Exploring What Love Is

When I was younger, I would check the newspaper to clip a cartoon that would offer an explanation of what “Love is . . .”  My parents told me they loved me and they showed me in their way. For them, love was an actionable expression.  It was hard work to provide for our needs with occasional splurges of frivolity.  My mom still gives me jewelry because she loves sparkly things and I do too.  I love metamorphic rocks, and they frequently look like diamonds, and other swanky bits of crystallized rock often cut and shining under glass in jewelry stores.  I also like sandstone with quartz inclusions.  It doesn’t have to be expensive to be pretty.  My favorite rocks come from outdoor adventures and my latest acquisitions are from Will Rogers State Beach. I’ve always listened for “I love you.” I try to tell my kids I love them several times a day, and I demand hugs because hugs are healing. They don't need to tell me they love me.  I see it in their actions.  They need to hear that I love them because I don't want them to ever doubt that truth.

In the last few months I started to delete most voicemails and text messages.  Some things don’t need to be revived because being hurt once can be enough and my mind likes to recreate certain injuries.  Pain turns literature into tangible emotions. I deleted things so I wouldn’t be able to torture myself with them. I only keep a handful of texts and voicemails on my phone.  That means I’m intentional with listening to the voicemails and reading the text messages and the ones that make me feel special or giddy or happy get to stay.  A couple of months ago I focused on listening to voicemails and saving photo attachments from emails and text messages. Listening to voicemails taught me that I need to tell people they are loved. It’s so easy to call someone when you have a need.  It’s so easy to say I’m checking in on someone, but it should be just as easy to tell someone I love them.  I noticed when I don’t do exactly what my Dad wants me to, I’ll tell him I love him, but he will say his goodbyes with stoic finality.  His idea of love falls heavily on obedience. For him love means he can call me for help and he knows he can rely on me. My Mom calls to check on me and there’s love in the call, but she won’t say she loves me.  Not usually. Calling to check on me is her way of expressing love for me. Bringing me groceries out of the blue because she was thinking of me when she was shopping for her own home tells me she is always thinking of me and loving me.

I’m not looking for someone to tell me they love me.  I’m not trying to recreate a feeling and I’m not trying to replace what I felt in marriage.  In regards to the opposite sex, my smiles are given freely but I haven't wanted to do much more than smile for the most part.  I've decided I'm not interested in killing time with Mr. Right Now.  I’ve given enough years to silly infatuations and really, I like falling in love, but it’s not always worth the emotional exhaustion. Besides, right now I’m really enjoying my own company.  I like being picky about where I want to eat when I actually feel like eating. I like deciding to do whatever my mood dictates without worrying about fitting into someone else’s plans.  When the kids are home, they are never interested in much outside of Minecraft and YouTube.  Kid3 loves a good skate park with my younger brother and step dad. I let the kids dictate my plans when they’re home and I find contentment in being home with their sounds and random snuggles. Doing what they value is part of my display of love and affection.

Expressing my love for someone comes out as gratitude.  I try to thank people for their words of encouragement or their consideration.  My love comes out as a careful observation and my willingness to show someone that I see them and they don't have to prove who they are because I see them so clearly.  They mean so much to me that I can see them outside of the mess in my own mind - in my own life.  I used to have a thing for Martha Stewart.  That lady knew her way around a home and I wanted to learn from her.  I had over 8 years of magazines on a shelf when I met my husband.  A few men before him was a man that noticed how important it was to me to subscribe to a magazine for a few years and keep every single magazine.  He watched me as I would touch each one along its spine, in search of the right one because I knew the articles I loved and could find one in minutes based on the spine.  He used to laugh at how my brain worked when it came to words.  They pop out at me and I have a hard time not reading whatever is in front of me. He saw me when I wasn't looking at me because I was being me.  To me, that was love, and it's my favorite way to show my love. When we moved, I was pregnant with kid1 and the ex had lots to move on his own while I was on bedrest. Those magazines were heavy and ended up in the trash. Real life took over and I stopped worrying about magazines.

I’ve read that I should be compiling a list of what I will and will not accept in a partner once I start dating but that homework doesn’t seem interesting right now.  Right now I’m thinking someone I can talk to would be great.  I want to be challenged and I want my perceptions to shift because I find myself talking to someone I can respect. I haven’t thought further than that. I mean, I want what every girl wants.  I want attention and I want to know that my smile has made someone else’s day better. I want to be looked at with desire and I like intimidating someone because they don't know that I want them just as badly. Realistically, I’m a single mom and not in a hurry to introduce new people to my sons.  I like the idea of someone that isn’t jealous of my time with my kids because for the foreseeable future, they will be my priority and while they are with me, they will come before my needs and desires.  For now, that’s all I can think of.  I think there’s an instinctive voice that tells you when it’s right.  First impressions mean a lot and I usually know when I’m attracted to someone in the first two minutes of meeting him.  Usually those relationships are intense and fizzle quickly.  I've seen that a few times in recent months and I run in the opposite direction. That being said, all of my long term relationships were with guys that grew on me after weeks of them flirting and changing my mind because I was very quick to reject them.

Pain and trauma are subjective.  I get that, but I believe love is as well.  We each experience it differently and we express it in unique ways.  It’s in the way we shift our needs around others.  It’s in the choices we make that don’t make logical sense, but feel right.  I love my dog, but I was willing to give him away.  I love my children but it doesn’t destroy me when they go to their Dad.  I love a good meal.  I could easily look at a person I genuinely care for and tell them I love them because I can justify loving the person before me enough that I would care if I never see them again, and yet I loved almond filled croissants and I haven’t shed a tear because I’m now sensitive to wheat.  I love food, but I easily feel more attachment to someone I've talked to and connected with. There’s beauty in human connection and the loss of a relationship will always be worth the mourning period. That truth looks a lot like love to me. It's easy to use love as a manipulation, but really, we see what we choose to look at.

More recently I see love as more of a choice than an emotion. Emotions come and go.  Emotions are fickle and shifting and depend on hormones and chemical reactions and brain signals.  Love that is real comes down to a choice to still love, no matter what the benefit or cost may be.  It’s the feeling you have the first time your angry child tells you they hate you. Waiting for a husband that rejected me forced me to make a daily decision to love through the rending of my heart, our family and my dreams.  The moment he told me he was done, I started sorting and packing our things separately.  I was immediately okay with letting him go, because he didn’t want me.  Later the choice to wait and fight for a dead marriage became more than a desire to preserve what we had, but a need to prove to him and me that I could be the wife he wanted.  I could forgive him.  I still forgive him, but I decided to value my desire to walk away more than my need to be everything I thought I should be. I always told him I didn’t need him but I wanted him, and this year proved it. Now I no longer want him.

There is a fear in accepting I was wrong to wait for so long through emotional abuse and humiliation.  There is shame in deciding that the people that told me he wasn’t the right fit could see much more clearly than I could. I won’t say I wish I had never met him.  We had many terrific years.  I can walk away knowing that there was a great reason for the marriage we shared and it reaches beyond our children.  I can also say that we had given each other all we could and the growth we experienced was becoming a destructive weight on both of us.  We shared most of our 20’s and 30’s and in that time we grew up and it’s okay that we grew apart.  I’m not sure what I feel for him, but I know five minutes with him Wednesday affected my evening and distracted my Thursday.  Today is Friday and I expect great things to fall in my lap.  I expect to experience love today, even if it is in a cup of coffee with the sun on my face.

A Date Myself Night

Last night took a detour.  I was excited and filled with Anticipation. It started when the kids were picked up by the ex.  He kicked me to the curb, down the gutter, and for months I couldn't even get out of the manhole.  He seemed shocked in saying I looked good.  I wasn't expecting the shock or the rage that seemed to fuel it.  He wanted to talk child care and I told him to go ahead and use his girlfriend.  The agreement we drafted was made pointless by the loophole he immediately saw, and I decided to stop fighting it when I decided I wanted a divorce.  I've told him to divorce me several times, but I decided to do it myself mid-February.  I let him know in February.  Last night he asked why we have to go back to court and I reminded him about the divorce that is coming.  He asked if I was divorcing him because of my new man.  I told him it was none of his business.

I went to visit my childhood friend that we named our firstborn after at his job and he showed me the rooftop.  The sun was starting to set, and it fell between two buildings. It's right in front of the Deloitte building which has always been my favorite because of the football shape on top of the building.  When I find hilltops in my neighborhood to look at the Downtown Los Angeles skyline, I always look for that building. The sky slide on the US Bank building was on the side we couldn't see, and I could see the Library but know it's much more beautiful inside, and I'm due to visit the fountains in the courtyard because it's been too long. I can't remember the names of all the other buildings he pointed out. He took pictures of me because I looked like I cared and that is a good look on me.

As I headed out, my date night became a date myself night.  I started heading home, but ended up taking the streets to Santa Monica.  I had a pair of jeans and my Uggs in the car, so I threw them on under my dress in the parking lot as teenaged girls were flirting with the Bubba Gump staff enjoying their breaks.  Walking up the stairs on the north entrance to the pier, I got a face full of strawberry e-smoke and an apology.  I told him I was fine.  When I smoked it smelled like tobacco, and not like fruit.  He told me the e-cigarettes helped him quit smoking and I told him I quit cold turkey but it didn't make me a nice person.  He told me that took a lot of mental strength and his observation made me smile as I hit the pier.

I thought I'd dine at Maria Sol and rewrite an old memory with someone else.  They were closing and I ended up wandering around the pier. As I was walking, a vendor stopped me to ask where I'm from.  I'm a native Californian, but he couldn't imagine me being from Santa Monica, because he would have remembered me. He takes pictures of people in front of the lit up Ferris Wheel and sets them one of top of the other for a holographic dual picture effect.  He offered to take a gratis picture of me to make me smile.  It did make me smile and I thanked him and admitted I was having a rough night at that point.  Years of being gaslighted made me start to believe I was divorcing my husband so I could date and that it had nothing to do with the times he told me he was done, or the many times he cursed me out at the top of his lungs or by text, or the time his girlfriend texted me from his phone to tell me I was a horrible mother, and physically unattractive. He was negating his responsibility for the other times my arguments with him became her fight to battle. I think the photographer's name was Martin, but he offered me coffee or tea, and told me I was beautiful. He asked me about my day and gave me words of encouragement. He handed me a free picture without a hologram and asked me to visit again sometime.

I walked away feeling better because it had been a few months since a stranger handed me something free just for the opportunity to see me smile.  Then it occurred to me that most people never have that happen to them and for me it has happened a few times a year for much of my adult life.  I truly live a charmed life when I remember to look past the drama. I walked the shoreline and passed couples in the icy water, or huddled on the sand.  There was a beachcomber with a metal detector and sand trap, sifting for the day's lost treasures.  The sound of the crashing waves is energizing and it just makes me happy.

Walking the pier, there were several men that looked at me and smiled once I acknowledged their looks.  I was being friendly but I wasn't feeling like a shameless cougar. There were two men old enough to be my grandfather.  Some were young and in groups.  One was female. Two were chasing kids or holding hands with someone else.  Then there were the handful that were purposely avoiding any glance in my direction.  They made me laugh.  Earlier in the evening I had joked with my friend about finding a self car wash near a high school in my dress to boost my mood, but that is really disgusting and something I totally would have done in my early 20's.

I left and took the streets home again.  Driving past Hollywood High School I remembered the junior high graduation I was late to. Our auditorium was too small so we borrowed theirs.  I barely made it in time step into the moving procession and make it to my seat on stage with the rest of the graduating Leadership class.  Years later I was sitting on those steps as an ex boarded all over them, grinding the rails.  I don't know if he wanted me to watch him, or if he didn't care that I was bored. He skated and I lit up one cigarette off of the butt of the last one. It might have been both. I realized I shouldn't skip dinner even if I wasn't hungry, so I stopped at the Denny's near Roscoe's Chicken and Waffles were I had my very first set up date.  It was my 10th birthday and my sisters took me out with one of their friends and his kid brother.  I sat and tried to rewire the thoughts running through my mind.

I can't be the whore I felt like for divorcing the ex.  You can't blame a divorce on a person that doesn't exist.  I reminded myself that I waited.  I waited over 10 months after he threw his wedding band in a parking lot to take mine off.  It's been over a year and it's okay to decide I am done.  As I was leaving the restaurant, the security guard asked where I am from.  That's a common question because I look uncommon. I'm mixed.  I don't fit the standard categories.  He called me beautiful too.  I thanked him and told him I was having a rough night and it definitely made a difference.  I believe taking a chance that a compliment wouldn't bring out my crazy should be rewarded with gratitude. He said I had a glow about me and he couldn't see how I could be having a rough day.  I get that a lot.  I had just eaten a Denny's pot roast, with tepid and not hot tea because I forgot I prefer IHOP's pot roast and I had a waitress doubling as the hostess. I didn't send it back because I was trying to focus on not feeling like a whore for reclaiming my future from a dead past. I smiled on my way home and this morning emailed a friend about my cover up tattoo.  I'm ready to look at designs and ideas.

First Date Anticipation

It's happening and the clock teases me by going too slowly, then speeding up too much. My 5 day kid free stretch starts in about an hour and a half and I decided I would accept not staying home or enjoying my own company.  Tonight I will share my company and consider it a public service.  I also think it's time to bite the bullet and stop being afraid of people. It shouldn't be this exciting, but it is. The caveat is the excitement is heavy handed with fear.  Right now I don't at all feel like a shameless cougar. I hold up hangers as options and then I wait and see what they have to say.  Will this one call me easy?  Does this one say I'm a prude? If I wear this dress will you see my personality, and will the sweater on top if it make it all that can be seen? My insecurities creep in and I choose the dress that feels so sexy, no one needs to care what I think.

The shoes are next, and it's an elimination process that starts with color.  The shoes should match.  Then I try them on, one at a time and walk in my underwear.  Which ones feel stable? How do my legs look? Do they pinch my toes? I go with the pair that make me feel tall and are hard not to notice.

I put on the ensemble and decide it's too much for something so little and I go with the dress that says I'm pretty and I'm really not as desperate as the last one made me feel.  It requires a little less commitment to being weatherproof as the temperatures dip into evening and I don't want to rely on a stiff drink to keep me warm.  Stiff drinks present their own shenanigans and debauchery and I'm just dabbling in my own mischief tonight. I choose the heels that are easier to walk in.

On most days I start with a clean and moisturized face.  I add blush on my cheeks, eye shadows, and eyeliner, and as an afterthought, a bit of lipstick.  I like it when I can give a hug and my makeup won't stay on someone's shoulder.  Tonight I started with a clean face but then layers of makeup piled on in layers with time to set, then in shades that compliment my dress.  My mascara smells like it's time for a replacement and I plan to grab a tube on my way out.

I change my jewelry and look for something flashy to wear, because I want soft lighting to hit shiny bits . . . if there is soft lighting.  Then I take it off because I want to wear something that is tied to my every day. Part of going out is the mystery of what someone else thinks will be my idea of fun.  My nerves are messing with my stomach and I'm considering if it would be better to puke or to cancel.  I decide deep breathing will work too. I spritz a little Versace Red Jeans on my pulse points and decide my next splurge will be on a bottle of Ysatis by Givenchy because I've always loved that scent even though I rarely wear perfume.  Then I giggle when I remember the time a friend tried to coach me into the correct pronunciation of Givenchy.  I'm officially out of control and all over the place.

The ex calls because he's running late, and that buys me another half hour to debate a cancellation.  It's a last minute night of shenanigans with someone I hadn't daydreamed about spending time with.  It's a chance at spontaneity and I didn't allow myself to think this one through and I have more time to think of the many reasons why I should take myself out alone instead.  It was so much safer to imagine a silly crush because that was safe.  I get a second chance at being single and it's a bit terrifying right this second.

I might tell you how it goes, but it won't be part of this post on anticipation because it'll be about my Date Night. One day anticipation will smell like excitement and not taste like heart burn.

My Weaknesses Displayed

Ask about my weaknesses and I'll tell you I spend more time plotting the next thing I plan to say and not listening to the ideas you've just plopped before me.  If I'm doing well, I'll stop talking at that point.  I tend to talk too much and it will cross my mind that it's a problem because you take too long to spit out what you are thinking and odds are you are not cute enough to entertain me and I will guess repeatedly what you should have said by now because my curiosity isn't satisfied by your slow self expression. Your point should have arrived and you are now stepping on my time and my interest has flown. In short, I can be really impatient. At the same time, I can get completely tongue tied.  When my words come out a jumbled heap and the words don't sound like words, that means I'm excited and nervous and feeling intimidated by the person I'm talking to.  This is the time when silly confessions and saying more than I should becomes a problem.  I will shine with the creepy observations that the average person doesn't see because that careful observation of everything around me and the imagination that fuels them are normally the perfect breeding medium for what I write, but I've turned off that censor and words tumble out and make messes of embarrassment that cover me in bright excitement and the heat rises and my cheeks feel it the most.  It's not as simple as shame or embarrassment. It is a jeweled crown of mortification.

I also have more passive than aggressive in my anger.  I may write what I think, but I won't live it out. I should verbalize my anger. I'm much more careful with the gilded frame in which I situate my words when I have fear my words will hurt another person.  I'm always a little too worried about hurting others. It's usually a strength, but not when it's only at my expense, and not when my caution is fear based. Being assertive is on my radar but I'm very much into hedonistic exploits right now, and assertive training isn't part of that. At the same time, I believe joy and happiness are choices, and I haven't found the balance between happiness and aggression.  Let me know if you think of a safe place to express my pissy moods.

Insecurities are a thing, and they're my thing.  I wrap them around me and push through them until they become my strengths for the most part.  At times I can't even see my insecurities until they've been twisted into weapons by someone else. That's the point of this post.  If I announce it, I can own it and deal with it.

I have been teased about using $5 words and shamed for trying to sound smart.  I like reading and being a bookish broad wasn't always a strength.  Again, it might just be the men I was dating. I find men that can get lost in a book and are able to converse about the ideas bounding from their shifting perspective is a new kind of sexy that I didn't know how to address before. It still intimidates me. I have spent too long trying to simplify my language so I don't look like I'm trying to make someone feel bad. I don't mind explaining myself, I just hate second guessing myself.

I do a lot of reading and much less talking, so I'm sometimes unsure about the words I want to use because I know what they look like and what they mean, but I don't always know what they sound like.  I don't want to relive reading "melancholy" out loud in junior high. That was bad.

I love too hard, and for much too long.  There are patterns we get from our family of origin, so thanks Mom. This inability to quit for the sake of love is what had me holding on to my marriage for so long.  Letting go and accepting that some questions are not meant to have answers is difficult for me.  Closure sounds so silly in the face of all that was done, but at the end of the day, it matters more that too much happened, and not why it had to.  Some things don't need a reason that I can understand.  Earthquakes are natural but not normal and we don't always know how to predict them with accuracy enough to evacuate cities.  Sometimes the shaking is the only point I need to process and grow from.

Some puzzles keep bothering me.  People and their motives are fairly easy to grasp for the most part.  Every once in awhile I'll see a puzzling expression or someone will very clearly bite their tongue on a rogue thought that very nearly escaped. A moment kept crossing my mind to the point where I had a dream about it and woke up to keep turning it over like a cat tiring out a field mouse.  A month later and it was still crossing my mind.  I've had random moments where I'll catch a similar expression on someone else, and that moment is renewed and fresh in my mind for further torment.  It's insidious. I have a hard time letting go of things I want to know that I have no possible way of finding out. It's the same for riddles and plot lines that are not neatly tied by the author.

Math is a weakness. It started with multiplication tables in the 3rd grade.  I couldn't memorize them and math tends to build on itself.  I was solving quadratic equations and slowly counting out the multiplication I should have memorized on tapping fingertips and whispered counting on murmuring lips. I did really well in geometry, but algebra was a challenge. In high school I got through my second year of algebra and believed my counselor when she said I wouldn't need anymore math.  She lied.  You need a certain level of math to graduate college, and that class likely has several prerequisites.  If you don't practice it, you will forget it.  I wanted to be a geologist until the math required scared me away.  I got through college level algebra, but then I was looking at Trigonometry, Calculus, Chemistry and Physics, which are all special names for different math tortures and I decided English sounded a lot easier.  It was the practical decision when I looked at mothering and running a home. It was the boring choice to get lost in literature when  I could spend a night in a tent and get up with the sun to play in the earth with other scientists. Banging out a paper while half asleep was easier than solving equations and mapping complex equations along the x, y, and z axis. It's a weakness I've made peace with but every so often I entertain the idea of going back to do better in those classes.

I'm messy.  I have always been messy.  I grew up with too much junk in the house and it was comfortable. As an adult, walking into the home of a hoarder is both familiar and it gives me extreme anxiety.  As mom, I tried to keep up but found myself snapping at sensory integration dysfunction meltdowns.  When kid1 and kid2 were little, I would piece their wooden puzzles together and neatly stack them.  I'd leave the room for laundry, and hear the crash of a box of wooden puzzles being turned upside down and scattered with the Hot Wheels and Thomas the Tank Engine.  My kids might not have survived being toddlers if I hadn't decided the messes weren't that important. I had to let it go, or risk becoming an abusive parent.  Now I will save major cleaning for when they are with their Dad and I even enjoy cleaning up, but to clean while they are actively making messes can make me angry and a bit terrifying. I used to get so angry when I was trying to clean up around the ex that was watching television or laying in bed. The wife I was had to do everything at home on my own and I knew that if I left a mess, it would wait for me to get to it whenever I got around to it. Ideally, they would clean up after themselves, but that first struggle of having to wait for people to talk translates here as well.  It's easier on me mentally if I just do it myself, and one day I would love to hire someone to do it for me. Sometimes they help and from what I understand, they do a lot more at their Dad's house, but when I'm not exhausted, I find peace in picking up after my natural disasters while they sleep.  I put on music and dance through it.  There's balance.  If you saw how organized my sewing kit is, you'd see how much I crave the control.

I don't cry often.  It's a weakness because humans are not meant to hold it all in. At times I'll have a slow leak of too much emotion.  The tears fall silently and I may sniffle a bit, then blame it on allergies.  Most people around me might not notice it unless they are super sensitive or over informed about my latest drama. There's always drama. I have a seething angry cry.  That usually comes out when I withhold a beating of angry words for someone else's sake.  I don't ugly cry though and those cries are the most healing.  I don't even cry chopping onions anymore.  I could use a good cry and I'm not even sure how to turn that stuff on.  I could have been one of those women that manipulates a relationship with waterworks, but I never figured out how.

The Pets I've Loved

As a kid, I remember finding a dead bird and wrapping it in large ivy leaves and giving it a full burial.  My neighbors had a thing for birds and I watched over several days as they carved a piece of softwood into a nest for their little eggs.  The neighborhood dog had puppies every spring.  I wanted to witness every aspect of puppies and dog life, and would laugh at seeing two dogs stuck together. They were cute until they became loud and stinky.  I eventually convinced my parents to let me have one.  There's nothing like the smell of puppy breath and seeing them wander aimlessly on bellies with pudgy and useless paws, leading with noses that know the smell of their exhausted mother, though their eyes and ears were sealed shut. I've rescued a litter from underneath a house because the spot chosen during the beginning rains wasn't ready for the water sluicing through the mud as the storm progressed.  One spring I was cramming for an exam and the dog sitting at my feet started whelping pups. That carpet was doomed and I ended up ripping it out myself. With the many births and pets I've had, death and loss are part of that.  I've cried over some of my animals, but not all of them.  Maybe that makes me cold, but I doubt you cry over every human life lost and broadcast on the news.  I tend to do that and don't watch the news anymore because of the uncontrollable empathy that I feel, but I will read and catch up on stories as I choose to. I've always thought of animals as part of my home, but home is shifting for me.  I have a home, but more and more my home is where I am happiest, and that place shifts depending on my mood.  It's no longer tied to a place and a person. It's all about me, and while I still have animals in my home, they are not my home.  I miss my children when they are gone, but shared custody has given me an early empty nest for part of the week.  For a while I wanted home to be my haven, but I'm finding peace in knowing my home travels wherever I roam and I can find joy in almost anything.

We're down to two animals! My lonesome koi doesn't count as I have nothing to do with his survival.  That little thing just won't die.  I never even named the little guy. I like having the two animals.  We're down to the first two we adopted when we moved here 9 years ago and before we found out about the many allergies my older two suffer from.

Nature is the German Shepherd mix we adopted as a puppy.  I can't justify her name, but I can justify the pride my then 5 year old felt in naming her.  He's 14 now.  He was nonverbal for so long, we were encouraging his words in any way they came out.  She has old lady joints and forgets about them sometimes.  She reminds me of myself although I would be willing to part with her.  She follows me and lounges near me.  She understands when I tell her to get off the couch or go to her yard, but she will also look at me as she tries to steal scraps at the table. She gets that from Kid2. Socks is the cat we had since she was a teenager of a kitten.  She was playful and loved socks on laundry day.  Now she's a murderer that will eviscerate birds, rodents and lizards, leaving entrails and feathers with an occasional tail.  She eats her kill, then she'll delicately lick her paws as if it's a regular bath and not destruction of evidence. She keeps rodents away, so she's a keeper. She likes people though.  The first few weeks after my ex left, she would bring me a freshly killed bird each morning.  I hate the way she loves me.

We had Max dog for several years.  He was a stray that followed my niece home.  She couldn't keep him and we took him to the pound.  We kept checking on him to see if he had a missing owner that missed him.  We eventually adopted him because I couldn't imagine that sweet boy being put down.  Now my niece is a grown up with her own place and she was able to take him back.  He was my teenager, always hungry and sneaking food off the table, and sneaking out for a midnight run.  He was very sweet and loving and often tried to steal kisses from me, but he knew I don't get licked by dog tongues. Every so often he would try to convince me he could be a lap dog. My niece picked him up last night before I hit the beach. I didn't ask the kids.  I just did it and when they got home today they were okay with it.  They like the idea of visiting him still or having him visit on holidays when my brother brings his dog, my sister sometimes brings hers, and my nephews bring theirs.

I've had so many animals.  It started with a German Shepherd named Spikey Brownie Power.  I wanted to name him after Spike from Tom and Jerry.  My sister wanted to name him Brownie but I was the baby and I won almost everything until my parents started foster care.  Spikey came from the neighborhood dog that got knocked up every time she was in heat and we called her Puppy.  I called her Puppy Power and that's where his last name came from.

Bear was my favorite.  He didn't do tricks because I didn't teach him any, but he was smart and he understood me.  He understood English and my very limited Spanish. My early 20's were rough and he was by my side with his head in my lap whenever I cried.  I got him through Parvo only to lose him to a rattlesnake bite a few months later. Living in the wilder areas near Dodger's Stadium wasn't always great.  Sure parking at home and walking to the stadium had perks.  The grassy lots on Elysian Park and Stadium Way that people park in now were always full of rattlers.   My friends were always giving Bear tastes of their beer. He was a chow mix mutt.

All of my animals were mutts and either came from a shelter or got adopted out of a back yard in the neighborhood. Mighty Max was a chihuahua that came with the name a friend gave him before she had to give him up. Gorda ended up being an only puppy because her mother (Puppy) was part stupid and had her litter on the couch we kept on the porch.  Some of them were smothered in the cushions and under her. Puppies that survive when their littermates all die get to sample each nipple as many times as they want to.  She loved falling asleep in my pumps.   Eventually only her muzzle would fit in my shoe. Chester was mainly black with a patch of white that looked like chest hair.  Cuddles was a husky and she was a whiny little bitch. We had a chihuahua named Naughty List.  You can't be a homeless dog at Christmas without being on the Naughty List.  Honestly, I don't remember all of the animals I've had.

The cats I remember were Sugar who was white with a orange litter mate named Tang. Our sitter's neighborhood cat died, leaving her kittens homeless and I wanted to rescue them.  Arwen was my cuddly cat.  She would lay on me at night.  I would shift positions or roll over and she would walk on me as I rolled and ended up on top of me as smoothly as if I had never moved.  She was the mothering cat that took in and loved all kittens.  We adopted her from the pound after her abortion.  She's been gone a little over a year. Milk was a kitten I got from my sister.  His mother was a Savannah that my sister bought on sale which means she still spent more than I would have. He was my first tiny kitten and I had no idea cow's milk could be fatal.   A large vet bill later, and I named him Milk. My ex brought home a pit bull for long enough to break in a window that Milk jumped out of.  Milk died by dog when the pit decided it was play time.  The pit went away after that.  I've fostered a couple of kittens long enough to know round the clock feedings with a wet cotton ball were not worth the cute.

We also had reptiles.  For a while, the ex wanted to run a reptile rescue.  I never volunteered to be his mother, so I went with it as long as my involvement was as minimal as I wanted. The kids preferred sleeping on the couches, so he commandeered their room to house over 30 different reptiles.  I had a few I liked.  I had two sulcata tortoises I named Slow and Poke.  I had a couple of baby albino corn snakes I named Clio and Calliope.  We had a tegu that I fed raw ground turkey mixed with raw eggs and calcium powder.  We just called him Tegs. He had a dog like temperament, and would follow me around in the little play pen we put up for him.  The cats would watch from outside, super curious and more cautious.  We had a mali uromastyx named Chubby that I grew collard greens for.  He was sweet and loved so much by Kid2. I hated the iguana and that temperamental tail whip of a beast hated me too. One Father's Day one of the red tailed boa constrictors gave live birth, then smashed some of it's babies because snakes are awful mothers.  We had ball pythons and bearded dragons that were always in the mood for love. We had turtles and frogs, and chameleons.  There were live rodents and frozen rodents, live crickets and freeze dried crickets.  I chopped fresh produce and was grateful that someone in the house was willing to eat a salad.

When I was a kid I had a hamster named Goober.  My uncle found him and his habitat with food and everything else he needed left with the trash collection in 90210. He was a sweet little food hoarder.  We brought home a rat and didn't feed the snakes right away.  She gave birth and I pardoned her.  That is how we started breeding rats for a while.  They don't mind incest and we had several rat litters going for a while.  They are amazing mothers, willing  to steal babies from other mothers to raise and care for.  Feeding them is important because once food becomes scarce (even by a couple of hours), they will turn into cannibals and eat each other.  I couldn't keep doing it because, ew.

I fully recognize I've done more than most would, and it's quite enough. I like other people's animals, but this newly designed life I'm choosing isn't going to keep including animals.  I may keep a cat because I prefer an invited cat that is okay staying outdoors to uninvited rodents, but once Nature dies I'm not getting a replacement dog.  I plan to run away on weekends and I can't do that without worrying about the beasts.  In the last decade or so, animals that can't reproduce were a first choice.  We'd have pets and ask someone to check on them when we wanted to skip town, but now I love the idea of an empty house and no obligations because I know the kids are fine with their Dad when he has them and I love the idea of skipping town to play in towns I've always wanted to see. Is it horrible that the last guy that asked for my number while walking his dog was rejected because of the dog I was petting? Really, the question of whether I'm dating comes down to who's asking and so far I haven't been asked by anyone I'd be willing to change my dating status for. Dog or no dog, I probably would've found another reason to reject him.

Laughter and Flirting Over the Pacific on Easter

I can't complain about my Easter away from my kids.  I was with family.  There was lots of laughter and joy.  Maybe a little Jim Beam Apple Whiskey, straight up. Very little.  Like a taste, but not enough to call it a shot, and I gave my Mom's orange tree a taste too, because it looked thirsty.  I'm so not a drinker but there are enough in my family that my weak contributions are made up for.

My brother had an idea for my cover up tattoo.  I haven't nailed down ideas yet for covering up the ex's name.  He offered a mock up with a sharpie. It was somewhere along the lines of a craigslist ad.  I declined his offer.  All of us laughed for a little too long over that, and it was a moment of my family joining in on what they've spent a year respectfully giving space to.  My nephews and even my baby brother suggested different dating sites and apps.  They want to see me move on and they believe in my ability to find happiness.  They saw what years with the ex meant for me, and they want better.  I have no idea what better looks like, but they believe he's out there for me. They encouraged me to jump in and go after what I want. They made me laugh and they made me smile and these days my smiles come so much easier than they used to. I wanted to laugh and smile and I was happy to take their suggestions. I needed that push.  It was a good push.

I came home for long enough to get a few things done, then I drove to the beach.  There's something about the ocean that makes me happy. I walked along Will Rogers for long enough to be slightly creeped out at being completely alone except for the few men going through the trash cans with flashlights.  I was approached with a friendly request for a joint.  I haven't touched one in decades. I decided a more populated beach might be a wise decision and drove to Santa Monica.  I walked along the sand for a while, then decided to walk the pier and see if fish were biting for the anglers up there.  I was surprised by a text, and ended up flirting shamelessly for a while before heading home.

I've decided the moment my husband changed into my ex, was when I was ready to consider a next.  The men in my family encouraged me enough to take a chance and the reward on my gamble was huge.  There's been laughter tonight.  Lots of laughter and silly giggles.  There is so much healing in silly giggles and belly laughs. The flirting was completely one sided.  It was entirely on my side, with spaced out polite responses from the other side.  The huge take away was that I loved the way flirting made me feel. Even a polite lack of interest is something to celebrate.

Angry Diatribes and Self Inflicted Injuries

The husband is on his way to pick the kids up for Easter.  We haven't really talked since my birthday and that was before I started blogging.  I can't stop the million and four mean things I should have said that run through my mind.  I start an internal chant of, "I forgive him," but the rage pushes through because I can't forget how he burned that bridge with me still on it.

I love my boys.  I love their hugs.  I love their silliness.  I see their fear and the uncertainty they live in.  My son spilled his drink while pouring it.  Sugar free fruit punch splattered, then pooled on the countertop and he began to attack himself over the accident.  He vocalized his frustration with himself.  He started to hit his head.  I stopped him.  I hugged him.  I told him it was a little spill and when was the last time I freaked out on a little spill?  On the other hand, actively making messes while I am actively cleaning up will piss me off.  He smiled at that and hugged me back, then I cleaned up the mess because it took two seconds and a flowing motion from what I was already in the middle of. It's the next morning and I feel I need to be gentle with myself for nurturing the responsibility of the mess away from him.

There was a chance I wanted to take that I didn't, and those thoughts still haunt me.  I know the timing is wrong because I am still angry with my husband that I am still legally married to.  I believe there are chapters in my life on hold, waiting to be woven into the narrative. I know that in time everything falls into place in the best possible way.

Today I will be gentle with myself.  I will love my quirky ideals and accept my anger as a valid feeling before I release it.  I will play with my hair and spackle on makeup because I owe myself the focus and I may meet my next adventure later tonight. Then I'm putting on jeans because that adventure usually lies along Pacific Coast Highway. I hear good things about Zuma Beach and I haven't been there yet.

Scent Memories and Lingering Ghosts

There's something so primal about a memory tied to scent. Infants at birth will use their sense of smell to know where food is coming from.  They are familiar with the sound of mom's voice but her scent is instinctual. There's an entire science of pheromones and secretions from sexual organs that call to sexual partners.  It's really fascinating and gets me excited in all my geeky places.  Scents can flood your mind with memories, help your memory and brain function, boost your mood . . . Your nose is amazing.  Mine tends to spread across my face a bit like peanut butter. It's adorable on my kids though. I was part of the last minute hordes on an egg run at the grocery store this morning. Reaching for a dozen eggs, my nose started sniffing in the opposite direction from where I was reaching and looking.  A man walked past me and his scent hit me in the memories of 8th grade.  I don't remember what he looked like.  It didn't even matter.  He reminded me of a boy in a semester length typing class.  I loved walking past him because he smelled like his black leather jacket and Drakkar Noir.  I didn't have a crush on him.  I just loved smelling him.

Dial antibacterial hand soap reminds me of a particular summer.  I once bought a ginormous refill bottle that lasted the entire summer.  There was a blonde skater who was in the middle of renovating his house.  He used the same soap in his bathroom, and that scent always reminds me of him. One whiff reminds me of him, but it only took two dates to decide he wasn't worth my time or the free drinks.

Old Spice reminds me of a frat boy with a gift for a single handed bra removal, and a love of binge drinking. He was an engineering major, and dorky enough to be cute. He didn't always wear it, but the one time he did left a memory that revives itself when I smell the original after shave. He loved how tall I was and had the silkiest black hair.  At the end of the day, commitment was never meant to be part of our relationship.

Sun tan oil reminds me of a season in skate shops and sandalwood scented sex wax.  That was a spring filled with Boone's Farm, sage smudge sticks and nicotine kisses. It was a time when I could expect a hand picked bouquet of some neighbor's flowers each day.

Lately my scent memory reminds me I have a history before marriage and I will have a future after this one.  There will probably be a next husband once I get past the fear of being open to the first date.  I wonder what that will smell like.

Why Confidence is More Than Body Image

I was bathing suit shopping with a friend who told me she wished she had my confidence.  If I can accept the lower aspects of the people I love, then I have to accept the lower parts of who I am, and be willing to grow from where I am to where I intend to be. I've loved large men, even the morbidly obese. I've loved drug addicts.  I've loved narcissistic men who cared more about how I made them look, than how I felt.  I've loved materialistic men, and men with less attractive features. I didn't let bad hygiene keep me from love.  If I can love in spite of a less than ideal partner, what makes me any less loveable? I tell my autistic sons that Superman has super sensory abilities, but we would never call him disabled.  If he's not disabled, they're superheroes too.  If they're superheroes, and I am the curator of their future, what makes me any less than amazing?

I spend a decent amount of time each morning in my bra and panties, standing in front of a full body mirror like Linda Carter did when I used to watch Wonder Woman.  Hands on hips, proud of my . . . well, I like the way a good bra fits. From this angle, I can see all of me, and I refuse to look for imperfections.  That would be like watching the sun during a sunset, but ignoring the shifting colors in the sky and clouds.

I never take off the class ring my Dad bought me.  I refused a ring in high school because I always knew I'd eventually get my college ring.  It took 17 years for a 4 year degree, but I earned it without cheating or taking short cuts.  I did it with a young family, and through surrogacies, and I usually had to fight for and justify my plans to my husband because being a student meant I had less to offer him and the kids.  I still had to do all of the cooking and cleaning and studying, and coming to bed because he was tired of waiting up for me, even though I'd sneak out of the bedroom once he was asleep and bang out a paper into the early morning hours for class the next day.  For a while, kid2's greatest goal when he grows up was to be a graduate.  More than what I accomplished in school was what it looked like to my kids.

On any given day, if I pay attention, I can spot at least one person checking me out. He will usually be fully aware that it would be a waste of time to approach me, but he's looking and for a moment, he sees something he wants.  Ignoring these looks is part of survival as a female in a larger city.  No matter what you look like, people will look, and for a moment, you become a living centerfold.  Teenaged boys could have a breeze make them happy.  It doesn't take much to spark male imaginations. You can wilt at the blatant objectification, or let it empower you as you decide what that look means or doesn't mean to you. Keep your head held high, and consider your attraction a public service as you've probably brightened someone's day.

Wear the short skirt or low cut blouse.  Stuff yourself into those jeggings because feeling like stuffed sausage looks hot. (I actually don't own a pair of jeggings.) Sway your hips with each step you take, one foot directly in front of the other, shoulders back.  Choose the bikini.  Wear the heels that make your calves rock solid and lift your butt just enough. Always throw on your confidence.  No one can manufacture it or make it fit, except for you.

A Princess Poem

Another fall back Friday poem from before 2005. A Princess

I am a princess

I don’t hide it

Every one knows

Though they see me differently

That man,

Over there drowned in his

Hip-hop style

That street-talking-no-class-having boy

“What’s up?” he says

I smile

He sees me as some ghettofied Nubian Princess

My waiter

The waiter that has claimed me while I dine here

That dickies-wearing-gang-style boy

Attempting an honest living

He sees me as a puta

When I refuse the tap water he places in front of me

A puta

To some men, even princesses are putas

As the customer

I own him

As a princess

I pardon him

That girl

The one who can’t control her dirty looks

The one with the cheap perfume and

Butterfly wing eyelashes

The one who tries to cover her foul insides with that

Elaborate

Covering.  She tries

So hard and doesn’t know

That she too can be a princess

I smile her way

And I don’t care what she thinks

Of me

I know I am a princess

Glendale College Parking

This is a fall back Friday poetry offering from some time before 2005. Glendale College Parking

It’s a dance, really

Driving in circles

Watching, coveting the person

Walking to their car

They tease you seductively

Knowing they’re being watched

Your pulse races

Foreplay

The car is moved

And it returns to the sea of other cars

Somewhere on the floor – in the backdrop of your mind

Before your spot is stolen

You plunge forward

Backing slowly

Then forward and in again

It’s become an art now

Easing the friction

Sliding in and out until

Your surroundings are

Equidistant with the slickness of space

You’re surrounded

Held almost

That spot is yours

You shift the gear into park position

And the hum of the engine is calm

It sits in it’s spot

Idle and content

You turn off the engine

And your car is at rest

You lock up and head off to class

And you forget – that space was raped

And will be again

Once you pull out

And are discarded

And forgotten

My Apologies for Objectifying A Beautiful Man

I can see how shameless my crush watch on Mr. Hot (and so out of reach) was. This revision comes with perspective because time is generous that way.  Also, it seemed important to give this apology a special place. What started out as silly with That’s cute. became out of control with my Obsessive Observations.  It's faded into the delight of what my crush became to me, even though he offered nothing more than smiles and someone to daydream about that wasn't my ex. It was a series of firsts that I wrote about in Crushing and Laughter  and I was able to share my gratitude about some of them in Thank you. which was about many men in my life. It was nice to imagine someone else in writing Haunted and Your name. What is most shameful is my blatant objectification of a man who probably has strong feelings and I so obviously wasn't interested in them.  I wrote about his body, and in keeping what I saw when I looked in his eyes to myself, I completely made him a thing. What kind of human being does that? It might have been a partial attempt to keep certain things private and only mine, but in so doing, I've violated him in the way so many women are violated and objectified.  I used him for my lusty purposes and a part of my audience, with opinions I actually care about know I'm not all sugar and spice and hiding in a closet somewhere there might be leather and lace and we won't discuss restraint, because clearly I have very little.  I've taken off my mask unintentionally and while I was received in love, it wasn't planned and there was shock. Whether or not this is or one day will be publicly tied to me, I feel I owe him a sincere apology.  For nearly a year I was determined to be a wife, accepting all my husband dished out to me, and in a few sentences he changed my mind.  I met that with fear and reacted by objectifying him to avoid how deeply he affected me.  It was a cop out and I really am sorry that I was so afraid of the light he exposed into my darkness. This light grew into a confidence that helped me remove my wedding band and decide it was time to let go. People we both worked with have been given access to details about my lustful infatuation and I really feel bad if it's caused him any embarrassment.  It is a responsibility that falls solidly on my shoulders and my apologies to him are weighted with a debt of gratitude.

Being Drained by Emotional Vampires

Lately when my phone rings I'm pretty sure it's going to be someone that needs a zap of my sunshine because staying positive is a thing I do.  Most interviews and follow ups come in as emails. I answer all calls and return the calls I miss because I believe a call (or text) means someone has something important to say to me.  Even pocket dials are taken as an opportunity for serendipity. Most of the time, these calls from a small handful of people leave me exhausted.  Opening with a hello often opens the door to the many ways their frustrations and stresses and depressions weigh on their souls.  They unload, and I don't avoid it because there is a trust in being the keeper of secrets.  There is an undeniable honesty in the heaviness unburdened on me.  The phrase "emotional vampire" comes to mind, but I dismiss it because it seems harsh. Every call ends with their heaviness weighing on me.  It usually takes a moment to shake it off.  Sometimes it takes effort.  Sometimes it takes a minute in the sun.  Sometimes it just requires clothing optional lounging.  The best escape and recharge is when I get lost in nostalgia and remember the times and the men that made me smile.  It's playing with my dogs or my cat taking hostage of my arm (when she's kind enough to retract those claws). Those calls end and I'm putting on music to sing and dance to.  I'm shaking off the lingering energy that is heavy and sticky.  Sometimes those calls force me outdoors.  Today  I was content in the powerlessness of being stuck in traffic.  Wow.  Does that mean I prefer traffic to the voice I heard right before it?  I'm not sure.

Free Hugs From a Hug Addict

I'm back to that person that loves hugs.  I really love hugs.  Have you ever had a hug that lingers? It's a moment of "let me hold onto you because I'm lost outside of your arms."  Or when your world is falling apart and you get one of those hugs that seem to hold you together?  Those are golden.  I don't hug everyone.  If I can't hug you like I mean it, I have no business hugging you.  If I hug someone, I want my warmth to fill every part of them.  If I'm the one that needs a refill, I find the calm of another heart beating against mine to be an amazing feeling.  Kid3 always requests a bear hug.  He likes it when I hold him so tightly he can hear his spine complain, and I lift him off the ground and nuzzle into his neck. He likes those more than I do.  I like kneeling and wrapping my arms around him, and breathing in his hair.  Kid2 likes a snuggle in bed where he fits his shoulder in my armpit and his head rests on my chest.   They all know when I give them the look that used to put fear in them, it now means I have gone far too long without a hug and I'm in need of one.  Kid1 walks over to me and puts his head on my shoulder and I wrap my arms around him, but he very rarely hugs back, and that's okay too.   I miss man hugs.  Those are special on their own.  I will never again take for granted the safety and protection a man hug can give.

Silver Linings for a Jilted Wife

Being a jilted wife hasn't been without its blessings. In the beginning, I needed some form of hope to cling to, and it was consistently provided. My greatest hope was for a reconciliation.

I had a friend tell me about her parents separating and reconciling after 8 years.  Another friend's parents did the same after 3 years.  My sister's brother in law divorced, then remarried his wife.  I was doing a bathroom and kitchen remodel and the guy doing the construction work told me about the 3 years he had left his wife and that they had just reconciled and with all of them, it was better the second time.  With all of these stories, the leaving husband was going through the same script that detailed the happiness he deserved.

There were times when I needed a financial miracle and with perfect timing, one would fall in my lap. I had a bunch of returns and purchases to make one day, and I accidentally dipped into the red in my primary checking account.  The exact amount of cash I had from the returns was able to get my account positive by pennies.  I anticipated a debit for my car insurance and when it wasn't deducted, I called and was told my account was current and not due for another month.  I still don't know how that happened. Some of the women who had told me their stories of being left for some nebulous idea of deserved happiness offered money for gas or money for frivolous Christmas gifts for the kids. I was replacing a missing toilet auger at Home Depot when I ran into my Mom and she bought the auger and a Christmas tree when I had no idea how a tree was going to happen. I've had people I didn't expect to help me buy me groceries.  My sister had my cousin bring her a pair of Uggs from his trip to Australia, and when they didn't fit her, she gave them to me.  My parents have been unceasingly generous, helping me in the most unexpected ways.

I've spent nearly 16 years being a stay at home mom and sometimes student.  My wardrobe reflected that. As a wife, I very rarely went shopping for myself. I love designer purses, but all of them have been gifts from other women or hand me downs.  I wore everything until I was forced to throw it away.  When my husband left, I was forced to look much more seriously for work, and I chose to look for something that would challenge and inspire me. I had wardrobe donations from a cousin I had met twice, and a friend of my mother's that I still have never seen.  Everything they gave me fit perfectly and I was able to be picky about what I wanted to keep.

The biggest miracles seemed to involve my car.   For most of 2015 I was driving a 1989 Ford Contour. Paying for a used car in full is what we usually did.  We'd run it into scrap, and buy another used car.  It was almost an income tax time tradition. It had problems. Lots of problems.  For most of the problems, I lucked out in having a cousin in school to become a mechanic.  They're always looking for cars to work on and it usually just cost me parts.  My Dad helped with the rest.

The night before Christmas Eve I was driving to my sister's house, 20 miles away.  After I got off of the freeway, my car started to sound funny.  Just as I was pulling into a parking space on the street near her house, the power steering went out.  I went inside and we made tamales.  When it was time to leave, I was able to drive to the gas station about two blocks from her.  I pulled into a space and added power steering fluid.  When I tried to start the car, I heard the clicking that tells you your battery is dead.  I was safely parked in a space, and my sister called to check on me.  She was walking toward me when I was talking to my roadside assistance.  They covered 10 miles. Because Dad's AAA covers 200 miles, I spent the night at my sister's house.  She had a house guest for a few months that happened to be out that night. I had a comfortable bed to sleep in.  She gave me a pair of polar fleece pajamas.  She doesn't wear contact lenses but her husband does, so I had a contact lens case and solution.  And a fresh toothbrush because she practically stockpiles those. I felt so protected and so grateful that this didn't happen on the freeway.  Facebook and the tow truck driver helped me troubleshoot.  It was the serpentine belt pulley system.  My cousin fixed it, but the problem came up again in January.  He repaired the pulley for me, but it was time to replace it. I recognized what was happening and was able to safely pull over to park on the street and have it towed.  He didn't have a way to fix it quickly this time. My Mom would normally let me borrow her car, but her axle was broken from a car accident her car had just been in. My niece gave me a ride to a dealership and I walked in with a prayer and a smile.  I drove home in a 2016 Toyota Camry.  I'm sure it helped that I decided separate checking accounts meant I could improve my credit without permission. The license plate came on my birthday in mid February and the down payment was made later that week.  Yesterday my niece passed her driving test and registered the Ford Contour I just gave her.  She's driving her first car the day she got her license.

Right now I'm stressed.  I'm joyful, but not peaceful.  There is a heaviness in deciding to end a marriage.  My husband left, but the decision to divorce him has been left to me, as he hasn't started by filing yet.  The weight of that is heavy.  At the same time, I feel a freedom I didn't expect.  There is a lightness in being able to do what I want when the mood strikes. I'm excited about hitting the beach and getting lost in ocean waves this summer. It's been years since I've done so because being Mom means I was more worried about my kids than anything and I didn't want to get in the water where I could lose a child.  I was the one hoping to restore our family, and our kids will see me differently when I destroy that hope.  There is a burden in that. I'm more worried about my kids than a life of dreams I have released.  Job hunting has become a job.  I wake up and it occupies my every thought, and most of my actions.  So there's stress.  Today I needed to remember the miracles I walked through and refocus on new goals because the old ones have shifted and getting a divorce isn't a goal. It's a thing you do when you decide to close the book.

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Stress Induced Hospital Visits and a Hot Doctor as Treatment

My kids came home from their Dad's house on Monday.  Early Tuesday I started feeling mild chest pain, with leg cramps.  I had a feeling it was just stress. It seemed to get worse with every tantrum and meltdown I was forced to moderate.  At one point I almost called my husband to come get the kids so I could go to the hospital, but I decided against it because I didn't really want to give him anything to hold against me. He's already threatened me about the last two hours of respite I asked for.  And again, I wasn't sure it wasn't all just in my head.

He had kid1 text me they were on their way, and I started packing for a possible hospital stay.  I grabbed devices and chargers.  I threw in clean underwear, a hairbrush, toothbrush and toothpaste.  These are things I used to have him run and grab for me, but I wasn't even telling him.  And I haven't replaced him as my go to person yet, so I plan more closely than I used to.

He picked up kid3 and I got in my car.  I returned my niece's call that I missed while kid3 was on my phone.  He ignores people, and I could really learn from him, or start using him as an excuse.  I let her know what I was up to because it seemed responsible to let someone know where I was headed.  Then I spent almost 6 hours in the ER.

Having a history of pulmonary embolisms and current chest pain makes things move quickly, but you still have to wait for results to be read.  I had an EKG and bloodwork done.  Then there was a CT scan.  Then I waited. There was a lot of waiting as other patients were starting to wait on gurneys and wheelchairs in the halls, waiting for a room.  I'm not the only one willing to wait for the right time to make sure I'm not dancing with death.

My potassium was very low, but that happens when you forget to eat. I don't eat when I'm stressed, but I prefer that to eating everything I can see.  That happens when I'm depressed.  That's what caused the cramping that made me wonder if I had blood clots forming.  The rest was stress, so it really is all in my head. The chest pain felt just like it did when I had pulmonary embolisms.

The stress I'm feeling is so great that my body is trying to make me think I'm sick, or in mortal danger so that I'm forced to take care of myself.  I need to start imagining a baby duck again.  That visual was my focus when I was hospitalized for a month during my last surrogate pregnancy.  They are so adorable when they're learning to swim and so focused on swimming that the water slides off their backs, and they're persistent with the joys of learning.  I don't think about adult ducks.  They can be insanely aggressive and much more fearful.

I'm on Facebook more than I'd like to admit, but I don't ignore people when I get a ping.  I might wait a bit on responding to emails because most of it is junk mail or spammy forwards.  Last night a friend was asking about a sales pitch she wants me to attend.  I get the health benefits of what she's pushing.  I'm just having a hard time eating regular meals right now.  I'm not in a place to buy it, and I'm not interested in selling it either. I answered her questions because they weren't really about me.  I also got a message from a high school friend.  He's one of those football players I used to hang out with.  Always just a friend.  He knows how to make me smile, and in chatting with him, my chest pain went away.  I'm only sharing a small part of the conversation that happened after we were joking about running and how I want to do it, but he knows me well enough to know I really don't.

Him: Yeah i know...ur a princess.

Me:  Well, thank you.

Him:  I haven't forgotten! Lmao

Me:  I did. I forgot how to be royalty.

Him:  Well...time for u to get it back...

And this is one of the main reasons why I'll answer his pings in a heartbeat.  Great friends are great to keep around.  He's one of the few that checks on me without needing anything in return.  I appreciate that.

The doctor was beautiful.  He had yellowish brown hair that was probably a dark gold in the sun, he kept it fairly long and as I saw him throughout the night, it was in various stages of being combed neatly, and falling wildly over his ears, like running his hands through it was soothing a stressful day.  His hair looked soft, and I wanted to sample a feel.  He was tall and clearly took his workouts seriously.  He had soft brown eyes and a slight Italian accent to match his name.  And yes, I did repeat his name a few times. There's something so sensual about Italian names. I didn't even look to see if there was a wedding band.  I don't plan to go back or ever see his smile again.  At the end of the night, this handsome man that crafts miracles for a living looked me in the eyes and told me to take better care of myself and stay away from caffeine.  That was the best medicine.

I stopped at the grocery store for bananas, avocados, coconut water and dinner.  Potassium is happening because leg cramps suck. I walked around a bit before deciding that yes, hard salami and havarti are acceptable for dinner.  Salami for dinner is a perk for being a grown up without kids for the night or a husband to cook for.

 

Releasing: A Poem for a Failed Marriage

Facebook's "On This Day" button is one I click on every single day.  My husband said he wanted out of the marriage on March 11, and every day so far, I've been checking, wondering how I broke my silence.  There's a lot my mind protects me from in forgetfulness.  I had a community that wouldn't get involved and suggested I keep quiet about our separation. I felt this burden of shame because he wanted to quit.  I wanted to move forward and he was so stubbornly stuck on the past and I had no way of going back to repair damages. So I wrote a poem and left it on my Facebook wall.  I didn't give it a title.  Some emotions are too raw to be tamed with a name.  Then I forgot about it until today.

I willed her survival as I tried to pull her along. Feet stalled and failed until I saw she was lost in her prison of despair. The door swung open on failing hinges and she shut her eyes. How she couldn't hear the grinding and reigning rust is beyond me. She held the bars that gave blisters when I offered honeyed balm.

She died this night and my body swayed and rocked with dried tears and tired sobs. He came and watched me pull her. His hands were tied in before.

She left with all my insides. Her gift was too much pain. My dear so sweet you thrilled me and I must learn to live once more.

My Suicide Attempt Survival Story

This post has been brewing in my mind for a bit, and it's time.  It's not that I'm suicidal or even depressed right now.  I've decided today will be a great day and I'm expecting something good is on it's way.  I believe in choosing my moods and the feelings usually follow. After that serendipity and the universe conspire to surprise me.

Yesterday I started clicking through an article on Facebook.  It was one of those "21 celebs that took their own lives" type of stories that make you click through each and every one so you get the full exposure to all of their partners and sponsors or ads.  This was a horrible set up, as it allowed the author to repeatedly rephrase their sentiment, nullifying the tragedy of a life unfulfilled into statistics and cliche.

I'm writing to make it clear that I will never call suicide a coward's way out.

My first suicide attempt was a couple of months into the 7th grade.  I'm 38 now.

I don't remember wanting to die.  I felt overwhelmed.  I had my first crush and it turned obsessive and it was the first of many unhealthy infatuations.  My great grandfather had just died and the family was planning on driving out to Houston and I didn't want to go.  We had visited often enough, every few years.  All of my memories were of him being bedridden with a colostomy bag attached to the bed in varying degrees of fullness.  I would have to climb on the bed to give him a hug and a kiss where his lips couldn't quite pucker, and it was warm and wet.  I couldn't understand his slurred speech. I'd wander through his immaculate house full of mirrors and fiber optic lamps, and crystal vases filled with bright silk flowers in unnatural colors.  I didn't feel an attachment to him, and I didn't want to have to pack up during the school year to head out on a trip to Texas for a funeral.  I felt lost, and uncared for.

That night I snuck out of the house around 10 to go for a walk.  Late night strolls are how I will always self medicate. I snuck back in, and didn't get caught.  I grabbed a bottle of Advil and a bottle of Tylenol and started swallowing pills, one at a time and one bottle at a time.  In the morning when I woke up vomiting, it still didn't occur to me that I might die at that point.  I told my Dad I had taken pills.  I don't even remember which parent or if both of them were with me in the Kaiser emergency room.  I was so far from understanding the gravity of the situation.  I was almost nonchalant, in between puking.

Advil would've given me a stomachache.  Tylenol needed to be flushed out of my system because my liver couldn't process it.  I had my stomach pumped and was in intensive care for a few days, drinking medicine mixed with apple juice to make it more palatable.  It was years before I could smell apple juice without wanting to vomit.  It finally hit me when I was next to a mother with her anorexic baby.  When I saw her reaction to what I was there for, I saw the stigma attached to suicide in a way that I couldn't grasp before.  I had months of therapy, and never saw that it made a difference. I still don't know that I was depressed enough to kill myself, or if I was just bored and lonely.  To this day, I only take medication when absolutely necessary and I am really happy that I'm not on any medications.

Years later, during and right after high school, I made attempts.  The most dangerous attempt wasn't a fully formed thought of wanting death.  The attempts that came later were an absolute contemplation.  I will not deny that I was so depressed, I felt dying would be better than living. They were so long ago, I can't remember a sequence, and I'm not sure it would matter.

I was drinking.  It wasn't like the dream I had last night at a bar with friends and a sweating MGD in my hands.  I was drinking alone with a knife in my hands.  I always had knives around me when I was younger.  I had a knife and I was making superficial slices along my wrists.  They were tiny scratches that didn't draw blood. I was depressed and I wanted that feeling to end, but I was more afraid of killing myself.

Another time I was sober and crying, and held a knife over my stomach.  In a rage, I had stabbed a bible multiple times because I couldn't find comfort in faith and I was ready to turn that knife on my gut.  I wanted to cut out the ache and hollow feeling in my chest.  Again, I was more afraid of the pain.

I had a bottle of vicodin once.  I held it and considered taking them, one after another as I did when I was younger.  I called someone to talk to.  She told me she didn't feel qualified and I should call someone else.  That depression was quickly replaced with rage, and I put the pills down.

I won't say that feeling is forever gone.  I know that sometimes depression will visit.  It's always a slow and gradual feeling that creeps up and if I don't take time to reflect on how I'm doing, it'll sneak up on me until it is all I can see.  When my husband told me he was leaving me, I was very aware of all I felt, and I was determined to not go on anti-depressants again because of how terrible withdrawals felt.  I had rage.  I was lost.  I was broken.  I was angry.  But I refused to be depressed and those moments came, but I fought hard to push them away.  During that time, I can say I was never a danger to myself or anyone else.  Having a mom willing to fund a 100 pound heavy bag and hand wraps really helped.

My most recent bout of severe depression was two years ago.  It was a time when I was dealing with my husband's late uncle, and a suicidal kid2, and a husband that wanted more of my attention than I was capable of giving to him, while trying not to destroy the eggshells I walked on by going against his wishes in making final arrangements for his uncle.  His mood on that was fickle and one moment he approved and was grateful.  The next he was angry at me for doing it.  A lot of our marriage, I ended up doing what meant the most to me whether or not I was given permission, and  I have a degree because of that.  Our son was being bullied and teased and I felt so powerless.  I was so busy worrying about how everyone else was doing that I didn't see my own feelings taking a dive.  One day I was on the freeway and I was surprised by an errant thought of crashing into the center divider.  It wasn't something I wanted to do, but it was a thought that crossed my mind. I got home and called my doctor for an appointment and anti-depressants.  They helped.  It took a while to kick in, but once they started working, I was able to take the hits, and not feel like I needed to do something drastic and scary.  It gave me an ability to get through what I needed to.  Now drastic and scary looks like cutting my hair into something so short my curls make me resemble a peppy poodle.

I never saw suicide as an easy out.  It seemed like an only out. It was difficult and terrifying. I can't say killing myself would've been brave.  I know when I've thought about it, I never worried about how my family would react.  I have a sister that beat cancer.  I've imagined losing her, and the thought of what her loss would do to me has backed me off of the ledge a few times.  I won't say I think of how it would hurt her if I were to die.  At my lowest I'm too selfish for that.  It takes my self focus into another person I love and my perspective shifts just enough to step back and remember a person I love, and get lost in nostalgia of her teaching me to throw a football or the red Minnie Mouse watch she bought me. I remember the first house party she took me to and her looking me in the eye with a pointed finger and threatening me about taking something and having it hit me years later that she meant taking drugs.

Being suicidal is selfish.  I can say that.  It's not selfish in the way where I would ever bash someone with it as a sharp accusation. It's selfish because the times I have been there, I didn't feel like anyone else had my concerns as their priority.  I felt I was doing what was best for me.  It wasn't about cowardice in facing a difficult life.  I didn't think that far ahead.  I didn't think farther than how I felt in that exact moment.  It's not that I didn't care about anyone.  I was just so consumed, it didn't occur to me that other people would exist in the bubble of hell I was in.

Suicide isn't the easy way out.  It's a more difficult decision than trying to get through another day of despair.  Depression that visits in cycles is something you can get used to.  Deciding you've had enough is stepping out into something new and terrifying.  I'm not advocating suicide. Clearly, I'm still alive and kicking through adversity.  I'm such a believer in life, I've given birth to three of my children and four that belong to other people. I'm just saying it's not okay to negate a life based on a choice you have never been faced with, or choose to not remember.  It's not okay to call a person's existence a cliche and ignore the devastation they've left in their wake because you don't agree with their choice.  Or because you are too afraid to try to understand it. They left behind a family marked by stigma.  That family has a lot to reconcile, but sometimes saying you don't know what to say, and offering a hug or practical help around the house is enough.  You don't have to replace their loss, or feel it fully, but let them know they are not alone and not forgotten.

Comparing Battle Scars and Posttraumatic Survival

He thought it was wonderful that his darkness didn't affect us. He had to retract that statement because he could see the darkness in my oldest two sisters.  But it didn't affect me. Not from the bubbly personality he can see. He has a way of saying whatever is on his mind, then bracing for the price and always assuming he could never bounce a word check.  His insecurities are fleeting. He's Dad and children are meant to be seen and not heard.

I often tell my kids I will screw up and I won't even see it.  I need their tender sorrows to point out my wrongs because in the flow of caregiving, I can lose the gentle care they need.  I didn't mean to inject venom in my reply, but it was a sore subject, written out with every destructive jab at this chrysalis.

"You have no idea about the darkness I fought in my early 20's.  Being able to hide it well doesn't mean it wasn't there." At that point I bit my tongue and felt the sting because I needed a physical reminder of the pain I could inflict.

He pauses before he points out I had never had segregated bathrooms.  I have never been through war. I felt like I was lacking a penis to measure and the fact that it came from my Dad who I always wanted to be more than he's capable of stung and the pain throbbed in my heart which was swollen with poison.

I took a breath.  I can't fault him for his ignorance or hubris.  He was never capable of looking beyond himself, and it makes sense I would fall for men just like him.

"Your grandson suffers from PTSD.  His tormentors in 1st grade and the systematic denial of his concerns by school staff are as fresh as if it happened yesterday.  Trauma is subjective. I will not compare battle scars."

He agrees that I'm right, and in that moment I again denied him the opportunity to deepen our relationship because I can't handle the weight of making him feel better about the choices I've made and the lashings I let others scar me with. I denied him the knowledge of others controlling my will and my body, and in many ways my freedom.  I allowed what he taught me to accept. He will always be fragile enough that I wouldn't want to hurt him with that information and in my silence there is both denied access and protection. He looked at me in surprise because every so often, it occurs to him I'm an adult with unique thoughts from his own.

Every so often, the depth of my perception startles my family because I see things they don't and I string words together that they couldn't imagine coming out of me.  It's the curse of being a younger child or sibling.  Family will always expect you to need their permission to mature. Being less social left me to an imagination that doesn't require clearance or acceptance from others.

I can see where denying Dad that step into my valley of demons is also denying me human contact and acceptance.  I made a lateral leap. Today I made a choice to reach out to someone I have been wanting to talk to. It's an insignificant step, but it was my step.The only thing that needs to come out of it is that I stepped out of my comfort zone and into a healthy risk.  It's healthy to reach out in vulnerability.  It was a choice to step out of my past and the hang ups I carry and move into the light of possibility.  It was small and innocuous, but it was a choice I wasn't forced or goaded into.