I'm sure you've noticed the ongoing dialogue started in my post Crossing Lines.

Let me explain something here, in case there is some question about if I should be writing those things or not.

It sucks. It just does.

My blog is my diary. It didn't start out that way - it began as a fun place to link and post the quirky thoughts that often cross my mind. It was light and easy and entertaining.

Now, maybe not so much. I get serious here, and I realize I've probably lost readers along the way who don't want to get into that heavy emotional stuff. But that's okay. My blog has evolved into exactly that, my blog. It works for me. It is exactly what I need, when I need it. Sometimes it makes me laugh, sometimes it makes me cry, sometimes it feeds my creative monster, and sometimes it doesn't. I've come to love it for what it is.

But it does, occasionally, get me in trouble. If you've been here long enough, you'll remember some of my more spirited controversies, all carefully preserved in the archives. Remember when Shannon experimented with some colorfol language- and barely lived to tell the tale? Aah, good times.

Anyway.

I knew I took a big chance writing this very personal experience with drug addiction in our family. But I felt that we needed some kind of forum to deal with it. So yeah - I took the reins in my own hands and put it out there.

It's ugly.
It's painful.
It's embarassing.

But it's also therapeutic, and liberating. It's okay to say it. We're off, we're dysfunctional, we've got serious issues. But are we so different from everyone else in the world? No. We're just louder. And maybe that will help other people be braver, too. Maybe it will give someone else the courage to face their own Bad Stuff, and start to rebuild and repair what's broken in their own life.

To my family - sheesh. I'm sorry. I know it's hard. I know you don't want our business splashed across the internet. But you need to remember, that these are my friends here. These are the people who love me, and pray for me. And when I write about this here- they love you, and pray for you, too. Nobody is judging you or gossipping or laughing. They are hurting for you, interceding for you...

To my mom and dad, I know this is especially difficult for you. You both try so hard to protect everyone else from just how bad it really gets. I respect that. You want the circle of fire to be small, so less people are affected. We weren't raised to air our dirty laundry, and the fact that you haven't thrown my laptop in the lake is a testament to your love for me. Thank you for letting me do this my own way. Even if it is, sometimes, the wrong way.

We will get through this. We will be okay. I believe that. So many good things have happened, even in the height of the storm. Relationships have bloomed, love has deepened, and we have found the ties that bind us are unbreakable. We have been forged in fire, born to strengths we never knew. I am proud to be part of this family, proud to see the changes and maturity and growth of the last year. I am glad to know that I can pick up the phone and be showered with love and encouragement in a matter of seconds. There is never a shortage of love to go around - and that is what will see us through this valley.

I'm done now, I think. I'm tired. I need a break from the emotional weight for a little while, so I'm off to play with the paperdolls again.

You should try it. I am totally in the running to be Jennifer Anniston's new stylist.

His fist trembled inches from her face, and she held her breath, waiting. Eyes that should hold love, were filled with hatred instead. Go ahead, she thought. Just do it. And tomorrow when I walk around with a black eye, everybody will see it. And everybody will know what you really are.

In a dark office in the basement of the FBI, Mulder hung this poster.

That is where I am right now. Desperately wanting to believe, afraid to, afraid not to. Not in UFO's, no. But in something equally intangible... the ability to change.

I'm talking about my brother, whom I've written of before. This last trip home afforded me the chance to see him, and I'm glad for it. We had some pleasant moments, and then a not-so-pleasant one. A big arguement turned into an ugly family feud, and resulted in an entire afternoon spent avoiding each other and nursing our wounds. But eventually, we talked. Really talked- the kind you have in the shadows, until three o'clock in the morning. The kind that makes you cry because you say things that you've been needing to say forever. The kind that gives you hope, sends you forward, and makes you sad.

He's weeks, maybe days, away from leaving, either to jail or to a bootcamp. I don't know which yet.

And it's hard on his big sister. Hearing his late night confessions, his remorse, his longing to have a future-- it hurts. Because I want that, too. I don't want to think of him there, even after all the heartache his actions have caused. Knowing that I was hugging him for the last time when I left, well, the tears come just remembering it. I don't want this for him. But his choices led him here, and he knows that.

He told me that he's finally realized what he wants in life. Just to be a husband, and a dad. I see that in him when he plays with my children. I see the person he wants to be. His choices have kept him from that, each surrender to temptation has moved him farther away from those things. He said it finally hit him, that he's been giving up that happy future for this miserable present.

I want to believe.

But you know what? It doesn't really matter if I do, or if I don't. If he truly means it, he can't waste time trying to convince everyone he's reformed-- he just has to do it. There's no point in saying the words, because we've heard them before.

So, he's here, at the end of the path his sin and addiction have led him to. He must pay his dues, face the consequences. But, my prayer is that the end of this path will be the beginning of another. One that is filled with rich blessings, and happiness, and peace. One that he walks with a good woman, toting round and bright babies. One that he will be proud of, take joy in, and be worthy of. One that is empty of regrets and shame.

I want to believe.

And I can't. Not completely, in his words.

But I can believe in something, something far greater than Trey's assurances or promises. I can believe in God's assurances and promises. He hears my prayers, and even in the midst of trial and pain in our life, He has not forgotten us. There is a reason, there is hope.

In Jeremiah 29:10-14, God addresses the Israelites, who are slaves of Babylon. I send these words to you now, Trey, for you are no less a slave to your sins and addiction, though you went into your servitude willingly.

This is what the Lord says: "When seventy years are completed for Babylon, I will come to you and fulfill my gracious promise to bring you back to this place. For I know the plans I have for you," declares the Lord, "plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future. Then you will call upon me and come and pray to me, and I will listen to you. You will seek me and find me when you seek me with all your heart. I will be found by you," declares the Lord, "and will bring you back from captivity."

God wants us to believe, too. He just didn't make a poster for it.

Had a hard conversation today on the subject of forgiveness. I knew something had been bothering me, but I couldn't really put my finger on it. As soon as the word was spoken, I realized just how much I've been counting the wrongs done to me, done to my loved ones, by my brother. I've been holding each infraction close, taking them out more and more frequently, and reviewing them, stewing and brewing. The burden has become so heavy, and I didn't even realize the weight of it until today.

Forgiveness comes easier when someone says they are sorry. When they show true repentence, that remorse oils the squeeky gears of forgiveness. With tears of joy, we happily throw the hurts to the wind. Wrongs are forgotten, the past is released, the future embraced.

But when someone is not sorry, when they don't see or worse, don't even care what they've done, forgiveness will not budge from my heart. They haven't earned it. They don't deserve it. And they are still a threat, still bound to hurt me even more. Forgiveness is a luxury they haven't the right to.

How do you forgive someone like that? Why do you even bother? What difference does it make?

Well, I swear I've heard the answers to those questions a thousand times. But somehow, I forgot. I really, truly forgot why we forgive the unforgivable, the unrepentant. In my own pain, I blinded myself to the very foundation of my faith.

We forgive, because that was what was done for us.

It doesn't mean that you don't hurt over it, that you aren't angry, that it's acceptable, or that actions don't have consequences. All of that has to be dealt with, and that's okay. Those things are really separate issues from forgiveness. But, it does mean that in the end, you forgive those trespasses against you, as our Father forgives us.

It's not that this person deserves it or even cares about it-- it's not for him. It's for me. It's about ME striving to be more like Christ, who forgave more than my mortal mind can comprehend. He forgave the sin of all humanity. What He asks of me is a mere pittance in comparison. And when we do forgive, what rewards we reap! Peace and happiness begin to heal those hurts. We are liberated from hate, we are free to live without the shackles of that pain. That's a promise we find time and time again in the Bible.

I'm not going to lie, even knowing that, I still don't want to forgive him. It's something that I am going to have to work on. I still need to understand just what forgiveness means, but, as was pointed out to me today, this is my chance to explore that. God is giving me an opportunity to learn something, to grow, to be more of what He's called me to be.

I know I'll have to pray, "Lord, help me to WANT to forgive." The thing is, I know God will hear that, no matter how hollow it sounds to me right now. And one day, probably a day I won't expect it, that forgiveness will be there, quietly waiting for me to see it. It may not change him, or the situation, but it changes me.

I wanted to share these things here, because this is where I go, this is where my friends are, these are the people who love me and make me better. I can count on you to be the sharpening stones in my path.

I also want to thank the person who has led me to think about this, who challenged me when I needed it. You said all the right things today.

Thank you.

I can't seem to not write about it.

This is for you, Trey, because it could happen.

I hate to be emotional. I don't want to be one of those people, those emotional vampires that are to be avoided at all costs. I don't want to be needy, I don't want sympathy, I don't want to make this about me. But I can't be fake either. I can't get on here right now and not write about how I'm feeling.

I've written about my brother-- just that once. It was a good thing to do. It helped people in our family start talking and working through things. It didn't, of course, solve the problem, but I was optimistic. But drug addiction is a topsy turvy road, and right now I'm at a low point.

How do you start writing the things you don't want to say? Do you jump right in and face the cold shock of the truth? Or do you ease in, one toe at a time, hoping each second will get easier? I’m usually not the jumping type, but there’s no easy way to lead into this subject.

My younger brother has a history of drug and alcohol abuse. It's not a secret, not exactly. You just can’t hide something like that forever. But, wanting to spare grief to others, we try to handle things on our own. It’s been our policy to “circle the wagons”. But when the trouble is from within… what good does that do? So, I’m coming clean. I’m putting it out there. I hope so much that this doesn’t hurt my mom or dad or anybody, but I need to write about this. I can’t see that saying these things, saying the truth, makes it any more painful. It’s the secrets that hurt, that erode. Saying them is a relief.