person. To a fault sometimes. I see the good in people. Always. I look for the good in people, even when others don’t see it. Sometimes I end up hurt. It’s what happens when you wear your heart on your sleeve. I’d say I’ll change. Every time I get hurt, get taken advantage of, I swear never again. But you can’t undo your personality after 30 years of life and I really don’t want too. It’s part of me. I am a great caring friend. Until I’m not. I’m trusting, until I’m not. Once that trust is gone, it’s likely not going to come back. I am a Taurus after all.

On Friday, I heard a story that made me cry. A story that made me hurt for someone who I thought was a friend. A story that angered me for this person. A person who was my friend, who I had trusted with some deep secrets of my own. I fought for her. I spread the word, I attacked trolls and I tried to be a good friend.

As most of  you know by now, it was just that; a story. Maybe there is a bit of truth mingled with the story. Maybe she believed every word of it. I really don’t know. In truth it no longer matters. I’ve seen the truth. I saw other truths as well as the big one.

I am hurt. I feel like I’ve been used. I feel like a fool. I trusted someone and got burned.

Sadly, it’s not the first time, nor the last time this will happen.

I initially started blogging almost four years ago. It’s changed a lot. The outlets, the connection, the speed in which we communicate, has changed so much. Now there is Facebook, iPhones, Blackberry Messenger and Twitter, instead of just email and blogs. Back then Gchat was new and almost no one used it. Now a lot of people do. We talk all day on Twitter and Facebook. We not only know the bigger stories that are shared on blogs, we also hear the small day to day details of each others lives.

It used to be much simpler. Easier. You commented, maybe you got a return comment. Occasionally an email. It took months to feel like you really were friends with someone. Now it’s so fast, it seems to happen in days.

It’s not that it bothers me. It’s not that I want to go back to the way it used to be. I adore getting to know so many people, so quickly. I met my best friend because of Twitter. And yes, even after only knowing her for 8 months, I do consider her my best friend. Without a question of a doubt.

But it is very fast. And I forget that it’s real. That I’m only seeing the things people want me to see. All of you live all over the world. I have readers from all over the world. That’s cool. Really cool. Most of you I’ll never meet and I have no problem with that. I’ve met a ton of great people. I’m sure I will meet more. We all share what we want online. We share our best stories. Some of us share the worst of ourselves. Just as many never will. Either way, it’s okay.

This is the real world though. You can get hurt just as easy, maybe even more, because sometimes without being able to see someone, we share more than we normally would. The written word can be easier than the spoken word.

I am not writing this, just because of this one incident. I just went to DM someone on Twitter, someone who I thought was following me and realized they aren’t any more. It’s okay. It doesn’t matter. Or this is what I try to tell myself. In reality though, it stings a bit. Just like the moms at the school who all go out for coffee, but won’t invite me. Oh they’ll gladly have my girls over for play dates with their kids, but I get the cold shoulder. I don’t fit in. I’m an outsider.

I’m an outsider in the online world as well. I flitter in and out of groups of friends. It’s the way I’ve lived my life, so I’m used to it. I’ve always been the girl who could hang out with anyone and get along. I’ve always had a few close friends. (However I’ve known them forever, so it’s more like we are siblings.) I don’t know where I fit.

What I do know is right now, I’m hurt. I trusted someone and I’m sad with the way things happened.

This world we’ve created, this online world…it’s just like life. It’s something I need to remember a bit more.

It’s an honest question. A nice one even. One that shows that someone cares and is actually curious how I am. A question you ask your friends when they seem to be having a hard time. I have been asked this, many times in the last three weeks.

I am not always sure how to answer.

How honest an answer do they want, is my first thought. My second is, LIE. Say, you are fine. Say you are doing better. Say today is a great day. They don’t want to hear this crap again.

I’m not sure what is right. What to say, what to leave out. What to gloss over.

Truth? Does anyone even want the truth? I honestly don’t know. I don’t know that you guys do. Sometimes I think I should shut this site down. That I’m just not entertaining enough, I don’t post enough, I’ve been too depressed for too long. I have nothing to say that is positive. Nothing to say except the truth and I don’t know that I should say it.

But this is a blog and it’s my blog, so I’ll give it a shot.

Truths:

-I have panic attacks. Daily. I have had them for a little over three weeks now. They come on for no reason and it literally hurts to breath. I can not explain it any better than that. It is completely debilitating for the 5 – 20 minutes it lasts. I am however, down to one to three a day. Which doesn’t seem great to me, but is better than the eight I was having a day three weeks ago. Or the six a day last week.

-I am going to therapy twice a week. Thursday of last week was the first day I didn’t cry the entire time. This is supposed to be my last week of twice a week. But I’m going to tell her I think I need a few more weeks, before we go to just once a week.

-I am having to take sleeping pills to sleep. To keep nightmares at bay. To help me sleep, so I can maybe function the following day. When I take them, I do sleep. Sometimes I get dumb like Sunday night and think I can skip one. Then I regret it all day. (Not only just because I’m exhausted and people get all yelly.) I don’t function that well right now, so there’s not much hope for functioning without sleep.

-I have managed to eat two to three meals a day for the last four days. This is an improvement. Previously, I hadn’t managed one actual meal a day in three weeks. Actually it’s really been close to six weeks, since prior to this, I’d been sick and hadn’t gotten my appetite back.

-When I look at the big picture, I get overwhelmed. I only see failure. I see nothing good. No progress. I focus on the negative. I am having to be reminded daily, that I am in fact doing better. Making progress. Taking the steps necessary to deal with what I need to deal with. Some moments I believe it. Until I don’t. Then I go back to square one.

-A week ago, my husband made an executive decision. He decided that our son needed to spend his days with my best friend. He is paying her to watch him. Every day, while the girls are in school. Since Kate already has a day care kid and she’s my friend, she is perfectly happy with him spending the day with her. I know this is the right choice. I know this is temporary. Mostly until I stop having panic attacks all the time. But it stings. I feel like a failure as a parent. I hate that Logan felt like he had to make the choice for me. Without me. Harrison however is have the time of his life, playing with his second cousin who is three months older than him. He doesn’t care when I drop him off each morning.

-I watched a movie on Friday night called My Life in Ruins. I laughed for 90 straight minutes. I’d forgotten laughing. Laughing until you cry, because it’s just so dam funny. I’d forgotten what that felt like. I don’t think I’d laughed so much since I was in Vegas, the second weekend of September. I will be buying that movie.

-I have gotten out of bed every single day for three weeks. Even though there are many days in which, I have not wanted too.

-After nearly three weeks of grilled cheese, fast food and french toast for dinner, I have cooked for three days. I will cook tonight as well.

-I feel like I need to recover, to sit for a bit, to veg for an hour, after I leave the house. No matter what I am leaving the house for. It just seems like a lot of work. Surviving right now, seems like a lot of work. It is a lot of work. It’s hard and not especially pretty. But I’m doing it.

So, how am I doing? Meh. Okay. Better in some moments and not others. Good enough?