Owning Up to Falling Apart

My moment of truth showed up just before 5 tonight. Foraging for sustenance landed me in strawberry shortcake ice cream. The dawning realization that it was all that had passed my lips other than my toothbrush this morning was clear evidence that I'm not doing well and patterns of brokenness are emerging.  Searching for protein, I also poached an egg.  In breaking the yolk and scooping bland warmth into me without bothering to pick a lemon from the yard to whip up Hollandaise, it was the comfort I was seeking and I saw that in my food choices.  I looked around at the wreckage of a neglected home and found myself surrounded in the hollow ache of last year when my husband left.  I'm not that person anymore because now I can see my phenomenal coming out of every smile.  It's time to give her a hug, acknowledge her pain, and help her up. I am determined to break these patterns but first I needed to acknowledge that as beautiful as my time at my job was . . . as giving as it was and as much as I learned, there is the sudden loss of income and identity.

This morning I had the first IEP recessed because I wasn't pleased with the inadequate job the psychologist did in her report.  Calls will be made.  Responsibilities will be taken and where heads should roll, they'll find there's grace because my life is full enough without a bone to pick. The other IEP was successfully closed and signed and I have a copy to send to Regional Center. There was a moment when the school district rep and one of the teachers were alone in the room with me.  They marvelled at how I do it all. I'm an autism mom.  We slay dragons.  We sometimes have to dig deep, but we can do the amazing and impossible. We talked about my kid's early development and speech delays. We talked about sensory issues, and my kid running head first into the door, only to slam the back of his head against the floor.  We talked about poopy painting and tasting.  I don't miss those days.

These meetings were always my job but with the separation, the husband is now involved in every meeting and decision in any way he can do it without being around me.  During the meeting he joined by phone conference.  It was the first time in a long while we heard each other's voices and we did our best to not acknowledge that.  I felt mild annoyance, from time to time, but a lot of what I felt was gone. He was in some ways just another random voice and not the man I wanted to love or maim. That's where I first saw my healing today.

I stopped at the Gamble House in Pasadena because it is beautiful and the grounds make me smile.  One day I may take that tour inside, but on most days, I prefer to check out the pond and watch the fish.  It was a time of quiet reflection.

Throughout the day I saw other people as I ran errands and it occurred to me I wasn't attention whoring or flirting with anyone that looked at me.  Part of me has always been afraid that I would start looking for validation in other people, but today I realized I'm going to be okay in that way.  I've always been not so private.  I was the girl in school that would get on stage in front of peers and sing. And dance. And act.  I even had a wardrobe malfunction with an errant nipple in a really tight Elizabethan dress that presented my breasts as a shelf that I could rest things on. Being a senior in high school that inadvertently shows her nipple off to way too many people at once was not easy to live down.  Although, I didn't get any complaints either.  Go figure.

I still haven't cleaned up my house.  Dirty laundry is piled and there are dishes around.   I'm not seeing it as being lazy but a form of depression that is creeping up on me. Honestly I don't feel like doing it, but I'm making the choice to deal with it before bedtime, and I'm also making a choice to make myself a steak dinner because food is good and I can't start unintentionally starving myself. I like my curves and the clothes that fit me now.  I'm still waiting to hear about an interview from my agency, and perhaps tonight will see an updated Monster resume in the making, but I'm coping by looking at my situation. I'm coping by not ignoring it, even if that is my first instinct and laying in bed in all my bloggy glory feels better.

Today's lessons: The feelings for the husband are easing into a comfortable place.  I'm not attention whoring all over my neighborhood, just my blogs.  Feeling sad is okay and I am still healing.  I should pay y'all in therapy fees but instead I give you words and angst.  Lots of angst all around.

I'm Sharing My Coping Skills

It's unfortunate that life seldom flows in ways that are consistent and expected.  Those who marry would never divorce.  Parents would never bury their children. Dreams and plans would never be deferred or denied and disappointments would not be part of the human experience. But then we'd also never understand the peace and joy that come from knowing what their absence really looks like. I wasn't always a coping kinda gal.  There were a few times in my life when I decided quitting made more sense, or that I needed help because I couldn't do it on my own.  I'm really glad that I'm not a superstar at everything I do.  Failure can be an amazing blessing.  Depression has been a life time companion since the 7th grade.  Don't get me wrong, I was a bit of a loner long before then, but I think of the 7th grade as the starting point because that was when puberty hit, and those grown up hormones destroyed what ever illusion of normalcy I had going.

Hormones made my body change.  Long before that, I remember walking home from school one day and I must have been in about the third grade when a guy in a red car pulled up to me to ask for directions. I don't think my parents allowed me to walk to and from school before then.  I lived in East Hollywood in the 80's and early 90's and I was walking down Virgil near the city property on Santa Monica. I saw my first penis that day.  I didn't realize I should feel fear when the driver pulled over and asked me questions while his pants were unzipped and he had his penis in his hand.  I was confused about what he was doing and had no idea where he wanted to go. I think I was most concerned about not knowing where he wanted to go.  When I was 10 years old, a neighbor in his teens put his hand on my ankle and started moving up.  I didn't know what to do and stopped him at the the middle of my thigh.  There were plenty of other stories about my youth being perverted and my personal space invaded but by Grace alone I can say it stopped at physical violence and I feel without being physically beaten my emotional scars are harder to see but are getting easier to heal. Puberty made me much more obvious to men and the hormones made me feel like I wasn't loved on top of that. Rejecting advances is a skill I learned early on, but that brokenness that wanted acceptance made that a bag of confusion that I still have collecting dust in my closet somewhere. I pick it up from time to time and start to unpack things, but then I shove it deeper than it was.  It's on my to do list and will probably be worked out in a blog post one day. Usually when I'm feeling low, I start exposing flesh in skimpier than normal clothes. That's me regressing. My first real attempt at suicide happened in the 7th grade with a bottle and a half of over the counter pain medication.

I was hospitalized.  My stomach was pumped and I'll never forget the neon green bile that made it's way out of me through the tube that was shoved up my nose.  Ice water was supposed to numb my throat, but it didn't.  I was in intensive care next to an anorexic infant and when her mother discovered why I was there, the curtain around them closed so she could hold her contempt without having to see me. My great grandfather died and I was alone in a hospital bed while most of the family went to Texas for his funeral.  My oldest sister stayed behind and checked on me from time to time. I was in the hospital bed when I got my third period.  It took a few more to realize PMS was real and genuinely going to mess with me as long as I am fertile. It's one of the reasons I loved being pregnant.

Years later there was another attempt or two but nothing quite as serious or dangerous as that first time, and the last attempt was before my second decade.  In hindsight I wasn't quite as motivated to end my life as I was to end that feeling.  Time and experience has taught me that those feelings are cyclical and will pass. It helps to not dwell on the low points, but to change my focus. It helps to curtail the low before it bottoms out, and it hurts to not let other burdens add pressure when I'm already feeling like Atlas with my world on my shoulders. When I'm good, I'm really good.  When I'm low, I'm doing everything I can think of to get better.  I try to find something positive or stick to something physical.  Angry sex used to be my go to. Now I pull weeds.

I gave my firstborn life, and he gave me the baby blues.  I finally sought help when he was about 4 months old.  I remember crying on the phone with my mom and thanking her for not killing me in my infancy.  That was when I realized it wasn't normal. Therapy helped.  Talking to someone that didn't expect me to do it all and do it well was enough.

There was one point when I was on medication a few years back.  I had been dealing with funeral arrangements and cleaning out a hoarder nightmare without the support I needed. It was my father in law's brother and at his request but against my husband's wishes.  It was also at a time when my second child was transitioning from his public school to a nonpublic school because his emotional needs weren't being met and his depression and suicide attempts were hard on me too.  Going off of the meds was difficult.  I was often dizzy and started having irrational panic attacks when my youngest wanted to snuggle with me.  I was glad when things settled into normalcy which is still a constantly shifting landscape. If I can help it I will never go on anti-depressants again.

Last year my marriage ended.  I'm still married, but it's over.  Neither of us has filed but that just speaks of our stubbornness. He decided we were done and it was almost a year before I decided I liked his decision and while I continue to forgive him, I no longer want him back.  I told my doctor in the beginning and she asked if I wanted to go back on meds.  I was quick to say no.  I started seeing a therapist.  I realized I had given her enough of my deductible when she was telling me I was inspiring her.  I already had the skills I needed to get through that phase and I thought she might have been taking notes.

I was setting goals.  I was reading books on finance because it was an area of my life I needed control over.  I started setting 18 month plans and long term goals because Suze Orman and Sheryl Sandberg give great advice.  I learned about Leaning In and it showed me where to focus my energies.

I made improvements to my home.  I created a space that I wanted to be in, putting my degrees in frames and on the walls, along with the kid's certificates and awards.  I didn't for so long because for  long time my husband only had his high school diploma, certificate of baptism, and a picture with other security guards from and old job.  I didn't want to make him feel bad. I was doing the things around the house I had always wanted to do, but I was no longer waiting for someone to do things for me.  When the kids are gone, I'm not in a hurry to get home, but once I am home, I love being in the quiet.

I started buying things I had wanted for myself without waiting for someone to buy them for me.  I love Pandora charms and fresh flowers.  I didn't realize how much I love fresh cut flowers until recently.  He didn't buy them often, and sometimes not at all. I'm still not a fan of baby's breath, but flowers cut in their prime and set on my table for a private show have made that something I now do for myself, along with regular hair cuts and nail appointments. Some things require planning and saving, but I am no longer waiting for something that might not happen and hoping it might be able to happen without planning for it to.

I apply sensory techniques I learned for my autistic sons.  I have a plastic bin filled with playground sand that I stick my feet in on some mornings while sipping coffee on my front porch.  Just an hour ago I was walking on bubble wrap in my bare feet. I keep Play Doh cups in my desk at work and work the dough with my left hand while clicking my mouse with my right.  I have a small bottle of bubbles in my car.  When I get stuck in traffic I blow bubbles.  It is silly.  Other grown ups giggle at me or smile.  I sometimes smile or wink back. Slow intentional breaths required for blowing bubbles also triggers the parasympathetic response. The breathing helps slow down my heart rate and lower my blood pressure.  Most commutes to work include loud music that I sing and dance to in my seat.

This is how I cope when life throws me a curve ball and I've just finished a manicure with wet nails. This is how I face the lemons I was handed and make a gluten free lemon curd tart with spiced whipped cream and stretch what's left into lemonade.

Searching For My Happy Places

Over the last few months I had been part of a few Facebook groups and Christian ministries.  One of the many lessons and gifts they gave me is PIES.  I have PIES days and they make me happy. It's when I focus on myself, and the acronym is about the ways in which we care for ourselves. I was standing for my marriage.  I was a firm believer that what God had joined together, no man, including my husband and myself could put asunder.  I was praying for a reconciliation and trying to be a submissive wife, even though he stopped being my husband. I still believe who I am and how I choose to behave has nothing to do with anyone but me. I was willing to forgive anything he did.  If he could do it, I could forgive it.  I can still forgive him.  Forgiveness is a gift to myself.  Taking him back is no longer something I'm interested in, because it's something I would have done for him, not me. He doesn't want that and I'm learning to accept that I expected too much for him and it's time to fully appreciate that even his very best will never be at a level I deserve, and I don't need to compensate for his deficits when I can be alone and do exceedingly well for myself. I'm starting to see whatever path I'm on as a path where God is leading me, and taking care of me, because with all of the scary bits and uncertainty, I have been okay.  I'm certain I will be okay.

P is for something physical.  It could be a work out but usually it's more like getting a pedicure or my eyebrows waxed. This weekend might include a hair cut. These are things that would usually happen once a year before and now I have a regular lady I look for at the nail salon.  Her license names her Thuy but I call her Anna.  That is her choice.

I is for something Intellectual.  It's about learning or growing mentally.  I have never had a problem with that because I've always loved learning and reading.

E is about doing something to make you emotionally happy.  I've found ways to boost my emotions but it's usually entwined with something intellectual.  This was facing my credit report without guilt or shame and taking on the responsibility of contacting companies to make payment arrangements and clear my name.  The fruit of that came in January when my 1989 Ford Contour quit and my usual plan B's were all unable to support my needs.  I went to a dealership with a smile and a prayer and drove away in my 2016 Toyota Camry.  Realistically it's a lease with an option to buy and a horrible deal, but I like it for what it is and already plan to trade it in next year.  It felt amazing to put my CSULA Alumni license frame on it.  My plates came on my birthday and that was my gift to me.  The day my husband moved out of our home, I pulled out the bathroom sink and vanity and I replaced it myself.  He moved on a Friday and I couldn't use it until Saturday because of all of the leaks, but figuring it out made me happy.  I also swap out my own outlets but needed to call in reinforcements because a 1920's bungalow with knob and tubing electrical ghosts had new wiring which is old wiring and I couldn't see all of the piggy back connections. When in doubt, hire help. The times in the past where I had to remove the toilet to flip it and flush out stuck toys and puzzle pieces used to make me so angry because I didn't want to have to do it myself but I couldn't wait for my husband to get off of work. Now I know I'll have to get it done and it feels good that I can. Changing my exterior light bulbs and facing my fear of heights while on the phone with my sister felt amazing. I get an emotional boost in slapping on a new coat of paint and putting up shelves where I've always wanted them.  I swapped bedrooms with the kids and mounted two televisions one night and that made me happy.  I will soon pick colors and paint my bedroom and I'll have paint under my nails and in my hair and probably in my favorite clothes because I'm not a planner and I probably won't bother to change clothes first.

S is about doing something spiritual.  I pray.  I read my bible.  I listen to worship songs, but the last few days it's been Megan Trainor and Taylor Swift.  They say a lot of what I need to hear right now.

The butterflies go back to this theme of crushing the chrysalis.  Butterflies have also been my happy place . . . seeing butterflies in the unexpected places.  It's getting a skirt from a family member that was thinking of me and it was covered in butterflies.  It's seeing one land on a flower in my yard and watching it lift up into the air with a graceful shift and fall of beautiful wings on warm winds from the Santa Ana and kissed by freesia and honeysuckle.  There are times when I'm home alone and my skin is exposed and tracing the lines of my butterfly tattoo brings me peace and for a while I can just enjoy how great it feels to be me, and in my skin and in the moment when I get to define who I am and nothing else is capable of defining me. For my birthday my mom gave me a silver and natural stone ring from Thailand and pointed out the hearts. They are actually butterflies. The ring is huge and not typical of the daintier rings I prefer but I love it.

It's been nearly two weeks since I took off my wedding band.  It's the longest I've had it in a jewelry box in over 15 years.  Even when my belly filled with life and my fingers were too swollen to wear a ring, I kept it close to my heart on a necklace. I can still see the faint line of memory my finger holds.  When I'm lost in thought, the sensitive pad of my thumb traces the faint callus where even years of that skin to ring connection couldn't ease the friction of such a foreign symbol of unity.  We're no longer united and it seems silly to keep it on.  For the first time taking the ring off wasn't about my husband but about giving myself permission to be gentle to myself and remove the guilt in allowing another person to make me smile.  It was placed on my hand with ceremonial significance and the weight of the decision to never look outside of each other, but came off alone on a quiet Sunday with our kids in a different room from me and now sits in my jewelry box.  It's been through births and deaths. It's seen our love and our fiercest arguments, but now it sits alone, dented and deformed as my finger slowly heals from it's wear.

Pushing Past My Comfort Zones To Reclaim Ownership

There is a beautiful woman I work with that has encouraged me to push past my comfort zones.  She is blonde and petite and if you ever want to know where the good in humanity has gone, spend a few moments with her and she will fill your cup.  She always wears pretty dresses and killer heels.  One day she challenged me to wear a dress.  I did. I decided to keep going. I've decided there are great rewards in pushing past my comfort zone. Dresses aren't really my thing. Not now, but they are slowly making a come back. It's not really in my comfort zone. There's a back story and I have time if you do.

I used wear dresses and short skirts all of the time.  I once wore a short skirt when I worked at the VA Hospital and my supervisor noticed I kept trying to pull it down.  In her classic no-nonsense way, she pointed out that I knew how short it was when I put it on, and she was right.  I knew how short my skirts were.  I knew how high my heels were.  I knew how low cut my tops were or how high I had to reach to expose the skin on my stomach. I knew what looks would encourage a guy and what would intimidate and excite him. I may have really enjoyed working with veterans for personal ulterior motives. I used every ounce of who I was for the attention I craved.  I was like a puppy waiting on her back for a belly rub.

On my birthday right before Valentine's weekend I wore my Home Depot dress to work.  It's a white dress that hugs my curves and lets you know I have boobs. I wear it at Home Depot when I'm feeling low and it lifts me up by the time I leave.  I had a rough birthday this year so I wore it to work and it delivered for me all day. A special gift was a look I received. It was fleeting, but in that moment I felt like I was dessert on a cheat day and I wanted to be tasted.

Being a wife and mother changed a lot of that.  I became aware of what I looked like and it was suddenly covered in shame.  A mother's breasts were for food.  My legs were only for my husband's enjoyment.  Only he should imagine my legs wrapped around him. I covered up my body as it grew from a size 14 to 18 in the first few months we were together.  At my heaviest I was in a 20.  Right now I'm in a 14W. 7 kids later and I'm happy to take the W. I changed my appearance because of the weight gain, but also because of the guilt feeling that I should only be eye candy to my husband. This shame goes beyond him.  I had a problem with high heels before I met him.  With the men I dated before my husband, there was only one that liked how tall I was.  At 5 feet, 6 inches the guys I dated felt I was perfect in flats, but too tall in heels.  My boyfriends ranged from 5'8" to 6'4" and after the 7th grade I stopped caring about how tall someone else was.  Today I wore 5 1/2 inch heels.  I realized how tall I am only matters when I'm about to kiss someone and these lips aren't kissing anyone right now.  Besides, a guy that could dip a girl into a kiss without making her feel like she might be dropped has super powers and should really use that power for good.  How crazy that something like my height would make me acceptable or not, and it had nothing to do with how short the guys I dated were.  Their height didn't matter to me, but mine did to them. My sister loves me and loves shoes. It was a pair she had given me.  I have 14 pairs of heels from her and I've now worn two out in public.  I plan to work them all in at some point. At that height, they aren't really heels anymore. They're hooker shoes.  I looked at myself in the mirror and I loved how my butt and legs looked.  Never mind the lessons from Naomi Wolf and Betty Friedan.  I didn't care that it put my posterior in a ready position. I approved of it and that was healing.  Tomorrow is casual Friday and there will be no heels.  I didn't fall, but my toes didn't like me much by the end of the day.  They're better now.  I had a moment where my super busy crush opened a door for me and remarked at how much taller I looked today.  He didn't follow it with a comment about it being too tall or say anything negative, but he did notice.  In my mind I might have thought that I was still at the perfect height to kiss him but in reality I just said it was the shoes. And there goes that puppy with the belly rubs again.  If you're picturing a puppy piddling all over the place, dial it back a bit.  Not that much, but close.

I went to a 1920's theme wedding about 5 years ago.  I bought a tube of Ruby Woo lipstick from Mac.  It is really red.  It's matte.  I wore it for the wedding but then never put it on again because I felt like it made me look slutty.  I now wear it almost daily.  There's something about it that makes me want to pucker up in the mirror.  I was told more than once by more than one man that lipstick made me unkissable, because they didn't agree with wearing my shade of color.  It should be enough that my wanting a kiss would be worth the sacrifice. Again, I'm not kissing anyone, so it doesn't really matter.

Dresses are making a normal rotation in my wardrobe.  I'm still most comfortable in jeans, bare feet and t-shirts, but I'm liking the feel of a skirt and the look of my posture in heels.  I can't slouch or I risk tottering into a face plant. I like my bare feet on the ground, but I don't want my face there. I'll always enjoy being in nature and just enjoying the sounds.  I like waking up to the sounds of water falling and flowing, birds chirping and the rhythms of peaceful slumber next to me. It's just nice to know that the girl who used to hit the clubs in Hollywood every weekend is still around.  I may have even considered hitting a bar and seeing what happens for long enough to remember I'm not a drinker.  I went to my holiday party at work and had several Shirley Temples with a lime wedge to look like a grown up, but I was sober.  I still had an amazing night.  It's nice to know that I've grown enough to not fall into easy patterns of behavior because I know I deserve better and I have no need to lower my standards for that puppy dog feeling. Besides, I get normal doses from my crush. He just has no clue.  I hope.  I can be pretty transparent.

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.