How Writing Is Healing My Broken Places

 

I’m writing again.  It’s not good.  I will be the first to admit that.  But words are coming.  For months I associated reading and writing with destroying a marriage.  I couldn’t do it.  I’m learning that when you make a choice, the feelings will follow.  I decided to start blogging.

I plan to read this weekend. I plan to get through at least one novel.  Maybe two.  Not Mommy Porn.  I’m not feeling 50 Shades of Mommy issues and domestic violence. I used to love paranormal young adult books.  They are full of angst and not a lot of sex.  Literary sex feels too unrealistic to let me get lost in it.  Maybe true life has me jaded.  I’m okay with that.  It might be Twilight again.  I love making fun of Bella for being too stupid to live.  I might see Edward’s jealousy and abusive tones in a new light.  Maybe watching her sleep at night will be a little less creepy.  Then again Vampire Academy has it all and Rose makes me feel empowered. I’m excited.

I had to take a moment to remind myself that there has been too much good in my life to feel that I needed my husband more than I wanted him.  I had to really examine the difference between needs and wants.  It’s okay that my wants have changed.  I’m human.  We evolve.  Maybe it’s a Pavlovian response. Kick me enough times and I’ll stop coming back for more.

I reminded myself that I was a surrogate mother.  I carried my own children, but then carried two singleton boys, and a set of twin girls, totaling 7 babies in 6 pregnancies.  The second child was born in my first quarter as an English major.  I took 8 units starting in September.  I had a human come out of me in October.  In December I got my passing grades.  The last pregnancy included a hospital stay for a month, with a week spent upside down in the Trendelenburg position.  I helped three families grow.  I carried both Jewish and Muslim children and grew as a person because of their parents and the relationships that helped me see beyond what I thought to learn so much more than I thought I knew. I earned six scholarships in two years based on essays and in spite of my GPA.  I took care of the house, kids, husband, and went to school, raising a GPA I spent my adolescence trying to lower. I might not have been great at it all, but I got through it all. That B.A. hanging on my wall feels like proof that I’m a Bad Ass. I have that advocating super gene that mutates and grows in all parents that have kids with special needs.  Press hard enough and we can prove to be dragon slayers. I fought a property management company, a worker’s union and a school district and won.  The proof was in the checks they sent to me. I had pulmonary embolisms, drove myself to the hospital and survived.  I’ve had an amazing dose of grace and favor in the last year and supernatural strength to hold my anger back from bitterness.  It’s all balance and positivity.

I’m writing.  I will read.  Maybe one day I’ll spend some time with Foucault again.  I will be gentle with myself and accept attention and flirtations with an ounce of seriousness and just enjoy that I’m not the only one that sees how fabulous I am.  I am going to fully enjoy having a crush that has no possibility of a future.  I give myself that permission even though I am still married. I had a day of walking past him in his neatly cut suit and hoping I would catch him looking at me.  He was. It felt great.  At one point we made eye contact while I was making a last push to finish my work and I was a hot mess. I kept running my hands through my hair. I hoped it would make him wonder if that’s how I would look after fooling around with me and not that I looked like a mess.  Either way, I’m healing.

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