When I Don't Say "I'm Sorry"

As a woman, it's easy to apologize for things we're not even responsible for. It's a gift of femininity when we are taught to not make waves and make others comfortable.  It's a gift without a receipt.  We can't take it back and we don't know what it's valued at, but we wouldn't mind taking it back to the store for something else. We apologize for someone's loss. We apologize when someone walks into us.  We apologize to the person we want to get around when they are standing in the middle of a grocery store aisle with their cart blocking both directions. Take the same person and stick them in a car that is slightly more dent proof than we are and you might get road rage. We give meaningless apologies for the space we take or step into.  I'm sorry for being too close to your pain to offer real comfort.  I'm sorry for the space I was taking when you forgot to look where you were going.

I'm sorry you didn't like what I did or felt or thought.  I'm consistently sorry for hurting others or making them uncomfortable.  When I'm not, I take a careful look at my motives and I'm often trying to be dominant in a powerless situation. The guilt is often a heavy burden I accept willingly.  What I try not to apologize for is the life I am trying to live.  The idea of holding back who I am for someone else's comfort hurts.  I wish it didn't, but that is what my scar tissue feels like.  It's pain when I am asked to be someone I don't want to be.  It hurts the most when I can see I'm trying to be less because the request comes from someone I want to mean more than I do. My apologies come with careful consideration and weigh heavier than they used to.

There are times when I don't say sorry.  There were times when I justified and defended my choices.  There were times when I made excuses but I didn't experience contrition.  Or I wouldn't admit to being apologetic.  Usually this happens when my shame is such a bright and heavy jacket that I throw out excuses and justifications to offset the weight of what I carry.

Other times I feel there isn't a fault in what happened.  It is what we've made it and I accept it for what it is and what it feels like and how it shapes itself around us.  A love of books . . . Shameless adoration . . . Fighting for what I believe in . . . These are things that aren't about shame but a willingness to stand in all I am capable of being and doing.  An apology says I'm willing to be less of who I am so you can be more and I'm not willing to do that.  Not anymore.  Not for anyone else.

I make mistakes all of the time.  I have doses of regret fall heavily when I don't expect it to. I hurt feelings and mine are hurt but I accept what lands as the cost of transparency because there is deep connection in letting others see and letting others in.  Connection feels good.

I tell my sons they can tell me how they feel, and it can include yelling as long as it's not an attempt to wound me.  They can tell me they're mad at me.  They can tell me they don't agree with me or they can point out when I am wrong.  Just this weekend I was freaking out a bit when looking for my keys.  I insisted the boys should help me find my keys that I lost . . . On my bed where I thought I had left them.  I told them they should laugh at me, and they did.  And I laughed with them because it was silly of me to freak out when I should have looked more diligently in the first place.

There are alternatives to "I'm sorry," and there are ways to submit without being submissive.  I feel it's about the balance of accepting you were wrong, finding out how to correct it, and moving on, without the burden of your guilt confining you into stagnation.

Pride Blanket

I pull it around me like a blanket made of stone. It's rough hematite scraping against my chest.

I'm holding it close to comfort me.

It's streaking red anger in bleeding emotions Pride promised to stop.

Feelings seep from a crevasse of loneliness but my Pride goes before me.

It's a bridge that leads me no where.

It covers the soft parts I left exposed as I stretched in hopeful longing.

In transparency, we grew cold when the sun we exposed was too bright, too weak.

I felt the burn once his heat was gone and the sting lingers long after night falls.

It covers the weakness and longing that sit around me in solitude.

It whispers the strong words we hide behind because the feelings were too new, too strong.

Pride tells me it was nothing and didn't matter.

Pride tells me it was a mess we stepped over and away from.

We're given a clean break in the world of the unknown.

Pride protected us from ourselves.

Pride tells me it's better to never know.

Pride prevented me from needing, loving and losing.

I wrap my Pride around me.

I pull it closer so you can't see I'm shivering in the cold of almost.

A Week

Sunday wakes slowly and stretches languidly before remembering the week ahead.  She runs around, picking up and preparing for the busy jaunt that will come quickly. She rests when she can because it's still her day off.  With kids. Is there such a thing? She'll contemplate that after she puts away the drill and adds anchors to her shopping list. She pulls cobwebs out of her hair after reorganizing the storage shed and re homes spiders (not black widows, they get a rubber mallet funeral) and beetles that land where they didn't belong.  She sips coffee throughout the day but it's always just a little too sweet.

Monday is all business.  She rises promptly and falls into routine like a drill sergeant.  The hot water of a morning shower forces her awake.  Her bark gets the boys up because it's time to face their week too.  She sends them off with a call for "good choices," and drives on to start a work week with eager excitement.  She loves what she does.  She walks in confidence to her desk, sending a sleeping computer into running order.  She cracks her own whip and smiles at naughty adventures she can still taste in fading memories. After her coffee, she'll hold a mug of hot tea in prayerful supplication.  She likes her green tea unsweetened, her black with cream, and everything else with raw sugar.

Tuesday knows she has to get up and get the boys out but she begs for 5 more minutes before she remembers they are her 5 minutes to take. She flows into the routines of the week, taking advantage of a street cleaning threat that hovers over the clock, knowing they'll get out before parking enforcement will make it to her block.  She passes the demand of responsibility onto the threat of a ticket because she wants to be forceful but rely on someone else's authority. She gets tired of being on her own when it comes to parenting the boys. She eases into routines that Monday started and she'll be thankful for that bore's easy organization because the reality of Tuesday's morning is the product of Monday evening and the boys shifting back into a school week is torture for all involved.  She loves the crunch of sugar snap peas and salted popcorn.  She likes a brisk walk to 7-Eleven for Green Apple or L'Orange Perrier and will enjoy the smiles she receives when doing it.

Wednesday is a hoppy rabbit with excitement for the evening.  The boys go back to their Dad and Wednesday has a taste for shenanigans.  She spends her day in dreams of the ocean and performers that wrap music around them with their goatees and easy to watch physiques.  Their smiles whisper of naughty adventure, and she understands the language they speak. She has tasty visions of the things she would do with a boy like that but she knows the rest of the week knows regret in the morning feels like spit warmed over and swallowed back down.  She is a randy whore that likes to look but has little interest in touching.  She feels the eyes of strangers and it feels like warmth and lowered inhibitions.  She goes home alone and sings love songs to herself.  That feels good.  Enough.  It feels good enough.  She likes an Apple Martini that tastes more like an Apple Blow Pop than something sour and foul.

Thursday is a teenager.  She wakes up alone and will go to sleep alone.  She'll make herself eggs for dinner one week and coq au vin the next.  It's not hard to convince her she deserves a night on the town and she will sometimes end up at a table for one where she will scribble in a notebook or laugh at her phone.  She likes a Scooby-Snack at a bar, but she will chase it with water because she has never met a hangover she could be friends with. She doesn't worry about who might be watching her because she is comfortable and doesn't really care.

Friday is a happy girl.  She loves waking up and heading to work and she'll find any excuse to stop at a store before she settles in for the last day of the work week. She is either planning a long weekend at home with the boys, or she's planning a night of debauchery.  She likes putting on something short and low cut, but the other girls always chime in and demand she dial it back a bit. She is someone's mom and she should try to be considerate of what that means, even if she is redefining what it means.  But maybe her butt isn't all that impressive and could be made into less of a main attraction. She'll sip a Cape Cod, but has a taste for a Bloody Mary from time to time as well.

Saturday makes an appearance throughout the week.  She insists on doodling in notebooks and sitting under trees on a lunch break.  She blows bubbles with a wand she keeps in her car for traffic.  She once made them stop for a cigar to relive their youth and she insisted the unfinished stogie was worth it but everyone else knows it wasn't. She's been known to serenade her boys, getting them used to the idea of someone singing to them directly.  She sings alone at work because it makes her happy but she might also be trying to convince the world she might be a little bat shit crazy. The idea of being offbeat amuses her. Every phrase is "shit" or "awesomesauce" because she doesn't do anything that would fall in between. There are no shades of gray when the world is so rosy colored.  She has a sweet tooth but no one else does.  The stash is for her but everyone else insists sugar snap peas are just as good as Peanut M&M's and Perrier is better than soda.  She's not buying it, but she adds all the cream to their coffee so it tastes like candy.  She has projects around the house that wait until it's a weekend at home with the boys, or she has a list of places she can't wait to explore. She's never idle and loves her own company, so anyone that wants to join her had better be damn special.  She doesn't put up with anyone that isn't. And she doesn't give second chances, but the rest of the week does. She accepts it but will slam a Purple Hooter Shot, their whiny complaints ignored on the rare occasions the week will allow a little inebriation.

15 Years Later For Me

If you are old enough to remember, you can never forget what you were doing when you found out about the attack on our country.  We aren't used to bombs going off around us, or planes being hijacked in protest.  We are not accustomed to areas we should avoid because there are IED's that were planted . . . Or once upon a time, bouncing betties never went off.  We aren't used to seeing child death from drowning in an attempt to escape the violence in a place that was home or toddlers still with shock and covered in blood and dust.  This is not our normal.  When it happens, we remember.  Details may get fuzzy.  Who hurt us or why they felt they needed to will burn into memories that are never met with understanding.  The indelible mark on us all is the way we felt because unless we're lucky enough to heal properly, this will be how we feel about this situation for the rest of our lives. I was on bedrest.  It was a year and 9 days since I said "I do" and I was 34 weeks along with my firstborn.  He wasn't gaining weight and his amniotic fluid levels were low, so I was in bed with him.  My husband was at work in Downtown L.A. as a security guard.  I've been asked, and I'll say it here, I married for love, not looks or money. I loved his company and our simple way of living.  I lived for our late night Walmart dates of household shopping and our fishing trips in Big Bear Lake. I would've followed him into homelessness if it meant waking up with him every morning.  I would've cared for his every physical need as long as he let me and I did until he stopped wanting me to. I couldn't imagine the years before us being anything but happy, and the ways our lives blended and solidified looked nothing like what I imagined.  I stopped dreaming and just took each day as it came.

The man I loved called me to ask if I had seen the news about  a plane in a building.  I turned on the news to a live feed and watched the second plane strike the second tower.  It was several moments of confusion for me because I was watching it live and it didn't occur to me that a plane flying into a building would be anything but an accident.  I couldn't understand how he could tell me to watch for something I was seeing live.  I didn't understand how someone could do that intentionally.

I remembered my short trip to New York in June 1997.  I had a boyfriend that missed his grandmother and high school friends.  I couldn't take care of myself as I was living with my mom, but I managed to take us to New York. We crashed Jerry and Nora's wedding (no clue who they were).  We went to Roosevelt Field Mall (so much like every other mall).  We went to Six Flags Great Adventure (which looked a lot like Six Flags Magic Mountain). We went to a restaurant owned by models (who barely eat and I don't remember if it was good), and we walked through Manhattan.  This is the only picture of me in New York I have.  Now if your boyfriend (on the right and shorter than me) is walking with you but doesn't want to walk with you that is a problem.  He dumped me right after the trip.  We'll always have that trip to San Pedro because in that moment, there was love. You can search "San Pedro" in my blog and see where I thought about this boy enough to include in a few posts.  The amazing thing about growth is that if I were to meet him for the first time today, what he taught me then wouldn't get him a first date now. I miss that purse though. I need to go back to New York one day.

New York was beautiful with its humidity and fast pace on the streets.  It was glittering lights and I would've loved to check out a play or visit the Statue of Liberty.  We rubbed the Charging Bull on Broadway and Morris and I imagined what it would've been like to be there in the winter with slush around my feet.  On the flight in, my boyfriend pointed out the twin towers and told me about the first attack in 1993 but I had no clue about the significance of the buildings until 4 years later when I was home and watching it.

I watched the news shift between New York, D.C. and Pennsylvania because none of us could understand why so much hate would take innocent lives.  I worried about my husband who had a duty to the building he worked in.  For weeks, we were still in complete panic that the next attack would hit closer to home, and he was in the heart of our financial district.  In the weeks following, his responsibilities included logistics around building safety.  He got an upgrade on his cameras and he made great use of them, zooming in on pretty ladies on the the street.  I was in bed.  Watching the news.

I couldn't stop watching.  I felt the fear begin to cripple me into worrying about my husband and what I would do without him.  (Well, that question was answered and I'm doing fine.)  I started to react to the situation in the way I saw my Dad reacting to life.  He's a war vet. He served in the Army and was there for the Tet Offensive in Viet Nam.  He sees a war torn America every day.  It's a pair of glasses he can't take off because PTSD won't allow the present to be just the present.

I had this growing life inside of me that would tap and kick and roll.  I had him under my ribs, and resting against my heart and there was so much life inside of me.  I had to step into the faith that there is more good than bad in the world.  Instead of focusing on the many broken bodies carried out, I began to focus on the many helping hands that gave selflessly and the stories from the plane that ended up in a field after so many stepped bravely in spite of fear to keep that plane from hitting its target.

There was and is so much hate brewing in our country.  Ignorance has cast anyone in a hijab as a vile creature of hate and bigotry has become entertainment and worse, a political vehicle.  It's disgusting.  I had the absolute privilege of carrying twin girls for a family of arabs that also practice Islam.  They showed me love and respect.  The father of the twins I carried wouldn't even enter my room without my husband in the room out of respect.  I was floored by the value they place on their women.  I don't agree with all they do, and I'm not trying to proselytize their faith.

I can simplify it by looking at my family.  I come from an international family.  By birth, my heritage is African American and Thai.  Through adoption and marriage, my family is also caucasian, Mexican, and Vietnamese.  If you want to trace heritage, I'm Mexican, Italian, French, Sephardic Jew, Choctaw Indian and a slew of other things that dilute blood from a slave ship from Africa.  I couldn't begin to tell you what is on my mother's side because I don't know.  My boys are Dutch, Irish and Jewish.  We're international.  Each of us is responsible for our own choices and we are a mix of good people you would trust with your wallet and people you might not trust (I hear my Kid3 steals from other people's houses when with his Dad but he doesn't have that problem when with me).

I can break it down in terms of food.  I love good food.  My food baby is well fed and my palate is frequently pleased.  Food joy can sound orgasmic. My international family means we have international foods at holiday gatherings.  Christmas will include a turkey and ham, but my sister and I have made loads of tamales and champurrado to go with her sangria.  What I've learned is that even if you come from Thailand and know how to cook Thai food, it might not taste good because not everyone can cook.  Your Italian aunt's spaghetti might be homemade but you might still prefer a jar of Barilla to her labor of love because she could burn water without supervision.

We can't judge a group of people on the actions of a handful of people that probably could have used more hugs than they got when growing up.  Bigotry and hate often look like fear.  Fear, like stress and guilt are within you and if you let it cripple you into bigotry, that's your own fault and can't be blamed on beliefs you are too afraid to try to understand or challenge.  Woman up, or man up, or tranny up.  Get that handled so you can do epic shit and look past what you didn't understand to be more than you see right now.

I didn't know anyone that was in one of those buildings that day until a couple of months ago, and she amazes me with her zeal for life.  She wasn't in the building when it was hit, but she was in the building that day and in the city at the time of the attack. Her children and her work are her passions and there is so much room for intentional engagement when I do see her.  I know a rescuer who was a fire fighter at the time and she's still tough as nails and likely suffers from what that dust did to her lungs. Both of these women are inspirations to me for getting through that as closely as they were and living a life that isn't a prison to that experience.  They live.  In all they do, they don't allow their strength and courage to die.   They are braver than anyone will ever give them credit for because it wasn't born for recognition but for survival.  It came in silence and is not something they put on but who they are. They are amazing and strong women in every sense of what being a woman means to me.

In 1994, September 11th was the day I was baptized.  It was a day to declare my belief in the religion I was raised in.

In 2001, September 11 was the day our country felt hate.  A war was started and my children don't know what it means to live in peace.  It was the starting point for many of us, and a mark in a long history for others.  It is the most significant entry in my son's history books that I can give a first hand experience of.

In 2012, September 11  was the day I made a trip to the hospital to visit 6 day old twins and marvel at the fact that they were still alive even though they were born at 29 weeks. It was the first time Baby A was allowed kangaroo care, and I held her against my chest so she could hear my heartbeat and borrow my warmth.

In 2015, September 11 was a day of hope for me.  I had encouragement from my son's principal because she saw me struggle through being a single mother and she knew what I needed to hear from her own walk through it.  I wish her the best in her new school. My family had just surprised me with groceries because I needed the help to feed my kids after their Dad left me.  That day showed me that I'm stronger than I thought I could be.

Today, it's a day of peace. I get to hear happy sounds as my sons interact with each other and I steal hugs throughout the day.  I'm sipping coffee and I'm writing where the only editor in my head sounds like my voice and not what someone else might say.  Today, September 11 is a day of personal freedom.

How I Show Up in Romantic Relationships

I've had 3 conversations in the last few days that have really forced me to look at my romantic history.  The conversation last night was with a really great guy. He's handsome and sweet.  He's known me since my teens and he's constantly calling me out to expect greater than I do.  He says, "How are you love?" and "Raise the bar, ma." Decades ago I was the confident flirt.  If this expression of him were to meet me then, I'd be in trouble because he is dangerously hot and his emotional intelligence of women is off the charts. He's capable of making someone very happy, but he would be settling.  He was shy and quiet when we were young.  I may have enjoyed him for that on more than one occasion. We talked about what we want in romance.  I'm not polyamorous but we talked about it.  It's about wanting a mental, emotional and physical connection with several people.  That would never work for me because I thrive in monogamous relationships. I like the idea that I'm on someone else's mind as much as he's on mine. I want to know that random things remind him of me and that he's on the street and something about the person in front of him makes him think of me.  I guarantee that happens for me when he's special.  When he's special, I don't have a poker face and I can't hide it.  It's written all over my face and it's in my body language. When he's special, I feel like who I am is bending around him into ways that make him a part of me. And yes, that scares me. I'm the type that gets a rush in doing the brave thing in spite of fear.  I would go with it.  I can press in without worrying about the future because there is amazing joy in the present.  But it scares me.

Yesterday I had a brief conversation about where I am in my dating life right now. I'm not seeing anyone and enjoying the many ways I get to date myself. I buy myself lingerie and flowers. I take myself to nice restaurants and museums. I catch beach sunsets and take long walks through beautiful parks. My dating history looks nothing like what I do for myself and if someone wants my attention, I have to first believe I'd have a better time with him than alone because my alone time is special to me. There aren't many people I would give up my free time for. There's an even smaller number of people I'd be willing to drive to and meet on their side of town. And if he wants to meet my boys, he'd have to be able to offer them more than my happiness. He has to be curious and intelligent and beautiful. . . So I date myself and my sex life is only in my dreams but that's okay too.

My reality is that I was sexualized at a young age. I had men make me uncomfortable with their desire before I even needed a training bra. By the time I was the same age as my first born, I was having regular sex with a boyfriend. Through high school I had a few relationships that lasted over  a year and a half and my in between times were about learning to flirt comfortably.  I may have a problem with shutting that off.  It's not on purpose.  Early college days meant many fleeting hookups.  Then I met the man I married. I had never had an innocent relationship that was just about making out.  There were innocent enough hookups but innocent relationships skipped me entirely.  My sexual history tells me the best encounters are the ones in meaningful relationships.  My last relationship isn't one I would want my children to model.  So I'm cautious.  I'm a chicken shit.  I'm happy in my celibacy.

When I was younger, I would find someone that was full of amazing and I would very easily look over their terrible qualities.  I was having a conversation with a co-worker and naming out things that were part of my marriage that I now see were not normal, but her reaction told me how far from acceptable it all was.  It's not okay to be jealous of platonic friendships to the point where I'd end them.  It's not okay to feel responsible for how others see the man I'm dating when his actions will speak for him.  It's not okay to feel bad about wanting to learn more and do better in life because of how that might reflect on someone else's ambition. I don't know how to be in a relationship that doesn't walk all over me.  But I'm learning.

I had many relationships where it was very clearly just sexual on his part.  He would let me know in direct and subtle ways that I wasn't the person he was pouring his soul into.  I would accept what he offered and hoped that I would grow on him. Like a fungus.  I was very big on settling for what I was being given. I was always in this perpetual state of hope that my love could flow through him and back to me, even if he consistently proved to me that it was just sex.

I'm learning.  It's changing.

I look at my history.  Today would have been an anniversary for my parents.  They've been divorced since I was still in high school and I have a high schooler now.  I saw their dysfunction and persistence as normal.  Mom yelled.  Dad ignored.  When my ex said he was leaving, I became them.  I was my Dad that first night in packing and separating our stuff at 3 am.  I was my Mom in saying, "go." I didn't need him.  Then I was me, in my crazy need to hold on and fix it because I saw my mom hold on and try to fix it for so long.  It was all I knew.  They had rare moments of affection that skeeved me out, but I was too young to remember if they were ever madly in love with each other.  As an adult, I can see the ways they still love and care for each other, even if they still refuse to talk to each other.

As Mom, I see my kids in their good and their bad.  I see more than anyone else, and I consistently choose to love them deeply, even if there are moments I don't like what they are doing.  I tell them they are consistent in who they are.  It's my ability to be patient that fluctuates and it's my fault if one day I lose my shit. This blog post was born from my need to step away and calm myself. As a mom and a daughter, love means I accept you as you are, without a need to change you because that would rob me of the gift of knowing you in your purest form and warmest light.  I want love to be about accepting the dark and the light and basking in all of the ways it feels to.

My latest goal is to love unconditionally.  Offering love isn't the same as being in love.  There's a difference.  I know it.  Lust and infatuation are very different from being in love and I'm aware of it too.  I'm a hugger.  I don't offer a hug unless I know I can hug the way that feels good.  If it's an arm or a side hug, I'd rather not bother.  If I feel I can hug you, I can offer transparency (in doses).  I can offer affection and build a person up with the amazing I see in them.  I'm going to let a person know when I randomly think of them because this is expressing love. When I get to the point that I know I would offer more than I have to give, that is a transition into being in love and that is where I step back.  I run away when it feels like my moods are dictated by how they make me feel.  That is what being in love feels like to me.  Otherwise I'm offering love without expecting a return. It feels good and in the offering I'm being selfish by not expecting an exchange or allowing myself to rely on them.

When There Are No Words

What do you say when there are no words? A moment . . . A surprise and a thank you that tastes like dark chocolate that lost its bite in the velvet melt of lingering taste and cocoa powdered lips.  I'm humbled with gratitude at its unexpected arrival and the smile that says more than words could express.  There's affection and tenderness when I see the care taken in finding the thing that shows me I was noticed and so were my preferences. Something so little means so much that there are no words.

A call. . . A call from a friend, and I take leave of my task because I always have time for this person.  I miss a face and the warmth of a hug that holds me up and keeps me together.  I can feel the love wrap around me in words that want to know how I am and what I'm doing and when we can see each other again. I walk away with a contented smile and there are no words for the joy that remains.

A question . . . My son wants to know why someone that was once a sister would hate me so much. He wants to know why the woman that replaced me doesn't like me.  I have no words.  I tell him I don't know why, but I don't worry about it because I think of them far less than they think of me.  But his question lingers and I feel I've shortchanged his trust that I would have the answers or look for them because I always do.  I'm not worried about how they feel.  It's not my job to make them feel better about what is inside of them and it really doesn't bother me that people that never see me don't want to be around me.  I'm not worried about it at the beach or exploring museums, but I see the pain in his face because it hurts him.  I tell him he can ask them why they feel that way and he can tell him how he feels about it, but I really can't answer for them.  There are no words for the pain I can't soothe for him.

A moment of recognition . . . My sons notice more than they speak of.  I call them to remind them to eat before heading home to pick them up.  I drive 13 miles home, then 15  miles to visit their Dad with traffic before me and exhaustion on my shoulders.  It's the second day in a row that I've made the trip for them and the first day was uneventful, but the second day is full of precaution for the scene I might cause and they notice it wasn't necessary.  I spy a note that calls me an "ex wife" although I haven't been given the divorce I keep asking for, and smirk at the password, "God First" because there are no words for a paper that makes such a claim while also lying. They notice I've been trying to be the mom I want them to have, and I hope they didn't notice the moments where I fought my wants against their needs because being selfish feels good.  It burns and rages and I drive the last 15 miles and sing so I can direct my focus in the words that speak my emotions because I'm afraid of the words in my heart hurting my sons, so there are no words.

A question was asked . . . It was an opening to expand on my ideals and I did.  I was so wrapped up in the passion and excitement I felt in expressing my vision and areas I need to break through.  I see who I am and where I want to be and the excitement bubbled over. I looked around and I could feel it was too much.  My intensity was intimidating and it was all too much and I gave too much at the start.  I was assured that it was fine and it was welcome to hear too much.  I sat in the empowerment that was offered because it seemed like it was too much until I saw that there is enough.   But there are still no words.

Control Freaking

In the Basic class I took through MITT, the lecturer, Jorge gave us an example that I've been leaving all over town. I've probably left it here already, but I'm okay with that. I've added my own embellishments, because that's what I do.

When you really have to poop, you have to poop.  If it's a case of raging diarrhea, beware of white walls that beg for poopy painting.  When babies wear swim diapers, you can see it as a dark poopy cloud in the blue of a chlorinated pool.  When you're constipated, you can sit and wait, and strain . . . You can get up and walk and try to relax . . . If you can't go, you just can't go.  You feel uncomfortable and your normal flow is halted.  You literally can't control the shit that is in your body, so why try to control anything else?  All we can control is our reaction and our interpretation.

There's a story that isn't mine to share but the end result is my kids needed me to come get them a day early.  They need me to keep them for more than my usual custody days.  They need me to be the Mom they deserve because this situation has required me to spend more time with the women that my ex surrounds himself with than I would like, and they are being the guard dogs he seems to need around me.  I'm just that vicious.  Grrr.  Well, he keeps calling me a bitch but he has no clue that I could be far worse than I have been, but being kind is something I do for my boys and something he couldn't possibly understand.

In their effort to avoid a fight (that I wasn't in the mood for anyway), they have put plans in place to keep me from my ex (that I really don't want to see).  At the end of the day, you really can't take away the rights of a wife and rightful next of kin.  There are perks to the stubbornness that hasn't started a divorce or legal separation.  I can exert my authority where the other woman can't.

I'm not talking about pulling a plug on anyone.  It's not that kind of a situation.  At the same time, if I want to go to visit or get basic information, I have yet to be denied.  I don't need to know details other than how it will affect my boys.  Is it serious? Not fatal.  Is it going to put him out of commission for a while? Yup.

I had serious control freak issues for a while.  I still do, but I've relaxed. I remember a few years back I was doing IVF and preparing for an embryo transfer.  I was really big on sorting recyclables at home.  I had two separate trash cans and would recycle cardboard, and plastic.  I would neatly fold used aluminum foil and recycle that too.  I was keeping a productive herb and vegetable garden.  And I was doing IVF.  Generally after a transfer, you are supposed to take it easy and let those embryos stick to calm, relaxed uterine walls.  I was preparing for a couple of days, but that got extended when I had some spotting.  For days I stayed in bed and my couple hired help so I could stay in bed and not worry about my kids.  My help didn't know about my crazy recycling or how much my garden meant.  The moment I was off bedrest, I was trying to revive plants, and digging through the big city trash bins to sort it all.  I was a mess.  It was about control.

I love tackle boxes.  I keep one for my jewelry making supplies and tools.  I used to keep one for my jewelry too, but then I never wore different things.  They're out so I can see and choose now.   I keep a tackle box for my sewing kit.  Right now it's a bit messy.  Normally the threads are all organized and wound tightly.  I brush out lint and dust.  I keep all compartments full of extra supplies.  It's about control.

My garden is mainly dirt and a collection of rocks I pick up because I always find a rock that needs to fit in my pocket or go home with me in the trunk or front seat.  Right now I'm never home and we're in the middle of a gnarly drought. Once upon a time, I was growing fresh thyme (I need a new plant, it died), chives, flat leaf parsley, sage, rosemary, oregano, mint and basil.  I had a bed I loved and mulched with crushed cocoa nibs. I would walk barefoot in it and each step smelled like chocolate.  I grew zucchini, tomatoes, cucumbers, spinach, lettuces, bell peppers, and peas.  I loved that I could plant something and my kids usually wouldn't pull it up.  They even ate vegetables they helped me harvest. I did have to stop a sword fight that attacked a new fig tree.  It wasn't like housework.  Just today I got home to the drying sticky mess that was a soda earlier today on a floor I stayed up last night to clean.  I couldn't control the natural disasters that looked like my sons and sometimes felt like sensory integration dysfunction to them. Gardening was about control.

As a daughter, my parents always told me what to do, but now it's a constant expectation of what I should do.  They are starting to nudge and give distance.  They are starting to see me as an adult and they understand my rebellious streak. I have to remind myself that they can't give me guilt.  That can only come from within me, and if I feel guilt, I need to examine what I'm doing and why I'm doing it, because I refuse to live in shame for my choices.

As a sister, I still get told what to do.  "Don't post where you're going all the time on Facebook . . . Stop going out alone to the beach." I really don't think anyone cares about what I'm up to.  Otherwise they'd say something and I'd probably include them in my shenanigans.  I sometimes catch the surprise on my sister's faces when they realize I am actually an adult and capable of making grown up decisions and observations.  I will always be the baby to my older three sisters and they will always want what's best for me. They'll always have a hard time seeing that it might look like what I do, rather than what they think I should do and that will have to be okay.

As a wife, I was told what to do but it often came with the weight of the ideal he held for me.  He knew what kind of wife he wanted me to be and even if I wasn't her, I wanted to be her for him.  In the end, there was always a rub that left me raw, and I often did what I wanted to do and accepted he wouldn't be happy with it.  It's how I got my degree, and built up my Kindle library.  It's how we got all of the camping supplies he now has.  I did what I wanted and hid my actions or faced the music after the fact. How sad is it that I lived  a life where I knew what I was doing was wrong or would upset him and the only balance was to do what I wanted and know it wouldn't be okay to do what I wanted to do? I really am grateful to the life I get to live without him.  Our struggles weren't about money or housework, as much as he wanted to believe that.  It was about control.  We fought for it without actually fighting.

My obsessive observations of beautiful men . . . In my writing . . .  On the street . . . In social media feeds . . . It's all about control.  It's more than aggression in objectifying someone or calling out to him in a way that would offend me if roles were reversed.  It's about noting intricate details to avoid dealing with the real issue bothering me.  It's about control.  There really is no mystery to my extreme boy craziness, and unwillingness to step into more than a glance or smile.  I'm not dating anyone because then I would feel obligated to stop getting lost in a beautiful body and genuine smiles.  I'm more into silly nothings that stay nothing. I prefer the chase of a crush. If it's more I have to address my fear of abandonment and you can't abandon me if it's not serious.  You can't dump me if we were never together.

I've become a rebellious teenager.  I see it in everyday moments and taking notice doesn't always mean I want to change it.  It's been a balance I've been trying to strike, and I don't mind moments where I'm behaving badly. It's between taking control of my life, and letting go of what I can't control.

Sharing my latest anguish and frustration with strangers and keeping those details to myself when it comes to people I have made an emotional connection with . . . It's a way of distancing my intimacy from those I have already made a connection with and asserting control in the details that I can't control. I see intimacy as a moment where there is transparency and I've invited you to see into me, as I see into you.  I can step into it.  I can dance in it.  If it goes deeper than I'm ready for, the fear claws at me and I back pedal and try to avoid the risk that seems to pile up and around me until I'm unable to move forward.  I'm still broken in many ways, and this is one of them. This weekend had great highs, and extreme lows and I'm still finding myself trying to stay afloat in it all but the details weren't offered to all of the people I really do care about and have connected with. At the same time, all it takes is an empathetic smile from a stranger and I've spilled it out in a cascade like falling marbles.  Rolling and spreading outward and impossible to control.

In my life, I am responsible for my choices as well as the consequences of those choices.  It's about taking ownership of the things that make me smile and the things that break my heart.  I have a huge heart. That means it breaks beautifully and terribly almost daily.  I refuse to hold back and control my outpouring of love. I've done it for long enough.  I choose to live in abundant unconditional love.  I love freely and without expectation.  I give and if I feel my heart breaking or offense setting in, I remind myself I attached a cost to what I offered and love isn't something you barter unless you're into prostitution.  There's control in not expecting anything.  In not expecting a return, I'm not allowing you to be someone I can rely on.  I'm not allowing you to offer anything that you could potentially take away.

It's about letting go of what I can't control and holding on tightly to the way I look at things and my reactions to them.  Saying goodbye when I don't want to . . . Not having a voice in who spends time with my kids when I don't have custody . . . Being the person that others want to fight with and putting my pride aside so I can be the mom I want my boys to have, and not the person I feel like being. Accepting that my plans will change and then deciding what about the change I want to be excited about.  For example, I planned to stroll through a museum Saturday and instead got to sit with my sister and take her home from a surprise hospital visit.  I got to check out the Self-Realization Center in Hollywood and I got to do it while being the sister I want to be.  Sunday I planned to catch a beach sunset and spend some time listening to street performers.  Instead I got to pick my kids up a day early. I got to take the control I wanted by using the title I've held for 16 years.

In moments where I completely give up control, I have moments of clarity and grace.  These are times when I'm able to catch a corner of the big picture.  Giving up control is work.  It's difficult.  It's rewarding.  It's what you do when you want to grow because it pushes you past what you are used to and that's the only way to grow.

Being a Woman

I remember my first women's history class, and the many books I read to discover what the patriarchy was so I could smash it.  I wore blinders so I couldn't see it in my life because that distance was a safe one to keep.  I saw it in make up and it gave me an excuse to not wear any because it was feminism and not being lazy (which is what it often felt like).  It was fighting against a man that would hit a woman, and not the one that alienated her from her friends and denied her permission to have her own checking account.  It was pointing out that high heels made a woman look like she was always ready for rear entry and claiming empowerment in knowing this when I walked in them.  It was hating on Hello Kitty because she was created with a large brain, tiny body and without a mouth to speak.  But it wasn't the ways I let motherhood define me, rather than deciding what motherhood meant to me. In recent weeks, I've gotten to know a beautiful transgendered woman with a more fluid gender identity than I'm used to.  I was given my name, and the nickname "Yessie" before I could speak.  She chose to go by Jessie before we met and that makes her super special.  Our friendship was one of those things decided before we met. We hang out because she's sweet and caring and smart.  She has a geeky flair that soothes those itchy parts in myself and we get along really well in spite of the fact that I could probably be her teenage mom.  By being the bright and amazing person she is, and without ever saying a word, she has been pushing my idea of what a woman is.  She can dish on gender studies and you should listen here. If you're looking for an actress, producer or editor, check out her amazing here.

It made me take a look at Caitlyn Jenner and what it means to be him/her/them.  I won't pretend to know where they stand on their gender so using fluid language will serve my laziness in researching who they are right now. The identity they have chosen calls out the idea of what a transgendered woman is supposed to be.  I don't actually watch Ru Paul's Drag Race, but the idea of a transgendered woman always meant to me that she had a fit body, perfect makeup and outlandish style.  She could dance in 8-inch heels when I can barely walk in them.  Clearly I'm writing about it because I recognize the parts where I'm wrong.

What does it mean to be a transgendered woman?

Is she supposed to look more beautiful than your average woman? Is she supposed to look like a man on most days because that was what she was born as? Could she choose what gender she expresses herself as on any given day?  I learned from my new friend that being transgendered is much like being autistic.  It places you on a spectrum where you can fall under an umbrella because those that don't understand it need to quantify and qualify what someone else's life means.  I do that and I'm examining it so I can stop, because it's not okay.

In terms of race, it's like saying, "Racism means . . . and when white people say . . . " without ever looking in the mirror because that moment when you identify another race . . . Yeah, have you met that kettle yet?

Uh, oh, no she didn't . . . Yeah. I did.  Was it good for you, too?

When I was enjoying my friend's company yesterday, I asked her a question I would normally never ask another woman. Do you ever wear make up? It was a question I brought up because some days putting on layers of glitter and gloss make me insanely happy.  After the words left me, and I settled into my drive to my next destination, I thought about what I asked. As a feminist, you don't need to wear make up.  Alicia Keyes made the news because she chose to go out without a full face of spackle and I applauded her.  It's her face.  But being a woman that was once a man somehow placed in my mind a need to make up for something that was lacking in femininity.  You would think that lacking a penis, having boobs, and owning an identity that she chose is enough to hand over my girl card, but then there I go again, assuming we would even carry a girl card to be who we are.

Yikes.  I'm that person.

On most days, I'm still working out what it is to be a woman.  At what point is wearing a dress about what I want, and not what my experiences with seduction have made it? When it comes to being the Mrs. Cleaver I once thought I was supposed to be, how did it become okay to let the girl I was die in favor of a person I had imagined and could never live up to because she wasn't real?

When it comes to being a woman, and ideals of femininity, is it about makeup or nails? What about hair and clothes?  I generally don't exercise, and decided a short while after my first pregnancy that yoga pants and sweats were a gateway drug to not wanting to brush my hair or teeth.  It was a way to hide from the world by wearing something I found completely unattractive.

This weekend when hiking with my beautiful friend (okay, so it was a short walk) I admired her strength and beauty and she was this powerful woman in yoga pants, hiking with her 3 year old son on her back.  I admired her for it and bought a first pair (or 3) of yoga pants for the first time since I swore I would only exercise if it looked like fun about 4 years ago.  I'm not planning a marathon or anything that looks more sweaty than fun, but I'm planning outdoor adventures once fall settles in and temperatures dip just enough to not need shorts for survival.

Right now I'm lounging in yoga pants, and no makeup and wearing my glasses and diamonds because I want to.  I think that's what a woman is really about.  It's not what magazines sell.  It's not about sexualizing your existence.  I'm a firm believer that male attraction is easily persuaded by your confidence, interest and willingness to play rather than how sexy you look.  Boys can be easy in terms of attraction. On the other hand, my confidence is intimidating to most men and I think I like it that way.

When I was working on my BA, I had my first quarter as an English major and a baby to deliver in the middle of it.  I had a husband that sometimes supported me in school but more often gave me the reasons why he didn't.  Each quarter presented a new challenge but that is how life works. Nothing you need badly is ever too easy to be considered work. I was heading to a luncheon where I was honored as a scholarship recipient when I found out my grandmother had a stroke.  We drove to Houston, drove home, then I forced through finals and flew back out to get to her funeral. I had cars die, child care that fell through at the last minute, the last surrogacy put my last quarter on hold for a year.  It wasn't easy.  It was something I wanted to do and even when I was working on no sleep, making my family happy and being the best student I was capable of, I couldn't complain because there were too many excuses offered for why I couldn't do it.  It was a time when I learned that you do what you choose to at any cost, and as a woman, if you complain, others will find reasons why you couldn't do it to begin with.  I learned that as women, we suffer in silence so we can accomplish what we want and make it look easy.

Being a woman isn't about being able to have a baby. I've carried babies for women that were beautiful and powerful.  They were gentle and caring and in nurturing me, clearly everything a mom should be.

Being a woman isn't about wearing makeup and having perfect hair.  I still can't work a curling iron.  It's not in my wheelhouse and that's okay.  I still have days where my makeup makes me look like I'm going for a raccoon or clown look and no amount of YouTube videos will make up for my lack of talent in this area.  If it's not important for a woman, it's not important for a transgendered woman either.

Being a woman is about the inner strength to face what life hands her and power through gracefully.  It's about knowing that if the words you speak were a dress you wear, you'd be just as beautiful as you are with your elaborate or simplistic covering.  With your foul mouth or polite demeanor, it's finding ways in which you are beautiful to yourself.  It's not the size or shape of a body.

Being a woman is about loving and hating what you see in the mirror but finding ways to appreciate all you are because you recognize the gift that is life and the love you offer can hold someone else up and that feels good.

Being a woman is about loving and caring without reservations and doing what you can to create a better world because as nurturers, it's part of who we are.  It's also okay that some of us are incapable of nurturing and find our strength in being able to accept help and being cared for. It's perfectly fine that some of us are fiercely independent and would wilt under someone's protection and covering.

Being a woman is about deciding what is right for you, whether it's marriage or children or a career and knowing that you are empowered by and through your choices.

Being a woman is about letting others live the existence they choose and supporting where you can because in the end, we know our sisterhood is a strength to rely on and not a wall to tear down.

Being a woman is about building up what we can and helping others reach their full potential while balancing our power with our influence so others feel this accomplishment was their own.  (I feel this one is often a subconscious act of mothering and I'm working on being more mindful of it because I don't have to be everyone's Momma.)

Pregnancy memories.

Today the twin girls I carried during my last surrogate pregnancy turn 4.  It's been that long since I've had children in my body, tapping all of the amazing places you might feel a random foot or hand.  Having had five boys before them, one at a time, I wasn't prepared for the crazy hormones.  I had pimples and I was so sensitive that crying in sadness and joy and because clouds were fluffy was completely normal.  All of my pregnancies before them were easy in comparison. With Kid1, the placenta wasn't functioning the way it was designed to and he was induced at 36.6 weeks to save his life.  He wasn't gaining weight and he didn't have enough amniotic fluid to swim in.  I was at a clinic full of learning doctors, so my pregnancy was a learning experience and I got used to random doctors poking and prodding around my lady bits.  If I had any modesty that survived my adolescence spent in raves, I lost it during this pregnancy.

Kid2 was so by the book it was almost boring, but his labor was sped up for the doctor's convenience and I went with it.

Kid3 was also easy.  I felt labor pain for about an hour before we went to the hospital and found out I was already at 10 cm dilation, although my water hadn't broken.  After some assistance, he was born an hour later.

Kid4 was my first surrogate pregnancy, and my second IVF cycle.  Considering how quickly Kid3 came, we went early and they kept me because we had a whole party waiting for his arrival.  What I wasn't prepared for was back labor, but he prepared me for the back labor that came with Kid5 who took 3 IVF cycles.

Kids6&7 were different from that first HCG level.  The first IVF cycle was cancelled on the day of the transfer and we had a second cycle and both girls decided to stick around. The numbers were really high, which could mean a strong and healthy pregnancy or twins.  At first, I had really bad morning sickness.  In all of my other pregnancies, being sick was a novelty and I laughed at those rare moments. As I was getting through the first trimester, my heart would start racing randomly.  I was losing weight, but that was normal for all of my pregnancies.  High HCG levels can make your thyroid act wonky. I had an erratically racing heart rate.  There were moments when I was jittery from it.  What looked like Grave's disease eased after the first trimester. At a normal perinatologist appointment during my 25th week, I was sent to the emergency room because my cervix was funnelling, meaning, my body was trying to kick them out.

With the girls, I was hospitalized from 25 weeks until they were born at 29 weeks. It was a private room, but I was still woken every few hours for monitoring and testing. I was allowed two showers that whole time, sitting and timed for exactly 5 minutes.  I had sponge baths by the nurses every other time.  For a week, I was in the Trendelenburg position.  I was tilted upside down at a 45 degree angle to keep pressure off of my cervix. At the end of the pregnancy, there was bleeding and one of the umbilical cords decided to block the opening that the girls were too tiny to use anyway.  I had my first c-section.

The girl's parents are from another country and they had to go back home to their careers and other children but I was asked to visit them, and bring breast milk, which I was honored to do.  Towards the end, it was stressful and exhausting and I didn't like going, but in the beginning it was an opportunity to see them grow.  They were on feeding tubes and oxygen and had masks over their tiny eyes.  They were tiny and fragile but I got to see them get strong and eventually I caught their first smiles.  They spent 8 weeks in the NICU.  They went home after that, and a month or two later they went to their home country.   Every once in a great while I'll see a picture of them in my Instagram feed.

I've been asked if it's hard to give up a child I carried.  It really wasn't.  I was loved so deeply and cared for so much by their mothers and fathers that I know they'll be okay.  It was harder to release friendships with amazing women to let them have the life I imagined would have happened without needing my help.  It was worth every inconvenience because it was an amazing experience.

So this was my moment to remember and celebrate the girls with names loosely translated into "Commitment" and "Shiny" like the sun.

Gay Bar and Hookah Lounge Shenanigans

It's early Sunday morning and I think I'm still recovering from Friday night.  It sounds much worse than it is. Yes, there was dancing, and my calves and feet have been shooting off painful missives to remind me that I don't exercise, but that's probably more about potassium and I'll have a meeting with some bananas and avocados throughout the week.  I want to learn Bachata one day so my body will just have to suck it up.

Yes there was drinking, but it was a Scooby-Snack followed by a couple of water and lemon slice chasers.  I used to drink until the ground was hard to find while walking, and puking was a natural progression for the night, but I eat wheat when I want to feel like bad choices are trying to kill me.  And it's no longer on purpose.

Then there was the lack of sleep.  Waking up at 6 and spending all day at work (leaving only after it wasn't fun anymore because I love what I do) . . .  Only to go out with fresh makeup and eyes so red they matched my lips and then getting to bed by 3 . . . Then waking up at 7 because my internal clock is evil.  At the same time, I was able to get up, get my pedicure and waxing, take a short hike to the Bat Cave (or Bronson Park), run to the hospital to sit in the ER with my sister and cousin (she's home and fine, we were exhausted), check out the Self-Realization Center in Hollywood, enjoy family time at a late lunch, then fall asleep insanely early, only to wake up and think trolling Facebook was a great idea to mask what looks like insomnia.  On the plus side, I get to give you words and pictures.

I went to The Abbey in West Hollywood. There was a moment where I became a chair.  I was sitting in one, and a boy (not my type) thought I would make a great chair and when his friend called to look for him, he said he wanted to introduce him to his new wife.  I was in a good mood so when a chair opened up within moments, I had him take it.  He wanted to stay, insisting he wasn't that heavy, and I kept it to myself that it really wasn't a selling point.  My cousin wanted a drink and I was ready for water so we left him at the table and for the first time in my life, I said "bye Felicia."  Not actually to him but when we were likely out of earshot. Dating tip: just no.  This whole thing - just don't do it.

So here's where the amazing came in: There was so much love that it flowed around us in glowing embers.  You would think this was the booze because that is the extent of my mind altering (exhaustion doesn't count because that can make a person crabby), but there was this loving flow that is beyond words.  I mean, you walk in and once you get past the idea of the dancers gyrating for cash in their underwear, there is a really friendly vibe in the gay community.  There were so many beautiful and friendly people.  Gay, straight, bi-sexual, transgendered, young, really old, obvious sugar daddies with their sugar babies . . . Just having a great time and not at all angry.

We danced, we watched.  We talked to the dancers.  We swooned at the accent on the cute ginger that did that thing where he twerked his tush in mid air above us.  We checked out guys because we have the same taste in men and both love watching because our standards are really high for the actual introductions and touching.  There is so much safety in knowing I was surrounded by beautiful men that had no interest in me, whatsoever.  As we walked through the club, we would stop and tell these men how beautiful they were.  I was included in so many group hugs.  It was a really different feel from my creepy moments of looking at strangers while driving and saying, "Hi" in my best Stitch (Lilo and Stitch) voice, or "You're beautiful," and "thank you for what you are doing for me right now." And my more aggressive moments of actually saying that with the windows down so I might be heard.  That only happens when I'm feeling more out of control and my behavior matches my inner destruction.  I see it, and taking note means I must change it.

We left the club and walked arm in arm, continuing to tell men they were beautiful.  I got these really great hugs.  It wasn't about trying to get a number or take someone home.  It was about seeing someone's beauty.  It was about telling him (and a few hers) that they were beautiful.  We liked their dress.  Their hair made me happy.  It wasn't for an exchange.  It was just an offering and it felt good.  There were lots of smiles and beautiful people.

We left for Cafe Dahab in West LA where people around us were enjoying their hookah and playing card games.  The food was amazing.  I'm convinced they toast their garbanzos or sesame seeds to give their hummus that smokey flavor.  It was more than roasted garlic and it was amazing.  It was a sensory meal where I just savored every bite, with eyes closed.  It was the crunch of falafels covered in creamy hummus and garlic sauce.  Their chicken kabobs were tender and juicy and the company was terrific.  We had deep conversations about life and love and goals. Never underestimate cousin time.  He was the biggest blessing of my day.

I spent Friday night with a gay man that wears makeup and every once in awhile, a dress.  We went to a restaurant and were surrounded by Muslim Arabs with beautiful hijabs and perfect eye makeup.  I spent my Saturday morning hiking with a Muslim woman and her beautiful son.  Then spent part of my afternoon in the Self-Realization Center in prayer and meditation while I worried for my sister. Then I explored and took pictures.  When I was little I would watch the news and felt so much fear and hate for Muslims and the gay community.  My parents watch the news and when I was little I watched news about terrorist attacks and the gay community and HIV. I no longer watch the news and have no idea what is going on in the world unless it's something that is so large that it's jumping out through my social media feeds. Then I can search for details I want. I'm far too empathetic and will cry with a mother I've never met and will never know.  And of course what the bible says about Muslims and homosexuality and anything else you could imagine has always colored my views in ways I'm continually striving to alter. This is what healing looks like.  This is understanding that all lives matter and this is what living it out looks like in my life.  It feels good too.  The best part is my weekend isn't over and neither is my story.

Handle With Care

I've been extremely fragile this week.  I have moments where I feel happy and confident, but one nudge and I'm shattered and scattered.  I assume whispered conversations are about me, because naturally, I am that important.  I analyze and misinterpret glances and words and text messages until they are so far from reality that I force myself to shift focus and see where my imagination painted the situation like a Picasso. . . So far from reality and to me, unappealing. My 16th wedding anniversary is tomorrow.  My writing never planned or plotted and my marriage was the same way.  Like most of history, it was a cataclysmic explosion that created who we were and the children we share.  We met in April of 2000.  By August 23 he proposed and September 2, we got married.  The following September we had our first born and the September after that we found out we were giving him a sibling.  It was very spontaneous and in our haste, we had few milestones of our relationship before getting married.  I celebrated every August 23, even if he didn't and every Labor Day weekend was special although it was years before I realized our anniversary fell on and around a legal holiday each year.  My family would get together, and keep our kids and we'd do something as a date or we'd run away.  My marriage ended for him sometime in late 2014 but I was informed in March of 2015 and I let go in February of 2016. Last year was my first anniversary without him but I had the kids.  This year he has the boys and I will be alone.  I don't know what that will be like.

It's not that I want him back or miss the marriage.  I've since learned that there were things I accepted as a normal part of marriage that I wouldn't tolerate as a single woman.  I love balancing my checkbook.  I enjoy taking myself out on solitary dates.  I treat myself very well.  I take myself out to eat, and don't embarrass myself in tipping.  I get pampered at the salon a few times a month.  I regularly buy myself flowers if I see a bouquet that grabs my attention.  I pick out jewelry I like and I no longer feel guilty about buying myself clothes.  I really like the way I'm treated and I don't have to worry about being expected to put out at the end of the night.  I decided that if I'm going to share my company, I want to have no doubts that I'd have a better time than being alone.

Loneliness is not what being fragile is about.

I like to do things well.  I like knowing that I can accomplish what I set out to, and that if there is room for improvement, I will easily close that gap.  In school, that meant giving birth in the middle of the quarter, missing a week of classes and still passing above average.  It meant applying for scholarships and earning seven awards as an upper division english major, in spite of my grades, but based on my drive, tenacity and compelling essays.  It meant advocating for my family until I got what we were fighting for.  It's hard to see my marriage as anything but a failure.  Yes, I chose to stay after he left, until I made the choice to move on.  No, we haven't filed for divorce.  I'm stubborn and want him to file.  He doesn't want to do anything I might suggest.  We're at an impasse.  It's marriage purgatory.  We don't even have a legal separation.  We rarely talk and usually text but I try not to respond when I can avoid it. We have a custody agreement, with separate finances and separate homes, but we're otherwise still very much married.  But it feels like a failure and I can't fix it without taking it back and I don't want it back.

I've had ugly moments this week.  Moments when my broken pieces are reaching out to hurt others.  Moments where I can't unhear what my ex told me or what his girlfriend texted me from his phone.  Moments where I see nothing but a physically unattractive woman.  I know that is only tied to them and that situation though.  Most other times I can remember the times men have given me things just to make me smile.  I remember the times I get smiles and winks at work and an appreciative sidelong glance because some people like watching me walk.  I'm beautiful to myself most of the time, but this week I've felt really ugly.  Last night I even put away the mirror I keep on my desk. I keep it there because my resting face helps me keep self aware. Am I happy? Am I stressed and can I use a few grounding breaths? Am I sad, and what is bothering me? Am I just thinking. . ? Because that look is a combination of cute and hot.   It got so bad I couldn't look at myself.

Earlier this week, a coworker was asking about my custody schedule.  We ran into each other in line at the 7-Eleven down the block.  The conversation went to my kids and weekend plans and I explained I don't do much when I have them.  As I explained what a 2-2-5 plan is, I forgot about the hole in the pocket of my skinny jeans and threw my change in my pocket.  His curiosity was gentle but I was so fragile, my answers came out like pennies being pulled from a toddler's mouth.  Reluctantly and messy with drool, and he didn't realize he was risking sharp teeth, eager to bite him. I focused on the $.51 that was slowly making its way out of my pocket, shocking bare skin with cold metal.  I held the coins against my thigh as we walked and talked, and the cold became comfortable, warmed by my skin and then seeming to burn with discomfort.  I had this inner dialogue to be polite because his questions were polite enough and he was doing his best to normalize my situations with examples of people he knows, because in his mind, their experience fits mine, but in my mind, each is a separate hell we're meant to grow from and those don't come in cookie cutter shapes. I got to my desk and worked the quarters and penny down my leg while breathing deeply.

My family has been asking what's going on with me.  I think that's why posting so much about what I'm getting into is easier for me.  I can post it and avoid deeper connections through intentional communication.  I've been hiding.  I nearly had a melt down at the latest request.  Don't ask and I won't have to think about it.

I had a questionnaire to fill out this morning and it asked if I'm single, married, or divorced.  It didn't even have separation listed, not that we're legally separated.  It's amazing how new couples try to define themselves to know how much faith to put in their relationship and I'm just over here wondering which box to check because this strange situation means I'm all three, depending on my mood.

Today at work I was feeling good.  I had a moment the night before where someone else gave me the perspective I usually have.  He is a friend I respect and care deeply about, so hearing it from him surprised and challenged the mood I was in.  In the end, I was amazed at what he said and better for it. Today I was throwing myself into work and fist pumping my accomplishments while dancing and singing in my seat.  It was going well, until it wasn't.  I needed a moment because throwing myself into work meant taking my focus off of myself and I'm too selfish for that.  My brain kept wandering away from my computer screen. Nothing was making sense. I wasn't making sense.

I took a moment to sit alone on the back patio and sing out loud while reading old blog posts.  I read A Profusion of Gratitude to the Men in My Life and A Moment of Gratitude and they gave me warm fuzzies.  It reminded me of the many amazing times men showed up for me in a great way. I re-read Closing The Book and Starting New Chapters and How My First Crush in 16 Years Is All About Me and these posts made me feel better.  They made me feel stronger.

The ex wasn't full on trying to pick a fight tonight, but I could feel his antagonism in his texts.  I decided to ignore him and keep working, but when a coworker was leaving and said her farewells, I couldn't ignore what I heard in my voice, and a short while later I left because I couldn't see through the tears.

Yeah, transparency can be uncomfortable, but if I can suck it up, you can too.  I won't know who has read this post, just how many times my homepage was seen. You can hide.  I'm not going to.

So, to recap . . .

I'm afraid of the unknown and what it will be like to be alone tomorrow.

I feel like a failure and it feels bad.

I don't like needing to define what relationship I'm in or not in when it feels and looks like I'm a single and occasionally lonely cat and dog lady.

I'm fragile.

And yet, I'm okay again while writing this.  After work I went to the beach and walked the pier.  I saw a seal swimming in silent prayer for bait from the anglers.  I watched a bird fishing for dinner.  The coast guard was flying their helicopter over the water, and over a boat that must have been experiencing some sort of distress to still be on the water after the sun set. There were a couple of young guys surfing next to the pier.   I listened to live music, and music I would have been okay not hearing.  One of my favorite vendors moved on to a better opportunity. The world goes round in good ways.  I'm up past my bedtime but it's about laundry because I can't keep putting it off and I won't leave wet clothes in the machine because I'll forget them.  Again.

Even the finest china is delicate, but still a treasure to be able to touch and embrace.  I can be fragile.  I can be strong.  I accept me with all of my limits and boundless abilities.

Cut Flowers

Broken stride halted by solitary beauty

She was standing in a crowd so quietly unassuming

You can't hide beauty so glaringly obvious behind pretentious contemporaries

There was strength in her posing

and tenderness in her velvet feel

Coloring delicately solely for me

I forgot what I was doing, holding, going to do because she was all that mattered in that moment.

I held her, breathing deeply of her sweet perfume, intoxicated with sensual need

Marking me with her beauty my hands left bruises where hands expressed need

Whisking her away I will watch her wilt and fade confined in my view

A private viewing of her demise and she'll love it.

Her only need in this limited life to make me smile

Would You Rather. . ?

Gluten free is easier and feels better than eating wheat. Food that makes me feel like death is coming for me through my digestive tract is evil. Even if it is buttery and flaky with sweet marzipan filling. It should be illegal to make sugar free foods if you can't make them taste better than the idea of starvation.  Meals should be based on taste and hunger. Anything that makes me want to brush my teeth to get rid of the taste should not be considered food. Yes, I've tasted sugar free snacks that tasted far worse than toothpaste.

We're all looking for something.  It might be a pinata with a blindfold.  It could be your keys that are just chilling in your door.  It could be sanity in the bathroom where you can lock the door and hide from kids.  I bet you've spent some time looking for a sock or two and just decided to accept your role in the House Elf Liberation Front (if you don't know Rowling, just know there are libraries for people like you). If you're really lucky, you have help looking for that ever elusive g-spot, even if it is just a girlfriend sipping a bloody Mary and describing the journey over dinner with lots of giggles. I'm looking for company, but it looks like I'd rather be alone.

I did it again.  I tried online dating.  It lasted less than a week this time, but the horrible feeling was just as fresh.  I'm in a different place from the last time and I didn't get pulled into the needs of others.  I was able to distance myself in some ways, but at the end of the week, I felt just as violated. There were a few decent people online.  We just wanted different things.  They wanted a forever partner and I'm not her. Two out of three men wanted me to get sexual because I was willing to say hello.  It was usually, "Hi.  Sex tonight?" Sometimes it took a few texts before they were comfortable enough to treat me like a discount hooker.  I wanted someone to stretch my perception, make me think, get my heart racing and give me peaceful moments.  It was too much to ask.

Laugh at my Freudian slip.  I did. The not gorgeous doctor stopped talking to me after this.  It was going so well as we talked books and museums.  The person I was thinking of was worth the slip up.

I'd rather be alone than go through all of this again . . .

Sometimes they are friendly for a while until they subtly ask for a picture, and not one you would be willing to share with the world.

I was up front with my shallow side.  I like looking at beautiful men. I like watching them run.  I may or may not have taken a few detours on my way to work to watch that lovely poetry in motion on Chandler.  It's a public service they perform and I will be that public audience, shamelessly.  I mean, there is a point to that really close relationship they seem to want with a bench press, and it's for me, right? Except, I won't dehumanize him to his face unless we mutually arrive at that point and I haven't gotten there.  He has to be amazing.  He has to be worthy of that next crush (#4 in 16 years, because I was a faithful wife). For now, I'd settle for someone willing to jump into my intensity.

There is a dating app that looks like a really great idea.  You get to see people that cross paths with you.  The problem is most of those people worked near me or at the same company, or they lived in my neighborhood.  It's all fun and games until you are looking over your shoulder on a Perrier run at your local 7-Eleven.  I got a "hello neighbor, it's nice to meet you" followed by, "let me bring you something from the store" in the same evening before I fully wigged out.  I live on a street that is 3 blocks long.  I made the mistake of naming it, and now I'm slightly paranoid every time I drive past the house he carefully described.

He ignored me after this and later the next evening I deleted the profile and the app because the gravity of my tiny one way street with no parking really sunk in.

And then on my way home tonight I met a beautiful hipster with blue eyes and a terrific smile while walking home with Kid3.  I may or may not have seen him topless through his bedroom window and I might have missed offering the neighborly suggestion for drawn curtains at night. I can't remember his name, but the look that was friendly and not predatory tells me I really don't belong online.  At least when looking for company. And no, he's not the one.  He looked really young.

The Look

There's so much in his look. A glance

A moment

A millenia

Captivated by a smile and imprisoned in his eyes.

I'm caressed

Undressed

Set ablaze and released

His searing stare guts and cleans me out

Purged of everything because without the power of his thrall I am nothing.

Brotherly Love

My boys are boys.  They fight and yell and curse each other out.  They are affectionate and loving and sensitive and tender.  They protect each other but they are also terrifyingly violent with each other. They're boys and they're brothers and all three are my sons. Kid1 was a surprise that came with joy and excitement.  Every time I puked while pregnant, I laughed.  It didn't happen often, but really warm gatorade would make anyone vomit, and I just learned to steer clear of whole milk, but 2% was just fine.  I celebrated the stretch marks that were his permanent gift to my body.  I was altered by him in so many ways from the girl that lived for attention in short dresses and only worried about making sure I had my three packs of cigarettes a day and enough boys in rotation throughout the week to buy me drinks.  A week before his first birthday, I found out we were having Kid2.

During my second pregnancy, I would place Kid1's hand on my belly to feel Kid2 move and kick.  I'd also pick out pictures in magazines or point at the television anytime I saw a pregnant woman.  I would point at the belly we saw, then mine and say,"baby." When he was 18 months old we went to the hospital and in my hospital bag was a toy packed for Kid1 from Kid2 because he needed a toy to keep him busy while he was too little to be played with.  When we came home, Kid1 was taught that Kid2 was his baby and we all had to be gentle with him and care for him.

With Kid3, we had a 3 year gap, but the older two were taught the same way.  Earlier this year I heard Kid2 (at 13 years old) tell Kid3 (9), "you were created so I could love you." In that moment I knew they would be okay.

With my first surrogate pregnancy, I didn't mention much at all.  I kept the kicks and wiggles to myself and just enjoyed what it felt like to have life so fully inside of me.  The hospital stay was odd for them, but I came home to them filled with hormones that directed my happy bonding compulsions at them.  It was the same with the second surrogate pregnancy, but with the third, they were older and Kid1 was upset that the girls I carried wouldn't be ours.  He likes babies and would like a sister.  I'm not looking to start that kind of adventure but that might be one of the perks of divorce.  He has a Dad that might.

Tonight, there was fighting and playing.  And more fighting and name calling.  I finally got them to stop.  I explained that I love them all and it hurts me when they say things like that about each other.  I explained that they never hear me say bad things about their Dad because I know it would hurt them.  I explained that the same hurt they would feel is the same hurt I feel whenever they say things like, "are you on team pussy now?" (I admire their creativity.) It took about 3 reminders but they were better about treating each other with love.

There was singing today.  My boys sang with me, as we belted it out to Lady Gaga.  They laughed and explored with oobleck (cornstarch and water and super fun). They played Minecraft together and helped each other scoop boba into their glasses for homemade Thai iced tea.  These brothers are everything to me and through their experience, I am unlearning a lifetime of what I thought it was to be a man.  They are sweet and sensitive.  They are caring and compassionate.  They love children and are willing to step beyond what they see and tap into their beliefs and how those beliefs inform their choices.  They remind me that motherhood is amazing.

These Hands

These hands have dug in fresh soil and planted tiny seeds.  They have watered thirsty seedlings, weakened by the sun and pulled weeds determined to steal their care.  They have scrubbed bare feet that wiggled in freshly turned soil and crusted in dry earth and chipped nail polish. These hands have snipped fresh herbs from the garden because there is magic in them.  They picked out ingredients in the grocery store.  They've washed and chopped and seasoned to taste . . . They've crafted a meal laced with love and a little booze.  My sons ate their food in silent tribute without a moment to savor the flavors these hands carefully balanced.

These hands have prepared needles and plunged them deep in flesh during seven IVF cycles to bring life to families I don't see anymore.  They have carefully measured and filled hormones in oil and given self administered scar tissue and knots under flesh that wasn't prepared to house the medications that forced a life where there wasn't one.

These hands have cradled a growing womb, caressing and loving children that were loved profoundly from the moment their existence was known.  They have tapped back at kicking limbs and pushed back on rolling turns as a growing child sought comfort in confined spaces.

These hands have changed diapers that painted on canvases of infant backs and ruined onesies with mustard consistency.  They have caught vomit before the projectile ruined furniture. They have burped babies that couldn't do it on their own with a spit up payment of spoiled milk.  They have spoon fed baby food and fought exploring tongues that pushed their food out instead of helping them swallow it down.  These hands have cooled burning flesh in cooled bath water while being covered in the smell of sickness breathed out by weak children like dragon's fire.

These hands have held children close to my heart, in unconditional love and loving abandon.  They have rocked them to sleep and brushed their hair with gentle back scratches.  They have held open books as voices were changed between characters.  They have held little hands and taught them how to knead dough that's baked into the sweet aromas of yeast and sugar.  They have taken pictures of children singing and laughing and learning through exploration.  They have felt the soft and tender flesh of a newborn.

These hands have written love letters and careful explications.  They have used pen and pencil, keyboards, and crayons to tell the secrets of my heart.  They have erased and backspaced and scrapped the old to make room for something new.  They have filled out applications and completed documentation because autism moms have to paper tiger through life.

These hands have held other hands.  They have found solace in connection and traced the lines of faces meant to be memorized visually, and tactilely.  They have rested on firm chests with racing hearts.  They have tickled and teased through hair and on dampened skin, sticky with the wonders of a life in motion.  They have felt the sensations of pleasure I've known in the touch of another and they have granted sensory joy in careful exploration.

These hands can use a hammer and drill.  They have dug holes and laid new plumbing. They have repaired electrical outlets. They have replaced vanities and changed tires.  They have picked up dead animals and nurtured small ones to health.  They have scrubbed floors on hands and knees and washed dishes that no one ever notices.  They scrub toilets and bathtubs and take the trash out.  They carry large bags of dog food and cat food and bottled water because I don't trust my pipes.

These hands have been manicured and cared for.  They have been dried out by frequent washing in scalding water.  They have been massaged and neglected.  They have known callouses from the uneven bars in gymnastics, and weights, and garden tools with yard work and bare hands.  My knuckles have known the sting of flesh punched off of bony fingers.  They have healed into hardened scabs that eventually lost all memory of their trauma.  They have soothed me when stressed by picking at scabs or with bitten nails, and picked at cuticles.  These hands are sensitive.  These hands are mine.

Living in the Moment

Being in the moment is something I intentionally work for.  It shouldn't be work, but it often is.  I can tell when I'm not in the moment because time is never doing what I want it to.  If time seems to slow to a crawl, I'm living in the past.  I'm looking at what was and trying to remember it presently and boredom and apathy settle in and around me.  When time is flying and I don't have enough of it, I'm living in the future.  I have too many things to do and too little time to accomplish my goals.  It's not enough time to read or write or tackle my latest project.  I have some deadline that hovers and obscures this moment right now.  I worry about some imagined deficit and have a hard time remembering that I usually have exactly what I need and it falls into my lap at precisely the moment I need it to. I had a brief conversation this afternoon and the statement I heard was a simple reflection about the difficulty of living in the present.  My response was about my daily goal to live in the moment and "BE."  I try to be and do epic shit daily.  It's a happy place to find yourself in.

Once I started heading home, I really had to think about what that means, because as I was driving home, I wasn't in the moment. I wasn't present in traffic.  I wasn't aware of the car I was in or the music on the radio.  My thoughts were on the back patio at work with my favorite sweater holding me and the muted heat of the sun barely caressing bare flesh.  I was observing soccer players in the nearby park and appreciating the beauty of the mountains and superficial conversation with company I always enjoy.

I started to wonder what being in the moment is really about.  Is it actually a subjective concept?  I mean, I was at home, with a dog begging for belly rubs and a cat hoping for a canned meal treat and my mind was reliving and exploring what happened an hour prior.  Was that my moment though? I was physically with my dog and cat, and my kids were gaming loudly inside, but the moment I held onto was being lived again in my head.  I was able to savor and hold the memory and I didn't rush through it.  I didn't feel it slipping by too slowly.  I was present in the moment of a memory and that memory was a moment of peace and joy.

In the last few days I've been flirting here and there.  It's been silly banter or lingering looks and I can appreciate it for a moment, but any longer and I look away.  I'm really not interested.  I'm playing with online dating but I'm not taking it too seriously.  It's really become an audition to see if there might be someone beautiful enough to give up my alone time but I know the answer before I even swipe.  I even let my cat swipe for a while in an effort to be that lonely cat lady.  True story.  I recognize it as a moment with a stranger that highlights other moments I've had in recent months, and those moments are too tempting to fall into with tender affection and slow observation.  In those moments, I'm in the past, but that past still brings a bright joy to the present and those moments are my present moments because of the joy assigned to them.

It's not a moment in the past where I am lost to a dream that I'm trying to change.  I didn't carry expectations that became resentments.  It's not a future I want to create.  It's a moment in the past that still shades my present in rosy tones and floral scents.  It's stepping back into a moment that makes the present moment beautiful and hopeful.  The moment can be subjective.  Right now could be right this day, or right this month, and I imagine it can be the beauty of a good year.  It's a moment.  It's now.  Now can last as long as we allow it to.

And I'm still wondering how long right now is supposed to last.

Love Bombs

It feels amazing when a love bomb is dropped all over you.  It shatters the inner dialogue that claims you are not enough, or worthy, or that you need to be more than you see in the mirror. You are seen intimately.  The call of your heart is heard and held and it resonates with meanings that are understood. You are given such a pure vision of how you present yourself that there is no denying that you are a beautiful being, full of light and possibility.  You are validated and shown that there is value in who you are as you are, without further expectation of who you should be based on a value system you are never expected to understand.  Love bombs are epic. I love your capacity to love.

I love your ability to see beauty through the ashes.

I acknowledge your pain and validate your anguish.

I love watching you dance and hearing you sing.

I love your excitement over good food.

I love your spontaneity.

I love your caregiving nature and servant's heart.

I appreciate your generosity.

I see you as beautiful and feel your power and authority over your life.

I acknowledge your accountability.

I appreciate your vulnerability.

I admire your ability to internalize criticisms as a catalyst for intentional change.

You amaze me.

Yesterday I was committed to being gentle with myself.  Still fractured from behavior I'm not proud of, I was seen and given a couple of objective views of the situation.  I was given an explosion of unconditional love. I was given love in my weakness and in behavior I regretted.

I love bombed all over myself. It was a Thursday night and while I usually take Thursdays as a day to feel small near the ocean, I used it as a date night for myself.  Usually that's a weekend thing.  I'm very comfortable with sitting at a table alone in a crowded restaurant, on any night, but usually Wednesday or Thursdays are about feeling small because I need that perspective often.  I took my time walking through stores and picking up items that interested me. I was intentional with my epicurean endeavors. I treated myself to dinner and walked through a bookstore, enjoying the weight and smell of the books I picked up.  I later went home and stared longingly and lovingly at myself in a mirror. I left hand written notes to myself and left them in places where I would find them later because I will need the reminder of my awesome later.  I tend to forget.

I realized that I am so in tune with the desires of my heart and no one can love me as deeply as I do. I took a selfie to remember how great that felt. Tonight, with my sons home, I'm committed to being silly.  I'm committed to laughing at myself and really appreciating what this feels like.  The love explosion all over myself is what is driving my night and my focus this weekend is to teach my boys that same appreciation.

There will be silliness and shenanigans.

Excuse me

He said excuse me as I was walking by.  Shoulder to shoulder and our bodies shifted toward each other. 

There's something amazing about a smile that lingers and fades into intensity. 

His was a gaze filled with passionate promise. 

I forgot everything. 

Everything that should have mattered melted at his smile. 

I remembered the hint of a feeling that stirs from a lifetime ago because I was looking from past to future, held only by a smile in our moment. 

I remembered everything and that moment held the promise of a million tomorrows. 

Then I looked away briefly. 

And the moment was gone. 

Unreleased Offenses

Last night my really nasty side came out and it was messy and ugly and all over someone so sweet, that it really was a violation on my part.  I was in a place that was so uncomfortable that in noticing where I was, I noticed what I was doing, and the guilt and shame are still all over me.  This is about releasing offenses so I don't arm myself with them to injure another person. There are some things in life that feel huge and out of control and I find ways in which to feel like I have some control because that makes it easier for me to accept and navigate messy feelings.  When I was a surrogate, it was my control over my contracts and records that helped the out of control areas.  I agreed to everything in the contracts, so when IVF cycles and hormones made me feel crazy, I had something concrete to focus on.  There is so much that intended parents have to release in terms of pride and trust and I wanted to reciprocate that in having them choose obstetric doctors.  When my ex left, he took all of my contracts because of some imagined support battle in the divorce that hasn't happened.  In that moment when all of my records and photocopied checks were gone, I felt powerless and violated.  I felt like the signatures that held so much trust and hope were taken from me.  I have to release that.

In the last year I have gotten several text messages from my ex that looked like screenshots of our conversations that he was sending to someone else.  Very likely he was sharing my worst side with the woman that replaced me in his life.  What it felt like was a huge betrayal of trust, and it was done repeatedly.  It's still done, but I've gotten to a place where I ignore it because there is nothing I can do about it.  It's a violation, but I'm powerless and so I release the idea that I should have power over it.

Yesterday we were together to go over child support.  I was in a room full of people that were forced to share a room with their ex-lovers.  It was tense and comforting all at once. We started discussing our incomes and it became clear to me that I take a lot better care of myself than he did.  He noticed the ways in which I was doing well, and I thanked him for reading my blog.  He insisted people from the church family we shared will send him text messages to show him what I'm up to.  I stepped over that betrayal in that moment. I appreciated the fact that I have no idea of what he's up to unless our sons complain about something, and I was grateful that I no longer feel the need to spy on him.  I'm usually busy being happy with the epic things that fall in my path.

When the calculations were made, the child support payments he would have had to make were so small I decided to let it go.  In that moment I felt peace and saw it as extending grace.  I looked out the window and could see the building I worked at in January.  I remembered a few happy encounters in the kitchen with a slow smile and amazing pectorals and the view that so much peace was found in.  I asked if the attorney could see the ocean from there and he said he could on some days and it was a moment of respite from the tension of the morning.  I was smiling.  I glanced over and saw my ex had angled his phone and was recording me.  I smiled and said hello to his camera, and I was amused for a while.  It's not the first time I've been an unaware subject for someone's private viewing and I'm sure it won't be a last time.  I have caught enough camera phones directed at me that it doesn't bother me for the most part. This age of smartphones brings out the particularly creepy.  I didn't feel violated by this at first.

I was on my way to work and singing happily and even caught the food truck at lunch for my usual breakfast (2 eggs over medium, bacon, avocado and tomatoes, with cheese sometimes).  It was a good moment.  As the day wore on, Facebook reminded me it was 16 years to the day that he proposed to me.  My internal harpie started reminding me of the ways I was promised growing old together.  I started thinking about our trust and how utterly it was destroyed.  It was so much emotion, I couldn't keep it off of my face, and people I work with noticed.  I felt so violated in the picture or video that was taken of me.  I became a sideshow of someone else's design and the peace I felt was taken and mocked.

After work I saw a smile. It was beautiful and carefree.  It followed me home and I later used the beauty of that smile to reflect on my pain and sorrow and it became a source of frustration and highlighted a rare lonely moment.  I wanted to hurt the beautiful thing I saw and when I realized what I was doing and why, the guilt and shame tortured me through sleep and disquieted dreams.  This morning I've been searching for self compassion because there's not much more to offer outside of an apology to make up for what I did.

Old patterns emerge when I'm feeling especially low and I've had it suggested enough recently that the idea of getting lost in someone else's happy trail made me consider online dating again.  I'm not sure how fully I'm jumping into this. I went over my dating tips and the dating tips from my friends, and it doesn't sound as amazing a distraction anymore. I'm releasing these offenses and broken agreements that keep suckerpunching me at random times.  I will find grace when I'm not expecting it and look for beauty because I always find it.  But there should definitely be some shenanigans tonight.  There will be stretching out of my comfort zone.  There may even be another dress involved.