Assistance on Aisle Me Please

I'm not quite comfortable asking for help.  Actually, it makes my skin crawl in bad ways.  I'm finding ways to get comfortable with the uncomfortable and I'm asking for help.  Yesterday was a day where I was being aggressive.  It looked like confidence because that is what my buffer of safety looks like.  It's bold.  It's the audacity to say what I want to.  It sounds like, "You're beautiful love, but that doesn't mean I want you." It's not nice and it's a perfect mirror for what I was feeling.  I was a bit out of control.  I was uncomfortable in my body.  I needed a timeout.  I needed to be alone.  I needed to find my center.  I went out alone and within a few moments I was okay again.  I know what I needed to do to reset and I did it.  The problem with that is I do it while shutting others out. This morning was a better morning.  It was a good day.  I took a walk and found peace in my stride. I was productive at work, if maybe slightly scatterbrained.  It was really great.

Early in the evening I was given words that came with weight.  It felt like anger wanted to claim me.  It felt like sadness was ready with a blanket to smother me. It looked like my mask was firmly in place because I was ready to hide in self destruction again.  That moment I saw the choices before me and I shifted.  I walked and talked with a great friend.  She gave me the perspective of a man as only she could because she was one once.  She gave me a direction for my boldness and I find that I'm a bit timid in taking her advice, even if I really want to.  This is new.  I like this new.  Our conversation shifted to the week I've had and she celebrated the idea that I'm willing to consider more than a few dates because she sees this as growth, just as much as I do.  I even told her that there's a new person holding my attention in unexpected ways and it's odd that I won't refer to him as a boy.  That says a lot.

I called three other women and even talked to two of them.  My world had righted itself by the time I got home.  I don't know if it was faster to enlist a few women to support me, but I'm glad I trusted them to help me and I'm glad we communicated on a deeper level.

I was a stay at home mom for 15 years.  I was completely reliant on my ex.  Our relationship was based in isolation.  He was my world.  I ignored friendships.  I turned my back on family.  All financial decisions were his and any shopping I wanted to do came with enough shame that I would hide Target receipts and buy Amazon gift cards with groceries so I could support my reading habit.

When my ex left it was first emotionally.  I had isolated myself to the point where he was everything and then I was nothing.  Physically he left.  I was so used to getting hugs and snuggles and suddenly it was just me, my teenage boys and my little one that wouldn't give me space.  Then it was financial.  In September of last year he promised to never give me another penny and it's not a promise he's broken. I had to figure things out.

I figured out finances, and self soothing through the pain.  I figured out how to find balance at home with the boys and when they are away.  It was hard.  I was able to learn from a breakup in my early adolescence that numbing the pain just gives you delayed grief.  It's like renting a storage space for your late aunt's things.  You will get to them when you can, and in the mean time, you're willing to make monthly installments on delaying grief. When you finally start to get through it all, you're faced with the grief and the anomie from a ripped off bandage that is covering something that was scabbed over and stiff and the world that kept going when you first lost her is still going, but they don't understand you might need to pause a moment because it's fresh pain that comes in waves.  It was emotionally draining.  I didn't numb the pain in alcohol or men that I really wasn't interested in.  If anything, I got really picky with who I wanted to spend my time with. I got it together.  I figured it out. It was hard and the idea of becoming dependent on someone else again scares me.

I'm stretching who I was into who I am becoming.

When I was hiking a few weeks ago, and dangerously dehydrated, I was still too proud to ask for help. I knew it was dumb to go farther than I planned with the small amount of water I had with me.  It was just as ridiculous to go hiking alone, but being alone has become the theme of my life.  I was determined to get to where I was going, and a bit freaked out about my condition, but I never once asked for help.  It was offered. I'm really thankful to the three people that offered help without my asking.  But it was dumb.

If I were a car my asker would be broken.  It's in my gut, right below the high beams.

I almost didn't take my Advanced class when I did.  I didn't have the funds and I was willing to wait until I did.  My friend noticed my aversion to asking for help.  She challenged me to stretch and ask for help.  She wanted me to start a Go Fund Me page and she coached me throughout the process, being one of my greatest contributors.  I started another one for this third class, but I'm in a place where it's okay if I don't make my goal.  I came up with the deposit on my own.  I'm getting some help through Go Fund Me, but I realized even if I don't make the tuition, I'll be okay. I'd be okay with taking the class later, if that's what it comes down to.  For me, I was proud of the moment I asked for help.  Even if enough help doesn't come, I've stepped outside of my comfort zone.

I asked for help tonight.  Rather than run to the ocean, I talked it out.  I asked for someone to listen to my frustrations and the parts that were angry.  I listened to wisdom I was incapable of.  I got it out and allowed the stretching that is forcing me to grow. I didn't go out to be seen.

 I chose to spend my last kid-free night for 5 days at home, in bed and reading someone else's blog.  I kept having wow moments at how lost I was, and how I could still feel the excitement though the gibberish (to me) haze of stats and my inner reckoning with, "I thought it was a football that gets thrown and caught and then there's running to the end zone with it.  What is all this other jargon?"  Clearly I don't speak sport stats, yet I kept reading. Interesting. 

Does Writing Make a Writer?

It's not a simple idea for me to own being a writer.  I never wanted to be a writer.  It wasn't something that was ever who I am or in my bones.  I didn't breathe in every moment knowing this is who I am.  It just happens.  Words come out.  It feels better. I was a scientist once.  There was a moment when the world in perfect excellence shattered for me and I was a scientist.  I fell deeply in love with Geology and I wanted to be a rock doctor.  I wanted to climb mountains and camp along active volcanoes and wear that big, shiny suit to take measurements.  I wanted to pick up and analyze rocks.  I wanted to weigh and measure and even bite dirt to see what the grains felt like.  I was a scientist. And I still stick rocks in my pocket.

To know me is to think of me with every sensory caress of the ocean; every rock that looks special; every butterfly that floats by.

Being a scientist at the time didn't really take in the needs of a young family.  I couldn't leave my family for field trips to study the earth and really thought about taking them with me.  I didn't have the security of knowing that I could leave and their Dad could run the house.  This sounds harsh, but if you think about my first childbirth, it makes sense.  I had Kid1.  My ex got food poisoning and when I got home from the hospital, I had to make my own dinner.  I hit the ground running from that moment on.  I'd be hospitalized, and get home with laundry waiting for me.  I wasn't allowed to lift a laundry basket and my help looked like someone willing to carry the laundry basket to and from the laundry room, but I was still on my own for everything else.  I couldn't see leaving my family to study the earth as an option.

Then there was the math.  I struggled with math in the 3rd grade when I was suppoed to be memorizing multiplication tables.  It wasn't just the math. It was at a time when I was sitting at a desk next to a boy that kept touching my legs and wanting to explore grown things.  I was curious too.  My teacher never noticed. I was not at all focused on math.  Not having that foundation, I struggled.  By the time I got through college level algebra with 2 kids and one on the way, it started to look impossible.  I was facing chemistry, calculus, and physics, and it seemed impossible when I had to fit homework in after my family fell asleep.  I imagined getting through with really bad grades and I wanted better.  I wanted an easier major.  I was no longer a scientist, but I fell into being an english major.

English and literature were easier for me.  I loved reading from the time I would steal my sister's trashy bodice ripping romance novels.  I loved literary porn from the 8th grade, not realizing how much I was warping my ideals of love and romance and real relationships.  I got older and had  a family of my own and would spend hours reading books as an escape.  Some days I would read 3 novels in a day, forgetting to eat, and barely feeding my family.  The housework would sit.  I was in bed reading, while my ex was watching television, and it was okay to run away without leaving.

When I was in the 10th grade I started keeping a journal.  It started after a breakup and became a place to pour out all of my darkness.  I would write and forget about what was bothering me.  That first journal was full of terrible men jokes.  When I got married, at first I thought it was okay to share everything, so I did.  When you share what is hurting you in a way where it was written only for you, it can look hurtful and mean, even if that was never the intention.  I began keeping my journal to myself, but the new boundary was never honored.  I stopped writing.  At one point, I had several entries a day and it was a cleansing ritual.  It became sporadic.  I remember writing an entry after a 4 year gap.  I would write for healing, but it was covered in shame. Then it was hidden, because I couldn't own how I felt.

In the months where I was still trying to save my marriage, I destroyed and threw away over 20 years of journals.  This was at a time when I couldn't write.  I was trying to write creatively, and I couldn't string together a paragraph.  I felt like my writing killed my marriage and I couldn't get it out because I was so broken.  I tried starting a new journal. I wanted it to be new and not include the dark, but more optimism.  It was easier to not write. I tried writing a story and got bored while writing.  Why would anyone want to read what I'm too bored to write?

In February of this year I started blogging here.  It was free therapy.  My words made me feel better.  It was more positive because bashing people isn't what I want to do and knowing the words are for someone else means I am held accountable by faceless numbers of blog hits and subscriptions.

But I still haven't stepped into being a writer.  I blog.  It's a hobby.  My Dad identifies himself as a writer, and I never liked what that looked like to me.  He was writing and I wanted to snuggle.  His dreams came with disappointment. Writers are made for rejection.  It becomes great material. I think that's why I'm in love with falling in love and my superficial crushes mean more to me than the men actually did.  It might be why I still refer to them as boys.

One day I might call myself a writer.  Today I own the fact that the words I string together can be compelling.  Much like a train wreck. It's enough.

I Know This Place and it Feels Like Fear

Last night I was still in an unhappy place from the latest texting war with the ex.  My voice is still not normal and while it's getting better, allergy season is rearing it's ugly head.  I can finally picture myself being with someone for more than dinner and it comes with fear.  All of this was too much and I realized it when I was at the coffee bar at work, making my cup of tea.  There was honey on my fingertip and I had someone's attention.  It was a predatory moment where sexual aggression meant I enjoyed his discomfort and I needed to shift. It's not nice to say, "I'm being an asshole, here's a boner I won't help you relieve." I've been told I was doing this in highschool and it wasn't intentional then.  It is now and it's never nice because I'm allowing my broken bits to hurt others. I am happy in dating only me.  I opened up to the idea of allowing someone else in my life - not that I've found him and it comes with the fear I have been avoiding.  I really get to face what it means to step into a relationship where I'm aware of my martyr habits and I get to see what I'm doing.  How terribly frightful is that?  It's fucking scary.  My security blanket looks like the confidence of being alone and I get to risk the fall in a way where I get to let someone else mean more than I've allowed since I decided getting married was a good idea.

Eyes wide open.

Sober.

Intentional.

Scary.

I get to be brave.

I planned to reach out to a friend and deepen my friendships but I got to take myself out on a date instead.  I drove to Santa Monica and arrived just after the sunset.  It happens earlier now. I walked the pier.  I felt my unease slip away as I got further out over the Pacific Ocean and the light of the sun slowly faded away.  I stood at the end of the pier and felt the chilled air blowing my hair across my face and taking the weight of my week with it.  I was holding this fear of falling in love with someone and having him mean more than I do again.  It looked like sexual aggression and it felt predatory. I had to remind myself that when it happens, he'll be so special that I'll want to give him my time alone.  Considering how amazing it felt to drive home on the streets with only my company and how much I loved myself in that moment I know that when I find him, he'll be worth it.

Owning It

There are times when the situations we find ourselves in are too great to imagine being in control of.  It's easier to make ourselves the victim of our choices.  Let's explore full ownership! It'll be fun.

Bad Choices

That time you got arrested for breaking the law?  Own it.  You did it.  You got caught.  You didn't get locked up.  You didn't end up in jail.  Your choices put you where you were meant to be.  Take ownership of the circumstances you created.

That time your bold faced lie got you ostracized? That was a choice you made.  Your friends turned their backs because you weren't being authentic.  They trust you with their honesty and you don't feel they deserve yours. Own it.

Always running late? Things happen.  Sometimes better planning would be the only fix you need.  Other times you need to acknowledge you made a commitment that wasn't in your interest and rather than stand on a firm "NO," you chose to say yes. Being late is saying, "Screw you, my time means more than yours does." Personally, I tend to give myself so much extra time that I think I have time to squeeze in a quick stop, rather than taking the moment alone to shake off the drive or other things in my life that won't allow me to be present and engaged.  This is my problem.  I own it.

How do you present yourself?

You want feedback? You want to know if people want to be around you? Look around.  Are they reaching out to you? Are you reaching out to them? Have you only made time for the hurricane that is your life and drama? Did you ignore the last seven life lines tossed your way? Own it.

Every so often a friend will ask Facebook a question of "what should I do?" They have two or more choices and don't know which to take.  They go back and forth, laying out the best and worst case scenarios.  I often tell them to do what they want.  They know what they want and they're asking for approval because they need someone to make them feel better about their choice.  I won't face the consequences or receive the benefits of that choice.  A Facebook based conversation means we're just not that close.  I like you enough to spy on you, but if I'm not texting you or asking if I can call because I'm driving, I've given space, and while I'm open to closing that gap, I usually don't.  (My bruised bits in this area are healing.) Own your decision.  I can support your choice, but I won't support you living in fear of your life.  I won't do it anymore and I wouldn't want my friends to. Own it.

Compliments

Someone tells me I'm beautiful.  I get stopped and told I have a great smile by passing strangers (male and female) on a regular basis. I've had people smile from their cars and hope I'd be willing to pull over.  I've pulled over more than once.  I'm a romantic, and one day it might be worth my time. Other times I pretend I don't see him and keep jamming to whatever song I'm singing to myself (way too loudly). I own it, but it's never something that gets my attention. I always hope to talk to someone and hear that I'm smart too.  I want to hear that I'm intense and it isn't a bad thing.  I want to hear that I'm warm and loving, even if a bit snarky at times.  I accept beautiful and when it becomes purely sexual, I offer my hard pass with a smile.  I own it because I've grown numb to what it means to someone else.  I'm fully aware of what I look like and for the most part, I love what I feel, but more than that, I love what my body is capable of. I own my looks that were a gift from my parents and have nothing to do with anything I can control.

People will call babies cute because they're little.  Babies are cute and precious, even if they look like they've been beat up by a uterus for a day and are still covered in bodily fluids and reek of a vagina that's been flexing and stretching all day. Cute kid, let me hold it because it's pure and I want some of that purity in my arms.  I want that tiny bit of person that you have had all to yourself with the stretch marks, heartburn, tingling legs, and stress incontinence.  I want to see what has given you a close and personal relationship with every bathroom you've met throughout a pregnant lady day. I want to bond with a child I will only see on occasions and certainly not for that feeding every 2-3 hours or the fever that has you freaked out because it won't break, and I get to remember what it was like before teenagers started acting like they hate me sometimes.

People will lie about beauty, but not if they aren't expecting anything in return.  I'm not asking you out.  I'm not trying to see if you'll let me touch your butt on the dance floor.  No cost is coming.  You are beautiful.  Own that shit.

Last night, the founder of the leadership courses I've been taking singled me out as a good writer.  She pointed at me and gave me a solid compliment in a room full of people that had her full attention.  There was no escape, and I kinda wanted to.  Blogging is free therapy. It's been a place to escape the confines I've been keeping all around me for longer than I can comprehend.  Each word destroys the chrysalis I never knew was holding me in. It's where I talk about dating or not dating or dating myself because I do that spectacularly.  I explore motherhood  while trying to not make this about my boys because how fair is that to them? I'm not them. I try my best to not just bash my ex, no matter how easy he might want to make it. I'm so thankful to the open ears that listened through yesterday's drama and the place I'm in that makes it no longer necessary to protect him or seek vengeance.  I spend way too much time alone at the beach (which sounds really good for tonight) and it's silly to me.  Living out my days and looking for joy is fun, and writing about it is healing, but it's not serious. I have a vague idea of what real writing is and I can't see that I'm there.  She singled me out and my blog stats tell me otherwise.  I am so interested in all she's going to be teaching me and I trust her.  I have to trust that she likes the way I string words together. The email followers, the Facebook hits, the searches that land people here . . . I need to own that even if it does require chocolate.

What's Opening Up for Me

What's opening up for me is I woke up with more drive and less being driven. What's opening up for me is less being seen and more of the experience of seeing. Standing in the sun today was a new experience and it was more than the heat of the sun or the chill of the wind blowing soft strands of hair across my face.

What's opening up for me is I can ask for what I want and I can state my case.  I don't need to beg and plead because that is what empowerment looks like.

What's opening up for me is the idea that I need to talk to the boys about my dating again.  We had a talk at first.  It was clear, Mom is just having dinner, if even that and no one special is in my life.  I couldn't see more than that but I can see it now. I can see a future that once felt out of reach. I couldn't see anyone being special enough to meet my boys before but I can now.

What's opening up for me is I've always been able to fight and advocate for my boys and there's no reason I can't do it for myself.  That doesn't mean "I'm all about that thug life."  I'm just no longer a martyr and I don't need to make anyone my bitch.  I can just be and know that I'm capable.  I am aware that my inaction was always a choice I no longer have to make.

What's opening up for me is I chose to share my lunch with someone else today (first time since 1999), and we talked and I shared with her how amazing my latest perspective shift has been.

What's opening up for me is I don't need to know the how, I just need to decide what and why.  Everything else comes when and how it's meant to.

What's opening up for me is there's no reason to wait when I know what I'm already eager to step into. It doesn't have to look exactly as imagined and it can surpass my vision if I'm open to that possibility.

What's opening up to me is the responsibility of knowing I am my only obstacle and my only motivation.

Rise

"Rise"

I won't just survive Oh, you will see me thrive Can't write my story I'm beyond the archetype

I won't just conform No matter how you shake my core 'Cause my roots—they run deep, oh

Oh, ye of so little faith Don't doubt it, don't doubt it Victory is in my veins I know it, I know it And I will not negotiate I'll fight it, I'll fight it I will transform

When, when the fire's at my feet again And the vultures all start circling They're whispering, "You're out of time," But still I rise

This is no mistake, no accident When you think the final nail is in Think again Don't be surprised I will still rise

I must stay conscious Through the madness and chaos So I call on my angels They say

Oh, ye of so little faith Don't doubt it, don't doubt it Victory is in your veins You know it, you know it And you will not negotiate Just fight it, just fight it And be transformed

'Cause when, when the fire's at my feet again And the vultures all start circling They're whispering, "You're out of time," But still I rise

This is no mistake, no accident When you think the final nail is in Think again Don't be surprised I will still rise

Don't doubt it, don't doubt it Oh, oh, oh, oh You know it, you know it Still rise Just fight it, just fight it Don't be surprised I will still rise

These are the lyrics to the song Advanced 139 chose to represent who we are. Powerful, right? It's not the Katy Perry version but a cover by Boyce Avenue.

Last night I was challenged. It was a stretch for me.  I was to embody Beyonce and be empowered by it.  Oh my goshness.  It was rough and there was a really raw feeling that settled in my belly and held me hostage most of the day.

There are many people that love Beyonce, but I've never really been a huge fan.  I still haven't even listened to Lemonade.  The album hit too close to home.  Waiting for my ex to decide he wanted me back for 11 months is not a feeling I want to revisit.  I feel stronger now.  I feel confidence and joy I didn't feel before.  I feel freedom for the first time.  Listening to that album didn't feel like something I could handle, so I've avoided it.  I loved her music in the early days, but there was a disconnect in who she is.  I tend to love music, while ignoring the person behind it.

The prude in me sat in judgement of her.  I've never seen the skin she exposes or her dance moves as empowering.  We have different styles.  I will step outside of the voice in my head, steal a hug from a man and tell him how appreciated his beauty is.  But it's about sexualizing someone else for my needs, not caring about theirs.

"You're beautiful."

"Thank you for loving your body as much as I do."

"Thank you for that public service that looks like your exercise routine."

Spreading her legs on her back . . . Crawling on all fours . . . Exposing her flesh to turn someone else on always felt like putting her sexuality in service to someone else.  It's her agency but it felt like she's giving it to someone else because he wants it enough that he'll claim ownership of her. It says more about me than it does her.  Madonna has done the same for years, but there's this distance she has.  She hasn't seemed emotionally needy in decades.  It's also possible that I over identify with Beyonce and I see in her the parts of myself I don't like.

I spent years using my body to please others, rarely ever enjoying the encounter myself.  I've found my power in satisfying my needs, rather than trying to please someone else.  I'm in a place where offering my sexuality is a gift I'm offering because I choose to and it's no longer a gift just because someone else wants it.

I posted a selfie video on my Instagram on September 19th.  I almost took it down because I thought of it being used by someone else to live out a sexual fantasy.  I decided to leave it up because that would have been me catering to someone else's fantasy, rather than enjoying the moment of confidence and satisfaction I was in when I made the video.

I was asked to empower myself by being transformed into Beyonce.  I had to dress in a way that I wouldn't dress.  My bra was visible through my shirt last night.  I wore pleather shorts, much shorter than I'm used to, with high heels that I nearly fell in.  I stumbled and almost took a few ladies down with me.  It was epic.  I was cheered through it and it helped me get through the ridiculousness.

The big part of what I was asked to do was to empower myself.  How amazing is it that people who have known me for 3 days could decide on day 4 that my biggest discomfort is in empowering myself? They don't see my insecurities at work when I'm asking and double checking what I know because I'm afraid of making mistakes.  They don't see me shrink back from fighting because it's easier to not fight and walk away than use my voice.  I know I could hurt others.  I choose not to because hurting others hurts me even if I'm being attacked, but also because there's uncertainty . . .   Sitting in the shadows as others move forward unable to use the thoughts that just don't shut up in my head . . . They don't see me silencing myself when with family or my ex.  They didn't see that the only place I've found confidence is in fighting for my children.  In this moment, I can see that as the past because I'm a badass and change is a choice I can make today and continue to make.

Last night, we left it out there.  I powered through my fear in bravery.  I stumbled through cold, in heels that were a little too big and trusting my feet or not, the shoes betrayed my ankles and I powered through in courage.  And through it all, I said, "Oh what the fuck? Do whatever it takes," because in the end, it wasn't about me but supporting and being supported in what I was doing.  I was being encouraged while allowing others to encourage me.

After the performance, I was lifted by my tribe. I was cradled, then held high above their heads as Beyoncé sang "Halo" and I sang along with her. My walls were tumbling down. 

At the end of the night, I had rug burns on my knees.  I had several hands on my body.  I held so many people in my arms.  Rather than feeling dirty and used, and distanced by my own design, I felt open.  I felt so much love that while my heart was ready to burst with the trust I felt, I was okay with it.  It was a time of open hugs that offered more full body contact than I've had in really long time with men that were scantily clad.  I may have really enjoyed that too. I offered massages and gave massages.  It wasn't payment for a negotiation of pleasure.  It was a gift and an offering of love.  Unconditional love and service to each other.  I was open to sharing who I was.  I was ready to let others in. I am ready to let others in.

I had a moment of just opening up in love to my Buddy.  He's beautiful.  He's kind, and generous.  He's considerate. He's a leader.  He's everything I would want to wake up to in the morning, if only he weren't gay.  I keep saying the perfect man would be gay but into me and he embodies this in a way that aches.

I'm committed to being gentle with myself, and opening up to others, trusting that being hurt by others might happen and I'll face that set back with a moment to say, "Yes!" I'll sit back, reassess, and move forward with an open heart because closing off only hurts myself.

The legacy I will live in will be to live in openness. I get to live and allow others in.  I get to live and in empathy, find empathy for myself because being connected to what I feel is a gift and I receive it in the present.  Each breath I breathe is the gift of life and each exhalation is my contribution to the world, and I can't contribute if I hold who I am.  That will only make me suffocate.  There is no life when there is no exchange.  We rely on others to reflect, to connect.  It was a huge lesson last night.  I get to live in a way that doesn't cripple my sons.  I get to live in a way that doesn't leave them searching to heal the scars I've created.  I get to be the mom I want them to have and I get to ask them the questions and offer the answers that I wouldn't have before because I get to let them in.  I get to let people in.

When, when the fire's at my feet again, And the vultures all start circling, They're whispering, "You're out of time," But still I rise.

Gift Receipt

I love receiving gifts, but sometimes it's not the right fit, or you wanted a different color, or the gift in no ways satisfies your wants or desires.  It's terrific when we have a gift receipt.  We can find out the value of the gift.  We can make an exchange or return. We don't have to keep what we were given.  Yesterday I found a gift receipt and I didn't even know what I had before I found it. During part of my Advanced class, I really took a look at my parents.  At the end of the day, I had a good childhood.  It might have been cold in some ways.  Dad would shut down and sit inside of himself.  Mom was physically affectionate but as I got older, her affection looked like encouragement to be better.  I've accepted that I may never reach who she wants me to be, and I only ask that my kids are loved and loving others because of how that feels. There was a space of disconnection.  I love my parents, and they've given me all that they thought was best for me, but I had to look at how they shaped my ideas of love and connection.

Let's start with my Daddy issues.

Dad is a war vet and he lives with PTSD. His war experience is never farther from him than yesterday.  Emotionally, he is disconnected.  It's not something I'm angry about.  It's just what I grew up with.  I realized I tend to feel like he can't see me.  He's in his head so much that he can't see me.  He stands bravely, but I've always known the fear he lives in.  I spent my adolescence, declaring to myself that I can't live in his fear or face his demons.  I just can't let them control how I live.  I spend a lot of time on the town alone.  I don't always remember to lock my door.  I don't carry the taser he bought me.  I refuse to live in fear.  At the same time, I've been afraid of deep relational connections. I've been afraid of letting people in.  I've been afraid to dream big and expect greatness.

Dad has kept things at a distance.  He doesn't share who he is outside of his faith and maybe it's because he can't see his value outside of his faith.  This summer he kept asking my kids, "What do you think of Grandpa."  I finally said, "I need you to be strong for them, and not question who you are.  You don't need acceptance.  You need to just be who you are and get your answers by who chooses to be around you. You tell me you are the son of the Most High God, and I need you to act like it.  My sons are learning who they are from those around them." He once tried to share his experience of Vietnam with me.  I don't remember what he said, but he remembered the look on my face and uses that as an excuse to hide who he is to protect me . . . to protect him.

This showed up for me in a way that I could see how every man I've ever dated was emotionally unavailable or stunted in some way.  I have always been attracted to men that feel like I did when surrounded by my Daddy's demons.  His fear . . . His emotional distance . . . His superficial connection . . . His need to control that made love feel like obedience and service to him.  I found his gift receipt and I don't need it anymore.

And now, my Mommy issues.

The Basic class showed me that I never appreciated what it was like for my mom.  She came here from Thailand as a teenaged mother, not knowing the language and leaving her entire family.  She was in a controlling relationship, but she's strong, and for years, her strength looked like distance, and angry yelling.  It looked like financial independence and generosity toward those less fortunate.  She had three daughters, back to back (just like I did), then I was born seven years later.  I was the surprise.  I came along after she had settled into who she was as a mom.  She had gotten comfortable with finding her financial independence and stepping outside of my Dad's need to control.  I barrelled through her body, giving her stretchmarks and messing with her thyroid.  When she wanted to make medical decisions at my birth, it was vetoed by my Dad and the doctor wouldn't follow my Mom's wishes about her body. She never gave me anything other than a sense that I was a cherished and treasured child.  I got hugs and kisses.  She bought me everything she could.  I married a man so much like my Dad, that when he left me, my Mom knew exactly what I needed, but never gave me a deep heart to heart about what she felt.

My Mom is emotionally distant, but she does it out of love.  I have no idea about my Mom's history before she met my Dad.  I asked a cousin about it and his response was the same as hers.  There is so much pain in the family past that they need to protect me and will not say anything at all.  What I know is that they grew up extremely poor in the countryside in Thailand.  My mom had to work by free climbing up coconut trees.  She never went past elementary school and yet she came to the states and earned an A.A. Degree.  She lived in such a way that she needs to protect me by hiding who she is from me. There's an emotional disconnect.

The way I see my mother in my romantic relationships is I tend to want to get lost in the history, the desires and dreams of the man I'm dating.  I hide my desires, putting myself last in getting to know them.  I mirror what I want from my Mom.  I want to be seen and sometimes I don't feel that I am.  I never doubt that she loves me.  I don't feel a deep connection, and I fight for that with my boys, often giving them more transparency than others think is appropriate.

What this means is . . .

I can look at this.  I can see what it means in my life and how it has created who I am, and I can decide that yes, I had a loving childhood, but I'm still trying to fill gaps that were created in me.  These gaps aren't things that my parents did wrong.  This is more that my parents were unable to be who I wanted or needed them to be and now that I see that, I don't have to keep filling those voids in others.

I can see how the circumstances of my parent's life never allowed them to fully express who they are.  I grew up with so much empathy for others and a total disconnect from myself.  Part from my parents . . .  Part from my suicidal years (1993-2006).  There are things I feel so deeply that the only way to survive has always been to shut it off.  If I don't allow myself to feel, it can't take me deeper than I can stand. I hide in my smile.  I hide in my confidence.  I hide in not allowing others to see who I really am because my darkness might be too dark (thanks Mom and Dad). They didn't have a choice.  I won't suggest they should do better because I know they did the best they could.  I'm certain that my Dad must have grown up with love as a barter system because I'm learning unconditional love now.  It comes from choice.  It comes without a cost or expectation and it's independent of the ability to be disappointed.

I understand that the distance from my parents in hiding who they are is because they still need protecting from what life has offered them. It's not at all about me.

I've had so much kindness in the last few days.  I've had so many people give me their love from the gut, with openness.  They're just as raw and gutted as I am right now.  I'm seeing how I've been in my world, trying to fix parts I didn't know were broken, and shutting out decent people.

A week or two ago, someone at work was opening a door for me, but I opened the other side because I'm not used to this kindness.

Wednesday, a man looked me in the eyes as I was opening up about my bruised parts, and he told me I was beautiful.  I could feel the zit growing on my cheek, and the tears streaming down my face, and my face was in an open and ugly cry.  But I was beautiful to him.

I had someone feed me.  He offered food.  As simple and human as that is, he offered food without expecting anything more than the company I offered.  And I keep trying to mother him.  What does that say about my mommy issues?

I found my gift receipts.  I know the value of what they've given me and how it looks in my life.  I'm taking it back and deciding what I'm committed to creating in my life.  It's going to being brave, courageous, and heart led.  It's already pretty epic.

Feedback

I'm loving the MITT Advanced class I'm taking but a powerful portion of the class is in the offering of feedback.  It's when we step beyond polite and tell people how we see them.  It's through this feedback I can grow. I show up as fake.

I show up as fearful.

I show up as controlling.

I show up as invisible.

I show up as timid.

I show up as lacking confidence.

I show up as a doormat.

I show up as disconnected.

Fake

I suppose it's impossible to be happy all of the time, but the joy I feel lately is genuine.  It's just not consistent. When I was asked a question and I was finally honest with myself and others, I keep all of my relationships so superficial that I don't allow them to matter.  I've had several friends reach out to hang out or get together.  When it doesn't happen, I actually am sometimes relieved.  I can go on with being solitary and the freedom I dance is is slowly becoming my prison.

Control and Fear

In my fear, I push others away because I can control who I let in.  If things are superficial, as they have been, no one can let me down or hold me back. I've been trying to make deeper connections with one friend, knowing she holds back just as much as I do and that she's safe.  When I walked in on the first day, a woman introduced herself to me.  She was sitting near me and I got back into my phone.  She got up and sat elsewhere and that was feedback.  There was a moment when I saw a friend's mother.  Rather than jumping up to say hello, I decided to wait until the next break.  I was being superficial.

Invisible

I show up by not showing up.  I have been going to events with friends, but not engaging deeply in who they are and seeing where I can show up in their lives in ways that are supportive.  Not really.  It might be a friend or two that gets my time for a while, but once I see my reliance on them growing stronger, I fade away.  I have spent two days with over 100 people . . . all wearing name tags.  And I never got beyond a friendly greeting with more than 10 of them.

Timid

I show up as timid while standing in the back, and not being heard.  There was a moment yesterday when I allowed someone else's anger to silence me.  This is the story of my life.  Every time a dominant man stood before me and made his voice louder and his body was aggressive in his beliefs, I shrunk back in silence.  In my career, I've accepted a job I love doing, for compensation that tells me anyone can do it, I'm replaceable, and not valued.  In romance, I've been doing my best to sabotage myself.  While dating online, I saw so many men looking for hookups or real relationships and I wanted somewhere in the middle.  I wanted one person to really hookup with.  He had to be my age or older. He had to be beautiful, athletic and smart.  If I couldn't find him (and I didn't), I preferred being alone. I am so great at this self sabotage that I found the most attractive man to be my partner so we could be real and vulnerable and never date.  He is everything I would love to date.  He's also gay and we even connect in not liking boobs.

During the feedback exercise, I had a really hard time giving feedback.  It felt like I was being asked to give the abuse I have received, only supercharged.  It felt like aggressively fighting back, only I couldn't.  I stood back and would watch the person in the hot seat.  I would cry with them and feel all of their pain.

Lacking Confidence

Confidence is more than the way I walk and greet others.  I'm good at that and it's just who I am.  Confidence in my lack means I have a million great ideas and I'm waiting for the right time to put them out there. Not having confidence means I needed someone to open my eyes to the possibility that I live my career, love life, and mothering style as someone who isn't worthy.  I live in just enough because I have not had the confidence to dream for more.  I keep my dreams as little goals.  At the end of the day, a dream, big or small, is still a dream and there's no reason to stop where I have been, except for my lack in confidence.

Doormat

I show up as a doormat.  I stand in the back.  I allow dominant men to silence me. I put others first to the point where I put myself last, even to the point of sacrifice and in terms of an exercise, suicide.  I killed myself because I was so focused on saving others.  How on earth is sacrificing myself for the greater good of the world? How can I be better assistance to my boys and the world if I am dead? Yesterday I spoke out about what I did during my postpartum depression with Kid1.  For the first time in 15 years, I let out my darkest secret about that time.  In all of these years I felt so much shame and sadness for what that looked like.  For the first time, I stood up and believed I had a right to ask for the help I never got.  I saw a man live out the pain of my inaction with my sons.  I was the mother that stood quietly while my sons were yelled at.  I kept my mouth shut when I saw emotional damage being inflicted on them.  In my frustration and inability, I turned to my sons in violence because I was failing and I needed to lash out.  I'm happy that I'm no longer capable of intimidating my sons because I'm no longer living in the aggression they were formed in.  But it's time to stop being that doormat because I can't lead them while I'm still following someone else.

Disconnected

When I was supposed to be giving feedback, I realized that my empathy allows me to fully connect with what others are feeling, but it didn't allow me to be in touch with what I was feeling.  Growing up, my Dad taught me love meant obedience and service.  He would often snap his fingers at me to get me to hustle.  I had someone snap his fingers to try to annoy me because the rest of the world sees this as rude, but it was my normal.  I spent my life worrying about how others are feeling and shutting down how I felt.  My first day was filled with tears, and I was encouraged to not wear makeup.  It was then that I remembered a time in middle school where I was often crying.  That was when my deepest depression started and I used to cry.  I learned how to put on makeup so it was only on the top part of my lids.  I learned to let the tears fall silently so I could wipe them away and lock it away so no one could tell.  Yesterday I wore more eye makeup than the first day.  I cried so much my whole body felt it with paroxysms of loss wracking through my body in waves.  I openly cried and the sound coming out of me was an open wail of true mourning.  I gave myself full permission to be in what I felt and the sound of what I held inside of me was frightening.  For the first time in years, I allowed myself to connect to the darker parts of what I felt.

When I was suicidal, crying too loudly would alert others that might have wanted to stop me from self harm.

When I was in love, my object's feelings were more important than mine because I felt like my happiness was dependent on his (it's always about a boy).

As a child, I had to learn to navigate my Dad's PTSD.  As an adult, I get to see that my parent's happiness has nothing to do with me and I'm not responsible for how they feel.

When my ex left and then my church family and his family abandoned me, I had to figure it out and once the bleeding stopped, I tried to walk in grace.  I had to disconnect from how deeply I was hurt.  I had to put aside the pain and the anger and the sorrow. I found happiness, but there was still this pain underneath it that tried to strangle me if I stayed home alone for too long.  But I got to really connect to that.  I got to let it up and out of me.  I was exhausted and energized last night because I got to feel what I had so stubbornly covered with a  plastic smile.

So much transition, and I get to say, "YES!!!!"

The Most Beautiful Thing

I had a moment with a man. A partner in transition. He opened up in honesty and offered his vulnerability to me. His tears fell quietly as he looked into my eyes. Not hiding. Not ashamed. I didn't feel impatient or irritated. It was humbling. It was the most beautiful thing I've ever seen. 

Trans Nerdy Podcast

I'm not a podcast listener.  Not really.  I have a friend.  This is her thing.  I say "her" but she identifies as gender fluid and while she was born a cisgendered male, she has now gone above and beyond in a transformation I am inspired by.  Everything she has internalized as her desire to be has become an external expression of who she is. From losing weight, to reassigning her physical gender, to days when she balances where she fits and how she straddles genders.  It's hard enough to be a woman with people telling you how you should look or present yourself, and what beauty means.  Any magazine would show you we're all doing it wrong.  She's both, and she takes the good with the bad, learning with excitement and aplomb.  She sees limits but they aren't her limitations.  I admire her and her podcast is my only subscription on iTunes or anywhere. This friend has done more than I would.  I see her and call her my sister because when I see her, she is more like me than a man.  I identify with her probably more than she identifies with me. She has moments where she is very male, as do I.  I mean, when we're walking down the street and I stop her to say, "look at him! He's beautiful." I'm being the more sexually aggressive one, which is traditionally a male characteristic.  This is especially the case when I vocalize my more intimate fantasies. Then I try not to enjoy her discomfort and feel a bit of shame because I've made her uncomfortable. When she takes her time texting back, she's definitely being more male.  It doesn't bother me. It's who she is.  And that's the point of a text or email, right? You get to it when you feel like it. I think she sees the distinction as more physical but I don't see her that way.  I see her as a beautiful person full of light and raw with emotions most of the time.  Her jawline is solid and I can imagine what she would look like if I could only see her as a man.  He is beautiful and if I could only see his face the only barrier for me would be the age gap.

The podcast itself is well researched with enough personal influence to express so much more than I'd ever get from a news article on the same topics she explores. She talks about issues in the LGBTQ community and it's stretched my perception in so many ways.

Just this morning I listened to Episode #8, Transgender and Acting.  She brought up so much about issues I never considered, but the more I listen to her, I can see how the LGBTQ community shares so much with the Special Needs Community.  There was a moment when she explained how an actor could portray Superman but never fully appreciate what life as an alien is really like. My explanation of the ways my boys are othered by their autism usually involves Superman.  He's different.  He's othered.  He has extrasensory perception, similar to my autistic sons (hearing and seeing more than I ever could) and yet I would never call him disabled.  Both LGBTQ and Autism are characterized in ways the rest of the world can understand although each person is unique and grouped under an umbrella.  The umbrella is for others to understand what the people under the umbrella get to live.  I'm so excited that I get to keep learning and stretching because of her.  Give her a listen and she'll give you a lesson.  I promise, it'll be good.

Advanced 139

I took the Basic 137 Class with Mastery in Transitional Training this summer.  I went in feeling highly skeptical.  I was pushed and encouraged by a really great friend or two and their excitement and the transcendence with which they spoke had me convinced it was a cult.  A google search told me it was a cult.  It looked like a cult.  I went anyway because of my belief in my friend and I got to see first hand, that it is not at all a cult.  But there is brainwashing involved. Emotionally, I can be highly empathic.  I won't watch the news because it makes me cry for people I will never meet.  I walked into the room on the first day and immediately felt this weight of sorrow and desperation.  So many people walked in with a plan for a breakthrough in their life, and I walked in wondering if I could get through without being brainwashed.

It started slow.  There were 5 days that started right after work Wednesday, Thursday and Friday, and had two all day sessions that weekend. There was a motivational speaker that was powerfully persuasive, but I was intentionally closed off and determined to not be brainwashed.  There were psychological games we played with minimal instructions, and the lesson in who we are unfolded once the game was over.  There were guided meditations and moments where we were pulled out of our busy Los Angeles lives, and we were cocooned in a place where we had no choice but to make our very human connections.  How amazing is it to see who you are as reflected openly by other people who only want the same growth they offer you through their honesty? By Saturday, I could see what they were doing for me as I stood in a room full of strangers that were hugging it out and openly weeping.  It was the most profound shared experience I had ever been part of.

I walked in with so much pride in who I am, and I was called out on the weakness in my inability to be vulnerable.  I walked in as a person working a temp job with the lack of job security it comes with and I felt that I needed to make up for that when I entered a room with doctors, lawyers, business owners, paid writers, finance powerhouses, news anchors, nurses, and even a city mayor.  I walked away with a deeper appreciation of my family and our connections.  I walked away knowing that what has always been accepted as what my life looks like isn't an internal dialogue I have to accept.  I get to choose what life looks like and I get to determine where I'm headed.  It's profound and beautiful.  The community built into the course is amazing in itself.   We have taken the opportunities given to show up for those we care about and stand in strength for the ability and beauty we see in each other.

I wanted to wait until I could afford the class and the time off of work, but a friend encouraged me to set up a Go Fund Me account .  I was surprised at how much support poured in from people that have never met me.  I didn't reach my goal, and yet I didn't let that stop me.  I get to start Advanced 139 today.  I'm starting five - 12 hour days of intense reframing and I'm going in with an open heart and full of expectation.  I'm excited to see the ways it'll stretch who I am into who I am meant to be.  I get to make deeper connections with the world around me and I have the support of friends and strangers alike.  I get to be the mother and leader I want my sons to have and this course will absolutely get me in position for this state of transition I feel is coming.

I get to do epic things and it starts in less than an hour!!!!

How I Look and Cooking

I was having a moment of insecurity this morning.  I was wearing a dress, because I wanted to, but in my lounge, then rush out the door, I didn’t look in the mirror.  Most days I don’t really care, but as I was rubbing lotion into my dry legs, I just couldn’t.  In the parking lot at work, I went to the trunk of my car and pulled out my emergency pair of jeans and t-shirt.  I got dressed in the front seat of my car and had a moment of laughter because it reminded me of my entire adolescence. I’m wearing this and not sure how comfortable I am in it either.  I may go back out the car and change again.  I haven’t decided. The jeans are shorter than I like.  I like my denim to be Victorian and cover my ankles.  The shirt is a blue and white tie dye.  I loved the way it reminded me of decades past, but wearing it in public? Not so much. Especially when a quick glance in office lighting tells you what color my bra is.  I need to update my trunk wardrobe so I feel confident, in another wardrobe emergency.

The lesson here? If you wouldn’t love it every day, it shouldn’t be your emergency clothing.  How does that apply to cooking?

Lesson 1: If it’s not good enough on its own, it’s not good enough in emergencies or as a foundation.

In cooking, I might deglaze a pan after searing meat with a dry red wine.  Or if I’m making beef stew or marinating carne asada, I use beer. You don’t cook with something you wouldn’t drink.  Bad ingredients can only make a bad meal.  If you don’t want to drink your wine, don’t cook with it.  If I’m using beer that has gluten in it, it won’t be worth the taste if I’m begging for death because of an unhappy belly.

Lesson 2: Don’t over crowd your pan.

Cooking anything often requires the right temperature and the space for your heating surface to do the job.  We want space so a sear doesn’t become a sauté. We need space to give what’s cooking a moment to enjoy the heat.

In fashion to me, this means parts are covered while something else is exposed.  A long and conservative dress begs for strappy heels.  If I’m showing off my décolletage, I’m covering up my legs.  If my legs are being showcased, I’m wearing a high neckline.

Lesson 3: Only sausage needs to be stuffed.

Often when stuffing pork chops or chicken breasts, I will pound and beat out the meat I’m using so it’s thinner and keep the stuffing on the light side.  I use medium heat that has had time to get to the right temperature because I want it to cook all the way through without over drying the outside.  It means cooking takes more time, and I’m intentional with what I do. I won’t wear underwear that is meant to make me feel like a stuffed sausage so my body looks a certain way.  If I don’t do that to a spinach and cheese beef roulade, why would I do that to my body? Sausage is made for being stuffed into a tight skin.

Lesson 4: Creaming

When wearing makeup, you want to blend.  You want soufflé foundations to melt into your skin, but not be so thick it could melt right off.  You want shadows that dance so closely, you can’t tell where one shade ends and the next begins. Moisturizer is important. Healthy skin is more important when makeup skills like mine are at play. 

I bake my cheesecakes.  I get the cream cheese to room temperature, and I will beat in eggs, sugar and vanilla.  By the time I’m done, you can’t differentiate what is in it because it is all the same consistency and texture.  It bakes and requires patience to cool.  If you’ve ever been impatient in waiting for a hot cheesecake to cool, you understand how horrible that can be.  You want the same patience in blending foundation into your skin, going past your chin and along your neck.  Like cheesecake, that much make up on me is rare.

Lesson 5: Lumps

Honor your lumps!

In pancakes or cornbread, I will often sift the dry ingredients before adding them to the wet ingredients.  It’s a quick mix that just incorporates everything because overmixing won’t give you fluffy breads. Over mixing makes it dense and tough.

A woman’s body is made for lumpy bits. I hate wearing a belt, but when it matters, cinching my waist enhances my bustling and flatters my hips. My hair doesn’t look as great stick straight as it does with the natural bounce and body of a good wave or girly curls.

Lesson 6: The mystery you don’t want to know.

Sometimes you just don’t need to know what goes into it.  When I make tamales, I use Lard.  I use cleaned animal fat because that’s where the flavor is.  I use the unhealthy fat because that’s how I learned how to make tamales.

When I’m wearing clothes, you don’t need to see my bra.  There are really cute bralettes that are designed to be seen, but they don’t carry them in my size.  (Thank you for that endowment, Mom and Nanny.) When I wear a shirt, I want to be sure that my bra can’t be seen. There are amazing advances in lingerie that include strapless and convertible bras.  I own a couple of corsets but can’t wear them without help.  These are designed to be worn under clothes or alone, but that doesn’t mean I should wear them out.

Lesson 7: A time and a place for everything.

I have absolute moments of food joy.  I have been known to whip up a quick Hollandaise in the blender before work and bring the rest of my goodies with me to assemble an eggs benedict at my desk.  This is not the same meal I would ever take to the beach.  Beach food is often cut fresh fruit, crudités, chips and drinks.    Small, manageable, and not requiring cutlery.

You want your clothes to match your adventure.  I’m all for spontaneity, but bowling in a mini skirt is not nearly as fun as it sounds.  Walking along a jetty in stilettos can be real torture. Wear the clothes you need for your adventure.

Lesson 8: Get Creative

It's easy to get stuck in routine where the same outfit and accessories feel like home. Change it up. The beauty of not wearing a jumpsuit all the time is that your tops are not married to your bottoms. I don't often wear dresses or skirts to work because comfortable to me often looks like man spreading and it's not very lady like. 

In food, this means I was hugely surprised when I swapped vanilla for almond extract in my French Toast. Smoked Gouda and dates was a whim that became a staple. I used to love cheddar popcorn and chocolate and one day swapped the cheddar popcorn for spicy chips. It was good. 

Lesson 9: Be flexible

Sometimes I'll start with something but it might change.  I recently bought a pound of ground pork and the same amount of ground beef, but instead of making the meat loaf my kids weren't in the mood for, I made country fried steaks and used the ground meat for potsticker filling that used rice paper instead of wonton wrappers.  It made me happy.  It made the boys happy.

I don’t always care about fashion, but these things are in the back of my mind when I get dressed most days.  I ignore what my mood tells me to and stick to what feels right. And the bra being seen through my shirt . . . Yeah, I’m slapping that dress back on.

Street Harassment

Growing up female, street harassment is just something you live with.  I have a beautiful trans-gendered friend and she had a recent experience that isn't mine to share.  My first thought was to blow it off as what happens, but something she said on a late night stroll along the Santa Monica pier Saturday resonated tonight. We're so used to holding our secrets as close as we can.  We worry that it'll get out and be exposed.  We might get teased or attacked for what we do or think or feel.  We keep our secrets close and quiet, muffling all resonance in cloistered secrecy for our protection.  Being trans literally took all of her closely held secrets and put them outside of her body.  She chose to take all of her fears and put them before her, exposed and exposing the most beautiful and vulnerable parts of who she is for friends, family, and fearful haters alike.  I adore her for who she is and who she always shows up as to me. She's a radiant beauty and I admire her strength and courage, and she gives epic hugs. (We're not dating.  It's the boobs.  I don't do boobs.  Also, I really don't date younger people. There have been two exceptions. One has so much special in him I would have regretted passing up on our time together and I married the other.)

Street harassment is so pervasive that it's become an insignificant blip on the radar of my life because it's a secret of womanhood.  If I talk about it, I'll be criticized for my jaunts on the town alone.  If I talk about it, I'll be questioned for what I was wearing as if my Retro Vintage Ruby Woo lipstick is asking for anything other than to make my lips blood red. If we talk about it, it grows a face that looks like blame and we won't place the responsibility of the action on the shoulders of the aggressor.  He's a nameless child that means no harm.  We'll find help.  Even if he proves to be a rapist, his family loves and trusts that he'll make good choices if we give him another chance. If we say he is just having fun, and it's harmless, we ignore the many women that are so openly victimized by street harassment that they are afraid to go out alone. Street harassment tells the attacked person that she or he doesn't have a right to be outside of their home and enjoy freedoms that stray dogs do.  We never know when a comment might become an attack of aggression.  It's power and dominance. It wasn't long ago a woman was killed because she exercised her right to reject a man.  That is a reality that sits in our minds from the time we were little and told we needed a buddy system for our safety in public bathrooms. 

Street harassment doesn't even require a sexualized adult body.  My first experience was more than harassment, but it was my first exposure.  Literally.  I was in elementary school, possibly the 3rd or 4th grade.  I was allowed to walk to and from school as it was only a couple of blocks on a busy street.  A man pulled up next to me in a red car, asking for directions while stroking an erect and exposed penis.

Growing up, I got used to men catcalling me.  I hear lots of complaints about men asking women to smile, but I usually do smile and it has never been my problem.  I understand the frustration.  Being a woman on the street does not offer strangers entitlement to how I walk down the street, whether smiling, or angry, strutting, or trying my best to pretend I don't exist and can blend in with the cracks in the sidewalk.

More than once, I've noticed a camera phone pointed at me as I go about my day, walking, or shopping, or sitting with gelato at a bistro table. My nephew was shocked and pointed out he would attack a creeper taking pictures of him. This is my normal when I'm alone because we need to do better by our sons, nephews and brothers. 

I'm used to men smiling at me, and slowing down or pulling over as I walk and they drive.  I'm used to friendly smiles and creepy ones. I've watched men looking at me while using their hands to air stroke an imaginary phallus.  I'm used to everything from a sweet hello, to "I'd hit that." I never know what it'll be and I'm a little nervous to find out sometimes. Time has taught me to put on a brave face, smile and make eye contact.  It's less likely to turn ugly if you show kindness. Also, it's why I'm at Santa Monica Beach so often.  I prefer quieter beaches but the police presence is huge and comforting.

I get the power aspect of it.  I work out my own aggression when the windows are down and I see a beautiful man running, and I loudly say, "thank you," while quietly saying ,"for all you are doing for me right now." I've been called out on it and shamed enough that it's been a while and I felt true remorse for my actions. I don't do it in front of my boys, but I have done it and it was always about power.  Now it's about shame.

Firstborn

My firstborn completed his 15th lap around the sun this afternoon. He altered my body in ways I couldn't imagine. He was the first of 7 children to rest beneath my heart. He barreled through me, shifting my ideals of the person I was supposed to be because I chose to be who I wanted him to have as a mother.  It came with the backlash of being someone I wasn't and my hormones fluctuated, throwing me into one of the deepest depressions I have ever experienced.  It was called the baby blues, but there was a darkness that suffocated me and held me in oppression that was a vile mockery of sisterhood. He was born a little early and at 5 pounds, 5 ounces, he was tiny and his whole body fit along my forearm.  He needed constant contact and wanted to be held at all times.  I was on my own around the clock as my ex was working more than one job to support us.  He would often get home late in the afternoon and remind me to eat and shower because I would forget to eat.  My respite came in the form of a baby swing, but after I had learned to do everything with one hand while he rested along the other arm.  He was colicky and would cry most of the night and at 4 months old, I called my mom in tears, and thanked her for not killing me in my infancy.

By his first birthday, he was obsessed with the toilet.  He would climb in and sit in it, fully clothed.  It was wet and held him closely.  It was sensory.  He would defecate in a diaper, then explore the textures with his hands and mouth on clothes and walls.  He loved flushing things, and I learned how to uninstall a toilet, flip it upside down in a tub, flush water or a snake up the back way to dislodge puzzle pieces, cutlery, cars and trains and reinstall the same toilet.  I now keep a toilet auger and this year there's only been one spoon but it might have been Kid2's misadventure. (Two wax rings can be sandwiched if you can't find a double thick one and don't over tighten your screws because porcelain can't take that kind of pressure.)

I took him to a pediatrician with several letters added on after her name.  I placed my faith in her and believed her when she told me he would talk when he was ready.  I can't describe the rage and betrayal I felt when I believed her, and I was told he was on a spectrum that was a word I knew nothing about. She assured me he was fine, but there was a reason I felt like a failure and other mother's encouraged this notion.  Autism looks like a naughty child and a mother bent on spoiling her child.

I've watched him seek alignment for what I can never really appreciate but understand as Sensory Integration Dysfunction.  I've watched him try to make friends, only to be othered for an inability to understand the cruel social cues of children learning their limits and boundaries.  I've seen him try to make sense of where he belongs.

I've seen him make friendships and interact the way I did as a teenager, but his play is far more imaginative than the silly Sassy articles I would read to my best friend during long nights on the phone.

I've seen him shelter his brothers, and beat them mercilessly.  I've seen him stand up to me and call me out when I'm failing, because I've asked him to, and he trusts me enough to give me his honesty.  He's not just brave but courageous.

When their Dad was injured recently, my first born son had the presence of mind to call an ambulance, when the grown ups around them lost their heads.  When they were with their Dad this weekend, my son stood up to help his Dad in every way necessary. When the pressure became too much, he texted me for encouragement, and continued being the young man I am so very proud of.

He's a gamer.  He loves anime and has been working on his own drawings.  He encourages and supports his friends.  He looks after his brothers and calls me out to be better.  He makes me want to make yesterday's ceiling tomorrow's floor because it is a gift to watch him rise above every expectation put before him. He inspires me.  He is my bright light and brings me so much joy.  I'm so proud of the man he's growing into and only hope to honor who he is by who I consistently show up as.

He's my firstborn.

Family Day

For the first time ever, my Dad and Step-Dad sat together and talked. My Mom remarried in 1996.  It was typical of divorce and remarriage.  There was anger and pain and it wasn't a mutual uncoupling.  Mine wasn't at first either.  For so long, my parents wouldn't even look at each other if they were in the same room.  For so long, my Dad wouldn't enter a building with my Step-Dad.  Today was huge and amazing, and yet, I tried my best to not make it as big a deal as it was. My sister and brother in law reminded me of deep love and renewed hope without trying. I spent time with my brother in law, and really appreciated how enthusiastic he is about going to work full time now that their nest is empty.  He quietly gave so much of himself so my sister could finish medical school and so their boys could do what they needed in order to become more and do better.  I remember years ago hearing about him filling up her gas tank and getting her car washed.  I'm still shocked that men do that kind of thing.  (I can hear a guy friend 0f mine telling me to raise my expectations.) He's loved her at times when I was shocked at the anger that she could be capable of.  He has done all anyone could ask for and more and he's done it without asking for recognition and tonight I really appreciated all he's done for their family and wondered if I could one day find that.

My cousin was there with her longterm boyfriend and their kids. I've been skeptical about ever trusting a new man around my boys.  I have anxious moments of terror that I would introduce them to someone that might try to harm them.  But I see the two of them and their children from before they met, and there is hope.  They gave me hope.

There were moments with my sisters.  I told one how deeply she is loved to the point where I could see her discomfort.  I hope she understands how earth shattering my love for her is.  I went on about my love and appreciation for my family tribe to another sister and nephew.  I wouldn't be who I am without their reflections on my life and through my soul.

And then there were conversations:

My Mom (from Thailand) : Look at her eyes. She's had enough.

Me: We're Asian.

Mom: Oh, now you're Asian when it's convenient.

Brother: We need a rope for the piñata.

Me: I have one in the car. Don't ask why.

Sister: For all that hiking you do.

Me: Uh. Yyyeeeah.

Me: Do you wear foundation or powder?

Sister: Powder. Why, can you see it?

Me: No. Your skin just has this glowy perfection that isn't normal for my skin.

Mom: I can't finish this. Put it in a water bottle and I'll take it home. . . I can feel it in my face .

(Talking about that really great glass of red wine and the Asian flush. I get it from my Mom.)

It was a tilapia, oyster and shrimp Po Boy fish fry.

Sister: I want some steak. It's good for my low iron.

Me: You should look around for some kale. (Sister) has one of those healthy houses.

Younger Niece to her older sister: Everyone says I look like you.

Other niece: Not when you make that face. . . Stop looking at me. You're ugly.

Me: She looks just like you.

Niece: Not when she makes that face.

Me: You both look like I used to.

And silence.

Niece: (surprised) Your hair has been purple almost two years?!?!!

Me: Yeah.

Niece: I never noticed it. Not until we went to the beach (this summer).

Me: It's purple underneath where I can hide it when I'm a grown up and show it off when I want to be 12.

Sister: I can't finish this. It's dry. Want it?

Me: Sure. (Taking the cigar she lit.)

~Later~

Dad: You are not too old to be obedient. (Directly and indirectly trying to get me to put it out.)

~Later Still~

Stepdad: (Privately) Don't do that. Especially in front of your dad.

~Latest~

Mom: Why are you doing that?

Me: It came all the way from Costa Rica.

Brother: $9.50 American is like $27 there.

Me:And there's shipping. It rode on the plane with them and everything.

Via Text: Hey :) How's your weekend going?

A sad stream of small talk leading up to, "Can you send me a pic? . . . How tall are you?"

Me: You seem like a nice person. (Lies) I wrote you off a long time ago.  (Truth) I hope you have a great week. (Not being honest.)

Because starting a week off with a rejection feels amazeballs when he seems like a sleazeball.

Reliance Damaged

I spend a lot of my free time at Santa Monica pier. During a really dark period it was a place for me to come and find peace. Walking over crashing waves and the sound of laughter and happy screams while I bid adieu to a fading sun was how my faith was restored.  It is humbling to be surrounded by the ocean and under a star filled sky with the extremely affluent and the destitute. 

This week I had been coming to the pier to look for my favorite performer. Night after kid free night, I made the drive and parked my car. I walked quickly to find the elusive solitary guitarist. 

One night a few months ago he was singing a Lit song and I was singing with him and everything was right in that moment. There was joy that forced through the sadness I drove there with. 

Yesterday I decided on a Bloody Mary with a girlfriend. Our plans were postponed and I ended up at the pier, and when I didn't see him, I decided on having that drink alone. I got home safe and there was minimal drunk texting involved. (Plenty of morning after embarrassment though.) 

Today I found him. He was sitting and dejected. The depression around him was heavy. He opened up about his life and being burned out. He talked about his love life and his family. He took me behind the curtains of the image he shows the world. 

I encouraged him to do what was right for him. I told him about unconditional love not coming as an exchange or with expectations. I told him it's possible to love someone even if you're no longer in their life.  I told him about being the parent I want my kids to have. I spoke into his life the way I do when I care. It means there are no boundaries. It means I'm glad I was able to tell him how much his music meant to me. I said goodbye. I may never see him again and the moments of encouragement he offered without knowing will always be treasured. 

I don't think he'll know how much he gave me and I only gave him a few dollars from time to time, not knowing the weight of his existence because I only wanted what he was adding to mine. 

For now I will find another artist to appreciate. I will lean in to what is being sung and appreciate how carefully melodies weave into my darker places and renew hope. 

I'll watch people with puppies in their arms and I'll look from afar because puppy breath is addictive, like crack. 

I'll watch beautiful men watching their phones because they're too busy catching Pokemon to notice me. 

I'll talk to babies and live in the gratitude of knowing they are not mine. 

And I'll learn through moving forward that it doesn't do me any good to rely on any one person to be the balm of healing for my itchy parts. And I'll learn that not everything that itches should be scratched. 

Cravings

In 1998 or 1999 there was a boy.  It's always about a boy.  There's a phrase for boys like him now, but back then he was just Lenny.  He was the first of several boys that liked me less than I liked them and I was the puppy.  I couldn't drop my toy, and I was happy to lay on my back for belly rubs from anyone wanting to play with me.  Every time I saw him, his kisses had this taste that I couldn't place.  It wasn't quite beer or hard liquor.  It wasn't really cigarettes.  It was beer and cigarettes.  By the time I figured out what it was (because we never talked enough for me to ask him), I wanted the taste of that kiss more than I wanted him.  I started smoking and by the time I figured out how to inhale, not cough and enjoy the feeling of oxygen deprivation that felt like being light headed, it was an addiction. The few times I wanted to quit, I'd see a cessation commercial and it would remind me that I hadn't had a cigarette in a while.  I would wake up and smoke, go to bed and smoke, eat and smoke, exercise and smoke (I used to sweat willingly), have a cold with a nasty cough and sore throat and smoke. My kid sister would steal my cigarettes and snap them in half or run water over them.  She loved me.  I may have hurt her for that.  In early 2000, I would buy 3 packs of Marlboro cigarettes a day, with an occasional pack of Black and Milds, or Djarums if I was in the mood.  I was a friendly smoker, often sharing my smokes with anyone that would ask.  Cigarette for cigarette, I would smoke about 40 to 50 cigarettes a day, spending about $15 a day on cigarettes. When I quit it was for the idea of having a family and it was very close to cold turkey.  I quit smoking for my ex and the kids I saw in our future when I looked into his eyes.   Cheesy but true.

In the last few weeks I've started craving cigarettes.  It's crazy, because I haven't been a smoker for over a decade and a half (yes, I know my old is showing). There were rebellious times when I would buy a pack and sneak a smoke here and there when we'd fight and we were in our first apartment in North Hollywood.  It was always when I was angry at my ex and trying to gain a little control.  My actions tried to express that I'm a grown up and I can hide and smoke a cigarette because I'm a grown up.  Let's ignore the smell, and the taste. Let's pretend that pharmacies won't even sell cigarettes anymore because of how bad they are.

My sister and her husband and my other brother in law have cigars from time to time.  I've had two cigars in the last month or so.  I've also been burning incense at home. It's a place holder, because what I've been craving are clove cigarettes.

I don't want to be a smoker again.  It's the feelings around smoking that make a smoke break sound right.  I feel the familiar feeling of rejection and longing that feel like I did the whole time I was a smoker and only dated fuck boys (before there was a cute name for them). There are people that will smoke while at a bar on weekends only.  It's the same idea.  They are used to having a cigarette while sipping a cocktail and the two go together.

I'm not broken like I was when my marriage fell apart.  It's not like my crush on Mr. Hot and Visually Pleasing.  That was never going anywhere and I never fell into the trap of his scent and looking forward to spending time together with engaging conversations and sweet smiles. It's this feeling of "I really want this . . . It's not right . . . I need to let go . . . but why can't I stop obsessing."  I'm not just waiting.  I'm meeting and rejecting people like I did before I met my latest crush.  He's still a great guy. He's not like anyone I've dated before. I'm recognizing where I am and with him, I never offered complete transparency.  I didn't give him my full authenticity.  I might be slightly pickier than I was right before him and entirely selective compared to where I was as a smoker. I might enjoy turning down dates a little less than before. I've found my compassion through him. I'm working on being less intimidating but it's not easy when I keep thinking, "turn down for what?" Aside from the men in front of me being entertaining, I keep looking at the man behind me and I feel unease.  I crave what is not for me and that feeling makes me want a cigarette to go along with my dysfunction.

This feeling is so dangerous because it's so familiar.  It's easy to fall into patterns that feel the same as something else once did.  I notice what I couldn't see before and I'm trying my best to not fall into easy steps.  I'm embracing alone time, even if it feels lonely at times because the loneliness of being alone is far less painful than the loneliness of being with someone that isn't interested in an emotional connection.

Like all things, I know the feeling and the craving will peak and then pass.  It always does.

Right now I'm considering ways to keep my hands busy.  I may start crocheting a blanket or scarves.  I might try knitting again. I might not. I might start making jewelry (that I'll never wear because I prefer light weight pieces but always use natural and heavy stones because they're pretty). In the end, a cigarette, like a cigar, feels a lot worse than it looks.  I could taste the last one with every deep breath the next day.  I had to wash my favorite sweater to get stale smoke out of it.  The smell of burnt tobacco lingered on my hands and my sense of smell wasn't damaged enough to escape it at all.

This feeling will pass and I'll stop craving a cigarette, or a hug, or an easy smile and engaging conversations about everything but us.

Tweaking a memory from a year ago.

Her morning was marked by sipping tepid coffee, pacing herself alongside the bitterness easing through the brew. She drummed a beat on fingertips, mimicked by the swishing of an otherwise immobile cat's tail giving disdain in waves like the heat threatened to do while the morning cool burned away.  It only took a shift. It was like shifting weight from one leg to another. It was an adjustment, like carrying groceries in one hand but needing to switch hands to fish out a key to gain entrance to an earned respite. Her perspective shifted and like a cloak, this new idea removed the burden from her life and the weight of it's release eased through tension heavy shoulders. 

In the moment after the last gulp of her now bitter swill, she decided the weight of expectations was never her burden unless she wanted to carry it. 

An unbidden flood of memories rushed through her crumbling walls and hushed consternated queries of "what do I do with what I've been given?" the decay gave way to new life. Tendrils of growing vines lifted her to a place of green buds and delicate leaves. The words were emboldened with release and here she found peace and joy . . . With moments of earned laughter. Looking past the wall of judges is where she found grace. 

When she tried to look back, she saw she was no longer there and in that past, all that was left was her pity.

She was asked repeatedly to justify her choices until one day she noticed a beaten and battered bit of sludge at her feet. She lifted it carefully, and tried to dust it off and asked no one in particular, "Did someone leave this little fuck here? It can't be mine. I came with none and have none to give you."

A Night Meant to Happen

I'm often amazed at the way things fall into place.  Part of that is a willingness to look for serendipity.  Last night I was invited to an event with GenArt at Skybar at the Mondrian Hotel. I love what GenArt does.  They live out the active study of humanities by incubating emerging talent in film, art, music and fashion until they are ready to be launched and are able to fly on their own.  I love what they do. On my way to the hotel, I was struck by the beauty of the setting sun and the many shades painted in the clouds. I ended up in a turn lane and on Mulholland Drive instead of staying on Laurel Canyon.  The timing of what I saw and the spot I was able to pull into left me in perfect position for a breathtaking  view of the sunset.  There's something about the ability of clouds to hold so much magic.

It was a long day and at the end of it, I needed a nudge from a couple of friends to go to the event.  I wanted to go because I wanted to show up for my friend and steal a hug from her.  I wanted to enjoy grown up moments.  I wanted to enjoy the screening and be surrounded in the magic of the Hollywood I wanted to be part of in my early 20's but don't have the stamina for now.I wanted to shmooze with the fun crowd, although I never bothered to  fake a persona, as I'm more comfortable as myself.  I felt guilt about postponing my reunion with my boys who were back from 5 days with their Dad.  My niece was with them as she gets them after school, but I was asking for a few hours longer, and feeling guilt about it.

In the end, I did what I wanted to do, which was sit poolside. I accepted that the nudge I sought from friends wasn't permission or an opinion I was asking for as much as I needed them to soothe my guilt over the moment I wanted and felt selfish about.  I remembered that guilt is manufactured by me and a choice.  I knew my kids wouldn't care if I was home as long as they had quiet and food and for a few hours I could enjoy myself and come home energized.  I did.

At the event, I had the honor of meeting David who embodied everything a great mentsch should.  He was decent, authentic and straight up.  We talked for a couple of hours and there were waves of clarity from the perspective he helped me shift.  Our conversation started with how I know the owners of GenArt.  I told him about the MITT Basic class I took and how moved I was at my friend's steadfast belief in me.  She believed in me so much that she enrolled a friend of hers into the idea of putting down my deposit for the course.  She had no idea if I would go or pay her back, but she believed in me and it was a huge gift to me.  I get to take the Advanced class next week, and while I haven't met my goal, I'm believing it will all work out because things always do. David pointed out that showing up is catalyst enough.  He told me to show up and give of myself, but that even givers must be discriminating.  I need to know that I'm worthy, and give to those I find worthy.  He asked why I wouldn't assume others would want to help me.  He asked me to not base my expectations on what happened in my marriage.  We spoke openly about life.

David sipped his bourbon as I sipped a club soda with lime, and he looked me in the face and asked if I was prepared for his honesty.  I was.  I didn't even have to check my inner voice because in that moment I felt self love that was profound.  I felt his kindness reaching out to me in a way that was gentle and giving.  He gave me a word: Worthy.  He told me I needed to make it a mantra until I no longer need to remind myself that I am worthy.

He gave me a story about an unlicked cub.  A mother would have only so much energy for licking her many cubs that there is one that would get neglected.  I was in some ways an unlicked cub and I need to internalize that I am worthy.  Even if that is something I might have a hard time seeing.

As we continued talking I gave him a word that had been given to me by a really incredible woman.  Several months ago we were talking about my first crush since my ex and the looks we exchanged. I gave him a look of hunger when I didn't mean to.  He looked at me like ice cream on a cheat day.  Yet, there was distance and space that would never be breached. She told me he needed to work out his mishegas.  Of course, my second crush would follow the same patterns of wanting more, but not enough to want more and the same crazy back and forth happened until it didn't.  What struck me last night was that I missed the other part of what she told me.  We attract what we are or who needs what we have.  She pointed out that my giving nature would provide me with someone who needs me to take care of them and that I had enough on my plate.  What she was too kind to mention was that the mishegas I was seeing in him was a reflection of my own. Last night I realized that through my marriage and now as a woman who is not divorced and yet single, I am in my own state of mishegas.

For so long as a wife, I did what my version of someone else's expectations of me were.  I failed their expectations and mine.  Now I kinda do what feels right and I have a happier home because of it.  But there's the whole dating thing.  Legally I'm still married.  In every other sense I'm single.  I really like being single too.  I do so much that I enjoy and I've had enough bad dates recently to feel like I want to know my day won't be wasted with bad company.  If I do find myself entertaining the idea of a relationship, it's never with the natural progression of cohabitation. I don't want something that looks like living together and meeting families. David gave me sound advice, and I'm figuring out what it means to me.  He said the longest distance for a man to travel is the lean in to kiss a woman, and it doesn't take much to convince him not to lean in.  I've known my confidence can be intimidating, but hearing it in such a fatherly way really gave me enough pause to consider my more predatory moments.

As we talked I realized I was getting comfortable.  I've heard so many dreamers imagine being rich, but their life looks like it does every single day.  For a while, every ounce of thought and energy went into plans and goals, and I've gotten comfortable with doing a job I love to the point that I wasn't really looking at it to see if it's the right place for me in the long term.  I stopped dreaming and for a while I was just setting moderate goals.  As we talked about my career, he asked me to think of what I could do that would allow me to give, but also to give in a way that the people I give to would be able to give further.  That was a profound moment for me.  It's not enough to hand granola bars to homeless people camped out by freeways.  I need to give in such a way that those receiving would be able to make my gift grow.

There was so much that we talked about and so much of himself that he shared with me.  The night of being in the moment was a gift.  I didn't worry about my kids (they were taken care of by my niece).  I didn't worry about work.  As much as I love it, I'm not essential to my position and I don't need to prioritize it when I'm off.  That thought could be terrifying, but I take it as freedom. My love life was just as stunted and stalled before the night as after it.  As I left, I had a hard time remembering much of what was said, but the feeling he left me with was profound and resonated in hollow parts I didn't know were emptied.  I got home to a loving message from a friend based on a silly Instagram video I took on my lunch.  I went to bed not only content but happy.

Hollywoodland Kindness

The plan for today was to explore the Secret Stairs in Hollywood.  I had the PDF with instructions printed out and with me.  I grabbed two small water bottles after inhaling a banana on my way out the door.  I somehow ended up at Bronson Caves and was excited to head up to the Hollywood Sign from Camp Hollywoodland instead. This last minute change of heart is very typical of me and I always go with it.  It usually ends up in an amazing transformative lesson happening.  Or a really pretty view.  I think I got both today.

At the car, I didn't really plan to go all the way up to the sign.  It looked daunting the first time I heard about the trail when I was exploring Bronson Caves with a friend.  She made it seem entirely easy and doable because she's done it with a 3 year old on her back.  She's pretty amazing.  I should remind you, I'm not into exercise.  I like pretty things and will do the crazy and sometimes the stupid to see it.  After my trip to Sunken City in San Pedro and hiking to the water below it, a friend joked with me about seeing me on the news because I was one of those people willing to do stupid things because I wanted to see what it looked like.  He teased me in love.  There will always be love in this friendship.

As I was hiking up and ready to quit the first time, there was a family coming down, with children and a stroller.  They made it to the halfway point pushing a stroller and told me to at least shoot for that.  I made it my goal and it was easy.  By this point, I was almost done with my first bottle of water and I had left the second bottle in the car.  I sat on a bench.  The only bench on the hike, and caught my breath.  As I sat and thought about turning back, there were a couple of young women with their dog.  I let my pride get to me.  If a little dog could do it, why couldn't I, right?  I mean, I've driven down Sunset strip and I've seen enough of these little yappy things being carried in purses.  Why shouldn't I keep going if this little pooch had it in her?  The girls encouraged me.  They pointed out the last real incline and that the rest was relatively flat.  I was doing okay, aside from the heat.  I had just hiked Runyon Canyon the day before with far less water than I had today.  I was energized and had a great experience by the end.  I didn't consider the fact that I left a few hours later today, or that it was considerably hotter. And a bit further.  I just thought, if a dog can do it, and I feel good, why can't I?  Honestly, I held onto my empty bottle of water until I turned back because I hoped there was a fountain on the way somewhere. There wasn't.  I was getting closer to the water tower and that's when the lethargy started to set in.

As a mom, I'm used to pushing through exhaustion.  I'm used to going and going until I actually can stop and take a breather.  I was pushing myself.  When I got to the residential area before that last leg of the hike that takes you above the sign, I realized I could probably drive through the residential area and hike above the sign another time.  It was time to head back.  I sat and rested until I was cool and my heart wasn't racing.  I threw away my empty bottle and I started back.

As I was walking, only determination kept my pace up.  I was determined to get back to my car and that one bottle of water.  The thirst in my throat wasn't burning.  You read about vampires and burning throats, but I think that's just authors in need of heartburn relief.  There was a dry itch at the back of my throat.  My mouth felt hot and dry.  I'm usually fairly modest, but I became one of those women hiking in her yoga pants and sports bra today.  I never imagined the day I would hike without a shirt again.  The last time was 7 kids ago.  I was so hot I didn't care how visible my tattoo was. No one else cared either.  I started planning each rest stop as the next shady spot or rock ahead of me. I would rest until my heart stopped racing and my body cooled down.

As I walked, and stopped, I would pay attention to what I felt.  I would sit on a rock and lean forward and feel light headed.  As I walked, my hands started swelling to the point where I had to put my class ring on smaller fingers.  I had a hard time getting it off, and it's normally fairly loose.  (Dehydration was on the verge of getting scary.)

At one of my resting stops, three women asked me how to get to the Hollywood sign.  I started explaining and had to pause for a moment because words were hard to get out.  I excused myself and explained that I was in the mood to see something pretty but I really don't exercise and I didn't plan my water needs very well.  I was offered some water and empathy.  They got directions.  A swallowed mouthful later and I kept going.

At another resting stop, I saw a man running back down.  He ran past me on his way up and he was running past me again.  He stopped and asked if I was okay.  I must have looked terrible to break his stride, or he was just really a great guy.  I told him I was already more than half way down, but taking it slow.  He asked about my water.  I admitted I was a little dehydrated.  He offered his hydration pack, and I wasn't too proud to accept.  He apologized about the weird taste because he adds electrolytes but I wasn't in a complaining mood.  I was so grateful.  Immediately, I could feel a difference.  He walked with me a bit and asked if I wanted him to stay with me all the way down.  I insisted he keep going on his run, but I regret not getting his name.  He gave me one of his electrolyte powder packs and all I gave him was my gratitude.

I was almost at the bottom of the trail and remembered how excited I was at this point on the way up.  I saw a group coming and I didn't notice their backpacks.  I told them I hoped that they had more water than what was visible.  They said they did and I told them to have a great day, realizing I was mothering strangers.  One of the girls in the group ran back to me and handed me a bottle of water.  I was so thankful.  I got to my car and had the second bottle after adding some electrolyte powder to it.  Then I drove to Gelson's for coconut water and more water.

There was a lesson in my day.

I'm fairly used to being on my own.  Last night I was at a launch for a friend's company at Club Couture in Hollywood.  It was a red carpet event and I showed up alone.  I invited people, but didn't have any takers.  I was still comfortable going to the event without an escort.  I danced alone, and was asked to dance.  (A yes to a dance request does not mean I will be okay with you touching my butt, and no matter how beautiful you are, if you are with a date, don't waste your time on me because I don't share.)   Today was about learning that there is a community in human existence for a reason.

The kindness of strangers kept me going when I wanted to quit, and kept me hydrated.  It could have been bad.  It didn't escape me that there were rescue helicopters flying around, watching all of us for the silly folks like myself that didn't plan appropriately.

There is a reason there are buddy systems in hiking, and swimming and schools.  Buddies are amazing gifts. The short time I walked with the man that stopped his run for me felt better.  There is so much in the encouragement and companionship of someone else.

Research is brilliant.  I'm committed to preparing for hikes I've done before, and researching for new places I want to explore. I should have connected with that friend that has done the hike.  I should have checked out a map, and seen I could have made a short cut by driving through the residential neighborhood.  (I don't hike for exercise.  It's about seeing pretty things.) Going on a hike and making a really long detour yesterday was not brilliant.  Going on a hike I wasn't prepared for today could have been dangerous.

Planning is not overrated.  Even though my plans shifted, it would have been a great idea to shift with those plans, and make sure I had the provisions I needed.  My next hiking trip will include a backpack for water and coconut water. I may look for that electrolyte powder because it felt good.  It will include insect repellent.  I have bites. They suck.  And sunblock that was already in my car should have made it to my face and arms.  I am not red, and I won't peel, but my skin is hot to the touch and I'm sure my makeup is now too light for my skin tone and that is quite a bit of foundation and concealer to replace and not wear. It was nice to hike really close to Gelson's.  Once I got to the parking lot I dozed off in my parked but running car, sleeping off my exhaustion in air conditioning.

I really could have made it to the top if I had been more gentle on myself.  If my body wasn't trying to shut down on me, I could have made it.  I have sore muscles now and a slower walk.  I also have a new appreciation for walking through air conditioned museums with restaurants and available drinks everywhere.

My thought Saturday was I can do this without company and Sunday I learned how essential company can be.  And strangers are incredibly kind.