It's Christmas Eve Eve, and it got me to thinking, everyone discusses Mary and her having Jesus. We even have the song, "Mary, Did you know?" However, there are more parents involved in the story than just Mary. How many people have contemplated Joseph's point of view?
Joseph was engaged to Mary. They were planning a life and a future. They were dreaming about how their life would be. Imagine being madly in love with someone and all the plans you make while you are on the cusp of your "forever"... Once you have started dreaming about a future with someone you contemplate if you're a good match. You consider their needs and their role within your life. You mentally dream about if you'll have kids, pets, where you will have a home, how you will share your responsibilities within your home and family.
Then there is a wrench thrown into the mix. Something outside of your control that effects your relationship with your love. "Joseph...your fiancé is pregnant. It is not yours." And an angel comes to you to tell you that you need to stay involved with this woman. You need to continue to love and cherish her. You are to help raise a child that is not your blood. You must parent someone else's child. You are a bystander to this life in some aspects because it is not your child. This child that needs you to help care for and love it. You are in love with a woman who is going to go through pain and agony to birth someone whom you are to responsible for, but can't totally claim as yours.
The thing is, Joseph was thrown into the mix of parenthood. He inherited a child to feed, clothe, discipline, love, and raise as his own... all the while aware that it wasn't his child... and yet, was his child.
Any adult who willingly stepped up and accepted becoming the parent to a child, maybe you understand Joseph's shoes. Co-parents, step parents, bonus parents etc. who help love and guide a child that they do not share DNA with understands that it is very hard to find your place within the child's life. You have to attempt to prove your love for this tiny human. You give of your time, your energy, your heart to someone that you can not help but love and yet, you often stay in the shadows as your aren't "the parent." You hurt when the child hurts. You would fight tigers and bears if need be because this child is family just the same. You scare away bad dreams and bullies. You wash off scraped knees just as any other parent would. You metaphorically carry the weight of this child.
Joseph had to bear the weight of the rumors about Mary. Joseph had to bear the scandal and the pain that Mary did, but he willingly chose to stay beside her. He chose to lead his family. He chose to love and cherish both Mary and Jesus knowing that it would not be an easy life.
Did he "know" how hard it would be to love and raise a child that was and yet wasn't his own when he stayed with Mary? I think he *thought* he knew. But maybe, the answer is far more complicated. Maybe it's like childbirth. We have an idea of how it will be to birth a child. People can tell us what it will entail. We can read books and watch movies about the pain and hardship about it, but until we are in the moment, we don't have a clue. Maybe that is the place were grace and love take over. All the unknowns are washed over with love until we are there in the moment and the only choice we have is love itself.
I think Joseph had an inkling of an idea. I do believe that he knew it would be hard, just as anyone who stepped up to love someone else's child knows it will not be easy. I think that Joseph knew that the child needed him. Let that sink in.... a child who is innocent and helpless needs you. You don't get to walk away from that kind of need. Someone else needs you. Someone who can not thrive without your help, needs you. Joseph did have a choice. He choose love.
We are never ever totally prepared for kids. We are even less prepared to love and care for a child that we never knew we needed in our life.
To all the step parents, co-parents, bonus parents, and people who volunteer to raise children who are not your own, thank you for choosing to love.
Friday, December 23, 2016
Saturday, November 26, 2016
Unbreakable
"I am not unbreakable..."
The strongest people I know are NOT unbreakable. If I were to be totally honest - they are broken. Many of them have been shattered in many ways. They have experienced heartache. They have endured pain. They have held loss and disappointment. They have seen and experienced things that people would avoid if they were given a single second to choose.
Maybe we have gotten it all wrong over the years. Maybe we are all stronger after being broken. On a physical aspect, the human body overproduces calcium to protect the places we have broken in an attempt to heal. The side effect of the healing is that the area is stronger at the site of the break due to the body covering the breakage. In theory, the spot where it was previously broken can not be broken there again. It is reinforced. It has been covered. There are similarities when it comes to muscles and soft tissue as well. Once a muscle or soft tissue has been injured the body "reacts" and tightens around it in order to protect us from hurting ourselves more. This is why injuries require so much physical therapy, once we are hurt and injured, we have to physically work the pain and overprotectiveness out of our body to allow it to return to normal. This is not an instant healing but requires effort. It is not easy and often is painful.
Our minds, emotions, character, and personality are much the same as our physical bodies. After we have experienced life changing moments that break us, we are not the same. We are changed and "reinforce" ourselves in an attempt not to be broken in the same places or in the same ways. We hide our soft places and injured thoughts behind baggage. We take the rejection and pain and cover it to reinforce ourselves against being hurt in the same way. We pull ourselves tight. We reject other's advances and attempts to help us heal for fear that we will have to experience an emotional version of physical therapy. We are often able to see the pain and broken inside of ourselves; however, the fear of allowing the vulnerability to return is often more painful than the initial injury. Our hearts are calloused not from lack of want but from covering and reinforcing the hurt places. We hide our emotions and try to be void of softness.
Some of these walking wounded are so damaged that they see genuine love and devotion but the fear of pain tightens close like the laces on a boxing glove. Their heart laced beneath the layers of glove. The vulnerability hidden beneath the desire to fight and secure one's safety. Unless we are willing to let the gloves come off, stop the fighting, and peel back all the layers of tape and allow our hearts to return to vulnerable- we remain fighters. Hiding our true selves doesn't change who we are, but rather it changes other people's ability to see the previously broken places, the scars of who we are. Scars are not flags of failure. Our scars are a tapestry of places we held on until our bodies gave way when our determination and will held on. Breaking and healing is not failure. It is enduring past when our external strength had reached its limits.
Many women have stretch marks. I don't think I know a single woman who is genuinely happy to have them. I think Kat Williams describes them better than anyone else, "Either you was big and got small, or you was small and got big..." Stretch marks are your skin literally stretching to the point of tearing. Your body was enduring something that requires such a drastic change that it physically couldn't endure and tore...and yet, here you are still enduring more.
Anyone can be a blank slate. Blank slates are bland and forgettable. I think we are more like the Japanese idea of kintsukuroi. Once a piece of pottery is broken, they do not trash it for being broken. The broken and cracks are not shunned and hidden from others. Instead the broken places are filled with gold or silver. The cracks make the pottery stronger and more beautiful as they are replaced and filled with gold or silver. The pottery becomes more than the simple boring piece it once was.
I believe we are the same, we become more precious and more valuable once we have been broken. Broken people are stronger and more precious like the kintsukuroi bowls. The cracks are still there. They may have been healed and/or repaired even.
The cracks remain, but the soul is stronger.
Being unbreakable doesn't make you stronger - being broken, enduring hardships, surviving loss, remaining steadfast when the storms of life crack, chip, and bend you to the point that you are changed makes you stronger.
The strongest people I know are NOT unbreakable. If I were to be totally honest - they are broken. Many of them have been shattered in many ways. They have experienced heartache. They have endured pain. They have held loss and disappointment. They have seen and experienced things that people would avoid if they were given a single second to choose.
Maybe we have gotten it all wrong over the years. Maybe we are all stronger after being broken. On a physical aspect, the human body overproduces calcium to protect the places we have broken in an attempt to heal. The side effect of the healing is that the area is stronger at the site of the break due to the body covering the breakage. In theory, the spot where it was previously broken can not be broken there again. It is reinforced. It has been covered. There are similarities when it comes to muscles and soft tissue as well. Once a muscle or soft tissue has been injured the body "reacts" and tightens around it in order to protect us from hurting ourselves more. This is why injuries require so much physical therapy, once we are hurt and injured, we have to physically work the pain and overprotectiveness out of our body to allow it to return to normal. This is not an instant healing but requires effort. It is not easy and often is painful.
Our minds, emotions, character, and personality are much the same as our physical bodies. After we have experienced life changing moments that break us, we are not the same. We are changed and "reinforce" ourselves in an attempt not to be broken in the same places or in the same ways. We hide our soft places and injured thoughts behind baggage. We take the rejection and pain and cover it to reinforce ourselves against being hurt in the same way. We pull ourselves tight. We reject other's advances and attempts to help us heal for fear that we will have to experience an emotional version of physical therapy. We are often able to see the pain and broken inside of ourselves; however, the fear of allowing the vulnerability to return is often more painful than the initial injury. Our hearts are calloused not from lack of want but from covering and reinforcing the hurt places. We hide our emotions and try to be void of softness.
Some of these walking wounded are so damaged that they see genuine love and devotion but the fear of pain tightens close like the laces on a boxing glove. Their heart laced beneath the layers of glove. The vulnerability hidden beneath the desire to fight and secure one's safety. Unless we are willing to let the gloves come off, stop the fighting, and peel back all the layers of tape and allow our hearts to return to vulnerable- we remain fighters. Hiding our true selves doesn't change who we are, but rather it changes other people's ability to see the previously broken places, the scars of who we are. Scars are not flags of failure. Our scars are a tapestry of places we held on until our bodies gave way when our determination and will held on. Breaking and healing is not failure. It is enduring past when our external strength had reached its limits.
Many women have stretch marks. I don't think I know a single woman who is genuinely happy to have them. I think Kat Williams describes them better than anyone else, "Either you was big and got small, or you was small and got big..." Stretch marks are your skin literally stretching to the point of tearing. Your body was enduring something that requires such a drastic change that it physically couldn't endure and tore...and yet, here you are still enduring more.
Anyone can be a blank slate. Blank slates are bland and forgettable. I think we are more like the Japanese idea of kintsukuroi. Once a piece of pottery is broken, they do not trash it for being broken. The broken and cracks are not shunned and hidden from others. Instead the broken places are filled with gold or silver. The cracks make the pottery stronger and more beautiful as they are replaced and filled with gold or silver. The pottery becomes more than the simple boring piece it once was.
I believe we are the same, we become more precious and more valuable once we have been broken. Broken people are stronger and more precious like the kintsukuroi bowls. The cracks are still there. They may have been healed and/or repaired even.
The cracks remain, but the soul is stronger.
Being unbreakable doesn't make you stronger - being broken, enduring hardships, surviving loss, remaining steadfast when the storms of life crack, chip, and bend you to the point that you are changed makes you stronger.
Thursday, November 10, 2016
Why do you write?
I've had people ask what makes me write. I love words. I love reading them. I write for 1,001 reasons, including but not limited to...
I write because I use words to process things. So many times I have been trying to process life and find myself overwhelmed. I need words. I like the feel of making the written word. I like reading back over it. Letting my eyes wash over the words and decide if I need to move certain phrases down for more impact or just cut them out entirely. There is something about knowing my brain was the inventor of thoughts that I can hold and reminisce about- that brings me joy. I make decisions better in writing. Pro's and con's inscribed on paper or glowing hollow in the computer light as I hear the clickity clack of the words transform from ghosts of ideas in my skull to skeletons of dreams that continue to evolve and grow into poetry, lyrics, blogs, or stories. It does more than help me. It's cathartic and purges "the crazy" so that what seemed giant and scary and bigger than life in my thoughts now is something I can hold and turn over in my hands.
I write because I am nothing special. I have lived a life with some rather "unusual " plot twists, but so has every one else. Every one has close call stories. Stories of heartbreak, defeat, sadness, near death, and anguish aren't really that odd but rather the usual. I'd like to shamefully think that my words matter. I figure maybe if I can explain some of my experience in writing someone else won't feel as alone. That maybe the person who thinks there is NO ONE else who has lived through "this"- whatever "this" might be- can see that there is someone else out there who has experienced it and overcame it, that maybe they can rest more easily.
I write because I am so very vanilla and boring that I think that with words I can color myself interesting. I think that maybe I can give someone the courage to continue to fight for themselves.
I write because I have experienced some of the most defining moments of my life:
-The overwhelming feeling of terror when the plump red headed nurse handed me my son and he wouldn't stop crying. I remember sitting there staring into this tan screaming face thinking, "I messed up ." I worried that I had already failed at parenting and I had only had a child for a few hours. I starting panicking thinking that I was going to be the one responsible for keeping this tiny human alive and I couldn't even shower unsupervised or give him comfort.
-the first day of teaching where I felt myself shake in my sandals as I stood before a group of twenty something 8th graders thinking that there is no way I know what I'm doing . I felt so very small and inadequate. What if I do a terrible job? What if they hate me? What if I'm not really the best person to do this? I can still remember the clothes I had on, the weight of the necklace I made the night before feeling like a prize for the most foolish hanging from my neck. Student teaching felt like wading into the shallow end of a small pool. I felt safe. Standing in the front of my own classroom with no back up, no mentor teacher to help me felt like falling out of a helicopter into a lake where I wasn't sure where the bottom was. Three hours later, I was addicted to the feeling of teenagers looking to me for guidance and inspiration. I felt like an actor on the stage. I had to grab their attention. I needed to perform the introduction of the lesson like an opening monologue. Three weeks later and I was addicted to the feelings of pride and inspiration I got from seeing them grow and learn and become better. Eleven years later and it still feels like a stage when I stand at the front of my classroom.
- The soul crushing feeling of the perfect kiss that made me know I had never been "IN" love before. I felt like could taste the next 60 years of my life in that dark room kissing the boy I had been talking to, but hadn't yet kissed. I stopped worrying about stupid things. I wave of warm and happy poured over me. I didn't need a label or where this relationship was or wasn't going. I found my best friend. I felt like for the first time in ever, I felt like I was coming home just being in his arms. I'd drive across town, across the state, across bad weather for a fleeting moment. I didn't want to just kiss him; I wanted to come home to him. That feeling left me scared and safe.
-The first time I found the lump in my breast and had to go to the cancer center for the ultrasound and MRI. I had to admit there was an issue, something I don't do well. I had to sit topless and random "strangers" would come in and look, feel, and analyze my breast. I felt alone. Thankful for the dimly lit room that helped to hide the fact that in the moments between doctors I would tear up and panic would hit me like a semi truck. I remember the sound of the MRI crunch and bang as it surrounded my half naked body and thinking that this is what laying in the center of a construction zone would feel like. I daydreamed and thought of song lyrics and how they applied to different people in my life. I pondered if I was strong enough to handle the worst case scenario. Fear and worry swirled around me. Dreams of love and a future family steadied my heart.
- Facing my abusive ex husband in our VPO hearing and trying to find the words without crying to explain why I needed the court to protect me. Hearing my voice crack and feeling my throat get tight and being afraid I'd choke on the words as I spoke. Trying to keep my knees from knocking as I stood completely alone and felt his hatred and glare try to burn holes in me. Not allowing myself to look to my left where he stood because I was scared I'd loose any composure that I was faking.
-Laying in the hospital bed on the children's floor of Baptist holding my son as we discussed his emergency surgery that would begin in the morning. I am conscious to smile and stroke his tiny face and use kid appropriate words as I explain what is going to happen. The hallways are silent except for the occasional nurse walking down the hall outside our door. The room is cool and brightly painted. It smells like a combo of orange sherbet and cleanliness. I think of how ironic it is going back and forth to the kitchen to get more sherbet. The last time I saw anyone eat this much sherbet was me when I was in the hospital for the 5 day stay when he was born. I've let him eat his body weight in ice cream in the last 4 hours and I feel no remorse. I want him to feel peace. I need him to get some sleep. I am hoping I can convey confidence with my words because my heart is raging to break out of the cage of my ribs and fight anyone who tries to touch my son.
These are just title pages of a few of the chapters of my life. I'd like to think that in some tiny futile moment of writing I am more than just words on the page. It allows me to heal some of the broken. Dragging the bad memories out to be lynched for their crimes against my sleep. Removing the unrest by pushing it onto paper. I am forced to face the reality of my life. I think Paul Laurence Dunbar said it best,
"We wear the mask that grins and lies,
It hides our cheeks and shades our eyes,—
This debt we pay to human guile;
With torn and bleeding hearts we smile
And mouth with myriad subtleties,"
When I write, I have to give up my mask. I am vulnerable where I can't be hurt. I allow myself to peel back the layers. I confess my weaknesses . I admit fear and failure. I write because maybe I can face all the pieces of myself, maybe I can accept them. Maybe me sharing my experiences will help someone else who feels alone. I write because I hope someone else won't feel lost and broken.
I write because writing does more than allow me to process; it changes me.
I write because I use words to process things. So many times I have been trying to process life and find myself overwhelmed. I need words. I like the feel of making the written word. I like reading back over it. Letting my eyes wash over the words and decide if I need to move certain phrases down for more impact or just cut them out entirely. There is something about knowing my brain was the inventor of thoughts that I can hold and reminisce about- that brings me joy. I make decisions better in writing. Pro's and con's inscribed on paper or glowing hollow in the computer light as I hear the clickity clack of the words transform from ghosts of ideas in my skull to skeletons of dreams that continue to evolve and grow into poetry, lyrics, blogs, or stories. It does more than help me. It's cathartic and purges "the crazy" so that what seemed giant and scary and bigger than life in my thoughts now is something I can hold and turn over in my hands.
I write because I am nothing special. I have lived a life with some rather "unusual " plot twists, but so has every one else. Every one has close call stories. Stories of heartbreak, defeat, sadness, near death, and anguish aren't really that odd but rather the usual. I'd like to shamefully think that my words matter. I figure maybe if I can explain some of my experience in writing someone else won't feel as alone. That maybe the person who thinks there is NO ONE else who has lived through "this"- whatever "this" might be- can see that there is someone else out there who has experienced it and overcame it, that maybe they can rest more easily.
I write because I am so very vanilla and boring that I think that with words I can color myself interesting. I think that maybe I can give someone the courage to continue to fight for themselves.
I write because I have experienced some of the most defining moments of my life:
-The overwhelming feeling of terror when the plump red headed nurse handed me my son and he wouldn't stop crying. I remember sitting there staring into this tan screaming face thinking, "I messed up ." I worried that I had already failed at parenting and I had only had a child for a few hours. I starting panicking thinking that I was going to be the one responsible for keeping this tiny human alive and I couldn't even shower unsupervised or give him comfort.
-the first day of teaching where I felt myself shake in my sandals as I stood before a group of twenty something 8th graders thinking that there is no way I know what I'm doing . I felt so very small and inadequate. What if I do a terrible job? What if they hate me? What if I'm not really the best person to do this? I can still remember the clothes I had on, the weight of the necklace I made the night before feeling like a prize for the most foolish hanging from my neck. Student teaching felt like wading into the shallow end of a small pool. I felt safe. Standing in the front of my own classroom with no back up, no mentor teacher to help me felt like falling out of a helicopter into a lake where I wasn't sure where the bottom was. Three hours later, I was addicted to the feeling of teenagers looking to me for guidance and inspiration. I felt like an actor on the stage. I had to grab their attention. I needed to perform the introduction of the lesson like an opening monologue. Three weeks later and I was addicted to the feelings of pride and inspiration I got from seeing them grow and learn and become better. Eleven years later and it still feels like a stage when I stand at the front of my classroom.
- The soul crushing feeling of the perfect kiss that made me know I had never been "IN" love before. I felt like could taste the next 60 years of my life in that dark room kissing the boy I had been talking to, but hadn't yet kissed. I stopped worrying about stupid things. I wave of warm and happy poured over me. I didn't need a label or where this relationship was or wasn't going. I found my best friend. I felt like for the first time in ever, I felt like I was coming home just being in his arms. I'd drive across town, across the state, across bad weather for a fleeting moment. I didn't want to just kiss him; I wanted to come home to him. That feeling left me scared and safe.
-The first time I found the lump in my breast and had to go to the cancer center for the ultrasound and MRI. I had to admit there was an issue, something I don't do well. I had to sit topless and random "strangers" would come in and look, feel, and analyze my breast. I felt alone. Thankful for the dimly lit room that helped to hide the fact that in the moments between doctors I would tear up and panic would hit me like a semi truck. I remember the sound of the MRI crunch and bang as it surrounded my half naked body and thinking that this is what laying in the center of a construction zone would feel like. I daydreamed and thought of song lyrics and how they applied to different people in my life. I pondered if I was strong enough to handle the worst case scenario. Fear and worry swirled around me. Dreams of love and a future family steadied my heart.
- Facing my abusive ex husband in our VPO hearing and trying to find the words without crying to explain why I needed the court to protect me. Hearing my voice crack and feeling my throat get tight and being afraid I'd choke on the words as I spoke. Trying to keep my knees from knocking as I stood completely alone and felt his hatred and glare try to burn holes in me. Not allowing myself to look to my left where he stood because I was scared I'd loose any composure that I was faking.
-Laying in the hospital bed on the children's floor of Baptist holding my son as we discussed his emergency surgery that would begin in the morning. I am conscious to smile and stroke his tiny face and use kid appropriate words as I explain what is going to happen. The hallways are silent except for the occasional nurse walking down the hall outside our door. The room is cool and brightly painted. It smells like a combo of orange sherbet and cleanliness. I think of how ironic it is going back and forth to the kitchen to get more sherbet. The last time I saw anyone eat this much sherbet was me when I was in the hospital for the 5 day stay when he was born. I've let him eat his body weight in ice cream in the last 4 hours and I feel no remorse. I want him to feel peace. I need him to get some sleep. I am hoping I can convey confidence with my words because my heart is raging to break out of the cage of my ribs and fight anyone who tries to touch my son.
These are just title pages of a few of the chapters of my life. I'd like to think that in some tiny futile moment of writing I am more than just words on the page. It allows me to heal some of the broken. Dragging the bad memories out to be lynched for their crimes against my sleep. Removing the unrest by pushing it onto paper. I am forced to face the reality of my life. I think Paul Laurence Dunbar said it best,
"We wear the mask that grins and lies,
It hides our cheeks and shades our eyes,—
This debt we pay to human guile;
With torn and bleeding hearts we smile
And mouth with myriad subtleties,"
When I write, I have to give up my mask. I am vulnerable where I can't be hurt. I allow myself to peel back the layers. I confess my weaknesses . I admit fear and failure. I write because maybe I can face all the pieces of myself, maybe I can accept them. Maybe me sharing my experiences will help someone else who feels alone. I write because I hope someone else won't feel lost and broken.
I write because writing does more than allow me to process; it changes me.
Sunday, November 6, 2016
I'm no princess. Screw the fairy tale.
I have never been the princess type. I never was obsessed with pink. I like green; always have. I used to choose the green gumball in 1st grade when we lined up silently while all the other girls choose pretty pastels like pink and yellow. I never was drawn to pastel colors.
I never dreamed of being a ballerina. I did twirl around in my frilly church slip; however, it wasn't a princess that I was pretending to be. I always felt like I was flying. I was mesmerized by the way the ruffles lifted and fell around me. I remember just wanting to stay in it and being able to spin around and around. Honestly, I still like dresses that swirl around me. Maybe I still like to feel like I'm flying. Maybe I just love the idea of feeling special and pretty. Maybe there is something just a little bit magical about it that I can't put my finger on no matter how old I get. Not a single Halloween did I wear a pretty dress or crown. I've been a mouse, a pumpkin, Tinkerbelle, Elmo, and a couple 3 times I went as Dorothy from the Wizard of Oz. What's not to love about saving yourself and defeating evil while wearing perfectly sparkly ruby slippers?
My dad never called me princess. I never introduced myself as, "I'M A PRINCESS!" or used it as rebuttal in an argument. I never dreamed of some knight in shining nothing riding up and saving me. The closest I ever came to that dream had more to do with Richard Gere saving Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman. Maybe I liked the idea of being saved by someone who wanted to love me in spite of my sass and attitude like her?
I only wanted to wear high heels because I thought the sound they made, was cool. In 6th grade every student got to choose a famous person to do a research paper over, and for extra credit dress up as the person. Many of the girls choose Princess Diana, Queen Elizabeth, famous actresses.... I choose Albert Einstein. I wore this amazing wild white haired wig that looked a lot like my Granny McNabb's own hair and a suit. My genius mother found double sided sticky tape and we cut off a snippet of the wig for my moustache. I remember walking into Mrs. Henthorn's English class and getting an immediate reaction from the class. I never wanted to be the princess, but I have always had a flair for making a scene. I think that might be my problem. I like the entrance. I like the scene . I have a flair for the dramatic.
So there is my problem with the idea of fairy tales and dreams of the knight in shining whatever- I never needed him. I didn't need pampered. Maybe I was the evil witch in the wildest part of the woods with a picket fence around my shack. I didn't need the pastel and frills. I didn't need trumpets or big jewels. I wanted the heart of it all. I wanted the simple. I wanted the way the love of my life looked at me across the room to resemble a Hepburn movie where the music swelled. I wanted the kisses in the rain. I needed to know that someone was willing to risk looking foolish for me. I needed to know I was the choice.
The problem with all that- is that it's a far more dangerous dream than the princess fairy tale. Anyone can give you flowers and whisper sweet nothings when things are pastel covered and smell like perfume. It takes real courage to allow your walls down, to empty the moat of all the alligators of fear and distrust and allow yourself to be truly vulnerable.
Maybe that's the problem with me, I never was the princess; I was more of the pea. I didn't need a castle or flowers woven in my hair. I needed to feel safe. I didn't need to be adored. I needed to be loved. Being feared is easy when you're the witch. Being adored is easy when you're a princess.
Being the pea that causes people to be uncomfortable and demands a scene - that is much harder to love.
Truth is, I never was the princess.
I never dreamed of being a ballerina. I did twirl around in my frilly church slip; however, it wasn't a princess that I was pretending to be. I always felt like I was flying. I was mesmerized by the way the ruffles lifted and fell around me. I remember just wanting to stay in it and being able to spin around and around. Honestly, I still like dresses that swirl around me. Maybe I still like to feel like I'm flying. Maybe I just love the idea of feeling special and pretty. Maybe there is something just a little bit magical about it that I can't put my finger on no matter how old I get. Not a single Halloween did I wear a pretty dress or crown. I've been a mouse, a pumpkin, Tinkerbelle, Elmo, and a couple 3 times I went as Dorothy from the Wizard of Oz. What's not to love about saving yourself and defeating evil while wearing perfectly sparkly ruby slippers?
My dad never called me princess. I never introduced myself as, "I'M A PRINCESS!" or used it as rebuttal in an argument. I never dreamed of some knight in shining nothing riding up and saving me. The closest I ever came to that dream had more to do with Richard Gere saving Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman. Maybe I liked the idea of being saved by someone who wanted to love me in spite of my sass and attitude like her?
I only wanted to wear high heels because I thought the sound they made, was cool. In 6th grade every student got to choose a famous person to do a research paper over, and for extra credit dress up as the person. Many of the girls choose Princess Diana, Queen Elizabeth, famous actresses.... I choose Albert Einstein. I wore this amazing wild white haired wig that looked a lot like my Granny McNabb's own hair and a suit. My genius mother found double sided sticky tape and we cut off a snippet of the wig for my moustache. I remember walking into Mrs. Henthorn's English class and getting an immediate reaction from the class. I never wanted to be the princess, but I have always had a flair for making a scene. I think that might be my problem. I like the entrance. I like the scene . I have a flair for the dramatic.
So there is my problem with the idea of fairy tales and dreams of the knight in shining whatever- I never needed him. I didn't need pampered. Maybe I was the evil witch in the wildest part of the woods with a picket fence around my shack. I didn't need the pastel and frills. I didn't need trumpets or big jewels. I wanted the heart of it all. I wanted the simple. I wanted the way the love of my life looked at me across the room to resemble a Hepburn movie where the music swelled. I wanted the kisses in the rain. I needed to know that someone was willing to risk looking foolish for me. I needed to know I was the choice.
The problem with all that- is that it's a far more dangerous dream than the princess fairy tale. Anyone can give you flowers and whisper sweet nothings when things are pastel covered and smell like perfume. It takes real courage to allow your walls down, to empty the moat of all the alligators of fear and distrust and allow yourself to be truly vulnerable.
Maybe that's the problem with me, I never was the princess; I was more of the pea. I didn't need a castle or flowers woven in my hair. I needed to feel safe. I didn't need to be adored. I needed to be loved. Being feared is easy when you're the witch. Being adored is easy when you're a princess.
Being the pea that causes people to be uncomfortable and demands a scene - that is much harder to love.
Truth is, I never was the princess.
Saturday, November 5, 2016
I hate you! I want to push you down the stairs...
I think most people think that depression is a feeling of just sad.
But for me.. THAT was NOT the main feeling.
Depression for me was anger, anxiousness, and fear. I struggled with the overall desire to yell and scream and make other people feel badly. I think that somehow in my unbalanced brain I thought that if I hurt people with my words then they would feel as badly as me and somehow I would feel better.
There were some people that their very existence and breathing annoyed me.. if they talked or did anything that might remotely be construed as bothersome to my brain I would desire to push them down the stairs. I didn't want to hurt them. I had no desire to kill anyone...
I wanted the satisfaction of the push.
I wanted someone else to feel as badly as I did inside my own skin .
That maybe if I spread the pain to others, maybe in some crazy way, I would be less miserable.
Depression felt like being constantly exhausted, by stuck with toothpicks holding my eyes open. I wanted to turn off my brain. I needed mental and physical rest but there was never a place where I could find rest.
Depression was sneaky really. I thought maybe I was just cranky or hormonal. I didn't want to admit that I could actually be suffering with depression. The idea of even admitting there might be the problem made me panic and anxious. The idea that my brain was sick was hard to take in. I mean, it's MY BRAIN that in itself made it scary.
I think of my brain as the place I store intimate details of my life: the feeling of sheer and absolute panic the moment that Dr. Friese handed me my son for the first time and he cried and I didn't instantly know how to sooth him, the perfect moment driving down the highway listening to music, sun on my face, white t shirt whipping in the wind as it came in the window while some handsome man sang along with the radio and I fell irrevocably in love with him, the time I called my mother to tell her I had found the second lump in my breast and I felt my throat get tight and the fear felt like strangling as I tried to stay calm and not sound scared as I told her, the parade sending out the other units to Desert Storm wearing my uncle's thick socks under my blue polka dot dress to futilely stay warm and feeling lost looking through the uniforms and sea of faces trying to find my dad who was never again gonna be in the sea. The idea of admitting that my brain might be betraying me, that was a level of denial very real and very near Egypt.
One day I finally heard myself yelling at my child. I saw in his eyes the fear and sad. I saw the mommy I was becoming.
I yelled.
I was mean.
I was ugly.
And I was everything I didn't want to be as a mom. At that moment, I knew there was a problem. I knew I needed help. I knew it wasn't going away on it's own. I knew I had to tell someone there was a problem. That's the other problem with depression, once you know it's there, it doesn't get any less scary.
I had to swallow as much of my fear and disappointment in myself and make the call.
I had to face the people who I loved and admit I needed help.
The drowning suffocating feeling of admitting I had a problem nearly kept me from telling anyone.
Anyone who is suffering, let me tell you something....
If you were sick and needed medicine to get better- you would tell you doctor the symptoms and get medicine to get better, Right? Your mental health is no different. Sometimes the chemistry of it gets sick, and you need to tell someone the symptoms and have others help you get better.
You are not a failure.
You are not permanently broken.
You are not defective.
As someone who has experienced depression, PTSD, and anxiety- please get help.
Save your memories and find the real you and not the foggy unhappy you.
You are worth it.
But for me.. THAT was NOT the main feeling.
Depression for me was anger, anxiousness, and fear. I struggled with the overall desire to yell and scream and make other people feel badly. I think that somehow in my unbalanced brain I thought that if I hurt people with my words then they would feel as badly as me and somehow I would feel better.
There were some people that their very existence and breathing annoyed me.. if they talked or did anything that might remotely be construed as bothersome to my brain I would desire to push them down the stairs. I didn't want to hurt them. I had no desire to kill anyone...
I wanted the satisfaction of the push.
I wanted someone else to feel as badly as I did inside my own skin .
That maybe if I spread the pain to others, maybe in some crazy way, I would be less miserable.
Depression felt like being constantly exhausted, by stuck with toothpicks holding my eyes open. I wanted to turn off my brain. I needed mental and physical rest but there was never a place where I could find rest.
Depression was sneaky really. I thought maybe I was just cranky or hormonal. I didn't want to admit that I could actually be suffering with depression. The idea of even admitting there might be the problem made me panic and anxious. The idea that my brain was sick was hard to take in. I mean, it's MY BRAIN that in itself made it scary.
I think of my brain as the place I store intimate details of my life: the feeling of sheer and absolute panic the moment that Dr. Friese handed me my son for the first time and he cried and I didn't instantly know how to sooth him, the perfect moment driving down the highway listening to music, sun on my face, white t shirt whipping in the wind as it came in the window while some handsome man sang along with the radio and I fell irrevocably in love with him, the time I called my mother to tell her I had found the second lump in my breast and I felt my throat get tight and the fear felt like strangling as I tried to stay calm and not sound scared as I told her, the parade sending out the other units to Desert Storm wearing my uncle's thick socks under my blue polka dot dress to futilely stay warm and feeling lost looking through the uniforms and sea of faces trying to find my dad who was never again gonna be in the sea. The idea of admitting that my brain might be betraying me, that was a level of denial very real and very near Egypt.
One day I finally heard myself yelling at my child. I saw in his eyes the fear and sad. I saw the mommy I was becoming.
I yelled.
I was mean.
I was ugly.
And I was everything I didn't want to be as a mom. At that moment, I knew there was a problem. I knew I needed help. I knew it wasn't going away on it's own. I knew I had to tell someone there was a problem. That's the other problem with depression, once you know it's there, it doesn't get any less scary.
I had to swallow as much of my fear and disappointment in myself and make the call.
I had to face the people who I loved and admit I needed help.
The drowning suffocating feeling of admitting I had a problem nearly kept me from telling anyone.
Anyone who is suffering, let me tell you something....
If you were sick and needed medicine to get better- you would tell you doctor the symptoms and get medicine to get better, Right? Your mental health is no different. Sometimes the chemistry of it gets sick, and you need to tell someone the symptoms and have others help you get better.
You are not a failure.
You are not permanently broken.
You are not defective.
As someone who has experienced depression, PTSD, and anxiety- please get help.
Save your memories and find the real you and not the foggy unhappy you.
You are worth it.
Thursday, October 27, 2016
What your underwear says about your love life ...
I went home last weekend and sat one morning eating my Aunt Fern's homemade pancakes while she folded laundry . It seemed like a typical Saturday. She had already done the dishes, swept , cooked, and was grumbling at underwear as she folded them .
" Act right . You know how you are supposed to lay. Just get it together and lay down and act right."
At that moment, I noticed some things.
A. Everyone in my family is a bit off their rocker .(in ways that I am comfortable with and find oddly reassuring )
B. I had never ever seen anyone fold underwear like that in my life . It was the most perfect way I have ever seen in my whole life . They were folded up from the crotch to the band and them quaded in a delicate dance of fingers and fabric . They stacked absolutely perfect . They were amazingly flat and looked mathematically square . They might even have resembled a game of Jenga had she rotated the direction with each row .
C. I thought about how I had never seen anyone argue with underwear.
D I had no idea that was even a way to fold undies . I wondered how many other things I probably have been doing wrong my whole life . It made me feel somehow small and immature and sorta foolish but I have no idea why . Maybe I realized how even more amazing she is ?
E. the amount of time and effort she put into folding was nearly at the level of art. Any possible line and wrinkle was removed and forced into perfect lines . Resistance was futile .
G I had no idea that someone could put love into folding underwear . I assure you each fold was meticulously executed . She made sure that no ripple or wave would be left in the fabric . It was a labor of love . I was mesmerized by my aunt folding laundry .
I am not that kind of laundress . I do not fold my undies . Honestly- once my booty is in them- all the wrinkles are removed by other means . Watching her artfully craft, pinch, and force the rebel wrinkles into the mold of perfection that all the rest of the underwear army had already been assembled had my utmost attention . What kind of love self sacrifices to that degree ?
I don't think I have ever spent so much time picking out underwear to purchase as was calmly and lovingly put into folding the stack . Had I never loved like that ? Would I ever put that much effort into someone for something so simple ? Why had no one taught me how to adult with laundry like this ? The questions and ponderings were swimming in my head .
Do I think that everyone needs to fold laundry of their loved one as gracefully and perfectly to show their love and devotion to their significantt other ? No . But do I think that giving up your time and energy to labor out of love for someone you care very deeply for is mandatory ? Yes, I do .
I don't think I have seen such a more simple picture of love in a long time . Does my uncle notice that she flattened each and every ripple ? I doubt that . I don't even know if the perfect flattening makes single difference on whether said undies are more or less comfy .
Does it remove that fact that I saw someone put their energy into something so small ? No .
How you treat the small things in a relationship - THAT does show your love for others .
Are you willing to give up something for someone else - even if they never notice ?
I think more people should . Gestures of love and devotion are simple to attain and often overlooked ....but as I say in the kitchen eating pancakes and watching my aunt fold underwear- I was absolutely sure that my aunt and uncle are in love .
What acts of love and sacrifice do you do for others ?
The simple things , even folding underwear, for others can be a reminder to the other person that you love them .
So I'm asking, what does your folding technique say about your life?
How are you expressing and showing your love for others?
Are you just going through the motions? Are you letting the people in your life put forth all the effort? Are you pushing, pulling, and lovingly pulling the teeny tiny wrinkles out?
After all, the little things aren't little.
" Act right . You know how you are supposed to lay. Just get it together and lay down and act right."
At that moment, I noticed some things.
A. Everyone in my family is a bit off their rocker .(in ways that I am comfortable with and find oddly reassuring )
B. I had never ever seen anyone fold underwear like that in my life . It was the most perfect way I have ever seen in my whole life . They were folded up from the crotch to the band and them quaded in a delicate dance of fingers and fabric . They stacked absolutely perfect . They were amazingly flat and looked mathematically square . They might even have resembled a game of Jenga had she rotated the direction with each row .
C. I thought about how I had never seen anyone argue with underwear.
D I had no idea that was even a way to fold undies . I wondered how many other things I probably have been doing wrong my whole life . It made me feel somehow small and immature and sorta foolish but I have no idea why . Maybe I realized how even more amazing she is ?
E. the amount of time and effort she put into folding was nearly at the level of art. Any possible line and wrinkle was removed and forced into perfect lines . Resistance was futile .
G I had no idea that someone could put love into folding underwear . I assure you each fold was meticulously executed . She made sure that no ripple or wave would be left in the fabric . It was a labor of love . I was mesmerized by my aunt folding laundry .
I am not that kind of laundress . I do not fold my undies . Honestly- once my booty is in them- all the wrinkles are removed by other means . Watching her artfully craft, pinch, and force the rebel wrinkles into the mold of perfection that all the rest of the underwear army had already been assembled had my utmost attention . What kind of love self sacrifices to that degree ?
I don't think I have ever spent so much time picking out underwear to purchase as was calmly and lovingly put into folding the stack . Had I never loved like that ? Would I ever put that much effort into someone for something so simple ? Why had no one taught me how to adult with laundry like this ? The questions and ponderings were swimming in my head .
Do I think that everyone needs to fold laundry of their loved one as gracefully and perfectly to show their love and devotion to their significantt other ? No . But do I think that giving up your time and energy to labor out of love for someone you care very deeply for is mandatory ? Yes, I do .
I don't think I have seen such a more simple picture of love in a long time . Does my uncle notice that she flattened each and every ripple ? I doubt that . I don't even know if the perfect flattening makes single difference on whether said undies are more or less comfy .
Does it remove that fact that I saw someone put their energy into something so small ? No .
How you treat the small things in a relationship - THAT does show your love for others .
Are you willing to give up something for someone else - even if they never notice ?
I think more people should . Gestures of love and devotion are simple to attain and often overlooked ....but as I say in the kitchen eating pancakes and watching my aunt fold underwear- I was absolutely sure that my aunt and uncle are in love .
What acts of love and sacrifice do you do for others ?
The simple things , even folding underwear, for others can be a reminder to the other person that you love them .
So I'm asking, what does your folding technique say about your life?
How are you expressing and showing your love for others?
Are you just going through the motions? Are you letting the people in your life put forth all the effort? Are you pushing, pulling, and lovingly pulling the teeny tiny wrinkles out?
After all, the little things aren't little.
Monday, October 24, 2016
Dear first responders...
Dear first responders-
Those of you who see a need in others and your first response is to fill the gap regardless of personal gain or cost,
Those of you who are sleep deprived and eat less calories than you should due to your overwhelming need to assist those in some form of crisis,
Those of you who are the physical representation of law and the last lines of defense of others,
Those that race in the dead of winter along icy streets to stop destruction or violence,
Those who hold broken bodies,
the dispatchers who never get the cries for help out of their nightmares,
the face that remains a blank slate when others mock, demean, and insult your sacrifice,
Those of you who answer the phone at 2am to listen professionally or personally,
the doors that you pass through not ever sure of what is on the other side,
the hugs you give to the grieving, the broken, and the distraught regardless of smell, age, or income,
relationships strained due to pagers and on call,
the empty spot you leave in the bed next to loved ones,
the missed birthdays,
the holiday celebrations had on random days to try to preserve some sense of normalcy,
the conversations you refuse to share with your spouse because you try to limit their fear for you,
the search lights and strained eyes,
the smoke and flames you face,
the uniform that labels you but doesn't always keep out the elements,
the CPR you perform long past when it is helpful to give family members some sliver of peace,
those who eat in uniform more often than at the dinner table,
those who sit with their backs to the wall and watch doors and scan the room for threats,
those who change directions in the mall to avoid your family becoming a target to former run-ins,
those who polish and shine and press uniforms to honor your fallen brothers and sisters,
the ones who escort families members unable to walk with the own power due to the weight of loss,
the kind eyes an abused woman sees who she is bruised and battered,
the rescheduled date nights,
the vest on the hook that means you are home,
the boots by the door covered in unmentionables,
those of you hated and loved for what comes naturally to you,
the uniforms that you dry clean to remove things you hold in and haunts your already hectic sleep patterns,
those who walk through the valley of the shadow of death,
those who do not walk to emergencies but run,
the cold meals eaten later,
the colder meals you give up on and just throw away,
the uniform that parts crowds who only see a uniform not a person,
the sirens that are normal,
the flashing lights your eyes are used to looking past,
the family who just don't understand why you choose this profession,
the emotional recoil from the real world,
the blue lines and the red,
Thank you.
Your good deeds do not go unnoticed. Your sacrifice is good and saves more than the people who encounter, you give family tree's more time. You enable people to live and love and laugh another day.
In case no one tells you today- well done.
Those of you who see a need in others and your first response is to fill the gap regardless of personal gain or cost,
Those of you who are sleep deprived and eat less calories than you should due to your overwhelming need to assist those in some form of crisis,
Those of you who are the physical representation of law and the last lines of defense of others,
Those that race in the dead of winter along icy streets to stop destruction or violence,
Those who hold broken bodies,
the dispatchers who never get the cries for help out of their nightmares,
the face that remains a blank slate when others mock, demean, and insult your sacrifice,
Those of you who answer the phone at 2am to listen professionally or personally,
the doors that you pass through not ever sure of what is on the other side,
the hugs you give to the grieving, the broken, and the distraught regardless of smell, age, or income,
relationships strained due to pagers and on call,
the empty spot you leave in the bed next to loved ones,
the missed birthdays,
the holiday celebrations had on random days to try to preserve some sense of normalcy,
the conversations you refuse to share with your spouse because you try to limit their fear for you,
the search lights and strained eyes,
the smoke and flames you face,
the uniform that labels you but doesn't always keep out the elements,
the CPR you perform long past when it is helpful to give family members some sliver of peace,
those who eat in uniform more often than at the dinner table,
those who sit with their backs to the wall and watch doors and scan the room for threats,
those who change directions in the mall to avoid your family becoming a target to former run-ins,
those who polish and shine and press uniforms to honor your fallen brothers and sisters,
the ones who escort families members unable to walk with the own power due to the weight of loss,
the kind eyes an abused woman sees who she is bruised and battered,
the rescheduled date nights,
the vest on the hook that means you are home,
the boots by the door covered in unmentionables,
those of you hated and loved for what comes naturally to you,
the uniforms that you dry clean to remove things you hold in and haunts your already hectic sleep patterns,
those who walk through the valley of the shadow of death,
those who do not walk to emergencies but run,
the cold meals eaten later,
the colder meals you give up on and just throw away,
the uniform that parts crowds who only see a uniform not a person,
the sirens that are normal,
the flashing lights your eyes are used to looking past,
the family who just don't understand why you choose this profession,
the emotional recoil from the real world,
the blue lines and the red,
Thank you.
Your good deeds do not go unnoticed. Your sacrifice is good and saves more than the people who encounter, you give family tree's more time. You enable people to live and love and laugh another day.
In case no one tells you today- well done.
Sunday, October 23, 2016
Trial by fire .
How do you know what you are made of ? One way that we measure the strength of buildings and metals is trial by fire . We see the boiling point of the metal. We measure the outcome post fire for structural integrity. We analyze if the building remains standing once the blaze has been let a smoldering mess. We look to see if the structure is still solid or if it will crumple under pressure AFTER the intial shock of the fire and destruction has already occurred .
Maybe the same is true of people. Maybe the old tale about the parent putting tea, eggs, and a carrot in boiling water to educate their child about life is something that we should truly take to heart . The egg gets hard after the heat has already been removed . The same is true of some people . The carrot completely crumples and turns to mush . It is the same color and retains most of the original vitamins but it is soft and easily destroyed when any pressure after the original heat has been removed . The tea is effected by the fire as well . It does not become hard like the egg . It is not weaker like the carrots . Instead the tea is brewed and changes . It becomes its best destiny . Some people are like tea . After being exposed to heat - they realize they have more potential and grow into their true destiny . They literally are tried by fire and grow into more then previously thought of them.
I have been all three versions of the food depending on the trials I have encountered . I'd love to tell you that some of my trials were totally random- but that is that the case. Some of the trials and pressure I have experienced were my own poor decisions . I have lost family, friends, a home, loved ones, etc due to my lack of good decisions. I have failed. I have been selfish and cruel and down right mean. My boiling points and structural integrity has not always revealed a core of strength. Times that I thought I had things under control only to find myself after the fire was left in ash- I am reminded of the documentary over the twin towers . The metal used for the "cage" - the internal metal that was to hold everything together in case of fire or destruction was not build according to the original plans . That error was very much like some of my errors .... they revealed my failings and I crumpled . I lost people dear to me . I lost pieces of me . I lost my sense of safety . I mushed like the carrot .
Another issue I've had when tried by flames and fears is ignoring the problems. I foolishly tried to pretend I was "fine ." That's like seeing a fire in your cabinet and closing the door and hoping for the best . Ignoring the trials and fire does not make the fire cease to exist - it only allows it to grow and devour more. A fire left untamed is allowed to feed and thrive on the kindling of ignorance. I couldn't hide from my problems or tribulations any more than closing the cabinet would stop the fire . It kept burning .
It kept eating away at things that were important .
I kept loosing things and people I love .
A few days ago I saw this verse :" When you walk through the fire, you will not be burned; the flames will not harm you . " Isiah 43:2
Ironically it's smoldered in the cabinet I tried to close ... I hadn't put out some of the things that were causing me harm . I hadn't stopped the fires . Today I reread the verse and something new stuck out.
"Walk through the fire ..." notice it doesn't say SIT and remain in the problem . It doesn't say create more problems due to anger and bitterness . It doesn't say ignore the fact that you are experiencing fire . Rather it points out something so obvious.
Don't stay in the fire . You are passing through the flames .
"If you're going through hell - keep on going ." Don't stay the way that you are . Don't keep making the same stupid choices that you made to put you in that predicament. Keep building and get away from the fire .
Keep going .
Stop making the same bad choices and hoping for a new outcome because the cabinet is closed.
Keep fighting.
Stop providing kindling.
"...The flames will not harm you."
But they will change you .
Being tested by fire isn't the end - it's a shift.
Maybe the same is true of people. Maybe the old tale about the parent putting tea, eggs, and a carrot in boiling water to educate their child about life is something that we should truly take to heart . The egg gets hard after the heat has already been removed . The same is true of some people . The carrot completely crumples and turns to mush . It is the same color and retains most of the original vitamins but it is soft and easily destroyed when any pressure after the original heat has been removed . The tea is effected by the fire as well . It does not become hard like the egg . It is not weaker like the carrots . Instead the tea is brewed and changes . It becomes its best destiny . Some people are like tea . After being exposed to heat - they realize they have more potential and grow into their true destiny . They literally are tried by fire and grow into more then previously thought of them.
I have been all three versions of the food depending on the trials I have encountered . I'd love to tell you that some of my trials were totally random- but that is that the case. Some of the trials and pressure I have experienced were my own poor decisions . I have lost family, friends, a home, loved ones, etc due to my lack of good decisions. I have failed. I have been selfish and cruel and down right mean. My boiling points and structural integrity has not always revealed a core of strength. Times that I thought I had things under control only to find myself after the fire was left in ash- I am reminded of the documentary over the twin towers . The metal used for the "cage" - the internal metal that was to hold everything together in case of fire or destruction was not build according to the original plans . That error was very much like some of my errors .... they revealed my failings and I crumpled . I lost people dear to me . I lost pieces of me . I lost my sense of safety . I mushed like the carrot .
Another issue I've had when tried by flames and fears is ignoring the problems. I foolishly tried to pretend I was "fine ." That's like seeing a fire in your cabinet and closing the door and hoping for the best . Ignoring the trials and fire does not make the fire cease to exist - it only allows it to grow and devour more. A fire left untamed is allowed to feed and thrive on the kindling of ignorance. I couldn't hide from my problems or tribulations any more than closing the cabinet would stop the fire . It kept burning .
It kept eating away at things that were important .
I kept loosing things and people I love .
A few days ago I saw this verse :" When you walk through the fire, you will not be burned; the flames will not harm you . " Isiah 43:2
Ironically it's smoldered in the cabinet I tried to close ... I hadn't put out some of the things that were causing me harm . I hadn't stopped the fires . Today I reread the verse and something new stuck out.
"Walk through the fire ..." notice it doesn't say SIT and remain in the problem . It doesn't say create more problems due to anger and bitterness . It doesn't say ignore the fact that you are experiencing fire . Rather it points out something so obvious.
Don't stay in the fire . You are passing through the flames .
"If you're going through hell - keep on going ." Don't stay the way that you are . Don't keep making the same stupid choices that you made to put you in that predicament. Keep building and get away from the fire .
Keep going .
Stop making the same bad choices and hoping for a new outcome because the cabinet is closed.
Keep fighting.
Stop providing kindling.
"...The flames will not harm you."
But they will change you .
Being tested by fire isn't the end - it's a shift.
Monday, October 3, 2016
Everyone is a used car salesmen when it comes to ourselves.
I am full of bad choices and mistakes in my life; however, it doesn't make me any less valuable.
It took me years to figure that out. And even typing it - is hard . We judge others entirely differently than we judge ourselves . I see myself through my passion and my intentions and also through all the ways I've failed . It's a teeter totter of insanity where the balance is never quite level . I want to be more than my failures . I want to find a way remove them. I don't want to lose the lessons learned or the growth I gained from the experience - but rather peel away some of the scars .
Everyone is a used cars saleman when it comes to themselves. We have all been hurt. We are all selling broken pieces of a person. What is even more interesting are the people who hide themselves, or worse the people they are in a relationship with. Everyone has chapters in their life they don't like and do not like to read out loud. We are human.
Life is too short for crappy relationships with people who do not value you.
Life is too short to be with people who are not proud to have you and love you how you need. Love is not earned . It must be freely and wholeheartedly given . Life is too dang short to tolerate anything less than love . I do not mean the easy stuff of love : the seeing the good in your significant other, the flowers and fancy. The real aspects of love where it gets hard . The phone calls and texts that occur between midnight and 4 am ... The confessions of mistakes you can't undo and have no idea how you can look at yourself in the mirror . The questions where there are no simple answers . The people who hold you up literally and figuratively whether it's due to too much alcohol, loss, or things you'll never want to speak of again .
Everyone tries hard to present themselves to the world in a light that shows off the good they have left . We see ourselves from the inside . We see those scars . We see the broken and battered. We know how badly it hurts to smile and be dutiful in our jobs, family role, and the motions of living. We follow the rules given to us by people who don't see inside our heads. These outsiders who tell us the "appropriate" ways to handle things . We shy away from vulnerability for fear of being seen as weak. The major issue with this - love and joy can only be attained through being vulnerability.
Used car salesmen are selling a thing- a piece of machinery that can be insured and replaced if broken. Hearts are not machinery . They are not able to be replaced . If we break a heart it's more like a broken bone - scars form to try and cover the weakness but that spot will always be weak. It will always have a tenderness that can not be wholy removed . The scars remain .
I read some place that to truly be vulnerable a person must present all the parts of themselves - confess their most weak and tender spots and then metaphorically hand the other person a knife knowing the other person has the map to your most tender and vulnerable aspects of you .
To try and find love and openness - you have to stop selling a used car.
You are not replaceable . You are not a machine .
Draw the map to your most vulnerable and tender .
Admit what you need .
And hand the knife to someone you trust .
Close your eyes ...
And be vulnerable .
It took me years to figure that out. And even typing it - is hard . We judge others entirely differently than we judge ourselves . I see myself through my passion and my intentions and also through all the ways I've failed . It's a teeter totter of insanity where the balance is never quite level . I want to be more than my failures . I want to find a way remove them. I don't want to lose the lessons learned or the growth I gained from the experience - but rather peel away some of the scars .
Everyone is a used cars saleman when it comes to themselves. We have all been hurt. We are all selling broken pieces of a person. What is even more interesting are the people who hide themselves, or worse the people they are in a relationship with. Everyone has chapters in their life they don't like and do not like to read out loud. We are human.
Life is too short for crappy relationships with people who do not value you.
Life is too short to be with people who are not proud to have you and love you how you need. Love is not earned . It must be freely and wholeheartedly given . Life is too dang short to tolerate anything less than love . I do not mean the easy stuff of love : the seeing the good in your significant other, the flowers and fancy. The real aspects of love where it gets hard . The phone calls and texts that occur between midnight and 4 am ... The confessions of mistakes you can't undo and have no idea how you can look at yourself in the mirror . The questions where there are no simple answers . The people who hold you up literally and figuratively whether it's due to too much alcohol, loss, or things you'll never want to speak of again .
Everyone tries hard to present themselves to the world in a light that shows off the good they have left . We see ourselves from the inside . We see those scars . We see the broken and battered. We know how badly it hurts to smile and be dutiful in our jobs, family role, and the motions of living. We follow the rules given to us by people who don't see inside our heads. These outsiders who tell us the "appropriate" ways to handle things . We shy away from vulnerability for fear of being seen as weak. The major issue with this - love and joy can only be attained through being vulnerability.
Used car salesmen are selling a thing- a piece of machinery that can be insured and replaced if broken. Hearts are not machinery . They are not able to be replaced . If we break a heart it's more like a broken bone - scars form to try and cover the weakness but that spot will always be weak. It will always have a tenderness that can not be wholy removed . The scars remain .
I read some place that to truly be vulnerable a person must present all the parts of themselves - confess their most weak and tender spots and then metaphorically hand the other person a knife knowing the other person has the map to your most tender and vulnerable aspects of you .
To try and find love and openness - you have to stop selling a used car.
You are not replaceable . You are not a machine .
Draw the map to your most vulnerable and tender .
Admit what you need .
And hand the knife to someone you trust .
Close your eyes ...
And be vulnerable .
Monday, April 18, 2016
Oh MY GAWD! Reasons why relationships with our mothers are complicated
There older I get the more I think my relationship with my mother is a lot like God. I respect and am in awe of both. I fear disappointing them both. I want to do things that make them proud of my literal creation. Maybe it's a simplistic concept .
I don't think I know a single person who has a simple relationship with their mom. The one person who cheers me on no matter how ridiculously bad I fail - is my mother. I know that there are times where things are completely wrong and broken in my life, and I feel the dual idea to call her and to avoid her. I long to call and vent and get advice. I also want to avoid because I'm feel like I don't want to fail her . I think the same dual thoughts exist about God for me. I want to run to and get help and also fear admitting my failures. I truly believe that both would never stop loving me. That statement in itself is rather hard to admit. I am not easily loved. I am complicated and moody. I over analyze some days while I work so very hard to create a balance of perfection only to push too hard in one area and fall on my face.
The first lump I found in my breast I was an emotional basket case. I told members of my inner sanctum "tribe." I made appointments with the doctors. I went to the dr appts, the mammograms, the ultrasounds, and the MRI alone because I didn't want to be the person who told my mom something was wrong. I have no desire to make my mother cry. I didn't know how to tell her. I didn't know what to pray for either. I am believer that everything happens for a reason. What if I prayed for healing and I wasn't sick? Then I'd feel like I wasted God's time . ( I'm an over analyzer after all. ) So I waited to tell my mother. The same person I adamantly believe is my best supporter. I didn't ask for healing from God; instead, I asked for it to be the right outcome.
She has seen my naked more times than I can even fathom; literally and metaphorically. She knows my birthmarks under my arm and lower back like they were art. She told me once if anything ever happened to me, she knew she could be the one to identify my body because she could do it by my scars...my ears, my hands, whichever. She didn't want to see my face and have to see me like that- so she decided that she could identify me by my scars.
The person who loves me best can see past my broken and hurt and see how they make up.....me. Loving someone should be like that. You see the scars of someone you care about and see that they have created a stronger more identifiable person. Some of my favorite things about my own child, besides his heart and ornery side, are the 2 teeny tiny freckles where his neck swoops down to his collarbone. Things that other people might not notice... Maybe our mothers love us differently because we are the only people who know what their heartbeat sounds like from the inside. Maybe it's because no matter the circumstances involved with our conception- it's a fact that at one point ( OR MANYYYYY) our mothers were responsible for our literal every need. That no matter how badly I fail or fall - my mother would help me. Ironically, its the same reason why I avoid ever asking her for things.
I can talk to her for hours on end or go a month without talking and she will still be there. I make her crazy. She says things without saying them. She always notices when I change my hair. (Key word: NOTICES) She secretly hates most of the nail polish colors I wear, and yet instead of saying it-She smiles and says, " I see you painted your nails." And we both know.
Maybe that's the problem with our mothers. They understand us. They see us. Even when we fight with them- there is nothing we wouldn't do to try and protect them from seeing us fail, from feeling sadness, from thinking we aren't the best we can be. It's the same way I see God.
Please don't see me fail.
Please don't think I'm not worthy of the love.
Please love me.
Please be proud of me.
That's it. Our relationships are complicated because the unending love they give us almost feels like a burden. We WANT to be successful and happy in their eyes. We WANT them to be proud of us. We also want to protect them from seeing all the stupid things we have done- even though eventually they see everything in the end.
No matter how crazy she makes me,
No matter how crazy I assume I make her,
I wont ever give up on my momma.
And I truly think only God knows why.
.
I don't think I know a single person who has a simple relationship with their mom. The one person who cheers me on no matter how ridiculously bad I fail - is my mother. I know that there are times where things are completely wrong and broken in my life, and I feel the dual idea to call her and to avoid her. I long to call and vent and get advice. I also want to avoid because I'm feel like I don't want to fail her . I think the same dual thoughts exist about God for me. I want to run to and get help and also fear admitting my failures. I truly believe that both would never stop loving me. That statement in itself is rather hard to admit. I am not easily loved. I am complicated and moody. I over analyze some days while I work so very hard to create a balance of perfection only to push too hard in one area and fall on my face.
The first lump I found in my breast I was an emotional basket case. I told members of my inner sanctum "tribe." I made appointments with the doctors. I went to the dr appts, the mammograms, the ultrasounds, and the MRI alone because I didn't want to be the person who told my mom something was wrong. I have no desire to make my mother cry. I didn't know how to tell her. I didn't know what to pray for either. I am believer that everything happens for a reason. What if I prayed for healing and I wasn't sick? Then I'd feel like I wasted God's time . ( I'm an over analyzer after all. ) So I waited to tell my mother. The same person I adamantly believe is my best supporter. I didn't ask for healing from God; instead, I asked for it to be the right outcome.
She has seen my naked more times than I can even fathom; literally and metaphorically. She knows my birthmarks under my arm and lower back like they were art. She told me once if anything ever happened to me, she knew she could be the one to identify my body because she could do it by my scars...my ears, my hands, whichever. She didn't want to see my face and have to see me like that- so she decided that she could identify me by my scars.
The person who loves me best can see past my broken and hurt and see how they make up.....me. Loving someone should be like that. You see the scars of someone you care about and see that they have created a stronger more identifiable person. Some of my favorite things about my own child, besides his heart and ornery side, are the 2 teeny tiny freckles where his neck swoops down to his collarbone. Things that other people might not notice... Maybe our mothers love us differently because we are the only people who know what their heartbeat sounds like from the inside. Maybe it's because no matter the circumstances involved with our conception- it's a fact that at one point ( OR MANYYYYY) our mothers were responsible for our literal every need. That no matter how badly I fail or fall - my mother would help me. Ironically, its the same reason why I avoid ever asking her for things.
I can talk to her for hours on end or go a month without talking and she will still be there. I make her crazy. She says things without saying them. She always notices when I change my hair. (Key word: NOTICES) She secretly hates most of the nail polish colors I wear, and yet instead of saying it-She smiles and says, " I see you painted your nails." And we both know.
Maybe that's the problem with our mothers. They understand us. They see us. Even when we fight with them- there is nothing we wouldn't do to try and protect them from seeing us fail, from feeling sadness, from thinking we aren't the best we can be. It's the same way I see God.
Please don't see me fail.
Please don't think I'm not worthy of the love.
Please love me.
Please be proud of me.
That's it. Our relationships are complicated because the unending love they give us almost feels like a burden. We WANT to be successful and happy in their eyes. We WANT them to be proud of us. We also want to protect them from seeing all the stupid things we have done- even though eventually they see everything in the end.
No matter how crazy she makes me,
No matter how crazy I assume I make her,
I wont ever give up on my momma.
And I truly think only God knows why.
.
Tuesday, April 12, 2016
You don't matter...
"YOU don't matter . You are a cog in the system. "
In the grand scheme of things , I am merely a mass of carbon that occupies less than 10 meters of space . And it's true that my combination of my parents genetics is very unique...
In fact, I'd probably tell you some lovely story about how my parents were high school sweethearts, how my grandpa thought my dad was a wild one who drove too fast ( he was ), and how my momma was a nerd (she was), and how my dad drove from his college to my moms college on Valentine's to bring her an engagement ring , and how they got married super young , how they got married on St. Patrick's Day because it was during spring break so they only got to be "weekend married " until the semester was up, and how my dad wanted 15 kids and my momma didn't want ANY, and they waited for 9 years to have me .
The truth of the matter is that - I am ONE person . You are ONE person.
Even if you procreate and create and create and create until you have enough kids to make a football team, you are still ONE person .
And many people will tell you -
YOU don't matter . You are a cog in the system. Your life is as insignificant as a leaf crunched beneath the foot of one of those football players I previously mentioned . <crunch>
But the question has to be asked, "Is that true ?"
Do YOU matter ?
Some people might argue it on a chemical reaction level. They could discuss how you are a carbon based life form and you are apart of a food chain ... Blah blah blah.
Some might discuss how the whole world is connected on a unspoken and interwoven level . Touchy feely stuff . This might make you feel good enough to make choices that change society or even just the people are you .
Others might argue that your dharma is predisposed and you have no control other than the karma that you create .
I'd like to think that maybe it's somewhere in the stew bowl of all of those . Maybe I am destined to do something . Possibly due to my being connected to the rest of humanity , and the science of all living things , but here is the big, Big, BIG thing ...
You make choices .
Do you choose to help others ? Honestly, it's not about you if you do. Technically, then you don't matter. Technically you help others to HELP them.
Do you love and care for your friends, family , and/ or tribe ? Sometimes my love for my tribe is tough love and I care that they stop making choices that do not help themselves . Therefor reinforcing that I do not matter . I may want them to make better choices. I may want them to be loved . However, they must choose their path because I don't actually matter in their equation .
Why do teachers teach ? Do they teach to make themselves better ? Do they share their knowledge or tools to feel better about themselves ? Spend an hour in a room full of teenagers and ask me if I teach for the "feelings." The thing is, I teach because I believe that these unpolished humans are going to change the world . I don't matter . I don't teach for me . I teach in hopes that they will build and create . I teach them poetry so that when they find love maybe they will think "She Walks in Beauty " is the perfect way to explain to their lady love how the feel when they saw her from across the room . Maybe my encouragement will be the echo to "rage rage against the dying of the night !"
I teach for that moment years ago when a mom stopped me in Target to tell me her son had spent the previous year suffering badly from depression . I teach because she tells me that he struggled with thoughts of suicide but he didn't want to let me down ... I don't actually matter . I will tell you that I sat in the cookie aisle at Target that summer day and cried . I bawled loudly and embarrassingly gross . I'm pretty sure that I had snot smeared on my face . I more than likely looked like some B movie prom queen who had overcome adversity to win the crown and kiss her best friend after they placed a cheap plastic rhinestone tiara on her head .
But ... I don't actually matter .
What matters is that he survived . How he lives his live and if he becomes a pilot or a dad who goes to every soccer game his kids plays in ... It all doesn't matter .
Why do you love people ? Is it about you or them ?
Why do you take care of people who need care ?
Your choices effect others . That's what actually matters .
You are a mass of carbon who doesn't matter .
In the grand scheme of things , I am merely a mass of carbon that occupies less than 10 meters of space . And it's true that my combination of my parents genetics is very unique...
In fact, I'd probably tell you some lovely story about how my parents were high school sweethearts, how my grandpa thought my dad was a wild one who drove too fast ( he was ), and how my momma was a nerd (she was), and how my dad drove from his college to my moms college on Valentine's to bring her an engagement ring , and how they got married super young , how they got married on St. Patrick's Day because it was during spring break so they only got to be "weekend married " until the semester was up, and how my dad wanted 15 kids and my momma didn't want ANY, and they waited for 9 years to have me .
The truth of the matter is that - I am ONE person . You are ONE person.
Even if you procreate and create and create and create until you have enough kids to make a football team, you are still ONE person .
And many people will tell you -
YOU don't matter . You are a cog in the system. Your life is as insignificant as a leaf crunched beneath the foot of one of those football players I previously mentioned . <crunch>
But the question has to be asked, "Is that true ?"
Do YOU matter ?
Some people might argue it on a chemical reaction level. They could discuss how you are a carbon based life form and you are apart of a food chain ... Blah blah blah.
Some might discuss how the whole world is connected on a unspoken and interwoven level . Touchy feely stuff . This might make you feel good enough to make choices that change society or even just the people are you .
Others might argue that your dharma is predisposed and you have no control other than the karma that you create .
I'd like to think that maybe it's somewhere in the stew bowl of all of those . Maybe I am destined to do something . Possibly due to my being connected to the rest of humanity , and the science of all living things , but here is the big, Big, BIG thing ...
You make choices .
Do you choose to help others ? Honestly, it's not about you if you do. Technically, then you don't matter. Technically you help others to HELP them.
Do you love and care for your friends, family , and/ or tribe ? Sometimes my love for my tribe is tough love and I care that they stop making choices that do not help themselves . Therefor reinforcing that I do not matter . I may want them to make better choices. I may want them to be loved . However, they must choose their path because I don't actually matter in their equation .
Why do teachers teach ? Do they teach to make themselves better ? Do they share their knowledge or tools to feel better about themselves ? Spend an hour in a room full of teenagers and ask me if I teach for the "feelings." The thing is, I teach because I believe that these unpolished humans are going to change the world . I don't matter . I don't teach for me . I teach in hopes that they will build and create . I teach them poetry so that when they find love maybe they will think "She Walks in Beauty " is the perfect way to explain to their lady love how the feel when they saw her from across the room . Maybe my encouragement will be the echo to "rage rage against the dying of the night !"
I teach for that moment years ago when a mom stopped me in Target to tell me her son had spent the previous year suffering badly from depression . I teach because she tells me that he struggled with thoughts of suicide but he didn't want to let me down ... I don't actually matter . I will tell you that I sat in the cookie aisle at Target that summer day and cried . I bawled loudly and embarrassingly gross . I'm pretty sure that I had snot smeared on my face . I more than likely looked like some B movie prom queen who had overcome adversity to win the crown and kiss her best friend after they placed a cheap plastic rhinestone tiara on her head .
But ... I don't actually matter .
What matters is that he survived . How he lives his live and if he becomes a pilot or a dad who goes to every soccer game his kids plays in ... It all doesn't matter .
Why do you love people ? Is it about you or them ?
Why do you take care of people who need care ?
Your choices effect others . That's what actually matters .
You are a mass of carbon who doesn't matter .
Tuesday, December 22, 2015
I never trust a boob ...
Two and a half years ago I found a lump in my right breast . I took 6 months to tell my doctor. It was the size of a pea and solid as a marble . It caused me to undergo multiple exams including ultrasounds, mammograms, and an MRI. So far, they say it's just a lump like mashed potatoes that haven't been squished enough.
Two months ago, I found a much larger lump in my left breast. It came up very fast, and was considerably larger than the first.... To say that I was apprehensive is a joke . I checked daily for 3 weeks before I made an appt because I know that sometimes changes in hormones/ cycles can fluctuate breast tissue .
It didn't change.
It didn't go away.
Went to the Dr anticipating her to scold me for being so emotionally reactive . She didn't. Another trip planned to the Breast Cancer center for more ultrasounds and more mammograms ...
Unfortunately, I had to set it up for the week AFTER finals and the week of Christmas.
I wait and wait for three weeks, suspicious of every ache, muscle tightness, or spot on my chest. I emotionally eat my way through December...
I give my momma the date of my appointment and she comes. We chat on the waiting room and annoy other people with our odd banter and bad jokes ...
Finally we go back and I get topless.
Funny thing about being topless and nervous ... Even at over thirty, having your momma with you when you are nervous or sick, still helps .
Both the ultrasound tech and the dr. feel me up, take pics, rub this way , and shift my boob that way.
They compare the pics to the information from two years ago.
More rubbing...
More ultrasound boobie pics ...
And they tell me that this lump does not look cancerous or suspicious . They did raise my risk factor numbers up to 18.5.
I won't lie and tell your that I trust my boobs. In fact, my boobs sorta feel like time bombs on my chest waiting to rip everything about my life apart .
Given the option, I would probably decide to either scrape them off and exchange them for less threatening ones.
Until they tell me that I can give my boobs the eviction notice, I will continue to do my monthly checks.
Please remind those that you love to check the ladies .
Boobs are not your identity .
You are more than flesh, fat, and nipples .
Tuesday, April 28, 2015
Dearest Gossips, Kiss my snow white...
I am currently struggling with people gossiping and/or "sharing" details about my life.
Don't get me wrong I have a lot of crazy details that people can talk about. I have had a life that is shocking.
I HAVE been married three times.
They don't always know or share that the fact that the first one he had a girlfriend and told me he wanted OUT or that we tried for 3 years after that to try to make it work. They forget that we were together for nearly 10 years and have a perfect child as a product of the marriage. That I DO NOT bad mouth my son's dad because I believe that eventually my brilliant child will ask about any of the things I say about his dad and I will have to defend each and every one of them. I also believe that bad mouthing the other parent is in poor taste as the child is HALF of him too.
I have seen the dirty lustful messages between the man I loved and his side women. I have seen the graphic and pornographic pictures of the women on his phone. I have cried my eyes out more times than is rational. I have fought for my family.
They leave out the fact that my second marriage was a disaster. I DID make a mistake. It also nearly cost me literally everything. I had to be let out of my home by the police. I had to file a VPO and change vehicles and the final straw that made me leave wasn't him controlling my fianances, not allowing me to go see my mother, or what I wore, although he did that too, MY final straw was him getting more and more aggressive and violent and missed hitting me and hit the door etc. It was the thought that I would end up dead if I stayed. I had my bank account cleaned out. Where my ex told people I left because I was a cheating. I had to hold my head high while I scraped for money for food. I had to take my phone and send it to other parts of the city because my ex was able to track my phone. I had to change phone numbers and email. I lost a lot of my things. I literally had to fight my way out of a hole. But that's the thing.... those are just things.
I am more than things...
I am the girl who forgives. I KNOW how to love. I am the mother who says prayers with my son and cries when he thanks God for me.I am battered and bruised but I am still standing.
I read with my son and ask him questions about his day and go on field trips with him because he is important to me. I am the mother who gave birth to a perfect tan child with jet black curls who came home from the hospital in 3 month old clothes because he was 9 and a 1/2 lbs and three weeks overdue. I am the woman who believes in hope and happy. I literally have fell down stairs two years ago and broken and shifted my pelvis, broken vertebrae, pulled and pained and still worked every day because my son and I had bills to pay.
I have been cheated on, beat on, shoved, shamed, broken, bruised, and talked about...
I am still standing.
I am not bowing out.
I might be the under dog in this story...
but I am also the hero.
And since my gossipers are talking behind my back...
you are nearer my backside...
You can take your gossip and half truths and misinformed lies...
and kiss my snow white ....
Monday, March 30, 2015
That one time I wanted to bully another parents.....
Tonight my sweet munchkin and I went to McDonalds to have an ice cream and let him use the play place to exert some excessive "I didn't have school today " energy and interact with other kids..(drawback of being an only child)...
Anyway...
Shortly after we arrived a group of three larger and aggressive little boys arrived. They began to kick and pick on my munchkin. I was LESS THAN AMUSED.
I heard J say, "Guys, I'm going to need you to stop kicking at me with your shoes on... etc"
My first instinct was to announce loudly "J, if there is a problem with people not following the rules we can tell the manager" and/or guilt the other children's parents into doing their parental job or scare the other kids into behaving. BUT... I waited.
He wasn't being hurt.
He was still calm.
I continue to pretend not to notice...
As I waited, I hear my sweet nearly 7 year old never once actually raise his voice...but announce with authority and strength that they were done acting that way.
His voice did not waver.
He was sure of himself.
He was calm, cool, and collected.
He also did not have to threaten or bully back.
And I swallowed my insta-reaction of being a helicopter mom. He never even knew that I saw. He never mentioned it. He instead continued on with his calm, cool, and collected demeanor and shift the tides and convince a now even larger group of larger and older kids which games they would be playing.
If I would have stepped in and gone with my first reaction, I would have been wrong.
I would have:
- missed out on a opportunity for my son to take control of a situation
- missed seeing my son exhibit really amazing people skills
- robbed my growing son of his confidence
- undone some of the times I've told him to speak up for himself and be confident
-been that UGLY rude parent who "KNOWS EVEYRTHING"
-been the parent who harasses other peoples kids
But mostly...
I wouldn't have gotten to see what a potentially amazing future man my munchkin is growing into.
He was more responsible and grown up acting than I wanted to act. He exhibited so many of the skills that I want him to be as a man.
And so today...
I will sit and eat my cheap ice cream and let my kid be a leader in a group of larger older kids.
I will let go of some of my fear that because my son is softer spoken and on the small side that he can't handle things.
I will remember that his ability to be "a man" someday starts with all the little things now...
And I will sit near enough to listen but far away enough for him to be exactly the perfect mix of calm and a leader that I hope his future self will be.
Anyway...
Shortly after we arrived a group of three larger and aggressive little boys arrived. They began to kick and pick on my munchkin. I was LESS THAN AMUSED.
I heard J say, "Guys, I'm going to need you to stop kicking at me with your shoes on... etc"
My first instinct was to announce loudly "J, if there is a problem with people not following the rules we can tell the manager" and/or guilt the other children's parents into doing their parental job or scare the other kids into behaving. BUT... I waited.
He wasn't being hurt.
He was still calm.
I continue to pretend not to notice...
As I waited, I hear my sweet nearly 7 year old never once actually raise his voice...but announce with authority and strength that they were done acting that way.
His voice did not waver.
He was sure of himself.
He was calm, cool, and collected.
He also did not have to threaten or bully back.
And I swallowed my insta-reaction of being a helicopter mom. He never even knew that I saw. He never mentioned it. He instead continued on with his calm, cool, and collected demeanor and shift the tides and convince a now even larger group of larger and older kids which games they would be playing.
If I would have stepped in and gone with my first reaction, I would have been wrong.
I would have:
- missed out on a opportunity for my son to take control of a situation
- missed seeing my son exhibit really amazing people skills
- robbed my growing son of his confidence
- undone some of the times I've told him to speak up for himself and be confident
-been that UGLY rude parent who "KNOWS EVEYRTHING"
-been the parent who harasses other peoples kids
But mostly...
I wouldn't have gotten to see what a potentially amazing future man my munchkin is growing into.
He was more responsible and grown up acting than I wanted to act. He exhibited so many of the skills that I want him to be as a man.
And so today...
I will sit and eat my cheap ice cream and let my kid be a leader in a group of larger older kids.
I will let go of some of my fear that because my son is softer spoken and on the small side that he can't handle things.
I will remember that his ability to be "a man" someday starts with all the little things now...
And I will sit near enough to listen but far away enough for him to be exactly the perfect mix of calm and a leader that I hope his future self will be.
Wednesday, December 3, 2014
How an abusive relationship changed me
I am often paranoid that I am failing at not being enough .
Good enough
Smart enough
Pretty enough
Working hard enough .
I struggle desperately with second guessing and feeling the guilt of not doing enough to earn my place in the world . I am aware that part of this is likely a reaction to a previous marriage where I was I was constantly told I was a poor excuse for a human. I was told I didn't do enough and I never seemed to measure up to standards that were ever shifting . If I dressed like a "lady" and had on heels and hose I was too provocative and asked who I was trying to impress and accused of cheating . If I dressed down I was accused to "letting myself go" and told to go change.
I was supposed to be the sole person in charge of laundry, cooking, cleaning, and taking care of the kid. I had to explain how I spent my every minute after school prior to his arrival home . It didn't matter that we both worked full time jobs. I was failing as a wife and a mother .
I was the one in charge of making sure the munchkin was dressed and ready for school . I was exclusively the one person in charge of coordinating with teachers . To the rest of the world he would present himself as the "man" who was handling everything and told people I was "absent minded " and couldn't do things on my own. He would tell people that he was always taking care of things. He talked about me like I was a child incapable of medial tasks.
If funds ran short and things weren't right, I was the one who had to figure out how to make money stretch and plan meals with limited funds and make magical meals appear out of slim means. If I complained about money, I was told it was my fault for not better managing things and "once again" he would take care of things ... It didn't matter that I was trying to feed a family of 4 and two dogs and a cat on $40 for a week. It didn't matter that he was eating out every day and I was planning sandwiches and hoping no one wanted toast that week because I would be short. Sometimes I would get an "allowance," but would often give it to my stepson for lunch money . No matter what I had to be able to account for each and every dollar from it.
He told me I was lazy. He told me I was stupid and didn't pay attention. He got angry when things were not handled a certain way...Regardless if I was informed that those things needed to be that way . You might think that this is absurd.. How could any educated woman listen to anyone tell them such crazy things ?!
It's far more simple than you realize to lose grips on who you are as person. It's like holding the reigns of a horse; if you grip a horse very tight and never give them slack they fight you and back away. But if you slowly pull back little by little the horse will back themselves into corner until they themselves can't see a way out . The same was true with my self respect . Little by little it was chipped away ... Snide comment here... Question there ...frustrated cruelty here.. Until all those little things add up to where I was unable to recognize me . I was afraid to do things because I was always wrong . I was afraid to not do things because that meant I would be chastised and critiqued for being stupid and not doing things . I was raised to take care of others. I was raised to believe, " love is an action. " It is the verb of affection, and sacrifice, and spoiling the other person as a means to make them happy. I would try my hardest to do everything to not upset my spouse. I would struggle and try to make everything easy. I would smile and tell everyone that everything was wonderful... but it wasn't.
I lost who I was . I stopped seeing myself and instead focused on trying not to get into trouble . I focused on trying so very hard be the "perfect" person. Perfection is impossible . Perfection is even more impossible when my spouse kept changing the rules on what they wanted from me . (The same can be true for kids from parents... If clear rules aren't established )
I was afraid of being yelled at, criticized for not being enough , and the fists pounded into doors and walls made me jumpy and paranoid. I was scared that every time I "messed up," it would make him mad at me and I wasn't sure what he would do. I stopped thinking for myself and stressed over everything . I wouldn't tell anyone because I began to believe that I wasn't good enough. I feared being yelled at. I didn't know how to handle emotions. With every fist punch into the walls and doors and next to me I got more quiet and more fearful that it would be me next time. I told myself if I would just do things that made him happy it would be enough. I told myself that if I wasn't stupid everything would work out.... But I wasn't the problem.
If you tell someone over and over and over again that they are stupid ... They stop believing that they can do things. If you tell them they are ugly and fat... They begin to watch every thing they eat and try to hide themselves . Even though I previously felt good about myself I second guessed me. I was told constantly that I was stupid and fat and not good enough . And it became how I saw myself. His words and actions became the norm and saw myself through the lies he told me.
And I started believing each and every piece of it .
I second guess myself even now. I stopped feeling good about self . I stopped knowing how to make myself happy because all I knew how to do was try to meet the ever changing goals of someone I feared . I could never attain their goals. I stopped feeling comfortable asking for things I needed, let alone wanted . It seemed absurd to ask, because I didn't want to be the reason we didn't have things .. I began to think everything was my fault. My wants and needs weren't important. It was more important for me to keep the house calm and bring as much peace into my home as I possibly could.
I still daily struggle with not feeling good enough. I feel unworthy of love. I feel unworthy of being able to ask for things I need and it's quite nearly painful for me to admit that there are things I want. I hate asking. It makes me ill if there are things that I need because I think of how much groceries that amount of money could buy. I feel selfish and bad if I want them. How can I even think to ask for a coat for myself ... how do I know that my son won't outgrow his shoes and I will have failed him because I bought something for myself. I shut down over things that are seemingly insignificant to others because I feel wrong for wanting things for me. I feel guilt over chapstick. I am sick to my stomach if I buy something small as chapstick and I loose it. I will wait to replace it for a very long time because the "waste" I feel over something so dumb. I will take the burnt piece of food, even if there is more because I don't want people to see me fail. In my mind the mistake is a failure. It was a reminder of how I am not enough. I was all of things I was told that I am.. None of them positive .
That's the inner dialog I struggle with. Those mean and cruel words that haunt me and give me nightmares.
I wouldn't stick up for myself until the night he began hitting things close enough to my face to feel the whoosh next to my cheek... where the door bounced off the back of my head. When I went to leave and he kicked and hit at me and missed....
And even then...
Then someone else had to make the call and save me.
That's what abuse did to me. Even when I believed he would hurt or kill me... I couldn't...
I second guessed myself so much I couldn't take care of me.
That's the thing with words...
We lie to our kids and teach them "sticks and stone will break my bones but, words will never hurt me..."
But that's not true.
Words won't physically hurt you, they will break your heart and kill your spirit.
And coming back from that...
it's a long road.
Good enough
Smart enough
Pretty enough
Working hard enough .
I struggle desperately with second guessing and feeling the guilt of not doing enough to earn my place in the world . I am aware that part of this is likely a reaction to a previous marriage where I was I was constantly told I was a poor excuse for a human. I was told I didn't do enough and I never seemed to measure up to standards that were ever shifting . If I dressed like a "lady" and had on heels and hose I was too provocative and asked who I was trying to impress and accused of cheating . If I dressed down I was accused to "letting myself go" and told to go change.
I was supposed to be the sole person in charge of laundry, cooking, cleaning, and taking care of the kid. I had to explain how I spent my every minute after school prior to his arrival home . It didn't matter that we both worked full time jobs. I was failing as a wife and a mother .
I was the one in charge of making sure the munchkin was dressed and ready for school . I was exclusively the one person in charge of coordinating with teachers . To the rest of the world he would present himself as the "man" who was handling everything and told people I was "absent minded " and couldn't do things on my own. He would tell people that he was always taking care of things. He talked about me like I was a child incapable of medial tasks.
If funds ran short and things weren't right, I was the one who had to figure out how to make money stretch and plan meals with limited funds and make magical meals appear out of slim means. If I complained about money, I was told it was my fault for not better managing things and "once again" he would take care of things ... It didn't matter that I was trying to feed a family of 4 and two dogs and a cat on $40 for a week. It didn't matter that he was eating out every day and I was planning sandwiches and hoping no one wanted toast that week because I would be short. Sometimes I would get an "allowance," but would often give it to my stepson for lunch money . No matter what I had to be able to account for each and every dollar from it.
He told me I was lazy. He told me I was stupid and didn't pay attention. He got angry when things were not handled a certain way...Regardless if I was informed that those things needed to be that way . You might think that this is absurd.. How could any educated woman listen to anyone tell them such crazy things ?!
It's far more simple than you realize to lose grips on who you are as person. It's like holding the reigns of a horse; if you grip a horse very tight and never give them slack they fight you and back away. But if you slowly pull back little by little the horse will back themselves into corner until they themselves can't see a way out . The same was true with my self respect . Little by little it was chipped away ... Snide comment here... Question there ...frustrated cruelty here.. Until all those little things add up to where I was unable to recognize me . I was afraid to do things because I was always wrong . I was afraid to not do things because that meant I would be chastised and critiqued for being stupid and not doing things . I was raised to take care of others. I was raised to believe, " love is an action. " It is the verb of affection, and sacrifice, and spoiling the other person as a means to make them happy. I would try my hardest to do everything to not upset my spouse. I would struggle and try to make everything easy. I would smile and tell everyone that everything was wonderful... but it wasn't.
I lost who I was . I stopped seeing myself and instead focused on trying not to get into trouble . I focused on trying so very hard be the "perfect" person. Perfection is impossible . Perfection is even more impossible when my spouse kept changing the rules on what they wanted from me . (The same can be true for kids from parents... If clear rules aren't established )
I was afraid of being yelled at, criticized for not being enough , and the fists pounded into doors and walls made me jumpy and paranoid. I was scared that every time I "messed up," it would make him mad at me and I wasn't sure what he would do. I stopped thinking for myself and stressed over everything . I wouldn't tell anyone because I began to believe that I wasn't good enough. I feared being yelled at. I didn't know how to handle emotions. With every fist punch into the walls and doors and next to me I got more quiet and more fearful that it would be me next time. I told myself if I would just do things that made him happy it would be enough. I told myself that if I wasn't stupid everything would work out.... But I wasn't the problem.
If you tell someone over and over and over again that they are stupid ... They stop believing that they can do things. If you tell them they are ugly and fat... They begin to watch every thing they eat and try to hide themselves . Even though I previously felt good about myself I second guessed me. I was told constantly that I was stupid and fat and not good enough . And it became how I saw myself. His words and actions became the norm and saw myself through the lies he told me.
And I started believing each and every piece of it .
I second guess myself even now. I stopped feeling good about self . I stopped knowing how to make myself happy because all I knew how to do was try to meet the ever changing goals of someone I feared . I could never attain their goals. I stopped feeling comfortable asking for things I needed, let alone wanted . It seemed absurd to ask, because I didn't want to be the reason we didn't have things .. I began to think everything was my fault. My wants and needs weren't important. It was more important for me to keep the house calm and bring as much peace into my home as I possibly could.
I still daily struggle with not feeling good enough. I feel unworthy of love. I feel unworthy of being able to ask for things I need and it's quite nearly painful for me to admit that there are things I want. I hate asking. It makes me ill if there are things that I need because I think of how much groceries that amount of money could buy. I feel selfish and bad if I want them. How can I even think to ask for a coat for myself ... how do I know that my son won't outgrow his shoes and I will have failed him because I bought something for myself. I shut down over things that are seemingly insignificant to others because I feel wrong for wanting things for me. I feel guilt over chapstick. I am sick to my stomach if I buy something small as chapstick and I loose it. I will wait to replace it for a very long time because the "waste" I feel over something so dumb. I will take the burnt piece of food, even if there is more because I don't want people to see me fail. In my mind the mistake is a failure. It was a reminder of how I am not enough. I was all of things I was told that I am.. None of them positive .
That's the inner dialog I struggle with. Those mean and cruel words that haunt me and give me nightmares.
I wouldn't stick up for myself until the night he began hitting things close enough to my face to feel the whoosh next to my cheek... where the door bounced off the back of my head. When I went to leave and he kicked and hit at me and missed....
And even then...
Then someone else had to make the call and save me.
That's what abuse did to me. Even when I believed he would hurt or kill me... I couldn't...
I second guessed myself so much I couldn't take care of me.
That's the thing with words...
We lie to our kids and teach them "sticks and stone will break my bones but, words will never hurt me..."
But that's not true.
Words won't physically hurt you, they will break your heart and kill your spirit.
And coming back from that...
it's a long road.
Monday, November 10, 2014
The most important reason to F in a relationship....
You see thousands of articles in nearly every magazine or online site about how important sex is to a marriage or relationship. But the truth is that is not the most important "f," forgiveness is. I will even go as far as to say that without the F of forgiveness, it makes the "f" of sex much more difficult to achieve.
When it comes to me, I do not want to share the most intimate parts of myself with someone I am mad or upset with. I want to figuratively and literally pull myself away from them.It has been said that intimacy also has little to do with sex. Intimacy is the person you share the scary news about a freckle on your shoulder, the details of the latest and most crazy choices your siblings have made, intimacy is who I go to when I want to sit and be silent and let the events of a day congeal because I can not process it all at once. When you are truly open yourself up to other people, they see you... your flaws, your stupidity, all the ways you feel like a failure, the things you fear most, and then you hand them the knife and tell them the easiest ways to hurt you.
No matter which version of intimacy is being given... you literally have to give up you protective layers, allow yourself to be vulnerable and open yourself up.
In a marriage or relationships the only people who don't make mistakes are the people who aren't doing anything. Everyone else, makes mistakes. We forget things. We mess up. We do some things because we know the other person will overlook them and they will accept us, while others we don't know that we are hurting them because we are selfish and oblivious to how our actions can be misconstrued. Regardless of our intention... we mess up. It's life.
However, here is the real difficulty... the F...forgiveness.
I am stubborn and hard headed.
I am mean and cruel when I feel like my needs are not important and not acknowledged.
I am a grudge holder.
I hate to give forgiveness.
Sadly... I also despise it when people do not readily give me forgiveness when I mess up and admit my flaws. Yes, I know that it makes me a hypocrite. I have a terrible time admitting when I wrong. And thus it means that in my head... if I FINALLY admit I am wrong, I want forgiveness IMMEDIATELY. But that is not an easy F to get or give.
Forgiveness is hard. Actually giving forgiveness to people who have hurt you... SUCKS. I literally have had to learn to forgive people. You don't forgive people for them. Forgiveness is for you. Sometimes you have to forgive people who have NEVER asked for forgiveness because staying mad is "drinking poison and expecting the other person to die..." Forgiveness is for your head and heart to let go. Forgiveness is the most important F because it frees your mind of hostility and allows you to move on and be yourself.
Anger, if left to fester will twist and turn your thoughts and heart into ugly twisted craggy branches of the bitterness tree and that tree will grow roots that dig and break your commitment to someone... Those roots of bitterness and anger will crumble the very bedrock of love and adoration you had for them.
Remember the person...not the actions.
Forgiveness is like commitment...
Remember YOUR commitment regardless of their actions.
Makes the choice to forgive and tell your bitterness and anger to F off. ;0)
When it comes to me, I do not want to share the most intimate parts of myself with someone I am mad or upset with. I want to figuratively and literally pull myself away from them.It has been said that intimacy also has little to do with sex. Intimacy is the person you share the scary news about a freckle on your shoulder, the details of the latest and most crazy choices your siblings have made, intimacy is who I go to when I want to sit and be silent and let the events of a day congeal because I can not process it all at once. When you are truly open yourself up to other people, they see you... your flaws, your stupidity, all the ways you feel like a failure, the things you fear most, and then you hand them the knife and tell them the easiest ways to hurt you.
No matter which version of intimacy is being given... you literally have to give up you protective layers, allow yourself to be vulnerable and open yourself up.
In a marriage or relationships the only people who don't make mistakes are the people who aren't doing anything. Everyone else, makes mistakes. We forget things. We mess up. We do some things because we know the other person will overlook them and they will accept us, while others we don't know that we are hurting them because we are selfish and oblivious to how our actions can be misconstrued. Regardless of our intention... we mess up. It's life.
However, here is the real difficulty... the F...forgiveness.
I am stubborn and hard headed.
I am mean and cruel when I feel like my needs are not important and not acknowledged.
I am a grudge holder.
I hate to give forgiveness.
Sadly... I also despise it when people do not readily give me forgiveness when I mess up and admit my flaws. Yes, I know that it makes me a hypocrite. I have a terrible time admitting when I wrong. And thus it means that in my head... if I FINALLY admit I am wrong, I want forgiveness IMMEDIATELY. But that is not an easy F to get or give.
Forgiveness is hard. Actually giving forgiveness to people who have hurt you... SUCKS. I literally have had to learn to forgive people. You don't forgive people for them. Forgiveness is for you. Sometimes you have to forgive people who have NEVER asked for forgiveness because staying mad is "drinking poison and expecting the other person to die..." Forgiveness is for your head and heart to let go. Forgiveness is the most important F because it frees your mind of hostility and allows you to move on and be yourself.
Anger, if left to fester will twist and turn your thoughts and heart into ugly twisted craggy branches of the bitterness tree and that tree will grow roots that dig and break your commitment to someone... Those roots of bitterness and anger will crumble the very bedrock of love and adoration you had for them.
Remember the person...not the actions.
Forgiveness is like commitment...
Remember YOUR commitment regardless of their actions.
Makes the choice to forgive and tell your bitterness and anger to F off. ;0)
Tuesday, November 4, 2014
Impatience and being an ADULT
I am impatient.
I want things to work.
I want answers and instant perfection.
The problem with this, is that people are not perfect. They are fallible and have free will. And I love the idea that people can choose their path and have the right to make mistakes and learn from them... but I hate it when mistakes are made. Maybe I just love the idea that I CAN learn from my mistakes.In fact, maybe I might even be a bit of a narcissistic that I think that my mistakes are smaller and less ugly than other peoples. But that isn't the truth. I am fallible and stubborn and opinionated as deep as the ocean and as blue as the twilight.
I am most impatient with the people I love most. I am the biggest advocate for me being allowed to make mistakes and often want people to forgive me instantly; however, I struggle with grudges. I struggle with wanting people to do what I want on my timing. Maybe I've watched too many movies and I am too much of an idealist. Maybe I have been burned too many times and think that I "deserve" it. I think that I am the most hard on people I love because I believe that they are genuinely the people that I see them in. I see the people they want to be. I see the people that they should be. I think maybe I am too hard on people and need to allow them room to make mistakes.
Mistakes aren't the problem with being infallible. Mistakes are a big part of growing. As kids, we learn from making mistakes. Kids learn the word, "feet," and want to apply it like everything else and will tell you that they have " two feets." They understand the rule that foot/feet are unusual and want soo badly to be reinforced that they overly try and use "feets." We as adults think that we have out grown this.
The truth of the matter is, even as adults we seek approval and want to make others happy even when we do not have all the answers. We get impatient. We think we have all the answers. We are not uneducated as was the case of the little kids; we are still seeking approval. The problem is that we don't understand the rules of how to be "adults."
I wish I knew all the rules about how to be an adult. Unfortunately, being an adult is like every word that is atypical in the English language. Adulthood is every one of the mice/mouse, foot/feet, moose/moose, good/better/best atypical no normal rule to follow words that make learning language harder.... except then we add emotions, bills, and other people who are also trying to speak to us using the same faulty system of no typical words.
Stir that up... add humanity and impatience and it's no wonder we grow up and feel lost. It's no wonder adults struggle with communication. We seek approval . We strive for perfection but our communication is confusing. We are not all taught how to interact the same. Some families are affection and teach a language and behavior of affection. While others are successful and teach their children the value of success. No one way is right or wrong. I believe that kids need a good work ethic and a desire to be successful. I also am very comfortable and feel a high need for affection; both give and receive. I get impatient when people do not communicate with me in ways that I am used to and I am an adult. I am ONE adult. And I struggle greatly with these concepts.
It's no wonder that communication is hard.
It's no wonder that being impatient with others is a knee jerk reaction...
We are all trying to accomplish the goals we believe to be best while speaking an imperfect language with other people who speak imperfectly and are also fallible.
And I get impatient and fussy when things are not going smoothly. It is NOT that I do not care about the other people. It's rather the polar opposite. I care soo much that I want things FIXED, NOW.
I am impatient,
I do want things to work.
But maybe instead of wanting perfection, I need to look for growth.
And maybe instead of just finding the mythical "answers," maybe I need to really know what my questions are.
I need to open my heart and focus on the person and less on the answers.
I need to open my close mind and figure out that two steps forward, one step back isn't a set back but is still forward momentum....
Here's to forward momentum and the death of impatience.
I want things to work.
I want answers and instant perfection.
The problem with this, is that people are not perfect. They are fallible and have free will. And I love the idea that people can choose their path and have the right to make mistakes and learn from them... but I hate it when mistakes are made. Maybe I just love the idea that I CAN learn from my mistakes.In fact, maybe I might even be a bit of a narcissistic that I think that my mistakes are smaller and less ugly than other peoples. But that isn't the truth. I am fallible and stubborn and opinionated as deep as the ocean and as blue as the twilight.
I am most impatient with the people I love most. I am the biggest advocate for me being allowed to make mistakes and often want people to forgive me instantly; however, I struggle with grudges. I struggle with wanting people to do what I want on my timing. Maybe I've watched too many movies and I am too much of an idealist. Maybe I have been burned too many times and think that I "deserve" it. I think that I am the most hard on people I love because I believe that they are genuinely the people that I see them in. I see the people they want to be. I see the people that they should be. I think maybe I am too hard on people and need to allow them room to make mistakes.
Mistakes aren't the problem with being infallible. Mistakes are a big part of growing. As kids, we learn from making mistakes. Kids learn the word, "feet," and want to apply it like everything else and will tell you that they have " two feets." They understand the rule that foot/feet are unusual and want soo badly to be reinforced that they overly try and use "feets." We as adults think that we have out grown this.
The truth of the matter is, even as adults we seek approval and want to make others happy even when we do not have all the answers. We get impatient. We think we have all the answers. We are not uneducated as was the case of the little kids; we are still seeking approval. The problem is that we don't understand the rules of how to be "adults."
I wish I knew all the rules about how to be an adult. Unfortunately, being an adult is like every word that is atypical in the English language. Adulthood is every one of the mice/mouse, foot/feet, moose/moose, good/better/best atypical no normal rule to follow words that make learning language harder.... except then we add emotions, bills, and other people who are also trying to speak to us using the same faulty system of no typical words.
Stir that up... add humanity and impatience and it's no wonder we grow up and feel lost. It's no wonder adults struggle with communication. We seek approval . We strive for perfection but our communication is confusing. We are not all taught how to interact the same. Some families are affection and teach a language and behavior of affection. While others are successful and teach their children the value of success. No one way is right or wrong. I believe that kids need a good work ethic and a desire to be successful. I also am very comfortable and feel a high need for affection; both give and receive. I get impatient when people do not communicate with me in ways that I am used to and I am an adult. I am ONE adult. And I struggle greatly with these concepts.
It's no wonder that communication is hard.
It's no wonder that being impatient with others is a knee jerk reaction...
We are all trying to accomplish the goals we believe to be best while speaking an imperfect language with other people who speak imperfectly and are also fallible.
And I get impatient and fussy when things are not going smoothly. It is NOT that I do not care about the other people. It's rather the polar opposite. I care soo much that I want things FIXED, NOW.
I am impatient,
I do want things to work.
But maybe instead of wanting perfection, I need to look for growth.
And maybe instead of just finding the mythical "answers," maybe I need to really know what my questions are.
I need to open my heart and focus on the person and less on the answers.
I need to open my close mind and figure out that two steps forward, one step back isn't a set back but is still forward momentum....
Here's to forward momentum and the death of impatience.
Wednesday, October 29, 2014
Mind your Manners
I ran to the gas station during lunch to grab a soda and a hot dog (they're great and cheap so I love them) ...An older gentleman who was struggling to walk and should have probably had a walker, was coming in as I was going out .
He was flawlessly dressed in tan and white plaid pearl snap shirt and pressed and starched wranglers with his clean but worn boots and lovely tan cowboy hat. Looked like he had been a farmer earlier in life based on the deep tanned face with hardened wrinkles that framed his pale icey blue eyes. His face was proud and he smiled at me.
As I hurried my step to make sure I wouldn't be in his way, he also attempted to hurry as well. As I started to walk out the door, he reached his slim boney hand and gracefully and slowly open the door for me...it was a moment in my day... a small act of kindness...and it touched my heart.
Maybe it was because it reminded me of my grandpa Charlie...Tan lanky old farmer types who look like they worked outside manual labor for more years than I've been alive often remind me of him.
One moment that meant nothing, that was probably a reflex for him, affected me.
It got me to thinking. When did we stop using basic manners?
When did we stop putting manners on the backburner? I am not a girlie girl. Don't get me wrong I like to fish and getting my hands dirty is not a big deal to me. However, I like to be treated " like a girl."
As a young 20something, I was "trained" to have doors opened for me. I was so used to people opening doors for me that if I was alone and no men were with me, I would stand at the door and wait until I realized that I would have to open it for myself.
As a 30something... today I was reminder how far manners have fallen. Is it that I stopped expecting it? Do parents not train their little boys to open doors or their young ladies to wait ?
Today... I am renewed in my drive to raise my munchkin to be a gentleman.
Today with one door literally being opened for me, it reminded that silently the older generation is still teaching us.
Ladies & Gents... Mind your manners.
Thursday, October 16, 2014
How not to love someone....
We all go through trails and tribulations in our lives. Some of us are given more obvious ones than others. Maybe it's because God only gives us what we can handle and maybe it's because we are dumb and make poor choices.... but either way... We all experience things in our life that make us question ourselves and when it's time to give up. I have experienced being loved and being UNloved.
I understand that I am not the typical "weaker sex" in a relationship. I don't fulfill the "typical girl role." I don't mind getting dirty and have had to take care of myself for choice and by force before. I have learned how to love others. I have experienced how to NOT be loved more.
I am not good at change. I am not a fan of stress. I am NOT tough; due to previous failed marriages and some major life changes that have reduced my friends and family circles a time or 100, I have trust issues that are so significant that they could be labeled as "deep and wide."
I'd love to tell you that I am stable, calm, and can focus exclusively on the matter that needs dealt with; that would be a lovely description of someone, not me, but someone. I am needy. I am difficult to be in a relationship with. I am pretty sure that this applies to most all of my relationships and not just romantic type ones. I am needy and bossy and emotional in ways that psychology professors could have had a field day with and create their life's work writing books about all my drama.
I am not needy in a someone needs to take care of me sort of way. I don't need "things." I am not a gold digger and do not require gifts or lavish treats. I demand attention. No, not exactly... I require attention. I require it the same way that flowers need light. Maybe that's it. I am the kind of flower that needs a LOT of direct sunlight. I am not, nor will I ever be one of those flowers that only need a few measly hours of sunlight. I am not those people. I have found that I can happily share room with other people and neither one speaking and I am fine... But let the room be empty and I get a little batty.
I say all this to explain that I am not easy to love. I am a pain in the a$$;however, because of my crazy life I understand how to love and how to make someone feel unloved. I figure if I explain it, maybe other people will learn from my life and see that they are in a relationship where they are not giving enough and need to change their errors or maybe it's time to give up and walk away with self respect.
Lets break it down to 7 easy "T" steps...
1. Time: To make someone feel unloved, avoid time with them. And if you can not avoid time with them... give them smaller amounts and do not give them your attention. Look at your phone, be distracted. Even if your body is physically there with the person, make sure your mind and thoughts are elsewhere. Another way to accomplish this is to make sure you are selfish. Never check on them. Avoid finding out what they want or need.
2.Touch: According to psychology, touch is important in relationships. Hugging someone you care about can literally bring down the stress hormone, cortisol, and lower blood pressure. It is a glue that can help with a feeling of unity. Touch helps your brain to give off happy brain chemicals such as, dopamine. Touch can be simple and innocent as laying your hand on their arm or leg. It can also be as in depth as real affection such as kissing or sex. Simple public displays of touch can create an outward show to the world that you are a team. If you avoid touching the person you are attempting to make feel unloved and make sure that the only touch they receive from you is off hand, cold, or forced you will slowly and effectively allow a winters chill to settle in their heart towards you. This should give their heart a feeling of frostbite and make them second guess themselves and often their ego will suffer.
3. Team: If you have ever been apart of something such as a team, you understand the idea that everyone one the "team" does better and fights harder for the team when they feel invested and part of the team. One way to break the feeling of team is to give intimate details about your life with others. This shows to others that you are not a member of the team and do not need the original members of the '"team."
3: Tenderness: When you watch tv or movies and the one member of a couple looks at the other person, there is a look of tenderness in their eyes. This tenderness must be cut out of your eyes, your words, and your touch. Love is tender and kind. 'Unlove' is rough, mean, and "jokes" about the other person. It is judgmental and unforgiving. It holds grudges. Tenderness can be the sweet nothings of chatting about your day before you fall asleep. It can be the sweet gestures that mean nothing to anyone else, but mean the world to the person you formerly loved. Make sure to avoid tenderness.
5. Talk: Lets discuss tone. I can say I hate you to my BFF while laughing and joking because she looks absolutely lovely in a dress that made me feel like a sack of potatoes... and by no means do I hate her. The tone of the talk between you is very important. Make sure the same coldness that you exhibit in your touch carries over to your voice. Make it obvious that you do not mean a single word you say when you say anything kind or that might accidentally convey feelings of love or compassion. Also another effective way to make the person feel unloved is to talk down to them and make them feel low and unworthy of you.
6. Try: Effort. Don't do things for the other person. Don't try to make their life better. Don't do things to help them. Make sure you don't include their needs or dreams in your plans. They do not need to think that their hopes or dreams are important.
7. Trust: Trust is like the mayo in a tuna fish sandwich...it keeps all the random things that make up the couple STUCK together. Trust can help the other person ignore things that might seem fishy and allow them to focus on all the things you do right. Make sure you have secret communications with others. Make sure that you have long periods of time that are unaccounted for. If at all possible create new and random schedules that do not fit your normal schedule and act like the other person is crazy. Change things about yourself... how you dress, what you find interesting, and what you talk about so that the other person feels like an outsider and feels like you are changing to be more like interesting to someone else. By changing things and creating a sense of uncertainty the other person looses trust. Trust is bond. Trust is an essential concrete in the wall that surrounds a relationship and keeps it free from outsiders and disease.
If you follow those 7 easy steps in ANY relationship it will catch fire and become a memory like the Hindenburg. If it go up in flames and be a remainder to the other person of something not to do. Not only will the person feel unloved and unwanted but you will also help to shatter their ideas of happiness and satisfaction and ruin their ego. They will get edgy and worry. They will second guess themselves and even if you are completely innocent and doing nothing wrong.
Remember, this is the quick and easy list of how to make someone feel unloved. If these are steps the person you are in a relationship with is doing... you might need to make choices to protect yourself.
I understand that I am not the typical "weaker sex" in a relationship. I don't fulfill the "typical girl role." I don't mind getting dirty and have had to take care of myself for choice and by force before. I have learned how to love others. I have experienced how to NOT be loved more.
I am not good at change. I am not a fan of stress. I am NOT tough; due to previous failed marriages and some major life changes that have reduced my friends and family circles a time or 100, I have trust issues that are so significant that they could be labeled as "deep and wide."
I'd love to tell you that I am stable, calm, and can focus exclusively on the matter that needs dealt with; that would be a lovely description of someone, not me, but someone. I am needy. I am difficult to be in a relationship with. I am pretty sure that this applies to most all of my relationships and not just romantic type ones. I am needy and bossy and emotional in ways that psychology professors could have had a field day with and create their life's work writing books about all my drama.
I am not needy in a someone needs to take care of me sort of way. I don't need "things." I am not a gold digger and do not require gifts or lavish treats. I demand attention. No, not exactly... I require attention. I require it the same way that flowers need light. Maybe that's it. I am the kind of flower that needs a LOT of direct sunlight. I am not, nor will I ever be one of those flowers that only need a few measly hours of sunlight. I am not those people. I have found that I can happily share room with other people and neither one speaking and I am fine... But let the room be empty and I get a little batty.
I say all this to explain that I am not easy to love. I am a pain in the a$$;however, because of my crazy life I understand how to love and how to make someone feel unloved. I figure if I explain it, maybe other people will learn from my life and see that they are in a relationship where they are not giving enough and need to change their errors or maybe it's time to give up and walk away with self respect.
Lets break it down to 7 easy "T" steps...
1. Time: To make someone feel unloved, avoid time with them. And if you can not avoid time with them... give them smaller amounts and do not give them your attention. Look at your phone, be distracted. Even if your body is physically there with the person, make sure your mind and thoughts are elsewhere. Another way to accomplish this is to make sure you are selfish. Never check on them. Avoid finding out what they want or need.
2.Touch: According to psychology, touch is important in relationships. Hugging someone you care about can literally bring down the stress hormone, cortisol, and lower blood pressure. It is a glue that can help with a feeling of unity. Touch helps your brain to give off happy brain chemicals such as, dopamine. Touch can be simple and innocent as laying your hand on their arm or leg. It can also be as in depth as real affection such as kissing or sex. Simple public displays of touch can create an outward show to the world that you are a team. If you avoid touching the person you are attempting to make feel unloved and make sure that the only touch they receive from you is off hand, cold, or forced you will slowly and effectively allow a winters chill to settle in their heart towards you. This should give their heart a feeling of frostbite and make them second guess themselves and often their ego will suffer.
3. Team: If you have ever been apart of something such as a team, you understand the idea that everyone one the "team" does better and fights harder for the team when they feel invested and part of the team. One way to break the feeling of team is to give intimate details about your life with others. This shows to others that you are not a member of the team and do not need the original members of the '"team."
3: Tenderness: When you watch tv or movies and the one member of a couple looks at the other person, there is a look of tenderness in their eyes. This tenderness must be cut out of your eyes, your words, and your touch. Love is tender and kind. 'Unlove' is rough, mean, and "jokes" about the other person. It is judgmental and unforgiving. It holds grudges. Tenderness can be the sweet nothings of chatting about your day before you fall asleep. It can be the sweet gestures that mean nothing to anyone else, but mean the world to the person you formerly loved. Make sure to avoid tenderness.
5. Talk: Lets discuss tone. I can say I hate you to my BFF while laughing and joking because she looks absolutely lovely in a dress that made me feel like a sack of potatoes... and by no means do I hate her. The tone of the talk between you is very important. Make sure the same coldness that you exhibit in your touch carries over to your voice. Make it obvious that you do not mean a single word you say when you say anything kind or that might accidentally convey feelings of love or compassion. Also another effective way to make the person feel unloved is to talk down to them and make them feel low and unworthy of you.
6. Try: Effort. Don't do things for the other person. Don't try to make their life better. Don't do things to help them. Make sure you don't include their needs or dreams in your plans. They do not need to think that their hopes or dreams are important.
7. Trust: Trust is like the mayo in a tuna fish sandwich...it keeps all the random things that make up the couple STUCK together. Trust can help the other person ignore things that might seem fishy and allow them to focus on all the things you do right. Make sure you have secret communications with others. Make sure that you have long periods of time that are unaccounted for. If at all possible create new and random schedules that do not fit your normal schedule and act like the other person is crazy. Change things about yourself... how you dress, what you find interesting, and what you talk about so that the other person feels like an outsider and feels like you are changing to be more like interesting to someone else. By changing things and creating a sense of uncertainty the other person looses trust. Trust is bond. Trust is an essential concrete in the wall that surrounds a relationship and keeps it free from outsiders and disease.
If you follow those 7 easy steps in ANY relationship it will catch fire and become a memory like the Hindenburg. If it go up in flames and be a remainder to the other person of something not to do. Not only will the person feel unloved and unwanted but you will also help to shatter their ideas of happiness and satisfaction and ruin their ego. They will get edgy and worry. They will second guess themselves and even if you are completely innocent and doing nothing wrong.
Remember, this is the quick and easy list of how to make someone feel unloved. If these are steps the person you are in a relationship with is doing... you might need to make choices to protect yourself.
Sunday, October 5, 2014
Killing my husband
I wanna kill my husband.
Don't get me wrong , he is nice man . He works hard and plays harder. He isn't messy. In fact, he is a bit OCD and the dirty socks beside the bed, they aren't his, they are mine.
The amount and ways that I wanna kill him has ebbed and evolved over the past year. The thing about being married to someone is that they see you in every light of humanity; good, bad, sick, grumpy, first thing in the morning, last thing before bed.... Everything . He knows that I wake up glorious and happy . I know that this annoys him. He doesn't understand it. As far as he is concerned "normal" people do not roll out if bed and hum and act like Snow White or Cinderella singing to whatever animal happens to be near them... the cat is also not a morning person. Maybe I need small rodents. Alas, I digress.
Anyway.. Back to killing .
When I first married him there was a lack of understanding between us as large and as deep as the Grand Canyon. We did not live together prior to eloping and while we did have shared life goals and love , we also had very different ideas about random things like laundry and dishes , see previously mentioned statement about OCD. He was uber organized and thinks things on shelves create clutter . I prefer to display 50000 pictures of family, friends, and loved ones. He color coordinates his closet and I have a large mass of shoes that live together in a utopian society at the bottom of my closet. .
To say that we didn't mesh is an understatement the same way that Lady Liberty is large and green.
There were days I wanted to stab him. I didn't want a divorce . I merely wanted to stab him. Thus, one of the first times I wanted to kill him..
Then we started to somewhat find a flow and started to get a teeny bit of balance . I very much liked having help with my munchkin and I wanted to cook for him and make him elaborate meals and spoil him.He accused me of trying to kill him with rich and fatty foods.
Then we started to work together. As we began working together we shifted out focus from ME to WE. It's funny how changing that one letter can shift a relationship . We tried to do things for each other. We tried to do things for the betterment of the house and not each other . Here's an example : He started bringing me home cinnamon bears from base . That' might sound trivial to you .. But let's discuss the emotionally reaction to being brought home a candy that I love and have a difficult time finding . When he brings them home I KNOW I was on his mind. I KNOW he cares about pleasing me and makings happy . I KNOW he had to give up time to go and find them . Something so small and cheap as. 99 cent candy means I am someone he cares about and wants to see smile . Those stupid bears would make me all girlie and giggly because he took the time for me I feeling important and loved made me wanna smother him in kisses . Bam..... A very different kill .
We really started to let down our guards and start to focus on self sacrifice and pleasing one another . This was a very personal and intimate step in a marriage . Doing things for another person that gains you nothing is hard . In fact, some days , it drains you . I would leave my work during my lunch, come home pack his lunch , (he works swing shift ) and then gorge myself on something fast to make it back to work on time . The great part about self sacrifice, when it came to our relationship, is that it built a safe and more intimate level. This led to me trying to letting go of a lot of my hangs ups and wanting to dirty girl kill my husband . Lol
Then I went through a very terrible no good bad and dark year . I am a teacher . I love my job. I loveeee my kiddos . However , after the murders of two students , the death of another, suicide attempts of a couple, and a whole box full of everything else seeing to be wrong ... I struggled with a horrible ugly mean chunk of depression shortly after we got married . I was cold and short and inhumanly hateful. I wanted to scream and yell. Then afterwards I was remorseful I
would want to cry profusely. I didn't have energy to do anything . I wanted to sleep and do nothing for our house. I wasn't handling . I couldn't cope. I didn't like most people . I couldn't stand myself or my thoughts . I didn't want to hurt myself ... Nope... I did want to push people down stairs . I wanted to make someone else pay for how badly I felt and unfortunately he was very often a target of my anger and rage. I hated him for not being able to help me . I hated him for not being able to understand . I hated the way he breathed sitting beside me on the couch . I didn't understand him . He had no idea what on earth had turned me into a pit of man eating anger sharks. I wanted to kill him for not understanding me . I wanted to kill him for not empathizing and understanding me . I never crossed over into physical like getting weapons or anything along those lines ... Instead I did damage far harder to fix . I separated myself from him . I cut myself off from his kindness. I blamed him for me being unhappy . I was hateful. I was meannnnnn. I wanted to kill his happiness . And truthfully .. I was very successful.
And I nearly killed everything good about us . I did things that were mean and stupid and killed his spirit. And still my killing spree wasn't over . I killed his sense of peace and happiness . I killed the joy and happiness from our marriage . These killings were probably the most wrong of all of them.
We have both done made choices that murdered the other's joy....
I won't lie and say I am a great wife . Most days I struggle with being merely good . I struggle with finding my roll within the relationship . I contempt the things he has done wrong and get mad and wanna cause him literal bodily harm. I don't research poisons ... But I will tell you that there are actions that I have taken that have been a poisonous to both him and how he feels about me and who we are as a couple .
Let's be honest... He knows me well enough to know exactly which buttons to push to make me mad... Not mad.. Furious. When that happens, I react. And I wanna kill him. I don't always let him in on that thought process ; it's better that I don't.
All I know is that I wanna kill him most days ... Now and whether it's wring his neck or kill him with kindness, that all depends on the day .
Don't get me wrong , he is nice man . He works hard and plays harder. He isn't messy. In fact, he is a bit OCD and the dirty socks beside the bed, they aren't his, they are mine.
The amount and ways that I wanna kill him has ebbed and evolved over the past year. The thing about being married to someone is that they see you in every light of humanity; good, bad, sick, grumpy, first thing in the morning, last thing before bed.... Everything . He knows that I wake up glorious and happy . I know that this annoys him. He doesn't understand it. As far as he is concerned "normal" people do not roll out if bed and hum and act like Snow White or Cinderella singing to whatever animal happens to be near them... the cat is also not a morning person. Maybe I need small rodents. Alas, I digress.
Anyway.. Back to killing .
When I first married him there was a lack of understanding between us as large and as deep as the Grand Canyon. We did not live together prior to eloping and while we did have shared life goals and love , we also had very different ideas about random things like laundry and dishes , see previously mentioned statement about OCD. He was uber organized and thinks things on shelves create clutter . I prefer to display 50000 pictures of family, friends, and loved ones. He color coordinates his closet and I have a large mass of shoes that live together in a utopian society at the bottom of my closet. .
To say that we didn't mesh is an understatement the same way that Lady Liberty is large and green.
There were days I wanted to stab him. I didn't want a divorce . I merely wanted to stab him. Thus, one of the first times I wanted to kill him..
Then we started to somewhat find a flow and started to get a teeny bit of balance . I very much liked having help with my munchkin and I wanted to cook for him and make him elaborate meals and spoil him.He accused me of trying to kill him with rich and fatty foods.
Then we started to work together. As we began working together we shifted out focus from ME to WE. It's funny how changing that one letter can shift a relationship . We tried to do things for each other. We tried to do things for the betterment of the house and not each other . Here's an example : He started bringing me home cinnamon bears from base . That' might sound trivial to you .. But let's discuss the emotionally reaction to being brought home a candy that I love and have a difficult time finding . When he brings them home I KNOW I was on his mind. I KNOW he cares about pleasing me and makings happy . I KNOW he had to give up time to go and find them . Something so small and cheap as. 99 cent candy means I am someone he cares about and wants to see smile . Those stupid bears would make me all girlie and giggly because he took the time for me I feeling important and loved made me wanna smother him in kisses . Bam..... A very different kill .
We really started to let down our guards and start to focus on self sacrifice and pleasing one another . This was a very personal and intimate step in a marriage . Doing things for another person that gains you nothing is hard . In fact, some days , it drains you . I would leave my work during my lunch, come home pack his lunch , (he works swing shift ) and then gorge myself on something fast to make it back to work on time . The great part about self sacrifice, when it came to our relationship, is that it built a safe and more intimate level. This led to me trying to letting go of a lot of my hangs ups and wanting to dirty girl kill my husband . Lol
Then I went through a very terrible no good bad and dark year . I am a teacher . I love my job. I loveeee my kiddos . However , after the murders of two students , the death of another, suicide attempts of a couple, and a whole box full of everything else seeing to be wrong ... I struggled with a horrible ugly mean chunk of depression shortly after we got married . I was cold and short and inhumanly hateful. I wanted to scream and yell. Then afterwards I was remorseful I
would want to cry profusely. I didn't have energy to do anything . I wanted to sleep and do nothing for our house. I wasn't handling . I couldn't cope. I didn't like most people . I couldn't stand myself or my thoughts . I didn't want to hurt myself ... Nope... I did want to push people down stairs . I wanted to make someone else pay for how badly I felt and unfortunately he was very often a target of my anger and rage. I hated him for not being able to help me . I hated him for not being able to understand . I hated the way he breathed sitting beside me on the couch . I didn't understand him . He had no idea what on earth had turned me into a pit of man eating anger sharks. I wanted to kill him for not understanding me . I wanted to kill him for not empathizing and understanding me . I never crossed over into physical like getting weapons or anything along those lines ... Instead I did damage far harder to fix . I separated myself from him . I cut myself off from his kindness. I blamed him for me being unhappy . I was hateful. I was meannnnnn. I wanted to kill his happiness . And truthfully .. I was very successful.
And I nearly killed everything good about us . I did things that were mean and stupid and killed his spirit. And still my killing spree wasn't over . I killed his sense of peace and happiness . I killed the joy and happiness from our marriage . These killings were probably the most wrong of all of them.
We have both done made choices that murdered the other's joy....
I won't lie and say I am a great wife . Most days I struggle with being merely good . I struggle with finding my roll within the relationship . I contempt the things he has done wrong and get mad and wanna cause him literal bodily harm. I don't research poisons ... But I will tell you that there are actions that I have taken that have been a poisonous to both him and how he feels about me and who we are as a couple .
Let's be honest... He knows me well enough to know exactly which buttons to push to make me mad... Not mad.. Furious. When that happens, I react. And I wanna kill him. I don't always let him in on that thought process ; it's better that I don't.
All I know is that I wanna kill him most days ... Now and whether it's wring his neck or kill him with kindness, that all depends on the day .
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