Yes! Opportunities

My life is rarely predictable.  It’s not supposed to be, is it? Would that be great use of my adaptability or optimism? Not likely.  I go with the changes.  I can’t predict or control what happens, but I can certainly shift my perspective and choose my direction and that guides my reaction so that it’s less of a visceral reaction and more of an intentional response. Lately things have been coming up, and my first response is typically to say, “chet!”  It’s not a “shit” moment.  It’s a failure to curse.  It’s so messed up that my response isn’t even fully formed in vulgarity and missing the mark allows me to grasp the situation for the opportunity it is.

I spent many years as a stay at home mom.  I didn’t love it.  I did it because I didn’t want someone else to have my children’s earliest attachments.  I didn’t want to miss those first milestones.  I loved early morning snuggles and nursing my babies on demand.  They were learning just as much from me as they were teaching me.

Shared custody is the biggest possible “chet!” moment.  I can’t control who is around my boys.  I can’t control the fact that decisions that were once solely mine are now shared and dragged out longer than I’d like.  I can’t control what they eat or how they’re treated when they aren’t in front of me.

I was never a true helicopter parent.  I watch from farther away . . . Sometimes mothering means you get to keep an eye out for your littles when you can’t trust the other littles.  It always means your eagle eyes are on the lookout for predators. My mom supported me in anything I wanted to do.  She still does.  Swimming, dance, gymnastics, acting . . . She paid for classes and when I wanted to quit, she accepted that too.  I tried to follow this.

I’m also an autism mom, so I had a whole set of duties that are unique to my family.  It’s easy to get carried away into doing everything, but my kids teach me that they need the space to fly or I’ll just crush their wings.

It looks like I’m a homebody every other weekend.  There’s housework, and home cooked meals.  During the week, I get to rely on the support of my team.  I have a team of family and a caregiver that steps in and they overlap where I need them to so I can bring home the bacon, then cook it later.  I can’t be a badass without them.

The reality of my reliance is there are moments when I get to let go of control.  It was hard at first.  I remember that first court hearing when I made a huge list of demands.  It included parenting classes and financial responsibility.  I had it lined up that everything I wanted was important or I would try to take away the boys.  I had no intention of that.  I just didn’t want the new girlfriend in my arena.  The kid’s schools were my home turf.  I had friends and teachers that have been there for years and I couldn’t handle having this woman at the school.  At the end of the day, we came to an agreement that had his loophole built into it.  I got to learn to let it go, and from that moment, everything I couldn’t control about my kids became secondary.

I even adopted a motto:

It’s not my shit.  It didn’t come out of my ass.  I don’t have to clean it up.

Last night and all day, situations came up and I took these “chet” moments and turned them into “Yes!” opportunities.  My day didn’t crash.  My kids are being cared for.  I’ll get an earful later, but I get to give hugs and they will be listened to.  I get to listen to them complain about a long day. I may be handing out foot or shoulder rubs.  I miss doing that sometimes and the boys love it. But I get to shift in a way where these pop up situations don’t destroy my day.  I get to rise to the challenge, make the calls that matter and accept that the small details don’t matter.  I get to accept in these incremental moments that I can’t control anything but the way I respond.

A favorite visual of mine is a baby duck.  Don’t think of a momma duck.  (Those bitches be cray cray.) Think of a baby duck that is so focused on learning to swim, they don’t even notice the water rolling off their backs.

Dehumanizing Rhetoric

What we internalize often comes out in unguarded moments.  When attacked or attacking, there is little thought and much instinctive regurgitation of whatever vitriol we've allowed to brew and become part of who we are.  In moments when we are driven by a feeling and less thought, what comes out is what is already inside.  I'm not writing about a reaction that is less thoughtful response and more instinct.  I'm writing about the intentional distance used to negate a deeper connection we might otherwise reach.  This is about creating negative and superficial spaces. I've been good at dehumanizing men and distancing them for my needs but I'm adaptable and I'm shifting.

Boys

Most of the men I've dated are referred to as boys.  It's not about them, but me.  I realized it when I was talking about someone I saw as a man for the first time.  He was more than a decade younger than me.  I entertained the idea of dating him long enough to decide I couldn't be a cougar, but I was talking about him as a man.  I dated men older than him and they were all boys, but this (younger than me) man was someone I saw as a man.

I started dating in May and in the embrace of my shallow frivolity  they were all beautiful.  They all have been able to take care of themselves.  They were all easily physically stronger than I am. They've all been old enough to buy their own booze and vote on election day.  They are grown men, but I called them all boys.

If he's a boy, I can distance myself from the idea of a serious commitment, which I did.  I only considered a serious relationship a few weeks ago but it wasn't with anyone in particular. I couldn't imagine anything more than meaningless dates.  Recently I imagined waking up next to someone, and stumbling into the kitchen to worship steaming cups of coffee together.  I had a moment of picturing meal prep together.  I was chopping through vegetables while he was hovering over the stove and we kept bumping into each other with laughter between us, then helping each other wash our hands in warm sudsy water.  I imagined hiking together and spending time at the beach together for a sunset.  I imagined the crackle and smell of a beach side fire.  I imagined doing all of the things that make me happy alone, but I imagined having company and help.  That was a big deal for me.

After that day, I started referring to men as men because I don't need to negate the idea of a future anymore.  I can see it and I can almost feel it.

The Ex

I spent a really long time living with, creating little people with and loving one person.  I was a faithful wife, so when I fell in love with him in 2000, I thought that was it.  It was a huge deal to have a crush in January of this year because it was the first one since I met the man I once promised my forever to.  We're still legally married, and yet, I call him "the ex."  He's not even my ex.  He doesn't get a name or a description here.  At first it was about fear.  My marriage falling apart could have destroyed me and for a while I couldn't see survival outside of existing for my kids.  I had to get through each day for them.  I started living for me at some point and I love my life now.  I love who I am now.

I started calling him the Ex as a buffer of protection.  He'll stay "the Ex" for the sake of his privacy on my blog, but in interactions with others I call him by name.  I no longer fear what he can do.

This doesn't mean there's space for love.  That died a long time ago. I pity him and the distance in diction is no longer necessary.  It's like standing tall to tell you I'm a woman.  It's who I am and I don't need to announce it because it's in everything I do. I don't love him.  I don't fear him.  He's the father of my kids and I can accept that they are thriving in both homes.  I can easily move on with my life because of that.

Fear

I choose to come from a place that isn't based in fear.  There's effort involved.  When what we are looking at is unknown, in fear we act out aggressively.  We attack so we aren't hurt.  We create walls of protection and find ways to alienate or other what we don't know.  We use words like, "the" to give us distance.

 

My Musical Legacy

There was a conversation with an adorable ginger Monday night.  I was at the Mondrian hotel on Sunset strip and watching Empire Records after a short Q&A with director Allan Moyle. It was an amazing event all around, hosted by GenArt.  This very attractive (if shorter than I like) redhead was telling me all about his experience with vinyl and my experience made me come off as so much older than I am.  Part of it is being the baby for nearly two decades with older parents.  My whole household was older than my generation. Then Mom started adopting and we don't fit much of any family's identity anymore. We call it the zoo and it's who we are.

I'm a native from L.A. and this man with freckle kissed cheeks was from the east coast.  From what I remember of my short trip to New York in 1997, everything was about the latest in everything.  The latest music and style was what mattered.  Status revolved around replacing the old with the new, as quickly as possible.  The wedding we crashed showed me that hairstyles were more of a decades heavy throw back, but everything else was about finding the new things that were the commodification of a generation and nailing down that zeitgeist in any way possible. It was insane and overwhelming to me and I was there only about a week. Vinyl records died and then came back on that side of the country.

In Los Angeles, vinyl never died.  Growing up I played my Dad's Diana Ross records.  He had a small collection of R&B records. I loved smaller 45's because they were mini-records and cute. Most of them were black, but sometimes they came in yellow or red. As I got older I went to house parties. My best friend and the man I named my firstborn after would learn how to DJ, and keep everyone dancing at every single house party I threw until I got married and the parties stopped.   He still DJ's although I'm not sure where and when, but I know he "spins" his records at a Barcade in Koreatown.

I remember hitting record stores with my friends and I would wander for hours while they would go row after row, digging in the crates.  Of course Tower Records was everywhere.  I remember running to the Wherehouse for singles on cassette tapes or the latest Mariah Carey or Madonna albums on CD.  We'd go to Amoeba, Rockaway Records, or Aron's Records and just look for music. It was about hanging out to avoid going home but it was about holding onto a heritage passed down from parents and older siblings.

There's something in the sounds that carry our emotions either through lyrics or melodies.  There's magic in the flow that wraps around us and wrings us dry.  There are still record stores in Los Angeles because they never went away. They evolved.  They re-emerged, but they never went away.

There are kids and adults that geek out on vinyl.  There's something about an automatic arm that moves with precision.  Or sometimes I would hold and guide the arm with the needle onto the dark and smooth outer edge of the record, and watch the needle move towards the center as the songs played through the crackle of imperfections laid into a record.  You can't get that in digital media.  Even modern songs that incorporate the sound that tries to imitate a record can't get it right.  It's too precise.

I'm not a fan of live music usually.  The first time I heard Mariah Carey singing, "I'll Be There," over the sounds of applause, I was bothered.  She didn't sing it the way I wanted it to sound.  I wanted it to be perfect and I wanted to be her only audience and I couldn't feel that way with the sounds of the crowds she was actually singing to.

As I get older, I miss the nostalgia of records.  I miss the sound of melodies woven through white noise and the soft hum of a muted speaker, waiting for it's duty to be lived out in song.  There's a heaviness on a record when vocals dip into sotte voce.  It begs for a physical reaction. I can't remember the artist I used to listen to, but I remember the feeling of her lower ranges gravelling through a record, and that sound memory is a gift.

My kids have never known the sound of vinyl imperfection. With digital media, computer programs modify voices and instruments into perfection so we can take it for granted that if it's on the radio, it will be perfect.  My sons don't know the way Ethel Merman could cut through a room with the way her voice rung out, unassisted.  You are offered that taste on a vinyl record. That was true perfection.

For me, vinyl records mean the sound of the needle first hitting the spinning record with the crackle and groan of the grooves speaking before the melody flows and is met with the power of human ability.  That first sound fills you with anticipation.  I don't plan to get into records again because I only had the by product of my Dad's love of music before.  Really, he had 8-tracks and I'm not going there either.  There are some things I am willing to part with.

My contribution to the legacy I was given is the willingness to sing powerfully. I'm not a singer, but I sing.  It is strong and loud and in my voice are the emotions that won't be held back.  I sing to my sons, looking into their eyes, unashamed and unafraid.  I give them all that I have and maybe one day they'll hear a vinyl recording that speaks to a memory they can't place.  Maybe one day they'll feel the power that I did as a child and it might be one day when they move out or when I'm gone.  It will feel like the memory of their mother singing her heart out to them like it matters, because they do.

First Date

There have been many bad dates.  There was one that was really special and then it turned not so special.  I'm thinking of that night here, but you can read how it ended here.  

There's excitement that looks like piles of discarded dresses and jeans and that mini skirt that will wait for the next date because I'm not that kinda girl on the first date.  I could be, but I'm not.  The search for the perfect outfit matters tonight.  What I wear matters because what I look like matters.  More than that, he matters.  This is more than boredom or opportunity.  I like the sound of his voice and the way he smells.  I like the way my mood shifts and optimism is born with the sound of an alert from my phone telling me he thought of me and has something to say to me.

I brush out the curls I tried to iron in and it's a big puffy mess that ends up getting flat ironed again.  I ignore the random flyaway strands that stand erect on my head like an electrified halo, and focus on my makeup.  I don't want to wear too much but I need to wear enough that when I look in the mirror I'm not looking back at my Dad.  I end up wiping it all off and starting over because in my excitement, my smokey eye looks like I was sucker punched and I want him to want me, not pity me.

I perch on the edge of my bed, completely ready, except for my shoes.  Do I wear the ones that are comfortable? I could go night hiking in these if he wants to prolong our dinner date.  Do I wear the heels that offer solid footing? Do I wear the strappy stilettos that I already imagined framing his face by his ears? No. That will wait for the night with the skirt that I will keep yanking lower even though I know how short it is before I ever put it on. I decide on flats so if he decides to take me on an adventure, we don't have to make up for my poor wardrobe choices.

Looking at the clock, I end up taking off the long dress and slap on jeans with a low cut top that would go well with the stilettos or the boots because really, part of me wants him to imagine these shoes right next to his ears too.  I look at the clock and there's a whole hour before I need to leave and I realize I'm failing the girl stereo types in my excitement.

I take the time to get caught up in an episode of a show that makes me feel things and I regret it as I'm blinking away tears and hoping my makeup won't run because touching it up would make it feel caked on.

We meet at the restaurant where I forget to wait for him to open the door for me.  I like the way he stands next to me and the air in the room is charged because one touch on my arm or his open palm on my lower back sends warmth through every inch of my body.  I follow the waiter to our table and start pulling out my chair before he has a chance to because I forget that some guys want to do this too.

He sits next to me and our conversation flows into his passions and hobbies.  Hearing him talk makes me want to share and I jump out with my excitement and I'm calmed almost immediately when I feel the warmth of his palm on the back of my hand and look into his eyes, getting momentarily lost.  At the same time, talking constantly might mask the fact that I can't understand most of what he says.  His dark hair and thick accent are so sexy to me. My thoughts ramble faster than I can speak and I get a little tongue tied. I try anyway and my words stumble in a heap right before me.  I feel the weight of his solid thigh now resting against mine and his gaze is intense and a little hungry.  My mouth is suddenly dry and I nearly knock over my water only to see his quick reflexes save the day and his amused laughter washes away my anxiety because in that moment my clumsiness is secondary to the way his amusement makes me feel.  I appreciate the fact that I don't drink on a first date and try not to laugh at the party foul it would've been if I had ordered that Cape Cod.

Our meal arrives and suddenly I'm not hungry.  I knew I couldn't handle an entire gluten free pizza on my own, but I didn't realize I'd get so full so quickly either. I want to pick at my food and watch him eat because he's ravenous after a long day at work. I'm lost to the smile on his face and the smell of his cologne mingled with the scent that is uniquely his.  He looks at me like I've just ordered food I don't plan to eat and there's a moment when I understand why men don't understand female quirks and I decide eating what I was hungry for is better than wasting a meal because of nerves.  It's a pleasure filled moment when I'm surprised by textures and the unexpected spice combinations make me want to savor each bite. With the first taste I'm lost to a sensory moment of textures and an infusion of herbs that demand my full focus.  Eyes closed and odd sounds coming from me, he can't contain his laughter and the sound rocks me out of my food joy bliss with a smile that doesn't even care about what might be between my teeth.

As we eat, our conversation winds down into what you would expect from two people really comfortable in each other's company.  Our meal is finished and we're turned toward each other, side by side in a booth.  His arm is more resting on the seat back of the restaurant booth than touching me but I still take the moment to move closer to him so I could feel the warmth of his body.  I laugh at a joke, unsure if it was actually funny or not and inch closer and he takes that as his cue to pull me closer, and tilt my chin up for a gentle but chaste kiss.

We leave the restaurant and he walks me to my car, holding my hand like I might get lost without it.  I put my purse and leftover pizza in the passenger's side and he leans down for another kiss.  His hands are warm and solid, but not demanding in his embrace.  His kiss is gentle and while he's exploring, he's also very responsive to my reactions.  He opens my car door and this time I let him.  I'm seated and he shuts my door, leaning in for a last kiss once I lower my window to say good night.

And that was when I decided he'd get a second date.

It was halfway through the third date that I could start to understand what he was saying and I chose to end it.

One day someone special will ask me out.  He won't assume a date means I want sex, although if I'm saying yes to a date, I've already decided I would potentially be okay with that.  A spin on the dance floor won't mean he has freedom to touch my derriere.  He'll be tall.  He'll be beautiful.  He may be a ginger, but I love blondes and brunettes too. More than that, he'll be smart and able to shift my perspective with an observation. For now, I'm content dating myself and seeing friends that don't want me for sex.

Blushing

I saw it again.  I imagined myself bumping around a kitchen with a man.  We were chopping produce and washing hands together.  Unlike last time, I imagined the man I keep having small talk conversations with. I felt the flush that I had when a friend pointed out I was blushing on Saturday.  Wow.  Just wow.  And a healthy dose of an epic YES! It was just a moment and a momentary fantasy that isn't even committed to one person.  The big deal is that there is a fantasy that involves something more serious than a single date.  It's more serious than the crushes I commit to.  It's about no longer being content with being a loner and opening up to the idea of sharing my free time with someone else.  That is a huge deal.

Right now my boys are banging and crashing and playing and being happy in their shenanigans. I still can't see myself inviting anyone into our brand of crazy, but the moment came and the fantasy was real for a moment or two, and I imagined an actual person.  Take that,  anti-social tendencies.

I say this, but I've made solo plans for tomorrow night. Old habits die hard.

But there was a conversation . . .

What I said was, “I’m a lightweight.”

He said, “oh, a cheap date.”

I said that just last week when sipping a margarita and surrounded by friends.

What I thought was, “I don’t drink on the first date.”

What I should have said was, “are you asking me out?”

Instead I said, “yeah” and walked away, lighting up the room with a smile.

I am Yessica Maher. 

I had a hard time sleeping last night with the to-do list that comes with Monday's usual custody swap and an evening appointment for the kids. That and my childhood asthma has been making it hard to breathe as an adult. In the early hours of this morning as I was contemplating all that would be coming with the sun, I started to think about my last blog post. I love myself and yet I'm still hiding behind my blog.  I don't want to diminish the wonderful feeling that in my words, all you get is the voice in which I write. Aside from my last post, and maybe a random other post where I buried a picture of myself in a slideshow, you really don't see what I look like.  Okay, so in recent months I may have shared pictures of me in my childhood or 15 years ago.  But nothing too recent until really recently. You don't really know who I am.  I'm hiding. Unless you're one of my Facebook friends and probably annoyed with the posts that link to my latest ramblings on a daily basis. I really don't even know how many of my friends read my blog and how many just like the pictures when a post comes with a visual. If you follow closely, you'll know that at one point about a year and a half ago, I couldn't even string together a whole paragraph.  I still have a hard time getting lost in a book. Focusing on getting lost comes with the guilt from spending so many years escaping from my family in young adult paranormal romance. I've grown in ways that I didn't expect and yet, here I am, hiding in anonymity.  I love myself, and yet, I'm hiding my identity like I'm not proud of the woman I have become.

I started writing under a guise because I was thinking of the damage my words could do to a job hunt.  After a conversation with a friend today I realized I really don't party all that hard.  I don't do anything that is extreme or dangerous that would label me a hire risk.  I'm just not that exciting.  Hiding my identity was supposed to be about potential jobs, but the reality is it's about protection and hiding.  Loving myself means I get to own up to what I say.  Not only is my face on my blog.  I am in every single word.  I don't hide behind a pseudonym on Instagram, Facebook or LinkedIn.  I don't hide in other areas.  In the most meaningful expression of who I am, I hide the most.  This place is my playground and I hide from everyone even though I give the most honesty here. You won't see a feminist forward or a fur baby moment. This is me.  Not borrowed or shared.  Just me.

After last night's post, I realized I was holding onto old fears.  I had a blog years ago that focused on being an autism mom.  My ex didn't want me writing about him or the boys and I realized it was hurtful to put my kid's lives on display for my therapy.  I write about my family now as they're relevant to my exploration of who I am, but I try to be mindful in keeping this about me.  I get to be selfish here.

There was a short while where my latest crush  and I would talk about writing.  I haven't seen or talked to him in a long while. He is a dedicated writer that will spend time in creativity every single day.  He crafted his words for hours at a time in a way that I don't.  My writing comes out in spurts of inspiration.  I scribble out a thought and hammer it out in moments before dozing off.  I wake to finish my posts.  I don't treat it like a job and he always did, encouraging me to write because he's just a really great person.  He was really uncomfortable with my observations of him.  I saw him in a way that was intense and writing about him made me happy with an equally taxing cost to him.  In all of the ways a conversation with him made me want to write, he never once discouraged me from what I wrote or how I wrote or even the times I wrote about him.  I realized today I was hiding from my words based on a situation with my ex, when my latest crush showed me that the censorship imposed on me was based on someone who no longer matters to me.  He didn't say anything to persuade me of anything.  He simply existed as he was in a way that shifted my perspective while healing old hurts. Talented and special.

Here I am.

I was named Yessica by my Dad.  He was studying Hebrew at the time of my birth.  In honor of the Hebrew alphabet missing a "J" sound, he named me Yessica.  It was a name he's always translated to "God's Gift."  That's what I get for making the 7 year old baby a middle sister.  I get to be his gift from God.

My Mom chose my middle name, which is Ruth.  It's biblical and I held onto my namesake for so long as I stood in prayer and hope for my marriage.  It was the belief that no matter what kind of husband my ex was being, I could choose what kind of wife I would be.  It was over 11 months before I realized I was more attached to my role as a wife than I was to the man I married. I get to be someone else's wife one day.

My paternal heritage gave me a typical Egyptian name and it blends into the legacy of a woman brought into the United States on a slave ship from Africa.  Her name was Americus Starks and I'm almost certain it wasn't a name given to her at birth. I have educators and preachers in my lineage.  There was a State Senator.  We are Choctaw Indian, English, African American, and Mexican. When my divorce is final, I'm reclaiming my birth-name.

On my maternal side, there is a family that is strong enough to rely on each other through extreme developing country poverty.  We are from Thailand and my Dad just informed me we are also Burmese.

I married and gave my children their father's name. It comes from his Irish side, although the family remembers his Dutch side most. Taking his name was the first fight I lost.  I wanted to hyphenate my name or just add his name after mine, but taking his name was important to him.  It identified me as his wife.  It bound our family under a single name that I adopted as mine with a history to claim as my heritage and a future to forge in the legacy of our children.  It was a blessing that became a curse in shame.  It is a burden that daily reminds me of the road I've traveled and grown strong through.  I'm happy that I get to let it go.  When I think of the day I had his name covered on my arm with a tattoo of my son's names, I can easily recall feeling so free and empowered.  I imagine my name change will feel like that except getting a tattoo of his name was always my choice while the name change never was.  I'm sure it'll feel better once I get past the paperwork.

I am Yessica Ruth Maher.

I made a contract with myself a few weeks ago:  I am a brave, courageous, heart led leader.  Whether I lead only myself, or my children, or a horde of people ready to reclaim their voices in the shadows of an experience they share with me, I choose this identity.  I am brave through fear.  I am courageous through discomfort and pain.  I lead from the heart, choosing what is right over what is easy.

I am a daughter to the parents that raised me and the parents that claim me.  I am a product of their contributions to my identity and the support they never cease to offer.  I am a child that knows love that looks like duty and feels like honor.

I am a sister.  We are a combination of blood relatives, step siblings, adopted siblings and siblings through marriage.  Our gatherings are huge, but we know that family is bound by duty and we'll always be there for you, even if we don't like you at the moment.

I am a Mom.  I'm an autism mom.  I'm the mother of a sensitive but neuro-typical child. I'm the mother of boys. My firstborn and I survived the baby blues. My youngest saved me from my deepest depression while in my belly. I was a surrogate mother and helped families grow in ways that healed parts of motherhood that ached in painful shadows of comparison that I could never touch in ways that I wanted to.

I am a woman that lived in constant depression from 1992 until I was pregnant with my youngest child in 2006.  He saved my life with every tap and jab to my womb at precise moments when our lives were hanging in a precarious balance.

I'm Yessica.  You can call me Yessie.  Just make sure you don't forget to call me for dinner.

 

Reaching out of Isolation

I like being alone.  It's my default preference.  It's safe.  When I was younger I was often in my own little corner of a shared bedroom, playing alone because my feelings were often hurt and I was able to play with my vivid imagination and not get ignored by big sisters that I couldn't relate to, or neighborhood kids with better gross motor skills than mine.  (Kickball and pickle are all fun and games until you can't keep from kicking the ball onto the roof, or catch the football without making it bounce off of your hands after you just threw it like a flailing duck that should be shot.) My mom saw my isolation as a gift in ways that I couldn't.  She put me in gymnastics, dance, and swimming.  She knew I wasn't cut out for team sports. Drill team doesn't count.  That was a self inflicted hell on my knees.

In elementary school, I connected with two beautiful girls.  They saw me and called me "friend."  We did sleep overs and car washes.  They introduced me to Guns N'Roses and Metallica.  I survived elementary school because of them.

Middle school happened and schools changed and I had one or two really great friends I saw in school and one that I had slumber parties with.  We would steal her mom's car in the middle of the night and learn to drive together, always trying to replace the gas we burned off, joking about our shenanigans and confessing as legal adults about what we did at 14 years old.  My isolation meant that when I graduated high school, it never occurred to me to collect contact info because I wouldn't just see these people on Monday or after summer break.  I would go home and enjoy my solitude.  I burned too many candles, read a million books and listened to music that made me feel things.

When we were barely legal, my best friend would pick me up for nights at house parties and raves that included drunk driving and dancing on go-go boxes while taking off more clothes than I would now.  It was wild.  I was broken and as much as I loved her, I eventually pushed her away with broken parts trying to maim others.  I wasn't a nice person.  I married in the years we were apart, and when I was pregnant with Kid1, she found the space to forgive me for the ways I hurt her.  She is amazing and still the most beautiful and powerful woman I know.

As remarkable as she is, I pushed her back again. Looking back, pushing her away the second time had nothing to do with her or with me.  I pushed her back because my ex didn't like her.  I pushed my guy friends away because they couldn't see what I saw in my ex, and I was choosing the man that promised me forever for the friends that gave me forever without needing to make a pledge.

One of the hallmarks of an abusive relationship is isolation.  If your person needs to be your only person, it's worth looking long and hard at.  If your person is open to friends becoming family, there's a good chance there's nothing to hide.

Isolation from people by my marriage was a gradual process that didn't look like denied permission.  It looked like I had a boyfriend that my friends didn't like and made fun of.  I wasn't asked to choose, but I couldn't stand seeing my ex feel hurt by them, so I chose him and walked away from my friends.  There was good in that too.  They accepted me drinking like a fish and smoking like a dragon.  He wanted to wife me and make me a mother and I wanted to stop because that was what would have earned his approval.  His friends became my friends and I let my friends go.  Eventually, his sadness looked like he needed to get out and have time with the guys.  I understood that because I needed it too, but I had pushed them all away.  He would go out and I would stay home with the kids.  He had concerts and paintball, and I stayed home with the kids. I stopped looking at strangers because I was worried he would get jealous if I got attention from someone else.  After Kid1 was born, there was an incident.  We lived in a 30 unit apartment building.  There was a man visiting another unit that left the building smiling at my ex.  There was a fist fight in front of our building over a smile that made me look like a cheater.  I felt the need to become invisible and I got really good at it.  I had the perfectly formed incentive and I loved him too much to see that as scary.

A lot of what I've seen in past relationships has made me very hard on potential dates.  It doesn't take much for me to kick a new guy to the curb, down the gutter, and then seal off the manhole.

When it comes to my kidlets, isolation was about protection.  My kids had sensory needs that had them poopy painting on walls when they were younger.  They like being naked.  We used to replace all furniture every single year because of destructive kids, and really, they're still destructive.  I need to replace my broken dinner chairs again.  I have a home in various states of broken.  Right now it's the chairs and the motor on my jetted tub sounds sad.  I have a paper towel dispenser that I need to screw back into the wall and a toilet paper dispenser that became a toy before it was thrown away.  It hasn't been replaced yet.  It will be.  When I get around to it.  But inviting people into the messiness when I'd rather just escape until they are home and I want to stay home with them hasn't been a priority.

We've been sharing custody for a year now, and in this year I've been going out alone a lot.  I go to the beach or a museum. I've started hiking and being a tourist in my hometown.  I love it.  It doesn't require company.  I've in the last couple of weeks decided I don't want to be a lonely cat lady.  I've recently started meeting people out and about.  I don't mean my one date allocation for men.  (I will one day go out with a guy more than once and the cute Italian guy I couldn't understand doesn't count.) I mean, I've been going out with people I know, and not just one on one sessions where I can get stuck in a session of complaining about life.

I have a tribe.  Our friendship was mired in the trenches of transformation that looked like 5 days of screaming and crying.  These people are remarkable and bigger dreamers than I am.  A few of them have had events and asked for people to show up.  I decided that when my tribe calls, I get to show up.  It's a stretch, but it's not without it's rewards.

I don't drink often or much. I don't drink around my boys often.  Last week I had a gluten free beer and ended up fairly drunk.  I wasn't trying to get drunk. I just wasn't trying to waste a full beer. I've started having a drink while out enjoying a solitary dinner, then sobering up completely before heading home.  I'm a grown up.  I can do these things.  As a wife, I was often our designated driver.  I could never handle my liquor and even when I was drinking, I was a lightweight.  Add kids, and I often felt like I couldn't drink. My boys spent so many long nights in the emergency room at random times for crazy reasons.  I was afraid of what it would look like to not protect my kids from themselves, and show up drunk in an emergency room full of mandated reporters.  I had to be the designated driver because one of us had to be sober in case of emergencies and it was always me.  I can't tell my kids to never drink and drive, and then be the drunk driver strapping them into car seats.

Yesterday was busy.  I had my brunch around 11, and went to meet friends for a show and a drink.  Literally, one drink.  I know better, but decided I could do it because I didn't have a curfew. I was nicely sauced and everything was insanely funny.  It was great.  The thing that was different was I wasn't alone.  I was there with several of my tribe.  I had a first. It was the first time I was mothered while drunk by other women.  Again, I rarely drink and hardly ever get drunk in public.  It's usually a drink with a meal, and never on an empty stomach.  These women walked with me.  We talked and ate and visited for a while.  When it was time to go, they wanted to be certain I'd be okay.  It was a unique experience and it hit me that this is what happens when you are a grown up drinking with people that care about you.  My best friend in my youth absolutely loves me and loved me then, but we were both immature about our choices.

It's made me want to stretch my isolated parts.  I never have company at my home. I have excuses about why I never have people over.  I live on a tiny one way street with no parking.  I have a messy house that my boys treat as their personal natural disaster.  I have repair jobs I haven't gotten around to because I plan to fix them all myself when I'm nome, which is when the boys are home and I'm busy running around catching up on laundry.  I never have people over.  Tonight I will.  A friend needs a crash pad to save on a late night commute into a different county, and I've offered up an empty kid bed.  All year, I've had one girlfriend and that cute Italian boy over.  For him, that was the night I realized I couldn't keep seeing him because I finally broke through the sexy accent and I could understand what he was saying.  Who knows? Maybe I'll consider having a small gathering or soiree or shindig.  I doubt it though.  Parking still sucks, and that means I'll have to be home on a kid free day.

Shadow Boxing

The class I took about a two weeks ago was intense.  Think of it as 5 years of therapy in a span of 5 days. It was 5 days of screaming and crying.  It was 5 days of seeing who I am and appreciating who I show up as to others.  It was recognizing the areas in which I get to grow. It was digging deep to pull up every horrific situation I have faced.  It was a purge that first ripped off the bandaid, scrubbed the infection out and included a battle cry like I never had permission to release before.  It echoed deep inside of me and frightened me with intensity. I left the class feeling so raw and freshly healing from being broken, yet unencumbered by the weight of my own design. We wear layers of mortar and bricks in walls of protection because that is what we create as safety. We don't worry about the weight until it's lifted and there's freedom.  Aside from feeling like I put my body through more than it could handle, I felt freedom.  I was flying.

My lessons are I get to ask for support.  I get to let others in.  I get to offer transparency because I don't need to carry my burdens alone. I don't need to be fake or plastic.  I don't need to be timid and afraid. I don't need to be a martyr in the name of love.

It's been about two weeks and life keeps happening.  I've had a few issues come up.  I'm flexible enough to call an audible and shift into where I need to be instead of landing on the sidelines, out of breath, dazed with fresh turf stains on my lucky jersey and dogpiled under too much sweat and weight.

Shifting analogies, yesterday and this morning handed me a cross, uppercut, and roundhouse kick combo.  As I was bobbing and weaving, juking and jiving, I realized I can handle this.  I've been shadow boxing for years and this scenario is my normal.  I flow around what I'm facing with ease in a way that doesn't disrupt a whole lot.

I changed my mind and met opposition, but got to stand in the empowerment of my own choice. I didn't have to get nasty about it and I felt stronger for that.  When I was looking for work, I was selective in my job hunt.  I didn't want to drive far and I didn't want to give up my mornings or dinners with my boys.  This was what was important for work that I would get paid for.  When looking at what I was planning to do and the distance and time away from my kids, I decided now is not the time for that commitment and I get to stand in my authority over my life, and it feels good.

I got a call that says I'm a bad mother that neglects her kids and I get to face that accusation.  I'm still standing and have no problem functioning through it.

I read a text that says my family needs me and yet I'm helpless. I get to rise in unexpected ways with an open heart. I get to do what is requested in the humility of knowing what is in my heart is right for me, but not necessarily right for the situation.  I get to accept that I don't know all of the answers.

My morning greeted me with an anonymous text that asks for more than I will ever offer, and I didn't lose my calm while at work.  I didn't snap at the stranger that has no business in my affairs and was presumptuous enough to engage in a conversation without announcing who they were.  I extended this person the pity I have for my ex. Not everyone can walk in the audacity I catwalk in.

I got to dress up for role play in my class almost two weeks ago and at the end of the month I get to do it for Halloween at work.  I mean, matching bra and panty sets make me happy, but I never even got into dressing up for sex. And we're talking sex.  I'm not excited, but this won't break me.

I realized with all the hits to my ribs that make me want to cringe and protect my vital parts, I'm used to this.  This is my normal.  I can function.  I can fake until I'm ready to hide away and lick my wounds, but how much stronger is it to rely on friendships and let others hold me up.  I had that last night.  Under a full moon as planes flew high above the hills in Los Feliz, I sipped a margarita surrounded by my tribe and told them my latest drama.  We joked and laughed and just enjoyed each other's company. The weight of my day was heavy but by the time I left, I was so uplifted in the love that surrounded me.  There was silliness and I eased into being surrounded by people when I'm usually most comfortable alone.  We talked about the nice Jewish boy or Ginger I want to meet.  We talked about needing to be supported and ways I'm still growing.  I held a sweet baby that reminded me that I'm doing well enough with my kids, that an infant would trust me and laugh in my arms.

Last night reminded me that I don't need to shadow box and prepare for an onslaught.  All I need to do is stand in who I am and accept that there's a tribe ready to welcome and carry my burdens with me, if I'm willing to share what they are.  If I'm willing to share the load (in a not creepy or sad Samwise Gamgee kind of way) I don't have to do it on my own.

And my friend's margaritas are mixed with love and magic.  I learned that too.

First Impressions

It’s that moment when communication is established in a glance.  You take those first steps toward me and our hands reach out for a handshake.  Your hand is warm and heavy and it holds me firmly but delicately.  I'm surprised by the shock of electricity that thrills me and wonder if you feel it too. It’s unflinching eye contact that takes in your smile and the slight tilt of your head that tells me there’s something you can’t ignore about the way I’m smiling at you.  I lose my confidence just enough that my predatory gaze is more silly and lost and I feel it but it’s okay because I see my trust in this moment reflected in your eyes. It’s a conversation about everything and nothing and it hovers just out of reach at times, but both of us are stubborn in our refusal to let it end.  Both of us have things we need to know and share and it looks meaningless because we get the meaning in how we respond to each other rather than what we’ve barely said. A meaningless conversation is marked by your profound observation. You unleash the intensity of my gaze and I look away because I’m not ready to let you know how deeply I’m affected.

There’s a moment when an invitation is accepted and you’re sitting next to me, our legs barely touching but I’m burned by the heat of your leg against mine in places you aren't actually touching.  I bask in the warmth of your smile and love the way the butterflies flurry at the sound of your voice. It’s a deep caress in hidden places.

It’s the way my words reach out through my hand on your hand or arm and the way my actions are mirrored by your body and we turn toward each other, cutting off outer invitations because in this moment you are all I want to know and I’m encouraged by the power of my smile that is forcing one on your face. You brush errant strands of my misbehaving hair out of my face and your touch is tender and I have to stop myself from leaning in to you.

We’re sitting close enough that the gentle fall breeze makes me wrap my sweater around me tighter but it also carries your scent and it’s masculine and sexy and unique to you with cologne that can’t hide the divine glory of the heaven you smell like to me.  It’s the smell of fresh sweat, a response to the nerves I make you feel and that feels like power.  It’s heady and exciting. It's your scent memory becoming an amazing sensation that silly descriptions could never carry.

It’s time to part ways and we stand.  We look at each other with an edge of longing and you wrap your arms around me in a hug, and I’m dwarfed in who you are and it’s safe and warm.  Too quickly, we part and I leave, wondering if I I'll see you again.

Online Pick Up Artistry

Can I just say that you are very beautiful? Yes.  You did.  You asked and answered your own question and left me room to not reply.  Unless your profile is incredibly compelling, you’ve offered an out so I can ignore you with a clear conscience.

You’re awesome . . . blah, blah, blah . . . I’m looking for a serious woman that is trustworthy, honest, faithful . . . I believe in a long term relationship that leads to marriage . . .

Um, can we start with coffee? I’m not trustworthy.  You poured your heart out to a random stranger and hoped I would be happy to jump into the trust issues you just outlined for me.  My honesty would break you.  I believe in long term relationships.  I’m open to remarriage.  I just won’t walk into your expectations and try to jump at the chance to appease you when you approached me based on one of my vapid selfie moments.  You realize smiling at the camera means I’m looking at me, loving what I see, and it has nothing to do with you, right?

You’re a beautiful woman, I’m willing to get to know you.

Thank you. That’s great for you.  It’s not mutual. I do commend the confidence. It's usually very sexy. Just not in this situation. 

You are a true beauty, and I read your profile, it was a nice post.  You are beautiful just as you are and you are surely God’s gift to man.

I’m on the site to meet someone willing to hang out.  Lines like these make me feel really uncomfortable.  Just no.  It’s like going to the mall for a bra and the sales associate is hard selling their panty sale and spritzing you with their latest perfume so she can nail down that sale as well.

Has anyone told you how amazing your smile looks?

No.  Never.  Your profound observation is complete news to me.

Love your eyes, and lips.  Wow.  I’m not on here often and I don’t often message people . . .

Thanks.  I don’t need to know what you normally do.  I want to know what makes me different, and I’d prefer it if it was about something I wrote, rather than what my looks did for you.

After talking back and forth a bit throughout the day: I just finished a run.

Awesome!  I used restraint.  There was no mention of how much I love watching men run.  I said nothing about his CrossFit body being God’s gift to me or that a man on a run is actual poetry in motion because I’m at midlife and that looks like a horny teenage boy when you’re a woman. It read more like, “that’s great.  I bet it felt amazing.” Followed by his picture in his boxers and nothing else.  Is there some unspoken language about post workout selfies being the moment to pimp out your body? He’s not the first to pull this move.  I’m missing something, right?

Me: Hi.  Thank you for such a kind compliment.  I really don’t date men that are 20 years younger than me.  (Because that sounds nicer than you aren’t my type.) But I have a 10-inch cock.  Good for you.  A really long descriptive version of his idea of what kind of sex I want, even though all I gave him was a Hi and a thank you . . . And that’s how he got blocked.

These are the 5 Languages of Love.  What is yours?

Yeah, like I’m not going to get to know you first.  It’s like asking me to tell you what my turns me on so you don’t have to take the time to get to know me.

Hi.  Do you want more kids? I think ours would be beautiful.

No. Just no.

Hi.  I’m sure you get this all the time, but you’re gorgeous.

I do.  It doesn’t get old.  Thank you.  Buh bye. Or you know, offer more than what your visual interpretation of me is.

Hi.  I hope you’re great in bed. 

I am!  I am great at stealing blankets and I snuggle to the point where you will feel pushed out of bed until I get sweaty.  Then I want space. I don’t snore anymore because weight loss will do that, but I can pretend to sleep and we can have a snore off.  I don’t eat crackers in bed, because wheat has a vendetta against me.  And cutting wheat out of my diet means I can’t Dutch Oven you and win in a competition, but I won’t stab you in your sleep if you have a playful moment and want to share that kind of laughter.  I have a great sense of humor that way. Oh, you mean the other way? You’ll never know because you started the conversation by treating me like a discount hooker.

I can relocate to meet the woman of my life if this goes well with us on here.

Thank you so much for that “Under Pressure” earworm.  I need to know that your independence means you won’t be relying on me to fix your broken pieces.  I’ve gotten really good at standing on my own two feet but I have no interest in carrying someone and your love quest feels like need.

There was an interesting (read scary ass shit) moment that was Facebook based.  There was a comment I made on a friend’s post.  Her friend then put in a friend request I started ignoring.  He then started liking my public profile pictures and commenting on them.  I started to email him to find out what this creeptackular moment was about.  He said he was reaching out in friendship and I’m friendly. I okayed his request. Then he suggested he could help me raise my kids.  He could help me financially and see if love grows.  Yeah, he got blocked after that.  Just no.

How to impress a girl?

At least one picture with your full face featured.  Not you and friends where I get to guess whose hotness I’m talking to . . .  Not hiding behind sunglasses where I get to wonder what your eyes look like.  I want to see if I can trust your gaze. Dress up.  I want to see if I can bring you to the next wedding I plan to go to.  Jeans and a t-shirt that fit are a must.  Trust me when I say a well-fitting t-shirt is enough to let me know if you care about your body as much as you want me to. And leave the half-naked pictures for when we get there in the conversation.  Some surprises are worth the wait. I want to try really hard to believe that your decision to wait for me might mean you aren’t actually the man whore you are trying to be in your misguided transparency.

This time with online dating hasn't been as horrible as the last two times.  I mean, yes, there's already one boy I'm sure has plans to catfish me.  There are the few really bad examples of humanity above. But there have also been really nice men with absolutely no chemistry for me to feel.  Besides, I prefer to meet people in person.  But you knew that.

I think the best part of online dating is seeing what works and what doesn't.  Oh, it's not like that's new here.  I had fun with this before, right here and here.  There are dates lined up but they're nothing I'm over the moon excited about, but I'm open to being impressed which is totally new.  I'm also willing to cancel for time with a friend, which I already have. 

Searching for a Muse

I am an intense person with a million things running through my mind at all times.  This is my 255th post since I started blogging February 23rd of this year and I run out of ideas sometimes. Shocked? Me too! I mean, yes there are posts that brew and mature for a few days before I hammer them out.  I post from my phone.  I've started posts on napkins in restaurants when I take myself out and show myself a good time. It's a thing. A lot of ideas come from the people around me. I'm kinda between muses right now. There's a cost to the life I get to live.  I want to be picky and that means there is more chaff than wheat on any dating Sunday. I milked that first crush in February for all he was worth.  There's nothing left.  The second one . . . he brought out a compassion in me that still wants to protect him.  It feels unfair to pick him apart for you when I know it made him uncomfortable.  I write about conversations with friends, but a muse is more about the romantic feels that run through me.  It's about the excitement and wonder that make me feel like I'm a 12 year old.

In boredom, I signed up for a dating site again last night. No, I don't think I'll find my soul mate hiding behind a keyboard.  It's just a numbers game.  In person, because I'm an open person with a friendly smile, I meet people.  I might have 3 to 4 men introduce themselves to me on a weekly basis, and I might actually exchange contact info with one or two a week.  Or none, if I'm in a mood.  But when online, those numbers jump.  The last time I was online was only a week.  The time before that was about two months.  As of right now, I have 72 likes and have had 18 email conversations since signing up less than 12 hours ago.  It's just about the numbers and last night I was avoiding housework.

It's also a matter of what types of men will approach me and that is a subtraction equation.  I'm thinking of a conversation at the Mondrian with a man that told me the farthest distance for a man to travel is the one to lean in to kiss a woman. He told me it doesn't take much to discourage a man. I've been thinking of that.  There are so many men that reach out to me, but I tend to give them a hard pass.  I suppose if your net is wide, you have no real fear of rejection.  Someone will eventually want to jump into your nets.  These are the creepy ones that end up getting blocked. The special ones have been the ones that started as a conversation and not as an approach.  Online dating builds in a barrier to hide behind.  There's safety to be a jerk and there are many of them.  I get to weed through that! Yes!  It reminds me what to avoid in a way that I can see special when it lands at my feet and looks at me intently.

I'm not looking for a planned relationship online or anywhere else.  I feel it's about making a connection that you are willing to contribute to.  It means things develop organically and with mutual contributions toward the same goal.  I can't go in and say what I want because if I'm going into anything, it's with the goal of finding that path together.

Online dating is about the fun of flirting and there's a bit of shade because I let my snark demon run wild.

Him: Do you like to dance?

Me: Not at all. I'm a total wall flower. (Because I saw his pictures and I'm really not interested but I keep the conversation going because I can. Yes.  I love dancing.  Just not with you.)

Him: Do you want more kids?

Me: Nope. (The reality is for the right person, I might consider it. The reality is I'm not talking to the right person.)

Him: You're so beautiful.

Me: I know right !? . .  I mean, thank you.  (But wait, you didn't mention how smart I am! --> And then there's silent pouting.)

Being online is also to remind myself of the bad.

Of course, my first night back would include another picture of a penis.  It was a surprisingly large endowment.  Like, if I were to keep a picture to send in response to the unsolicited many that come from online dating, his would've been it. He said he was tired of starting relationships with women that were later afraid of his package.  I believe him but he tried to set the hook before I was committed to the bait he was dangling.

There was a boy.  We chatted.  I even said I'd be willing to meet him this week.  I also said it would be in a public place and I'm taking it super slow.  He kept insisting he is open to me staying the night and I should bring a change of clothes for the morning.  It's not my speed and he didn't hear the direct and suggested ways I tried to tell him.

I can say, "you're beautiful, but beauty isn't enough."

I can think, "sure, I'd love to see where you keep the bodies."

I was even blatantly honest.  "I have had no problem handing out the great "O" in the past. It seems to be a gift that doesn't even require much effort on my part.  Receiving it is another story all together and a very sad one.  If I'm going to go there with anyone, I want to know that he's so amazing, I wouldn't be let down if my gift isn't returned."

He kept trying to circle the conversation back to my spending the night when I never committed to going to his house. That was when it was clear he really wasn't looking past my smile and the direction I was intentionally walking our conversation in and that's how he lost his first date.  Sucks for him because I love taking myself out and I'm always guaranteed a good time.

Being online is about my reality check.

I hear that I'm gorgeous and a goddess.  I hear they want to spend time with me and get to know me.  A short while in when they think I've heard what I needed to hear, their true intent comes in.  I had a conversation with a friend a few weeks ago that went like this:

Me: Boys are always nicer when they want my attention and affection.  They don't turn into douche bags until I get bored or my intensity scares them.

Him: Boys are nicer when they want female attention in general and it's not when you get bored it's when they get comfortable.

Me: Profound observation.  I accept it.  It's truth.

There's always a really hot military man stationed somewhere looking for love.  He wants earth shattering romance so when he's discharged, he can move wherever he finds her and start a life based on communication established through emails.  He's fit and dutiful.  He's amazing.  I'm not looking for a pen pal, even if they are really great at starting a blazing romance with their words.  Yes, it's hot.  But it's also a hard pass.  I thank them for their service and admit that the idea of him moving to be close to me is too much pressure.  . . Even if he is my age . . . Even if I am the most beautiful woman he's seen while travelling the world in service.  I grew up with my Dad's PTSD, thank you US Army, and I refuse to learn to navigate that if it's a choice.

Reality check: I may be able to finally see a future with a person that can get past the first date, but he has to be beautiful.  He has to be amazing.  And I need to see him in person because that's where my intuition can sniff him out. I live from the gut.

Being online is about stretching for me.

I've always been into men my age or slightly older.  I'm at an age where I'm too old for the men my age.  They're in their midlife crisis and I don't look like a bad decision waiting to happen.  Or he just isn't beautiful to me. I'm shallow, but you know this. I'm intense and not afraid to call you out when you're living in your fear.  I won't call a man names unless he's trying to hurt me and I'm losing my cool.  Okay, I've only called one person out like that and there's history there with enough knowledge to know what buttons he could push and not the wisdom to keep from doing it. Only a few men in my life have brought out my softer side and it's always curiosity for me until I've swallowed his bait so deeply that when he yanks on his rod to set the hook, he's pulled my guts up through my mouth.  It's not pretty but it's great fun to blog about.

When I'm not the fish being baited I'm more on the prowl and I imagine being a playful kitty.  My cat that claws me also has moments when she is a straight up murderer.  Small lizards, birds and rodents are never safe around her. Her kills look like play time until she eviscerates her kill and devours them completely.  Then she innocently licks her paws clean. Would you trust a cat? Would you trust me as a cat?

The actual stretch for me is in dating younger men.  I married a man a little younger than me.  My last crush was a few years younger than me and it was a stretch.  When you aren't really contemporaries, the shared pop culture references can seem like a huge gap.  I'm determined to teach my boys pager code for when they hit that age and they need to connect with a cougar. (So very kidding.)

I'm online to get comfortable with being a cougar.  Seriously.  Younger men can be beautiful and passionate about life.  They're likely to really try to impress me with the verbiage in their texts.  They assume I'm much more high maintenance than I am.  It's cute when I don't feel like I'm being rapey.  I love the look of younger men, but I start doing the mental math.  How old was he when I first started having sex? How old was he when I had my first child? How do I not feel creeped out or afraid of the day I might one day meet his friends, family, and gah! His mother!!!

Last night the youngest man was 25.  In May, I was shocked by an 18 year old that wanted to play show and tell with me.  Last week I got a kiss on the cheek from a younger man.  A beautiful man.  I didn't lean away, but I didn't lean in either and I should have.  Last week I couldn't but I choose this stretch because I refuse to keep living in regret.

I handle what I need to.  I put my boys first.  I'm no longer afraid of goodbye because I'm not leaving me. I'm a single mom.  We're made of powerful stuff.

At the same time I'm really great at mothering until it's a bit smothering.  Especially for the guys I like.  They're all beautiful but they tend to be unaware of their amazing, a little bit geeky and insecure.  I kinda like building that up. The ones that are confident and beautiful are fun to look at but I never want to keep them. What does that say about me?

I'm online dating again.  I assure you, it'll only be for a few days because I'm sure I'll meet someone that catches and keeps my attention in person soon enough and he'll remind me that I don't really need the abuse landing in my phone because boys don't like it when you turn them down. Some even have full blown temper tantrums because that will totally change my mind about not being interested. This new person will walk into my life and shift my perspective and I'll see his amazing. He'll be beautiful and even hypnotized by my intensity as well as unafraid of my words.  I won't say he'll have the ability to handle me. That implies a wild nature when I'm only a woman open to meeting the right man.

Transition and Waiting

I rushed through traffic to see my boys and I'm greeted with both the heater and air conditioner running.  Dishes are on display in half eaten array next to the places they've plopped to game.  I'm greeted with hugs where I get to hold them and they stand as if being hugged is all they need to offer and really it is. I offer up dinner that I schelp through after an 8 hour shift and they get to scarf it down with a request for something that takes more time and more love.  They don't complain where I know I could have done better but they know what to ask for. They ask me to jump and halfway up I get to ask how high, because I actually miss whipping up amazing food joy for someone else sometimes.

Sometime in the middle of the night Kid2 wanted to play with my contact lenses.  He likes to touch and hold them and I need to not freak out because a contact lens means far less to me than he does.  I get to keep calm and let him know I'm not to be feared because I want my kids to respect and love me, not fear and be dominated by me.  I get to teach him empathy because he lost something important to me.  I get to point out that I wear them all of the time and they make me feel beautiful but more than that, when it rains, I don't get raindrops on my glasses. I get to point out it's gross that those suckers sit on my eyeballs all day and now they were in his hands.  I get to let it go.

I wake up and the child that superman flies his arms underneath me, waking me at 3 this morning with little feet marks walking the wall along the bed needed to get up and onto the computer but exhaustion won, so I find him on the floor where he just wanted to rest his head.

"How do you feel about testing out your bed in your brother's room tonight? I'm not kicking you out, but you know, it's there for you." I ask, knowing it'll be a celebration to have my bed completely to myself all of the time.  I ask, hoping he doesn't see my excitement because I want him to finally feel that the security he needed when our world fell apart is no longer necessary.  I want him to know he's safe when he's here.

"Sure mom.  I'll try it out one night and let you know how it feels.  But I can come back to our bed, right?"

Right.  Baby steps.  Being patient.  Story of my life.  But I'm used to waiting for things that I see value in.  My son's sense of security is high on that list. Why would I ever want to give up these precious years that are all mine?  One day they'll move out, or they won't, but this liminal space in their identity is all mine.  I get to be present before I am pushed away by the natural force of growth that is at the heart of parenting.

I was primed and ready to take the next class in the MITT series.  I was enrolled.  I conjured  my deposit.  I stood in the power of being LP 139. Things happened and I was ready to go.  But I had to really look at what I was doing and my motives.

I've always been a strong person.  It's my birthright.  I am learning to find my voice again.  I spent too many years in a marriage where it wasn't okay to be who I am.   I'm standing on who I am, in a way that is brave through fear and courageous through discomfort and always considering the greater good. It's not okay to be last but it's also not okay to be selfish.

Taking the next step when I wasn't financially ready means I was going to step on the toes of my Mom, who is my landlord as well as my Angel and friend who's belief in me put down my Advanced course deposit.  She may have withheld a deadline on repayment but my obligation to her is important to me.

Taking the next step placed a burden on my children.  There's a cost to the life I get to live, but that cost was one my children would have had to pay.  Most of the dates set aside for the conferences and training happened during the 50% of the time I have my kids.  There was only one meeting weekend when I was kid free.  It's not about a babysitter.  I can get one of those.  I have an amazing support system that has shown me repeatedly that they will walk through fire for me.

My older two sons are autistic.  Interrupting our schedule is difficult on them.  My little one was willing to sacrifice his time with me on his 10th birthday and at the end of the day, he only gets one 10th birthday.  He reaches his first decade and I've been present for every single one of their birthdays.  I won't give up this one, even with his blessing.

When my family was falling apart and before we fell into place, I promised my kids that they will always come first.  I won't find a sitter so I can go on dates.  That's what their time with Dad is for.  I won't take on a responsibility that takes me out of their lives farther than I already don't want to be.  I have nights where I want to show up for friends.  I use a sitter for that, but I make sure I'm home for snuggles before bed.  That's not something I want to give up.

I'm postponing the Legacy Program, both with and without blessings from those inclined to offer them.  I'm doing it because I am a woman of integrity with enough sense to know this is not right for me right now but one day soon, things will shift in a way that will be perfect.  I'm keeping my Go Fund Me going because I will take the course in the first half of 2017.  I'm willing to ask for and accept help, but it's not about desperation for a timeline I'm not choosing.  I'm going to set my goal and start saving toward it.  It may be the class with a kickoff date of December 6. It might be later.  But the timing will be perfect.  It always is.

Right now, there are Kid3 snuggles as I type and he shows me videos.  Right now I get random texts that bring a smile to my face because the people in my life are amazing and even the boys that amuse me know how to make a girl smile even though I don't want to give up my alone time for them.  Right now there is coffee.  Right now I'm bracing for a day of picking up around the house because having the kids home means I'm going to be home, and scrubbing walls. Later I will jump into crafts with my boys, assuming they'll join me.

Filling Out Forms

I'm doing it.  I've started this before.  There were many befores, but I'm doing it. The first before was because I was angry and I had no options.  I excused that away because I decided I wouldn't finish what he started and I never wanted.  I stopped.

Another before was started and then stopped when I decided I wouldn't be the person he wanted to make me into. I would be the wife I wanted to be, no matter what kind of husband he was being.  That lasted 11 months.  I tried. I won't say I failed.  I allowed another dream to replace the one that no longer served me.

There were plenty befores when I felt rage or pain or loss and I didn't know what else to do.  The action I took was no action.  I wouldn't allow a feeling to force my hand. Feelings come and go, but a choice I make is one I get to live with.

This moment right now will not become a before.

I'm not angry.  There's no pain. Last night I learned something that was shocking and could have been painful but it was more irritating.  How dare a husband of mine disrespect me on such a visceral level?  It wasn't even about him, but the label I gave him when I gave him my hand and the disgust I felt.  At the end of the day, I chose to make that boy my husband.

This is not about the person I'm dating. I'm not actually dating anyone special. There hasn't been anyone on a date with me that was blog worthy for a while. It's not that serious. Only one man has made it to a third actual date and he didn't get number four because by then, his really sexy Italian accent wasn't as hard to comprehend.  I started to actually understand what he was saying and I couldn't continue dating him. Just no and ewwww.   No one else has made it past a first date, and my crushes were just crushes and wonderful for what they were. Would I have ever introduced either one of those boys to my kids? No.  It was never even considered.

Six days ago I imagined a perfect day. For the first time, I was able to imagine being at a river with someone else.  I thought about the shimmer of the sun reflected on flowing water and radiating painfully in my eyes.  I could smell the sunblock and feel the warmth of the sun.  I could hear laughter and imagined being in a place I've never been, surrounded by people and not on my own.  I imagined waking up with someone, and bumping around a kitchen to make breakfast together.  I pictured a hike with someone and sharing an afternoon and sunset on the pier with someone, followed by walking along the sand in deep conversation under a bright and full moon.  I could hear the crackle and smell the burning wood while cuddled under a blanket around a beach fire pit.  In all of this, I wasn't imagining being on my own, but with someone special.  It's time.  I'm ready for my divorce now.

I won't lie, I've been putting it off all week.  Every time I sat to fill out the forms, it didn't feel right.  I had things on my mind at work, and couldn't get it done on my lunch.  I had homework to help with and things I needed to do that became more important throughout the week.  I'm doing it now.  I'm filling out forms.  I have two more to bang out before I start drafting that motion.  What makes it right in this moment is I have my boys with me.  My older two are happy and gaming, and I can hear the music from their games and the occasional geek out.  My little one is playing and running to me to share whatever new thought crosses his mind.  A house full of my babies, and the sounds of who we have become are what have been missing.

I'm excited about the next phase in my life.  I have been sitting in this moment and fully appreciating what it means.  I want more intention in this moment than there was on my wedding day when I thought, "shit, am I really doing this?  What the hell, let's do it." There may one day be another wedding.  If there is, it will include my family and not just three people, with one of them objecting.  I chose to marry him, and even though it wasn't my desire, I took his name.  I am the only woman to marry into his family that has his name.  I may  be the only woman in his family with his name.  I'm not sure what his sister and cousin did when they married their husbands, but I don't really care either.  I get to reclaim my birth name.  I am the only person on this planet with the power and ability to divorce him.  I get to divorce my husband and as his wife, it is the last mess of his I will ever have to clean up.  Whatever children he decides to have won't fall under the shame of my broken marriage.  He always wanted a daughter and I never wanted to give him another child. I don't have to live with what he felt for the surrogate daughters I carried for another family. I can be at peace with what I did with my body. When I'm asked about my marital status, I will no longer be in marriage purgatory and separated without a legal separation.  I will be divorced and I will be single and I'll only be connected by our boys.

I feel peace.  I feel empowered.  I feel joy.  I feel alive.  I feel hopeful.

It's a great night to be me.  I'm going to finish filling these forms out before bed and I anticipate pleasant dreams.

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.