I am Yessica Maher.

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

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

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

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

Here I am.

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

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

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

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

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

I am Yessica Ruth Maher.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Living Like I Love Myself

I love me.  I really, truly, and with an open heart, love me.  I love me when I'm insecure. I love me when I need to be alone.  I love me in my silliness, and through my intensity.  I love me when I can slip into  being me, whether it's as Mom, Sister, advocate, one of the guys, or Freakzilla.  Yeah, she's still around. This self love hasn't always been my reality.  At one point it only meant I had fresh batteries.  I can admit that and love myself in spite of the times I hated being who I am. I hated living in isolation when I wanted to reach out. I hate that I have to learn to be social again, pushing past my loner tendencies. I hated what I thought and felt to the point that I offered lies to cover my truths.

In depression, it's easy to disregard your amazing for the ideals we envision.  It's easy to think we would be better if we were just . . . thinner, prettier, smarter, more confident. We don't see that "just . . . " is the most devastating weapon of self destruction we could create. It's easy to think, "I'm an okay person," ignoring that you are the only person capable of loving yourself with the complete understanding of what makes you uniquely different from every other human being on this planet at any point in time. We hold ourselves to a standard of someone else's creation, not valuing the unique design of our own rubric based on our own awesome attributes. My reality check came a few days ago when I was looking at my old Facebook pictures.

I was fairly committed to my massive ass expansion and I was content in it.  I was smiling and happy in the moment these pictures were taken, but I didn't love myself. In the first one, I was surrounded by family at Christmas.  The second was at my brother-in-law's birthday party.  Number three was my niece's sweet 16, and number 4 was a couple of months before my ex ended our marriage. I felt I was happily married and didn't know he wasn't.

I'm big on selfies lately.  They make me happy because they capture what I was feeling in any given moment.  I can go through my Instagram, look at a picture and tell you what happened in that day, and at that moment. My joy is what inspires my vapid selfie moments and they capture a feeling so that at any other moment, I can recreate it.

What my lack of selfie moments pointed out to me was that I didn't like taking pictures or looking in the mirror for that matter.  For years, the only mirror in the house was the bathroom vanity mirror.  I didn't want to see myself.  I was only in pictures that someone else was taking and I was asked to pose for. There are years of my life where I don't have pictures of myself.

It amazes me sometimes how an idea becomes a tangible reality when I'm explaining it to someone else. I was talking with my Dad this afternoon and as I'm telling him he should really start treating himself like he loves himself, it really began to solidify for me that I really do treat myself like I love myself.  Before this conversation, we were sitting down for a meal at Burger King. His choice.  I was telling him he needs to take better care of himself and treat himself like he loves himself.  The irony of the moment hit me when I took another bite of my open faced protein style burger.  I was eating food I didn't like, even though I wasn't hungry.

This morning I made myself breakfast.  It was eggs over medium on honey ham with shredded cheese on top.  It's not healthy, but it was delicious.  I enjoyed every single bite.  When we were out, I wasn't hungry, but we were stopping so he could eat.  I looked over the menu and couldn't find anything that screamed out, "this will give you intense food joy!" I settled on a burger without a bun, which somehow translates to no salt and pepper or sauce of any type. It was depressing to eat, and I was still eating it.  My doodle moment at the top of this post was about treating myself like I love myself and it was something I found on Pinterest and gave to a co-worker that wanted encouragement, and I'm hammering that out now. (I need more deskside doodle moments.)

Don't say mean things to yourself.

There are so many thoughts that run through our minds.  It's hard to shut them off or slow them down.  Sometimes random thoughts filter through and I've had a full conversation before I realize what exactly I've said to myself.  I have to be intentional with myself.  The self criticism has to go out the door.  It's not easy.

At one point when my ex was still here, but he had told me the marriage was over, he did his best to let me know all of the reasons I killed our marriage. Single handed, because I am a powerful marriage destroyer with the ability to control someone else's general happiness. (I should really learn to use these powers for good, right?) He handed his phone to his girlfriend so she could tell me (from the phone still in my name) that I was a horrible mother, physically unattractive, and deserved the way I was being treated by my husband.  I was treated like a mistress by my husband of 15 years.

I'm fairly confident now, but I still have moments when my confidence dips and I feel like I might be ugly or undesirable, ignoring the men I turn down because I am so picky.  Often, it just takes a walk.  I play music with my earbuds silencing all else and it makes me happy. Sometimes singing along, I take a short walk with my head held high.  I stride with one foot directly in front of the other, hips swaying in the imbalance of my gait.  I get appreciative looks. I've gotten strangers to pull over to get my attention and I've made shy men smile like I just handed them my last lollipop as a promise I might intend to keep (I never do).

Treat yourself the way you would treat a small child.

As a new Mom, I used to eat after my kids.  I don't mean when they were too little to eat table food. At that time, they got to taste little bits of what I had.  When they got older, I would make dinner and help them through their meals, only to eat the rest of the food off of their plate.  I treated myself like a garbage disposal.  I would never make my kids eat my scraps, and yet that was good enough for me.  I would insist they eat what tastes good to them, and I wouldn't force them to eat if they weren't hungry, but I would keep offering them food so they had what they needed when they were ready for it.  You would think I would do the same to myself, but that has been a more recent development and it looks like it did when I was a teenager.  I loved myself then, too.

 Put yourself to bed early.

Being Mom means you're constantly touched and pulled on and needed all day.  As a Mom that was also a wife, there were many nights when my whole house was asleep, but I was wired.  I would watch television or read a book, or just try to sleep but sleep wouldn't come. Laying in bed next to the ex when he was ready for bed, I would try to fall asleep with him and even faked sleep many nights to appease his desire to go to bed at the same time. Then I would stay up and make a midnight snack of a can of chunky soup, a fist full of sharp shredded cheddar and topped with another fistful of French fried onions (I did mention massive ass expansion).  By 3 or 4 a.m., I would go to sleep.  At 7 in the morning, I was getting the kids up and out the door, helping the ex get out the door, and falling asleep around 9.  I woke up by noon, ran errands, made calls, and did a crap job of housework.  When the kids were home from school, I would help with homework and start on dinner, because all meals were homemade with fresh ingredients.  My Dad introduced my kids to frozen meals when I needed help with groceries after my ex left.  I gave them fresh foods and learned how to cook new meals because I love them.  I would give myself cans of soup, piled with tons of unhealthy. Crazy, right?  Add 12 units of English literature and that's how I worked on my BA. Writing about it and the ways I had to argue my case for school with my ex each quarter got my 6 scholarships in 2 years. I did mention I'm a badass, right? I know I say this to myself all the time.

I go to bed fairly early now.  I spent this week going out.  I was at a friend's house Wednesday.  I went to a sketch show at Bar Lubitsch Thursday.  I celebrated a friend's birthday at La Velvet Margarita Cantina in Hollywood on Friday and met more friends at the Arts District Brewing Co. last night.  I'm making an effort to step out of being a loner. This in no way means I left at closing time.  Each night I was in my bed by midnight and happy to be there.  Cinderella has no idea how awesome her curfew was.

Go play outside, and allow naptime after playtime.

I love pretty things.  I love the beach at sunset and hiking trails where I'm surrounded by open skies and can see far out.  I love nature and museums and mostly I love my city.  Lately I've made every effort to be a tourist.  Just yesterday I explored the secret stairs in Hollywood. Hollywood was originally planned as a gated community called "Hollywoodland." The famous sign has nothing to do with the entertainment industry and everything to do with real estate.  It was built in the hills before cars were popular and staircases were put all over so young families could get around the neighborhoods with ease.  It's worth the Google search for the PDF.  I take myself to places I want to see because even without company, I still want to see it all.  I prioritize what interests me.  I have a whole list of places I want to go to and I keep that list at work. On Friday, I go through the list and decide what I want to knock out on my weekends alone.  It's a trip to see something pretty but it ends up looking like exercise and at the end of it, there's always food I like, and a nap.

Don't put yourself in danger.

I love solitary beach nights.  I love going to Will Rogers State Beach and watching the sunset.  I love laying in my car with the windows down and listening to the waves crash.  I love sitting on the sand, surrounded by darkness and completely alone.  Unfortunately, it's not safe so I often end up at Santa Monica Beach where performers don't worry about their tips being stolen because the police are all over that pier. I didn't make it to the beach all week and I'm not going to make it at least until Wednesday and I'm a little bummed about that but my week with friends was pretty epic. 

I went hiking a little while ago and ended up pushing myself too hard while unprepared.  I have learned my lesson and now carry much more water than I need.  I won't start a trip with a near dead cell phone.  I really want to go back to Sunken City and hike down to the water again, but I can't think of a person I would endanger like that and I won't go alone again for safety reasons.  Yes, I really just wrote that.  I want to do the dangerous thing, but I would never put another person in that position.  I won't go without a buddy because of the danger.  I won't invite someone else because of the danger.  I want to go again, but I won't because I can't put myself in danger.  I say this repeatedly because I need to remind myself that I don't put myself in danger when I love myself.  This is why I protect my boys like the fierce dragon slaying autism mom and advocate I am. But those were really pretty sights to see and I might go back without putting myself in danger. I might actually listen to the "No Trespassing" signs. 

Getting back to self love through not putting myself in danger, this also means I don't drink and drive.  Texting while driving isn't cool and I might offer a call that is hands free instead.  I don't want to pick up an old smoking habit even if it does feel like teenage rebellion. 

In a way, dating goes under this section too.  I would much rather not date, than date a boy that doesn't want to treat me like I matter.  I want to be treated like I'm beautiful and smart. I get plenty of attention from boys that want me to show them a good time. I want to know that if I'm handing my heart to someone, he will try to treat me the way I treat me, because I really love myself.  He needs to act like he might make me feel better than I already do when I take myself out for a good time alone. I want to be treated like a coffee mug. This is what kept my fascination with my latest crush from being consuming. I never could see that going anywhere solid. 

Feed yourself healthy food.

A few years ago, my doctor told me I was pre-diabetic.  It was early enough that I could make changes in my diet and I did.  I'm no longer pre-diabetic because I stopped eating like I wanted death to come early. I didn't do it for myself.  I did it for my kids.  Around the same time, I was always uncomfortable and had severe gas pain almost daily.  I started limiting my sugar and keeping a food journal that included what I ate and how I felt.  I didn't measure portion sizes or count calories.  I stopped eating 4 chocolate bars a day.  I loved almond filled croissants and grilled cheese sandwiches, but started limiting things that weren't healthy.  Within weeks of cutting sugar, I learned I'm sensitive to wheat in a bad way.  After dropping the wheat from my diet, I lost about 10 pounds in a month.  At my heaviest non pregnant self, I was about 230 pounds.  I ate what I wanted to eat, whether or not I was hungry.  It was often junk food that I ate without paying attention to what I was doing.  I was eating out of boredom.  I was eating because it was there and I didn't want to waste food.  I was eating because I couldn't feel whether or not I was hungry, thirsty, full, or loved. Eating took away the need to feel what was so far out of reach.

Fast forward to a period when my survival relied on being able to love myself, and I started eating like I love myself.  Cravings for unhealthy foods slowed down. I don't limit anything, but I no longer want it like I used to. I still eat sugar and I like it, but I don't want it as much as I used to.  I have both sugared and sugar free candy at my desk, but often share it without eating it all. My favorite snack is raw sugar snap peas. I drink sweetened coffee and tea sometimes but I also love Perrier (L'Orange and Green Apple) and the original V-8 juice.  I don't drink soda and rarely drink fruit juice. Just for the sake of the blog, I stepped on a scale today. I weigh 175 pounds, without exercising on a regular basis. Normally I don't weigh myself. Without paying attention to the way my clothes fit, the way I feel or a BMI that I can interpret, weight is just an arbitrary number and I normally don't torture myself with it. It's here because it's a standard we all use. I only take myself on field trips when I don't have my kids, and that's only every other weekend.  I don't diet. I don't measure my food or eat anything that makes me feel like death would be better than digestion. I eat like I love myself and the reward is I get to buy new jeans every time my pants start acting gangster, because that's the only way I'd sag my jeans. I'm wearing the same sizes I wore in high school.

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I get to act like I love myself.  I crave healthy snacks.  I eat when I need to, and not just because I can.  I'm not as fluffy as I once was and there's very little effort in it.  And the confidence that comes with loving myself feels like that first crunchy, creamy bite of creme brulee.  It's heaven.

Reaching out of Isolation

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Shadow Boxing

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

First Impressions

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

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

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

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

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

Online Pick Up Artistry

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Has anyone told you how amazing your smile looks?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

No. Just no.

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

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

Hi.  I hope you’re great in bed. 

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

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

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

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

How to impress a girl?

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

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

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

Searching for a Muse

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

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

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

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

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

Him: Do you like to dance?

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

Him: Do you want more kids?

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

Him: You're so beautiful.

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

Being online is also to remind myself of the bad.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Being online is about my reality check.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Being online is about stretching for me.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Transition and Waiting

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Filling Out Forms

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

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

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

This moment right now will not become a before.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Assistance on Aisle Me Please

I'm not quite comfortable asking for help.  Actually, it makes my skin crawl in bad ways.  I'm finding ways to get comfortable with the uncomfortable and I'm asking for help.  Yesterday was a day where I was being aggressive.  It looked like confidence because that is what my buffer of safety looks like.  It's bold.  It's the audacity to say what I want to.  It sounds like, "You're beautiful love, but that doesn't mean I want you." It's not nice and it's a perfect mirror for what I was feeling.  I was a bit out of control.  I was uncomfortable in my body.  I needed a timeout.  I needed to be alone.  I needed to find my center.  I went out alone and within a few moments I was okay again.  I know what I needed to do to reset and I did it.  The problem with that is I do it while shutting others out. This morning was a better morning.  It was a good day.  I took a walk and found peace in my stride. I was productive at work, if maybe slightly scatterbrained.  It was really great.

Early in the evening I was given words that came with weight.  It felt like anger wanted to claim me.  It felt like sadness was ready with a blanket to smother me. It looked like my mask was firmly in place because I was ready to hide in self destruction again.  That moment I saw the choices before me and I shifted.  I walked and talked with a great friend.  She gave me the perspective of a man as only she could because she was one once.  She gave me a direction for my boldness and I find that I'm a bit timid in taking her advice, even if I really want to.  This is new.  I like this new.  Our conversation shifted to the week I've had and she celebrated the idea that I'm willing to consider more than a few dates because she sees this as growth, just as much as I do.  I even told her that there's a new person holding my attention in unexpected ways and it's odd that I won't refer to him as a boy.  That says a lot.

I called three other women and even talked to two of them.  My world had righted itself by the time I got home.  I don't know if it was faster to enlist a few women to support me, but I'm glad I trusted them to help me and I'm glad we communicated on a deeper level.

I was a stay at home mom for 15 years.  I was completely reliant on my ex.  Our relationship was based in isolation.  He was my world.  I ignored friendships.  I turned my back on family.  All financial decisions were his and any shopping I wanted to do came with enough shame that I would hide Target receipts and buy Amazon gift cards with groceries so I could support my reading habit.

When my ex left it was first emotionally.  I had isolated myself to the point where he was everything and then I was nothing.  Physically he left.  I was so used to getting hugs and snuggles and suddenly it was just me, my teenage boys and my little one that wouldn't give me space.  Then it was financial.  In September of last year he promised to never give me another penny and it's not a promise he's broken. I had to figure things out.

I figured out finances, and self soothing through the pain.  I figured out how to find balance at home with the boys and when they are away.  It was hard.  I was able to learn from a breakup in my early adolescence that numbing the pain just gives you delayed grief.  It's like renting a storage space for your late aunt's things.  You will get to them when you can, and in the mean time, you're willing to make monthly installments on delaying grief. When you finally start to get through it all, you're faced with the grief and the anomie from a ripped off bandage that is covering something that was scabbed over and stiff and the world that kept going when you first lost her is still going, but they don't understand you might need to pause a moment because it's fresh pain that comes in waves.  It was emotionally draining.  I didn't numb the pain in alcohol or men that I really wasn't interested in.  If anything, I got really picky with who I wanted to spend my time with. I got it together.  I figured it out. It was hard and the idea of becoming dependent on someone else again scares me.

I'm stretching who I was into who I am becoming.

When I was hiking a few weeks ago, and dangerously dehydrated, I was still too proud to ask for help. I knew it was dumb to go farther than I planned with the small amount of water I had with me.  It was just as ridiculous to go hiking alone, but being alone has become the theme of my life.  I was determined to get to where I was going, and a bit freaked out about my condition, but I never once asked for help.  It was offered. I'm really thankful to the three people that offered help without my asking.  But it was dumb.

If I were a car my asker would be broken.  It's in my gut, right below the high beams.

I almost didn't take my Advanced class when I did.  I didn't have the funds and I was willing to wait until I did.  My friend noticed my aversion to asking for help.  She challenged me to stretch and ask for help.  She wanted me to start a Go Fund Me page and she coached me throughout the process, being one of my greatest contributors.  I started another one for this third class, but I'm in a place where it's okay if I don't make my goal.  I came up with the deposit on my own.  I'm getting some help through Go Fund Me, but I realized even if I don't make the tuition, I'll be okay. I'd be okay with taking the class later, if that's what it comes down to.  For me, I was proud of the moment I asked for help.  Even if enough help doesn't come, I've stepped outside of my comfort zone.

I asked for help tonight.  Rather than run to the ocean, I talked it out.  I asked for someone to listen to my frustrations and the parts that were angry.  I listened to wisdom I was incapable of.  I got it out and allowed the stretching that is forcing me to grow. I didn't go out to be seen.

 I chose to spend my last kid-free night for 5 days at home, in bed and reading someone else's blog.  I kept having wow moments at how lost I was, and how I could still feel the excitement though the gibberish (to me) haze of stats and my inner reckoning with, "I thought it was a football that gets thrown and caught and then there's running to the end zone with it.  What is all this other jargon?"  Clearly I don't speak sport stats, yet I kept reading. Interesting. 

Does Writing Make a Writer?

It's not a simple idea for me to own being a writer.  I never wanted to be a writer.  It wasn't something that was ever who I am or in my bones.  I didn't breathe in every moment knowing this is who I am.  It just happens.  Words come out.  It feels better. I was a scientist once.  There was a moment when the world in perfect excellence shattered for me and I was a scientist.  I fell deeply in love with Geology and I wanted to be a rock doctor.  I wanted to climb mountains and camp along active volcanoes and wear that big, shiny suit to take measurements.  I wanted to pick up and analyze rocks.  I wanted to weigh and measure and even bite dirt to see what the grains felt like.  I was a scientist. And I still stick rocks in my pocket.

To know me is to think of me with every sensory caress of the ocean; every rock that looks special; every butterfly that floats by.

Being a scientist at the time didn't really take in the needs of a young family.  I couldn't leave my family for field trips to study the earth and really thought about taking them with me.  I didn't have the security of knowing that I could leave and their Dad could run the house.  This sounds harsh, but if you think about my first childbirth, it makes sense.  I had Kid1.  My ex got food poisoning and when I got home from the hospital, I had to make my own dinner.  I hit the ground running from that moment on.  I'd be hospitalized, and get home with laundry waiting for me.  I wasn't allowed to lift a laundry basket and my help looked like someone willing to carry the laundry basket to and from the laundry room, but I was still on my own for everything else.  I couldn't see leaving my family to study the earth as an option.

Then there was the math.  I struggled with math in the 3rd grade when I was suppoed to be memorizing multiplication tables.  It wasn't just the math. It was at a time when I was sitting at a desk next to a boy that kept touching my legs and wanting to explore grown things.  I was curious too.  My teacher never noticed. I was not at all focused on math.  Not having that foundation, I struggled.  By the time I got through college level algebra with 2 kids and one on the way, it started to look impossible.  I was facing chemistry, calculus, and physics, and it seemed impossible when I had to fit homework in after my family fell asleep.  I imagined getting through with really bad grades and I wanted better.  I wanted an easier major.  I was no longer a scientist, but I fell into being an english major.

English and literature were easier for me.  I loved reading from the time I would steal my sister's trashy bodice ripping romance novels.  I loved literary porn from the 8th grade, not realizing how much I was warping my ideals of love and romance and real relationships.  I got older and had  a family of my own and would spend hours reading books as an escape.  Some days I would read 3 novels in a day, forgetting to eat, and barely feeding my family.  The housework would sit.  I was in bed reading, while my ex was watching television, and it was okay to run away without leaving.

When I was in the 10th grade I started keeping a journal.  It started after a breakup and became a place to pour out all of my darkness.  I would write and forget about what was bothering me.  That first journal was full of terrible men jokes.  When I got married, at first I thought it was okay to share everything, so I did.  When you share what is hurting you in a way where it was written only for you, it can look hurtful and mean, even if that was never the intention.  I began keeping my journal to myself, but the new boundary was never honored.  I stopped writing.  At one point, I had several entries a day and it was a cleansing ritual.  It became sporadic.  I remember writing an entry after a 4 year gap.  I would write for healing, but it was covered in shame. Then it was hidden, because I couldn't own how I felt.

In the months where I was still trying to save my marriage, I destroyed and threw away over 20 years of journals.  This was at a time when I couldn't write.  I was trying to write creatively, and I couldn't string together a paragraph.  I felt like my writing killed my marriage and I couldn't get it out because I was so broken.  I tried starting a new journal. I wanted it to be new and not include the dark, but more optimism.  It was easier to not write. I tried writing a story and got bored while writing.  Why would anyone want to read what I'm too bored to write?

In February of this year I started blogging here.  It was free therapy.  My words made me feel better.  It was more positive because bashing people isn't what I want to do and knowing the words are for someone else means I am held accountable by faceless numbers of blog hits and subscriptions.

But I still haven't stepped into being a writer.  I blog.  It's a hobby.  My Dad identifies himself as a writer, and I never liked what that looked like to me.  He was writing and I wanted to snuggle.  His dreams came with disappointment. Writers are made for rejection.  It becomes great material. I think that's why I'm in love with falling in love and my superficial crushes mean more to me than the men actually did.  It might be why I still refer to them as boys.

One day I might call myself a writer.  Today I own the fact that the words I string together can be compelling.  Much like a train wreck. It's enough.

I Know This Place and it Feels Like Fear

Last night I was still in an unhappy place from the latest texting war with the ex.  My voice is still not normal and while it's getting better, allergy season is rearing it's ugly head.  I can finally picture myself being with someone for more than dinner and it comes with fear.  All of this was too much and I realized it when I was at the coffee bar at work, making my cup of tea.  There was honey on my fingertip and I had someone's attention.  It was a predatory moment where sexual aggression meant I enjoyed his discomfort and I needed to shift. It's not nice to say, "I'm being an asshole, here's a boner I won't help you relieve." I've been told I was doing this in highschool and it wasn't intentional then.  It is now and it's never nice because I'm allowing my broken bits to hurt others. I am happy in dating only me.  I opened up to the idea of allowing someone else in my life - not that I've found him and it comes with the fear I have been avoiding.  I really get to face what it means to step into a relationship where I'm aware of my martyr habits and I get to see what I'm doing.  How terribly frightful is that?  It's fucking scary.  My security blanket looks like the confidence of being alone and I get to risk the fall in a way where I get to let someone else mean more than I've allowed since I decided getting married was a good idea.

Eyes wide open.

Sober.

Intentional.

Scary.

I get to be brave.

I planned to reach out to a friend and deepen my friendships but I got to take myself out on a date instead.  I drove to Santa Monica and arrived just after the sunset.  It happens earlier now. I walked the pier.  I felt my unease slip away as I got further out over the Pacific Ocean and the light of the sun slowly faded away.  I stood at the end of the pier and felt the chilled air blowing my hair across my face and taking the weight of my week with it.  I was holding this fear of falling in love with someone and having him mean more than I do again.  It looked like sexual aggression and it felt predatory. I had to remind myself that when it happens, he'll be so special that I'll want to give him my time alone.  Considering how amazing it felt to drive home on the streets with only my company and how much I loved myself in that moment I know that when I find him, he'll be worth it.

Owning It

There are times when the situations we find ourselves in are too great to imagine being in control of.  It's easier to make ourselves the victim of our choices.  Let's explore full ownership! It'll be fun.

Bad Choices

That time you got arrested for breaking the law?  Own it.  You did it.  You got caught.  You didn't get locked up.  You didn't end up in jail.  Your choices put you where you were meant to be.  Take ownership of the circumstances you created.

That time your bold faced lie got you ostracized? That was a choice you made.  Your friends turned their backs because you weren't being authentic.  They trust you with their honesty and you don't feel they deserve yours. Own it.

Always running late? Things happen.  Sometimes better planning would be the only fix you need.  Other times you need to acknowledge you made a commitment that wasn't in your interest and rather than stand on a firm "NO," you chose to say yes. Being late is saying, "Screw you, my time means more than yours does." Personally, I tend to give myself so much extra time that I think I have time to squeeze in a quick stop, rather than taking the moment alone to shake off the drive or other things in my life that won't allow me to be present and engaged.  This is my problem.  I own it.

How do you present yourself?

You want feedback? You want to know if people want to be around you? Look around.  Are they reaching out to you? Are you reaching out to them? Have you only made time for the hurricane that is your life and drama? Did you ignore the last seven life lines tossed your way? Own it.

Every so often a friend will ask Facebook a question of "what should I do?" They have two or more choices and don't know which to take.  They go back and forth, laying out the best and worst case scenarios.  I often tell them to do what they want.  They know what they want and they're asking for approval because they need someone to make them feel better about their choice.  I won't face the consequences or receive the benefits of that choice.  A Facebook based conversation means we're just not that close.  I like you enough to spy on you, but if I'm not texting you or asking if I can call because I'm driving, I've given space, and while I'm open to closing that gap, I usually don't.  (My bruised bits in this area are healing.) Own your decision.  I can support your choice, but I won't support you living in fear of your life.  I won't do it anymore and I wouldn't want my friends to. Own it.

Compliments

Someone tells me I'm beautiful.  I get stopped and told I have a great smile by passing strangers (male and female) on a regular basis. I've had people smile from their cars and hope I'd be willing to pull over.  I've pulled over more than once.  I'm a romantic, and one day it might be worth my time. Other times I pretend I don't see him and keep jamming to whatever song I'm singing to myself (way too loudly). I own it, but it's never something that gets my attention. I always hope to talk to someone and hear that I'm smart too.  I want to hear that I'm intense and it isn't a bad thing.  I want to hear that I'm warm and loving, even if a bit snarky at times.  I accept beautiful and when it becomes purely sexual, I offer my hard pass with a smile.  I own it because I've grown numb to what it means to someone else.  I'm fully aware of what I look like and for the most part, I love what I feel, but more than that, I love what my body is capable of. I own my looks that were a gift from my parents and have nothing to do with anything I can control.

People will call babies cute because they're little.  Babies are cute and precious, even if they look like they've been beat up by a uterus for a day and are still covered in bodily fluids and reek of a vagina that's been flexing and stretching all day. Cute kid, let me hold it because it's pure and I want some of that purity in my arms.  I want that tiny bit of person that you have had all to yourself with the stretch marks, heartburn, tingling legs, and stress incontinence.  I want to see what has given you a close and personal relationship with every bathroom you've met throughout a pregnant lady day. I want to bond with a child I will only see on occasions and certainly not for that feeding every 2-3 hours or the fever that has you freaked out because it won't break, and I get to remember what it was like before teenagers started acting like they hate me sometimes.

People will lie about beauty, but not if they aren't expecting anything in return.  I'm not asking you out.  I'm not trying to see if you'll let me touch your butt on the dance floor.  No cost is coming.  You are beautiful.  Own that shit.

Last night, the founder of the leadership courses I've been taking singled me out as a good writer.  She pointed at me and gave me a solid compliment in a room full of people that had her full attention.  There was no escape, and I kinda wanted to.  Blogging is free therapy. It's been a place to escape the confines I've been keeping all around me for longer than I can comprehend.  Each word destroys the chrysalis I never knew was holding me in. It's where I talk about dating or not dating or dating myself because I do that spectacularly.  I explore motherhood  while trying to not make this about my boys because how fair is that to them? I'm not them. I try my best to not just bash my ex, no matter how easy he might want to make it. I'm so thankful to the open ears that listened through yesterday's drama and the place I'm in that makes it no longer necessary to protect him or seek vengeance.  I spend way too much time alone at the beach (which sounds really good for tonight) and it's silly to me.  Living out my days and looking for joy is fun, and writing about it is healing, but it's not serious. I have a vague idea of what real writing is and I can't see that I'm there.  She singled me out and my blog stats tell me otherwise.  I am so interested in all she's going to be teaching me and I trust her.  I have to trust that she likes the way I string words together. The email followers, the Facebook hits, the searches that land people here . . . I need to own that even if it does require chocolate.

What's Opening Up for Me

What's opening up for me is I woke up with more drive and less being driven. What's opening up for me is less being seen and more of the experience of seeing. Standing in the sun today was a new experience and it was more than the heat of the sun or the chill of the wind blowing soft strands of hair across my face.

What's opening up for me is I can ask for what I want and I can state my case.  I don't need to beg and plead because that is what empowerment looks like.

What's opening up for me is the idea that I need to talk to the boys about my dating again.  We had a talk at first.  It was clear, Mom is just having dinner, if even that and no one special is in my life.  I couldn't see more than that but I can see it now. I can see a future that once felt out of reach. I couldn't see anyone being special enough to meet my boys before but I can now.

What's opening up for me is I've always been able to fight and advocate for my boys and there's no reason I can't do it for myself.  That doesn't mean "I'm all about that thug life."  I'm just no longer a martyr and I don't need to make anyone my bitch.  I can just be and know that I'm capable.  I am aware that my inaction was always a choice I no longer have to make.

What's opening up for me is I chose to share my lunch with someone else today (first time since 1999), and we talked and I shared with her how amazing my latest perspective shift has been.

What's opening up for me is I don't need to know the how, I just need to decide what and why.  Everything else comes when and how it's meant to.

What's opening up for me is there's no reason to wait when I know what I'm already eager to step into. It doesn't have to look exactly as imagined and it can surpass my vision if I'm open to that possibility.

What's opening up to me is the responsibility of knowing I am my only obstacle and my only motivation.

Rise

"Rise"

I won't just survive Oh, you will see me thrive Can't write my story I'm beyond the archetype

I won't just conform No matter how you shake my core 'Cause my roots—they run deep, oh

Oh, ye of so little faith Don't doubt it, don't doubt it Victory is in my veins I know it, I know it And I will not negotiate I'll fight it, I'll fight it I will transform

When, when the fire's at my feet again And the vultures all start circling They're whispering, "You're out of time," But still I rise

This is no mistake, no accident When you think the final nail is in Think again Don't be surprised I will still rise

I must stay conscious Through the madness and chaos So I call on my angels They say

Oh, ye of so little faith Don't doubt it, don't doubt it Victory is in your veins You know it, you know it And you will not negotiate Just fight it, just fight it And be transformed

'Cause when, when the fire's at my feet again And the vultures all start circling They're whispering, "You're out of time," But still I rise

This is no mistake, no accident When you think the final nail is in Think again Don't be surprised I will still rise

Don't doubt it, don't doubt it Oh, oh, oh, oh You know it, you know it Still rise Just fight it, just fight it Don't be surprised I will still rise

These are the lyrics to the song Advanced 139 chose to represent who we are. Powerful, right? It's not the Katy Perry version but a cover by Boyce Avenue.

Last night I was challenged. It was a stretch for me.  I was to embody Beyonce and be empowered by it.  Oh my goshness.  It was rough and there was a really raw feeling that settled in my belly and held me hostage most of the day.

There are many people that love Beyonce, but I've never really been a huge fan.  I still haven't even listened to Lemonade.  The album hit too close to home.  Waiting for my ex to decide he wanted me back for 11 months is not a feeling I want to revisit.  I feel stronger now.  I feel confidence and joy I didn't feel before.  I feel freedom for the first time.  Listening to that album didn't feel like something I could handle, so I've avoided it.  I loved her music in the early days, but there was a disconnect in who she is.  I tend to love music, while ignoring the person behind it.

The prude in me sat in judgement of her.  I've never seen the skin she exposes or her dance moves as empowering.  We have different styles.  I will step outside of the voice in my head, steal a hug from a man and tell him how appreciated his beauty is.  But it's about sexualizing someone else for my needs, not caring about theirs.

"You're beautiful."

"Thank you for loving your body as much as I do."

"Thank you for that public service that looks like your exercise routine."

Spreading her legs on her back . . . Crawling on all fours . . . Exposing her flesh to turn someone else on always felt like putting her sexuality in service to someone else.  It's her agency but it felt like she's giving it to someone else because he wants it enough that he'll claim ownership of her. It says more about me than it does her.  Madonna has done the same for years, but there's this distance she has.  She hasn't seemed emotionally needy in decades.  It's also possible that I over identify with Beyonce and I see in her the parts of myself I don't like.

I spent years using my body to please others, rarely ever enjoying the encounter myself.  I've found my power in satisfying my needs, rather than trying to please someone else.  I'm in a place where offering my sexuality is a gift I'm offering because I choose to and it's no longer a gift just because someone else wants it.

I posted a selfie video on my Instagram on September 19th.  I almost took it down because I thought of it being used by someone else to live out a sexual fantasy.  I decided to leave it up because that would have been me catering to someone else's fantasy, rather than enjoying the moment of confidence and satisfaction I was in when I made the video.

I was asked to empower myself by being transformed into Beyonce.  I had to dress in a way that I wouldn't dress.  My bra was visible through my shirt last night.  I wore pleather shorts, much shorter than I'm used to, with high heels that I nearly fell in.  I stumbled and almost took a few ladies down with me.  It was epic.  I was cheered through it and it helped me get through the ridiculousness.

The big part of what I was asked to do was to empower myself.  How amazing is it that people who have known me for 3 days could decide on day 4 that my biggest discomfort is in empowering myself? They don't see my insecurities at work when I'm asking and double checking what I know because I'm afraid of making mistakes.  They don't see me shrink back from fighting because it's easier to not fight and walk away than use my voice.  I know I could hurt others.  I choose not to because hurting others hurts me even if I'm being attacked, but also because there's uncertainty . . .   Sitting in the shadows as others move forward unable to use the thoughts that just don't shut up in my head . . . They don't see me silencing myself when with family or my ex.  They didn't see that the only place I've found confidence is in fighting for my children.  In this moment, I can see that as the past because I'm a badass and change is a choice I can make today and continue to make.

Last night, we left it out there.  I powered through my fear in bravery.  I stumbled through cold, in heels that were a little too big and trusting my feet or not, the shoes betrayed my ankles and I powered through in courage.  And through it all, I said, "Oh what the fuck? Do whatever it takes," because in the end, it wasn't about me but supporting and being supported in what I was doing.  I was being encouraged while allowing others to encourage me.

After the performance, I was lifted by my tribe. I was cradled, then held high above their heads as Beyoncé sang "Halo" and I sang along with her. My walls were tumbling down. 

At the end of the night, I had rug burns on my knees.  I had several hands on my body.  I held so many people in my arms.  Rather than feeling dirty and used, and distanced by my own design, I felt open.  I felt so much love that while my heart was ready to burst with the trust I felt, I was okay with it.  It was a time of open hugs that offered more full body contact than I've had in really long time with men that were scantily clad.  I may have really enjoyed that too. I offered massages and gave massages.  It wasn't payment for a negotiation of pleasure.  It was a gift and an offering of love.  Unconditional love and service to each other.  I was open to sharing who I was.  I was ready to let others in. I am ready to let others in.

I had a moment of just opening up in love to my Buddy.  He's beautiful.  He's kind, and generous.  He's considerate. He's a leader.  He's everything I would want to wake up to in the morning, if only he weren't gay.  I keep saying the perfect man would be gay but into me and he embodies this in a way that aches.

I'm committed to being gentle with myself, and opening up to others, trusting that being hurt by others might happen and I'll face that set back with a moment to say, "Yes!" I'll sit back, reassess, and move forward with an open heart because closing off only hurts myself.

The legacy I will live in will be to live in openness. I get to live and allow others in.  I get to live and in empathy, find empathy for myself because being connected to what I feel is a gift and I receive it in the present.  Each breath I breathe is the gift of life and each exhalation is my contribution to the world, and I can't contribute if I hold who I am.  That will only make me suffocate.  There is no life when there is no exchange.  We rely on others to reflect, to connect.  It was a huge lesson last night.  I get to live in a way that doesn't cripple my sons.  I get to live in a way that doesn't leave them searching to heal the scars I've created.  I get to be the mom I want them to have and I get to ask them the questions and offer the answers that I wouldn't have before because I get to let them in.  I get to let people in.

When, when the fire's at my feet again, And the vultures all start circling, They're whispering, "You're out of time," But still I rise.

Gift Receipt

I love receiving gifts, but sometimes it's not the right fit, or you wanted a different color, or the gift in no ways satisfies your wants or desires.  It's terrific when we have a gift receipt.  We can find out the value of the gift.  We can make an exchange or return. We don't have to keep what we were given.  Yesterday I found a gift receipt and I didn't even know what I had before I found it. During part of my Advanced class, I really took a look at my parents.  At the end of the day, I had a good childhood.  It might have been cold in some ways.  Dad would shut down and sit inside of himself.  Mom was physically affectionate but as I got older, her affection looked like encouragement to be better.  I've accepted that I may never reach who she wants me to be, and I only ask that my kids are loved and loving others because of how that feels. There was a space of disconnection.  I love my parents, and they've given me all that they thought was best for me, but I had to look at how they shaped my ideas of love and connection.

Let's start with my Daddy issues.

Dad is a war vet and he lives with PTSD. His war experience is never farther from him than yesterday.  Emotionally, he is disconnected.  It's not something I'm angry about.  It's just what I grew up with.  I realized I tend to feel like he can't see me.  He's in his head so much that he can't see me.  He stands bravely, but I've always known the fear he lives in.  I spent my adolescence, declaring to myself that I can't live in his fear or face his demons.  I just can't let them control how I live.  I spend a lot of time on the town alone.  I don't always remember to lock my door.  I don't carry the taser he bought me.  I refuse to live in fear.  At the same time, I've been afraid of deep relational connections. I've been afraid of letting people in.  I've been afraid to dream big and expect greatness.

Dad has kept things at a distance.  He doesn't share who he is outside of his faith and maybe it's because he can't see his value outside of his faith.  This summer he kept asking my kids, "What do you think of Grandpa."  I finally said, "I need you to be strong for them, and not question who you are.  You don't need acceptance.  You need to just be who you are and get your answers by who chooses to be around you. You tell me you are the son of the Most High God, and I need you to act like it.  My sons are learning who they are from those around them." He once tried to share his experience of Vietnam with me.  I don't remember what he said, but he remembered the look on my face and uses that as an excuse to hide who he is to protect me . . . to protect him.

This showed up for me in a way that I could see how every man I've ever dated was emotionally unavailable or stunted in some way.  I have always been attracted to men that feel like I did when surrounded by my Daddy's demons.  His fear . . . His emotional distance . . . His superficial connection . . . His need to control that made love feel like obedience and service to him.  I found his gift receipt and I don't need it anymore.

And now, my Mommy issues.

The Basic class showed me that I never appreciated what it was like for my mom.  She came here from Thailand as a teenaged mother, not knowing the language and leaving her entire family.  She was in a controlling relationship, but she's strong, and for years, her strength looked like distance, and angry yelling.  It looked like financial independence and generosity toward those less fortunate.  She had three daughters, back to back (just like I did), then I was born seven years later.  I was the surprise.  I came along after she had settled into who she was as a mom.  She had gotten comfortable with finding her financial independence and stepping outside of my Dad's need to control.  I barrelled through her body, giving her stretchmarks and messing with her thyroid.  When she wanted to make medical decisions at my birth, it was vetoed by my Dad and the doctor wouldn't follow my Mom's wishes about her body. She never gave me anything other than a sense that I was a cherished and treasured child.  I got hugs and kisses.  She bought me everything she could.  I married a man so much like my Dad, that when he left me, my Mom knew exactly what I needed, but never gave me a deep heart to heart about what she felt.

My Mom is emotionally distant, but she does it out of love.  I have no idea about my Mom's history before she met my Dad.  I asked a cousin about it and his response was the same as hers.  There is so much pain in the family past that they need to protect me and will not say anything at all.  What I know is that they grew up extremely poor in the countryside in Thailand.  My mom had to work by free climbing up coconut trees.  She never went past elementary school and yet she came to the states and earned an A.A. Degree.  She lived in such a way that she needs to protect me by hiding who she is from me. There's an emotional disconnect.

The way I see my mother in my romantic relationships is I tend to want to get lost in the history, the desires and dreams of the man I'm dating.  I hide my desires, putting myself last in getting to know them.  I mirror what I want from my Mom.  I want to be seen and sometimes I don't feel that I am.  I never doubt that she loves me.  I don't feel a deep connection, and I fight for that with my boys, often giving them more transparency than others think is appropriate.

What this means is . . .

I can look at this.  I can see what it means in my life and how it has created who I am, and I can decide that yes, I had a loving childhood, but I'm still trying to fill gaps that were created in me.  These gaps aren't things that my parents did wrong.  This is more that my parents were unable to be who I wanted or needed them to be and now that I see that, I don't have to keep filling those voids in others.

I can see how the circumstances of my parent's life never allowed them to fully express who they are.  I grew up with so much empathy for others and a total disconnect from myself.  Part from my parents . . .  Part from my suicidal years (1993-2006).  There are things I feel so deeply that the only way to survive has always been to shut it off.  If I don't allow myself to feel, it can't take me deeper than I can stand. I hide in my smile.  I hide in my confidence.  I hide in not allowing others to see who I really am because my darkness might be too dark (thanks Mom and Dad). They didn't have a choice.  I won't suggest they should do better because I know they did the best they could.  I'm certain that my Dad must have grown up with love as a barter system because I'm learning unconditional love now.  It comes from choice.  It comes without a cost or expectation and it's independent of the ability to be disappointed.

I understand that the distance from my parents in hiding who they are is because they still need protecting from what life has offered them. It's not at all about me.

I've had so much kindness in the last few days.  I've had so many people give me their love from the gut, with openness.  They're just as raw and gutted as I am right now.  I'm seeing how I've been in my world, trying to fix parts I didn't know were broken, and shutting out decent people.

A week or two ago, someone at work was opening a door for me, but I opened the other side because I'm not used to this kindness.

Wednesday, a man looked me in the eyes as I was opening up about my bruised parts, and he told me I was beautiful.  I could feel the zit growing on my cheek, and the tears streaming down my face, and my face was in an open and ugly cry.  But I was beautiful to him.

I had someone feed me.  He offered food.  As simple and human as that is, he offered food without expecting anything more than the company I offered.  And I keep trying to mother him.  What does that say about my mommy issues?

I found my gift receipts.  I know the value of what they've given me and how it looks in my life.  I'm taking it back and deciding what I'm committed to creating in my life.  It's going to being brave, courageous, and heart led.  It's already pretty epic.

Feedback

I'm loving the MITT Advanced class I'm taking but a powerful portion of the class is in the offering of feedback.  It's when we step beyond polite and tell people how we see them.  It's through this feedback I can grow. I show up as fake.

I show up as fearful.

I show up as controlling.

I show up as invisible.

I show up as timid.

I show up as lacking confidence.

I show up as a doormat.

I show up as disconnected.

Fake

I suppose it's impossible to be happy all of the time, but the joy I feel lately is genuine.  It's just not consistent. When I was asked a question and I was finally honest with myself and others, I keep all of my relationships so superficial that I don't allow them to matter.  I've had several friends reach out to hang out or get together.  When it doesn't happen, I actually am sometimes relieved.  I can go on with being solitary and the freedom I dance is is slowly becoming my prison.

Control and Fear

In my fear, I push others away because I can control who I let in.  If things are superficial, as they have been, no one can let me down or hold me back. I've been trying to make deeper connections with one friend, knowing she holds back just as much as I do and that she's safe.  When I walked in on the first day, a woman introduced herself to me.  She was sitting near me and I got back into my phone.  She got up and sat elsewhere and that was feedback.  There was a moment when I saw a friend's mother.  Rather than jumping up to say hello, I decided to wait until the next break.  I was being superficial.

Invisible

I show up by not showing up.  I have been going to events with friends, but not engaging deeply in who they are and seeing where I can show up in their lives in ways that are supportive.  Not really.  It might be a friend or two that gets my time for a while, but once I see my reliance on them growing stronger, I fade away.  I have spent two days with over 100 people . . . all wearing name tags.  And I never got beyond a friendly greeting with more than 10 of them.

Timid

I show up as timid while standing in the back, and not being heard.  There was a moment yesterday when I allowed someone else's anger to silence me.  This is the story of my life.  Every time a dominant man stood before me and made his voice louder and his body was aggressive in his beliefs, I shrunk back in silence.  In my career, I've accepted a job I love doing, for compensation that tells me anyone can do it, I'm replaceable, and not valued.  In romance, I've been doing my best to sabotage myself.  While dating online, I saw so many men looking for hookups or real relationships and I wanted somewhere in the middle.  I wanted one person to really hookup with.  He had to be my age or older. He had to be beautiful, athletic and smart.  If I couldn't find him (and I didn't), I preferred being alone. I am so great at this self sabotage that I found the most attractive man to be my partner so we could be real and vulnerable and never date.  He is everything I would love to date.  He's also gay and we even connect in not liking boobs.

During the feedback exercise, I had a really hard time giving feedback.  It felt like I was being asked to give the abuse I have received, only supercharged.  It felt like aggressively fighting back, only I couldn't.  I stood back and would watch the person in the hot seat.  I would cry with them and feel all of their pain.

Lacking Confidence

Confidence is more than the way I walk and greet others.  I'm good at that and it's just who I am.  Confidence in my lack means I have a million great ideas and I'm waiting for the right time to put them out there. Not having confidence means I needed someone to open my eyes to the possibility that I live my career, love life, and mothering style as someone who isn't worthy.  I live in just enough because I have not had the confidence to dream for more.  I keep my dreams as little goals.  At the end of the day, a dream, big or small, is still a dream and there's no reason to stop where I have been, except for my lack in confidence.

Doormat

I show up as a doormat.  I stand in the back.  I allow dominant men to silence me. I put others first to the point where I put myself last, even to the point of sacrifice and in terms of an exercise, suicide.  I killed myself because I was so focused on saving others.  How on earth is sacrificing myself for the greater good of the world? How can I be better assistance to my boys and the world if I am dead? Yesterday I spoke out about what I did during my postpartum depression with Kid1.  For the first time in 15 years, I let out my darkest secret about that time.  In all of these years I felt so much shame and sadness for what that looked like.  For the first time, I stood up and believed I had a right to ask for the help I never got.  I saw a man live out the pain of my inaction with my sons.  I was the mother that stood quietly while my sons were yelled at.  I kept my mouth shut when I saw emotional damage being inflicted on them.  In my frustration and inability, I turned to my sons in violence because I was failing and I needed to lash out.  I'm happy that I'm no longer capable of intimidating my sons because I'm no longer living in the aggression they were formed in.  But it's time to stop being that doormat because I can't lead them while I'm still following someone else.

Disconnected

When I was supposed to be giving feedback, I realized that my empathy allows me to fully connect with what others are feeling, but it didn't allow me to be in touch with what I was feeling.  Growing up, my Dad taught me love meant obedience and service.  He would often snap his fingers at me to get me to hustle.  I had someone snap his fingers to try to annoy me because the rest of the world sees this as rude, but it was my normal.  I spent my life worrying about how others are feeling and shutting down how I felt.  My first day was filled with tears, and I was encouraged to not wear makeup.  It was then that I remembered a time in middle school where I was often crying.  That was when my deepest depression started and I used to cry.  I learned how to put on makeup so it was only on the top part of my lids.  I learned to let the tears fall silently so I could wipe them away and lock it away so no one could tell.  Yesterday I wore more eye makeup than the first day.  I cried so much my whole body felt it with paroxysms of loss wracking through my body in waves.  I openly cried and the sound coming out of me was an open wail of true mourning.  I gave myself full permission to be in what I felt and the sound of what I held inside of me was frightening.  For the first time in years, I allowed myself to connect to the darker parts of what I felt.

When I was suicidal, crying too loudly would alert others that might have wanted to stop me from self harm.

When I was in love, my object's feelings were more important than mine because I felt like my happiness was dependent on his (it's always about a boy).

As a child, I had to learn to navigate my Dad's PTSD.  As an adult, I get to see that my parent's happiness has nothing to do with me and I'm not responsible for how they feel.

When my ex left and then my church family and his family abandoned me, I had to figure it out and once the bleeding stopped, I tried to walk in grace.  I had to disconnect from how deeply I was hurt.  I had to put aside the pain and the anger and the sorrow. I found happiness, but there was still this pain underneath it that tried to strangle me if I stayed home alone for too long.  But I got to really connect to that.  I got to let it up and out of me.  I was exhausted and energized last night because I got to feel what I had so stubbornly covered with a  plastic smile.

So much transition, and I get to say, "YES!!!!"

The Most Beautiful Thing

I had a moment with a man. A partner in transition. He opened up in honesty and offered his vulnerability to me. His tears fell quietly as he looked into my eyes. Not hiding. Not ashamed. I didn't feel impatient or irritated. It was humbling. It was the most beautiful thing I've ever seen. 

Trans Nerdy Podcast

I'm not a podcast listener.  Not really.  I have a friend.  This is her thing.  I say "her" but she identifies as gender fluid and while she was born a cisgendered male, she has now gone above and beyond in a transformation I am inspired by.  Everything she has internalized as her desire to be has become an external expression of who she is. From losing weight, to reassigning her physical gender, to days when she balances where she fits and how she straddles genders.  It's hard enough to be a woman with people telling you how you should look or present yourself, and what beauty means.  Any magazine would show you we're all doing it wrong.  She's both, and she takes the good with the bad, learning with excitement and aplomb.  She sees limits but they aren't her limitations.  I admire her and her podcast is my only subscription on iTunes or anywhere. This friend has done more than I would.  I see her and call her my sister because when I see her, she is more like me than a man.  I identify with her probably more than she identifies with me. She has moments where she is very male, as do I.  I mean, when we're walking down the street and I stop her to say, "look at him! He's beautiful." I'm being the more sexually aggressive one, which is traditionally a male characteristic.  This is especially the case when I vocalize my more intimate fantasies. Then I try not to enjoy her discomfort and feel a bit of shame because I've made her uncomfortable. When she takes her time texting back, she's definitely being more male.  It doesn't bother me. It's who she is.  And that's the point of a text or email, right? You get to it when you feel like it. I think she sees the distinction as more physical but I don't see her that way.  I see her as a beautiful person full of light and raw with emotions most of the time.  Her jawline is solid and I can imagine what she would look like if I could only see her as a man.  He is beautiful and if I could only see his face the only barrier for me would be the age gap.

The podcast itself is well researched with enough personal influence to express so much more than I'd ever get from a news article on the same topics she explores. She talks about issues in the LGBTQ community and it's stretched my perception in so many ways.

Just this morning I listened to Episode #8, Transgender and Acting.  She brought up so much about issues I never considered, but the more I listen to her, I can see how the LGBTQ community shares so much with the Special Needs Community.  There was a moment when she explained how an actor could portray Superman but never fully appreciate what life as an alien is really like. My explanation of the ways my boys are othered by their autism usually involves Superman.  He's different.  He's othered.  He has extrasensory perception, similar to my autistic sons (hearing and seeing more than I ever could) and yet I would never call him disabled.  Both LGBTQ and Autism are characterized in ways the rest of the world can understand although each person is unique and grouped under an umbrella.  The umbrella is for others to understand what the people under the umbrella get to live.  I'm so excited that I get to keep learning and stretching because of her.  Give her a listen and she'll give you a lesson.  I promise, it'll be good.

Advanced 139

I took the Basic 137 Class with Mastery in Transitional Training this summer.  I went in feeling highly skeptical.  I was pushed and encouraged by a really great friend or two and their excitement and the transcendence with which they spoke had me convinced it was a cult.  A google search told me it was a cult.  It looked like a cult.  I went anyway because of my belief in my friend and I got to see first hand, that it is not at all a cult.  But there is brainwashing involved. Emotionally, I can be highly empathic.  I won't watch the news because it makes me cry for people I will never meet.  I walked into the room on the first day and immediately felt this weight of sorrow and desperation.  So many people walked in with a plan for a breakthrough in their life, and I walked in wondering if I could get through without being brainwashed.

It started slow.  There were 5 days that started right after work Wednesday, Thursday and Friday, and had two all day sessions that weekend. There was a motivational speaker that was powerfully persuasive, but I was intentionally closed off and determined to not be brainwashed.  There were psychological games we played with minimal instructions, and the lesson in who we are unfolded once the game was over.  There were guided meditations and moments where we were pulled out of our busy Los Angeles lives, and we were cocooned in a place where we had no choice but to make our very human connections.  How amazing is it to see who you are as reflected openly by other people who only want the same growth they offer you through their honesty? By Saturday, I could see what they were doing for me as I stood in a room full of strangers that were hugging it out and openly weeping.  It was the most profound shared experience I had ever been part of.

I walked in with so much pride in who I am, and I was called out on the weakness in my inability to be vulnerable.  I walked in as a person working a temp job with the lack of job security it comes with and I felt that I needed to make up for that when I entered a room with doctors, lawyers, business owners, paid writers, finance powerhouses, news anchors, nurses, and even a city mayor.  I walked away with a deeper appreciation of my family and our connections.  I walked away knowing that what has always been accepted as what my life looks like isn't an internal dialogue I have to accept.  I get to choose what life looks like and I get to determine where I'm headed.  It's profound and beautiful.  The community built into the course is amazing in itself.   We have taken the opportunities given to show up for those we care about and stand in strength for the ability and beauty we see in each other.

I wanted to wait until I could afford the class and the time off of work, but a friend encouraged me to set up a Go Fund Me account .  I was surprised at how much support poured in from people that have never met me.  I didn't reach my goal, and yet I didn't let that stop me.  I get to start Advanced 139 today.  I'm starting five - 12 hour days of intense reframing and I'm going in with an open heart and full of expectation.  I'm excited to see the ways it'll stretch who I am into who I am meant to be.  I get to make deeper connections with the world around me and I have the support of friends and strangers alike.  I get to be the mother and leader I want my sons to have and this course will absolutely get me in position for this state of transition I feel is coming.

I get to do epic things and it starts in less than an hour!!!!