Five years ago today, I and my daughters were living in Biloxi, Mississippi, when Katrina roared ashore ... and changed our lives forever.

Again, I am plagued with Katrina-inspired dreams.  I haven't had a decent night's sleep in days; I am past the point of exhaustion.  Doesn't help that I have kids to raise or a husband to take care of.  Or the fact that we no longer live in the United States (live in London, England, now):  the fact is this:  I still remember, smell, taste what Katrina was like, and I am once again plagued with terrible memories.

It is because of Hurricane Katrina that I no longer live in Mississippi (nor do I have any desire to return there).  It is because of Katrina that my life has all but fallen apart: not only do I suffer:  the children (and my husband) suffer as well.

I can't watch the news on the telly (as they say here).  Knowing my luck, it will probably be all about Katrina (or Obama, or wars).  They will probably show images that I am all too familiar with:  the widespread destruction.  The shocked or stunned expression on people's faces.  The images of refugees hunkering down at the SuperDome in New Orleans, Louisiana.  Too many memories, just about all of them bad.

I no longer like storms.  Even your garden-variety thunderstorms are enough to do me in.  If I even see lightning or hear thunder rolling, I'm taking my family to our shelter because I am afraid of losing everything a second time.

Then Rick or the kids (and just about everyone else) wonders why I turn so quiet this time of year.  It's because I must pause, reflect, reemmber.  I remember our home back in Biloxi, Mississippi, before Katrina ripped it apart.  I remember friends or even family members who perieshed in the storm surge.  I remember the helpless feeling of lying amidst the rubble with my daughters, praying someone would find us before it was too late.  I remember the howling winds and the pounding rains, and the power as it flickered on and off before it died for good.

I remember the Red Cross team members finding us in the rubble, and reassuring us that everything was going to be okay, that they were here to help us.  After being checked over at the hospital, we were flown up north to Tennessee; it was there where I made new friends, and we tried to make a new life there.  It didn't work out too well:  it was hard to make new friends, especially since I was not a trusting type of person.

I woke up this morning crying because of thinking about Katrina and what I lost.  I still suffer loss:  my oldest daughter, Susie, is no longer there, in the mental side sense.  Physically she is, but she suffered a massive stroke earlier this year, and now she is a shell of her former self.  She requires twenty four hour care, and there are no guarantees as to whether she will ever "come back":  Susie suffered far too much in the way of brain damage.

Susie was my strong one.  I doubt she even remembers what happened five years ago today, whereas her sisters do, even though they are younger.  They look at me like startled birds as they grapple with Katrina memories, looking to me as their comfort and their support system.

Sometimes I wish Katrina would have oblibertated me and my family off the face of this earth:  maybe then I wouldn't be going through what I am at the current time.  The life I know is far too painful, and it's like God has put His big fingers into his ears as He says to me:  "I don't want to hear it again, Audrey.  You've made your bed, now sleep in it!  Don't bother me!"

*End of part one*