Redheaded Tomes

39, but turning 21

2012-02-01T15:17:00.000-06:00

“So, when is your birthday?” My ob/gyn asked as she flipped through my chart.

“September 6th.”

She looked at me for just a moment, and then looked back at my chart. She flipped a page and then announced, “This year you need to have a mammogram.”

“Now, why did you have to bring my age into this?” I asked with feigned exasperation.

My doctor grinned, “I didn’t say a word about your age.”

“But it’s implied that since I’m turning 40 I am going to need mammograms.”

“Where has the respect gone? I used to be your doctor, but after your hysterectomy I’m just another person to you. You are finished with me, huh?” We both laughed.

When I was young, these appointments made me nervous. I didn’t like the idea of being so . . . exposed. I didn’t like having a piece of metal that was freezing cold used to pry me open. I was overly concerned with the pre-appointment preparations—legs shaved, hairs trimmed, all areas cleaned, empty bladder, light-weight clothes for the weigh-in process, and the age old debate of “socks on or off?” I undressed and dressed as quickly as possible so I wouldn’t be walked in on without sufficient coverage. I didn’t want to look like I never took the time to trim up my pubic area, but I didn’t want to look like a porn star wannabe with either no hair or an odd shaped shave. Besides, paps always hurt me. The “little pinch” was always more of a stab, due to my odd cervix. Ah, the build-up to a 10 minute appointment, and the anxiety I used to harbor over the experience was ridiculous.

But eventually, I had so many of these exams, sometimes 4 a year, and at times they involved biopsies, that these appointments no longer make me nervous. They are more of a nuisance. I didn’t even think about my legs being shaved, or my trimming practices. I’m obviously an old pro at it now, and I don’t sweat the small stuff in the gyno’s office.

I’m about to be 40. I’m on hormones. I have to color my hair. I pluck silver eyebrow hairs in disgust. I use wrinkle cream that I’m sure isn’t working. My skin texture is less smooth, and my eyes feel more tired. I have had to see a chiropractor about a pinched nerve, I take meds to help me poop, and my joints make cracking noises when I stand up. Being 40 means all of this crappy stuff. But it also means I’m experienced. I choose my battles more often. I work not just because I have to, but because it gives me purpose. I don’t sweat things like gyno appointments. I don’t panic at the slightest bad news. My boundaries are stronger and my filter is intact. I feel like I’m actually at a good age. I have always had a bit of an older soul, and I think my body has grown into it.

But in my spirit and sense of self, I’m still 21. I’m just a smarter, wiser 21 year old.

Read My Soul

2012-01-11T11:26:00.001-06:00

I see them all around me—parents. They have a connection to their children. There is a genetic code transferred, an adoration shared, a bond that is not easily broken. There is a family tree that may one day be traced, and future generations will wonder what their ancestors were like. But for me, this will not happen. I have no chance to pass on my DNA. I have no money to adopt a child—and adoption is extremely expensive. My family tree ends with me. Even a step child will look to its real mother for history. I am merely a footnote.

This sounds extremely melancholy, but it’s something I stare at every day. No matter how hard I work, how good of a person I strive to be—my grave will be forgotten. I look at my boyfriend and his ex wife with envy, because they have something that has been denied me. And I wonder if they realize how fortunate they are. I wonder if they could grasp a life without the legacy of a child.

I look for some sense of legacy, and I come up empty-handed. I long for someone to love me with the strength and vigor and unending commitment that I would normally receive from a child of my own. But that’s a lot to ask of an adult, and I’m too old to still long for such things. I long to be a priority to someone, but I will always be 2nd unless I put myself first. I too easily put others first. I want someone to notice me without huge efforts on my part to get attention. “Love me enough to read my soul”, I should tell people. But I want someone to WANT to read it, and not at my urging. Think of me, is all I ask. Think of me on a deeper level. Consider my world, my sacrifices, my needs, my desires. Don’t know them? Care enough to ask. I am a complex person. I have complex thoughts and fears and concerns. I don’t even understand most of them. But I’ll tell you what I can.

It has been 2 years since my hysterectomy, and I still wake up every day and think about my future. I wonder who I will be in 5 years. I’m not anything close to who I thought I would be today. Will I have made peace with God by then?

I saw a quote today, “I teach others how to treat me”. It’s so true. Today, I put myself first. Today, I stop taking the back seat to everyone else. And hopefully tomorrow as well.

A New Season

2011-12-09T00:19:00.001-06:00

I look at my life and am amazed at the changes the past 7 months have brought my way. They are changes I longed for, but couldn't really fathom existed. I look forward to coming home now. I used to count down the minutes at work to hang with my friends, or bum a meal from my family, or to check in on my niece. I can now be found rushing home to cook dinner, or going to hockey games or ball games or to her karate classes. When home, we are either helping with homework, watching family TV, or working on various home projects. Those nights we are not bound to obligations are uncommon and glorious. My closest friends have found relationships as well, and we joke we are all married off and have to find time to get together now, comparing work and home schedules to plan to right time to meet for dinner and a drink.

There are Christmas lights on the house for the first time in years, and lights inside the house for the first time ever. The Christmas tree was erected a month ago, out of excitement for a new family to share the holiday with. As I type, he is asleep, the cat is nuzzled on the sofa, the hamster is running in his squeaky wheel, and the dog is cozied up on her cushion. This is a peaceful home. Sure, with a growing young lady in the home, there is drama with hormones, strong wills, and exes. But it is full of love, and he finds no joy in drama. And so, the peaceful home I grew up in has managed to creep into the house I've inhabited for 9 years.   That has been my dream.

I look forward to the day we can sell this house and move to a nicer, larger home. So much must be done to this one first. But he has the will and the drive to make this everything we want it to be for now.   His ability to adapt to this tiny, rickety house has amazed me.

He has the endurance and commitment I need in a man. I don't need touchy feely--I need to know he is content in this relationship, and he is willing to make it work.  Love that lasts takes work--it's not magic.   I am not exciting and I cannot fake it--God didn't give me that charisma that allows me to misrepresent myself with a clear conscience.  I need a man that can be content with who I am, and not try to make me more trendy.  I don't need a trendy man--I need a man who longs for stability as much as I. I need authenticity, and I need to be authentic. I don't care about the material part of a man--his job, his income, his vehicle, or his ability to take care of me. I care about the heart. If I'm not sure where I stand in a relationship, then I will suffocate in it.

I have found myself in a true commitment, and it's liberating and comforting all at once. He is the man I wasn't sure still existed. He was worth the wait.

Minerva

2011-11-12T20:04:00.046-06:00

Her beauty entrances all who gaze upon her. Her milky skin belies her hardness. I too was smitten. Her stature is to be marvelled, as she towers over terrazzo with her gaze through blank eyes. Her dancing waters calmed me. Her mosaics entertained me. Her smooth features welcomed me each morning. She is a beauty to behold, for sure. She is not from around here and it shows.

Over time however, her beauty no longer lures me. My initial gaze of admiration has become a glance of frustration. Her pedestal is worn, and her waters no longer dance for me, but seep onto the terrazo and stain my patience. She is never satisfied.

A man asked me about her the other day....his admiration for her had waned as well. We have tried to help her, I explained. We have spent time and money and had specialists in to see her....all left baffled. We tip toe around her these days, making every effort to placate her, so that newcomers are still smitten by her gaze. Instead of recognizing our efforts, she mocks us.

I now wonder if she holds power. Has she hexed us with her presence? Or has she merely aged and lost her strength? If so her beauty still hides her age. I believe she holds power over her location. I believe she is surrounded by spirits. Now there is talk of banishing her.

I am torn. I love her, yet I hate her. I will miss her beauty, but will welcome the calmness of her absence.

To her new employer--good luck. You will need it.

Conjoined Bitches

2011-11-03T15:49:00.000-05:00

I looked in the mirror, and I saw a tiny blister. For me, a blister only means one of two things: stress or sickness. Well, this chica isn’t sick. So I began to analyze my stressors: work has been very hectic, my relationships, my house, finances. And then it hit me how stressed I really am. Stress has slowly, gradually, overwhelmed me. I forgot what it was like to not have it. I have become desensitized to the things that used to cause me stress, and they no longer bother me. But these new things, I am learning to cope with.

And that’s when it hit me.

My depression is linked to my stress—they are conjoined bitches. I have struggled with depression since I was 10. I felt the burden of the world on my shoulders as just a kid, as I worried about God, my parents dying, my parents’ finances, my sister kicking my ass, my mom’s disapproval, getting good grades, etc. I was always a deep thinker and a bit of an old soul. As I aged, my fretting seemed to worsen, until I finally found myself independent and desperately needing coping skills. And so, I have managed to face many fears, take a few light meds, change my outlook, and prove to myself that I can rise above so much of what life gives you. There is no longer a welcome mat on my door, inviting depression into my heart.

But lately, I have had waves of depression anyway—almost out of nowhere. Sometimes it hits during the day, sometimes at night. Sometimes it lingers for a few days, and sometimes not. But the truth is, I feel different physically when it hits. And this stupid blister brought me clarity since it hit when I was trying to analyze this latest depressive state---My depression is directly connected to my stress.

When I reduce my stress, I reduce my depression. So how do I do that? I have no clue. Not at this point. I can only do so much on my own. I can only afford so much, I can only give so much, and I can only be so much. My whole life, I have felt like “not enough” for anyone, any job, and any situation. Being with a man and his daughter, that “not enough” fear drowns me at times. It stresses me. It scares me.

I think getting my house in order will help. Physical chaos brings me mental chaos. And right now, my house is killing me. The disorder, the boxes, the aura, it’s all very chaotic.

Have I mentioned I’m a virgo? I like structure. I need it. It fuels me.

In It to the Finish

2011-10-11T09:49:00.000-05:00

All I could think of was avoidance. I will go to a movie, find a friend to hang with, or go shopping with no money. Anything had to be better than going home. I was spent. I am not a fan of fairs. The proximity to weirdos, the con artistry, and the craziness of the pricing is not my idea of a good time. But the experience was terrible. I was not prepared for the tears, the anger, the frustration of a little girl. I told him, “Next year, go without me. Oktoberfest? Go without me. I can’t do this again. ” But he felt the same. He wanted to crawl in a hole as much as I did. The emotional demands and battles are the reason I always said I wanted boys. I always pictured myself giving birth to 2 boys. That was my dream, knowing that girls are emotional and manipulative nightmares. But here I am, muddling my way through this step-parent territory, with a female preteen.

The next day, I sat at work and dreaded going home. I could not handle round 2 of that emotional roller coaster, not without a decent break. I told him, “I’m going to a movie after work.” He was not angry, and he seemed to understand. It was very overwhelming to me, the thought of going home and biting my tongue yet again. Anything had to be better than watching a child manipulate her father and a situation, and feel powerless to intervene. What I would have said at the fair would not have been received well. I have given up financial freedom, time freedom, and emotional freedom for this relationship and this child. Would she ever understand and appreciate any of it? Does he grasp the stress it brings me? Will he ever stop making excuses for her and put his foot down?

The more I thought of getting away to a movie—an escape-- the more I remembered how spent he was as well. He was almost as frustrated as I had been. But it’s his child, not mine. He helped create the problem, so it’s his to fix. I am not the one who gave her so much control. I’m not the one who actively brought her into this world, knowing she could inherit her mom’s emotional instabilities. My heart ached as I sat at my desk, pondering my evening. Do I face the inevitible drama filled night, or go to a movie and leave him to deal with it?

What message am I sending if I run every time it gets hard? The truth is, I’m in this with him. My heart is not detaching or running—my mind is trying to find a quiet place for a while. But will he assume I’m detaching when I do this? I think he will, or it will make him wonder where my heart is at. Then came his text, “I hope you don’t lose faith in us.”

After deliberation, I realized that I am sending the wrong message by running away. If I am in this until the finish, then I need to buck up and face even the shitty nights. I called off my night of leisure. I knew he needed one as much as I. And even though she is his child, and he helped create the mess, if I’m really committed to him, then I’m committed to THEM.

The evening was actually very good. Rules were set and enforced. I hemmed jeans, repaired stuffed animals, and let her give me a makeover. It was a good night, and I was thankful I had not missed it.

Cat Fever

2011-09-29T13:09:00.001-05:00

It seemed as if her purr was amplified early this morning, and it was soothing. The purr was guttural. She rubbed her sweet face on my chin, gently pawed at my hand when I stopped petting, and wrapped her tail around my arm. Every movement was gentle and calculated. This is my sweet Zoey time. When I pet her fur, rub her face, and massage her neck, she repays me with gentle, rough-tongued licks and nudges.

I was never a cat person. Being around cats typically left me wheezing, snotting, and itching. Dander is present on the furniture and in the carpet of any home with a cat, even if the cat was locked away. When I planned to visit someone’s home for the first time, my first question was simply, “Do you own a cat?” In addition to the allergies, however, there was also the mystery that I didn’t like. Cats do their own thing, are not predictable, and have razor sharp claws. Dogs are needy, and look at you as if to say, “I love you, momma.” Cats look at you as if to say, “What are you looking at?” Also adding to my distrust of felines was that my uncle contracted a staph infection from his own house cat’s claws—cat scratch fever. “What is the allure of a cat?”, I would question.

For whatever reason, be it mmune system changes or heavy doses of zyrtec over the past few years, I have no problems being around Zoey. She is gentle, laid back, and loves attention. She moves through the room with grace and stealth. She gets mad and turns her butt to you. She loves to snuggle. And if she’s feeling exceptionally loving—and this is rare—she will lay in your lap. My dog fears Zoey, and avoids eye contact. But Zoey is never aggressive with the dog. She simply stands her ground, hisses, and then sits back down as if it was all a big bother to her nap schedule.

I love her independence. I love her gentleness and size. I love that her poop and pee is confined to a box. I love the way she saunters from room to room, rarely in a hurry, and always with purpose.

She has changed my opinion of cats. For the first time ever, I love a cat.

Confessions of a Step-mom

2011-09-21T10:47:00.001-05:00

Some friendships don’t withstand the changes our lives bring. One that I was sure would end due to vast changes has actually become stronger. Michelle and I were divorced and partying, knowing kids were not in the future and trying to enjoy our lives. She now has 1 baby of her own and 2 step kids that live with her full time, along with a man she loves. What a difference a year makes.

This friendship has proven to be helpful to us both. We went from party girls to mother-types. We have both entered into a world with kids that are not ours. We love the kids as if they were ours—which is what is expected and hoped for-- but we have a boundary that cannot be crossed because we are not the real parents. We see the manipulations, we swallow our thoughts, we hide our hurts, and we push through. We love the men in our lives with all of our hearts—and the children as well-- and we do it for them. But at times, we get overwhelmed. We feel as if we are supposed to fill a role and provide as much love as possible to everyone, but not cross an invisible boundary of discipline. Even as we near it, the father gets defensive. So we quickly learn that we are expected to act in all motherly roles EXCEPT in that one. We haven’t earned that role because we didn’t birth the child. We will never earn that role.

It’s a slippery slope, folks. We see the kids playing their dads, and their dads being OK with it. Oh, the things guilt will do to us. The kids are more defiant around their fathers than with us, but we sit in silence because our input may not be taken the way it’s intended. We have given up all of our freedoms for these people we love with all of our hearts, but the kids make sure we never feel completely at ease in our roles with comments they seem to make at just the right time. “You’re not my mom.” “I’ll get my daddy to do it.” “My dad will always put me first.” “Does it bother you that my dad loves me more than you?” "I need more time with my dad." Those comments hurt, and sometimes I think they are made with ignorance of its effect, and others I think it’s very intentional.

I became overwhelmed the past few nights. The first night, I felt like there was not enough of me to go around. I was trying to do some chores, but kept getting interrupted to look at this, explain that, think about this, or help with that, both with him and with her. I wanted to crawl into a hole and hide, because I couldn’t even complete a thought of my own without being interrupted, and no one seemed to realize how busy I was. I guess that’s motherhood. Last night I felt mentally stripped, and I retreated to a hot bath to find a moment to myself. The manipulations are not constant, but they seem to occur in clusters, and last night I struggled to keep my mouth shut. A hot bath was just what I needed.

As a child, I never felt significant. I never felt appreciated. We tend to repeat patterns. I married a man who made me feel very insignificant. I chose a career where I struggled to prove my significance in a world of men. I thought I had stopped trying to prove anything a few years ago, and had created my own sense of significance after much introspection and analysis. However, I have found myself in that same, desperate mindset that leaves me feeling overwhelmed. It leaves me wondering, “Does anyone see what I’m giving here? Does anyone see what I’ve given up? Does anyone care that I have needs that are being overlooked? Will I ever be significant? Will I ever finish a sentence without being interrupted by a little girl, a computer game, or anything else? Will I ever be able to be completely heard? Will I ever be #1 to anyone?” I'm coming to terms with this role and its sacrifices.

I don’t regret my situation, and I love this child and her father with all my heart. I want the best for them both. But I now see the real struggle of any woman in a step role. I’m confessing my thoughts and hurts. Michelle knows what I’ve felt. She understands the inner turmoil that this brings. We are nurturers, so we naturally are not exclusionary with our love. If we are given a gift, we want the whole package, not some of it—yet we are given the care of a gift, we are given the responsibility of it, but we cannot truly enjoy all the benefits of it. We are living up to an expectation of what the father and child need, and our own needs get pushed aside.

It’s a slippery slope. I have a whole new appreciation for any woman who has taken on this role. It’s challenging in ways I never expected. If you have a stepmother. Hug her. She deserves it.

Dream: Basement Windows

2011-08-30T12:56:00.004-05:00

I found myself in a back yard cookout at a certain house. I remembered touring this house after it had been remodeled a few years ago, before it was sold to the current occupants. Had I toured it as part of a class I had taken ? I couldn’t remember. But I remembered loving the house. I had envisioned it as a home that would be sold for a lot of money, well maintained, manicured lawn, in a white collar neighborhood. But as I looked at its current state, I realized the family now living in it did not fit this image. They had already let the house fall into disrepair, with paint peeling and cracking, the siding rotting. It hardly looked like the same house. They were not trashy people, but not wealthy either. Blue Collar, and rough around the edges. I wondered how they qualified for a house this size in the first place. Were they trapped in it financially? I wondered.

The grill was fired up, the man was playing catch, and the woman was traipsing in and out of the back door with items for the picnic table. She looked stressed, haggard. I sat in my lawn chair, surveying the scene, wondering how I ended up at this cookout to begin with since I didn’t know the owners . Then my eyes became fixated—the large windows to the basement were opened, airing it out. There was light shining in the basement, and it looked as though the family had made it a work room or project room.

I suddenly remembered being in that room at night just a few years before. The air was dark and dank and suffocating. No air movement at all. The windows were the only respite from the stillness. I was with a group, on a tour at night . . .a ghost tour.

“Is this house haunted? I heard it is.” Someone from the present asked, and it brought me out of my memory. I answered before the owners could, “Yes it is. That’s how I know this house. I came here looking for the spirits with a group of people, and we found them.” The family froze, tired eyes glaring at me, as if I uncovered a dark secret. They lived in this haunting, and likely were unable to financially get out of it. They were prisoners to this place. They had no idea at purchase what they were getting.

I have been in a dark, dank place in my own mind before. It’s a bit of a basement, and it’s full of ghosts. It’s full of fear and sadness. It’s a deep, dark depression. But I have also emerged from it and don’t care to go back. I have tiptoed around it since, looking into the darkness with curiosity, sometimes drawn to it. But the fear and memories pull me back to reality. The ghosts in that basement can damage a person, age them, destroy them layer by layer. Even the most beautiful and talented person, who was meant for great things, could be worn down quickly by their own demons, lurking in their mind. Who put the demons there? Experiences? Genetics? Abuse? All of the above? I don’t know.

Once you dwell in that darkness, your eyes and body adjusts to the surroundings. You get used to the atmosphere. An outsider can walk in and immediately lose their breath, but a dweller will feel at home. But even the dweller can get a glimpse of life outside the window and realize it’s time for some fresh air. Maybe they have a moment of clarity and open the windows and shades on their own, and maybe a visitor throws them open in disgust. But those moments of clarity are not constant, because the windows will eventually close again, and the fresh air will turn stagnant again.

Sadly, some people are trapped for whatever reason, and never escape the darkness. Sometimes it’s because they never change their surroundings, and stay in the myre. They refuse to walk away from relationships, jobs, and homes, even if harmful, simply out of familiarity. I think I escaped because of a moment of divine intervention—a moment where an opportunity arose to grow emotionally, and I was mentally ready to deal with the past. I took the first step, and followed through to the 2nd step. Instead of blaming the world, I blamed myself. So I was able to seek help for myself. Those that blame the world, generally refuse help, because they don’t think they need it. They are the most difficult to reach.

Am I "Right"?

2011-08-26T12:06:00.000-05:00

My divorce decree is in a file for safe keeping. There was a time I felt like I was glued to it. I had to pull it out at random times as I changed my name, purchased my home, etc. I remember feeling like it was proof of my failure and yet, proof of my freedom. I wondered if I would ever be able to go a few months without pulling it out as verification of my single status. It has now sat in that file for probably 6 or 7 years, untouched. It has lost its power over me.

I was lucky. Because I had no kids, the divorce was swift, the anger was minimized, and the ties were cut. Finished.

I look at divorces that involve kids, and I now realize the way that one document can both protect and damn a parent. It is the lifeline of the divorced parents. It holds tremendous power. It doesn’t just give custody, it dictates money, rules of engagement, dating, holidays, expenses, and activities. It was created to protect the child’s best interests, but it does not have the ability to foresee the future. Jobs change, emotional states change, kids grow, and life is both cruel and gracious. But the document remains, attempting to keep a steady, straight road for the child, so that they are least affected by the chaos that may surround their parents. But as life evolves, it does not.

It is sad that we need a document to be civil--to prevent us from gigging our exes for selfish reasons. Money is usually the source of the anger and the division. It becomes less about the child’s needs, and more about the parent’s desires.

All this talk about this “Christian society” is ridiculous when you see a divorced couple leverage for money and time with their children—and one or both is a Christian. Wouldn’t a true Christian be willing to not only be the best parent he/she can be, but also allow the other parent to do the same without making efforts to debase or hinder them? But the truth is, even Christians suffer emotional problems, greed, and discord. Even Christians can be subpar parents, can stunt a child’s emotional growth from their actions, and can be as evil in action as any non-Christian. Yet, as Christians, we like to think we have God on our side, no matter what. I don’t care how much you go to church, if you are a card carrying church member, how much you pray, or how much you talk religious jargon, doing so doesn’t make you a better parent, a better person, or “right. It defaces Christianity—and God-- when you act in greed and selfishly, and yet claim you have God on your side.

I don’t believe God picks sides. I see one athlete thanking God for a touchdown, and yet I wonder how many men on the opposing team prayed before that same game. I don’t think God cares about touchdowns.

Can we all stop pretending that because we have Jesus in our hearts, that we are the “right” people or the “right” parents?

Challenges

2011-08-18T17:03:00.000-05:00

4 months ago, I ran my dishwasher once every 2 weeks. I had gone 6 months without turning on my oven or stovetop. I did laundry once a week—2 loads. I had money in savings. I had a cruise booked, a new gun to shoot, and went to the bars regularly with my friends to watch ridiculous shows and drink red bull. I worked out a few times a week at the gym, and pretty much did what I pleased.

Now, I’m drinking Xenergy for pep, running the dishwasher, cooking, and doing laundry DAILY. I have canceled the cruise, depleted the savings, avoided the gym, and haven’t taken the time to shoot my gun even once. When I think about home repairs, refinancing, bills, birthdays, and extracurricular activities, groceries, and school clothes, I’m thankful for the simplicity I functioned in for so long. The merging of our households has been peaceful, albeit expensive at the onset. Even in the increased responsibility I have faced, I have still found my home to be stable.

But at times, I get overwhelmed. Sometimes it’s because the presence of a child brings huge responsibility and even greater patience. I know a young girl’s mind is both naïve and manipulative, and sorting through her words to decipher motive can be difficult for anyone. Sometimes it’s when I’m looking at the unfinished remodel work, or the uneven settling that has occurred with the house. I know that fixing it up and selling it is not going to happen soon--and that was on my list of things to accomplish quickly. Sometimes it’s when I’m at work and trying to plan out my bills, knowing that we have birthdays, Christmas, and other activities arising that cost money.
But all of this is my choosing. I do not regret or bemoan it. I love them. I have made sacrifices specifically for them, because I believe what we share is truly great.

My biggest problem will be with myself. I know how my mind works….I will worry and toil over others until I am neglected. Then I will become frustrated. My expectation is that others will see my contributions and reward me for them without my demanding it be so. Isn’t that how it should be? Yes, but life doesn’t work like that. People get used to the status quo. And they overlook the obvious among the chaos.

So the money, the house, the chores….none of those things are real challenges. The challenge will be within myself. I must remember to make time for myself. I must provide for myself as much as I do others and not play the martyr role. I must allow them to be as involved in my life as I am in theirs. And I must be willing to retain my own identity.

A house is not a home

2011-08-08T16:27:00.000-05:00

I look forward to walking into the house I’ve had for 9 years—a house I’ve never felt completely settled into—and cooking, doing laundry, and relaxing with my family.

9 years of projects on this house, and none of them finished. Every project was an attempt to make it feel more like home to me. If the floors were this, if the walls were that, if I tear this out…….then it will feel more like home. No project was finished, because I quickly learned that it wasn’t the house that made the home---it was the heart. And a lonely heart dwells in a lonely house. Not a home. So my house has felt lonely to me on a very basic level since I purchased it—more of a jail than a home. Laundry, showers, and rest are the only things I used it for.

Right now, my house is full of exposed sheetrock, uninstalled lights, and unfinished paint jobs. But it is suddenly home. I have reason to be there, with people and things to look forward to. I have hope again. He has given me hope. She has opened my eyes.

I am thankful for the house now, after years of cursing it. I am thankful for the stability it has provided me, even as I tore into its walls, certain to make it change to fit my personality. In the end, it wasn’t about the layout, the finishes, the lights, or any of that cosmetic stuff. It was about my heart. The house is still the house it has always been. But my change of heart, and the presence of “their” hearts, has made it home.

Confessions

2011-07-28T14:48:00.001-05:00

Being childless has brought as much freedom to me as it has heartache. But I still have my moments where my heart breaks a little. At times, I see my boyfriend with his daughter, and I find myself jealous that he has something so precious that I will never have. He has that connection with a child that cannot be fabricated. She will always be first in his heart, and I will never rise above 2nd, even though my circumstances let me put him first. I will never have anything that is a piece of me like that—not him, not a child. It’s a fleeting feeling that rarely lasts more than a minute, thank goodness. In those moments, I feel sad and jilted, because I was not given an opportunity to have my own child, when so many others have been that (in my mind) are not deserving.

I have researched being in a relationship with a man who has a child, and how to be “good” in this role. I want to do this right because I love them both. I guess there is no handbook on how to walk into a ready-made family, where you are the outsider that must do most of the adjusting, and yet must be content staying in the background. Let me clarify—all parties have made adjustments and sacrifices, but I’m an adult who has lived my life a certain way, knowing I cannot have kids. And now I’m changing not just my home to make room for a child (physically), but my routines, my goals, and my whole sense of identity. Although I welcome this new role, it can weigh heavy on me knowing my house went from me in power to me being 3rd.

I don’t want to be selfish. I want to be this child’s friend, but not disrespected. I want to be there for her, but not her servant. I want to provide her happiness, but not spoil her. Since my role is very limited, I can easily step on toes of her parents by standing up for what I feel is right. It can be a helpless feeling, not knowing where my boundaries are in my own home. Over time, they will reveal themselves, through trial and error. Hopefully not too much error.

Since I have no children, my input and advice can easily be ignored, and I pray that I am taken seriously and not dismissed due to my “inexperience”. Children or no children, I can see behaviors and gauge their long term effects. I remember my own reactions to my parents, my own turmoil as a child, and I remember the discipline that was brought to me—both good and bad.

So these are my deepest, darkest thoughts as of late. I pray for wisdom. I have had all of these fragmented thoughts whirling in my head at different times these past 2 weeks, and I finally think I may have pulled them together now so I understand them better. I don’t want to sound overly selfish or negative, but I don’t want to deny my honest feelings either.

I believe he is worth this, and so is she. I'm counting on it.

The Right Reasons

2011-07-25T16:07:00.001-05:00

“Are you ready for this?” Allen asked me with his smartassy look. It was just the 2 of us, and he can read me like an open book. “Um, yeah, I think I am," I replied. He just grinned and said, “You may as well be. You’re already in it!” We both laughed, knowing he spoke the truth. So, why am I in it? Why have I made this commitment? Why him, and why now?

I can give you the logical explanations for being “in it”. Financially, sharing a home with someone else is a cost saving thing, because rent and utilities are split. Physically, having a man in the house means less work for me. I’m not the sole muscle behind repairs, chores, and mowing. Mentally, having a man around provides a sense of security. Emotionally, having a man around brings conversation, attention, and hope.

All of those are good, logical reasons. They are all true, but none have been enough reason in the past to share my home permanently with anyone. No man has had me willing to call my house, “our” house. No man has had me willing to open up the contents and chaos of my home to him in such a vulnerable way. I’m not afraid of being alone, so seclusion is actually the easiest option for me. Giving up my space and freedom is quite a sacrifice.

So why then? Because:

...my heart has said it’s OK to trust him.

…for the first time, I am ready: I’m more settled physically and emotionally than I’ve ever been.

…I’ve found in him a common moral compass, and character.

… being with him makes me more comfortable than being alone. (Never had that one before.)

…he is open and honest, but without the brutality that some bring with it. In turn, I can be honest with him.

…he has my heart and I find him to be irresistible.

…I know that he truly does love me, as much as I love him.

…I have peace.

As you can see, it’s not because I need him. It’s because I want him. I want to support his decisions, his parenting, his life. I want to wake up next to him and share life with him. I have been preparing myself, whether intentionally or not, for his presence in my life. And now that he's finally here, I want to make the most of it.

Just in Time

2011-07-18T22:49:00.000-05:00

I'm taking a breather from cleaning. I've downsized my crap into managable and findable places. I've visited Goodwill enough I should be on a first name basis with the collections men. I've been a thorn in the side of my trash men, as they have picked up countless bags from my curb in the last few weeks. I've downsized my pets as well, leaving me with Sidney and the house is so much more peaceful. I'm making room for a family.

It's all in preparation for an exciting new time in my life. I am preparing this old house to be a home for the first time in 9 years. I'm throwing away pieces of the past to make room for the future. I'm more hopeful than I've been in a very long time.

I have been caught off guard by a man and his daughter. I didn't think I could find anyone like this. I didn't think I could fall in love with a man AND his child. I didn't think I could be this comfortable with a man, this at peace with a relationship. And it reminds me that there is a God who has my best interests at heart. They make me laugh, they make me proud, and they make me thankful. They both fill a desire I've had my whole life. I am not so naive as to think I will be the child's mother--she has one that loves her dearly. But it is a chance to be a positive influence and to take on a motherly role with a willing child, and to support an amazing man as he goes through the ups and downs of raising a daughter. It is a chance to love a man with all of this experience and devotion that I've been building all these years. It's a chance to be the woman my parents taught me to be. It's also a chance for me to allow a man to love me and to accept me.

The move has already begun. My house has already begun evolving into what it was meant to be when I purchased it 9 years ago--OUR home.

And so, the transition continues. This time next week, I will be sharing this home permanently with 2 amazing people, a dog, a cat, a hamster, and dozens of stuffed animals. I will be fulfilling the role I always longed for.

My dad always said that God is never early and never late: He's always right on time.

Walking a Tightrope

2011-07-04T23:21:00.000-05:00

I am unique. I have no children. I‘m 38. I cannot have kids and that is definite. And I’m single. I’ve dated men in recent years who had grown or nearly grown kids. The teenagers have presented a challenge, because they considered me to be a threat. And the child always comes first. I recognize that, and try to be patient. But not all kids are willing to have their parent date. If the kids are not ready for the father to date, then the dating will never last. It’s only been an issue for me this past year, as I’ve dated men with daughters still at home.

I have heard the endless horror stories from divorced mothers at work--the “bitch” the ex married and the things she does or says to her step kids. I have heard stories from teens about their lack of respect for their step moms, as well. I’ve heard the jealousy, the bitterness, the hurt. I’ve vowed to never be “that woman”.

Now that I am in a relationship with a man who has a daughter, I find that it’s a very tough balancing act--a very underrated, misunderstood position to be in. How does he keep his daughter first without spoiling her and overlooking me? I can easily put him first, but I will never be first in his life--am I OK with this? How do I obtain respect from her, when she is clearly ahead of me in the food chain and knows it? How do I play this role of potential mother figure, when there are definite limitations on my input? How do I support him and her 100%, and still not lose my own self in the process? How do I do this the right way, and not hurt anyone or get hurt in the process?

Soon, we will function more as a family unit. I’m excited, I’m thrilled, and I’m scared. I cannot let this relationship swallow my sense of self until I don‘t recognize it anymore. I have to be willing to pursue my own interests at the same time I’m giving them the freedom and support to pursue theirs. I am going to attempt to balance family time with friend time with hobby time with kid time with work time with home chores and boyfriend time. Up until now, my home projects were easily put on hold, because time with friends and family was first. My home must be a kid friendly safe zone, not a place to crash until the next morning (as it has been for 9 years). I have to make time for my friends now, where before they WERE my time away from work. I must consider my boyfriend and his daughter in all future decisions and plans. I’m basically going from single, independent woman who calls her own shots to ready-made family.

I am willing to do all of this. I’m up for it. But I know it will involve some growing pains. It will involve some serious balancing on everyone’s part. I am a giver by nature, and must be strong enough to know when I’ve compromised myself too much, and when it’s time to raise my patience levels to accommodate the changes that are going to occur. My friends and family will always be my safety net, as long as I keep them close. I ask God for wisdom in this process.

He is worth it, this man. He is worth the risk I’m taking, the freedom I am willingly relinquishing. So is she. They have taken my heart and given me something I’ve longed for. I don’t want to let them down, and am scared at the same time of being let down as well.

But living is about taking risks, and they are worth the risk.

Winds of Change

2011-06-23T15:00:00.000-05:00

Change once again looms. It hovers over me. Sometimes, I sense change before it happens—I feel it in my spirit. I will tell my dad, "The winds of change are blowing" long before they occur, and he realizes that I'm feeling an anxiousness about something that I cannot explain. Other times, life surprises me. I’ve been pleasantly surprised by life over the past year, as changes swept in and altered my world. 38 has been a good year for me. Some of the change was internal, and some was external—some chosen, and some not. Much of the time, change just happens, and we adapt to it. Life throws us opportunities that are both toilsome and freeing. Some of the changes over the past year were difficult, but they were for my best. Sometimes I don’t see the positive in situations until years later—I can look back and say, “I’m glad it happened, even though it hurt at the time.” But the changes this past year had immediate effects in my life. They led to greater growth and happiness at a fast pace.

The upcoming changes have been looming in my mind as an option for a different future for myself and others. I had hoped for a transition. Maybe not exactly this way, but “the best laid plans of mice and men often go awry”. True? This time change hasn’t begun with anxiousness in my spirit or keen senses on my part, it’s a change that I have had to initiate and to want to happen. I have taken the first step, and feel at peace.

I am nervous. I am excited. I am planning and scheming and mulling over the preparations. I feel as if so much of the past few years have led up to this time in my life. The personal growth, the job security, the house, the stability, the family, the friends—it has all been for purposes outside of my own personal fulfillment.

I am embracing this change, and it has me full of anticipation.

Father's Day Reflections

2011-06-17T01:18:00.000-05:00

Circa 1973 - Mom and Dad were 23

When my father was my age, 38, I was 16. I saw him as wise, strong, stable. I saw my parents as old, and wondered who I would be and where I would be at their age. Oh, the naivety of youth.

I realize now that my dad was likely just holding on. He was making life work, not having all the answers, but faking his way through it anyway. I have found a new stability in the past year and a half, and I wonder if he had found that yet. I have no children, and although part of me still feels 18, I appreciate the wisdom that has come with age. I wouldn't relive any of my past, because life was hard enough the first 38 years. But those experiences made me stronger. Having 16 and 17 year old daughters, did my dad feel 18? Likely not. Did he have it as together as I assumed? Likely not. But I believed in him. I knew he would make everything OK. As long as I had my dad, things would work out.

I now see my dad's white hair, his tired eyes, and the scar on his chest. One day he will not be here, and I will still be OK. He has taught me well. I can take care of myself. He has seen me through financial, relationship, workplace, and religious caverns. Because of my dad's consistent love, devotion, care, and respect, I have learned to be the strong woman he had hoped I would become. His example has shown me what integrity is, what devotion is, what respect is.

Me and Dad around 1995

I needed my dad at 16 for financial, emotional, and religious reasons. Now, I need him for wisdom. I gleen what I can from him. My favorite times with him are when we are alone, visiting, going over our hopes, our disappointments, our dreams, our failures. We analyze each others' dreams and each others' experiences. His knowledge is vast. Yet he is willing to listen to my take on things. At these times, our relationship is not just father/daughter. It's friendship.

My dad made mistakes. He wasn't perfect. But his devotion to us--his family--overrides all of those errors. His consistency in my life has been priceless. He believed in me when I didn't believe in me. He prayed for me when I told him not to waste his time. He doesn't have to be harsh with us, because we know him well enough to see when we have disappointed him. That is punishment enough.

I am blessed to have a father I respect. I am blessed to have his example in my life. I only hope I can one day be such an example in the life of a child.

New Hope

2011-06-09T21:01:00.000-05:00

When I was young, I was going to conquer the world. I was going to prove something--to myself, to my family, to the world. Then life happened. And I continued, but held onto those dreams. I was meant for great things. I was going to do something BIG one day. But slowly, life took twists and turns, and waiting for this or that opportunity to arise became lost in the day to day grind of survival, finding myself, and growing. And as I entered my mid thirties, my dreams had completely changed. I was no longer expecting to be great--I just wanted to survive. My expectations lowered, my joy was drowned.

I now realize that doing great things or being a great person can happen, small moment by small moment. I will not be President. I will not change the world. But I can change my own world. I can change the world for others through my own willingness to help, to love, to be the person I was made to be. That is as great as any wealthy, powerful person.

I am now seeing how many of my hardships have built my character. They have prepared me for this moment. They have calmed me, solidified my values, and led me to my current path.

I am not rich. I am not going to make the "most beautiful" list. I am not going to bare a child. I may never win the lottery. But I do have a new hope. But a different hope from my youth. A hope for the future that involves stability, companionship, and love. I am able to use the gifts and the experience of my past to be the person I need to be at this moment in time, for those people around me who mean the most to me.

I am blessed.

Wall Clouds

2011-05-25T13:19:00.000-05:00

I was raised in Tornado Alley. I have vivid memories of being a very young child, sitting in a hallway, bathroom, or closet (depending on where we lived), with a radio giving weather updates, the beeping of the national weather service coming out of the small radio and the deep voiced warning, a flashlight in hand, and blankets. Our family hovered together, listening, waiting, until Dad gave the OK to go back to life as usual. I have seen trees whipped to the side in unnatural ways, wall clouds, green and orange skies, and even dust devils that mimicked tornadoes—albeit miniature versions. I don’t fear the looming threat of tornadoes. It’s a way of life here, and when the season hits, you simply brace for it. The aftermath of tornados is always shocking no matter how long you’ve lived here. Trees uprooted, homes missing, cars squashed, and yet, some things completely untouched.

Life is full of tornadoes. How quickly they come in—sometimes we sense it in the air with the thickness of the humidity, the off-color skies, and the eeriness. Sometimes, they come without warning.

I can survive. If I lose everything, I can continue. My family has lost nearly everything before to circumstance. My friends have had homes burn to the ground. I know that life does continue. And so I don’t fear the doom. I know each day, each event, it is merely a blip in the radar of life. So much happens before and after major events, that they only define you as much as you allow them to.

The winds of change have been blowing. Not just in the air in tornado alley, but in my life. I look around every now and then and marvel at the difference a year can make, a month can make, and sometimes even a few hours can make. We touch the lives of everyone around us in some way. And our character becomes apparent to all around us, eventually.

I am thankful for the foundation my parents gave me. I am not afraid of change. I am not easily shaken by it. I have learned when it’s time to heed the warnings, hunker down, and hold on tight. But I’ve also learned there is a time to leave the bunkers and bask in the beauty of life, and not hold onto the drama of the bunker and carry it with me everywhere. I know some people who hang onto the drama of impending doom, and they let it define them and their actions. They are too afraid to face life. And over time, they attract doom. They attract doomsday followers. They create their own hell.

And so, I am thankful for the magnitude of life, of God. I am thankful for the strength to face life head on, and not cower from it. I am thankful for such grounded parents who made sure I was a pillar and not a sapling that easily bends. I am thankful.

Metamorphosis

2011-05-16T14:17:00.000-05:00

Life is in a constant state of metamorphosis. I look at my niece, and change is imminent. We saw her as a baby, and wondered what she would sound like when she talked, what she would look like as she aged, what her personality would be. Now, we struggle to remember her infancy, as she tells us stories, draws, dances, and entertains us. We couldn’t rush the growth process, so we enjoyed every second as it unfolded. Life should be approached the same way.

In dating, I am used to being childishly teased, manipulated. I am used to men approaching me with arrogance, bragging on their prowess, and challenging my thinking and reasoning. Men have had no problem standing up to me, but they cannot stand up to their own kids (that makes a parent look like a complete puss in my mind).

I am dating again. And this time, it’s very normal. We are comfortable with each other, and he is very straight forward. I have caught myself ready to defend my past actions or inactions, ready to prove my own strengths, only to realize I need not work myself up. He doesn’t care about competing with me or comparing with me. We are not trying to force answers about the other being “the one”. Such things manage to reveal themselves rather quickly, in my experience. I’m enjoying the normalcy, stability, and company of a wonderful man. We are in an adult relationship, and it’s what I’ve been wanting.

Even with all of this respect, honesty, and openness, I can say he’s more of a “man’s man” than any guy I’ve ever dated. Manly men are irresistibly sexy to me.

So, we have this chrysalis, and we are nurturing it to see if it turns into the butterfly we both have longed for. If not, well, we’ll add it to our list of “lessons learned”. Until then, we are enjoying the process.

Controlled Chaos

2011-05-12T14:23:00.000-05:00

The responsibilities of life have all been muddled in chaos as of late—controlled chaos. But I love it. I work best and most efficiently under pressure. It has come at a good time—when my mind needed a shift. And so, I find myself relishing this time. I had been in an emotional cage, my mind stuck in a constant loop of frustration, and becoming disjointed. My friends were my saviors, not allowing me to sink too far in the mire, opening those cage doors and reminding me that I am free to do and be whomever I please. Now, I’m too busy to get weighed down by the drama of the past. I haven’t the time I had previously for emotional dissection and re-assemblage.

As I age, I find it much easier to pick up my pieces and move forward. It’s rewarding to look back and see where I was and where I’ve come. It’s empowering to know I can do it again, if the need arises. There is strength in experience. There is always hope. I do grow weary of these “growth spurts” that begin with hurt and end with empowerment. But they are part of life. And I am a much stronger woman for each of them.

And so, I am finding comfort and purpose and walking through new doors once again. It’s very liberating.

It has reminded me what is important in life----living. Not just existing, not walking with a blindfold in order to continue in denial, and not living vicariously through others. It’s being alive, appreciating it, and living your life knowing it’s your only shot to get it right.

A Waste of a Gorgeous Man

2011-04-26T15:17:00.000-05:00

I have been doing some research, some delving into my own mind and heart. I have accused the last guy I dated of being a Narcissist, and so I began researching the disorder. The answers I never got from him, I believe I found in my articles. Here is a series of funny but serious quotes on Narcissists:

http://narcissistic.co/narcissistic-quotes-quotations-sayings.html

Narcissists are all about being adored and looked up to. They have a commanding demeanor, and they are charming. But they are also very insecure and need constant adoration. They suck in their prey with grace and charm, but once that prey shows her intelligence and any signs of strength--that she is not going to be a complete subordinate--she is dropped for another. The narcissist cannot stand for anyone to see him for who he truly is. If she is unfortunate enough to be kept around, he will cheat on her, use her, and control her. She will be so horrifically codependent that leaving will eventualy seem impossible. Those like me who were shut out without reason are left to wonder WTF happened. And the truth is, the Narcissist said love, but he didn't mean it. He said a lot of things he didn't mean. He really has no idea how to love anyone but himself. I believe he even loathes himself, but has a huge self-preservation part of him that stems from life's traumas. Narcissists are manipulators. They don't show much guilt or shame, because they are above that.

I believe he stormed into my walls and saw my heart and realized it was too strong to tolerate the likes of him for long. Maybe he found another person who suited his fancy. That's OK, because history shows she will fall victim to his cruelty as well. If not, I pity her for the abuse she will endure.

I do not hate this man, and sadly I do still love who I thought he was. But I do see that his love for me was false. I also see that he needs serious therapy.

It's such a waste of such a good looking specimen, to have a head so fucked up. But it is what it is.

Pistols are awesome

2011-04-25T13:08:00.000-05:00

I have desired to learn to use a gun for a while. I live alone. I have 2 dogs who are decent watch dogs, but if someone wanted to get in my house they could, and if the person carried a gun, my dogs would be little defense. I asked my brother in law to take me to a gun range. He was as excited as I was. He showed me his various guns beforehand. We went to the range, and I admit I was a little nervous. I purchased everything he recommended--targets, hearing protection, and safety goggles. We went to an outdoor range he's a member at, and he showed me the basics.

The first few shots he fired had me jump each time. It was just the shock of it. But I soon became used to the shells flying around, the pops of the bullets exploding from the barrel. And I LOVED IT. it was empowering. I shot a Kimber 1911 and a Sig 9mm, and we also shot his AR-15. John is a great teacher, full of patience, and he wants you to know the right way to grip a gun, the rules of handling a gun, the proper stance to ensure a strong frame, and how to use the safety. My coworker Kimberly came as well, and we were like kids in a candy store.

We had a blast, shooting at targets, shooting canteloupe, and cheering each other on. I am now going to purchase my own pistol. I want to take a class with some friends, so we can all learn some basics and get more comfortable with the art of shooting.

I feel like I've accomplished something great, here. I'm dying to do it again.

Advice to Men

2011-04-24T21:56:00.000-05:00

It has been a crazy few weeks, as I've struggled to find me again, to move on, to not think of him. Just when I'm moving forward, something edges back into my mind and I think of him. I mourn the loss of him as I struggle with the knowledge that I was not important to him. I found this amazing connection with a man, and he chose to ignore me for days. I am not a hook-up that you call when you need something. I am a human being--a viable person. I deserve more than that. I'm not a whore you call when you are alone and bored or need some attention. So I go between anger at him for brushing me aside so easily after claiming my heart, and the love I still hold for him. I wish in some ways he would call and answer my questions and tell me it was a mistake or a misunderstanding. But I wonder if that would be enough--he would have to prove to me he loves me. I don't think he knows how to do that.

Growing up, I struggled to feel important. The focus was always on my dad's job, my mom's stress, my sister's sports. I was always in the background, the good girl, the peacemaker. I tried hard to earn a little attention, but rarely got it. When I dated, I found myself with smart men who were not only controlling but very self absorbed. My husband gave me no attention at all. It's as if I continued my hell with my choices. When I met this man recently, I felt important for the first time ever. I felt wanted for the first time. But then after a few weeks, I was again unwanted, unimportant.

Cheating on me and ignoring me are the 2 worst things a man can do to me. I'd rather be hit than ignored, because at least you care enough to hit.

I want a man who wants me, and isn't afraid to tell me. I want a man who is willing to fit me into his life somehow. Even if it means some random scheduling due to his kids--if he makes an effort to see me and to talk to me, that's priceless. I want a man to say partnership and love, and to be willing to show it to me and not just talk about it. I want a man who is as interested in what I have to say as what he has to say. I want a man who wants to be a part of my life--not just expecting me to fit into his.

I have yet to find this man. and it hurts like hell, because this man talked the talk, but he couldn't walk the walk.

My advice for men:

Don't say LOVE unless you MEAN it.

Don't talk it if you can't walk it.

Don't be too cowardly to be open. If she wants to talk, and needs to talk, and needs something, LISTEN. Show her you care--don't just say it.

Don't leave without a reason.

If you truly love her, involve yourself in her world. Don't make it all about yours.

Listen to her. Ask her questions, and really listen to the answers. Respect her answers.

Don't jump into a good woman's heart, and then run like hell.

If you miss her, tell her.

If you can't do these things, stick to your hook-ups and stay out of the real world of stable, good women.

Screen Doors

2011-04-19T21:58:00.000-05:00

Close friends know that I have dreams that have meaning to me. Some dreams are recurring. Some are the result of imagination. But every now and then I have one that strikes me as being more than just a moment of stupidity in my psyche. These dreams are usually very vivid, and randomly haunt me throughout my day.

This morning when I awoke, I remembered a very vivid dream. I dismmissed it as I prepared for my day. But randomly, that dream continued to pop into my head. Finally, this evening, I called my sister and told her about it.

I was repairing a screen door that was framed in wood. There was no solid door in this opening. It was simply a screen door that separated inside from outside. The door looked as if it had been nearly ripped off its hinges and the frame was loose. The walls were made of concrete, so they were solid. But the concrete edges had been chipped away at the door opening. I also remember seeing cracks in the wall near the door. My goal was to better secure the door and frame, and to caulk and seal any gaps. It would not look new when I finished, but it would be solid and sealed enough for use. I put a nail in the door frame to secure it to the wall, and then opened the screen door to see how stable it was. It was not stable at all, and that's when I realized the frame had been nearly ripped out of the openeing. This would require a lot more fasteners. But I had plenty, and I had the time, so I was just going to do it.

Having taught on boundaries, I know that I have nice, thick, concrete walls to protect myself from others. But every wall has a door at some point. If the house in the dream is me, then I had a screen door for an opening. That's not so bad. We are supposed to have boundaries with others, but healthy boundaries are like chain link fences--where people can see in and out, and air can move in and out, but lines are clearly marked.

Someone must have torn through that door with such force that they nearly removed the frame out of concrete. That would take a lot of force, a lot of determination, and a complete lack of respect. It was going to take extra time and work to mend it. But I knew how to fix it.

Doors are for entry and exit, and are how we connect with others. A man recently blasted through my door, took what he wanted, and was gone as quickly as he arrived. It happened so fast and with such determination on his part, that he damaged not just my door but my framework. He had no respect for me. He is a predator. He found my one vulnerable entry, and he bashed it.

This is two fold--I hate to believe that someone I trusted was truly a predator, but I now believe he was. He has some amazing gifts that he has chosen to use for his own personal gain, and intentionally hurting others. I see how he damaged the door to my heart. However, on the up side, I have had to repair the door to my heart before. I know what it takes. I can and will do this.

Girl Power!!!

2011-04-18T13:07:00.001-05:00

At the beginning of this year, I decided that this was MY year to get outside my box. Alas, I was doing so well. And then I fell for a guy that I shouldn't have. It ended so abruptly, yet left me with more questions than answers. And so I have spent the last few weeks reflecting on that, and more importantly, on me.

This weekend I had a hair appointment, and my stylist is my age, and we are a lot alike. Not only did she give me some great insight into myself and what I deserve and should expect, but she also reminded me who I am and where I was mentally before dating the jerk. I left her little salon empowered. I bought new clothes, went out with friends to a few straight bars, and was hit on by random strangers, and was given the evil eye by a black woman because her man was checking me out. (Cracked me up! She needed to give HIM the evil eye, because I was not interested in her man.)

So, after a good weekend and some thinking, I went ahead and booked a cruise. I'm going to the Western Carribean in late August--right around my birthday. I will be gone for a week, basking in the sun, drinking until I'm stupid, dancing, and letting loose. I can't wait. I'm going with some cousins on my mom's side, and they are a partying bunch. This should be interesting. :-)

I sat down with my brother in law and we began discussing guns. I've never shot one. But I'm a woman who lives alone in a fairly questionable area. I want one to keep in my house.....just in case. John has several guns and is going to take me and some friends to the range to let me get a feel for different types that he has--glocks, cigs, revolvers, etc. He's going to show us the basics. I'm excited to do this. I have a feeling I'm going to love it. My hair stylist told me it's fun and empowering. My goal is to purchase a gun this summer.

I'm going to make an effort to go to different bars. I have been a faithful friend to my gays, and I'm wearing thin on the gay club scene. I doubt my best friends will be willing to expand their own horizons to join me, but it's something I have to do for myself.

I'm done with online dating. I've decided that the men online are either gross or predators. I don't have to peruse dating websites for a hook up. I can get one at my local QT, apparently. (Anyone who knows me knows I don't hook up with strangers, FYI--to many diseases and a complete lack of self respect.) I've also realized that any man who is on one site is likely on 3 others, so he may not be perusing the one he met you on, but he's likely perusing others as you are dating. Predatorial. That's all I have to say about that.

So, I'm feeling good. Mercury is coming out of retrograde at the end of this week. I have a cruise to look forward to, the last of my weight to lose, and some bar hopping and gun toting on the horizon.

Now I just need the motivation to do some spring cleaning. Ugh!

FRIENDS

2011-04-12T23:04:00.001-05:00

I am very fortunate. I have some amazing friends. I wasn't always this fortunate. I used to be such a loner that I didn't make friends easily. A few weeks ago, one of my friends told me, "people come into our lives for a reason, and either a season or a lifetime. I hope you are a lifetime friend." I was so touched. For someone who is rather elusive, that made me feel good. He has a loner spirit in him, so it meant a lot to me. But maybe we connect because I understand where that comes from. It's easier to be alone than to get hurt.

Tonight, I chatted with a friend on facebook. She lived with me for a time, and it nearly ruined our friendship. We were instant friends when we met. But by the time she moved out, there was a lot of awkwardness and frustration between us. We have chatted a few times since, but never anything in depth. Tonight, we chatted and it's like that frustration didn't happen. We picked up the friendship where it should have left off. We have both had a rough month, and we were able to swap stories, share advice, and we remembered what the whole friendship was for to begin with.

I have had another friend since I was 5. She and I rarely see each other. She lives in Texas and so our friendship continues through very random emails. Yet, I consider her a very dear friend. I can tell her anything. We can talk about any subject. And it's as if, each time, we had been talking daily all along. Even though she is married with kids and very involved in her church (can we say opposite me?) we still connect on a very personal level. We have a history.

I also have some male friends who have been with me for about 2 years who could not be more opposite me. Yet, we text daily, we cry with each other, and we allow each other to vent. We play devil's advocate, and yet we don't get too angry. We know each other so well, that we understand the others' intentions. Even in our disgust with each other, we drop it by the next day and move forward as if it didn't happen. My parents have met and love these friends, because they understand that it's more of a sibling relationship than an acquaintance.

And there are the new friends. The coworkers, the people I've finally allowed into my world. They are just as priceless, and they help me get through hard times on the job that others may not understand. But it's more than just a job friend--it's a true friend. I'm skeptical of work friendships, so letting a coworker in is a big step for me. I'm glad I've learned to let a few in.

I have friends in all age ranges. 20's to 50's. All income levels, colors, and sexes. Having such eclectic friends enriches my life.

My dad pointed out the other night that he is so amazed at my friendships. He told me that relying on my friends has been so amazing, because they are always there for me. And he noted how good it is as a father to know that your daughter has people she can rely on, even when others in her life let her down.

The other day, I called my sister. She asked, "What's up?" I started tearing up, and said, "I need my big sister." I hadn't said that in many years. And she was there for me. I learned years ago that my friendship with my sister was a model for any other relationship. We had to make our connection work, for the sake of the greater good. And so, no matter how badly we fought, we knew we loved each other and would eventually make up and be close again. That is how I have to view my friends. If I truly love them, I will let go of the hurts and make it work. I am so glad I've been able to see that. Because I do love my friends, and we have helped each other through break-ups, family feuds, drunken stupors, and life changes.

Thank you to my friends. Young and old. No matter how long we've known each other or how far apart we live. You all make my life more interesting, more fulfilling, and more amazing than it could ever be alone.

Narcissists are Cowards

2011-04-10T17:59:00.000-05:00

There is an excitement in a new love. In a new relationship. This time, I fell fast and hard. Why? He reached past the walls that I so adamantly built. He didn't even acknowledge them. He had me admit to thoughts and emotions that I wasn't prepared to admit, by seeing them and questioning them. It was very surreal. It was very scary. And he sucked me in with his voice, with his looks, but more than that, with his amazing gifts and skills. I was awestruck. I fell hard and fast---and I've NEVER fallen that hard and fast for any guy. The things he said, the personal stories he shared, it was all very intimate. He pushed love, the lasting kind of love. About commitment. Said he wished he had been a better man in his youth to deserve me. That he hoped I held on for the ride. That he loved me, and was in love with me. And then, as abruptly as it started, it stopped. I was suddenly left in the dark. I was merely fit into his busy (really? I don't think so!) schedule. Maybe it was the thrill of the hunt he liked, and when he had me it was no longer interesting. Maybe it was that I was too stable and too normal. Maybe I was one of several women he was doing this to at once. Some things that would have been red flags early on were not revealed until after I was sucked in. By then, it didn't matter so much, because I had already made a commitment to him.

Suddenly, it was this realization that I wasn't fitting into his world. I was not a consideration. The man who pushed commitment, suddenly had none for me. I did what I could--I gave, and I gave. And yet, it was futile. His excuses, in hindsight, are ridiculous. His drama is of his own doing. His willingness to suck me in and then discard me was pretty fuckin amazing and manipulative. He is a player. He is a user. He is a taker. He is NOT a giver. I got very, very little out of it past the first few weeks. If it wasn't about him and his greatness, then it didn't exist. And I didn't exist. I wonder how many women he has played this way. I am sad that I was sucked in. I am angry at him for being so selfish. I am really not angry at myself for once, because this was so atypical. It caught me off guard. It seemed too good to be true initially, and it was.

I am strong and resilient. This is not my first rodeo. I'm not this sad, naive, needy child that will hang on for months on end to a man who toys with me. I will let go, and I did. I sent an email expressing my disdain. Did he read it? Likely not, because if it's not uplifting to himself, then he's not interested. But I put in writing my feelings. I explained my hurt. And I told the truth--he is a coward. He would not answer my calls or texts. He could not face me in any way. He showed that his narcissistic personality is so huge, that I don't even deserve an explanation. I really don't think he had one. I think he does this en masse with women. What a lonely, pathetic man he will be one day, when his looks fail him and his reputation precedes him. He could have had an amazing woman with me. He has no idea the level of committment I am willing to give a man, the lengths that I would go to for the right person. But he will never know.

I am a fighter. I am a good person. I am not going to roll over and let a man shit on me repeatedly. I deserve better. I have a lot to offer. I am self sufficient. I don't need a man, I just want one. All I ask from a man is a little attention. That's not a lot, folks. I am a giver, and I will take care of a man who is willing to be there for me. Unfortunately, this man either found me to be not dumb enough, not blond enough, or just too normal. I'd rather be too normal than so messed up that I hang onto a narcissist for years on end, waiting for my turn to get acknowledgement. My parents didn't raise a fool, so I'm not that girl.

And you know what? I'm OK. When I made the decision to cut that cord, I went from sick to my stomach to peace within minutes. Sure, I have a lot of unanswered questions. But I have so much to offer that it's not like I'm going to sit in my room crying for days. I will never get the answers to those questions, and I know this. My divorce taught me that lesson.

So, I move forward. And I have this amazing appreciation for the following songs:

"Oh you probably won't remember me. It's probably ancient history. I'm one of the chosen few who went ahead and fell for you. I'm out of vogue. I'm out of touch. I fell to fast. I feel too much. I thought that you might have some advice to give on how to be insensitive." Insensitive by Jann Arden

"And who do you think you are, running around leaving scars, collecting your jar of hearts, and tearing love apart? You're gonna catch a cold from the ice inside your soul." Jar of Hearts by Christina Perri

Baby Dreams

2011-02-10T10:36:00.000-06:00

Since I’ve lost weight, I’ve been dreaming again. For a long time, I didn’t enter REM due to my weight. However, since I’ve lost weight, I sleep better and dream again. Very few dreams stay with me longer than a few minutes after I wake, and those that do only last about an hour in my head before drifting off into oblivion.

I awoke yesterday from a very vivid dream. One of those dreams where you are not sure when you awaken what is reality. I dreamed I was pregnant—something I’ve never dreamed before.

I had just found out I was pregnant—verified by a doctor. I knew it was not possible, because I had no uterus. But for whatever reason, it was true. It rather embarrassed me, because I knew people wouldn’t believe I could be pregnant, and they would wonder who I had slept with (knowing I have no boyfriend, they would assume it was a one night stand). I had been nauseated (which I swore I could feel in the dream), and I knew I was 8 weeks pregnant. I realized that my whole life had to be rearranged for this child—I was going to be a single mom. So I had to consider a baby room, daycare, recovery time, etc.

Now, I am a believer that our dreams can have meaning, or even be foretelling. But I also believe they can just be our emotions coming out as we sleep.

The dream was both really cool, and really weird considering my situation. I told it to my sister, who asked, “What are you about to birth in your life?”

So, it’s either a way of my mind saying to prepare for what’s to come, or I had to poop while I was asleep. I’m betting on the latter.

Babies, Shmabies

2011-02-08T11:24:00.000-06:00

My cousin posted this on facebook, "Praying very hard! My sister has a doctor appt today . . . .I just want them to finally experience the joy and the love that many of us have found when we had our little babies. They deserve it sooooooooooo much!"

She posted it a few weeks ago, and it immediately annoyed me. I know her sister has had a miscarriage, and I know her sister is young. But the things that annoy me are . . . ."pray" and "deserve". Last I checked, not everyone that can procreate deserves to, and not everyone that deserves a child can procreate. And from my experience, praying doesn't solve the biggest issues of my life.

A girl I went to college with is pregnant and has been posting pics of her ultrasounds. It's her first. And I am happy for these people. I really am. But it reopens wounds when I hear about praying and God's will and deserving. My sister tried for many years to have my niece, and she's tried for years after for another. She is an excellent mom. Do they think we haven't prayed for another child for her? that I hadn't prayed for a decent guy or for my uterus to be saved? I have learned a hard lesson. Life is hard and we shove God into the crevices of our minds--into what we desire. If it works to our favor, then it's God's blessings. If it doesn't work to our favor, then "you can always adopt" is the canned (and very unhelpful) retort.

I played by the rules provided me by the church. So did my sister. And my marriage still failed. Even bigger to me, my uterus is gone. And hearing about God and his will is very unrealistic in my mind. So much of what I've been taught and believed previously has been proven wrong. So where does that leave me? Trying to just get through life, day by day, and enjoy the time with friends. And not think too much about all I've lost. Not think too much about the false teachings. Not think too much about God.

Phoenix Tattoo

2011-01-25T08:38:00.000-06:00

A Phoenix is a mythical bird with a fire spirit. It lives every 500 to 1000 years, then ignites and burns to ashes. From the ashes, the phoenix is then reborn.

Several years back, I read the story of the mythological Phoenix. I identified with the necessity of the Phoenix to reinvent itself in order to continue in this world. At that time, I remember thinking that would be an awesome tattoo--something very personal and rather rare. Then I looked online and found out that it is really a very popular tattoo. Ha! But it didn't stop me from wanting one. I considered size, location, and design for years. But a tattoo is permanent.

After last year's health issues, I finally decided to do it. I got the tattoo. Events in life have left me at many a crossroads, where I could choose to continue with the status quo, or I could follow a new path. I have usually chosen the new path, and each time, that has led me to a new realization of self and desire. Each has forced me to redefine myself in order to continue. And so, I identify with this mythological creature. I'm not the person I was 4 years ago, much less the person I was 20 years ago.

Life is full of change, triumphs, defeats, and a million other emotions. But I intend to see it through to the end. No matter how many times I must be reborn. There was a time I wasn't willing to do that--I wanted to either die or just exist until someone plucked me from my personal hell. But not anymore. I will survive, if I have to do it alone, then so be it.

Samwise the Handsome

2010-08-16T15:29:00.000-05:00

I was sitting at Rib Crib eating dinner with my parents, when a black lab was begging for scraps. He was getting in the way of cars, who were dodging him. He was yelping, begging, and thin. I told my dad—if he’s over by my car when we leave, I’m taking him home. It was a long shot, because he was on the opposite side of the building from my car. When we paid and left, there he was, not far from my car. I opened the door, “Get in!” And he ran and jumped into the back seat.
I was going to name him Frodo, but my sister convinced me I would regret it. So he became Sam. Samwise. Sambo. Samsonite. Sammy Davis. Bubby. He and Sidney, my female Husky, had some fights. I let them work it out, and was only scared by their fights a few times. But they learned to live together.

I immediately had him spayed, and the vet said he looked like he had been rolled by cars a few times. He was very skittish, and didn’t like to be touched with objects (such as a dog brush) or his paws touched, and became frightened when you attempted either. He was a very loving, lovable, snuggly, licking dog. But, he was a handful.

He was right around a year when I took him in, and he was still a pup. He shredded my sofa. He chewed on my nice wood furniture so I gave it all away. He shredded my living room shades. He ate rolls of toilet paper and sifted through the trash bags. He was a nightmare. But I believed that by taking him in, I took on a responsibility. After a few years, he calmed down. And he became the most docile dog. He never outgrew eating paper and sifting through trash, but he became the dog I hoped he could be.

Sam was my bedmate, my sensitive boy, my snuggler.

When he passed away, he was only 8. We don’t know what really killed him, but whatever it was didn’t waste time. By the time I realized something was seriously wrong, it was too late.

Sam will always be in my heart. It’s just Sidney and I, as before.

Memory

2010-07-07T09:35:00.000-05:00

There is such a thing as muscle memory. For example: When I was a small child, car seats were not required, and we rode in the front seat with mom. When my mom was driving and hit the brake, she would automatically reach over to the hold me into my seat with her hand on my chest. Even into adulthood, she did this to me. It was something she didn’t think about and just did. Another example is that my uncle has not smoked in 20 years. A week or so ago he said he pulled out a lighter to light his welder, and found himself with his hands cupped and lighter lit, as if he was lighting a cigarette. It took him by surprise that his body did that after so many years.

Similarly, our minds can do the same thing. My mom’s dog Haley passed away several years ago. We all loved that dog with every cell in our bodies. About six months ago, I walked into my mom’s house, and caught myself thinking, “Where is Haley?” and I walked to the room she usually slept in. I hadn’t done that in years. It left me missing her suddenly in a deep way.

This weekend, I was looking at families and young kids. I caught myself thinking, “I look forward to having a son, watching him grow, and seeing the characteristics of mine that he has inherited.” That’s when I realized, “What am I thinking? I will not bare any children that will have any of my characteristics. My genetic code stops here.”

I know that I can leave a legacy without kids. But I can’t help but think about a family tree, and how my branch ends with me. It is dead. Had I been careless years ago, I could have children and my branch would live on. Yet I chose the responsible path.

I know this depression will pass, and it will likely return again. I have been told by another lady in my position that it gets easier. These thoughts will become less defining. My fate will become more accepted. My expectations and hopes will change. But for now, I’m only 6 months from my hysterectomy, and I’m still battling my own mind.

Aromemory

2010-05-13T14:35:00.000-05:00

Yesterday, I mowed with a mask. Ick. The last time I mowed (a few weeks ago), I became sick with a horrendous sinus infection that sent me to the ER once, Urgent Care once, and my primary physician once. I’ve been afraid to mow since. I survived thanks to antibiotics, and lived to mow again. I saw my first snake of the season in my yard last night, and watched as it slithered away. After mowing I felt good, so I began to weed my miniature garden. Not much is growing there but tomatoes, an eggplant, garlic, and romaine lettuce. But it requires maintenance. Everything else I planted I lost due to lack of maintenance. (Oopsies. My bad.)

As I was pulling weeds around my tomato plants, I was overtaken by their aroma. Suddenly, I was 10 years old, and walking through my grandpa’s garden, following him as he identified each row of plants for me. He had a large layout, with every vegetable I could imagine. He even grew sunflowers that seemed to tower over humans. The smell of the tomato plants were pungent as we traipsed up and down the rows. He wielded a pocket knife (always!), and pruned this plant, or removed a veggie from that plant and cut into it. Gourds had been made into birdhouses on a long pole, and he had a grove of apple trees on another area of the property. I followed him into the woods once, as he searched for a certain plant and cut it off at the base (with his pocket knife, of course!) and put it in a bag he carried. I followed along, pointing at this plant or that, “Is this it grandpa?” “Sure is…..good eye!” or “No, that’s not it.”

He never “lived off the land” so to speak. He worked at a refinery. But he loved to grow things. He loved that garden, and gave away bagfuls of cucumbers, zucchini, squash, okra, and tomatoes to visitors. Grandma canned what she could tolerate and the rest was gladly given away. The garden went away after grandma died 10 years ago. The apple tree grove was cut down and a trailer put in it’s place for an uncle to live in. The chickens and geese are no longer there, either. Now, in his 90’s, he cannot keep up with those things.

I sat for a moment and sniffed the tomato plant and relived the past for a few moments and smiled to myself. Then I closed the little makeshift gate on my makeshift fence around my miniature garden, and went in the house with a feeling of gratitude.

Growing . . .

2010-04-09T14:31:00.000-05:00

When I was married, we had 2000 SF house. It was a starter house for us. Our goal was to have kids and move into a quieter neighborhood, but we wanted to get ourselves established for a few years first.

When I divorced 8 years ago I bought my current house, which is less than 1,000 SF. It was a stepping stone, you see. I was going to be remarried in a few years, and then my husband and I would find a better home together. After a few years and I had no good prospects, I began some home improvement projects. They were mainly to help the value of my home so that when Mr. Right came along I could sell the house easily. I ran out of money and patience. My dad became weak and is no longer able to provide the muscle that I need to finish some of the work. But Mr. Right would help me one day. And until then, I let things just…….sit.

My hysterectomy was a jolt of lightening. It changed everything. If I couldn’t have kids, what did I want for myself? I had lived the past 8 years in anticipation of a great change. Correction: I had existed in anticipation of a great change, because I didn’t really LIVE. And the hysterectomy was a wake-up call: I will never bare my own children, so what if I never marry again? What legacy will I have left if I continue at this pace?

Last night, as I was rearranging things, throwing out old books and memories, cutting off the unnecessary pieces of my past that I had been clinging to, I realized I had forgotten how to live. It took 3 years to recover emotionally from my divorce, and by then, I didn’t know how to live anymore. I treated my home the way I treated myself—with neglect and disrespect.

And so, I have been clearing out stuff. I’ve been working to get my house to reflect this person that I am now. It will take time and a lot of patience. I pray I am able to keep the momentum.

This isn’t another rambling about my divorce that happened forever ago. It’s actually a positive thing that my hysterectomy brought my way . . . .

Courage

2010-03-04T11:16:00.000-06:00

I used to paint. Notice it’s a past tense. Yes, I’ve picked up the brush a time or two in the past 8 years, but never actually put my heart into anything I’ve done. The last time I remember doing that, I was 18. What stopped me? Words.

I took a few art classes my freshman year of college, and I wasn’t the best student. I had no formal training, but had painted a lot and been told I had a gift. I look back on that year and the emotional hell my boyfriend put me through, the financial burden my education was causing my parents, and my already heavy depression sent me to new depths. I hadn’t the money for the supplies that others used in art classes. I had to explain to my professors that I couldn’t afford this or that (embarrassing!). When my jackass boyfriend told me that he saw my art and it was “just ok”, I was devastated. I never took another art class.

It was 10 years later, when I was married, that my husband bought me a set of paints, and all of the accessories. Having not painted in 10 years, the brush felt foreign, and I struggled. I began painting a tree, I believe. My husband walked by and said, “You’re going to paint THAT?” And then later, he made a comment, “I can paint like that.” I got up, gave him the brush and walked away. I didn’t pick up the brush again.

It’s been nearly 8 years since my divorce, and I have made a few attempts since, only to get frustrated with myself. I have this mental block that keeps me from moving forward with a paintbrush.

Today, a coworker explained to me that she’s written 2 complete novels, which were “sophomoric” once she re-read them. So she began others, and the last one she poured herself into and had it half finished. She took it to a local editor for input before she went any further. He told her that it sounded like Jean Auel’s writing, and if she can fix that, then she should bring it back and he’ll re-read it. That was in the late 80’s or early 90’s. She has not written a word since. The half finished novel is in a box.

We have these walls we build in our own minds. We both took a gift we were working on, and received the feedback we were not prepared to handle. We shut down. We didn’t believe in ourselves to begin with, apparently.

I had heard a friend of mine painted, but no one has seen her work. She keeps it locked away in her house. She finally showed us some photos of it last night. It was fantastic. She has 25 pieces of amazing art. Why hasn’t she shared them? Fear of rejection. Fear of critical input. She paints them, and then she puts them away. No input means no mental stifling. We are now encouraging her to have confidence in herself as an artist. I hope I never stifle someone the way I was.

I also hope I have the courage to try again…….

Kristi's Lullaby

2010-03-02T12:53:00.000-06:00

“Life is short but this time it was bigger
Than the strength he had to get up off his knees”

Those are lyrics from Whiskey Lullaby, about a lover who drinks himself to death. Sometimes lyrics hit us at the heart, and this phrase really smacks of truth for me. I’ve been depressed a lot. I’ve even attempted to end my life. But I always managed to have the strength to get up off my knees. Sometimes, I had the resolve to go on and made up my mind to do so. Other times, I thought I had lost my resolve and tried to give up, but my spirit wouldn’t let go of me. And so, I hear those lyrics and I am thankful for the chances I have had to continue on.

Since my surgery, I’ve been a mess. I haven’t been able to properly express the turmoil in my head. It’s like my life is continuing, and I’m functioning, but my mind isn’t in it. It’s trying to figure out who I am now that my body is altered and my future has changed.

I was chatting with my sister online the other night, and I finally managed to express in words what’s in my head: the future is up to me, and I’m scared to death. I have spent years waiting on God to send me Mr. Right. When I got Mr. Right, I was going to have beautiful babies. Ha! I put a lot of things on hold, in case he came along. My house. My hobbies. My social life. Children. Vacations. Careers. I’ve had this sense of being temporary for quite some time. 7 years to be exact. Everything would be permanent when he comes and the children come. I put a lot of hope and expectation on God, you see. He was supposed to do what I was taught that he does—bring me a man who will help me, whom I could help, and whom I could share my life with.

And now that the child thing is no longer an option, the husband thing seems less important. I guess he was a means to an end? Anyway, I am now faced with the reality that the future is unwritten. It’s up to me to live. It was always up to me to live, but I didn’t perceive it that way. I expected God to fill in more voids than he did. Stupid religion!

So, I’m scared. Can I trust myself to not screw up the rest of my life? How do I proceed with this new life? How do I become the person I want to be? Or even bigger—who do I want to be?

At one point a few weeks ago, I didn’t feel like I had it in me to go on. But my spirit wouldn’t let me quit. Now, I have the resolve, because I understand myself better.

Filling the void

2010-02-08T10:48:00.000-06:00

I “held” a table for my friends as they played pool before the drag show. I sat alone for a long time, and that annoyed me. I had been reduced to a table saver so others could arrive whenever they felt like it. Once we assembled, the drama began: Who was flirting. Who was cute, a twink, a hoe, a butch, and who was nellie. Who was the latest internet boyfriend, what he looked like, and his measurements. This behavior had always annoyed me, but I now wondered if they would ever grow up. Then my friends announced they were leaving for another bar, to chase some ass that may be there. And . . . .they. . . . .left me there. . . . without a second thought. I could have followed to watch them flirt, text, and exchange numbers. But I would have felt just as alone there, in their presence, as I did by myself in this bar. So why waste expensive gas to feel lonely? Besides, I’m not going to be the fag hag who follows her gays to every location of their choosing, and try to consistently be their voice of reason. I'm tired of being the level headed one. Everyone had an agenda that night, and it has become a habit.

I sat alone and felt empty, but was determined to finish the show. I wondered, “What is wrong with me? Why am I sitting alone in a gay bar, when I am a single, straight female? Why do I surround myself with people who are desperate, when that behavior annoys me? How did I get here in life, and do I even want to stay here? What is wrong with me?”

There was a time when my group of friends was larger, diverse, and we gathered to have fun. We had our favorite bars, and we moved as a group. No one was left behind. As the group dwindled, we have become closer to each other, and our friendships are now deeper. But I am the only straight person left. And as the minority, I have followed the desires of the majority. Until now.

I left the bar feeling completely dissatisfied with myself, with my friends, with my life. I went directly to QT to get chocolate—as a salve for my soul. I sat in my car, chowing down when I heard a voice in my head, “You cannot fill this emptiness with food.” I was shocked. Then I thought of all the ways I have tried to fill or at least mask this emptiness—relationships, food, church, alcohol, smoking, food, working, and I can’t forget food. I was taught that God or church filled that emptiness, and I worked my ass off in church and in prayer, only to find myself still empty. I have put on 100 lbs since high school to fill the emptiness. I have been going out with friends and stayed as busy as possible to mask the emptiness. But it’s still there.

So the question of the year seems to be, how do I fill this emptiness, and with what? It comes from within, and I now know that. My friend Randall, who was not there that night, let me cry on his shoulder and express my frustration. He assured me I will find the answer, and it’s about loving yourself. He had actually alluded to my lack of self love a few times prior, and I blew him off. I guess my spirit wouldn't be ignored anymore.

I had a talk with one of my friends, and let him know that the drama and the agendas have worn me down, his behavior borders on desperation, and is immature. I let him know that I was hurt. He apologized, and I hope he truly heard what I was saying. Because it's all going to be different now.

Recovery

2010-01-21T00:11:00.001-06:00

I have been recovering from my surgery, and am now on week 3. My incision is healing nicely, and my pain is nearly gone. However, I now feel my colon more than ever,my bladder, and my kidneys. It's a dull pain that gnaws at me, but isn't big enough to require narcotics. My doctor assured me that the scraping that was done made those organs sensitive, and they were still settling into their life that is now free from endometriosis.

I have not had hot flashes, but it's as if my body temp has risen 20 degrees the last few days. My typically cold body gets warm very easily. I believe my fetish for blankets may come to an end if this continues. I have been testy, partly due to being hot.

The hardest part is the emotional. I have found the physical recovery to be simpler than I thought. But I still have my moments of getting overwhelmed at seeing a baby, or something will make me think of living the rest of my life without a child, and I will grieve all over again. I know that I will ultimately be OK with my life, but for now I still struggle. I only recently began praying again, and it feels very hollow to do it. I feel like I lost all bearings in life, and I'm floating in the darkness. I am depressed and I recognize that. So I try not to let my mind linger in that black hole for long.

But I will survive. I have no other choice. My dogs need me.

It's done

2010-01-08T19:50:00.000-06:00

As an update, I am home from the hospital. I had the surgery on Monday morning. I wasn't so much nervous, as I was ready to get it over with. My friend Kelsy was there, and that made me feel good. I came out of surgery in horrible pain and with nausea. I remember asking my mom how it went, and she said, "They took it all. Ovaries and all. You had endometriosis." I was shocked. The morphine drip barely handled the pain the first night, but finally seemed to do the trick around 2AM. I ended up with major itching all over my body from the morphine. I also drifted in and out of consciousness. I remember taking a drink of water, and falling asleep without swallowing. I heard my mom say, "Are you gonna swallow that?" I woke up and realized it was still sitting in my mouth.

After the doctor visited with me, I found out that the surgery came just in time. In my surgery just over a year ago, I had fallopian tubes connected to my colon. They were seperated, and the attachment was due to my colon becoming inflamed at some point. (My IBS explains that.) My doctor opened me up, and found endometriosis on my colon, my other organs, in and out of everything, had even formed their own cysts. They had to remove the uterus, cervix, tubes, and ovaries. She told me my pain was probably more dramatic than anyone realized, and that she was glad I was persistent with my claims. She said that she had no idea she would encounter that, and I will have a lot of relief once I am healed.

I am at home recuperating now. I have an 8" incision in my abdobmen. But I'm on hormones, and I'm looking forward to the future.

Tis the Season for New Traditions

2009-12-22T14:33:00.000-06:00

Christmas is the time of year for family and fun and gifts and giving and getting together right? Not for everyone. Growing up, I LOVED Christmas. It was full of fun, love, food, gifts, and a joyous spirit. After my divorce, it became a reminder that I was alone. I had to buy separate gifts for each individual in my family, but married couples would buy me a single gift and say it was from both. So I spent more than anyone, and got less in return. I would sit and watch as my parents and my sister and her husband would exchange wonderful gifts with each other. Christmas lost its luster. To me now, it’s more of a burden. It’s a reminder of what I don’t have. My niece is the only thing about Christmas that I look forward to.

My friends are mainly in their late 30’s and single. So we are all in that same position: none of us consider Christmas joyous. It’s nice to be around people who understand that emptiness that comes with these holidays. On Thanksgiving, after fulfilling our family obligations, we met for a movie and then went to a club. On Christmas Eve, we will do it again. It gives us something to look forward to. Our own version of holiday cheer. Vodka makes everything a little more tolerable.

Our favorite waitress at Village Inn is amazing. We all chipped in and bought her a Christmas present—a robe, slippers, a candle, and a face mask. She loved it, and told us this may be her only Christmas gift. She has no family. She works Christmas day. So she is going to go out with us on Christmas Eve for the first time.

A cousin of mine is also single, and has no family that he is close to. He is coming with us as well.

It’s comforting to look around and know that I’m not alone, but to also know that if single folks unite, we can still have fun, even if it is not in the religious or traditional form.

Damn Emotions!

2009-12-15T10:08:00.000-06:00

I was looking for some negatives. I had a friend who had lost his photos of Paris, and I had been there and offered to let him make copies from my negatives. I began tearing through my drawer of photos, unsure what I may have done with them. I found myself flipping through random piles of photos. I began throwing them away – weddings of cousins who are now divorced, my honeymoon, my trip to Vegas with my ex. All of it had lost its meaning. Still no negatives.

Wait! They may be with my wedding negatives! So I began plowing through that file box, and cleaned it out as well. As I came to my wedding negatives (they were actually engagement, bridal, and wedding shoot negs), I suddenly found myself sitting in a pile of discarded photos. Discarded…..history. My ….history……was lying in shambles on the floor around me. What did I even save this history for? My own daughter or son. It was a history of their mother. A story that needed told to understand where I came from.

And, it is a waste. I will not bare my own children. I sat on the floor and was suddenly overcome with grief. What are these photos for? What’s this house for? What’s this life for? Is there any real purpose for any of this? Why am I even here?

And so, I called my sister, and broke down. She explained this was natural, that these emotions would come and go. But this time, they took me completely off guard.

Today, I am both sad and in physical pain. My cramps are the worst I’ve ever had. I feel like my internal organs are swollen. I almost went to the ER this morning. I want some closure. I want some sense of direction. I want something to live for.

the beauty of a child

2009-11-10T23:26:00.000-06:00

It has become a Sunday ritual.

I’m usually at my parents' house on Sunday, solving the crossword, when they arrive home from lunch. My niece's small frame peers over the couch and greets me with a smile. There was a time when she wouldn’t acknowledge me, passing through the stages of toddler independence, but she has outgrown that. She smiles broadly, showing her teeth, raises her eyebrows, lifts her head, and with her red curly hair encasing her head like a beautiful halo, she exclaims, “Hi, Kwisti!”. That’s when I melt.

It’s naptime after Sunday lunch. One time, my niece approached me in the living room, holding a stuffed animal, and said, “Kwisti, come nap wif me.” I was sure Nana put her up to it, but it was still adorable. Of course, I obliged.

Again, I was happy to lie down with her this past Sunday afternoon. I had been milling over my choices on my own reproductive future. I hadn’t vocalized my concerns, but I had been running scenarios through my head. What if’s. Why me’s. If only’s.

I crawled into bed with my niece after she was already asleep. Being hot natured, she was shirtless with only a sheet as a cover. I slid up next to her, careful not to wake her, and absorbed her beauty. Her hair is similar to mine—color, texture, lack of control. Her skin is commonly compared to a China doll’s white, flawless tone. But what struck me was her frame. This angel is now 3. It seems an eternity ago that she came into this world. We had wondered at the time what she would look like, act like, sound like. And I have to tell you, I’m awestruck. She is creative, intelligent, and analytical. She is funny and manipulative. She is no longer a baby, but a little girl. The cries and noises, are now replaced by words, conversation, creativity, stories, and song. Lots and lots of songs—in tune, mind you.

I gazed at her neck and her frame. I wanted to touch her soft skin, and even reached out my hand, but stopped myself in fear of waking her. As the light entered through the window, highlighting her shoulders, I wondered how something so perfect could exist--something so innocent. I remember praying before she was born that she not inherit my depression, and be spared my low self esteem and fears. So far, so good.

As I pondered the magnificence of God's creation, I wondered if I had the strength and patience for a child, and if my chance for one was truly over. Surely if I had a daughter, she couldn’t match the beauty of the child next to me. I wondered why some people keep children they don’t want, with so many families waiting for a child. How can anyone intentionally hurt a child? How can God allow some children to be born into horrible homes, and allow good homes to remain childless?

Soon, I fell asleep. But even now, days later, my mind drifts back to those quiet moments of reflection. The song that comes to mind each time is one by Steve Nicks, Landslide:

“…Oh, mirror in the sky what is love? Can the child within my heart rise above? Can I sail through the changing ocean’s tide? Can I handle the seasons of my life?
Well I’ve been afraid of changing, ‘cause I’ve built my life around you. Time makes you bolder, and even children get older. I’m getting older too.”

Many of my expectations and hopes have included lying down with my own child. I am left wondering if this is the closest I will ever get—lying next to my niece. Is a child what I really want, or just what I’ve always expected? How could any child be more perfect than this? Am I really prepared for the dedication of motherhood? Am I really prepared for a life without any children? So many questions, so few answers.. . . . . . .

Barren is dead word

2009-11-08T20:54:00.000-06:00

The word hysterectomy has permanence to it. There is no turning back. “Hysteria “ refers to a woman’s reproduction organs , and “-ectomy “ denotes removal.

Since my divorce 7-1/2 years ago, I have battled pre-cancerous cells that went away on their own, some so severe they were removed by surgery. I have my ex-husband to thank for the HPV that caused all of this. I’ve had an enlarged and sensitive cervix my whole life. I have cysts on my ovaries, and cysts in my uterus. When my doctor lasered my cervix, she took as little as possible to preserve my ability to have children, but warned another surgery like that would render me barren. That was several years ago.

Now, I’m 37. I have no children, and have never been pregnant. I did what I was taught—get married first, then have children. My ex not only left me an HPV present, but he left just as we agreed to start trying for a child. (FML) I kept telling myself through all of my abnormal paps, "God is preserving my organs for a child, right?" Apparently not.

I’ve waited for Mr. Right for a very long time, in vain. I sat in my gyno’s office a few weeks ago and she began asking about my periods. I gave her the rundown—my cramps last 7 days, my periods last 7 to 8 days, and are VERY heavy. I may have a period twice a month, maybe only once. You never know until it happens. I’ve had periods since the age of 10. I have other issues that have popped up in recent months that I won’t describe here. (TMI)

She told me that my options have ended, and offered me a hysterectomy. I told her I wanted to wait for more vacation and more money. But honestly, I wanted time to think about it. I was shocked at her offer, and left her office in shock. She told me to call anytime that I’m ready.

I am at that age where pregnancy means taking on huge developmental risks for that child. I’m at a high risk for infertility and miscarriage. And let’s face it—I’m not even in a relationship!!!!!

My mom asked me tonight why I am waiting to have surgery, and I told her that I know what will happen: I will say, “Let’s do it”, and I will emotionally break. As soon as I said that to my mom, I nearly broke. As tears rolled down my face and my lips quivered, I told my parents, “You guys have to realize how hard it is. It’s hard to go to church and see these young couples talk about God bringing them together. And you see them having babies, and saying that God gave them this gift. It makes you feel worthless. Like God hates you or is playing favorites. I can’t look at that anymore! But the day I give in to being barren will be the first day of many, many tears. ”

And so, the reality is setting in. I haven’t been to church in a while for a number of reasons. This is one of them. There is a part of me that thinks it’s pointless, because God isn’t listening anyway. And I am concluding that it is time for a hysterectomy. I’m tired of waiting. Tired of wanting. Tired of hope. The older I get, the scarier the thought of bringing a child into the world. I am only up for it if I’m in a healthy relationship, and I’m not even close to that.

I was talking to my friend Randall the other night about relationships. I told him, “In a perfect world, a man would come up to me and ask me out, and I would say, ‘here is a book called Love is a Choice, about overcoming codependency. Read it, think about it, and then call me if you are still interested.’ And months later he would call me, still interested, but emotionally healthier than before.” Randall laughed and said, “No, in the perfect world, he would say, ‘Oh, that book? I already own it. It’s helped me tremendously.’ Then you would KNOW it was a match made in heaven.” He is so right. And well, this isn’t a perfect world, is it?

Now, it's out in the open. The conversation with my parents, and this blog, make it real. So I guess the next step is: when shall I do it?

"Friends are like church. . . ."

2009-10-23T16:52:00.000-05:00

It was nine o’clock, and I had not heard from him. I was concerned, but didn’t want to be pushy or annoying. But he had called me at 4:30, on his way to a stranger’s house that was located in a questionable part of town. He was supposed to call me after his date. I decided to text him, “Do I need to send a search and rescue?”. No response.

After 10 o’clock, I began to get very nervous. I was supposed to text Michelle the moment I heard from him, and she would text Traci. So, I texted her, “I haven’t heard from Randall. I texted and messaged him.” She tried calling him, with no answer either.

With that, we devised the plan: I would drive to Randall’s house and see if he is home. If not, I would drive to the general location of this stranger’s home and look for Randall’s car or his body. I would give Michelle updates, and I would not get out of the car in a bad area without calling her first and staying on the phone.

As I drove, my mind milled over the possible outcomes. He could be in bed asleep. He could be at the man’s house having a grand time. Or my worst fear, he could be lying on the side of the road, injured or worse. There had been a gay bashing in Tulsa just a few days before. Randall is a strong man, a healthy man, and an energetic man. But he is also gay. He had taken a risk by meeting a stranger at his home, instead of a public place. He normally has his phone handy and checks it periodically. He normally tells me what’s going on. This . . . .was not . . . .normal. I had already planned for the worst—call 911, call Michelle, call Randall’s daughter. . . .

I know that people assume a man can take care of himself, but ask that young man who had been beaten, bitten, and stabbed, and you realize the world is a scary place. Three people ganged up on him. Prejudices abound, and ignorant people do cruel things. Get more than one attacker together, and most men would not stand a chance alone.

I drove Randall’s house, and his car was there. It was 11 o’clock and his house seemed very quiet. I rang the doorbell. . . . . .no answer. So, I rang it again, determined to beat the door down if necessary. If he’s home, he’ll probably be in bed and surely be pissed that I’ve disturbed him. But I needed peace of mind.

“Kristi! What are you doing here?”, he asked as he opened the door, smiling broadly.

“Randall! I’m making sure you are alive! We are worried about you!!”

He laughed. “I’m fine. I left that man’s house a long time ago. He was an ass and I wasn’t comfortable so I left.”

Randall had quickly changed focus after leaving his date, and become pre-occupied with other things. He forgot about calling, and his phone was in another room.

“I’m so sorry! I feel bad you drove all the way out here! That is SO sweet!” He said.
‘I don’t mind, as long as I know you are alive and well!” I replied, relieved.

We hugged several times and upon leaving I called Michelle. She then called Traci.

The next day, Randall told me, “That meant more to me than you will ever know. I don’t know if that’s what you guys normally do as friends, but I’ve never had any friend or family member do that for me. You know, people go to church in hopes of making friends. You go every week, shake hands, and make shallow friendships. But I did that for years and never made close friends. After church, everyone goes home to their real lives. Being around you guys is better than church. When I leave you, I feel like I’ve been to church. I’ve never had friends like you.”

Losing a Friend

2009-10-22T11:33:00.000-05:00

I had to let a friend go a few weeks ago. I created a boundary and distanced myself from someone who meant a lot to me. But his erratic behavior, negativity, and antagonizing actions were overwhelming. It was a sudden change from the person I had known.

It began with some bizarre purchases he made. He was already in financial ruin. Just when he realized the effect of his purchases, he quit his job. He became embarrassing in public, with random comments and overly zealous behavior. It’s as if his filter was removed, and it was a free for all as he said anything that came to mind, including “jokingly” discussing his desire for drugs, and his previous days as a dealer. In a bar, drunk, he gave me a “message from God’ that made no sense at all. When he wanted to buy my meal and I refused, he told me that I don’t have faith in him or God. God was going to take care of him. For some reason, that really hit a nerve, maybe because of my own relationship with God. Not only did it seem surreal to have him give a false prophecy, but it hurt that he questioned my faith in God or him. His understanding of God at that moment was very flawed. The truth is, we create our own hell much of the time, and we want God to save us from it. God doesn’t always clean up our messes, and when he doesn’t are we going to resent him?

I finally decided that he was on drugs. I do not use drugs, nor do I want them around me. I talked to him about it one night, and he denied using anything in months, which I knew was a lie. He expressed his anger at the world for dealing him a crappy hand, his resentment toward the young gay community for having it easier than he had when he came out, and his unwillingness to let go of bitterness. It’s his right to be angry, he said. I tried to tell him that holding onto that anger will eat him alive, and he should be happy that young gays have it easier than he did. But he kept talking over me. I finally told him that I do not share his anger, nor do I want to be around it. I wasn’t ending our friendship, but drawing a boundary with him.

I am a recovering codependent. Finding myself in friendships like this are dangerous. I will attempt to fix him. I will worry over his problems as much as my own. I will do whatever to appease him, so he will be happy. I will make myself his source of happiness, which is unhealthy. Recognizing my own tendencies, I drew a boundary.

His response was to for me to have a good life.

I tried to relay the story to a coworker who is a Christian, and her response was, “Maybe he needs a friend now more than ever before!” I understand her religious thinking, as if I could help “save” him by loving him the way Jesus loves us. I felt a tinge of guilt, followed by frustration that she doesn’t see the big picture. You cannot help someone who doesn’t want help.

So I had a good cry and I let go of the friend. I think of him daily. But I believe one day our friendship will return. I hope so.

P.S.

2009-09-16T23:12:00.001-05:00

I don't cry at movies very often. My ex-husband used to joke that I was hard hearted at movies, while he would bawl. I'm not one of those stoic, emotionless people who are not easily moved. Actually, I'm very easily moved. But a movie is an escape for me, and although I lose myself in it, I alse separate myself from it. I've cried at Titanic (just a few tears, nothing major), but I have all out bawled at The Piano and My Life (with Michael Keaton). Usually people think I'm crazy to cry at those two movies, but I literally sobbed at those movies, gasping for breath.

Tonight, I was at a friend's house and we watched "P.S. I Love You". Yeah, I cried. I nearly teared up several times in the movie, but the point where I really lost it is when she realized. . . . . .she was alone indefinitely. That was the moment when she finally accepted the loss of her husband and the reality of moving on without any help. That was also the time that she said, "I promised I would never let a man hurt me again."

I remember in my divorce, realizing that I was alone IN a marriage. But then when we physically parted ways, the loneliness was overwhelming. The silence was deafening, and the hurt was numbing. I mean, how was I supposed to move on? My parents hadn't divorced. My sister hadn't divorced. I had no idea how to cope. And just as in the movie, I had been hurt before. I had been in an abusive relationship, and after that I swore no man would ever hurt me again. And yet, I trusted again and it all crumbled on me.

And so, this movie touched my heart. I felt like I was reliving that void--a void that is still there today, but that isn't raw anymore. I had to learn to be strong by myself. I had to learn to get out of bed each day, anyway. I had to learn to exist in a way I never wanted. I still don't like to be at home all alone, but that's what my dogs are for.

I hurt for anyone experiencing this pain, but life does get better. Trust me. And I think I need to go to Ireland to find me a hottie musician with an accent. . . . .

The hardest prayer

2009-08-19T15:33:00.000-05:00

My mom started having my cousin Jane stay with us some weekends when she was quite young. She is 7 years younger than I, and she was always a nuisance. A redheaded, freckle-faced, stinky, disheveled, wild child. We loathed those weekends, because she purposely pushed our buttons. Jane’s mom is my mother’s youngest sister. Aunt Diane held a job and paid her bills, but she was always a little . . . slow, emotionally. She has married 4 different men, all of whom deserve a padded cell in a psycho ward. Jane was always second to everyone else. My mom’s reasoning for having Jane over was, “This is the only stable place she ever goes. She needs to know that she can have more in life. Maybe we can give her hope.” When it was revealed that Jane had been sexually abused by one of her stepfathers, we were shocked and sickened. Some of her unusual behaviors suddenly made sense.

Jane finally married when she was the ripe old age of 16—with her mother’s blessing. The church they married in was forever dubbed the “Church of the Circus People” in our minds. My family flinched at the little people, the hobblers, the amputees, and the greasy masses. There was an extraordinary number of deformed people in that church. Jane cried with joy the entire wedding. The reception included a delicate blend of tuna fish sandwich quarters and pimiento sandwich quarters. It was a redneck shotgun wedding. We all expected to see a bulging belly protruding from Jane at any moment. Why else would she marry so young? Well, we were wrong. She had not been pregnant, and did not become pregnant in her 12 year marriage. She was simply ready to be important to someone.

Jane is now 30. She is divorced from her abusive, controlling husband. She is the adult in her relationship with her mother. She worked for 9 years at the same place, until recently (laid off). She didn’t flee her marriage to live with her mother and her newest stepdad—she found herself an apartment.

I met her for a drink and to listen to some music one night a few weeks ago. We talked, laughed, and discussed her dreams. She is barely scraping by and looking for work, but she is going to a technical college. She has dated, and already ended a relationship because she knew she deserved better. She is . . . . a beautiful, strong, independent woman.

I dropped her off at her house after a few hours, and as I drove away, I was overcome with emotion. As I maneuvered the winding roads, I thought of the disheveled child that annoyed us, the wedding that shocked us, and the husband that concerned us. You could not see or predict any of those scenarios when looking at her today. Tears filled my eyes as I thanked God for keeping her safe throughout the marriage. For keeping her sane throughout her childhood. And for giving her the resolve she needed to start over.

I actually prayed one of those really hard prayers. A prayer where your heart cries one thing, and your mind tries to stifle it, knowing you may well regret that prayer. But, after a moment of hesitation, I did it anyway:

“God, give her the desires of her heart. She has overcome so much. Show her your love and your blessings. I will give up the desires of my heart, if it means giving Jane hers. She deserves it more than I do.”

I hesitate to even write that. It’s such a deep, personal, difficult thing to think, worse to utter, and nearly impossible to write. When it is written, it is proof. I did it. Maybe God wouldn’t withhold my desires over a goofy prayer. But the reality is, I thought it, I voiced it, I wrote it. It is a plea from my heart to God.

Following that prayer, I texted her: “When u left my car i almost cried. U have overcome so much, and become a vibrant, beautiful, intelligent woman. So many prayers have been sent your way thru the years. I am proud to be your cousin.”

The following day, she responded via text: “Just wanted to tell u that I love u…you made me feel so good after your text ya sent me last night. I now know people see how proud I am of myself too.”

.

Letting Go

2009-08-18T22:55:00.000-05:00

Years ago, I was in my mid twenties, and a coworker, Karen, was in her late 30’s. We became friends, and one day I asked if she ever served jail time, expecting her to say no. “Well, yes, I have. Remember how I told you I don’t have kids? I lied. I have 2 sons.”

And she began a harrowing tale of marrying into a very wealthy and very controlling family in Kentucky. After years of emotional abuse, and fearing for the future of her sons (and after hearing of sexual abuse that the youngest had endured), she filed for divorce. She had not worked outside of the home, so she had limited financial means to fight for her freedom and her boys. A very nasty legal battle ensued that was devastating. In the end, she had no proof of abuse, was labeled emotionally unfit, and lost custody of her boys. She was awarded limited visitation. Fearing for her boys, she visited them one day and fled with them. She took them to Kansas, where she had them for a few months before being found. She served 90 days in jail, and lost all parental rights.

Her boys contacted her a few times on the sly, but Karen was informed that they were severely punished when caught, and they stopped trying to reach her at all. Out of fear for them, she didn't attempt to contact them.

“When people ask me if I have children, I tell them no. They wouldn’t understand how I can let go of my children. People assume I was an unfit mother or I was doing something illegal. But I let go of them because I didn’t have a choice. I did all I knew to do, short of killing their father.” She had tears running down her face by now.

She hoped eventually they would understand that she fought for them. She started over in Oklahoma and earned a degree from OU. She had to move on, in case they did find her one day. At that time, she had no contact with them for years, and the oldest was nearing adulthood.

********************************

I have never had to let go of anything that serious. I have had to let go of a marriage, along with many relationships and careers. I usually stayed in them much longer than I should have. I don’t let go easily of things I care about. But I’ve done it enough I should be a pro at it by now.

Today I’ve been thinking a lot about letting go of some things once and for all, and Karen came to mind. I had let go of these things previously--or so I thought. But the desire for a husband and a child, along with other things, have continued to bother me periodically. Apparently, I've continued to secretly hope for them. If my friend can let go of such a huge part of herself, I can let go of these small things in my heart. Her desires were tangible--they were human, and she had once held them in her arms. Mine are mostly intangible, and only ideas and dreams.

I have held onto them for so long that letting go isn’t easy. It’s going to be a long process. But I have to do it, before bitterness becomes a permanent part of who I am. I don't want to be bitter, but I am. I hate to say, "Stop dreaming" or "give up hope". But for my own peace, I believe I need to do just that. I need to live in the now, because tomorrow is too uncertain.

**********************************

As an end to this story, Karen contacted me again a few years later. Her oldest son had found her through the internet while serving in Afghanistan. He then paved the way for her to obtain custody of her youngest son, since he was a witness to abuses in the home and was now willing to go public with it. The last I spoke with her, she had remarried, and her sons were with her.

For Real?

2009-07-19T22:14:00.000-05:00

The other day 2 of my friends were complimenting each other in a sweet but slightly uncomfortable way. Being the person who likes to make jokes in uncomfortable situations, I said, "Hey, what about me? Am I chopped liver?" They stopped, looked at me, and one of them said, "You . . . . .are just real." The other said, "That's exactly right! you are completely real. You are very down to earth." There was so much emphasis put on the word real, and such heart in what was said, that I took that as a huge compliment. I've not been very real for much of my life. I've been what I thought I was supposed to be:

As a kid, I was the girl who pretended not to be severely depressed and contemplating suicide. Doing so would mean my parents were failures and the church would be sorely disappointed in them.

In church, I was the good Christian girl who followed the rules. When things were said that I didn't agree with, I silently disagreed and hoped no one asked my opinion (and God help me, I disagree with much of mainstream religion). I always felt like I was hiding my true feelings.

While in college, I tried to be a good christian girl and not be a party freak. Granted, I had no money to party on and no friends to party with. But I was struggling with my own desires to be social, and my christian teachings that my environment should consist of other christians only.

When I was out of college and living in Dallas, I tried to be a party girl. I really tried. But I was not comfortable with myself at all. I thought I was ugly and fat. And I didn't know how to be in a social setting. I was completely overwhelmed by it all.

I married a man with about as many friends as I had. That means we had little to no social life. We were never our truest, authentic selves to each other. I always held back my thoughts, desires, opinions, hopes, etc. I was afraid he would disapprove of them. And he didn't let me in on his, so I was afraid to announce mine.

After my divorce, I couldn't hold my head high anymore. I was ashamed of failing in marriage. And all of these emotions poured out of me. All of these expectations and let downs poured out in a sea of tears. I couldn't fake having it together anymore. I had to be the Kristi that God made, because being the Kristi that my church and family had made was failing me horribly.

After taking a codependency class, and subsequently teaching it, I found that I am not so freakish or unusual. And it was OK to be real. It is OK to be the odd person that God made me. It was OK, and even a bit humorous, to be myself and to laugh at myself. The more I understood me, the more I became me, the happier I was.

So, at the tender age of almost 37, when my friends told me I was "real" it was touching. It's been a long road getting here.

Getting Healthy . . . . . .Slowly

2009-06-25T15:53:00.000-05:00

Dieting is a bitch. Food is my biggest addiction. I have no will power when it comes to sweets. Reunions, holidays, house warming parties, etc. They are all kicking my fat, white butt. Cake and sweets are everywhere. I’m a very picky eater-- I don’t like most veggies. So finding a good balance is hard. The Southbeach diet ruled out fruit for 2 weeks. I really love fruit, since I don’t get enough veggies. I did great on that until I came into contact with cake. (mmmm, cake.) Yeah, I was totally derailed after that. The Zone diet has “blocks” that overwhelm me. Weight Watchers has points, but I tend to use my points on crap and skip the healthy stuff. Jenny Craig has food I don’t like. I have an excuse for all of it, and it boils down to me not being able to say no to sweets and breads. So I’ve decided to do something different—I’m cutting out the starches and lowering the carbs, and eating more greens, more protein, more fruit. It’s a change to a healthier diet, without measuring or counting anything, and without expecting to lose chunks of fat per week..

Also, I have to change my focus. I will never arrive at a certain size and be able to maintain it unless I’m FOREVER on a restricted diet. I will never be the high metabolism person who can eat her cake and ice cream without paying a price. So I will not one day be able to eat anything I want. I will forever have to keep my weight in check.

My family struggles with my desire to change my diet. They get testy when I say, “I can’t eat that” or “Can I have that without the bread?” and “Can we make some green beans instead of chips?”. At work, our chef has started her “summer, figure friendly” meals, which is basically a sandwich and chips. Umm, that’s not healthy at all. So I find myself with a drawer full of green bean cans at work now, along with a can opener. I have my own salad dressing that I keep with me. I now take vitamins (a probiotic, a digestive enzyme, cod liver oil, and B-12) to help me poop, help me digest, give me energy, and help my heart and inflammation. I am lugging this bag of paraphernalia with me—vitamins, food, and exercise gear (and sometimes skates)—and it gets frustrating at times.

I am still going to the gym, and skating on Wednesdays. I have 4 more sessions with my trainer and I’m finished. I still have my gym membership, and I have a lot of info and exercises to keep me busy. I am stronger now, and I can feel it. I’m always sore somewhere on my body.

But I have to learn to say NO to the potatoes and corn and bread and cake and ice cream and French fries and brownies. . . . . .. ..

God, give me strength!!!

Shameful Christianity

2009-06-01T10:09:00.000-05:00

So, I read that the abortion doctor who performs late term abortions was gunned down in church. I have seen and heard so much hate spewed since the incident occurred, and it shames me as a Christian to be associated with such a despicable, arrogant class of people.

No matter your views on why he should/should not be in church, and abortions at any stage of fetal development, killing him was equivalent to judging him and his character. It was basically saying, “God, you are an idiot to allow this man to live, so I will be the judge and jury in your place. Maybe next time you will get it right!” If you think that he deserved it because fetuses died at his hands, you are acting as judge yourself. Whether he did the right or wrong thing, killing him does not bring justice. Don't forget that we judge others on their actions and ourselves on our intentions.

Christians infuriate me when they use the church as their stepping stool to hurl their judgmental venom at others--especially for highly controversial issues such as this. How quickly the word “love” gets lost in our righteous indignation.

To some Christians, love is not very unconditional. I hope God loves me much greater than I could ever love him or anyone else. I hear his love is unconditional, and I can only pray he is more forgiving than I am.

Childraft

2009-05-29T10:00:00.001-05:00

The older you get, the more you witness the world changing. Wow, the world has changed in my 36 years. I think the biggest change was brought about by the internet. We used to spend hours in libraries researching topics through books, magazines, microfiche (darn right, baby!), assembling bibliographies, footnotes, citing references, and using the now antiquated library card catalog system (do they even have those anymore?). The library was daunting to me. Being quiet was never a problem for me, but I became quickly bored in there. I couldn’t stand to sit and read endless excerpts in hopes of finding that perfect quote or perfect info. I never studied well—I don’t still well unless it’s something I’m just very “into”.

When I was a child, we had a full set of encyclopedias at home, and a full set of the Childcraft How & Why Library. The Encyclopedias were not very modern by the time I reached high school. But those Childcraft books were awesome. For years, we perused them. One book had nothing but poems and riddles. One book, my favorite, was a book on making things like paper hats and paper sail boats. Lots of crafts to keep a creative child busy. It was my personal volume of self entertainment.

My sister reminded me of those the other day. Somewhere along the line, they were sold or donated or even trashed. I don’t know their fate. But they were awesome. And I see they are still in publication.

Their price tag these days is rather high, but I can’t help but think on the amazing usefulness. Maybe when my niece gets a little older, I will invest in a set of them for her to play with.

Sweat

2009-05-28T13:06:00.000-05:00

I hate to sweat. HATE it. As a child, I was never involved in sports. I did take softball one year, which was a joke. I had no interest in it—it was just convenient for my parents to put my sister and I in the same sport and on the same team, so they wouldn’t have to split their time between activities. With my sister’s success in sports year round, there was no time or money for my own interests. I wanted to be a ballerina, or a gymnast, or a pianist. But outside of that one instance, I have never been outdoorsy or athletic or anything like that. I’ve tried, trust me. I have yearned to be. But I hate bugs. I hate heat. I hate drinking water. I hate to sweat.

Therefore, I have never been one to sweat. Sweat is nasty. It stinks. It’s sticky. It’s uncomfortable. It turns my face bright red for a good hour. It leaves a rash on my chest and arms. And when I get truly, deeply heated, I get swollen glands in my head that are very obvious to anyone who sees me. It’s not pretty, and it takes at least a day to go away. Sweating brings me anxiety. Being hot brings me anxiety. Maybe because I have no control of the sweating. Maybe because it’s been such a foreign thing to me.

My workout routines in the past lasted until. . . . well, until I started to really sweat. Then I would quit. So my workouts were never intense. Now, seeing a personal trainer has me sweating within 3 minutes of beginning our workout. I don’t mean a glisten. I mean a heavy sweat dripping on your cheeks from your hair kind of sweat. The kind where you take a cold shower, and get out only to find yourself still sweating. The kind where an hour later your face is still bright red and people think you are sunburned.

After meeting with my trainer several times now, I have found myself more accepting of sweat. I have grown more comfortable with it. This weekend I mowed my lawn, used the weed eater, and sprayed for weeds and poison ivy. It took me 2 hours in the sun. I usually only work an hour in the heat and take a break. But this time I plowed through. Why? The sweat didn’t bother me as much. I was OK with it. And yes, it was pouring off of me.

I was at a friend’s house this weekend and his air conditioner was not on. This was Sunday afternoon, on a hot day. I walked in and the stuffiness and heat hit me between the eyes. My first instinct was to leave. And I realized the anxiety that being hot has brought me. I went into anxiety mode, and I didn’t want to be there. But I stuck it out and it was all fine.

Now, I remind myself that it’s a purging. My body is releasing unnecessary chemicals when I sweat. It’s a sign that I’m doing something good for me. Even if it is sticky and wet and stinky. It’s a good thing.

Grandpa's Legacy

2009-05-20T15:07:00.000-05:00

I am half Davis, and half Deckard. What does that mean? Davis’ are stubborn and Christian and try to do good and go to church. Deckards are ornery, sarcastic, and have lots of attitude. Yup, I’m half and half.

My mother is one of 10 kids, and her father is still living, but in the hospital with a broken hip. He can’t hear well, has no teeth, has weak knees, and needs glasses. However, up until now, he only took 1 pill a day—for cholesterol. He worked out daily on an exercise bike or a rowing machine. He’s still strong mentally as well. Have I mentioned he is almost 92?

Grandpa was not a lovey dovey kind of man when I was young. Grandma gave the hugs. He and grandma would argue nonstop about everything. I heard stories of his harshness with his kids and his wife, though I never saw it. But when Granny died and he felt her loss, it all changed. He hugs me when he sees me now, and when we depart company.

Lying in that hospital bed, I have seen him transition from determination to get back home, to being angry and unsure if he has any hope left. I have watched as my relatives catered to his complaints about the nurses, the physical therapist, the food, the pains, the aches, the pills, etc. My mom had expressed her fears that he’s given up, and she just felt helpless, unsure of what to say to him.

During a recent visit, he informed me he won’t walk again, and my Deckard came out:

“Grandpa, why won’t you walk again?” I asked very directly—a little miffed at his statement, knowing the doctor had told him he can walk and will walk.
“Because I can’t.”
“The doctor says you can.”
“Yes, he does. But I just don’t know, myself.”
“Aren’t you a Deckard? Deckards are mean and hardheaded. We don’t give up that easily, do we? You can’t let this beat you!”
He smiled.
“You will only be bound to this bed if you want to be, grandpa. It’s going to take work, but you can and you will do it.”
“OK, then.”

Maybe I was too abrupt. But I wanted him to know that he’s not a lost cause. His kids won’t stand up to him, because they fear and respect him as a tough father. But I do not know that man. I only know my grandpa who doesn’t show weakness and who is always sure of himself. I’ve never been so direct at him, and he seemed to like it. And since I had already shown an unusual boldness, I decided to broach a subject I’ve been afraid to ask about for years:

“Grandpa, I wanna hear about World War II.”
“You do? Why?”
“I want to know what you did. Where you went. Why you joined the navy.”

He looked a little taken back, and then he went deep in thought. Suddenly, the memories rolled off his tongue. As he spoke, he forgot his aches, and stopped complaining about pains. He chided himself for forgetting names from 75 years ago. He would take pauses to make sure he wasn’t confusing 2 different stories. And as he spoke, I began to massage his feet. We joked that we had a barter going on. As I massaged, he spoke. He exercised his arms and showed me how strong he still is, and I provided resistance to make him work harder. He began moving his legs and feet for me. It was like he had a purpose—to leave his legacy. I left on cloud nine, with stories in my head and realizing that this was as good for me as it was for him.

The next day, as I arrived, I found the buzzards (relatives) circling, and he was complaining again about the nurses, the pain, the physical therapist. I was immediately deflated.

But when I reminded him of our good discussion the day before, he began telling his stories again. He would say, “Write this down!” And I would scramble for a pen to get details down. He told the same stories from the day before, only this time with more detail as he was able to recollect more of the past. And the complaints ended. The pain was not an issue. The stories were the focus.

And this time, some of his kids were present, listening in awe and wonder. My Aunt Ruby kept looking at me in awe. “I’ve never heard this stuff! But I always wondered! Please write it down!”

And so, I’m compiling his stories. I’m recording history through his eyes. I’m in awe of the opportunity to do so. Sometimes we have divine moments, where we know we are at a certain place at a certain time for a reason. And this was one of those.

Kristi got her groove back . . .ish

2009-05-14T13:17:00.000-05:00

I went roller skating last night. It was probably 6th grade, which was 25 years and 150 lbs ago, that I last roller skated. I had taken skating lessons in Ponca City, and loved it. I could skate backwards, go in circles, and I had my own roller skates. I also had street skates so I could skate in my neighborhood. I spent my Saturdays at the skating rink. I would go to a lesson, order a mini pizza (mmm, grease) and a huge pickle, and skate until it was time to leave. I remember the way my feet felt when I put my tennis shoes on after a few hours of skating. The comfort was wonderful.

Recently, a coworker and I had been discussing our old roller dreams. I was then invited to go skating with my friend Darren and I pounced on it. He told me it’s hilarious and will give me flashbacks.

Last night, I walked into Skateland, overwhelmed by the smell of stinky shoes and sweat. It was adults only night, and cheap entertainment. I selected a pair of brown, skanky, skates from their wall of rentals and laced them up (and praying they put some Lysol in each pair). I realized that the place looked much as it did many, many, many years ago. I wonder if they have cleaned the carpets since then . . . . .

As soon as I stood in my skates, I realized – I’m not 11 anymore! Keeping my balance was tough. My anxieties overwhelmed me, but I was determined to persevere. So before I began to skate, I took in the view. Most patrons brought their own skates. You could see them adjusting the wheels before they put them on. The music was from the 80’s. All ages were there, with the typical male tricksters in the middle showing off their skating skills: jumps, splits, break dancing on skates. They would chat with each other, and then continue with the same tricks over and over and over again. I wondered if any of those men had ever been on a date………

People were skating and grooving to the music at the same time. These people were regulars, and they didn’t fit into a specific social class. They were all ages, all sizes, and all colors. After an hour of skating, one gentleman retired to a seat and hooked oxygen up to his nose before taking to the rink again. That’s what I call determination!

It took me an hour to be able to skate without holding onto the side, without worrying that the faster folks would trip me up, and without zoning into my own world of “don’t fall, don’t fall, don’t fall!”. Darren tried to goad me on, and I snapped, “Fat girls fall hard!” But I kept trying, as the sweat poured down my face. Immediately my feet ached. Flat feet and crappy skates don’t mix. Then my quads ached. Then, my back ached exponentially more than I have ever known it to hurt.

In the end, I was able to skate without holding on, was able to let go of the fear that someone would run me over. I never fell down! But a big inspiration was an older gentleman. He hadn’t been skating in 60 years. If he could do it, so could I! So he and I slowly found our balance, our courage, and our old skating groove.

Would I do it again? Absolutely!

Saga of My Quest for Health

2009-05-08T12:31:00.001-05:00

I went to a trainer on Wednesday, thinking I would get my free session and just do my own thing afterwards. I arrived early and put 20 minutes on a treadmill. When she arrived, she had me do all sorts of things with a heavy ball, dumbells, and the weight machines. It was constant, and I kept repeating the routines before we moved onto different ones. It was hard work, but awesome. When it was finished, I agreed to use her for 6 more sessions. I was using machines that looked too intimidating to try on my own. She pushed me.

The issue came up with my protein shake that I bought. It is soy based, but I noticed it has fructose. She suggested I go to whey, which has better benefits and less sugars. I bought one, and it is YUMMY. Not at all gritty like the one I had. I get excited to fix one! I'm not sure how the whey will fit into my lactose issue. However, my lactose issue comes and goes. And it's not a constant thing for me--I use it to replace breakfast or when I'm dying for something sweet. It has very little sugar in it.

I have been using my sweetleaf sweatner (Stevia), drinking my warm lemon water in the morning and water or herbal tea all day. Last night, I caught myself drinking an entire 20 oz bottle of water. I don't think I've ever done that. I was parched! I purchased a tea that was unsweet, and realized that I had left my sweetener at home. You know what? I liked the tea without it. Shockingly, I drank unsweet tea.

Monday was OK, but Tuesday I thought I would die if I didn't eat an entire cake and batch of croissants. I wanted carbs and sugar so badly! I admit, I had a cigarette, and have been a bad little girl (but not completely taken it back up again, but still not "good"). I was in hell. I was also crashing randomly in the day. (I found out that may have been from the protein shake with the fructose, but it also may be my body dealing with the diet change and the lack of sugars it normally gets energy from). By the third day, Wednesday, I woke up and felt great. I felt good on the inside, which I haven't felt in a long time. So the workout just topped off a good day.

My threelac came in the mail and I've taken it for a few days now. It's a powder that you down with some liquid. Not too bad, but kinda gross. It helps with digestion and eating away the bad yeast that has overtaken my stomach. I am using oxygen drops in my drinks to see if that has positive effects.

Also as inspiration, 3 of us at work began this journey on our own. None of us consulted with the other--we just happen to all be 37-40 years old and want to feel better. 2 of us are seeing trainers, and 1 is an organic food and supplement guru that let her weight and intake go south. So we are sharing body changes, emotional changes, and struggles with each other. It's great to have someone else who's a little ahead of you or who knows more than you to talk about the process with.

My diet has changed in that I 'm taking in much fewer carbs and sugars. I'm still eating plenty. Right now, this is a drastic start for me. Cutting portions will come soon enough.

So, I'm seeing my trainer again tonight. Pray for me!

Recurring Dreams

2009-05-04T22:25:00.000-05:00

I have 2 recurring dreams. Granted, the details are never exactly the same, but there are enough similarities for them to be considered the same. The first I will tell because I have had it for years and grasp its meaning to me:

I'm walking on campus at OU in Norman. It's finals time, and I haven't been to a single class. I have to pass. I can't figure out where any of the classes are. I'm panicking because I realize how I've screwed myself by blowing off the semester. And most of the time, I'm naked, and can't get clothes to stay on.

Now, I did have a few classes my freshman year of college that I rarely attended, and found myself very nervous at test time because I realized my mistake in blowing off the classes. However, I attended enough to know when tests were, what homework was due, etc. And I passed both classes. I have this dream when I am very stressed at work. I have it when I am overwhelmed and frustrated with myself. But when I'm naked in the dream, it's when I've found myself in a very vulnerable position. for whatever reason, I feel exposed emotionally.

Now to the hard one. I've had dream #1 since I graduated college 13 years ago. This next dream has only been recurring for the last 3 years, so I haven't had a chance to really grasp it yet:

I am getting remarried to my ex husband. He has come back to me, full of apologies and love and hope and I am remarrying him. But I am not happy to be marrying him. I am only doing it out of obligation--as if it's my christian duty to make that thing work that ended years ago. I resent him, but I go through with it because it's what I'm "supposed" to do. The dream I had the other night took it a step further than ever before: I was in a wedding dress. I was waiting for him at the end of the aisle. Hardly anyone was in attendance, and he showed up in jeans and tennis shoes and a t-shirt, thrilled to be marrying me again. I was embarrassed to be dressed in such a nice dress for a wedding I didn't want, when he arrived looking like he was about to do yardwork for a wedding he did want. I remember thinking, "In a year I'll have 2 divorces behind me, and to the same man! How loser is that!"

Why, 4 years after my divorce, this man has crept into my dreams escapes me. And why it's recurring just drives me nuts. I honestly believe that if he came back, the feelings I had in my dreams are the same I would have in reality--apathy and disinterest. I have no desire to rekindle anything, because there wasn't much kindling there the first time. So it leaves me wondering what it means . . . .

From the mouth of babes . . .

2009-05-03T21:11:00.000-05:00

One time, after learning the difference between big and small, my niece took it upon herself to label people as such. “Momma, you’re big!” “Momma, she’s small!” So one evening we were all at my mom’s house, and Tina asked, “Julia, is Nana big or small?”
“Small”

What about Papa?
“Big”

What about Mama?
“Big”

What about Dada?
“Big”

What about Aunt Kristi?
“B-i-i-i-i-i-i-i-g” She whispered as if in awe.

After I put duct tape on Julia’s mouth . . . . . just kidding. I laughed on the outside, and was sad on the inside.

Food addiction is the true problem in my family, and weight is the result. Sweets, carbs, obesity, anorexia, bulimia. The Davis’ have it all somewhere in the tree. I have had digestive issues since I was a tot, which is common in the Davis'. I only began gaining weight after a nasty breakup in my early twenties, but the gain was small until life got REALLY stressful. Late twenties brought on more stress and more weight. Early thirties brought on divorce, unemployment, and more over eating. I have 6 cousins who have had gastric bypass, if that gives you any indication of the severity of food abuse in my family.

I have been on every diet. I have a stack of weight watchers books that is embarrassing. Sure, the program works, but I lose the weight and gain more back. And so, I am realizing the need to end the “diet” thinking. I need a lifestyle overhaul.

I joined a gym last week. I get 2 free sessions with a trainer, the first being a body evaluation. I hoped they didn’t pull out calipers, because I didn’t want to have to shove them up the trainer’s ass. But they didn’t. However, I now have an accurate reading of my weight, fat percentage, and weight goals. The importance of goals is something the trainer stressed. I realized that I have never had a goal of a healthier lifestyle. I’ve only had a goal to lose weight. I have missed the whole point.

An interesting thing that the trainer pointed out is that Weight Watchers is a great program that helps you to cut your intake. But it doesn’t rid of the addiction to sugar. Instead, we find lower cal ways to get that sugar into our systems. She feels I need to address my addiction, and the weight loss will follow.

The trainer suggested, from my descriptions and experiences, that I have candida in my belly. I’m going to start taking a few supplements, working out, and eating healthier. Sure, I want to lose 100 lbs. But what I would love is to have energy again. To feel good again. To have a strong immune system again. To not feel a slave to my diet.

Baby Steps.

I’ll let you know how it goes . . .

Smoking

2009-04-28T13:12:00.000-05:00

I am quitting. I have quit many times before, only to allow myself to cave in to the addiction, the camaraderie, the breaks. But the longer I smoke, the more I smoke.

I don’t consider myself a smoker. I just always knew I would quit one day, since I've done it in the past. But quitting has become harder and harder. As I smoke more, I find myself getting ill more often, battling bronchitis a few times a year and coughing year round. My clothes and car stink. If I smoke in my house---which has only happened a few times---I feel guilty for giving my dogs second hand smoke.

I have developed a slight cough, and when I laugh I can’t breathe. I can’t talk or sing for long without taking a breath. A coworker coughs so hard on a regular basis that I fully expect to see a black lung land on her desk one day as she coughs it up. Splat! I am surrounded by smokers at work.

My niece was making a coughing noise the other day, and my sister asked, “Are you choking?” “No mama, I cough like Kristi.” Tina started laughing, and I did to. But the seriousness of the comment wasn’t lost on me. It made me ashamed.

I have tried over and over to quit. My coworkers have made it hard to quit, by talking me into smoking with them. But I’m easily swayed. This weekend I went to San Antonio and couldn’t smoke the whole trip. So it got me through the first 3 days of non-smoking.

Now I’m on day 5. So far, so good.

Snakes!!!

2009-04-23T11:02:00.000-05:00

I’m not an outdoorsy kinda gal. I want to be. I love the idea of carrying a backpack through the mountains. Nature shows the beauty and creativity of God. But I’m allergy ridden, and I hate insects. Crawlers, flyers, scurriers—I hate them all.

I have had my house for 7 years, and for a few of those years my dad mowed the lawn. He hated to see my glands swelling in my face and neck each week. He began reporting snake sightings to me after mowing, and it scared me. One time he was taken back by the size of one and it scurried away before he could nail it. He threatened to begin mowing with a machete, but became ill and couldn’t mow anymore.

I’ve been mowing again for about 3 years now, and snake sightings are typical in my yard. The first time I saw one, I immediately went online to find out the danger I was dealing with. It was a typical garter snake that only leaves an itchy place if bitten (and they usually don’t break the skin). I decided that if they can’t break my skin, it’s doubtful they are getting through the hair of my dogs.

Last year Leroy is the name I bestowed upon the snake living under my shed. He was small, and poked his head out periodically as I pulled out my mower. I haven’t seen him this year, yet. I have learned to not fear them so much—especially the smaller ones—after killing a few with the lawn mower, weed eater, sticks, etc. Now, I give them a chance to slither away. Why?

They eat mice. They eat insects. They eat frogs.

As I was mowing last night, I suddenly saw a snake up ahead. He was the biggest yet. Not in length, but in girth. I had that moment of “what to do? He’s in the path of my lawnmower . . . . “ when he slithered away at amazing speed, through my chain link fence and into the neighbor’s yard (which is rarely mowed). I hope he comes back and feeds on mice and insects. On a side note, it’s really cool to see them suddenly slither away at such speed.

I wonder if my dogs have had meetings with the snakes. Probably so. Sidney is curious enough to try to catch and play with one, but she also has a husky coat to protect her. Sam would run if one raised its head at him.

I’m not saying I’m a snake lover. Not at all. I have a good dose of fear and have no interest in “petting” a snake. But I’m learning to respect their role in the ecosystem.

Grandma's Birthday

2009-04-18T23:50:00.000-05:00

Today would have been my grandmother’s 102nd birthday. Happy Birthday Grandma! My dad reminded me today, with a tear in his eye, that she would have been 102.

She was born Elsie Mae Cooley in Blackgum, OK. She was raised at the bottom of Tenkiller Lake, before it was evacuated and flooded in order to create a man-made lake. She married her childhood sweetheart , Richard Davis. That began a long, hard journey of marriage, kids, grandkids, war, and poverty. They were Okies who headed west to California in order to find work. They returned to Oklahoma and bought a piece of land in West Tulsa, and lived out of a tent with their children until their house was built.

My grandfather was a machinist. My grandmother was a stay at home mom, giving birth to 10 children who lived past infancy and into adulthood, and possibly 2 more that did not make it past their first few months. Grandma was a Pentecostal woman, with a deep faith in God. Grandpa was an alcoholic who knew that no matter what he did, he had a faithful wife waiting at home for him. He may not have been faithful, and he may have been abusive at times, and he may have been a scrapper, but she loved him.

She became pregnant with my dad, her youngest, when she was 42. Ashamed at being pregnant yet again at such a ghastly age, she tried to keep the pregnancy very low key. Dad was born April 29th, 1950, right after she turned 43, a preemie weighing under 2 lbs. Both nearly died, and both spent the years following with health issues. My grandmother had a weak heart, and my father grew up in fear of losing his mom.

Grandma was a rock for my dad, and she shaped who he is today in so many ways. By the time my dad was born, my grandfather had mellowed with age. Grandpa died in 1970, when my mom was pregnant with my sister. Grandma died after my sister was born, in 1971. My dad was 21 and had lost both of his parents.

I was born in 1972, so I missed out on ever seeing my grandmother. But I know she sees me. I have heard so many stories of her, and I am filled with admiration for her. She held her head high, through some horrific circumstances. She always had faith in God. My mom loved her almost as much as my dad. When I was a kid, age 11, I remember suddenly being overwhelmed with a feeling of her presence. It was a hard time for me socially, and I remember just sensing that she was near and watching over me. I never discussed it, because I knew it sounded weird. I just knew in my heart that someone very comforting was with me.

So, happy birthday grandma!

Risk

2009-03-20T13:59:00.000-05:00

There is a poem I have been familiar with since junior high, maybe even grade school. It was in a text book somewhere along the way: “The Road Not Taken” by Robert Frost. For some reason, it permeated my brain and stuck with me. Not word for word, but the key lines and the meaning I find in it.

The Road Not Taken

Two roads diverged in a yellow weed,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same.

And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.

By Robert Frost, 1915

I always wanted to do something exceptional, something different from the norm. To pave the way for others. To leave a legacy. I felt like I was made for something really big and unique. I think all of us feel this way at some point. But most people follow the path of least resistance, out of obligation. Life and duty smothers the fires of our hearts, until we forget what the fire was about and what it felt like.

I cannot say that I have lived an exceptional life or have exceptional accomplishments to gloat about. I’m actually very hum-drum, very vanilla (and a little nutty). I have still not done anything I’m exceptionally proud of. But I am plagued with curiosity, and have left the beaten path many times to examine the brush, animals, and aromas that cannot be found on the trails. Each time, I enjoyed the freedom and chose not to return to my old path, but found a new one to connect with. And so, my life has been full of changes—good and bad. My life would have been simpler had I never left the path, but I’m afraid I would have died of boredom. I have invited some heartache and frustrations with my curiosity and my own impatience. In all, however, I don’t regret the risks I’ve taken.

I like to think I've taken the road less travelled, and it has made all the difference in who I am and how I've grown.

Per Garth Brooks, “…Life is not tried it is merely survived when you’re standing outside the fire.”

Alabaster Boxes and Mantles

2009-03-18T22:18:00.000-05:00

Around 1993, a church I was attending had a resident prophet, Bro. C.L. Moore. That term always turns heads, because not everyone buys into modern day prophecy. But this was an evangelical, non-denom. He had an amazing gift.

We had a young adults meeting once, and he came. At the time I was about 21, and he was in his 80’s. He talked about how being single was our chance to really allow God to be our mate.

Blah, blah, blah. I didn’t want to hear that, when I wanted someone to share my bills, take out the trash, change my flat tires, and cook me dinner.

But then he started telling us , one by one, about ourselves. When he came to me he said, “You have a mantle of a missionary on you.”

( Insert cascading violins.)

My sister was always the pretty one, the smart one, the future minister, the one who would travel the world and who would do great things for God. I was the red-headed step child, so to speak. I was younger and was skipped over (at least in my own mind). But here, someone told me that God had a call for me that was wonderful. My heart immediately filled with joy at the thought of God bestowing such a title to me. I had grand visions of Africa, India, feeding the poor, sacrificing in the name of Jesus, martyring my life away. (All of these thoughts occurred within about a 3 second period). Tina wasn’t the only one God cared about after all!

He continued: “But, not all missionaries go overseas you know. We have plenty of people who need our help in our own back yards.”

(Insert the sound of the needle ripping across the LP and killing all music.)

“You will be as a gentle, quiet stream that flows through peoples’ lives. They won’t even realize you are there, affecting them as you do.”

Say what? I'm going to be a missionary to the Christian nation of the United States of America? Who ever heard of that?

At least I had a mantle on me, right? At least God acknowledged me, right? Another time a lady told me that I was an alabaster box that God would break open, and the perfume of my spirit would fill those around me with God’s aroma. Hmm. That sounded cooler. I can handle the fancy box of perfume better than being a stream.

Oh, how I completely missed the point!

I always secretly held onto that dream of being a missionary overseas. Until the reality of life slapped me in the face. You know the drill---marriage, debt, student loans, dogs, mortgages, insurance. And the desire to be a traveling missionary faded. It just wasn’t in the cards. But a local missionary? Not me. I don’t like people enough.

And now, I’m 36, and looking back at my life. Maybe there was truth in those prophecies. I know I have affected people. I know I’ve managed to touch some lives. But I also know that I’m not amazing enough to affect anyone myself. I’m snide, I’m sarcastic, I’m moody, I’m easily offended, I’m messy, I’m impatient, and I’m very, very guarded. Does that sound like a person who has a positive effect on people? Maybe that’s why God has chosen to give me this “mantle.” There’s no way I’ve been able to help people with my charm. It’s been God’s charm. God’s love. God’s lure. There’s no real doubt here that it’s God, because I couldn’t do it on my own!

My version of faith

2009-03-17T11:01:00.000-05:00

Walking into a new church for the first time is daunting. I am not the most social person, so I usually go hoping to be unnoticed. I never want to be plagued with fake niceties. When I was married, and soon to be divorced, I found myself longing for that church connection again. I had been out of church for a long time. My husband was Catholic, and I had offered to convert. He said it wasn’t necessary—he never attended mass and didn’t think it was that big of a deal. So I didn’t, slightly relieved. When my husband announced he wasn’t sure he ever loved me, 1-1/2 years after our marriage, 2 ½ years after moving in together, and 4 years after we first met, I was in shock. I was hurt. I felt abandoned, even though we still lived in the same home.

I was raised nondenominational. I knew I wouldn’t find the same belief system, but I wanted something fairly similar. I also didn’t want to drive across the DFW metroplex. I found a church near me. So one Sunday, I told my husband, “I’m going to church. You can come with me if you want.” “No.” I knew the answer, but I was scared to go alone. My stomach was already in knots at the thought of going into a church alone.

I put on my dress and heels—Sunday garb—and headed to the massive church I had selected to attend. I arrived, and sat in the car. Scared. Stomach churning. I was here. Now all I had to do was get out of the car. I sat there, and finally forced myself to get out. I selected a seat in the back, and tried to look calm. I wanted to run home to safety. So many people were around me, and they all seemed to know each other. It compounded how alone I was. I was afraid for someone to talk to me; I didn’t want to cry, but I didn’t want to fake a smile either. A lady sat next to me and asked, “Are you new?” I nodded. “Are you married?” “I’m going through a divorce.” I choked back the tears. “I’m so sorry. Well, it’s good to have you.” Thank God she kept it simple!

As the worship began, I bawled. I knew God had never abandoned me, but I knew I had abandoned him. And yet, he was still by my side. Just waiting for me--sitting shiva--to ask for his help. And I did.

I wish I could say that God saved my marriage because of my pleas. But Todd’s heart had already been set—he wanted his freedom for his own reasons that I will never know. Maybe he was cheating. Maybe he was never as devoted to the idea of marriage as I was. Lots of maybes that no longer matter. What does matter is that I took that step. I walked into church, alone. I had already been crying out to God. But being a well-churched girl growing up, I longed for that connection that you find in church. To me, church is a reminder to keep God close. In my mind, I needed to make that step to show him I wanted him as much—actually more—than I wanted my husband.

I only attended twice. My marriage dissolved quickly. I went to my mom’s church in Tulsa, and they had a special song that they sang. It was a song I had heard many times growing up, but it suddenly had meaning to me for the first time. I bawled from the depths of my soul, because I had never imagined such a deep valley could exist. And people would say, “Oh, just have faith. Just pray. Just believe in God to heal your marriage.” Those are hollow words if you haven’t been through a divorce.

You may recognize the song:

Life Is Easy, When Your Up On The Mountain

and You've Got Peace Of Mind

like You've Never Known

but Then Things Change

And Your Down In The Valley

don't Lose Hope For Your Never Alone

for The God On The Mountain Is Still God In The Valley

when Things Go Wrong He'll Make Them Right

and The God Of The Good Times, Is Still God Of The Bad Times

and The God Of The Day Is Still God Of The Night

you Talk Of Faith When Your Up On The Mountain

oh, But The Talk Comes So Easy when Life's At Its Best

but Its Down In The Valley Of Trials And Temptations

that's Where Faith Is Really Put To The Test

Just because you go through crap in life, doesn’t mean God has abandoned you. He’s still there. Just because people trivialize your pain and say, “Just give it to God” as they smile and go back to their picture-perfect lives, doesn’t mean that God doesn’t understand your pain. Faith isn’t putting on a smile and pretending it’s all OK—that’s denial. Sometimes it’s just living life. It’s just praying. It’s just trusting that you will be OK in the next 10 years or so and sticking it out to see the end result. Faith is a minute by minute acknowledgement that I cannot control everything, and admitting I’m scared, and asking for God’s help, and trudging along with the resolve that no matter what happens, I’m gonna stick it out. Because I know that God has my best at heart.

Pillars & Meadows

2009-03-10T12:57:00.000-05:00

Oh, the solitude of home, the simplicity of life with dogs, and the serenity of my blanket.

I am overwhelmed. I get this way from time to time. I get very selfish and anxious and testy. I struggle with the balance of giving myself but also saving a little bit of myself back. I mentally commit to so many things in my mind, and when my physical world cannot live up to my mental commitments, I feel like a failure.

My job is stressful. I have a lot of bosses. I have a lot of random duties. I like it, because I tend to get bored very easily. There is a certain level of security in having so many responsibilities. There is an excitement with new ones. But the truth is, I get overwhelmed from the pressure of it. And I get overwhelmed from the pressure of life—bills, the recession, the family health problems, and obligations. Every now and then, I just get . . . . . . . overwhelmed.

These are the times I find it hard to be social. I find it hard to be the person I want to be. Because I just want to hide and lay low and weather the storm. I know it will pass. I know things will change. Age and time have shown this to be true. But it’s being a lone pillar that wears me out. I’m standing alone.

Through the wind.

Through the rain.

Through the blazing heat.

Through the fires and tornadoes.

If I fall, I fall alone. So I don’t allow myself to fall. And if I show the cracks in my structure, I could be a target for bored vandals. So I stand strong. Hiding the soft, sandy interior underneath the solid surface of stone and mortar.

And every now and then, I become emotionally spent. I find myself in a state of shock, where little by little, different parts of me shut down. I know it’s a safety mechanism in my brain. It’s a way to keep going by conserving energy.

I’m sure most adults feel this way. After years of weathering life, we are thankful for what we’ve overcome, but also tenuous about what we have yet to endure. We bellow “how much longer?” to an invisible God. But magically, we endure. And the storms pass. And we find ourselves walking through a meadow with sunshine warming our backs to counter the coolness of a hearty breeze.

I’m waiting for my meadow.

God Bless Teachers

2009-03-05T11:32:00.000-06:00

When I was 14—about to turn 15--I was a sophomore and had just entered high school. I had been battling depression for 5 years. Change sent me into a frenzy of anxiety, so entering a new school was terrifying. I had chills and a slight fever my first day. I knew myself well enough to know that I wasn’t truly sick—I was scared. This is when life scared me. Public places scared me. Crowds scared me. New things scared me.

I sat in my first hour English class, Miss Pilkington. She was brash. She laid out the rules, the curriculum, the expectations. She gave the correct pronunciation of her name, “Pil-KING-ton, not Pilkinton. If you cannot pronounce it correctly, do not say my name.” She wasn't kidding, as she pursed her lips and gazed across the room to make sure we all heard it. Great, I surmised, this is going to be hell for 9-1/2 months.

Turns out, Miss Pilkington was stoic and guarded, but she had a heart for her students.
I specifically remember one day, out of nowhere, she told the class, “If you ever need to talk, I will listen. My mother tried to commit suicide and I’ve been through a lot.” Did anyone take her up on that? I don’t know. Surely not me, because I was still deciphering my depression. I thought I had a birth defect or a curse or a punishment from God looming over me. I had not pinpointed my problem as anxiety or depression at this time. I just knew I was . . . . “different”. But the idea that such a disciplined and demanding teacher threw out such a personal story and plea, stopped me in my tracks. I liked her after that. I felt a connection to her, even though I never sought her counsel.

One day, she presented a class exercise that sent groans across the room. She handed out a piece of paper from her note pad to every student. The paper was very small—about 2” by 3”-- with a drawing of a mouse at the top. Written on the back of the paper was an individual’s name that was in the class. Our assignment? Write a compliment about that person—anonymously—on the inside. How random is that? So, we all slowly looked around the room, wrote our compliments, and turned them in. Who knew it would be so hard. The next day, she returned them so we could read what others had to say about us. I opened mine, and I held my breath. I knew what the compliment would be, and I knew it was going to be shallow. I had few friends, and didn’t open up well. No one knew me well enough in this class to give a good compliment. I opened it, and sure enough it was the typical, “You have pretty hair”. Blah! But underneath the anonymous peer’s handwriting was also a compliment that Miss Pilkington had written. “You have a great speaking voice. You would be good in plays.” We each walked away that day with 2 compliments. One from a peer, and one from a mentor. What brought on such an assignment, I will never know.

Me a good speaker? My voice cracks. My tone is more monotone than interesting. I lose my train of thought too easily. How could I be a good speaker? Had I ever spoken in class? Only when called upon. Wow. That compliment was a boost. I kept that paper in my wallet for 10 years until I finally lost it.

As I went through college, I found that nearly all of my senior classes required a presentation. I hated speaking in public. But I always hearkened back to that note. If Miss Pilkington thinks I can speak well, then I can do this! And I always did.

In 2000, I sent her a letter. That was 10 years after high school graduation. I thanked her for the compliment. I explained that my emotional state was frail at the time, and the comment about her mother was comforting. No one knew the mental war that was in my head daily, the thoughts of suicide, the anxiety, the hopelessness. But even more beautiful was the compliment, which I still carried with me. Something so small made a huge impact.

I lost the paper immediately after writing that letter. I looked everywhere for it, but it just vanished. A month later, I received a reply from her. She said it was always good to hear that she made a difference in someone’s life, and usually you never know if you did. You just hope.

Since I lose everything that I touch, I am amazed I kept that paper for so long. Maybe it stayed with me as a reminder to thank such an influential person. Maybe she truly needed her own compliment at the moment she received it. And since I accomplished the goal, the paper was no longer necessary.

The Bryan Chronicles

2009-02-24T13:36:00.000-06:00

This one is very hard for me to write. It’s a very personal story. It can be construed in so many ways. I guess I still feel a tinge of guilt, and I worry what others will think of me. But it is one of those things that I need to tell. For myself.

I had been laid off from a construction job and had difficulty finding another in a slow time for construction. I was fed up, however, with the whole industry. I began to look at other options. I found myself checking out a massage school program, and enrolled. As part of the program, we had to accumulate intern hours where we actually performed massages outside of the classroom. An opportunity opened up to massage hospice patients and caregivers on a volunteer basis. I signed up, knowing that it really fulfilled 2 purposes – my desire to help people, and my desire to graduate.

I was able to massage cancer patients and 3 caregivers after a short time. I enjoyed my time with each. And then I received a phone call about another patient—close to my age. A man, Bryan, with a muscle disease. HIPA prevents the hospice from giving any other information. I nervously called his home, and made the appointment through his father. I would be lying if I said the thought didn’t scare the poop out of me. What would he look like? I envisioned a wheelchair bound person who could not hold his head up, who drooled, and could not communicate. I assumed it was a problem from birth.

I nervously approached the door to the family’s home, in my scrubs, with my massage lotion in tow, and my racing heart. Bryan’s mother answered the door, and ushered me up the staircase to the 2nd floor. Bryan’s room was at the end of a hallway. I entered, in terror. What I saw, was not anything I expected.

I saw a young, dark headed man with blazing blue eyes lying in bed. He looked as nervous as I felt. He was not drawn up, he was not drooling. He was deathly skinny, and his limbs were stiff, but he looked normal. I introduced myself, and promptly began to massage with care because I was afraid of small talk. He informed me that he wasn’t going to break. His speech was understandable, but he struggled at times to get it out.

Bryan’s gleaming eyes spoke volumes. He was vibrant on the inside. After massaging him, he told me he had Lou Gerigh’s (ALS) disease. It came on him suddenly, and no one knows the origin of such a curse. It hits randomly. It is the disease that is usually behind assisted suicides. Healthy people quickly degenerate, unable to feed themselves, to walk, to communicate. They are alive on the inside, and dead on the outside. It’s a horrible way to die. Usually, they suffocate to death, within a few short years of diagnosis. The only treatments merely buy you a few more months. Every muscle atrophies.

Bryan kept asking questions. And I found myself completely at ease. We laughed as I massaged. We talked about who he was before the illness—he had worked on computers and was independent and was healthy.

His family called the hospice and requested I return. They said Bryan's demeanor was nearly his old self again after I left.

I began to make a weekly trek to his home. Massaging him. Talking to him. Laughing with him. He would have a flower for me every time in the beginning. I would stay after the massage and we would watch Dr. Phil. And I found myself falling for this dying man.

I grew to love Bryan. Coming from bad relationships and a failed marriage, this guy couldn’t hurt me. He was safe. He couldn’t disappoint me. And I believed in the power of miracles. Couldn’t God heal him? Wouldn’t he? I had never been so open with a man in my life. Bryan taught me to bare my soul, and be OK with it. He didn’t care about my oddities or my social inadequacies. We would go to movies and dinner. We went to the museum. He was able to his arms slightly and operate his wheelchair when we met.

My parents met and loved Bryan. I saw an amazing love in them that made me proud. They treated him as if he was one of us, and never flinched taking him into public. He loved them as well. They prayed with me for him. They were not ashamed of him.

Over time, Bryan deteriorated more and more. I can’t tell you how hard it was to see that happen. Eventually, he struggled to operate his own wheelchair. His speech became less understandable. He had a feeding tube. I took him to a healing service at my local church once, much to his mother’s disgust. Nothing happened—no healing, no changes at all. His deterioration was much slower than normal. Unexplainably slow. That was both a blessing and a curse. I had researched other possible reasons for his condition, since he did not fit the ALS mold completely. But no one seemed as interested as I was in finding a better answer to his degeneration. Maybe they had been down that road. And maybe they were tired of fighting.

Bryan’s family was full of bitterness and anger. After being there a while, I realized that there was a constant power play. There was a harshness in that home. Bryan, his mom, and his father were all guilty. They provoked each other. When they felt attacked, they used the most hurtful verbal weapons they could think of against each other. They loved each other, but they hated what had become of their lives. Each of them had dreams, and all were squashed by the illness. Instead of retiring and taking it easy, they were lifting their 35 year old son from chair to chair, dressing him, and making their home more accessible. I began to dread my visits, to avoid his parents, to chide Bryan for his participation in the drama. But it only intensified over time. My stomach would be nervous before each visit.

After a year, I was mentally wasted. I was working 2 jobs – massaging by day and full time graveyard shift at night. I had to fit visits in with Bryan, and always ran on half the rest I needed. Bryan’s lungs filled with fluid and he was hospitalized. The reality of his looming death became even more apparent. He survived, but not without some emotional damage. He wanted our pastor to come by and talk to him, and so I set up a meeting. In the meeting, very little talking occurred, but Bryan cried. And his mom humiliated me by holding a glass of wine and staring the pastor down. She didn’t want anyone to make her son cry (apparently that was reserved for herself and her husband). Our pastor wasn’t welcome, and he left. As did I. In humiliation. In anger. In disgust. In mourning for the way things could have been.

My heart changed. I was taking a codependency class, and I realized that one reason Bryan had been so attractive to me is that he was safe. I was tiring of witnessing the manipulation in his family. And I was just . . . . . . spent. I had nothing left to give to anyone or anything. I had promised Bryan to be there until the end, and I would have, if it were not for his home and his increasing manipulation.

The more I tried to pull away to get a break, the tighter Bryan would hold onto me. He became possessive. He became manipulative toward me, and lied to keep me close. He seemed desperate. And I began to resent it. He had sucked the life out of me. I realized that even if God healed him physically, there was so much dysfunction in his home and his life, that he would still be a shell of a man. He would have to go through intense therapy to shake the craziness of the world he had been bound to since his illness kicked in.

Finally, I walked away, after almost 1-1/2 years. I knew that people would judge me. I knew that they would think I abandoned him. I knew his family would see me as a horrible person. But I couldn’t do it anymore. I had failed Bryan. I had failed myself. But I couldn’t do it anymore. I mourned that decision, but it had to be. My communication had to end, because I was such a victim to his pleas. I had to make a break and not look back, or I would go back and become as bitter as his family.

I now am thankful for my freedom, but find it hard to discuss this relationship with people. I usually get confused looks when I mention I dated a dying man, or I dated a man who was in a wheelchair. The assumption is that I have a screw missing of my own. Until you know someone like that you can’t imagine the humanity of the person and the beauty of their spirit. I have a whole new appreciation for physical challenges. I think Bryan is still alive today—3 years later. His father passed away recently, I saw it in the paper. Some days I wonder if God will heal him and I will pass him on the street one day, in awe. Or if he will find out it's not ALS, get treatment, and then find me and spew anger at me. He's had the disease for 13 years now. Whatever happens, I've made peace with my decision, and followed my heart.

Letting Go

2009-02-23T17:31:00.000-06:00

I am a packrat. But living in a 1000 SF house has taught me the value of space. There is no reason why my 2 dogs and I cannot live comfortably in this house.

When I married, my wedding was awesome. I had a dress that made me feel like a princess. Literally, when I put it on, the ladies in the bridal shop stopped to look at me. A young child in the hotel came up to me as I was walking to my reception hall and asked if she could meet me, since I was a princess. Yeah, I was in heaven! My wedding band was platinum with diamonds. My gifts included 12 full place settings of china and nice silverware and glasses with silver rims. I didn’t have outlandishly fancy china—it was affordable as far as china goes—but it was a dream for me to ever be important enough to deserve those kinds of things.

When my marriage ended, just 1-1/2 years later, I was devastated. My dream-like existence was shattered. I held onto that dress and that ring and that china, because it symbolized my dream.

A year or so later, the local church was taking donations for clothes to give away. Wedding dresses were accepted. I knew in my heart that holding onto that dress was pointless—it symbolized a failed marriage. But it was a piece of my past that I didn’t like letting go of. After soul searching, I finally decided I needed to get rid of it—for many reasons. So I donated it. The girl who won it at the bridal auction didn’t seem to hold it with such reverence as I. I think it may have really been too big for her. I was sad to see it go to someone who didn’t see the $620 dress as being important. But I no longer had any say in the future of that dress.

Then, I was in a financial hole and had been out of a job. I needed cash to make a mortgage payment. I had money coming in the next month because I was working again, but didn’t have it at the time the mortgage was due. I pulled out my wedding band, and again I struggled. I knew I would never own a piece of jewelry that nice again. I took it to my brother in law, who shined it up and found a buyer for it. I sold it for $1,000, knowing it was worth about $7,500. But my mortgage was more important than a ring I didn’t wear.

I gave my mom the china hutch that was taking up too much room in my house, and told her she could leave the china in it, but I wasn’t giving her the china. One day I went to her house and she was using the china. My heart skipped a beat. But then, I realized—better to be used than sitting in a case. Now, she uses it when guests visit.

Giving up those things helped me to let go of a lot more than material items. By holding onto them, I held onto a dream that had fallen through. But, I didn’t need any of it anymore. Since then, I find parting with material things much easier than it used to be. I have few possessions that are so precious to me now. So many others have so little. The least I can do is give away what I don’t use.

Misrepresented Tithes

2009-02-22T22:13:00.001-06:00

From the years 1984 to about 1991 or 1992, my family attended a small independent church. It started in the barn of the pastor, Robert. We also met in a library. Then we moved on to a shopping center in Glenpool. The pastor was harsh and controlling, but had an immense knowledge of the bible and a passion for studying and teaching.

Although the church only existed for 7 or 8 years, those were my formative years. I was between the ages of 12 to 19 or 20. My views of God were formed at that church. I was, as we all were, a slave to the ministry. We attended 3 times a week. Period. My dad told me that he missed a service after his brother died, and was confronted about it his attendance. Tithes were dictated at 10%, and offering was 4%. If you didn’t pay tithes, you shouldn’t expect God’s blessings (and you SHOULD expect a confrontation by the pastor)! I remember Robert telling the story of a woman who had been blind, and she paid back-tithes for the whole of her life, and suddenly had sight. I didn’t want to go blind!!!

This was the church where the youth sat on the front row so the pastor could keep his eye on us. We were expected to raise our hands in worship. If not, we could be called out. Once he even handed out tests for the congregants to take to see if they had been listening and remembering his sermons. My dad was an elder in the church, and therefore his responsibility there was huge. He was a buffer for many whom Robert offended. He didn’t always agree with Robert, but he believed in his teachings and his heart.

Robert taught that if you paid your tithes you won’t have money problems. If you are faithful to God, you shouldn’t get sick. You get back what you give. So there was always this idea that one day, the money we gave “to God” would return to us 10 fold. There was this expectation and hope. So, my parents tithed. Even in the worst of financial times, they tithed. After I worked full time, I bought groceries and helped with what I could, so they never missed that beloved tithe check.

The economic times were tough, jobs were few, and the mortgage company was less than gracious when my dad was out of a job for several months. He took a job sacking groceries, after 30 years of management, and had to move back up into a good position again. But they never caught up on the mortgage . My parents lost their house, their car, sold off their possessions. We moved to a ghetto area in Tulsa where we lived in fear from the constant search lights on the apartment complex, and the violence in the neighborhood. But it was cheap. The anxiety and anger in my family was deep. In this hardest time, they still paid that damned tithe check. That was a very dark time for my family.

Naturally, my mother resented it. She knew that the 14% they gave could have been useful in those harshest times. She had waited on God’s return on her faithfulness, and it never came. And I was pissed at God. I told him I hated him. I told him that my father was faithful—more faithful than any other—and he OWED my father dignity and money and hope. How DARE he not fulfill his promise of the tithe.

That anger and disappointment followed me for years. I never stopped loving God, but I resented him. Over time, I rejected church, and began to make my own conclusions. Years later, I sat with my dad, discussing the incident. I finally expressed my anger toward God to my father. My dad listened, and he said, “One thing that we missed, is that the return we get on the investment we make in church and God, is not usually monetary. It’s a spiritual growth. It’s an emotional growth. We were waiting on a financial payoff that we had been promised. But instead, we grew as a family. When we lost everything, I grew the most. I became closer to my kids and my wife. And in the end, I’m a better man for it.” But God should have honored what he knew was being taught, shouldn’t he? Doesn’t he honor the faithfulness of those freaky healing ministers, knowing they misrepresent him at times? People still get healed at those carnival-ish healing displays don’t they? Would it have killed God to honor this teaching in our family, knowing we followed what we were taught—right or wrong? I just couldn’t believe my dad wasn’t as bitter as I.

Over the years, my bitterness has waned. I still get confused over it, and a little riled up. But I know now that tithing isn’t just about cash. It’s not about legalism. It’s not anything I was taught that it was. It is about your heart, and giving to something that you truly believe in. Whether it’s Agora or the Red Cross. It’s about your time. It’s about your resources. It’s about your availability. It’s about a greater good, and not a pastor’s paycheck. I now give, but because I believe in what I give to. I know I get back for what I give. But what I get back is more spiritual than monetary. I’m cool with that because I understand it and don’t carry false expectations. And I give “with a joyful heart” as is noted in the scripture.

I talked to my dad about it tonight, and I asked, “Do you look back and regret attending that church?” Surprisingly, he began to sing, “I don’t regret a mile, that I‘ve walked with the Lord.” I was surprised. He responded, “I did what I thought was right at the time. I do regret seeing others get hurt. I regret not knowing enough to prevent that from happening. But I followed my heart.”

Now, I am not against tithing. Not at all. I just want the truth to be told. I don’t want people to think that just because they tithe, they are immune from bankruptcy, accidents, or other hard times. I don’t want people to expect a monetary payback. I want people to know that it’s a heart matter.

Eventually, Robert started a second church in the Oklahoma City area. Our church never grew, but decreased in size. So, his tithes decreased. He became bitter. He had a rent house or two that he gained income from, but he said it was the church’s responsibility to pay his bills. He took a pizza delivery job and made sure we all knew he had to sacrifice because of us. After trekking back and forth to OKC, and becoming more and more agitated, a matriarch of the church sent him a letter outlining what God had told her to tell him. The letter called out an affair he had been having with a married woman in the OKC church. He was enraged and resigned. The church immediately dissolved, to the relief of those who had stayed to the bitter end.

I can't remember her name

2009-02-14T15:24:00.000-06:00

I was 21 years old at OU in Norman, and I had switched my major to Construction Science. It seemed like the perfect mix of business, architecture, and engineering. I had toyed with every major I could think of, and finally felt like I had found my niche. Being a female in the field was intimidating to me, but gave me more resolve. You see, I had been hurt by a guy I loved who was emotionally abusive. I believe I wanted to prove to myself and every man out there that they cannot define me.

OU’s program was small, and there were very few females. I was new to the major my second semester in Norman, and knew no one. I had classes all over campus, and realized that one girl I had seen in the college of Architecture was also the same girl in my physics class. Out of familiarity, we became acquaintances.

One day, she asked me to go to lunch with her, and I accepted the invitation. We went to a food court that was packed with students. We looked in vain for a place to sit, and she turned to me and asked, “Hey, you wanna go upstairs and sit in one of the club offices?”
“Sure” I said, relieved to get away from the crowd.
I began to follow her up a staircase, and before I could put my foot on the 3rd or 4th step, she turned around and asked, “We’re going to the GLBA room. Is that OK?”
I shrugged, “Sure!”
“Do you know that GLBA stands for?”
“No.”
“Gay, Lesbian, and Bisexual Alliance. Is it still OK?”
“Um...........OK!”

I don’t remember my exact feeling except shock. We walked into a room filled with old chairs and a sofa. She verbally greeted a few people and introduced me. I sat and ate my pizza, as my mind began to swirl. I’m a modern girl, right? I can handle this, right? How could I have missed it? The short hair, boyish gait, masculine clothes, construction major . . . . . . . . .(wait, that one was SO not fair!). I had never connected her to the gay community. I sat and ate my pizza in silence, as my mind raced.

We left the building, and walked to class together after eating. I remember passing people she knew, and they said “Hello”. In my mind, she greeted half the campus, and they all knew she was gay, and they all thought I was her lover!!!!! In reality, I’m sure she only greeted 1 or 2 people. But I had become paranoid. She explained that she was in a serious relationship and was trying to buy a house. I was relieved to know she wasn’t interested in me.

I wish I could say I became closer to her or it didn’t affect me. But it did bother me. Deeply. I was raised Christian. Homosexuals were . . . . .different from us. I struggled for a few weeks with this issue. I had never known anyone openly gay. How did I feel about gay people? Finally, I concluded that it wasn’t the fact that her “lifestyle” offended my faith, it was about the perception others had of me. It was all about me.

I avoided her for about 2 weeks. I came to class just in the nick of time and sat away from her. I left immediately after class, clamoring for the door before she got there and racing away. I was afraid to be seen with her. I was afraid of what others would think. I was, essentially, rejecting her friendship over a technicality. She had opened up to me, and I had rejected her. I felt badly, knowing I was being a huge bitch. I felt guilty. I felt confused. I had already been questioning my religious beliefs before she came along. (College does that to ya!) And suddenly I was rethinking my views on homosexuals—actually, I was defining my own views instead of adopting anyone else’s.

Finally, I remember realizing, “I know I am not gay, and God knows I am not gay, and she knows I am not gay. That’s all that matters. Everyone else is just judging.” Those brief sentences powered their way through my brain over and over again, breaking down those fears.

I walked into physics one day, and sat next to her. I felt horrible, knowing I had no right to be her friend. I didn’t deserve her friendship. She looked at me and simply asked, “ Are you better now?”
“Yeah, I’m fine now.”

And we picked up where we left off, never discussing my absence. She knew I had struggled, and she gave me time to do so. She showed me amazing grace. I remember many discussions in the following months about her family, the dysfunction, the abuse, the intense rejection. Many of my views on homosexuality were formed from the honesty of that friendship.

After that semester, I never saw her again. I believe she flunked out of school, as she feared she would. I can’t even remember her name. But I will never forget her friendship. The lessons I learned about friendship. selfishness, and acceptance will follow me forever.

Cursed

2009-02-06T22:04:00.000-06:00

A wave of depression covers me like a lead blanket. I am trapped under it, and stopped trying to free myself. At times like this, love isn't enough. I don't know what is. I keep going, but not without resentment. I know eventually the blanket will lift a little, the pressure will ease a little. But that is hardly solace for me right now. I'm angry, and I want more than a little less pressure. I want the whole damn thing to disappear.

I was working sudoku tonight, and it dawned on me why I like puzzles so much: it's the only time my mind is so focused that I just . . . . .stop . . . . . .feeling. I focus so much on the puzzle at hand, that I forget about my existence.

I thought I had overcome some of this curse, and returning to it with such force makes me more depresssed. More shaken. More disappointed in myself and in God. I watched my dad this evening as he sat in silence--anxious, heavy hearted. I remembered him telling me once that he has battled depression for years. I was shocked, but now I see the outward signs that I used to ignore. He doesn't mask his mental battles as well as he used to. I realized how much both of my parents have struggled silently within themselves, donning a great facade for the world to see. And so, I look around and don't see much hope for my dark cloud to dissipate. If this man of God, this faithful follower, this great witness that I call my father cannot shake the curse, then how can I?

I am tired of praying about it. I'm tired of . . . . . . . hoping. Surely God has more for me than this. I don't remember being given any choices about my personality, my body, my skills, my future, before I was born. This is NOT the life I would have chosen for myself.

Sid & Sam

2009-01-31T22:42:00.001-06:00

I am an animal lover. I am horribly allergic to cats, so I have a way of disconnecting myself from them. But all other furry animals have my heart. I look into their eyes, and I see unconditional love.

I have 2 dogs. Sidney I found at the SPCA in Dallas. She was named "Jewel", and was the calmest dog there. She was offered at a discounted price because she had been there for so long. I reached into the cage she shared with a huge black dog who was jumping and barking, and I managed to get her out without freeing blacky. As soon as she walked down the aisle with me, I realized--this dog is not for me. She started jumping and running and going apey. I tried to put her back in her cage, and she dug her paws into the concrete. She wasn't budging. Every timed I tried to open the cage, the huge black dog tried to get out. I was embarrassed. I was afraid that if I asked for help, I would be seen as "unfit" or unable to handle a dog. (That SPCA had a lot of rules and questions they asked you). So I purchased "Miss Thang" and brought her home. My husband never warmed up to her, but then, he never tried. (He picked the name Sidney.) She would hide and pee. She would nip. She was an escape artist. But I loved her. She was my girl. When she escaped, my heart sank and I cried until I found her. When I divorced and moved to Tulsa, she was immediately a great dog--like she was so happy to be away from my ex that she would do anything I wanted. She was my baby. We both entered a new phase of life together. She's very smart, very resourceful, and cunning.

One night at Rib Crib, my parents and I noticed a sweet black lab dodging cars. Rib Crib is right by a highway. The black dog was begging for food. I told my dad, "If that dog is still there when I leave, I'm taking it home." We walked out to our car, which was on the other side of the restaurant from where he was hanging out. He came right up, and we opened the car door and he jumped in. He had scars all over his belly. The vet said he had been "rolled by a car or two", by looking at the scars. He had been on his own for a while. He and Sidney didn't hit it off in the beginning. But they did mesh over time., and are now buddies. He tore up my couch, my shades, my wooden furniture. But he grew out of that. Sam is my loverboy. He wants to be touched. To sleep with me. To sit on my lap. Even after 6 years with me, he needs reassurance. He loves the indoors, loves blankets, and loves to sleep.

I regret not walking them more. Not playing with them more. Their love is unconditional. They see me and welcome me with complete love. I am so thankful for them.

I took in a puppy last year, only to find that potty training was not something my schedule was conducive to. Also, Sid and Sam weren't so keen on having a new family member. I realized that I couldn't provide this dog the attention it needed at such a young age. It as so hard, but I found her a home with a family that had no dog, and 3 kids. My heart ached at the thought of what I was doing to her psyche by giving her away. But I know she will be happier.

When I saw a boyfriend kick Sam, I knew that it was time to walk away. Sam does not get aggressive, unless he is attacked. My boyfriend said that Sam bit him once when he was in my back yard and I was at work. In reality, that boyfriend had serious control issues, and I saw him get increasingly aggresive with Sam. I saw him kick Sam, and Sam did nothing to create such a severe reaction. I still apologize to Sam for that. I believe he had been abused prior to his time with me, so having his mom's boyfriend kick him after 6 years of peaceful living is unacceptable. I failed him. I ended that relationship, and I still get sick at the thought of that incident.

If I had a ton of money, I would have an animal rescue, and I would provide shelter and love to God's creatures. I would be a very sad person without my dogs. They are my true loves.

Depression / Angst

2009-01-26T18:07:00.000-06:00

I’ve not been one to hide my depression. Especially once I graduated college, I learned to just admit it and accept it and treat it. In the past few years, my depression has been much more controlled. By that I mean my mood hasn’t stayed on ground zero non stop. I have attributed that to God, my faith, my job, my age, my confidence. But last week, I felt like I was shot back to 1997.

I had a terrible week. I was talked down to, bossed around, ignored. It drained me emotionally, mentally, and therefore, physically. I’m convinced having a dick would have kept me from such abuse.

Saturday, an incident set me off into a huge bawling binge. My explosion was overdue, and it was the culmination of the week’s hell. It catapulted me into a state of depression that I haven’t felt in a long time. Like bricks were tied to my head, my arms, my back, my heart. I became angry at myself for not being bolder and bitchier, at God for creating me, at men for being jerks.

I had a “prayer” last night that was the most heartfelt I’ve had in a while. Probably because it was full of anger. How dare you create me! How dare you give me this personality! How dare you ! The truth is, I will likely be alone the rest of my life. I may never remarry. I probably won’t have kids. My sister’s husband doesn’t like me, so I may never be close to my niece. I’ve backed away from their family, knowing that my presence seems to ignite him. I’m not sure what it is about me that he resents, but his resentment only worsens through the years.

o, I’m trying to figure out why the hell I was born, what my purpose is, why I’m still here. I’m 36 and have nothing to show for my life.

Friends

2009-01-17T22:57:00.000-06:00

Relationships are hard. They are draining. Taxing. Frustrating. Demanding. Comforting. Rewarding. Fun. Fulfilling. Endearing. Worth the effort.

Friendships, for an introvert like me, take a lot of work. Approaching someone I don’t know takes more effort than an extrovert will ever fathom. You see, I was not socialized as a child; My parents moved and changed our schools several times over the course of my childhood; We couldn’t afford extracurricular activities (for me, anyway. There was plenty of money for my sister though! Oops, that’s a blog for another time); My mom stayed home with us and she never had friends. Whatever the core reason, making friends has been a challenge.

My parents moved us from a blue collar neighborhood in a small town to an upper middle class house in a suburb when I was in grade school. I didn’t know how to relate to my new social class or my new neighborhood. I made only 1 real friend from 5th grade to 12th grade. Only 1 person that I felt “got me” and that wasn’t until high school. I finally made some friends in college—guys. I found girls to be much too competitive and image-oriented. Guys were laid back. They didn’t look you up and down, as if you were going to be their snack when no one was watching.

Then I went to work in Dallas--the meat market of America. I was never comfortable there. But I made friends with coworkers, and got out on the town. But I never really “fit in” because I wasn’t comfortable in my own skin. I thought I was a freak. I didn’t know how to be fun and friendly. In hindsight, I was not more freakish than the next person. I was just very guarded. I met my husband because we worked for the same company. He had no more friends than I did. So we were a boring couple.

After I relocated to Tulsa (following my divorce), I finally made good friends. I began to work through my own personal issues. I began to see that making friends means taking the first step and not waiting on others to introduce themselves to me. It means accepting everyone else “as is” if I’m to be accepted “as is”. It means taking the chance I will be rejected. And yes, I have been snubbed by other females upon introducing myself. It’s a pain that goes to the bone. Luckily, it’s a fleeting pain.

Now that I’m older, it’s not the quantity of friendships I search for. I am a hermit by nature, and have found too many friends to be stressful. (isn’t that horrible? “Sorry, I don’t need any more friends. I already have 1.” Haha!) I search for quality of friendships. That’s the difference. I’d rather have 1 good friend than 10 shallow acquaintances.

And now, friendships are beautiful, but they are still work. They still require my cultivation. They require my attention. But the best friendships, the deepest friendships, don’t require constant tilling. They are the ones where you will not see or hear from each other for years. And when you do reconnect, there is no finger pointing of who failed to communicate with whom. It’s more of a rediscovery of a lost love. Like no error existed, and the love between the friends takes over.

I still struggle. I still need to learn to be more social. But I’m eons from where I was.

Savings, Tongues, & Slayings

2009-01-12T13:35:00.000-06:00

I was born into religion. I don’t remember getting saved, because I just always was. It was a belief system that I never questioned.

When I was about 14, I remember going to a youth camp of sorts. I say “of sorts” because it was thrown together (by that I mean poorly organized) by several churches who “fellowshipped” with one another. It lasted a week.

At the camp, there was the push to speak in tongues. The pressure was intense. I remember standing there, arms outstretched like I was Jesus on a cross. I think someone was holding each arm. My eyes were closed, as I stood there like a scarecrow waiting for a bird to land on me. I remember a lady saying, “You can see the words, just say them!” But I couldn’t see any words. So I just muttered a few things. Nothing I saw in my head, nothing that was from another realm, just . . . . . mumbles. You would have thought Jesus made a special appearance by their reactions. “Hallelujah! You did it!” Literally folks, I probably said three or four syllables. But they were as tired of praying as I was of being prayed for. And that was my entire tongue speaking history.

Which reminds me--I was layed in the spirit one time. I say that, because I was never slain, just lain. The pastoral staff of my church had gone to the east coast for some harvest movement where everyone was slain in the spirit or laughed like a hyena. By experiencing it, they were able to “bring it back” to Tulsa. How God was confined to human experiences to spread his blessings was something I never thought to question back then. But every service turned into a slayfest. I finally became a target. I had known people who were honestly slain in the spirit, so I believed in it, but I found this “group slaying” to be a bit hokey. I let them pray for me, and again, everyone got tired of the ordeal. I was sick of standing and praying, and they were tired of praying for me. So I rocked a little, and I purposely leaned back. That was all they needed to start yelling and spitting, and I was layed down by fellow churchgoers. I laid there with my eyes closed, thinking about lunch, and wondering how long I had to lie on the floor.

I do believe that both things I mentioned can happen. But I think the pressure to perform is ridiculous. Surely God is powerful enough to make something happen when He’s ready for it too!

Age Before Beauty

2009-01-07T22:16:00.000-06:00

I like being older. Never thought I would say that, much less write it for the world to see!

Creed has a song with the following lyrics, "I'm rusted and weathered, barely holding together." That's me a lot of the time. Just clinging to sanity. Rusty and worn and weathered and eroded by hard times. I see young people and I admit I envy their energy, their expectations, the simplicity of their problems. If I had to live life again, I would have been a freer spirit in my youth.

However, I value my ability to perservere. I couldn't handle the problems at 21 that I have today at 36. Each struggle has made me stronger. Each heartache has toughened me, molded me, shaped my views. And God has shown himself faithful to me. It's hard to have faith, when you've never really needed it. As a youth, you always know a family member will bail you out and take care of you. As an adult, you find that God practices tough love, and that sucks!

So, I realized this evening that I take pride in knowing I'm older. I'm taken more seriously. My opinion counts. My experiences matter. I am more confident now than ever before, because I have proven my abilities to myself. I've been my biggest doubter.

The onset of gray hair was hard for me. I noticed it 2 years ago. It literally made me nervous and depressed to think that my hair was going to match my age. You see, I'm still 21 in my spirit. My body is 36, but my core is not even close. I understand more the phrase, "You are as old as you feel." Physically, I feel 32. Inside, I'm 21 and a size 8.

So, I'm thankful for the wisdom and strength and stability that comes with age. Now excuse me while I dye my hair.

Photo Tag

2009-01-06T16:25:00.000-06:00

4th Photo from the 4th folder.

It seems I’ve been tagged. The fourth folder, and the fourth photo thing didn’t work for me. I have very random folders, and not a fourth folder of pictures at work. And So I am attaching a photo that I took at Agora’s Christmas Eve gathering. I had never been to a Christmas Eve service, and I have a new camera that I was dying to try out (Sony SLR). The ambience was amazing. So I fumbled through the camera functions, and came out with a ton of useless and blurry photos, as well as a few good ones. People kept looking at me like, is she ever going to finish with the pictures? This photo is looking over the shoulder of a friend. I love the shadows on her shirt, created by the candle. I also like the idea that you can see images vaguely in the background, but the focal point is the light. I think God sees us like that—He sees our light, and not our physical attributes. Therefore, all are beautiful. So, I like this photo pretty well.

Who's next?

Romanticizing the Past

2009-01-03T18:37:00.000-06:00

"For I know the plans I have for you. Plans for good and not disaster. Plans for future and hope." Jeremiah 29:11

I know this verse well, but having my friend Jennifer Instant Messaging it to me on facebook reminded me of its significance in my life. It's a recurring scripture for me.

"But I wish I had a morsel of what His plan is," I lamented.

"If you knew the future, it wouldn't be worth living," Jennifer wrote.

That stopped me in my tracks. The wisdom in that statement was overpowering. I had been frustrated. Here we are, the first work day of January, 2009, and my employer--the owner of the company--literally screamed profanities at me. It was embarassing, it was uncalled for, and it was not how I had hoped my year would begin. I immediately feared this would be indicative of 2009, and I was depressed. Would I endure this all year? Would I ever remarry? Would I ever have kids?

I relayed this information to Jennifer, and she explained to me that God is in control, but I have to trust Him. Yes, I know. But sometimes, it's really, really hard. I've felt completely let down by God in the past. And, well, I don't trust anyone. It's a defense mechanism to assure I'm not hurt again.

Then Jennifer, rather randomly, brought up something from my past--my divorce.

"It must have been hard on you. I know you were hurt. I remember you crying," she wrote.

I didn't think she remembered the last time we physically saw each other. I was still living in Texas, a few cities away from her. I was getting a divorce. I had come to see her family before I moved back to Oklahoma. I was in turmoil. I don't remember talking about my divorce, but I had to have discussed it.

"I remember," she responded to my surprise. "You said he got angry at you because the tines on your fork scraped on your teeth when you took a bite."

That, I didn't remember. Not immediately anyway. It's still rather vague in my mind. But it reminded me that we tend to romanticize the past. We gloss over it in our minds, or delete sections of it, in order to cope. I have actually started a blog on my divorce, which I haven't posted. And I realize now why--I've forgotten the impact it had on me. I've forgotten the intensity of the self-loathing I had in me, for failing at the most basic role--wife.

I stared at my laptop and tears began streaming down my face. But not a bawl or cry with gasps. Just a mellow, deep, sadness. I wiped away a downpour of tears as I assured Jennifer she hadn't said anything wrong. I was just overwhelmed with the reality of the sad person I had been. That was only one of the many little things that he suddenly seemed intolerant of. He didn't just comment on my flaws, he blew up over them. I felt completely inadequate as a person, and I didn't know who I was supposed to be for him. As my dad would say, I was a "whooped pup".

I look back at Kristi Kueter, and I see a woman who was horrifically insecure, but who married a man who refused to give her the satisfaction of a compliment. I see a girl who was afraid to be authentic because her husband was not, and she didn't want to be the only vulnerable person in that relationship. We both held back, like acquaintances instead of lovers. I married a man that I was great friends with, but who didn't show me the love I needed. And over time, our differences that had seemed like hairline fractures while dating, had become deep crevasses. He began to nitpick me. I was suddenly not up to his standards. He spent his evenings on the internet and drinking wine, in the opposite side of the house. I found porn in his briefcase. He refused to tell me he loved me. He never touched me. I would rather he hit me than ignore me the way he did. But on January 2nd, 2002, he told me he didn't think he ever loved me, and we weren't going to make it. The tiny fractures I had noticed in our relationship early on, had not been addressed and had taken over our marriage. The signs were there, but so was the denial. And the result was a deep sadness that followed me for 4 years, as I finally accepted my role, my denial, my ignorance, I was able to let go of the anger I had toward him. And then I was able to shake that cloud of sorrow, little by little. . . .atom by atom. . . .moment by moment.

So, the realization of the hurt I had endured brought back a flood of emotions, exactly 7 years later. I was a broken person in 2002. I had been broken for years before I met Todd, and that marriage did the opposite of empower me--it made me even more insecure. If my husband can't stand me, who can? My sister says that relationships either help you or hurt you, and nothing else. That marriage did not help me. . .

I look back and realize how far I've come. How much I've overcome. I'm a stronger person now. I'm a more determined person now. Much of it is due to what I went through in that marriage. And hearing those little things amaze me. I believe it is good to let go of the past and to not let it define you. But sometimes memories flooding in are good, because they remind you of where you've been and how far you've come. It keeps us from romanticizing the past a little too much.

Although I prayed for God to heal my marriage 7 years ago. Today, I'm thankful that it did not happen. I've found myself. I've found God's love. I've found God's grace and mercy.

Now, if I could just find his crystal ball . . . . . . .

Sharon's Afghan

2009-01-01T22:36:00.000-06:00

New years always bring me into a state of reflection. Once the hubbub of Christmas wears off, and I begin dating correspondence with a new year, I'm in awe. Life is crazy. It's chaotic. It's beautiful. It's ugly.

I have been remembering my cousin, Sharon. She died several years ago, when she was in her mid 30's. She was redheaded like me, but had been plagued with illnesses since her youth. She had lupus, and had volunteered to receive experimental treatments. Those treatments, it is believed, sped her demise. She was creative, generous, and funny. Her passing deeply affected our family. She had created a wonderful tradition: every time a female in our family passed a milestone, she made them an afghan. I remember receiving mine. I believe it was when I graduated college.

It was a precious gift--especially from her. She had shaky hands that should have prevented her from any artistic endeavers. Watching her hold a cup was similar to watching someone with Parkinson's Disease. But she slaved over the pieces until they were completed--determined to not let her health keep her from blessing others. I put my afghan into a plastic bag. Once she passed away, I realized that this was my only connection to her, outside of photos. I pulled it out today to look at it for the first time in years. It is still stiff from it's initial creation. Still vibrant.

I have since taken up crocheting. For a healthy person, I find it a challenge. It's not the looping, it's the tired wrists and hands, the attention span I don't have, and the patience I lack. But the outcome is amazing.

Crocheting is a beautiful art. You create a functional, yet beautiful, piece out of yarn and loops. That's it. One skein of yarn, can be crafted into a beautiful blanket or sweater or shawl. Add it to other yarns, and you find yourself with a tapestry of many colors and personalities.

I think of my life as that--I am a skein. As I live, I leave a trail of loops and knots. As I allow others into my life, I get more color and design. But ultimately, I am responsible for the outcome and completion. The trail I leave can be viewed by many, and will be my legacy. I can be a functional item, such as a blanket, or a doily that has little use but is very decorative. I prefer to be a useful vessel. Sharon's legacy is of blessing. She dealt with health issues most of her life. But she was always positive, always creative, and always looking to bless others with the gifts she had been given.

2008 - Lessons Learned

2008-12-26T23:15:00.000-06:00

My year has been good overall, but not without its challenges. My job has been a challenge. Staying positive and focused is hard, when your company is very political and with so much uncertainty in the market. Many days I wonder how much longer I will be able to muddle through the politics. But it is a good job. And I know that God gave me this opportunity to re-establish myself.

My main relationship this year was a tough one. It started out very, very good, and went sour very, very fast. I learned that I quickly give up things that are important to me, for a chance at companionship. And I truly need a companion who shares my loves. I also learned that I want someone who allows me to have freedom and a voice—not a controller. That relationship brought me to a place of acceptance for what may not be in my future. I would love to have kids, but worrying and wondering only made life more stressful. Letting go of that helped me to accept God’s will for me—whatever it may be.

I was absent a lot from church during this relationship, and I struggled with that. I didn’t intend to quit church, but I also allowed this man to dominate my time. There was no time for church, as long as I was with him. In the end, his controlling nature became more and more clear, and as he crossed a major line with me and my home, I found myself alone again, and unsure of whether or not I could return to church. When I did, I had a whole new respect for those who don’t come regularly, and those who disappear for time periods. You just don’t know the struggles people encounter in life that keeps them at bay. When they do return, the last thing they need is to be scrutinized.

I had minor surgery, only to find out that my reproductive organs are in good shape. Part of me wonders if they are being preserved for a reason, but I'm not stressing over it. I hinted at my doctor about removing them completely, and she refused to do so. Like I said before, I'm OK either way.

I went from having a roommate, to being alone again. That was a burden lifted off of my shoulders. I am not good at sharing my space for long periods of time, and that friendship nearly ended over the whole thing. Luckily, it lasted, and I can once again leave the bathroom door open and walk around the house in my skivvies.

I was reminded that I still struggle with many codependent areas. But I recognize them when they occur. I have this weird need to get approval of certain people around me. Those people will never provide me “approval” because they hold power by withholding it. Therefore, I waste my time trying to earn something that I cannot earn and truly don’t need.

I have connected with friends from the past, and that has been refreshing. I have made new friends, and that has been exciting. And I have been more willing to be a friend, and to be friendly. That’s a big deal for me. I enjoy being social for the first time.

Finally, I did the ridiculous--I went to a psychic. It was a strange occurance where I went as a favor to a friend who didn't want to go alone. I've always been curious of the trade, coming from a pentecostal type of background. But the experience was very . . . . interesting. I am not living by anything that was said, because time will tell if it's truth.

So, overall, I'm happy with this year. I've had some horrible ones previously, and it's nice to look back without grimacing.

Christmas Traditions

2008-12-23T14:09:00.000-06:00

I love Christmas, but it’s been a bittersweet holiday for years. When I was married, it turned into a driving fiasco. We would drive from Texas to Tulsa. From Tulsa to Mannford, to Norman, to Fort Cobb, to Anadarko. Then back to Texas. And if we wanted to alternate holidays, well, that was a guilt fest. We live in a society where people are living longer, and divorce is common. So exes, steps, and in-laws are overwhelming. Every year may be grandpa’s last year, but getting to all the grandpas can be a bit much. In my family, guilt hovers over family events. “You’re coming, aren’t you? Why not? What is more important than time with your family? We won’t be here forever, you know.”

I applaud anyone who is trying to create new traditions.

Since my divorce, Christmas has been lonely. My sister is married. My parents have been married for 39 years. I am the lone person who doesn’t get some really amazing personal gift. But it’s not about the gift, it’s about the intimacy behind it. Some Christmases were lonely, even as I was dating someone. Why? Because I knew it wouldn’t last, or I had reached a level of discomfort in it. Sometimes, it’s easier being single.

This Christmas, the atmosphere is different. I am still single, and I’m so happy to be out of my last relationship. I have my niece to purchase and assemble gifts for. But more than that, I am more at peace with myself. I have been able to help some people that I know truly need it. The satisfaction that brings is as good as any gift I could ever get. I have had opportunities to be social. I am going to go to a Christmas eve service at church, which is something I’ve never participated in. I’m going to hang out with a friend on Christmas day.

Finally, my own traditions are being formed.

So, I hope everyone is able to find some time to rest, to reflect, and to be thankful for what this holiday is all about..

MERRY CHRISTMAS!

Codependence

2008-12-21T20:11:00.000-06:00

I approached the door to Agora, nervous about attending a group gathering that promised to be social, personal, and intimate--everything I wanted to be but didn't have the courage. The door was locked. I walked around the side, where the "Big Room" entrance was located. It was locked as well. My anger, embarassement, and self-loathing rose up inside of me. Lights were on, but doors were locked: I wasn't welcome. I would not try to be social again! Taking that step was big for me, and getting shut out was hurtful.

"Damn them for this! I drove all the way out here, just for rejection! I KNEW I shouldn't have done this! I'm a fool to think I could fit in!" I thought as I drove away.

I mentioned to Pastor Jeff the next day that I had come to attend the group meeting that he had encouraged me to get involved with. I was a few minutes late due to work, I explained, and had raced over to the church. But I had wasted my time.

He apologized and said, "They lock the door for security reasons. Please try again! They would love to have you!".

Naw, I'm one shot Kristi. You only get 1 chance to hurt me, and then I shut you out. At least, I had been like that. But God was working on that part of me...

I had been attending Agora for about a year, and was slowly working on getting out of my ultra thick shell. It has been a very slow process, and full of self flagellation. I found myself ending a relationship that was not healthy for me, and that was consuming me. I needed a diversion, and I knew it.

There was a ladies group being formed--a chance to study a book--and it was guaranteed to make an wonderful impression. Other ladies' groups had met before, and I regretted not attending them. So I decided to buck up and give this group thing one more shot. The group was called "Women at the Well", and details about it were vague. I need not purchase a book prior to the first meeting, according to Linda, the facilitator. We could buy the books from her, at the first class. She seemed excited to have me. This felt promising. The title of the book was merely, "Love is a Choice", as far as I knew. Sounded quaint.

The first class had women of all ages. As Linda began to describe the class and the book, she began talking about codependency. What??? I looked at the book I had just purchased from Linda, and the cover read, "Love is a Choice: The Groundbreaking Book on Codependent Relationships." I felt duped. The "C" word had not been used in any of the previous descriptions of the class. Yet here it was in front of me. I didn't know what codependency was, but it didn't matter--I didn't have it. I looked around the room for an easy exit. There was no sneaking out of this room. I was already looking for a reason to miss all future classes. I could always blame work. Saying, "You guys may be sick, but I'm not!" didn't sound very nice. After listening, I realized I was the only person completely ignorant of the term "codependent" and its meaning.

So I decided to listen. I looked down, in a very disinterested way, and read the first couple of lines from a workbook Linda had given every attendee. It gave 10 traits of a codependent. Check, check, check, check. I recognized 8 of them in myself. I was shocked. It was listing very personal traits of mine, all of which I hated and felt unable to change. I'm not the only person struggling with these issues? I can overcome these feelings? There is hope for me? I realized that I was not there on accident. By the time I left the class, I was anxious to read the book.

"Why didn't you tell me I'm codependent?" I asked my sister over the phone. She is a therapist, and had slowly brought many of my behaviors to my attention over time.

"You weren't ready to hear it Kristi. You have to be ready to make a change," she replied. That's when I realized it's time to make a change. God brought me here to address these issues, so if HE thinks I'm ready, I must be.

I spent the next 10 weeks soul searching, letting go, and questioning everything around me. I had a word for my craziness, and it was codependency. I had a book on how to overcome it. And I had other women who understood my perspective. It was priceless.

Golden

2008-12-19T23:40:00.000-06:00

I was cautiously helping my mom empty the trunk of our car, wondering what was ahead of us. I was 5 years old. I looked next door and saw a little boy, just a year or 2 younger than me, poking his head out the front door of his house. He was getting a glance at the new kids on the block. When he realized he had our attention, he made noises and ran in and out of the door—in complete little boy, energetic fashion. That summer day was the start of a golden era for me.

My parents had just moved our family to Ponca City from Tulsa. Dad’s job transferred him from Tulsa, giving him an opportunity to hone his retail management skills and prove he had the chops to run a store on his own. It was a great chance he couldn’t pass up.

The little boy next door had an older sister whom I quickly became friends with. Jennifer and I played countless hours together. We dressed up, made mud pies, played “shop” and dolls. Her brother and I would play Star Wars with his now-very-valuable action figures and Enterprise collection. 26 years later, I can still tell you their phone number, the layout of their house, the smell of their rooms, the decorations on their walls. My memories of that era are vivid. I was so happy. 5 years of peace.

This was a snapshot in time that I can never get back. We walked to school every day. Me, my sister, and our neighbors, side by side, no parents chaperoning us--just gradeschool kids with our backpacks. If my mom dared to put my hair in a bun, I would have it freed form such ridiculousness and into a pony tail by the time we hit the school perperty. If one of us was sick at school and we couldn’t reach our mom, we could always reach the neighbor to pick us up. We were spanked as punishment, as was typical at that time, and we didn’t dare cross our parents. We ran amok in the neighborhood. Bicycles were our transportation of choice, and we would ride to the high school or donut shop with a friend. Trick-or-treating was universal—everyone walked the neighborhoods and begged for candy, as we wore costumes from Gibson’s or TG&Y. We played outside until dusk, at which time my mom would stand on the front porch and yell, “Girls! It’s getting dark!” That was our warning, and we came running from behind whatever bushes we were playing. That was a time when my mom forced me to play outside, because exercise was important. We sold rocks to neighbors for a penny each (large rocks were at least a nickel!), and some actually bought them to humor us. I played on the monkey bars until my pelvis was bruised. I raised my hand in class and prayed I would get called on. There was no Wal-Mart in town, so we shopped local businesses. I remember the smell of the library downtown and the brick roads leading to it.

When I was 10, the world as I knew it changed. Dad was transferred to Tulsa. The year was 1982, and that was the first time I ever saw him cry. We planned to stay in Ponca City indefinitely, but a great opportunity was presented to my dad. So, we packed up, and said goodbye to Ponca and to our friends. We returned to our roots. It was hard to leave Jennifer behind, and we vowed to be friends forever.

Life gets busy, and you lose touch. We wrote occasional letters, and there was the phone call and visit. But the next time I really connected to Jen again was in 1991, when she had moved to Tulsa with her new husband and baby. We became close, as she struggled with motherhood, married life, making friends, and all the trials that go with it. I moved away to Norman in 1993, and again we lost touch. We did reconnect through the years, the occasional phone calls and dinners. But I haven’t heard from her at all in 6 years. Until now.

I found her on facebook. We’ve been reminiscing and contemplating our paths. You see, our worlds fell apart once my family moved to Tulsa. Jen’s parents had a few more kids, but ended up in a nasty divorce. It caused division and chaos in their home. My parents relocated to Tulsa, only to encounter financial hardships like we had never known and a school system I was never comfortable with. My sister went from playing on an all star softball team in Ponca to being benched in Sand Springs, because she hadn’t grown up with the girls playing together. She was never allowed to use her talent, because she didn't know the right people. Everything changed, including us. I became more secluded and depressed. Honestly, I shut down for a variety of reasons.

So, those 5 years of my life were golden. My dad told me that they were golden for him and my mom as well. I am fortunate that I had 5 years like that. Many don't have such purity and freedom. And I can share them with Jen, and laugh about the details. And hope we create some golden years for others as well.

Jen says that God keeps bringing us into each others’ lives for a reason. I agree.

Social-ism

2008-12-15T21:07:00.000-06:00

I have always considered myself a hermit, lacking in the social arena, and odd. Struggling with depression beginning at the age of 10 made it worse, because I mentally beat myself up.

College was a culture shock. This naive, quiet, sarcastic, redhead, who was raised in a very strict religious home, had no rules, no boundaries, no expectations. Just . . . .freedom. Phillips University even had parties in remote locations that they would bus us to--no i.d.s, no rules. Just get on the bus, get off, get drunk, get back on the bus, go to your dorm and pass out. School sponsored!

Anyway, that was the start of my socialization. That's when I learned that I wasn't good at making friends, having fun, or even making eye contact. I'd never had much fun, never had many friends, and was scared of eye contact. The rest of my life has been a quest to be social. It's not been a road of consistency--I've frequently run back to my cave to hide from the world for long periods of time (inevitably to escape the messiness of friendships). My cave is safe, comfortable, and predictable. However, I have continued to venture out.

The older I get, and the more I try, the easier it gets. This weekend I reconnected with a friend I haven't seen in 17 years. We weren't THAT close of friends back then, but he was funny, and we had mutual friends, and we hung out. I recently found myself chatting with him online. And I caught myself being . . . . . social. I was joking around, I was not afraid of how I came across, I was just being . . . . .me. He came to church with me, and we went to lunch afterward. I was elated to have connected with him. After thinking about it all, I realized that some of my elation was that I found myself being comfortable with someone I barely knew, and I was able to be myself. For me, that's huge. This is not the first time I've caught myself being social recently, but it's the first time I've realized just how easily I express myself when I let my guard down.

There are Good People Left In the World

2008-12-11T21:34:00.000-06:00

I am a loser. If an item is not attached to my body, I can and will lose it. And I have lost everything smaller than a TV that I own. Books, keys, money, shoes, you name it. The 2 scariest items to lose are my keys and my check card. Well, I did it again. I lost my check card.

I took the folks to Rib Crib last night. I paid with that pink card, included a tip on the slip, and left. I don't know if I never received the card back, or if it fell out of my purse. (Yes, I know, I should use the pockets.) Well, after a busy day today, I realized I hadn't seen my pink plastic. So I began to search, then I dug through my clothes, my purse, my car, and finally realized, "It's gone!"

Before cancelling it, and knowing my amazing history of losing things, I decided to call Rib Crib in case they had it. As I waited on hold, I looked at my bank info online. According to it, I had 2 charges at Rib Crib last night. The first one I recognized. The second one was not mine. As soon as I was pulled off hold, I noted the issue to the person I was talking to. They immediately traced the 2 charges, compared signatures on receipts, and told me they will reimburse me for the second charge. The 2 signatures did not match.

Luckily, whoever took it only used it once. Maybe they thought a random charge would be easily overlooked. But at least I am not behind on the deal.

Thank you to Rib Crib in West Tulsa for being so diligent in solving my problem, and for being so friendly. It restores my faith in people.

The credit card only had that charge on it, so I closed the account.

Quirks

2008-12-09T17:03:00.000-06:00

I count steps. That’s right, I will be walking and suddenly realize I’m at 102, 103, 104, never remember 100, 101, or even 20. As a kid, if I walked on a sidewalk, I either had to avoid every crack, or step on every one. Didn’t matter which, but if I deviated from the pattern, I would get nervous. I also would touch things. If I touched a few things on a table, I had to touch them all. If not, something bad might happen.

Quirky? Yeah. A lot of kids have that. I’ve grown out of most of it (except the step counting thing).

I also had another quirk. I was afraid of going into public. As a child, I would get so nervous when I was in public, my tummy would cramp and I would have to poo. But I had an even bigger fear of public restrooms. Probably because I have IBS, and I could not just sit for a few minutes and get it over with. So I was screwed, and I would get sick from holding it for so long. As I grew up, I had to face many of these fears to even function. I knew it wasn’t normal, so I tried to cover it up. But as recent as the year 2002, I had a Wal Mart I couldn’t go into. It was in Texas, where I lived. Going there made me nervous. So I avoided it at all costs. It’s probably where my love for Target originated. As I type this, my tummy is getting nervous, thinking of that WalMart. Nothing bad happened there to make me uneasy. I just was afraid of it, and my tummy would go haywire at the thought of it.

I’m not sure which was first, the depression, the anxiety, or the IBS. But they all feed on each other. And I’ve dealt with it all since I was a child. Add some codependency into the mix, and I have been a mess for most of my life. I just had a lot of fears. I found solace in my family, because they accepted me for who I was, so I rarely ventured out of that sphere of comfort. As I moved away to begin my own life, I struggled to make friends. I hadn’t ever been comfortable enough with myself to make any, so I had no idea how to be a friend. I had longed for friendship for so long that I had envisioned this amazing thing friendships would be.

I now retreat to the solace of my home to seek refuge from friendships. Funny how life works.

But back to the subject: I have had to face my fears. I tried to commit suicide once years ago. I’ve made a lot of mistakes, with friends, with men, with myself. But I’ve put myself out there, determined to be as normal as possible. And I think that’s one reason I struggled with codependency. I wanted others to help me get through these quirks of mine. I’ve held onto the coattails of others in social situations. I’ve hoped for a man to come along that will save me from myself. I’ve learned that I have to do that myself. And it has sucked royally at times, but I have learned that it’s better that way. I’m stronger for it.

Christmas Spirits

2008-12-08T15:03:00.000-06:00

I love this time of year, but for some it brings out their best, and for others it brings out their worst. I was picking up a prescription at a local drugstore when the lady behind the counter decided I was her new friend.

“I just hate Christmas,” the sad-eyed, middle aged clerk said as she scanned the Christmas gift bags I was buying. It was a deal—2 for a dollar, and they were good, sturdy bags. I was thrilled to find such a bargain, and ready to get my prescription and go home. The look on her face, and the disgust in her voice caused my Christmas joy to suddenly begin deflating. If you were standing near me, you could have heard the high pitched squeal it made. “I know that I’m a scrooge, but I can’t help it.”

“Really? I love Christmas.” I told her, trying to stay positive, and hoping to make a quick escape.

“My son was killed, and that was his favorite holiday. Now I can’t stand it because it reminds me that he’s not here to enjoy it.” Again, stated with an air of disgust.

“I’m sorry. I can see why it would not be a hard time of year for you.” I wanted to acknowledge her hurt, but by doing so, I unwittingly opened an opportunity for her to spill her guts. So, for next 20 minutes, I got to hear about his unexpected death several years before, the impact it has had on her and her family. I have a hard time being intentionally rude unless I’m angry, so I found myself caught listening to the drone of an unhappy person, with unhappy things happening around her all the time, and wanting to die myself if I had to hear another word. (Mind you, I had just had surgery and was on my way home. The longer she talked, the more I needed that Percocet. But she never asked a thing about me.)

I finally found a chance to escape and briskly walked away, hoping to find a sharp knife for some wrist slitting. As I got into the car, I realized two things – 1. I will never purchase anything from that pharmacy again, and 2. I don’t want to be that person who sucks out your joy, so she won’t be the only sad person around.

I’m not minimizing her hurt, but I believe that if you dwell in the atrocities of life, you become an easy target for more hurt. And I believe that this is a time of year to celebrate. Celebrate life you have right now. Celebrate the good things you DO have. She is letting other people and circumstances define her. We all do that to an extent, but to lament over it to a stranger is odd. I wonder how many others she has lamented the same story to since then? She is a cloud of despair, and I pray she finds peace. I hope I have enough insight, and have tapped into my codependency well enough, to not lose the peace I’ve finally managed to obtain.

This is one example of codependency gone wild. Life is too short