Sweet Child O’ Mine

TY

I took a picture today. An idyllic, charming spring time portrait of a child’s whimsy. The kind of picture that you share and know becomes a moment of blue skies.

I didn’t share the photo, because it was forcing a moment. I was looking for something after struggling and it lacked substance and accuracy of the life snapshot.

As a parent, fear can be your greatest enemy. Fear of damaging the life you’re guiding and supporting. Melancholy at whether you’re doing it right; and the resounding realization that you’ll never truly know what right or wrong even mean in that role.

The child in that photo was transfixed on a popsicle; sun on his cheeks and determination in his posture. A bright spring day, which allowed kids to play outside and parents to enjoy the distraction.

The child in that photo has made me cry three times in the last week.

I know it’s possibly seen as irresponsible; potentially out of line to place blame on my child for tears. But just as my scolding can prompt hysterics in them, their interactions can sometimes bring me emotional breaks.

Children are bundles of unstable ends coming together. Forming the chapters that start the story of who they’ll be in the future. But for now they’re messy, raw, pure and kindling next to gasoline and matches.

He defies me, shows no remorse for actions, spits attitude at me with gusto and pomposity. He’s his mother’s child in his stubbornness, but hasn’t yet learned you can’t just use it in ways that don’t consider others.

And as I sit in the car, as he says he hates his brother and looks at me with intensity of disrespect, I break down. There has been minimal time I haven’t been raising my voice, or feeling exhausted or like sometimes the weight is a test I’m not sure I’ll ever stop taking.

As my parenting comes into doubt surrounding the situations, it’s very apt to bleed over to my everyday life and choices and doubting myself as a whole. Overanalyzing, mulling over as verbosely as I write.

I stared at that picture and behind it was capturing a moment I wanted to make normalcy while knowing I was merely hanging onto the pieces that gave me the heart swells. To balance the heartache at wanting to be perfect. Life metaphor, perhaps and cloying at that.

The same kid stands at the door, the door I’ve asked of them no less than fifty times to leave closed and he looks small and whimsical and pure. My heart fills and expands like a water balloon in my chest and I hug him. He tells me I’m his favorite thing. I want this to be my memento.

Moments later we hit the downswing and his impetuous actions arise that seem to be what I’m always battling and I feel the moment make me exhale with failure.

And these are our days, rushes of love from a truly kind soul that are combated by unbridled, complex emotional development at its messy worst.

There are the days where I just wonder if I’m fucking up the whole damn thing. Days where I realize there could be moments of this I reflect on when it’s been five, ten, twenty years and I won’t know the lessons until then. Moments where I hope I’m not the only one; that I’m not the roost cause and/or precipitant of what’s happening. Whether for the environment I provide; the selfish moments. If my hurdles have become theirs by default. The moments where I sit and absorb the moment and just feel helpless.

I want the knowledge that he is one of my favorite things be enough to make everything okay. The sage advice “this too shall pass” is slightly inaccurate. Because parenting doesn’t pass. That’s the best part of it. It’s always a part of you. You fight the fight together and come out on the other side hopefully as beautiful humans.

Your favorite things are sometimes your favorites because they’re not only unique to you; but also because they take more work to get and the reward is having them. Your favorite things are the pictures that are left behind. Childhood memories of bright blue skies.

 

Light My Fire

Life scurries by us like a child who has stolen a cookie; rushes by like traffic during our commute home. It passes us during the hours we count down through our daily life. We live in a flurry of responsibilities, obligations and sometimes just functioning to make it to the next day. As I dwell in a time of year that has sorrowful significance for me, as well as the positives gained from surviving, I wonder if I’m doing it right. But don’t we all. If you’re not questioning, you’re not acknowledging. There’s not always a need to over-think, but there is a need to embrace the here and now.

No one wants to get to their death bed, no matter the timing, and wonder if they did enough. If they loved enough. Asking for do-overs and second chances. Because it comes upon us in the cycle it should.

As does the rest of our life. We don’t realize it at the time; but every move is defining who we are and what we’ll leave behind. I fear not enough are cognizant of this; including myself when I’m simply trying to get to the next day. Because it’s incredibly hard to stop and acknowledge.

I realize my introspection can be cloying; I don’t write mildly. I don’t live complacently. I’ve held the world for those who need me to, while mine lies at my feet. Conversely, I’ve had help with mine. An extra hand to keep it propped up while I rally the strength to keep it there. Those are the times when I realize we don’t get through this alone. Every person has their purpose and they come into ours like oxygen fuels fire. Quietly, subtly but with flickering, blazing outcomes.

Life is fucking hard. Let’s face it. Its trials, tribulations, rewards and gains. Losses and changes. I realize I make it all so grandiose. As though I neglect the smaller details. These thoughts come to me during the smaller moments, as much as the big ones. As I parent alone; two little boys whose life I’m inevitably shaping. While I work a job that is challenging and requires complete diligence to every detail. At night as I come home to fix dinner, clean the house, decide activities, get my kids ready for bed. Go back and forth between helping one in the bathroom (details spared) and giving the other his allergy medication because he can’t breathe through his nose. Already past bedtime and still answering question and giving hugs. The nights when I’m without them. Occupying my time, finding ways to thrive and sometimes just sitting in quiet or cleaning the house. Again.

I realize this doesn’t make me special. It makes me human. I lie awake at night and wonder if I was on my phone too much and if my kids watched too many shows. If we’ll get to later years and I’ll realize I’ve missed so much in the flurry of life. That’s just something I don’t want. We’re all going to have regrets. But if you can see them ahead of time, accept their purpose, not their misinterpreted negativity. You probably learned something. Gained something. Potentially lost when you were supposed to.

As I ramble in my typical way, no pre-defined message, I’ll say this. If nothing else, be kind. If you love someone, tell them. If you like them, make sure they know. If you want to hug someone, do it (but as I tell my son, ask first). If you’re unhappy, don’t let it swallow you whole. Do everything you can to not only survive, but to revel in all of it. Leave a trail behind that lets the world know who you are and make sure it’s someone you want to be defined as. Sometimes when you’re someone’s sunshine when skies are gray, it’s you that you’re actually shining for and it’s them you’re supplying the glow for.

We live for ourselves, but we live life for the pieces we connect. Find yourself so you can be wholly present for all those who dance in and out of our life. Sometimes staying for a while, sometimes leaving a memorable light we bask in like the fire that’s been fueled by what it needed.

Life’s going to kick us in the proverbial balls sometimes, grab it back when you have the chance.

 

Snippets…

Because by sharing pieces of my book, it’ll encourage me to keep going, here’s a snippet from my timeline entry style book that’s needed to take this long to write, but hopefully I’ll finish some day.

September 8, 2013

The call lasted for hours. The grape juice and vodkas I’d downed helped the process. But it was also because I was talking to someone I’d known forever for the first time. We were oxygen and fire. Feeding off each other. Ebbing and flowing. As is the way of the world; the digital playground of the internet had unearthed him. He was striking in looks. To me. His eyes. They held the world even in photos. Deeply. Dangerously I’d realize. His age a concern, but it seemed to be the path I took. Youth. At least when you were my age it seemed to be. Still in his 20s, even if nearly out.

I had no idea what I was looking for when conversation began over quick exchanges through the system’s limited abilities. Until we traded numbers and could converse on end. I was looking for something I’d lost. I’d left a marriage. I was one of those. No one plans for it. But as the world turns; and humanity evolves, we could be fickle or rather more in tune with changing together or apart.

I hated to be alone. Still. All these years later and I thrived on interaction. Touch. Caring.

We talked about work; made sarcastic jokes about whether we were each being catfished. And hours later, we realized we should probably hang up. We said goodbye and I floated for the rest of the night. There was electricity and something that was reaching me, whether preying on my vulnerability and lack of identity or simply meeting a longed for need.

We were going to meet. In three days. And it would all change forever. Indelibly.

A Love Story. Of Sorts.

She was coming off the death of a tainted love. She rebuilt and survived and made it out; barely at times. She had seen dark days and light dance in children’s eyes. She valued others while learning not to let it consume. She realized who she was and who she would be were entirely contingent on who she wanted to be.

She found her resolve, albeit as sound as a house of cards. But it was standing. She sought joy. Pride and happiness.

Often finding wounded birds can lead to a feeling of giving unless you discover you’ve nursed back a pterodactyl.

He was boyish charm. Humor and welcome simplicity. A kindness that dwelled beneath a jaded wit and sardonic undertones. He was a diamond in the rough to a halfway lost girl. A girl who sought to care and be cared for. Sailing along on hope and compassion.

She giddily confided in friends. She enjoyed the momentum and the devotion. She saw cracks in the veneer; but she realized everyone is human. She wanted the best. She wanted her moment.

He supported her during a difficult transition. He carried positive and negative in a teetering balance. He had unpolished kindness. He possessed a compartmentalized coping that seemed endearing. She could help. She’d be the solution.

She didn’t know where her darkness was creeping in from. Life had given her curveballs and lemons and she wasn’t on it enough to sort through them. She had compassion when she was weak. She could disregard the verbal blows. Truth be told; she had a lifelong skill of accepting the blame. Whether or not it was the correct direction. She saw weakness in herself and strength in the ones who could point out those flaws openly.

He had an entitlement that she wanted to understand. He accepted the bad and dwelled with it. His emotions were uncultivated and he struggled to navigate them. To filter them accordingly.

He had little verbal control of his projections.

She doubted herself. She worried. She saw eggshells and landmines and still kept going forward as carefully as possible. Apologies were the currency she was paid. But it wasn’t good to cash in anywhere. She wanted to help. To make him better. This was her place. This was her project that would give her meaning. She loved sometimes blindly.

He accepted her assistance begrudgingly while sometimes belittling her in an effort to stay the same pace. It was always peppered with love. A raw, rough-edged love that had purity at nature, but nurture had decimated. He saw no other way and his blinders made the corners tough to turn.

She saw an upswing in her life. Things were improving. But part of her was missing. It was a little piece. But she felt the wind blow threw her some days. She was chasing happiness and it was fluttering down the street like a piece of paper, barely within reach. As she’d get close; graze it with her fingertips, a gust of wind would come up again.

He was crumbling and his façade had tumbled down. He saw hurdles afoot and it was easier to blame for them being put in his way.

She was starting to wonder if she had limits. How much she was accepting and how much she should. She had so much to love to give; it was easy for it to get taken and tossed about like a water balloon. Was this what she was destined for? Would Atlas shrug at any point?

He rarely smiled. He easily lashed out with words. He felt weighed down by the world and it was easier to throw bits of it at another. He wanted to love and he had no idea how.

She started to realize how much of her was now missing. What energy her heart was spending on repair instead of growth. Her pain and sadness was outweighing her tolerance for it. She wanted to try, for she felt like a failure for not creating beauty with what she was given.

Her heart broke.

He left.

She started to rebuild. But she was rebuilding scars on scars. Bumbling along. Lost. Panicking about lost time.

He made promises.

She refused to listen.

He made more promises. Gestures of goodwill.

She started to hear. She wasn’t sure she was ready, but her heart swells usually drowned out the voice in her head.

She opened the door a crack.

He came back.

She was happy, albeit cautious. Hopeful, but jaded and skeptical. She didn’t want to be jaded. She wanted to be okay.

He started out with hope. He built with positivity. Making what should be important to survive what he actually focused on.

She had a second thought. She ignored it. Her rollercoaster was on a climb. She had gone through some dark tunnels; but she had found they did end at some point. She started to ignore the signs. There was no way this would happen again. Apologies and promises had been doled out. Words had been said.

Words. The antithesis to action.

He was slowly enveloped in a cloying darkness. An overwhelming tendency to watch things happen instead of participate. To give love weighed down by blades and sorrow. To reduce her to tears while hugging her at the same time.

Words were weapons and she’d accept the olive branch that followed while nursing her proverbial wounds. She had hope. She believed. Who would love her again? Can love be damaging in its intensity when not directed properly?

He questioned. He doubted. He ended her nights with discord and sorrow. He started her mornings with kindness and love. He was easily upset. His pain was overwhelming in his ignorance of its depths.

She believed all of it. She believed the remorse; but she believed he had the inability to see how much damage was being done by his choices. She absorbed his energy. The room could be cloying when his mind was in a dark place.

The roller coaster went up; she’d brace herself because it had to go down. Sometimes the hills were numerous and some had more coasting between.

He left.

Repeat the process. Repeat it again. Go up the hills, hurtle down at nearly a 90 degree angle. Get off the ride. Get right back on.

He questioned. He doubted. He spread frenetic bursts of insecurity and word-whipped someone already lying down.

The coaster was running on a rusty wheels. She agonized and continued buying tickets to ride and wondered if she’d ever be able to just sit on the bench and eat some cotton candy.

He made promises. He pleaded. And interspersed it with lashings and pain and love that he couldn’t process or apply. He pledged; he backslid; he apologized and then was quick to anger.

He left.

She realized she was gone, too. Missing. Somewhere along the ride, she wasn’t even sure who had been present. She wasn’t sure where the rest of her went. She wanted to believe there was good. That she hadn’t caused this. That she could make better choices. She was lonely. Lost. She doubted herself; wallowed.

Her house of cards had fallen long ago. She was still finding the rest of them that had floated away along with that same bit of happiness she’d never stop chasing.

 

Queen of Hearts

cards

“Life is what happens to us when we’re making other plans.”

That’s a dandy little saying for those who don’t have life punch them in the face while they’re trying to make new plans to make up for the plans that got thrown off by that left hook. Sometimes I wonder if feeling like 35 years is my mid-life crisis dooms me to an early demise, but with the way I’ve lived at times, it’s possible.

But suddenly, surrounded by ups and downs (though the downs seem to be reigning when it comes to hash marks) I wonder the eternal question; why DOES your metabolism slow down one you hit 30?

I also wonder how much one person can take; where the reprieve comes in, or if I missed the boat on that one and my struggles are the sail on a choppy ocean.

I’m an incredibly empathetic person, some might say an empath, but I know that’s a misperceived identifier, so let’s keep it simple. I have realized that I’ve inadvertently shut it all off, that I’m just managing. As I realize I’ve lost my joy; I am aware in a muted way of how hollow it really does feel. How exhilarating even the rough moments once were. Even in sadness it would swallow me whole and I’d sit in the underbelly, all neurons pinging. Happiness was a nearly manic state of bubbling effervescence I’d cling to; even if I had to supplement through man-made influences (take whatever meaning you want from that.) Anger would burn from inside, filling every blood vessel, every muscle until my cheeks would actually feel aflame and I’d unleash a fury my everlasting guilt and compassion would later make me feel terrible for. Apologies were rampant when I felt as though I’d upset the balance of nature with my toxic spewing of a momentary irritation.

I’ve always felt too loud, too expressive. I love games, but my face would make me the favorite of anyone I’d dare to play poker with. I thrived at acting in school and storytelling. I could wing a speech with flair and dynamics even if I had literally come up with the subject as I got into the classroom. The beauty of youth is that’s before you start to question the quirks and pieces you’re developing and you just simply live them. You don’t overanalyze your excitement; you don’t suppress your moodiness. You just are. As an adult my fear of the fact that I feel I overwhelm a room has always conflicted with my tendency to simply be that person regardless. Cringing as my laugh was too loud, but not being able to help how I felt in the delight of a hilarious moment. Feeling a connection to others that lightened the moment and gave us all levity.

Yet somewhere along the way, through grief, confusion, pain and disarray; I’ve lost the ability to revel in that. My laughter is halfway. My sadness is mellow and set in. My anger is simply a state of being at times that leaves a bitter taste in my mouth; but doesn’t stir enough in me to even enjoy that momentary fire. Due to situations and people and being an adult who adults hard without reprieve, I’ve lost my tenacity. At least to the degree I used to have. I’ve shielded myself from sensing others; from absorbing and examining their energy. I’ve blocked my tendency to read others to properly interact in a way that suits them.

And it sucks. That’s not eloquent, or well-stated or anything of the sort. It simply is and that’s simply me right now. I’m searching for what this part of my life should mean, but afraid of searching too hard inadvertently missing what I’ll realize was the meaning in two weeks; two months; two years. What lessons I’ll share with my kids when they’re asking why something is unfair or sharing joy in a new experience. I truly have no one to blame but myself, as much as I’d like to say life has done this to me; life has happened to me. While some of the moments I’ve been through would probably sound like fiction to some, I’ve stayed in them. I’ve tolerated them and I’ve allowed them to decimate pieces of me that I should have clung to. My strength required plenty of sacrifice; but I perhaps left behind a little too much. Confused ease of getting through a situation with who I was supposed to be. I’ve let too many in, too close and I don’t regret that, but I tend to forget how easy it is to allow moments to take me with them as opposed to keeping them with me. I wonder why in all of this; I’ve somehow still maintained the strength of my own self-doubt which has always been my crippling hindrance. What stops me from truly grabbing hold of me. I value others. Everyone, good or bad. I try to understand them if they seem cold or abrasive. I try to fix them if they seem broken. I thrive in the company of unadulterated jubilation in someone who just lives without giving a damn (even if deep down, I know they do). Being a friend is crucial to me. If I’m not being the one anyone can turn to, I’m not fulfilling what truly brings me happiness even when that emotion is quietly at half-mast.

I’m trying to find what makes me happy. Seeking what will re-ignite my soul; and bring easier smiles to my face and allow me to be the best I can be for anyone I come across, but mostly for myself. Which is the first time I’ve truly made that a priority, probably ever. And I feel guilty about it. I’m more than likely over thinking it all, but did I mention that’s something else that’s a key characteristic of mine?

I don’t need a dictionary entry of who I am. A Wikipedia page defining my character locks me in to too much. I’m mostly at a point where I want to find what I embrace and stand by that. To examine what I know I need to accept is a work in progress and simply gives meaning to moments and that maybe the bigger picture is too grand. Maybe it’s the blips on the radar. The joy I’m recently missing. It could possibly not be about the laugh that was too loud; but what made me laugh in the first place. What conversation with my kids made me feel at peace in the moment. How even if my successes are marred by frustration; it’s the drive to keep going and keep aiming for success as opposed to defeat. I’m looking for myself right now, and that might sound like heavy, dramatic commentary; it’s unpleasant that I had to be so far gone to realize I let it slip.

I still have to make plans; I’m a grown up. I still have to do what needs to be accomplished to survive in a way that makes me proud and not as though I’m just squeaking by. I’m trying to keep life in my peripheral along the way. Find my joy. Locate my fire. Be me, unabashedly.

It all sounds simple, right? Maybe I just need to play poker. Nothing makes me angrier than losing.

Deal me in.

Body Shame

I tore the pants off and threw them to the floor. Atop the other traitors. The pile that had already demonstrated my failure. Shown me that I’d never be okay with me. I struggled with the shirt around my midsection, tugging it away from the rolls I could see; the unsightly bulges I couldn’t hide or avoid. Nothing fit right, nothing made me feel like I was okay.

I’m honestly not sure the more difficult part of having an eating disorder. Actually being in the midst of it or getting through the recovered portion. The point when your body is out of control; your habits unrefined. No one looking at you would believe you that you’d much rather be waif-like; sickly. When you’re supposed to be “okay” and when the voices telling you every bite is a pound should technically be quieted to a level that’s not so distracting.

I feel like having an eating disorder makes me insensitive. Not intentionally; but in a way where I know I can’t ever truly admit to others how much I want to break every mirror; because those perceived complaints could be offensive to someone who struggles with their own weight. Callous in that the world has much bigger problems than how much I weigh. That the amount of time I spend with thoughts of my size taking over the world could be better spent on so much more. But I have no way to just shut it off. Make it go away. I’m not even going to delve too deep into the psychological aspects of it; but I can touch on the pure and utter self-hatred it inspires within me. The lack of control sends my mind reeling with how much better I could be doing. In the true foothold of the disordered thinking; this carries over to non-weight issues. If I’m no good at staying small, presentable, fragile even; am I good at being a decent person? Have I made other mistakes in how I’ve made it through the world? Do I have the ability to find enough pride in everything else that I can brush aside that fact I fear sitting when I’m feeling especially unsightly because I can’t handle how my stomach feels sticking over my pants.

I know. You could possibly be shaking your head at me. Rolling your eyes at my vanity. But there’s no vanity in purging. There’s no vanity in standing in front of a mirror and knowing the outline of your body will never match what others can follow with their own eyes. There’s no true perception of what’s there because I know that if my pants fit, I’m not doing the right things at all. Because baggy pants; too big and hanging from my hips is what means they’re wearable. If they fit, the sensation of the skin hugging the fabric is reminds me of my presence in its entire form. I can be just as uncomfortable in size 0 as I can in a 14 because I’ve been both of those sizes over the last 20 years. And each one in between.

I notice even the slightest fluctuation in my weight. Whether simply a food baby to an actual result of too much cake and beer (dinner of winners). Did that new vitamin I started taking make me gain weight? I should look into that and see… Did that flavored water the other night change my physiology and create puffiness? I should stop drinking that. How much did I eat yesterday? Did I miss a point where I ate more than I intended? Speaking of beer, that’s a lot of calories. That’s all what can go through my mind in a 30 second window.

But again the standard, stereotypical “I’m fat,” whines; the “my stomach is so big” complaints all seem so tasteless when to me they carry so much more weight than your average fat day. I struggle with not appreciating that I even have a body and just not being able to love the one I have, no matter what I do. No matter how many positive mantras I repeat; personal pep talks and perspective; deep breaths and looking again, they all come up against the wall of my sub-conscious. Reminding me of how thin I was six months previous. Or reminding me of when I was much larger and letting me know I’m headed right back that way. Those pants that used to fit. That shirt that wasn’t always quite so snug. Every morning of getting dressed and putting on something I haven’t worn in a while. The punch to the gut when the button doesn’t quite meet when conversely last time; they needed a belt. And to top it all off, none of this is evident to an outside observer; acquaintance, friend, etc. The one saving grace of this quietly screaming illness.

I see others who can easily and casually eat regular meals; like it’s natural. Easy. That it’s just obvious to them to do so. When breakfast terrifies me, because once I’ve failed that early; I feel set back in self-control. Lunch sounds great at times, but I just can’t do it.

It’s not only exhausting; it’s embarrassing. I’m a 35 year old woman. With good things in my life. Yet this just doesn’t seem to get better or to a point that I can relax. I’m not even “overweight” by society standards. I should like me. I’m not perfect, I’m certainly not saying that. I had enough concern with the previous statements that they would seem cocky or obnoxious. I certainly don’t see myself as better than anyone. Therein lies a component of the issue in that I struggle to find myself parallel. Being underweight is what I’ve been good at. How I’ve succeeded at an impossible goal; kept things in control. My outer fragility echoed some of how I felt deep down in a place I keep at bay.

I’m not even sure I can truly convey what I’m trying to express here. Just a glimpse of something that I know others struggle with in a variety of ways. That being human is sometimes so daunting; I wonder if I’ve just let myself be too fragile. That if I share it; I’ll see some message in what I’m trying to make known. That someday I’d like the half of my mind that fights me to come to a compromise with the half trying to fight back. I’m mostly normal; happy when I can be and as whole as a human is going to be. I just have this ongoing additional hurdle that blocks my path. I surpass it to be a functioning member of society; but I wonder how long I’ll have to keep moving it out of my way, only to have it show up again. And again.

The one where I randomly talk about zombies…

As I’ve given advice and support in the last few days, and try sincerely to get others to see how important and how special they are, I realize I’m obliviously hypocritical.

I can’t tell others to love themselves, when I do everything I can to prevent the same within me. It’s far easier to wallow; to stare up from the hole I’m in than to find the ladder to climb out. When in reality, there’s always a way out. It’s just how determined you are to find it. Not to say it’s easy, or it’s going to not involve a fight, an inner struggle and slipping down the rungs here and there. For someone who has fought through everything that comes at me, to keep going and maintain an overall blind forward momentum, I still allow myself to let darkness squelch any light there was at the end of the tunnel.

There are many things I want to do, yet I can always find a reason why I can’t or I will fail. But failure isn’t a negative, it’s a chance to see how to succeed the next time you tackle what you’re trying to conquer. I’ve always been one to plan for the worst; assume something bad will happen. Even if I were to build an emotional shelter from the apocalypse, I could come to find out that the zombie virus is in fact within the walls.

I remember some intentions I had written back in 2008 and decided to re-read them. Follow along:

I’m not going to make these resolutions as much as I’m going to make statements of intention. I think firm ‘I must do this or my year will be terrible’ type resolutions only start the year on a negative note.

I intend to stop letting behaviors and actions of others affect me or upset me. I can’t dictate other people’s lives and no matter how much I hope they’ll change, they probably won’t. I will continue to realize that each and every person in my life (or out of my life) is to be dealt with in his or her own unique way and simply because I feel a certain way doesn’t mean they do or will understand me when I wonder why they don’t.

This one isn’t an intention. It’s a statement. I will continue to wear my heart on my sleeve and be bold with my emotions. I spent a lot of time with emotional walls up and once I pushed past them, I was totally fine with letting people know how I feel as uncomfortable or blunt as it might be. Too many people hide their feelings, either because they’re afraid to face them or they’re afraid to create touchy situations with those around them. I’m not. And I’m okay with that. Honesty is best in the end and being truthful about how you feel is the best kind of honesty.

I intend to live like it’s always summer. For me, summer releases a kind of freedom; an openness that makes me carefree and relaxed. No coat, no shoes, just the crazy hippy skirt I only bust out when I can wear it with a tank top. I think I retreat into myself when winter hits, hiding in the cocoon that is blizzards and winter driving. I avoid leaving the house as often and I think that restricts living. I don’t think fall does the same, but it does cause me to let go of summer and wave longingly to the relaxation I felt in the sun. Spring is a tease. Half cold, half warm, always wet and muddy and I think I get too caught up in letting go of winter and anticipating summer that I forget to notice that the birds came back and flowers are coming out. I’m going to open myself to feeling the freedom summer breezes bring.

I intend to stop worrying about people liking me and compromising my integrity to be sure they do. I know who my friends are and I know why they are my friends. I have some pretty great friends at that. But as strong as I can appear, I sometimes have a fear that people don’t like me. I’m too strong a personality to mold myself in different ways for different people to like me, but every once in a while I find myself thinking of compromising my true opinions in order to match someone else’s. I know exactly where this weakness stems from, but my blog is not a couch in a therapist’s office, so I don’t think I need to go into that. But I need to realize that part of knowing who I am is acknowledging that I’m different and that people like me for who I am; not who they think I should be, and if they don’t, they’re not meant to be an integral part of my life. My ultimate goal with this intention is allow me to trust. Fear of not being accepted has given me an iron-clad resistance to trust completely. While I’ll never let that barrier down completely, I’ll hopefully reach a point where I’ll stop thinking the worst of each situation.”

I realize I’ve always let myself fall back on the insecurities and doubts I have about myself, about others and life itself. Life is messy and scary and brilliant and phenomenal. Not everyone gets to keep it and not everyone finds it within themselves to fight against the odds. It’s just as difficult to decide to give up as it is to keep fighting. I don’t want to be defeated anymore.

If I list things I want to do, I can easily find reasons not to, or to just cross them off the list. Yet I haven’t even tried. I haven’t put the work in to making it happen. I want to see my writing published. I want to learn how to play music on every instrument I can. I want to continue to be a support system for anyone and everyone who needs it. I want to spread kindness and genuine care to even those who seemingly haven’t earned it. I want to look back and be proud of what I’ve done and lead by example for my children. I want to make mistakes that will allow me to pull them through the mistakes they’ll inevitably make along the way. I could get hit by a bus tomorrow, and I’d rather see my life flash in front of me with all the times I tried instead of all the regrets at not even making the effort. I can’t go back and change the way things have happened, and I shouldn’t. Regrets and what-ifs are the zombie virus.

That’s not to say that I won’t falter, I won’t find myself lying on the bottom of the hole, or finding myself confined within the shelter I’ve brought into my head. Strength is innate, but cultivating it and embracing it are what make it powerful. I talk a big talk, yet I find I don’t always back it up in regard to loving yourself and working through problems. It leaves a room full of crutches. Ghosts in the room instead of skeletons in the closet. It’s no way to live and really, maybe zombies are just misunderstood. No sense in hiding from them until I have to cut one’s head off.

Unicorns And Kittens

New Year’s post! You knew it was coming. Probably could have been a blog, but does anyone even read that? Anyway, you can read this or skip it, but I do talk about kittens. Just saying.

I’ve been waiting since probably July for 2014 to end and to start a new year. It just seemed like the year had done me in. But so much more was ahead; filled with complexities and pain and new starts, and I had no idea. And now that we’re approaching a new year and it’s so close; this new door. The closed one. The next level we advance in the game. I realize how strange it is that we give the changing of what’s really just a date and the aging of the earth such significance. As though as humans we need something, a life scapegoat or landmark (depending on the year we had!) to assign our perspective on where we’ve been and where we’re going. If there is anything I’ve learned, there unfortunately is no literal changing of the page and starting a new chapter in a book. If we decide metaphorically there is, and pin too many hopes on that chapter already having been written and we’re intended to follow the words laid ahead of us; we’re not going to enjoy that part of the book. I’m not going to say that sometimes it’s not just a matter of shit happening, good, bad, painful, enlightening, etc. But overall, we really do have the choice to change the chapter at any time and write our own or at the very least, choose some adjectives and verbs.

I know I can’t sit and wait out a calendar year and hope the clock strikes midnight and fairies and kittens and unicorns dance around me and bring me nothing but joy and delight. For one thing, it’d technically already have been that day in Australia, so if I’m going literal, it doesn’t really work hoping for the tick of the second hand.

We ultimately don’t know what’s going to happen at any given time. We can have intuitions, gut feelings, premonitions; an idea we don’t know the base of but it just seems right. Obstacles, triumphs, difficulties, joy are all things that are going to enter our world, our personal bubble anytime. It’s how we’re living before, during and after those moments that define how we survive. How we live and what energy we exude to others. Life’s a damn jerk sometimes, I’d be lying if I said otherwise. The world can be terrifying, whether we choose to face the depth of complexities there are to what’s going on around us. But in the end, we have to live for us, hope for the best and handle the worst the best way that gets us through to the other side in one piece.

So, while I am actually still using that moment we technically start a new year as a marker, I’m not going to assume those unicorns are bringing me joy, because they could very well be taking a crap on my floor at 12:01.

But I can complain about it, and decide the whole year is ruined because of one pile of crap and just sit and let it stink up the room. Or I can realize I probably shouldn’t have had a unicorn in my living room in the first place, clean that shit up and make the logical change to put them outside.

So happy new year soon, but don’t wait until 2015 to realize you’re living your life every second of every day. Unicorns are cool, but keep them outside.

Sink or Swim

Divorce, break-ups, endings. They’re hard. They’re messy. Even in the most simple, mutual of ways, they’ve left their mark. Emotions are felt differently by each person involved. And even on the parts of those who aren’t, but are more than happy to share their viewpoint (requested or not). When you join your life with someone’s, whether it’s 2 months or 20 years, there’s a connection, a dent left behind in your armor that will leave you either respecting it as getting through or focusing on the damage incurred. There’s never a right or wrong way. Endings can come about in so many different ways; anger, changes, growth that doesn’t match, fear, hatred, realizations, death…..

At some point you have to move forward though, no matter what side you were on. You’re entitled to all of the emotions you encounter, but sometimes they’re overwhelming. Smothering, almost. You rise to the surface for air or you push it to that last minute where you’ve got to catch your breath to save yourself. Moving forward means new encounters, which can make some uncomfortable; can cause others immense fear and in others encourage curious excitement. But truth be told, moving forward involves something new. Finding a fit and a place. Understanding who we are on our own, as opposed to being someone associated directly with another. And depending on how much of yourself you’ve either held on to, or lost along the way, the path can be muddy and dirty and tiring or a cakewalk. Somewhere in between is where more probably go.

If you’re the introspective type, song lyrics suddenly mean more; if you’re the impulsive type, you indulge in momentarily soothing behaviors typically bordering on self-destructive. Those who can ignore their feelings simply land on the next day and don’t look back. Not to say they aren’t blindsided by the acceptance of the situation down the road, but some just see the constant rotation a way of life or what they deserve.

The addition of children to the equation is the hardest part. And that’s how this started. Becoming a single parent, whether you are solely single, as in permanent custody or a co-parenting situation, it’s really effing hard. I respect any single parent who maintains their sanity, even if that means pizza and two hours of Curious George to get stuff done for an hour, only to get those five minutes to sit down before someone needs water. Or food. Or can’t put their pants on. Life’s not fair, we all know that one. But this was a situation created by one or both parties and you can’t rest on the negatives of it. It’s life. It’s the present. You suck it up for the benefit of the kids. Especially because you have to explain to them that life isn’t fair when they use the phrase on you.

Everything is more complicated. Scheduling, dating, planning, identifying your new chapter; all while remembering it has to be as smooth as possible for the children who are involved. One parent brings someone new into their life and that new person goes, you have to address the idea of loss more than once with children. (Break-ups are losses, so that counts any situation). One parent brings more than one person into the children’s life through impulsivity and searching for air in a situation where they feel they’re drowning. Excitement can be that person’s air, and the balance between that, being a good parent and mental health is a potentially combustible moment. A parent decides to move; it creates more change. More upheaval. No matter your age, adult or child, those types of changes have effects. The parents fight and the children are in the middle and the kids absorb that regardless of age. That’s not to say all parenting situations are bad. Some of those aren’t necessarily bad, depending on how the parents handle it individually and with or without a united parenting understanding.

Having a bad day? Suck it up. Those kids need you. You might be lucky enough to have a co-parent who will change the schedule to allow you the time you need to decompress. Yet you also have to understand that you are the parent at that time and you can’t expect another person who has been removed to be that understanding or flexible, given that you now have separate lives, especially if they have brought someone else into their new path. (I hate using the word path. But it’s really the best description. Road? Trip? Go with it.)

You have to understand what you can do in your alone time and what can cross over. The mistakes you make, the losses you experience, those are all a part of their lives and if the children are young, explaining can be difficult and if they’re older, the ability to comprehend the situation without explanation will mold some part of that child’s future. You can have a bad day with the kids, but then you also may get the whole next day off (for lack of a better word) and know that while you’re dwelling on other life moments and feeling sorry for yourself, that parent may be having the same rough day. While having to solely monitor, watch, feed, give permission to, drive to events; etc.

Being alone is hard, no matter how strong you are. No matter how used to it you are. Being with kids alone can be incredibly trying and also incredibly rewarding. You manage to keep a roof over their heads, food in their stomach and clothes to wear and some days, that’s what you have to pat yourself on the back for and be okay. There are days where you have to leave the room and that’s okay. There are days when you don’t have the kids and be okay with that and not feel guilty. If you’re the sole caregiver, you don’t have to feel guilt for relying on a support system, or feeling burdened by the lack of one. We all just do our best, even if our best can suck, subjectively.

As usual, I’ve strayed from place to place. My end implication is always the same. Life is hard. Tricky. Either handed to us or earned. It’s what we do with it. Some choices will be right, some will hurt, some will leave marks and some will be in a gray area. If you want the less sunny description of life, you could compare it to a swimming instructor. Life is either going to teach you by keeping on the arm floaties or standing on the sidelines, yelling “Sink or swim, bitches!”

You can hate yourself for mistakes, feelings, emotions and reactions or you can face them and then make your next choices accordingly. I’ve contradicted myself in the last statement, and I acknowledge that. That’s kind of life, though, isn’t it.

Rabbit Trails

Every time I start thinking about writing, I start with one subject and hop to another, and merge to something off the wall, and so on. You’ve all read my rambling. This post was intended to start out as my proclamation to finally follow through with a lifelong dream of writing a book. Or two. Or more. Then I started thinking about why I was writing. Someone whom I’ve lost used to joke that my head was full of rabbit trails. I was constantly following different ones. And that’s precisely how I work.

Which led me to thinking of writing this post about this year. This cock monkey of a year. I’d apologize for offending there, but this year has done it’s fair share of disrespect. I’m allowed something. 2014. Seriously. I’m a free thinker, open to all possibilities and genuinely believe in energies, visions, etc. But this year has made me question everything I’ve ever done. Anything I’ll ever do going forward. Loss, pain, heartache, confusion, complete and utter depression. Along with happiness, friends who should have given up and didn’t, meeting new people who bring more to my life. It’s just all been mixed with emotions I’ve never experienced, in all my 30 or so years. Well, that’s a lie. Emotions I’ve previously avoided. They’ve been there from time to time. I’ve done all I can to avoid them. But they were in fact mixed with ones I’d like to avoid feeling again.

With a realization, that through one set of wise words; that no one is responsible for keeping me in check, but myself. My choices, my reactions and my coping are all innate to my ways of thinking. I do dumb things. I do smart things. I’m a genuinely nice person with an incredible lack of willpower at times who simply wants to enjoy life. Hedonism isn’t necessarily conducive to all aspects of adulthood, though. So you have to face that grown up bullshit that some people choose to embrace, and some choose to disregard, misunderstand or handle flippantly.

But how do yo find that balance between being who you are and who you think you should be. Not to mention that added pressure of realizing that regardless of what anyone wants to think, they’re going to base that decision heavily on the perspective of everyone but themselves.

There have been times this year where I’ve been so completely downtrodden, so tackled by life, and I should have just sat down and gave up. But I couldn’t. All I could do at that point was put on a smile, and as Winston Churchill proclaimed, if you’re going through hell, keep going. There’s got to be an end point somewhere, right? And if not, hey, maybe you run into the devil and he turns out to be a pretty cool guy who is just misunderstood.

What is my first book going to be about? Without an official outline, I can say it’ll be about a girl. A girl and her life. The choices she’s made, the situation she finds herself in. The seriously preposterous stuff she’s gotten herself into. And where reality, wishes and perspective’s lines start to blur.

I’ve had to learn a lot of lessons in order to stay in a good place. I have children who need a sane mother, who can maintain stability for their advancement and proper growth. All the while I’m trying to grow up as well. Life can kind of force that you on you, even if you think you’re there, sometimes reminders come from left field, that nope, not quite. And the question is, faced with forks in the road and detours on the trip, which path do you take.

The key is whether your gut, your heart or your head took you there. Because those three very rarely work together without ongoing disagreement.

Until next time…..