My family is tired of hearing or reading my story, the truth be told. Will I ever be tired of telling my truth after hearing it hurled at me in anger, “He’s not your father!!” by my mother? Upstairs in my bedroom.

Or, the truth be told, that I am a child of rape so my mother could not love me due to her feelings of guilt and shame; her strict religious beliefs of forgiveness could never wash away.

And, the truth be told, that mother tried to abort me at 5 months along, the doctor refusing.

To put me up for adoption was the next option in Tarrytown, NY, where my ‘dad’ would refuse; as he had signed my birth certificate; and signed up with his heart, forever.

Or, that my ‘dad’ would love me as purely as my sister and brother, born after me, his biologically, while I am not, the truth be told.

And, taken to bible church three times a week, where my ten year old inner voice whispered…the truth is not here. Could I be homeless?

Where is heaven? Where is hell? Could I hear my own truth to be told?

Or, it was not until 1984, when I was 38; I could say to my 12 year old daughter, Erin, “I don’t believe in christianity anymore.” She then crying, “But mom you’ll go to hell.” Is that downstairs, in the cellar?

And, I would cry in church, not understanding why – until memories stored in bell jars, empty and encased in cobwebs of a verbally abusive fourth marriage – my tears careened with the force of Victoria Falls.

Tears being the natural moisturizer I regularly rub into my cheeks and wrinkles of time….smoothing my angry lines into a makeup called forever happiness. Yes, the truth hurts – and as Rumi, 13th century poet wrote: my tears are “pearls of god.”

Where I can find more possibly and probably pure love.

Not upstairs.

Not downstairs.

In each loving teardrop.