Ghost Turds

My curly hair is thick, long, wiry, frizzy, akin to wearing  a heating pad on my head and neck.  But if I cut my locks short, they are kinky, frizzy, thick, and untamable.  When I had short hair, I struggled to keep it in some form of a style (this was before flat irons, which I’m convinced were a gift from God himself.  They basically fry your hair into submission).  Instead of obeying my futile attempts at control with aqua net and hair gel, my hair would immediately curl and frizz the moment I walked out my front door.  The Oklahoma humidity shows no remorse.  The protection provided by the dry air within a home with central air conditioning was only temporary, and just as my glasses would fog up upon walking outside, so my hair would frizz.  I remember driving to work after painstakingly working to get my hair under control, blasting the car air conditioning with the vents turned on my hair.  I seemed to think that would protect it from the humidity.  But it never did. 

 

When I wear it long, the weight of my hair allows the curls to fall in a spiral instead of a tight curl against my head.  I learned in high school that taming this mane is a full time job and I’m much too lazy for it.  So it has been kept long for many years now.

 

Another bonus of having these tresses is that I shed constantly.  In the shower I can barely tug on the ends of my hair and pull out a handful of hair that has already detached and is waiting for freedom.  My husband is disgusted by the piles of hair that collect in the corners of the tub (yes, I do eventually collect them all and throw them away).    I have to clean out the drain every few days.   Ponytails are a saving grace for me, as they pull hair away from my face and they hold in those loose strands.  A bald man would gasp at the hair I waste.

 

My hair gets everywhere in the house—even in places you don’t think it could get.  Also, we have a yellow lab who sheds worse than I do.  And we have 2 long haired cats that shed.  Basically, my house is full of hair of every color.  My wood floors—okay, fake wood floors—are dark, so they show all dust particles.   I can sweep the floor and as soon as the vacuum is put away, there is more hair and dust.  Using a broom gathers the big clumps of hair and dust, but the teeth in the broom merely disperses the individual hairs in a more random pattern than before.  So it feels very futile.  Keeping the hair off the floor is an unending feat that I have learned to not worry about too much.  Dust Bunnies, as I have always heard them called, are an unending saga.

 

One day, Jeff made a comment about the ever-growing ghost turds.  Um, excuse me?   Did you say ghost turds?  He said that in the military they were referred to as ghost turds.  Why ghost turds?  He’s not sure, except to ask, “Have you ever seen one form?  No?  Then how do they form?  They are turds of ghosts.”   Sadly, I think this sounds more realistic than dust bunnies.  My husband, who likes order,  is learning to let go of the ghost turd issues.  He is learning that he may win a battle or two, but he cannot win that war.    And some wars are not worth winning.  They call for more frustration and effort than is truly worth spending.  Sometimes, we have to raise that white flag and say, “meh.  You win this time.  I’ll battle you next week.  But this week, well, my family time comes first.”

 

Life of Bryan

Dear Bryan,

I only recently learned you had passed away.  Today in fact, 2-1/2 months after you took your last breath.  I have checked the obituaries a couple of times in the past several years—and I had a feeling I needed to look you up again.  The last time I did, I saw that your father had passed away.  Although you two never saw eye to eye, he was the one person in your family, outside of yourself, that I related to the most.       

When I read the obituary, my heart sunk to my intestines.  You were so young.  So full of life.  Life had been so unfair to you.  When I think of your last few years on this earth, I imagine a pure hell.   I question the existence of a God who would allow his people to exist in such a manner.  However, in contrast to any disbelief, I also like to think you are walking freely in heaven with your dogs…..running like the wind, feeling the earth under your feet and the grass between your toes, stretching your limbs, feeling the air graze between your fingers, laughing, and……..free.  Free from wheelchairs, hospital beds, oxygen tanks, feeding tubes, stiff muscles, and all the hell your disease brought you.    And if heaven has a place for potheads, I’m betting you are frequenting that place, too. 

You taught me how to trust, to let go, to remove my castle walls, alligator moat, and 100 padlocks.  You made me feel alive and beautiful.  But you also sucked life out of me.  I had promised to love you forever, but I never imagined the future.  I wanted so much for God to heal you.  I wanted so much for a better diagnosis to arise.  As you lost control of your world, you worked to gain control of mine.  You wanted more of me than I could give at a time when I was working 2 jobs.  I think your dad loved you more than you ever imagined, but he had no freakin idea how to express that.  He was angry at God, and he took it out on you.    Your mom loved you, but the codependency was so deep, and it wore me down.

I left, and although I never regretted leaving the angst and drama behind, I have always regretted leaving you behind.  I knew I would be hated.  I knew I would be looked down upon.   “She’s not strong enough.”  “What did she expect?”  “How cruel of her to leave him in his weakness!”  I didn’t actually hear any of this, but I am certain such things have been stated.

It has been 7 years since I walked away from you, and I felt the sting of guilt and heartache all over again today.  May you run.  May you dance.  May you shout your freedom from the heavens.  I’ll be listening for you.

Smitten

Oh, what a year it's been.  One year ago, I was chatting with a gentleman who intrigued me.   He was very straight forward, almost brutally honest.  He didn't mince words.  He seemed pretty cool.  Exactly a year later, I'm living with him and his daughter.  We are a family.  And my life is dramatically different.

Now I drive a child to school some days, and some days I pick her up from school.  I make dinner most nights.  I make breakfast some mornings.  Every nook and cranny of this little casa has an object nestled into it as we are constantly trying to make room.  The hot tub is running again, the kitchen lights work again, and the yard stays mowed. 

But more than all of that--I have someone to come home to.  I have purpose again.  In a year, I've watched his child grow dramatically.  I have seen him through job changes, and we have dealt with financial burdens, exes, child drama, and monotony.  But I love him more each day.

I see him, and I consider myself fortunate.  He encourages my hobbies (guns, fishing, etc) and he is someone I can talk to for hours.  He gets me.  He has seen my most inner being and still loves me.

I find him irresistible, and I'm thankful I didn't settle on any other man before him, becuase he has the qualities I most wanted: humor, honesty, integrity, strength, a hard worker, a go-getter, a god lover,  a music lover, and a little rough around the edges. 

It has been hard at times, but it's been more than worth it.   I am smitten.

39, but turning 21

“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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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"?

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

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

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

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

“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

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

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

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.