Inching My Way To The Front

May 28, 2014

In the past months I have started to attend church more religiously (pun only partially intended). My parents now have all 3 of their children attending their home church with them. My mom was so happy she cried, passed out and squealed like a tween meeting the Biebs, all at once (don’t fact check this).

My Dad, God love him, is a ‘front of the class’ kind of guy. A trait none of the rest of us share with him. Even though he is outnumbered, we always sit about 5 rows from the front, right in front of the pulpit. Normally the first 5 pews only have a handful of people sitting in them. And somehow, I end up in the seat directly in front of the pulpit, with a straight line of sight from me to the pastor. I don’t know how this keeps happening. It’s not that I really mind as I’m actually interested in what he is saying. But, I am not a front and center person. I’m not shy by any means, but I’d prefer to blend in and stand out only when I choose to….or awkwardly demand it with my clumsiness and talk-before-thinking disease (one day this will be classified a disease, and I’ll be the spokesperson).

Normally I wouldn’t think about where I sit and why. But I’ve started to wonder what my reasons are for pushing myself into the background. In small things in life I’m fine standing out. I’ll talk my face off in a small group setting, I’ll make small talk with strangers, I don’t even have a problem standing up in front of a group and speaking or reading. Superficial things, I excel at them (I’m like the Michael Jordan of elevator small talk).

But when it  comes to the core of who or what I am, I run from the spotlight. If I’m asked what I’m good at I stumble on my words trying to think of something that doesn’t make me sound like I hate myself. I don’t hate myself, I just don’t know myself. There is a difference, I think.

I can carry a tune but will never accept that compliment if it’s given. I stopped acting, which I loved. I stopped dancing, which I loved. I stopped piano lessons, which I’ve always regretted. I never went to college. I’ve never lost the weight I put on in my 20’s. Anything that could have made me stand out I stopped because I lack the confidence in my own abilities. Physically, I’m hard to ignore, I take up half the room. I’m loud and open, jovial even. And none of that is fake (especially the weight…) but that doesn’t mean I believe in myself.  For all my outward bravado, I’m really just a chicken shit when it comes to being a better me. I talk a good ‘front row’ game but when it comes to actually sitting up front and raising my hand if asked a question, I choke. I find a reason why I can’t. I don’t have the time or the money to go to school, to lose the weight, to get my life organized.

Lately I’m trying to find out who I am. Who is the real me? I wonder if I need to be more front and center in my life to figure this out. Shouldn’t we all be? That’s a real question, because I don’t know. To find the real me maybe I need to say yes to every offer and every opportunity, to see what’s out there for me. To break out of my comfort zone. But do I become Jim Carrey in Yes Man where I can’t say no to anything? Is that the answer? Sounds exhausting and terrifying to me.

Maybe the answer is just being open to it. Being open to new opportunities, whether they come to you in the front or the back row. Maybe we can slowly stop pushing ourselves into the back row when we belong front and center. Where should you have said yes, but said no in the past, out of fear?

I dare you to say yes next time. Even if it’s an epic failure, who cares. Just say yes, and enjoy the ride (bad analogy, I hate roller coasters).

You Mean Grass Doesn't Cut Itself??

May 19, 2014

I have to take on more responsibilities now that I don’t have a man in the house to do the “man type” chores (I know, the feminist in me just cringed too). It’s not that I think these are chores that women can’t do, it’s that I personally do not want to do them. Like, at all.

Raking leaves, mowing lawns, putting in window air conditioning units, painting. It’s just not for me. I can barely convince myself to do the chores I have deemed “women's work”. I used to be glad to have a man around to do all these things, even if he hated doing all those chores too. At least we both had chores we hated but had to do. But now it’s all about the “new me” who tries new things and is capable and blah blah blah (insert eye roll here).

So I allowed my dad to come over to mow the postage-stamp sized front yard. But only if he would teach me how to do it so that I could add this to the repertoire of things I CAN do but don’t WANT to do. (it’s a long list that I’m pretty proud of)

One thing you should know about lawn mowers, believe it or not, they should not be left outside all winter. I mean look, cars are left out all year and they have engines and they still work when I want them to so why not a tiny mower? I know, it doesn’t make sense to me either. Needless to say, the mower did not want to start for us. So out comes the old weed wacker, which was not left outside all winter but still did not start (proving my point that a winter with two hundred feet of snow was probably not hurting the lawnmower. In fact, it was probably just agreeing with me that mowing was not a chore meant for me).

I considered getting the shears out and using those but my Dad talked me out of that pretty quickly. I was actually kind of bummed I didn’t get to conquer this chore that I had never wanted to do in the first place. I had visions of singing “I’M EVERY WOMAN! IT’S ALL IN ME!” (much to Whitney’s dismay) as I mowed the 2 inch by 2 inch square that is my front “yard”. And here I would insert a picture of me pointing to my freshly cut grass using an instagram filter that portrayed victory! But no, sometimes you just have to let the grass grow a little longer, a little crazier and just shrug it off.

At our old house, when I was still married, I had a neighbor whose husband left her with 2 young boys. I was so impressed with her ability to get out and mow the lawn, sand and paint the front porch and so much more. At the time I thanked God I wasn’t in that situation rather than realizing how resilient she was. Now I see why I need to learn to do these things on my own. Not for me but for my boys. I want them to see they have a mom that can get shit done….while singing female empowerment ballads. I know it will happen one day soon, and in the meantime I’ll work on my grrrl-power playlist.

'Tranquil' Just Isn't In Their DNA

April 12, 2014

I realized something today. I’m the mother of 2 boys (only took me a few years to grasp). And last time I checked I am not, and have never been, a boy. Because of this I feel ill equipped to raise males.

I’m terrified.

We were watching funny videos tonight and all of the stunts gone wrong are almost always performed by pre-pubescent, frontal-lobes-not-fully-developed dudes. And I see my kids faces as they watch these, and how hilarious they find them.

It’s not a matter of ‘if’ my kids will perform completely stupid stunts that involve a trip to the ER, it’s ‘when’.

At 7 and 3 we have yet to have any major injuries. I know young kids that have already ventured into antics that cause mild heart attacks to their parents. I’m lucky mine haven’t dared, yet. It’s just a matter of time.

Now that there are two of them it’s inevitable. They egg each other on in everything and one of them always has to be the winner. First to brush their teeth, first up the stairs, first to finish breakfast, first to the toilet. You name it. (I’ve noticed though that they never compete to be first to clean up, or first to hug mom, or first to share).

This morning as I was packing Danger’s lunch I heard them yelling at each other over breakfast. I told them to stop yelling and just eat. I was proud of the immediate quiet I heard thinking they had finally listened to me and my threats. Only to walk into the dining room and see them silently hitting each other thinking as long as I didn’t hear them that it’s ok to keep at each other.

I regularly hear things being yelled like “You are the chosen one!!” or “Mom….I’m not doing anything up here…” or “I dare you!” all followed by a crash and scream.

And it’s ridiculous how often I have to tell Little Lion to stop karate chopping his own wiener.

I’m learning (guessing) that this is all normal when raising boys.

I know one day this will translate into them quietly betting the other one that they should jump off the garage, or something equally as stupid.

I need to accept this and make sure the boys insurance is as comprehensive as possible. And in the spirit of acceptance I made the boys promise tonight to make sure that whatever stupid feats they ever attempt, they always make sure that at least one friend is there and preferably with a phone.

And now, I will fall asleep imagining all the awful things their little brains will cook up...

Suck It Up Buttercup

April 5, 2014

Recently I had to mention to someone I was doing business with that my kids were “at their fathers this weekend” and it stunned me a little bit. (And no, by “doing business” I don’t mean drugs or hooking, it’s just not important to the story!)
It was the first time I chose to acknowledge to someone that doesn’t know me that I’m (going to be) divorced. Out loud.

I have yet to refer to my husband as my ex, and I have yet to introduce myself as a single mom. Not that I plan on opening with that when I meet anyone. “Hi, I’m a single mom and…hey! where are you going??”

“Going through”….it’s a heavy phrase. It’s not “having a divorce” or “taking a divorce” or even “choosing a divorce”, all of these indicate it’s within my control and once decided on, it will pass without a struggle. Like choosing an entree from a menu, “Uh, yes, I’ll take the is-this-really-happening divorce, medium rare, with the years-of-debt marinade and can I get the child support on the side?”  No, it’s going through it. It indicates hardship, an ongoing battle.

It’s something that will emotionally destroy me. It will take way more strength than any woman should have to find out she has (or doesn’t have). It’s taking all of me to keep going in this. Physically I’m fighting off a pain that I’ve never felt before, there’s a reason it’s called heart break, because that is exactly what it feels like. Emotionally I’m trying to stay positive for my boys while still maintaining honesty and openness with them. Mentally I am fighting off feelings of inadequacy and self hatred daily. And because of all of that no one can (or will) go through it with you.

It’s hard to explain to someone who hasn’t been through one. I am lucky to be the first, and hopefully last, of my immediate family and close friends to go through a divorce. So my friends are supportive, but can only understand so much. Eventually friends stop asking how I’m doing. Either they don’t want to keep reminding me of it or they have their own lives to get on with and don’t have time to listen to me bitch and moan again. And I don’t blame them at all. My family has been my rock and have time and again saved me from going off the deep end emotionally. Literally.
But they can only do so much for me in this. It’s something I have to do myself.

My soon to be ex started his journey long before he actually left. He is so far ahead of me in this, even he can’t go through this at my pace. If he ever stumbles upon this post I can see him rolling his eyes and begging me to get a life and quit the melodrama. But that’s because he isn’t where I am in this. And because it was his choice to leave.
He assumes all of this should be easier than it is. His true calling should have been as a circus sideshow performer, “The Man Who Can Assume Anything!”. You pay your nickel and stand in front of him and he will assume what you are or how you should feel. When you try to tell him his assumptions aren’t true (you’ve never even once been an octopus, in fact, you can’t even swim) he will tell you your time is up and to move on.

So this is my journey to take alone. Problem is I don’t do “alone” very well. Who want’s to go on a trip when you have no real destination or clue when it will end? Your funds are non-existent, you forgot to pack a toothbrush, your shoes are giving you blisters and you don’t speak the language. Not my idea of fun. I am not an “Eat, Pray, Love” kind of adventurer.

But I have to, so I will. The good thing about a journey is that when it does end, when you find a destination that feels right, you are normally better for it. And as much as I despise  saying that I’m “going through” something at least those words indicate that there is a light at the end of the tunnel. They mean that there’s still hope. You go through something in order to come out the other side. Thank God it’s not called “hanging out forever in a divorce”.

Not So Funny Meow, Is It?

March 20, 2014

Exactly one month to the day after my husband moved out I went to the SPCA and adopted two kittens for my sons as a surprise Christmas present. I was fully aware that this was probably a typical “newly separated” thing to do for them but I didn’t care. They needed something that would make them happy and would be theirs.

We picked up the only 2 kittens they had, a brother and sister.

Right away I knew the girl would be for my youngest son, who’s three and the boy would be for my 7 year old. I just knew it was the best fit and I’ve been proven right ever since we got them. My oldest named his Stripes within seconds. My youngest decided on Saka in the beginning but went through new names daily for a while (Shotgun, Juicy Kitty, Man Kitty, Gun Water…if there is such a thing as Multiple Cat Personality Disorder this kitty has it). Luckily he’s stopped renaming and stuck with Saka, she’s very grateful.

The reason she is a perfect fit for the 3 year old is because she is very docile and rarely if ever swats at anyone. She is a little skittish but that’s probably because she is owned by a boy that likes to hold her upside down and exclaim things like “She bounces!!”

I don’t blame her for running away from him, sometimes I run from him too. She is still a very playful cat, she’s the best at the game “Oh my God, where did that red dot come from? It’s gone. THERE IT IS AGAIN!!”.

Her brother is very frisky and prone to hunt anything that moves, or doesn’t move (as my big toe can attest, and in my toes defense it wasn’t talking shit or even moving at the time) which is why he’s a better fit for my 7 year old who is scrawny but big enough to fight off a middle of the night cat vs. foot attack. He pounces on my little ones head when he’s walking up the stairs, tries to kill his blankie when he drags it behind him, or his face when he twitches, you name it. Being the good mother I am I’ve turned this into a training opportunity, he now is learning how not to be cornered by a cat that wants to play with/maim him. And I figure this will serve him well later in life as he will be a master at dodging all sorts of uncomfortable situations. Like the mother-in-law who corners him on Thanksgiving to find out when she’s getting grandbabies, or the awkward co-worker who stops him in the office bathroom to show him his latest rash. Assuming that yelling “NO!” while pushing them away with your foot and barking like a dog is the way to get out of all of these situations. You are welcome, son.

Quite often I hear from my youngest “Oh man, stripes is kissing my cat’s butt again!”. What he means by this is that Stripes likes to suckle and knead on his sister's belly. A lot. I don’t know the rules on kitty incest and frankly I don’t know my vet well enough to discuss this without getting the Kitty Protective Services called on me. And Google was useless when it comes to info on “how to tell if your cat’s expression means help me or leave us alone” (maybe I should try Bing). I know it’s not really sexual but it’s all so intimate and private that for now I’m going to be that awful mom that knows what is happening in her own house but is looking the other way. A Lifetime movie is already being written about it.

I am (obviously) not much of a pet person. I do like cats. They clean themselves and don’t need to go outside to shit. They are the perfect lazy person's pet. As my poor old beagle can attest, I’m not much for his kind. He’s the sweetest dumbest thing you’ll ever meet, but he’s a lot of work. And he farts without even feeling ashamed about it.

When I was 14 I begged my parents for a dog and they finally took me to the pound and I picked out a mutt that was a few years old. Come to find out he had lived on the streets before, we still adopted him (we are very stupid). He literally chased cars. That’s not just a thing that someone created for a funny comic strip. He chased moving cars. He also tried to kill any other dog he saw, his favorite toy was a rock and he peed on my bed almost daily. Needless to say he was back at the pound within a few months. Then, 13 years ago, when my ex and I had just moved in together he woke up one day and said “I want a beagle” and because I never said no to him, we went and got one that day. I’m not even sure we checked with the landlord first. So when it comes to dogs I don’t have a great history.

My history with cats isn’t that much better but I feel like that’s not as much my fault. My first kitten we found in the newspaper (the cat wasn’t IN the newspaper, that would be weird, it was an ad for free kittens, silly). Apparently my parents looked in the Psychotics Weekly for this ad because my mom and I arrived at an apartment building that smelled of pee and broken promises. The man that was giving away the kitten answered his door and let us in, even as a very young kid I knew we should probably just run. His small apartment was FULL of cats. Like 3 episodes of Animal Hoarders in one. A lot of them didn’t have hair, and they should have. We STILL accepted this kitten and went home. I named her Kitty (because I had a great imagination) and spent the next few days trying to convince her to come out from under our coat rack only to have her hiss and swipe at me repeatedly. One night my mom woke up in the middle of the night to see Kitty sitting on her chest staring at her (obviously she was trying to suck her soul out of her, there’s no other reason) so my mom, being the strong Christian woman she is, threw the cat off of her while screaming “I rebuke you Satan!” (or something equally as anti-Satan as that) only to have the cat yell back at her in some “hail Satan” hiss fest. The next day that cat was gone. I didn’t miss it.

My next cat I named Buster (hey, it’s better than Kitty). Very shortly after I got him he got very sick. We took him to the vet and if my adolescent memory serves, they shot him with fluids (which he apparently didn’t have enough of) to the point that the fluids they were injecting came shooting back out of the hole the syringe made. I could very well be making this up but the memory is one that I’ve had for so long that it might as well be real. He died a few days later. We gave up the kitty search for a while after that. Eventually my sister and I both got kittens. They either died or we moved and had to give them away (we moved a lot and a lot of cats died so how am I supposed to remember?). Then at age 14 or so I got a cat that I had for 17 years and who died in my arms (shortly after shit-peeing all over me). He was my best pet to date.

Stripes & Saka are now 5 months old and growing much quicker than I thought they would. They have destroyed 2 potted plants, a lamp, a large frame, a few lightbulbs and a laptop cord. They sleep only in the basket of clean clothes (literally never in the dirty laundry pile) and meow for absolutely no reason. But I love them. I love how often my boys have told me how happy they are that they have cats. I love the responsibility they feel for them. Even when the boys fight over who gets to hold which one, at least they are fighting over who gets to be sweet to a living animal. So, I am learning to go with the flow and love the little devils. And the cats too.

I Learned it From Watching You!

January 3, 2014

I have spent the past 5 weeks figuring out who to blame for the end of my marriage. Mostly I find fault with myself. And occasionally, when I’m nice to myself, it will be his fault. But what is most realistic when a marriage fizzles out, is that it’s both our fault.

Then I have moments where I need to find someone else to blame. One of my best friends, who 17 years ago was going to ask me out but stepped back because he saw how much my ex liked me. Damn you, if you had just asked me out instead I wouldn’t have fallen in love and started a family and then lost the man I thought was going to be around forever! I know, hysterical (at least my friend thought so) but the mind goes to some absurd places when you are desperate to not face your problems.

Here’s my latest person to blame. And mind you, I think this one is pretty valid.

My dad.

He was a man that grew up with a twin brother and an older brother. In his twenties his parents separated. His father wouldn’t, or couldn’t, tell him he loved him until my Dad was well into adulthood. His father cheated on his mother and didn’t hide it. Not the best role model.

But he decided that he was not going to be that kind of husband or father, and he wasn’t. And here is why it’s his fault. He set the bar too high.

He is a man that knew he had a choice to not become a victim of his circumstances. He was going to show love to his kids every day. He was going to make sure his wife knew that he loved her. He was going to be the best role model any kid could hope for. And he was.

Naturally, I grew up believing that men hold doors for women, they don’t let their wives carry something heavy when he’s around (unless the wife insists that she’s “got it!”), they take out the trash, fix a leaky faucet, move a piece of furniture, do the dishes after they have expressed thanks for the meal that was prepared, they buy their daughters dolls they have been obsessing over even if the budget is stretched too thin as it is, they say sweet things about their wife in front of their kids, they apologize when they do it wrong, they lovingly joke with their wife, they are strong, confident, trustworthy, and most of all dependable. They love God. They are humble and happy about who they are.

Now, I’m sure my dad might not agree with most of this. And because I’m an adult I know that we are never as awesome as our kids think we are. It was a tough day for me when I realized my Dad wasn’t invincible. And because we are human I understand that no one can be all of these things all the time. We have bad moments, but that doesn’t make us bad people.

This is why the bar is set too high, I assumed from a young age that I would find someone just like my Dad. Like most girls do. I figured that was just the way the world worked. And why wouldn’t I find someone as happy to treat me the way my dad treats my mom?

Well, that’s the fairy tale isn’t it? That’s the dream. We think it’s just our right to keep being treated as we were while growing up. Good or bad, in my case good. And then as adults, we realize that no one can live up to the idea you formed as a young girl. If it was that easy I would be living in a castle with a rugged prince while 10 suitors pine for me from outside my castle walls.

So even though the mess I find myself in is ALL my dad’s fault (obviously), I wouldn’t change the way he raised me one teensy tiny bit. He was and is the perfect dad and the perfect role model on what a husband should be. And now, at 35, I can start looking for someone else to fall short of who he is.

And a word of warning to all you amazing husbands and fathers out there, be careful, you are setting your daughters up for a mighty fall years from now. Luckily, like my dad, you are probably also a great safety net…just in case.

If I'm Being Honest

December 16, 2013

I can’t speak for all moms, but I bet you most of us have the same favorite part of the day.

It’s their kids’ bedtime. Sweet, sweet bedtime.

Not the act of getting the kids undressed, bathed (some days), dressed again, books read (if they are good), prayers prayed, and hugs and kisses given. No, it’s what comes after. After the threats of what will happen if they get out of bed again and promises that I will check on them later. Once they are actually down. That’s my favorite time of the day.

I love my boys. I would go to hell and back for them. I would murder someone to keep them safe. And I do have many happy moments with them throughout the day. But spending your whole day as a mom to, essentially, two wild animals, wears you out. And quickly.

It’s not just the physical exhaustion of the chores, constant toy clean up, shuttling here and there, errands and daily mandatory wrestling matches. Even on the days that I’m slacking on all of my responsibilities it’s still physically exhausting. But what gets me more, is the mental exhaustion. We are essentially raising little schizophrenic monkeys. My 3 year old can go from making friends with complete strangers and telling me he loves me to a complete flop-on-the-floor meltdown, faster than my brain can process thought. Even my 7 yr old has days where he can tantrum better than any toddler. And even when we are all getting along and they are as close to “obeying”  me as they will get, it’s still exhausting.     

I am a mom, I am always thinking about them. Wondering how my oldest is doing at school. Wondering if his facial tic is getting worse. Wondering if the fact that my 3 yr old doesn’t know his abc’s or colors yet (and doesn’t want to learn them) means I’ve failed him. Wondering if I should get my youngest into preschool and how I will pay for it. Wondering if they will be happy healthy young men. Will I get along with their future spouses? Will they find careers they are passionate about? The list is endless.

This morning on the way to church, my oldest asked me why Christmas is Jesus’ birthday, how do we know? I started a long explanation and was pretty proud of myself that I had tailored it to a 7 yr old’s understanding and was quite impressed that he hadn’t interrupted me and was listening intently. I stopped my diatribe and he waited a beat then said, “…..what is heavier, a car or a boulder?”. Sigh…

We are constantly moving for, thinking about, talking with, talking TO and bargaining with our kids. Our minds, bodies and emotions are as all over the place as those of our kids. Maybe even more, as we are adults now and have to control our anger and can’t, as much as we want to, drop to floor and scream bloody murder when the free cake that is being offered to you (at 11 o’clock in the morning I might add!) is not actually a donut-hole as expected.

It’s exhausting but, I love it. I love being with my boys all day but the simple truth is, by the end of the day I’m done. And what I’m learning over and over again is maybe the boys don’t need me to be constantly thinking of them. Maybe I don’t need to think about every detail of their adult lives just yet. Maybe I don’t reply with a short novel to each inquiry, when one sentence would suffice. Maybe if I think of myself once in awhile I will be able to stop obsessing about their what-ifs. Maybe they just need me to think of them as they are TODAY. Who are they today? What do they need from me today? What will make today successful?

I know I will still be exhausted at the end of the day but maybe I’ll have a tiny bit of mental strength left to do things like write, or read, or stare into space.  Just as an alcoholic or drug addict deals with becoming healthy one day at a time, so will I. I will parent one day at a time. Not that I think motherhood is akin to addiction. Although, then again…

And now, if you’ll excuse me, my boys, who I let get in my bed 5 minutes after I put them to bed in theirs (See? I had no mental strength to fight them back into their beds!) have just come downstairs holding their heads asking for boo-boo bear and boo-boo booty from the freezer because “he jumped on my head!” “No, he jumped on MY head!!”
Luckily, what never seems to lose strength is the volume of my voice when there are two boys that NEED TO LISTEN TO THEIR MOTHER, OR SO HELP ME GOD!!!!!!

Cleaning House

December 5, 2013

She woke up that day knowing her marriage was over.  She had told herself, in just that matter-of-fact a manner that it was, the night before. Nothing was more pathetic than a woman begging and pleading a man not to leave, especially when those pleas were so brusquely rebuffed. Now what?

She stood in the middle of her living room surveying her surroundings. As if getting over her failed marriage was a chore to be tackled. What first? Maybe sweep her broken heart into a dustpan and throw it away? There. Next scrub away the 17 years they built together. Nice and shiny. Now just mop away the broken promises, the shattered life and feelings of worthlessness. Well. Wouldn’t that be easy?

If only manual labor would make her heal.

Instead, she knew she had to go through it. She would have to travel through shit. She would have to do countless hours of introspection and face the darkest parts of herself, truthfully. It was going to be so painful. She wavered for a second. Maybe there was something on tv that would take her mind off of her problems. Maybe she should wake her youngest son up from his nap so she didn’t have to be alone. No. She knew that she had to sit with her thoughts and her feelings and let them crash into her, seep into every fiber, and accept them. She needed to learn to surrender, to be alone.

Alone but not abandoned.

For Better or Worse….Unless I Don’t Like the Worse

November 19,2013

Instead of rewriting marriage vows this way, maybe couples should think about what the words really mean that they recite to each other.
Maybe they should be reminded just how “worse” it can, and will, get.
What marriage is without faults? Without hurdles? Mountains and valleys? None.
And what couple can promise, truly promise, when they say those words that they will be together in the worse. Whatever the worse is.

Not many.

I will have questions. A million unanswered questions. I will be sad. I will be angry. I will be violent and irrational. I will be lower than low. I will have no self esteem or self worth. I will cry at inappropriate times and in inappropriate places. I will be bitchy to friends and strangers for no reason. I will fail to hide my emotions from my kids. I will assume the worst. I will beg with God. I will yell at God. I will scold myself. I will tune out. I will listen to sad music at an alarming rate. I will smoke and cry on my porch in the middle of the night.

I am allowing myself all of these things. I am not putting a deadline on them. But, I know there will be an end to them.

I know that I will wake up one day without a tissue in hand. I will stop playing every awful scenario over and over in my head. I will stop regretting and wondering. I will smile at a stranger. I will tell my kids everything is ok and mean it. I will stop being afraid that I will use my kids as tools in a nasty situation. I won’t do it because they are humans, MY humans. I will learn not to be selfish. I will see the good in a bad situation. I will take friends & family up on their generous offers. I will learn how to support myself. I will not underestimate my abilities. I will learn that broken promises do not mean a broken life. I will stop joking that my life serves as an example of what happens when you do everything wrong. I will stop asking questions that won’t get answered. I will stop wishing ill will on someone that doesn’t deserve it. I will see this situation from someone else’s point of view. I will see myself as others see me.

I will be better.

SHE

October 12th 2013

He was so handsome. Gorgeous even. Tall. Strong. Silent. Which gave him a bit of a bad boy edge which was absolutely her weakness. His shy almost mysterious, slightly grumpy demeanor appealed to her. They were so young. So different. So carefree. Spending all night on the roof of a beach house was all that was important. He admitted he liked her that night and even though she absolutely knew that he did, she didn’t say anything until he said it first.  She was shy and scared, but also liked the game they were playing. Flirting felt so good.  They were 18 and in love.  She gave herself to him fast and hard. She wasn’t sure she would know how to hold back even if she had wanted to.  They loved, they fought, they made up, they rode amazing highs and depressingly trivial lows that rocked her tiny young world. If she only knew then.  Part of her knew from the start, this is supposed to be her first, but not her forever love. But you can’t tell someone that is in the throes of a first love that it should end and that she should move on and find other, more mature loves. That she should take all her past heartaches and lessons and create new and better loves. That maybe, just maybe, there isn’t only one person in the world for her. Maybe there are more.  No one worth their weight in irrational teenage wisdom would ever believe that to be true.  So she held on to this first love. She held on tight.  Through break ups that turned into reconciliations. Were those mutual reconciliations? Was she very good at needing? Was he very good at giving in?  The fights got bigger, the making up became more half-hearted, and the lows got lower.  But still she held on. She could see him pulling away. She could see him losing interest. That spark in his eyes was gone when he looked at her. Passion turned into complacency. A couple into friendship then into boredom.  But she got a ring anyway. She got a wedding. She got a honeymoon. She got a house. She got a son. And then another son. Each milestone marked by a falling out that could have, should have, ended their union.  But she held on. She begged. She made it right. She tried at least.  Each milestone marked a change in her. Physically. Emotionally. She was unrecognizable. She lost herself. But realized she had never known herself to begin with. She lost herself far before it began to show. She sabotaged herself. She was good at that, it was unnervingly normal for her to do.  Finally. When it was too late to get away cleanly, it was really over. This time she couldn’t beg. She couldn’t convince. She couldn’t demand. She had no leverage anymore. His mind was made up. It had been made up for years.  He had changed too. Angry, disinterested, lazy, unhappy. Life had not lived up to what either of them imagined and it so often felt like too much work.  She couldn’t break down. She couldn’t run away. She couldn’t cause a scene.  She was a mother now. A grown up. She wasn’t the most important person in her life anymore.  She was going to have to force her sons to grow up much faster than she ever wanted them to. She was going to have to hold them, and comfort them, and apologize to them. She was going to have to take all the blame. She was going to have to be a scapegoat. And she would. Willingly. For them.  She was going to be one of them. A woman that couldn’t keep a happy home. A failure.  She was scared.  She doesn’t look like she did when she was 18. She doesn’t smile like she did then. She doesn’t move like she did then. She doesn’t love like she did then. She was a lifetime away from that person. She is tired now.  And she had changed him.  She had changed so much that he couldn’t love her anymore.