Me, Is Who I Am
       Fighting to see who I am,
       getting up each day knowing I'm not me,
       but someone I've learned to hate,
       someone my Mother made me.

       I have the power to change,
       but don't know how,
       someone has taken away the plans for me,
       has diluted, has put in, and taken out,
       they forgot the antidote, thrown it away,
       made me something I'm not.

       But somewhere, and somehow, 
       someone saw me,
       cared for me,
       loved me, and maybe, 
       I'm still me,
       just different.
       Because someone loves me still.

       by Jennifer Woodward (Edith's daughter)

       Our email address is