This is my favorite postcard of all. I bought it years ago for eighty dollars. I just had to have it, and that was so much money for me. I was embarassed to spend that on a card, but now I see them as little tiny works of art. It goes for two hundred and fifty now. I wish I'd bought more of them. I just love the little goblins. The artist is Schmucker and he made cards for Winsch who was the publisher. Okay, well I'm off to pick up my little guy from tutoring.
Just because I don't talk about my old friend Lorraine and my heartless and cold birth mother and sister, doesn't mean I'm not still hurting. I just thought I'd throw that in there in case any of them ever deign to read my journal. How do you get over hurt? How do you put people away from you. I've tried writing. I've tried visualization. I've tried putting white light around them and wishing them every happiness. But that doesn't stop the pain when I drive anywhere near her apartment and think that she has a little girl who I can't meet. It doesn't take away the burning hurt of the woman who gave birth to me, telling me that I am, "the product of a rape,"or of never having been loved warmly and unconditionally by a mother or having met my brother and sisters.