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Skeleton 8: The Line is Drawn

2012-05-02T20:24:02Z

No more secrets...

He snapped Thursday evening when I was gone. When I finally arrived home, I asked him to leave. He refused. There wasn't any raising of voices as I didn't want the girls to hear. I held my phone in my hand and mentally observed the distance to the door. I held my ground. This was the last straw.

Inside I was screaming, admonishing myself for not getting better sooner. Then I would have seen this coming. Did I even know it existed before? Did I even get the hint he would become this? Were there signs? If so, how did I miss them? Was I hiding the answers I thought I knew? So many questions, so little answers coming forth.

He screamed at the girls only inches from their face. Tried to grab one that tried to run away. A frantic phone call from the eldest in tears startled me. Through sobbing she talked way too fast for me to understand. A wave of nausea washed over me as I tried to get her to slow down. Then, in a shaky, terrified voice I hear,

"She's screaming outside and it sounds like Daddy is killing her. I didn't know who to call."

My heart began to race. He'd snapped. He'd gone and done what he promised not to do so many times before. The only thing I could do was tell her to go in her room and lock the door. My mind started to race with endless scenarios. I took a deep breath and held it for a couple seconds. I immediately called his cell. It rang for what seemed like forever before he picked up. I could hear the faint high-pitched screaming in the background.

I don't recall what I said or what I did. I know he told me the reason why he was doing what he was in that moment. For me, there isn't any excuse that warrants emotionally scarring a child. None.

The girls recalled every single time he had done this to them and had them numbered. It made me sick. The question, "Remember that time when Daddy...?" shouldn't be followed by a terrifying moment of their past. I grew up in a home where emotional and physical abuse was constant. When I managed to escape, I swore I would never ever have children. I didn't want to be this fucked up mother who had their children live in fear, praying for death to come just so the abuse would stop. Before I decided I would have kids, I knew he would be a great father. He was caring, responsible, and didn't grow up in an abusive household. He wanted children--at least two. I'd waited until age 30 to make sure he was in it for the long haul. The problem was, I was a mess. I still lived in fear of my parents who last hit me at age 20, but never stopped emotionally abusing me. I was having chronic migraines and had a huge problem with narcotics. Prescribed ones. That coupled with major depression and eventually postpartum depression, made my life miserable well through age 35. When they were born, he swore to keep them safe. Unfortunately, what he failed to realize was the person they needed protecting against was him.

I was told if I'd only do this he wouldn't get so angry. Or didn't do this. Or fixed this. Or just did that. Or did it his way. Or didn't. It didn't matter what I did or didn't do, the marriage was broken. I'd tried to fix it. I'd gotten off narcotics. I went to a 30 day program half the country away to stop self-injuring. Finally, three years ago I was treated for severe depression.

And you know what? I woke up and realized I wasn't the one broken.

My true self, my identity, was handed back to me and I didn't need to rely on him to take care of me. I took control back and decided he was not going to say one more fucking time, "I liked you better, sick."

I had to draw a line. That time had come. More ways than one. I don't want to allow any excuses for him. I'm sure there are many. I don't contribute financially to the marriage. I have a ton of disabilities. I'm a stay-at-home mom, and a damn good one. He no longer knows who I am and what I have become and it scares him. As well it should, because I would have left him years ago if I had the chance.

I could give you all sorts of excuses why I haven't left. The main one being I would have to live in a shelter because I can't work. I can't pay for the insurance I'd need for my doctors and medications. I've already seen a lawyer and there's not much that can be done. That's not going to stop me, because there's plenty I can do. Just watch me.

He wouldn't leave. He said if it happened again he'd leave. Like all the other promises made to me, it was a lie. I explained I'd no longer remain silent. The marriage counselor would know, the girls' therapist would know, and they're required by law to report abuse. He said I was doing this to him. I told him he did this to himself and I wasn't going to allow him to inflict any more abuse. If it happened again, I'd have the police remove him from the home, I'd file a restraining order, and I'd inform whomever I needed to to make sure he didn't have access to the girls ever again without supervision. He accepted the terms and doubled his therapy appointments. I've told the marriage counselor and the girls' therapist is up next.

I fear I'm not strong enough to be a single parent. I fear I will be blamed for keeping their dad away from them. I worry my health will decline further. I'm hoping I can weather this storm. Despite all these fears I've drawn the line in the sand. Cross it and he will see what kind of person I really am.

And I will not fucking backing down.

Things Girls Leave in Trees

2011-11-03T00:06:02Z

I didn't think too much how life changes. I just snap pictures of odd quirky things my girls do while together. We have a smallish tree in the side yard. Of course that is the main place the girls play. I have watched them play together as if they were twins.

When I was a little girl, I lived in the woods. There was never a time that I wasn't exploring, wasn't climbing trees. So I expected them to climb the tree, fall out of said tree, and play under it. What I didn't expect was what they would leave in the tree.

A stick, a hopping toy, numerous bungee cords, and the occasional bike helmet made it into the tree as it was barren. Pretend horses, dogs, dragons were tethered there at one time. A makeshift fire pit with sticks arranged as a teepee ready for lighting at the tree's base. Then they really got creative...

The large rock is a "calculator". How do I know this? I asked after I narrowly missed getting hit in the head with it as it fell from the tree. I began to wonder if I needed a hard hat every time I heard them climbing from branch to branch. Another rock barely stayed in the tree, and it was a "camera". Each bungee cord and each piece had a role to play in their fantasy world. Each was a new adventure and a new use. The spring held new objects in the tree. A stray tool from Daddy's toolbox "accidentally" made it into the tree as well as a jump rope or two. Every time I looked out the bathroom window, I would catch them immersed into a new game.

I took this picture in the Spring. I look back on it and realized with the change in the Spring, this would be the last time I would see a little girl. Each girl slammed headlong into puberty in the summer. No more items were left in the tree. I wonder if this is the end of their climbing, the way each girl would interact with her sister. I wish I had more pictures to freeze this moment. As if I could stop them growing up.

In the end, they left their childhood in the tree as they began puberty this summer. I know it can't be helped. This is the process all children go through. Now begins the demands of technology: iPods, cell phones, Playstations, Wii, iPhones, and laptops. I just wish they would climb the tree one more time and transform into the girls that played in such an intimate way with the simplest of objects.

But, alas, these are the things girls leave in trees.

Not What I Wished For

2011-04-09T04:30:00Z

You know that saying, "Be careful what you wish for"? I have the same question swirling around my head. Why the hell did I ever wish for that? Can I take my wish back?

Four months ago, my therapist left for spinal surgery. Four months later, I get a call from the scheduler canceling my appointments for this month. She said she would most likely not be back by the time the office thought she should return. I was prepared for the call to cancel all of my appointments. I just had hoped the call would never come. I really could use someone now.

I recall back in 2009 when my major depressive disorder was at its worst. It was all I could do to hold firm to my vow to stop self-injuring. During a particularly nasty fight with my husband where I was told I was a "waste of space", I spat back,

"I hope you get what I have so you'll finally understand what I'm going through."

Every time I have uttered those words, devastation lay in its wake. Realistically, I know I have no control over others by saying that phrase, but I can't help but cringe knowing that indeed those words would come to bear at the most inopportune time.

My husband was recently diagnosed with depression. His medication isn't working. He has relinquished his control over me. I now am responsible for all of the bills, the girls, and just about every other function in the house as he is crippled by anxiety and depression. He found solace in an old girlfriend, despite the one person that truly understands what he's going through is right here next to him. I went from being treated as a child and as a roommate, to being the leader, the one responsible.

Not having a therapist has been a struggle. An increase of my medication created side-effects that landed me in the hospital. I'm still not totally leveled out as my kidneys are now being affected. I have little to no support structure whatsoever. I rely on one "virtual" friend to hear my sorrow just to get through the day. Fact is, I'm struggling. I think about self-injury no less than five times a day. The medication increase takes weeks for full effect. In my case, ten weeks. I'm only halfway. I wind up bottling emotions until everyone has gone to bed so I can unload them in my journal and just cry.

I find myself hiding my struggle even on Twitter. I fear people are sick of the crap and struggles I have physically, that I feel I don't dare come apart emotionally. Two people in particular @spudrph and @wbahner have provided a smile when I was at my worst. They are the closest to cheerleaders as they come. (Of course, both of them being men, that does make for a funny mental image as actual cheerleaders, but shh don't tell them that.)

@wbahner has been playing Words With Friends with me even when I've tried to quit playing. Words With Friends is like an online version of Scrabble. I've never played Scrabble as a child, so I had to let at least twenty other people kick my ass before he discovered I played. Our matches are so close in score, that I continue to play even when I disappear from Twitter for a while. Once in a while he sends me e-mails that are literally two words in length. "Happy Friday!" He has no idea how much just saying "Hey you!" means to me when all I want to do is get hit by a bus.

@spudrph is a friend that I wish lived closer so we could get coffee and exchange bad puns. He's a talented writer, but he'll deny it. It's the total breakdown, blubbery mess, in tears, me that he allows to snivel on his shoulder. No matter how scary the depression sounds, he quietly allows me to fall apart. What I didn't expect is a friend who can, in a sentence, make me laugh out loud in the midst of a crying streak. Being creative himself, he brings out the best in my creative spirit. I've gotten accustomed to getting a text out of the blue that makes me laugh so hard no matter where I am. I think the stares from my children while in public are testament to his funny, kind, and endearing spirit.

I know I don't really have a choice but to take on this new role as leader. My children need a parent at the reins. I'm so nervous about missing a bill, trying to figure how to pay said bill, or forgetting to organize my daughter's 9th birthday party in 7 days. In fairness, my husband did it when my daughters were just infants and I was bed-ridden. I just wish it wasn't so emotionally difficult for me. I'm proud of the fact I haven't self-injured during this whole stressful time. I know I can't do anything about my husband's depression except to offer a lifeline when things get really tough. I can't make him grab it. Honestly, I wouldn't wish clinical depression on anyone. It's not something you can throw a pill at and have it magically go away.

I hope my friends can understand a little more of where my mind has been these past four months when they begged for another blog post. I've been struggling to function amidst a sea of "suck". I thank those of you who still offer a virtual hug for me. It has meant the world to me. I guess that is the something I've wished for. Thank you!

Virtual Suicide

2011-01-11T02:25:00Z

How can one die virtually? On Twitter it's known as "twittercide". Deletion of your account without any goodbye. Online deletion of blogs, email addresses, Facebook pages, and websites is another way of committing online suicide. Unless you know a person's real last name and perhaps where they live, it's nearly impossible to find them again.

I went through my entire list of followers on Twitter today, and learned that a few of them had committed Twittercide. One of which I thought was a very good friend. He deleted his blog and email address. I knew he was struggling. Struggling to feel something other than depression. It's only speculation if he "reincarnated" himself on Twitter as a different account. I feel bad about it, because he helped me find two people that had also reincarnated themselves after twittercide. Now I can't find him. I don't remember his last name because I respected his privacy and didn't push for him to reveal it. All I have is a picture to remind myself of him and the brief time I got to know him. He was hilarious!

There's a question I ask myself whenever this happens. How "real" are these virtual people on Twitter or on other sites? They are more than a user name and avatar to me. True, they can misrepresent themselves and weave lies. Their picture may not be their own. They may not even be the sex they led you to believe. I find myself being careful how far I let people from social websites into my life, into my world. I've heard horror stories from others long ago in the 90s with the dawn of CompuServe and AOL. I learned plenty back then to ferret out the liars from the white liars.

I know that everyone lies in the virtual world. It could be something simple as hiding your weight, to omitting the fact you are married with children. I have only come across one sociopath in my lifetime (that I'm aware of). I had to deal with it when I was a sysop of one of the forums on Compuserve. This woman, which I came to believe was not one, decided to join the forum and began slowly gathering information from our thousand plus members. By the time I realized what this person was doing, they had started a flame war and was harassing a member of ours by calling them at all hours of the day and night. It's a sad world when a few like that ruin it for the rest of us who really want to trust, have fun, and make a connection with someone.

Then there are the few that I talk to every day and miss when they're gone. The laughs, the virtual hugs, and eventually the serious conversation behind the scenes that makes me miss them when they're gone. I'm not talking sexual or even intimate conversations. It's the pain laid bare, the fear, the longing, the conversation that cannot be told to another person. It's just that private and genuine.

There have been a few I tracked down that came back to Twitter. It's one of those hopeless searches, because deep down you know the chances of finding them again is slim. It's exciting when you are able to find them and then tell them to never do that again. It's so disheartening to discover someone deleted their account and disappeared forever.

I miss the few I couldn't catch. I hope you're alright. I'm glad to have gotten to know you. You've all changed my life in some manner. I'll miss you, terribly.

Christmas Guilt and Relief

2011-01-05T00:03:00Z

I sat staring at the trite sentiment on the Christmas card that arrived on the 23rd of December. The gift cards had fallen into my lap, but I'd barely noticed them.

Merry Christmas! Dad, Mom, and [sister]

That was it. It was decided. I was not to be invited for Christmas for the first time in 40 years. Fact was, I wasn't going to kiss their asses and call every week, or ask to be invited. Normal people call others and invite them. They don't have people just up and invite themselves to a function. We weren't invited for Thanksgiving, and now Christmas.

This is what I wanted. After all, I wanted a reason not to go. I didn't want to endure a strained six to eight hours at my abusive parents' house. This was my life, and I had gotten to the point where I could pretty much handle it. I did it in silence and tried to be invisible. It was a survival mechanism, and I pretty much knew how to slip back into that role. I wanted a reason not to have to go over there anymore. I did it for my sister and for my girls.

As a tear slipped down my cheek, I thought of my sister. I hadn't seen her in nearly 6 months. I'm sure my parents said that I didn't want to visit her, didn't love her, didn't want her. I'd tried calling, but my mother always made some excuse why she couldn't talk to me. I wanted her to come over, but there was always the "Cinderella" excuse why she couldn't. I gave up.

My silence cost me. It cost me holidays with her. I didn't kiss my parents' asses by taking them out to dinner, short trips by just to hang out, fawn all over them with attention. I wasn't about to buy into that pathology, but if my brother and sister-in-law wanted to, then all the power to them. They are exactly like my parents.

Yet, this felt like the time I stood up to my parents. Ironically, it was on a Christmas when I came home from college. I accidentally spilled wine on the tablecloth as I was pouring the wine. I asked mom where her paper towels were. She asked why. I told her. She rushed into the dining room, and started swearing at me. I told her it was an accident and to not yell at me.

Slap

She had slapped me in front of my oldest sister and brother-in-law. I staggered backwards and bit my cheek so I wouldn't cry. "Never let her see me cry," I thought. I was 18 years old. An adult. I knew if I called the police no one who witnessed it would stand up for me. My oldest sister was just as afraid of my mother as I was. This time I was angry. I went up into my room and shut the door. I anticipated a fight. I was prepared. I would fight back this time. Fuck them and their money for college tuition. I debated locking the door, but any skeleton key could open it. I struggled not to cry as I traced the hand print across my cheek. My parents called me down for dinner. I said I wasn't hungry. I wasn't going to eat or anything. I was done for the night. My dad tried to talk to me and demanded I come downstairs and eat. He said I was ruining Christmas. I think a slap in the face pretty much ruined mine, but that didn't matter. I was not going to go downstairs. And I didn't.

This situation felt like that. I held steadfast in my decision that I shouldn't be the one to beg to go over and celebrate with them. My children didn't care and thought it would be great to celebrate just the four of us--a new beginning of family tradition.

Wiping away the tear that drifted down my cheek, I took a deep breath and exhaled. I finally felt like I owned my life. I wasn't scared of the ramifications. It didn't matter. They can't hurt me anymore.

A Silent Goodbye

2010-12-05T04:18:00Z

An open letter written in late November to my friend. I debated posting this as it is personal. The person in question knows it's being posted, and with their permission. Like most skeletons in my closet, this one needs releasing. Goodbye...

November 17th was the last time you mentioned loving me. I replay a video of your voice several times a day because I miss you terribly. I hoped you could continue to accept me. I hoped you would choose me. I hoped when you said you loved me it meant something other than the afterthought of an orgasmic rush.

I am in emotional pain every waking minute of the day. Longing for you. Knowing you will never be here. When I dream it's of the despair of losing you. I cry out to the sky and beg to have the pain stop and have you return to me.

I know that will never happen. My anguish is knowing that. Feeling how genuine you were and then now having nothing at all. Fucking up a friendship I so desperately wanted. I am left standing in the same exact position where we met. Where you consoled me. Now, there is no you. No charming you. No tender, caring you to console me in my pain. Only silence. Heart-wrenching silence.

I hate being alone. I hate knowing how happy I was and that I may never feel that way again. I wonder if I am so easily forgotten. Do you ever cry like I do every night and every morning? Knowing I'll never get "Good morning beautiful lady" as a text when I wake, followed by your wonderful emails is now torture.

Hearing the silence after four months is more than I can bear. I am struggling with living without you. I see things I can no longer share. I imagine your voice and miss its soothing comfort telling me it will be OK. It's not OK. I'm not OK. I don't think I'll ever be OK.

You chose a life without me, and I can't help but think I was a toy to make you feel better. A willing participant. Now, I have nothing. I have pictures of a face I wanted to touch. Lips that I so desperately wanted to kiss. A voice that isn't really you...but a memory I once had and cherish. I wish I could hear you say hello and wish me a good night just one more time.

Your conscience must be clear by now, but my pain lives on, and each passing day becomes more and more unbearable. I feel like you died and I didn't get to hold you. My life feels empty, and I haven't figured out how to move on.

I erased your phone number and address. I was afraid I'd try to contact you. Lose my nerve and do what is unforgivable and unwanted. I'd silently hoped you would still text me, call me, say you needed me, but you don't and never will.

How I fucked this up, I'll never quite know. I never asked you to love me and now you don't. Because the last time you said you loved me was November 17th.

And then... No more.

Invisible Illness

2010-11-10T04:28:26Z

There are some days I wish I didn't have pain, didn't have multiple medical problems, or have to be on so many pills. Thinking desperately how I want out of this body, out of this life, out from under the assumptions. What assumptions? She's fat, so that's why she's "sick". No, actually, I had all these fucking problems at a young age. The older I get, the more crap I have to deal with. The list is starting to get longer and longer, and I just want off the damn ride.

I was asked once, "What isn't wrong with you?" and "What [medication] haven't you been on?" I consider that person a friend, so I'm not offended, but in the grand scheme of things I can't help but bristle. So, I'm going to list them all.

Variant migraine with aura
Secondary tension headaches
Fibromyalgia
Osteoarthritis
Plaque psoriasis
Abnormal ECG
High blood pressure
Extruded disk L5-S1 (some nerve damage from that)
Non-specific autoimmune disorder
Vitamin D deficiency
DIMS sleep disorder (some phases are truncated or missing while others are prolonged)
Major depression
Carpal tunnel syndrome

Four of those I've had from a very young age. It's a chronic pain situation as an invisible illness. Yes, I do know that two of those would most likely be alleviated if I was a normal body weight. Don't you think I've realized this within the last 15 years of my life? I know who I am in the mirror. I'm someone who's overweight, losing her hair, and scars all over her body. I can't help but see the stark reality every damn day. Please don't remind me of that fact.

I'm accustomed to the pills, the doctor visits, the specialists, the therapy and the countless ways I have sucked our money dry with all of it. Do you think I like it? Do I feel guilty? Yes. I feel guilty. Instead of each of my daughters getting an extra shirt for winter clothing, I bought my over the counter medication that is prescribed by my neurologist. Those supplements are not covered by my insurance. I have an $800 copay every single time I have an epidural series for my back which is every other month. Every three months is a $650 out-of-pocket cost to have botox for my tension headaches that is injected by a neurologist but isn't covered due to botox deemed "cosmetic". I want so desperately to have an easier life at times. Not just because of the pain I endure, but rather the fact it costs so damn much to have normalcy.

Here's what really irritates me. Everyone seems to have advice. Everyone has an opinion of what I should be doing and not doing. Ready for the latest round of comments? Here we go...

If you quit going to doctors, they won't find anything wrong. Doctors want to make a lot of money and will find things wrong with you to that end.

Wow! Why didn't I become a doctor? I would be able to make millions by diagnosing people with all sorts of conditions they clearly don't have. That's ethical, right? Then I can just order all sorts of unneeded tests and force my patients to come back in so I can make up something that's wrong with them.

I take Excedrin Migraine or Aleve for my migraines and they go away. Have you tried that?

No, dumb ass, I decided to take all these other expensive medications instead of just going with the over-the-counter remedy. Thanks for the advice, but I'd rather take something that actually works for my type of migraine that I've had for the past 32 years.

If you just think happy thoughts you won't be depressed.

Ah, my favorite one of all. Don't you think I would have tried that by now? Nah, I'd rather struggle to get out of bed in the morning, let alone get dressed, and want to die every waking second of my life. That's much easier.

You mean you have to be on medication the rest of your life? I'd just stop taking it if it made me feel bad.

Yes, I do! I'd rather be on medication for the rest of my life than be in pain, suicidal, and self-injuring. I will deal with the nausea, sleepiness, dry mouth, being light headed, sexual dysfunction, and weight gain if it means the difference between wasting away in a bed, waiting to die and being functional. I will take the two migraines a week compared to the daily 12-hour migraines I used to have. I will gladly take all that crap if it means I can sit upright, enjoy a hug from my daughters, set goals for myself, and grow as a person. I will take it if it works.

It can't possibly be that bad. If you put your mind to it, you'd be fine.

I'm not suffering from Münchausen Syndrome. I'm not faking it. I'm not doctor shopping. I don't love the idea of having to go to all of these doctors. I don't like the idea of spending all my money on treatments. I don't enjoy having 12 injections of botox into my forehead. I don't like have a needle jabbed into my spine to deliver steroid and marcaine just so I can walk 25 feet without needing to sit from the pain. I have laid in bed at night as a teenager, crying because I wanted my migraines to go away. I begged God that I would be good if he could make the pain go away. I gently cupped my hands at night from the pain, sobbing because I wanted it to go away. I have begged, pleaded, and tried everything to make it all go away. So far, it hasn't worked, and I've had no choice but to accept it, adapt, and move past the wishing for it to be gone.

Now that I've gotten that slight rant out of the way, I want to mention that just because you can't see any disability, it doesn't mean there isn't one. It's still a struggle in the morning to get my fingers and hands "warmed up" enough so I can get dressed. I have had to alter my life drastically since age 19. I need lever handles on all the faucets and doors. I have to have an emergency contact app on my phone that lists each and every one of my medications, and I've worn a medic alert bracelet for years. Some days it's all I can do to not scream as I bend my back from it's frozen straight position in the morning. I can't lift heavy objects. I can't even feel the tips of my fingers nor the tops of my feet or parts of my calves due to the nerve damage. I have to have an elaborate plan in case I get an aura while driving and can't make it home to meet the girls' school bus.

I've had to significantly adapt how I function in life. I'm very lucky in that for right now, this is the best I have ever been able to function. Many others with similar challenges don't respond as well to medication or lifestyle changes. It's not easy. I've found many others who are sympathetic on Twitter. One in particular, Michael Webb, @spudrph suggested I read a certain blog about having an invisible illness. It's written by Christine Miserandino. It's The Spoon Theory and describes exactly what it's like to have a hidden illness. It's worth reading.

All that said, I'm so frustrated when I'm only known by my disability. All I want is empathy. I don't want to be known solely as the sick girl, that woman with the migraines, that mom with the back problems, the friend who's depressed all the time. I can't forget I'm dealing with health issues, so I certainly don't need you to remind me. As if I could ever forget.

I want to be known as the artist, the creative woman, the funny mom, the sensual MILF for lack of a better description! I'm me! Get to know the other side of me, but be considerate that just because you can't see I'm hurting, doesn't mean that I'm not.

Oh, did I mention I need glasses for the first time in 40 years? Bifocals for astigmatism. Not another damn thing. Life just gets better an better. I think I might need to rethink things and go for that sexy librarian look after all. (wink)

New York City Part 3: My Marathon Continued

2010-10-10T23:04:36Z

"Push through the pain! You can do this!" I screamed at myself. Fact of the matter was, I struggled to breathe. It was like a sauna out in the open, despite the wonderful breeze from the water. I slathered on sunscreen as I knew there wouldn't be any shade from here on out. The heat was really getting to me. What I didn't realize at the time was my new medication was dropping my blood pressure too far. Every time I stood up, I felt like my legs were lead and I was light headed. At this point, I think I hit the wall, but knew I had to press on.

We got tickets and I took one look at the line. No place to sit and we were out in the open. Nichole suggested that perhaps she ask if there was any shade for me to sit in until the line caught up to us. I saw the police officer right near the wheelchair ramp, and decided to just go up and ask. I asked him if I could sit inside as I had a medical condition. He asked me what it was. I sort of lied. I said I had a heart condition, but at that point I wasn't about to tell the truth. As he waived us into the white tent, I suspected a major line. What I didn't realize was that this was a security station created because of the September 11th tragedy.

A line of 4 metal detectors and X-ray conveyor belts that reminded me of a Court House. Familiar with the drill, I shut off my phone, took everything out of my pockets, and placed it all in the bin on the conveyor belt. I silently was glad I hadn't brought my tiny Swiss Army pocket knife on my trip to NYC. It would have been in my purse. As walked through the metal detector, it went off.

"Wonderful," I thought. I knew I would be scanned by the metal detecting wand and it would be my underwire bra setting it off. Unfortunately, it didn't show anything. Confused, I looked at the other woman National Security Officer, and she told me to go back through, slowly.

I did it more slowly. It went off again. Shit. I could feel the people's eyes bore into me as they were also waiting to get through. I hate holding up the line. I turned and walked through it again. Again, it went off.

Oh this isn't good. I quickly took off my sandals and put them in the bin. I knew that was what had triggered it a year ago when I had to go to a Court House to pick up some documents. I felt reassured that my sandals were the problem. I just knew it.

Beep, beep, beep...

What the fuck?! Finally, the officer yelled over the top of the crowd for me to hold out my arms in front of me, palms meeting together, and walk very slowly through the detector. My heart began to race as I went back through the detector and assumed the position instructed. Inside, I silently hoped this would work.

I began to inch through the detector slowly. I literally held my breath as the main part of my body hit the sensor. I swear I literally was saying "please, please, please" over and over as I walked through. Not hearing a sound, I quickly scraped up my items out of the bin, and whipped my sandals back on. I didn't want to hold up anyone behind me. I just knew I was the only idiot who couldn't make it through the metal detector. Then I heard the familiar beep as I sat down. I realized I wasn't the only one. I knew I was halfway there. Now to battle the line to the ferry.

We exited the security station and I suddenly felt like I was cattle. There isn't a line to stand in. Instead there's a crowd formation, with only a commercial grade fan to circulate the stifling hot air. At that point, I knew there was no hope in trying to keep my shirt dry. I couldn't help but be relieved that my shirt wasn't see-through. Once on the ferry, I was bummed there were no seats up top, but at that point, staying in the shade was fine by me. I quickly bought some Gatorade and shuddered at the taste. It's sort of like knowing you have to take your medicine to get better, so either drink it or risk needing an ambulance later. Sitting on one of the benches on the ferry, I could look across the Hudson River toward the skyline as we inched our way toward the Statue of Liberty.

The expanse of the water, a very large bridge in the haze to my right, and the slow pitch of the boat over the waves reminded me of going to Mackinac Island from the mainland by ferry. I was amazed how relaxing it was. I tried desperately to record what I saw permanently onto my soul. I know I would most likely not be back any time soon. I had this aching need to remember it all verbatim in extensive detail.

Then, she came into view on my side of the ferry. The Statue of Liberty may seem like to some as just this statue in the water, but I had no real sense of knowing how big it was until just then. I thought there were flowers around the base of the statue, but as the ferry moored to the dock, I realized they were people and not flowers. I managed to exit the steep ramp and walk to the gift shop. The blast of air conditioning was a welcome relief. I managed to squat down in a corner to unlock my back spasm. Nichole and her friend went to go look at the statue while I began to figure out what souvenirs I was going to bring back to the girls. I finally settled on a pressed copper coin the thickness of the Statue of Liberty, a few postcards, and a couple of Kooky pens.

Just as I sat down outside, trying to take in the surroundings by calming my body and feeling the atmosphere, Nichole walked up to me and said we should probably get in line on the dock. I knew I had to do the two things I've always wanted to do: take soil from the base and take a picture of the back of the statue. She said they could wait if I wanted to walk around to the front. I made a split second decision to forgo doing that. I knew I had to make it back to the subway, and I knew I was already on borrowed time. I'd done what I wanted to do. I saw the statue in person, and walked more than I had ever.

I was so glad to be back on the ferry going back, and enjoyed seeing the skyline once again. As I stepped off the ferry, I started to get a migraine. What next? Someone shoot me? I was seriously beginning to wonder if I was going to have a heart attack. My chest hurt, I couldn't catch my breath, my back was trashed, and now a migraine. Wonderful. I became a robot at that point. I just followed the other two into the subway.

Once into the stifling underground world of New York City, I was of no help determining which line to take. I swear at that point, I was just really fucked. I needed to get back to the hotel. I was willing to pay a $50 cab fare if I had to. Somehow we managed to get on the wrong subway going the wrong direction. I fought to take each step up the stairway. My left leg was dragging now from the nerve impingement in my spine. After asking for subway directions up on street level, it was back down and on the correct subway back. I collapsed into a cab back to the hotel. I was at the home stretch.

Once back at the hotel in my room, I stripped naked, and lay on my back in the spare bed as my chest heaved trying to catch my breath. It wasn't working to bring my heart rate down, so I took a cold shower to cool down. As the cold water soothed my aching and painful muscles, I realized, I'd done it. I'd walked the furthest I'd ever gone. It was my marathon. I completed it. Sure there wasn't a single place in my body that didn't hurt, but I finished.

I knew then, that if I could do that, I could do anything with perseverance.

To be continued...

New York City Part 2: My Marathon

2010-08-27T00:50:00Z

My blaring alarm startled me awake. It took me a second to realize I was in New York and not at home. The bed was just that comfortable at the Hilton. I didn’t want to get up, but I needed to make some phone calls. I called my NYC twitter friend, @OpinionatedGift , who warned me with the weather being in the 90s to buy some Gatorade™ or Smart Water™. He told me about the subway system and which one route I should take. I was really going to need it for my trip to see the Statue of Liberty. I also planned to see him later that evening with @MajorBedhead in the lobby of the hotel.

Immediately, I started slugging water like I was in the desert. The thought of having to walk for an extended period of time, left a knot in my stomach. Months earlier I couldn’t stand for more than five minutes without pain shooting down my legs. That usually happened before the muscles burned with pain. I couldn’t walk very far either without needing to sit down. I have a spinal disk extrusion in the lowest part of my back. Part of the inside of the disk had squirted out into the disk space and was now rubbing on the nerve roots of my spine. The pain is excrutiating. Being so overweight makes the pain worse due to it mostly all being in my stomach. Most of the weight is in front, pulling downward to the point that the muscles in my back can’t hold it. Add to that, Fibromyalgia, and you’ve got a recipe for failure.

One day I got sick of it. I decided to join an athletic club with a wonderful warm exercise pool. I started swimming two days a week in May, 2010. By the time I left for this trip, I swam five days a week taking cardio swim classes three days a week. It’s like aerobics, but in the water. It’s a very intense workout that nearly killed me a couple of times. Well, not really, but I felt like dying afterwards. I would swim two to five hours a day. That’s not just hanging out in the pool. I was treading water, doing resistance training, and cardio. Yet, I wasn’t losing any weight.

Frustrated, I went to my doctor. I had a lot of swelling which was a lot of water weight. He put me on heavy-duty diuretic, and for the trip, he put me on Fentanyl patches. I noticed within the first week I could walk a lot farther with the pain medication. The swelling going down helped significantly.

Sitting in my hotel room, I slapped on another Fentanyl patch hoping to kill whatever pain I had walking. I don’t think I knew quite what I was in for. I was so nervous that I began this whole body sweat. Literally, I wore 12 hour makeup which actually seemed to be more like 3 hour makeup when the day was through. Part of it was nervousness. She would be the first twitter person I would meet. The other part was it was so bloody hot in the whole building. Whoever thought of having BlogHer in the beginning of August in a city that has is essentially asphalt was unbelievably ignorant. I grabbed a handful of paper towels as I headed down to the lobby. If it was this hot down there, I just knew I was in for trouble later. I could already feel the sweat dripping down my back. For fuck’s sake! Some impression I’m going to leave! That’s me, the fat sweaty lady who can’t walk far without having to sit every few feet. I had a couple of minutes to take deep breaths before she arrived.

Meeting Nichole in the lobby, I could tell right away that she had a vibrant soul. Her personality exuded from her, as I was so happy to finally hug the person I’d stayed up nights chatting with on Twitter. She brought a friend along, and I could tell she was just as friendly as Nichole. I immediately felt at ease. We all jumped into a cab and headed toward the subway. Normally, they could walk, but they both knew I wouldn’t be able to. Of course the first thing to happen to break the ice even more was when we got rear-ended by another cab. The cabbie wasn't sure whether to get out and go look, or just blow it off. He got out, looked, and shouted a couple of obscenities at the cab behind us. He jumped back in just in time for the light to turn green. To add to the "What the fuck?" file, a van pulled around us with the business name not only hand-painted, but also misspelled. Instead of the word, "Trucking", it was spelled "Truking". I wonder if they're in the phone book under that name?

Seeing the subway for the first time was interesting. It’s exactly how you see it on television; just a staircase going below street level. It’s so gritty, dirty, and raw below street level. Did I mention stifling? Yeah, if you thought it was hot above ground, just take it below into the steam tunnel of grunge. We all decided to get an all day pass, and of course you can only get that at the self-serve machine of confusion. Do you think one of the options was “All Day Pass”? No, that would be too simple. So, of course asking other people around you which option to choose is amazingly helpful. Finally, with passes in hand, it was time to enter the platform.

As I turned around, I realized the only way to get onto the platform was through turnstiles. That ranks up there on my oh-shit-how-am-I-going-to-fit meter. I figured once I swiped my card, I would cram myself through, much like a sausage extruder. Amazingly, I didn’t have too much trouble. By now, the sweat is pouring off me and I’d resigned myself to the fact I wasn’t going to look stylish or trendy. Fuck no. I was going for that Slip-'N-Slide couture. Just throw me down on the ground and have a run at me. I seriously think you could have just slid right off of me. I was just that wet.

The subway sounds exactly like you hear it on television. Television, as you know, has prepared me for many things in my life; subway etiquette being one of those things. It’s similar to elevator etiquette, but just a whole lot faster and a total contact sport. First, I noticed the “Step Aside” embedded into the floor of the subway. So in other words, don’t stand right in front of the opening doors and get the hell out of the way. As passengers get off, you shove to the outside and slink in as fast as you can. Luckily, I didn’t trip at all, and was able to squeeze in without anyone swearing at me. Success!

I was so excited! Not only was it my first subway ride, but also the car also had air conditioning! Oh sweet air conditioning! Thanks to Nichole, she’d researched everything and knew which stop to get off at. That unloaded a ton of stress so I could relax and do what I love: observing people and the experience itself in detail. I think the Mariachi band complete with cowboy hats getting on midway through the ride was an added bonus. It’s that train wreck moment where you mentally say “Okay…” and just watch the weirdness unfold. They sang and played guitars. I was somewhat disappointed they were only on for two stops, but hey, I expected as much because they weren’t getting any serious tips on our car.

Soon, we were at our stop near Wall Street. I saw the huge amount of stairs and realized as I was climbing them that I was extremely light-headed. I shrugged it off and slugged more water thinking it was dehydration from all the sweating. At the top of the stairs was the most lovely farmer’s market. Seeing all the fruits and vegetables under the tents made me wish I could buy a pint of strawberries for the trip back. It was surprisingly windy, and I attribute that to being so close to the water. I could see the Hudson River from Wall Street.

We met Nichole’s old coworkers, one of which was Maureen. She was so exuberant, and you could literally feel happiness just standing next to her. They all picked a place to eat, which I realized was five city blocks from where we were. There were no taxis in the area. I’m fucked. I’d already had to squat down to unlock my back a couple of times. At that point, I really didn’t know how in the hell I was still walking. I’d already smashed my all time record for walking since 1999. I quickly scanned the neighboring buildings. There was one restaurant close by. Do I say something? I didn’t want to be rude, but I knew damn well, that I was already hitting the red zone in pain tolerance. Even with the breeze I was a drenched mess of sweat. So, I turned to Maureen and explained to her my situation. With a caring smile, she said she’d explain what was going on. I still felt self-conscious. I could feel the blush of embarrassment staining my cheeks red. I could tell no one liked the idea of going to Chipotle restaurant, but they begrudgingly agreed to go. I felt like shit doing that to all of them. I knew if I did walk up the five city blocks, I would be unable to walk back and then continue on to see the Statue of Liberty. No way was that going to happen.

I tried to shrug off that nagging feeling of dragging everyone down. I hated not being able to walk the five blocks. I hated not being normal. That damn word, normal, has haunted me for most of my life. I still feel the need to apologize for not being normal. As we all sat down to eat, the restaurant was hot and I wish we could have enjoyed the breeze outside. I didn’t talk much. Fact was, I was really light-headed, my legs felt like lead when I stood up, I couldn’t get my pulse rate down, and I couldn’t catch my breath. As a former EMT, I knew a couple of those symptoms were disturbing. My blood pressure was low and I was possibly becoming dehydrated. I knew I needed to get electrolytes in me. There wasn’t any Gatorade for purchase. I would have to make do with the bottles of water I was chugging. I just made a mental note of my symptoms, and figured if it got worse, I’d tell someone.

We parted company with Maureen and began walking toward the river. I had no idea where we were supposed to go, so I wound up asking a police officer for help. We were directed to an area beyond the park. By now, I was in some serious pain. I couldn't breathe, and now I was starting to feel like I could pass out any second. I think the only reason I hadn't is that I kept screaming "Don't you dare collapse before you see the statue!" in my head. As I trudged across the park, I could see the ferry for the Statue of Liberty moored along the river bank. I knew I was almost there.

To be continued....

New York City Part One: The Journey

2010-08-11T02:53:00Z

As I sat in the Amtrak lounge, it soon became apparent that my trip alone to New York City had a radically different feel about it. No “I love you’s” from my husband as we parted. Only a “Have fun,” escaped his lips. It wasn’t the supportive send off I got when I went to Texas alone to rehab for self-injurers. It wasn’t the family vacation of last fall where we were all together as a family going to the Grand Canyon. This was different. I was about to do something I wanted to do, utterly alone. I would be responsible for everything. No husband to fall back on if things went wrong. I would have to be the problem solver. I’d have to be independent.

Independence is something I haven’t had in years. I always had the safety net. To be more precise, the husband safety net. So, as I sat in the bustling traveler’s lounge, sweating profusely and trying to catch my breath, I realized I would have to go to this huge city and navigate on my own. No crying for help to my husband, or in my psyche’s terms, no crying to my parents. I kept telling myself to just breathe. It wasn’t working. I shot a long, rambling text message to a friend which seemed like the equivalent of a hail mary pass in football. I wanted someone to say it would be alright. I wanted someone to tell me I could do it and I would be strong enough to handle it all. Anyone to assure me I would be fine. A friend and confidant did just that. It was enough for me to get a grip on my racing thoughts. I suddenly felt stupid for freaking out when I hadn’t even gotten on the train yet.

So, when it was time to board the train, I was relatively anxious only because I’d become acutely aware that what I’d packed weighed insanely more than what I could realistically carry. I tried to lighten the load earlier, but everything I had packed was necessary. I’d barely made it on the train when half my bags came off my rolling luggage. I struggled and muttered “Fuck me” practically down the hall to my roomette (a small close-quartered “closet” for two at most). A wine and cheese reception was announced for the dining car. I’d never gone before, so I ventured out.

It soon became apparent when I tried to sit down at the dining car’s booth-like table that I didn’t fit. I was too fat. Yes, I’ll say it. I was too fucking fat to fit my stomach between the table and the back of the seat. All the cardio swimming I did for the past four months, all the medication I took for edema did not matter. I was still too fat to fit. Of course, the car host was nothing but courteous and offered to pack a little selection for me to take back to my roomette. I was relieved. Well, at least until I got back.

I had shut the sliding door on my roomette before I left. When I returned, I couldn’t open the door. I tried the latch several times. The car host was nowhere to be found. There was an elderly lady in the roomette across from mine and asked me what the problem was. I blushed and stated I couldn’t get in. “Oh this is wonderful,” I thought to myself, “I haven’t even left the damn train station and something’s gone wrong.” Just as I was debating what to do next, I saw the car host for the next car over and I waved for him to help. It took him a few minutes with a screwdriver to jimmy the door open, but finally I got in. The wine and cheese made up for the hassle as we pulled out of the station. What I didn’t realize was no matter what I did, I couldn’t get the air conditioning to cool down my compartment. I knew how to adjust the controls, but it wasn’t working. There wasn’t even cold air coming from any of the vents. I heard the car host, Kevin, tell someone that he would have to do something about it at Toledo when they got there. So, I lay down for a hot, humid night of fractured sleep.

In the morning nothing had changed. Kevin tried all he could to get A/C to work for the back half of the car. Nothing worked. The entire day was awful with a sealed car with no air conditioning. There was no real respite as the coach seats were full and there was no observation car to speak of. Fact was I was stuck. I spent half my time in the hallway of the next coach car just trying to cool down. I do want to say publicly that Kevin, our car host, did everything possible to make it more bearable by keeping water on ice, and trying to move us when it was possible. That poor guy must have had the worst trip ever that trip and he did it all in long sleeves and polyester pants.

At one extended stop in Buffalo, New York I was going to get off and stand outside for a few minutes. I rounded the corner and came face to face with a uniformed officer. Reading his patches, I realized it was Border Patrol. Several officers boarded our train and did a car to car search. I don’t know who they were looking for, but there were certainly a shitload of Border Patrol officers and it delayed our train. Later, a woman fell off the platform and broke her arm. Car host Kevin was right there to get her some water while waiting for the ambulance to arrive. That poor guy couldn’t catch a break. I tell you, he should get a serious medal for his work on that trip that day.

Finally, I got moved to another roomette about three hours before I hit New York City. It was enough time to settle my nerves and prepare myself mentally for hauling my too-heavy luggage off the train. I tried picturing Penn Station in my mind, but I soon realized, it wasn’t anything like I’d thought of.

I hauled my luggage off the train, and knew I had one bag I’d checked in. Penn Station hasn’t heard of elevators. In fact, when I asked if there was an elevator, I got the response, “There are only escalators.” What? That didn’t make any fucking sense whatsoever. I sighed and wiped the sweat off on my sleeve. It was unbelievably hot and muggy in the station. I struggled to get my luggage onto the escalator all the while trying to remember where the car host told us where to go. I figured I wasn’t in any hurry to get to the hotel, so I could take it slow. I knew eventually I’d find where to pick up my luggage

As I studied the signs trying to figure out where the Amtrak terminal was, I heard the announcement for boarding at Track 11. Suddenly, about 20 people sprinted around and past me. I felt like I was a person in the middle of an antelope stampede. As the people leaned and darted around me, I froze and winced as one man nearly clipped my precariously balanced luggage. I just knew if I moved in the slightest it would cause a pileup worse than a bicycle crash inside the Peloton at the Tour de France. The first thought that came to mind was, “I didn’t know women could run that fast in three inch heels.”

Finally I figured out where to pick up my checked suitcase, and asked where to find the taxi stand. Of course that would require two escalator trips up and a ton of walking. I already cursed myself for having another bag and I just knew I was going to wipe out at the top of the escalator in a crumpled heap with my luggage on top of me. I really didn’t like that scenario. I mustered up as much strength as I could and fought through the searing pain to get to street level. A cab was hailed for me, and I was ushered quickly into it as my luggage was put into the trunk for me. I told the driver to take me to the Hilton hotel and gave the address. I braced myself because I was very familiar to wild taxi drivers. For what it’s worth, the drivers don’t talk to you. They have no interest in chatting.

We drove past Radio City Music Hall and I hurriedly clicked a picture which of course turned out to be blurry. At least I’d seen it in real life instead of on TV. Soon we were at the hotel, and in one quick movement, the Hilton Hotel’s staff opened my taxi door, put my luggage on a cart and escorted me to the receptionist. I was soaking wet from sweat, and relieved I’d made it. Once in my room, I took a very cold shower to cool down. I struggled to relax. Finally, I decided to order room service. I deserved it after an emotionally charged day. That was the best $40 bleu cheese burger and fries with a large bottle of Evian. I could actually feel the energy of this place. It literally vibrated throughout my body. It really is a city that didn’t seem to sleep. I loved it. I called Nichole (@sillyfozzy ) and made arrangements to go to the Statue of Liberty the next day. I couldn’t wait as I’ve wanted to meet the woman who has been my cheerleader for restarting my art career. As much as I wanted to stay up and explore the hotel a little more, I knew I had a big day ahead of me tomorrow. My body would need the rest. As I settled into my soft bed for the night, I thought, “I made it…all by myself.”

Change

2010-08-03T19:02:00Z

Change isn't easy, even for those who love it. First, one has to figure out what you want changed, or what change you want in your life. As a small child, I was pretty much lauded for being independent and having no fear. Fact is, I wanted to please my parents. My parents sent me to go get coffee and danishes by myself a block away from our hotel while we were on vacation. I was four years old. When I was ten years old, I nearly got mugged by another child trying to steal money that was given to me to get ice cream during a parade/festival. I was able to handle myself. Somewhere in my life, I lost that confidence. I want it back.

The only way to get that back is to push myself. I know change is always uncomfortable for me, but sometimes it's in a good way. I'm preparing to leave shortly for New York City by myself by Amtrak. The last time I was by myself traveling was three years ago going to Texas for my treatment for self-injury. As scary as that was, I knew there would be someone waiting for me when I got off the train. I had a back-up plan and was prepared if something happened. This trip is different. I'm going to a major city by myself from a somewhat sedate suburbia. I'm terrified in an exhilarated way. There will be no one to greet me. No one to guide me where to go. I will have to get a cab all by myself. I will be alone for once in my life.

If that wasn't scary enough, I'm going to a conference where there will be at least 2,500 attendees. I may only know of one or two people that are going that are from Twitter. I have no friends in real life. No night outs with the girls, nothing. All of my friends are virtual, and it's safe. I don't have to leave the house, I don't have to worry about what people will think of my appearance, and I certainly can walk away whenever I choose. Don't get me wrong, I'm the person I portray on Twitter. I'm not a persona, or a character of the person I wish to be. I'm genuine. And here's the but... But people won't see that at first. They'll see the 300lbs first, the country mouse, the non-fashion model. Here's where change is key. I have to pretend they don't care about that. I have to try and tell myself over and over that people will see me for who I am, and if others are that shallow, I don't need them in my life.

So, as I zip my suitcase, I'm proud that I'm making this huge step toward change. I'm learning to be social again. I'm starting to figure myself out. It's a long ways from having my entire life orchestrated by others. I know this is going to be terrifying, but others are telling me I'm going to have the time of my life. Secretly, I believe them. I'm proud that I'm going to step outside my comfort zone and travel by myself. I will finally prove to myself that I matter. I can do what I want. I can make mistakes by myself and I will be able to handle it.

I'm flying without a net. Watch me soar...

Skeleton 7: Infatuation Online

2010-07-03T21:40:00Z

This skeleton is painful for me. I won't lie. It affected me recently, and I need to just set it free. I thought I would just throw this skeleton in the closet and sit with it. I am starting to hate secrets more and more. The more recent it is, the more I want to just get rid of it and walk away. I debated whether or not to give this some time. Unfortunately, there is no good time to get rid of pain and secrets. I can't learn from my mistakes that way. This skeleton is simple. I seem to be having my share of "crashing and burning" recently. I think I was looking for the wrong thing and stumbled across something that was positive. I'm sick to think it's all over.

I actually met this guy on Twitter, and noticed he was struggling in his life. Call it intuition, but I can just see these things. I decided to see if he wanted to instant message me on Yahoo, and soon, a message popped up. After about a half hour of talking, I could just see this guy was testing me to see if he could trust me. I just cut through the crap and just told him what I saw about him. Pain and screaming loneliness. That along with some other points of insight seem to have surprised him. That's how it all started.

We talked a lot after that. I didn't exactly expect to have feelings for him. I tried desperately to ignore them, and concentrate on a friendship. I wanted to make sure I wasn't just starving for attention. He was my intellectual equal, accepted me for who I was, and actually liked me. I felt I didn't have to pretend or guard myself. I trusted him, completely.

That's how infatuation starts online. I knew that's what this was. He lived several states away from me, and I knew that a relationship would have to remain virtual as long as I was still married. He was convincing. I wanted it. He made me feel like a better person. I started to believe in myself. Started to grow as a person. I will never forget him because of that.

Without actually meeting a person in real life, realistically you can't say you love someone. That feeling of infatuation is so sneaky. It just starts invading your life and tricks you into thinking you may love someone. Rationally, I know this isn't true. It's rationality I didn't want to feel, but it nagged in the background as a warning. I was far from rational. That's what happens when you don't meet someone face to face. It's so addicting talking to someone, seeing the pictures of their smile or seeing them on webcam. It's the illusion of being close while still being safe. This also is a double-edged sword. You truly don't know if they're telling you the truth. It's whatever they can present to you as truth. Unfortunately, that's the risk. They could lie.

Finally, after noticing some distance, and a couple of "white lies" wrapped in an excuse, I confronted him. I hoped it was just my insecurity, but alas, it wasn't. My intuition was correct. The next day, I got the email everyone dreads. It's the "I love you, but" letter. Realization staring me in the face. He'd found someone new, closer to where he is. I was devastated.

The "I love you, but" letter hurt me so much. I thought I was in love with him. I trusted him. I was genuine with him. It didn't matter. He wasn't ever going to be available. He wasn't willing to wait for me. I didn't matter, and that's the most painful. He had needs that obviously I wasn't ever going to fulfill. Everything felt like a lie. It felt like all the happiness in my life died. What to believe and what not to believe? It doesn't matter. The result is the same. Devastation. Pain. Hurt. Sadness. I want to just rip my heart out of my chest so I don't have to feel this. My first true heartbreak after my marriage failed. I sense there's going to be many more of these in store for me. I just want to curl up and protect myself. Fall back into the pattern of holding people at arm's length so I don't get hurt. Shut down every possibility of happiness to prevent the other shoe from dropping. That's the safe Nicole, the pattern I learned and mastered. I don't want that pattern anymore. I'm going to throw it away and fight to not use it again. I just wish this didn't hurt so much.

I'm struggling with my foray into online infatuation. I feel like I lost a friend. I lost someone I felt good to talk with. Someone whom I thought cared about me. It hurts. But like much of the growth in my life, some of it requires risk. Not all of that risk means you succeed. There are some risks that end in pain. The difference is, I'm learning how to get up, just brush off my jeans, and go on. I realize that sometimes not everything is my fault. I can't be the one that's flawed. I'm not unlovable. I'm really a wonderfully caring, loving, and understanding person. Sadly, he's never going to know how much I was worth the wait.

Beginning of a Transformation

2010-06-21T06:02:00Z

It started with a t-shirt. It was a simple fix to cover a swimsuit. The problem wasn't the swimsuit it covered, but rather the person in the swimsuit. It didn't matter which t-shirt I used as long as it covered a vast amount of the scars on my arms. Nothing could cover the scars on my legs, but I figured if I was going in the pool, I doubt people would be staring at my legs for any length of time. After all, they would most likely notice how big I was first before they noticed the scars. I told myself, "Just get in the pool and get over the fact people are going to stare." This t-shirt, I'd hoped, would at least throw the attention off the arms. Two years ago I had been to this particular pool, when someone asked why I wore the shirt. I was so flustered I didn't have an answer. I knew why but I wasn't ready to deal with that yet.

The fact is, I'm a recovering self-injurer. I injured daily to multiple times a day for 23 years of my life. On June 25, 2007, I went to SAFE Alternatives, which was in Texas at that time. The journey is outlined in Skeleton #2 (graphic). When I came back, I decided it was time to change my life. I learned how to feel, and got in touch with who I wanted to be.

In the Fall of 2009, I sought treatment for my major depression disorder which I'd had for my entire life. I had to fall apart to start to put the pieces back together, but not in the way someone else told me to. No, this time it would be the way I wanted it to be. I'd never known what I wanted for myself. I've discovered I want love and intimacy. I want to feel that no matter who I'm with, they will accept me for me. Scars, weight, health problems, mental illness, are what I chose to hide for years believing I was flawed, worthless, and not worthy of acceptance let alone love and intimacy.

So, when I started talking to C. on Twitter, I was shocked to hear that it didn't matter what I looked like, what I weighed, or the scars all over my body. I was more than just what I looked like. I decided I didn't need the weight to hide behind anymore. I joined an athletic club with a kick ass pool. I began to swim, and wore the t-shirt over an old swimsuit. Talking more and more to this person, I slowly began to realize that I'm not the person my husband made me think I was. It started a process I was unsure I was ready to make.

I'd gotten a new swimsuit, and Monday evening in the changing room, I put it on. Looking in the mirror, I slipped on the t-shirt over the suit. The fabric fell to my hips, and it felt so safe. Familiar. Protective. As I entered the water, something just didn't feel right. I figured I wasn't accustomed to the new swimsuit. I tried to ignore the feeling as I stretched, but it just got worse. The fabric didn't feel right in the water. I just didn't feel right. I began to try and figure out what it was about the feeling. A thought popped into my head: Hiding. That was it. I was still hiding. I was spending so much time trying to work on the emotions, that I didn't realize I was still hiding physically. Shame. Self-loathing. Flawed. Worthless. Hiding. Those were the same emotions and behaviors I experienced when I injured myself. This was going to stop. Nearly three years after I began this journey, I was still hiding.

In one quick movement, I stood up and flipped the wet t-shirt off of me and tied it around my water bottle. I turned and began to swim to deeper waters. Despite my self-consciousness, a feeling swept over me. It was water on my shoulders. I suddenly had a memory of when my sister and I would spend the night on our private beach of Lake Michigan. She and I would go swimming naked at night. The feeling of being free gliding through the water was the same sensation I was experiencing now. Freedom, strength, being vulnerable, and transformation all rolled into one.

So, as I approach June 25th, I can say I'm not going to hide in shame anymore. And in a dark fuchsia swimsuit, I don't think I could.

Thank you CS. Your words have meant a lot to me.

Longing for Something More

2010-06-04T01:37:00Z

I began swimming three to five days a week since joining the local athletic club. The have three different pools. One is a lap pool, and the temperature is in my opinion, freezing. The second little wading pool has a temperature of 96 degrees. The pool I use the most is the exercise pool. I feel like Goldilocks. Not to hot. Not too cold. Just right.

Lately, I've been seeing the same couple in the pool and at the private changing areas. Both are in their late 50s to early 60s, and I know they're married because of the matching rings on their left hands. He must have had a stroke, but it seems it wasn't recently. He can walk fairly well with assistance, and she is right there by his side. That's not quite what captured my attention. It's not the typical caretaker role I see most common by many couples. I'm quite familiar with that role as my husband assumed it for quite a number of years. What I saw is so much different with this couple.

He moves along the edge of the pool and she is right behind him. Even when they glide across the length of the pool, she is gently behind him. Their conversation together always fascinates me. Of course, I have to pretend I don't hear them because I don't want to appear like one of those creepy, nosy, staring ladies. Trust me, there are plenty of those elderly women in my aquatics class without me adding to the mix. As the couple glides along in the water, they discuss trips they've made, movies, flowers in the garden, and family. She is there with her head on his left shoulder blade sideways as if in a tender embrace.

Then it hits me. This isn't just care-taking. It's love. Tender, gentle, eternal love throughout the trial of his recovery from stroke. It's as if disabilities and time had been erased. As I watch them covertly, I feel as if I'm intruding on private moment between them. Intimate. Loving. Caring. Tender. I could feel the blush spread across my face and I dove below the water to try to abate it. I wanted to cry. I knew why.

I was ready for intimacy and love in my life. I didn't have it. Sure it's just a word to people. To me, it's a feeling, a strong desire to be shown love. Empathy. I was ready and willing to receive that in my life. I wanted it. I'm not talking the false desire given by infatuation. This feeling is so much deeper than that. I long for it. Crave it. Wanting to give that to someone who could truly return it sincerely.

I watch on Twitter, a different couple's interactions with one another. It's how I identified what it was I was seeing in the pool. @grnladybug and @uanmeintn are a married couple on Twitter. I have watched their genuine love for one another for many months. Through health problems and struggles, they are the epitome of what I long for in my life. I know I shouldn't envy them, yet sometimes I ache when I see what I don't have.

I know I can easily get stuck in this place of longing for something more. Seeing only what is missing and mourning. I realistically know my marriage is most likely broken beyond repair. I know I must learn from my mistakes so I don't repeat them in the future. Seeing these couples interact, I'm beginning to realize what I want for myself. I haven't ever given myself that opportunity. It was always what others said I deserved, what I should do, or my misguided belief that it was all I would ever get.

It's the longing for something more that seems to be pushing me forward. It feels like sticking a toe in the water, feeling the temperature, and determining whether to jump in. It feels foreign, but I'm not shying away anymore. I deserve something more.

BFD Award

2010-05-10T09:18:00Z

I got this lovely award that came from, Julio, AKA @Darkwulfe on Twitter. His blog is Musings of a Madman. I couldn't bribe...uh...ass-kiss him enough to bestow this honor on me. Instead, he handed me this award without incident. Seriously, though, I enjoy his blog as he seems to be able to take any argument and tear it apart logically. And well...I'm jealous as hell he can do that! I can't look at any issue logically unless it's a how-to manual. Everything is so emotional, and shades of gray on how I see life. So you can understand why Julio fascinates me.

When he passed the award on to me, I was very touched he would choose me. But, much like awards and chain letters, I forgot about it. I feel like total crap that I haven't fulfilled my duty for this new award moniker, the BIG FUCKING DEAL award. As I was told, I must tell you seven things about me you probably didn't know. Since my life is an open book on this blog, this task was difficult. Here goes.

1. I hate dust bunnies.

This isn't just a mere mom's irritation by not being able to keep up with all the cleaning. Oh no, this is worse. Nothing can compare to the horror of sweeping with a broom, or dust mop and seeing that string of gray and who-knows-what on the end of the broom. It will send me into full-fledged gagging. I assure you, the retching from just seeing the dust bunny can be heard from every corner of the house. I can deal with blood, vomit, and shitty diapers, but just don't get me near the dust bunnies. It's not a fear. That would be easier to deal with. Instead, dust bunnies are a great way to make me throw up anything I'd eaten in the 15 minutes prior to seeing the scum at the end of a Swiffer mop. So you can guess who gets that job? Anyone but me!

2. I'm afraid of latex balloons.

My brother seemed to derive great pleasure in popping balloons when I was little. I'm not sure if he did it on purpose in my face, but I'm sure if I asked him, he'd deny everything. Even being around them and listening to anyone squeak them, or manhandle the balloons would cause me to plug my ears. I just knew they would pop. As I got older, it extended to them being blown up as invariably most people don't realize you don't blow them up until they look like this:

There's no reason why the neck of the balloon should be distended. It looks like a pear and a sure guarantee it's going to pop when it touches a hot light source, usually found in restaurants. It took me a long time to stop myself from plugging my ears, but I still recoil waiting for them to pop. If you want to get me a balloon, make it Mylar.

3. I'm intensely curious about how people sound/talk when I can't see them in person.

Being in the online world a lot, I always wonder how people's voices sound. I look at their picture and I think of how that person will sound in real life. I can hear it on the phone, but it's not quite like hearing it in person. I think of what sort of inflection they will have, the character of their voice, and whether they will have an accent. It's an added puzzle piece before meeting a person in real life. I enjoy it.

4. I write erotica.

I write quite a bit of erotica, but it's mainly just stretching myself creatively. It's not your mainstream erotica from what limited knowledge I have of published work. I know it's not the romance novel kind either. One of these days I'll have to put on this blog one of them. It's an "outside the box" sort of stories. I like to write knowing a little about the person I write about. I find that to be very enjoyable because I can tell what that person likes and customize it. I can explore an entire scenario in my mind including the dialog, if any. Most of the time it is while I'm driving two hours across the state. It's a way of being able to tell a story from the aspect of someone who feels, senses, and has an emotional impact. It's not "just sex". It's a work in progress.

5. I never considered myself a true artist until this past year.

I was, as my mom put it, "crafty". From the age of five, I had a needle and a passion. I sewed by hand, then learned to embroider, and then cross-stitch. I knew I had a talent. My mom said I was so much like my paternal grandmother. I should have listened to that voice in my head as a child. Mom made it sound like I was talented, but that it was not something worth pursuing. In her defense, she did not have any talent for sewing or any fiber art. Her creativity was in cooking. She was damn good at it, too. I just didn't think I was the drawing/painting type. I thought that's what an artist was. It wasn't until college that I started to think I was on to something. When I met my neuropsychologist, Dr. Branca, I knew I had a kindred spirit. She is also an artist. I guess it takes an artist to see the potential inside another artist. Finding Nichole, AKA @sillyfozzy on Twitter, has been so exciting! She's also an artist and a huge cheerleader, driving me to explore that artistic side of me.

6. I don't read many books, but I listen to a lot of music.

The only books I read are art-related and provide technique, instruction, and patterns. I feel left out when people quote passages from books, or mention authors I'm unaware of. This drives my oldest sister crazy since she owns a bookstore. Music, on the other hand, is the soundtrack to my life. It changes based on my emotions at that minute, and sometimes I hear certain songs in my head during certain interactions or experiences. It changes daily, and spans a wide range of genres. Anything from Opera to Trance/Progressive is in my playlist. Sorry, Country music fans, I just haven't been able to really find something that speaks to me that is essentially "country". Don't worry, I'll get around to it eventually.

7. I smile A LOT!

When I talk to people, I smile a lot. I'm surprisingly outgoing despite the fact I'm relatively introverted. Yes, I know that's a contradiction in words, but it's true. I can swing both ways and slip into each role easily. People feel at ease when they meet me, and I do smile quite a bit. It's genuine. Nothing's worse than people who give you that fake smile and nod their head. There's a time and a place for that and it's during really bad dates, and those oh-my-God moments when you just pray you can extricate yourself out of a conversation. Better to smile, nod, and then back away...slowly!

Alright, I wanted to pass on this award to seven awesome people, but I think Julio mentioned many of the people I would have chosen. I know there should be seven! Damn it, I'm sorry there's only five! I know this Big Fucking Deal Blog Award should be passed on to seven people who's blogs are a big fucking deal, not five! I promise I'll get it right next time there's a big fucking deal!

So, with that, I shall pass the BFD torch on to:

@crazySAHM I love how she can find humor in the most trying of times!

@allconsoffun A wonderfully sensitive an amazing woman. Start writing again!

@grnladybug I love her poetry! I never read a lot of poetry before reading her blog. I keep coming back for more.

@MajorBedhead A life rebuilding! She asks the same questions of herself that I ask myself.

@cjaxon Her photography blows me away!

Lose the Battle, Win the War: Part 2

2010-05-05T00:11:00Z

I can either sit here stuck or I can try to make something of myself. I can sit here like a victim and be paralyzed the rest of my life and just take it, or I can fight to allow myself to become something. I can continue to beat myself up and keep the labels my self-loathing and husband give me. What example would that set for my girls who are supposed to learn how to be secure, strong women? I can't allow myself to just literally kill everything that is inside me, essentially committing emotional suicide. They're going to see it and then repeat it. The cycle must stop with me. I know the girls will learn by example. What I do from now on will not only affect me, but also the girls.

So I made a list of what I wanted to do with my life. Suddenly, I sat back and started to cry. I grieved over the wasted years not knowing who I was or what I wanted in life. I'm not talking about the few years at the beginning of college. I'm talking years and years of being stuck. Trying to create an identity that just feels right is difficult. I know I'm gifted with the ability to do many different things. Just thinking of the myriad of options causes me to freeze. I'm overwhelmed and confused where to begin. So, I just started somewhere. I began to dream a little; just like I did when I was a little girl living in the woods while laying on the ground staring up at the stars.

I joined an athletic club with an awesome pool. There are so many different things I love about this place, but it will require time before I can use all it has to offer. It's one step toward losing weight. I'm in an exercise swimming class three times a week. It's the only exercise I can do for a while.

I want to go back to college for a Bachelor of Fine Arts in Textiles. I clearly have a love for fiber, cloth, yarn, thread any every variation thereof. I know the college I want to attend, but I've maxed out all of my student loans. It's also across the state at Eastern Michigan University. Many hours are required in the studio to fulfill requirements. I'd need to stay over near the university and then commute back on the weekends. It's a bold move to make It'll be new for me, and once again I'd have to make it alone.

I need a job. I may not be able to work full time given my physical limitations. Thanks to Jeff (@bbg05 on twitter), he gave me an idea to do medical transcription at home. I clearly am medically knowledgeable, so it's not inconceivable that I could do it.

CREATE! Make something, damn it! I have been frozen and not creating as a way of punishing myself. I was so depressed, I couldn't find my way out. The next excuse was, my studio is a mess. Well, I'm going to get that rectified. In the meantime, I've taken classes in natural indigo dyeing, and my ongoing floor loom weaving.

I'm not going to silence my opinion, and I'm going to fight back. I've already started living as if R wasn't my husband. I'm exploring my dreams, stretching my boundaries. Strangely enough, R has been supportive. He has paid, willingly, for my art classes and for my travel expenses to go to BlogHer in August.

Now I have goals. I have a life that I want to live! I just have to go out and fight for it...without him.

Lose the Battle, Win the War: Part 1

2010-04-27T06:32:00Z

For those of you who don't know, I have had chronic migraines for many years. Add to that some painful conditions on top of that, and you can pretty much call it It-hurts-like-hell, Please-make-it-stop Syndrome. I was on quite a lot of morphine from my college days, right up to getting pregnant. Two children, and Fentanyl patches later, I had to go to a special migraine hospital wing to strip all my medications off and start over. It sucked. Physical withdrawal is nasty, but in the end it sure as hell was better. No more narcotics for me. What I didn't expect was to "wake up" to my life again. I felt I was in my 20s instead of late 30s. My development was arrested from all the narcotics.

I soon realized I had a husband who was more of a caretaker than a partner. I blame myself for that happening. It was a role he didn't ask for, let alone want, but he accepted it. It was a matter of survival. When I started becoming more independent and functional, it scared him. I really don't think he was ready for it. When I got my depression under control last summer, he soon realized I had a personality. I don't think he was ready for that either. Who was this woman he was married to?

It was as if I woke up back to my life in my mid to late 20s. I was defining who I was, deciding a path to take. This hasn't sat well with my husband, "R", who really needs to control things, not from a domineering aspect, but from an anxiety aspect. If he can control all the players in his life, he won't be uneasy. I've recognized this in him for at least five years now. He never wanted to see it, or get help. I can't make a person do anything they don't want to do. In all fairness he did go (unwillingly) to a therapist for his severe anger issues. That took work, and I am very proud he has gotten control over that. He then promptly stopped going at the same time he bailed on marriage counseling that he wanted me to go to. The result is I'm still not an equal partner. I have no access to money without asking permission. I can't go anywhere without telling him (usually more than once). I'm constantly told what to do, how to do things, and I have to repeat what I'm going to do several times. The way he treats me and the things he says about me are biting. I'm feel wounded and then I avoid fighting back or even standing up to him. The result? I found myself stifling every aspect of my personality. I became a non-entity. I had no voice. When I did express an opinion, I was ridiculed. I started to wish he'd hit me so I could leave. Fuck that. I'm not waiting.

I warned R I was going to see a lawyer to determine my options. He immediately went to therapy again. That's great. Seriously, it is a good thing for him. Unfortunately, I was done. The damage is unrepairable. I set the appointment with a lawyer to see what my options were. R, of course, went along since he was the only one who had access to all the bills and accounts. Walking into the office, I could feel my heart racing and pain in my chest. I knew I was nervous, but I didn't let that show. All that showed is "unfeeling bitch" exterior. I hadn't pulled that one out in nearly 20 years. Dusted it off, and made it look like I didn't care. No emotion showing, nothing. I was going to follow this through, because I was serious. It wasn't a joke or an idle threat.

When I sat down in front of the lawyer and began to tell him I was looking for options for separation or for divorce. R pulled out a copy of the budget, including debt and assets. Slowly it became apparent alimony would only be 3-5 yrs in a step down scale. I had no job, and no assets. Having joint custody would require me to pay for child support. Since I wasn't paying the mortgage, he would get the house. I started to feel panicky. The lawyer mentioned government assisted housing, and food stamps. I soon realized there wasn't any assets, and there was debt I didn't really know about. The lawyer tried to figure out a way to do even do a legal separation including filing for bankruptcy. That didn't seem to work either as he earned too much money. Then the conversation turned to health insurance. I would suddenly have none. I believe his insurance has a clause that wouldn't cover legally separated spouses. With no income, there would be no way for me to live on my own. I was screwed. I knew Medicaid didn't cover 3 of my most expensive medications, and they didn't approve/allow one of my doctors, if not two, that I currently see. As I stood up to leave, the lawyer shook both our hands and apologized that there wasn't anything more he could do to help. R turned to him and said "That's okay. I didn't want a divorce anyway." It was a knife twist in my gut; The final "Fuck you."

I walked out the door into the rain, wanting to get into the SUV as soon as possible. The rain gave me an excuse. I sat there behind the wheel, stunned. I was screwed. I knew I was stuck. I said the words out loud, "He won". He called my bluff and he won. I began to sob uncontrollably. I knew exactly what this meant. At this moment, the only way out was to be homeless on the street, and off of all my medications. I wanted to scream. I wanted to cry out and ask the universe why I was forced to stay in the marriage. Was I being punished? As I struggled to breathe, the tears began to sting my cheeks while I drove home. I just kept saying over and over, "I'm trapped. I'll never get away." I fleetingly thought about driving full speed into the concrete overpass, but knew my girls needed their mother. I don't remember the entire drive home. I only remember the urgency to get home mixed with thoughts of just driving until I ran out of gas. Unconsciously, I held my breath as I tried to pull out the emotional and physical pain in my chest.

As soon as I got home, I tossed my notebook on the couch, dropped my purse on the floor and kicked off my shoes. I headed straight to the bedroom and literally flopped onto my stomach on my bed. Burying my face into the pillow, I screamed. It was the most guttural scream of desperation. The same scream I wanted to express as a child, but couldn't. I was trapped in that house as a child. I couldn't escape until I turned 18 years old and went to college. Once again, that feeling was here. I hated it. Loathed it. Wanted it out of me. I never wanted to feel trapped in a situation ever again.

As I cried all of my pain out, I made a plan. My favorite quote of all time is by George Eliot.

"It's never too late to be what you might have been."

It's so true. Knowing that, I decided I was going to try and live a life with a voice. I was going to become essentially, me. All of the things I was suppressing, I was going to allow to exist. I know what it is, my rebirth. Allow my real self to come out. Experiment and find out what my passion is in life. It requires strength to stand up for myself, and fight for what I want. I'm willing to do that. I have to. R was not going to control me anymore. I'm not going to let him. I may have lost the battle, but I'm not giving up on winning the war.

To be continued...

Read the Fine Print

2010-04-12T22:08:00Z

One of the things I try to do is accommodate my girls when their request seems reasonable and fair. I don't think I read the fine print of my youngest daughter's request for a birthday treat for her class. She brings this recipe to me, the afternoon before her classroom birthday celebration. I look at it, and it says, "My Grandma's Thunder Cake". I think the word, thunder, should have been a clue of what was to come, but I never listen.

I look through the ingredient list to see if I needed something that wasn't on there. My eyes begin to scan the list:

shortening
sugar
cake flour (great, I only had regular flour)
cocoa
baking soda
salt
eggs
cold water
pureed tomatoes

That doesn't seem so bad. Then my brain catches up with my eyes. Wait a minute! Tomatoes? What the hell? I rescaned the list and got to the same part: pureed tomatoes. That can't possibly be right. I read down further to see what else was going to be odd. It's a two layer cake. I figured I might be able to make cupcakes, but I couldn't get past tomatoes. Here's how the conversation went down:

"E, I can't make this. There's tomatoes in this. Where did you get this recipe?"

"But you promised! It's from a book that we were reading in school. My teacher copied it for me. Please?!"

"Has your teacher had this cake? Has anyone had this cake? I can't make a two layer cake for class. I'll have to make cupcakes." I knew by the look on her face, I should have braced myself for the impending meltdown.

"Yes, she's had this. I want it just how it looks in the picture!"

I look at the picture...

Wow...so appetizing...

and then back at her. Her eyes already began to fill with tears, before I could even get another word out. I mean, it's only a cake, and a pretty nasty one at that. A layer cake from scratch? Shit. She gave me look that said only a supermom could pull this off and that she believed that was me.

"Please, Mommy! I know you can make this." My heart melted, as I knew I was about to give in.

"Do you know what kind of pain in the butt this is going to be for me to make?" I asked, matter-of-factly.

"No, but I can help!" Great. I don't need that kind of help.

"Uh, that's OK, honey. I can do it by myself."

That said it all. I was screwed. I said I'd do it without reading the fine print and I was stuck with that promise. There was not much more I could say. It didn't really matter. The recipe's title should have read "My Daughter's Pain-in-the-Ass Cake" instead.

I dug right in and started making the cake. I wouldn't have been so bad except I had to beat egg whites stiff to fold into the batter which clearly was a lard and sugar mixture. Why don't I just fold foaming hand soap into bacon grease instead? Probably would have gone together easier. I spent more time swearing to myself than actually mixing the batter. When it came to adding the tomato puree, I seriously thought to myself that this would be the worst cake ever! I tasted the batter, but I wasn't convinced it would be that chocolaty once baked.

I knew the only thing that would cover it was my favorite frosting recipe. I'm not a fan of canned frosting. It has this eau du plastique taste to it. I've been making chocolate frosting since age 12 so it's no big deal. I pulled the cake layers out of the oven, and couldn't really tell how it was going to taste.

Then it hits, an aura for a migraine. What was I going to do? Make frosting at 2:00 AM and then have to be up in four hours? Anything for my little girl. It was going to get done. Ear plugs in hand, I fired up the mixer and got to work. I finally was done with the entire cake by 4:00 AM. Left a note for my husband to take her and the cake to school, and then I crashed.

My reward came as I heard her squeals of excitement that afternoon. Everyone loved the cake and even put it in the announcements to say that I was a great cook. The things I do for warm fuzzies. I warn you though, read the fine print. Or not. Depends on how much you want to be the superhero, even if it only lasts five minutes.

My Grandma's Thunder Cake

Cream together, one at a time:
1 cup shortening
1-3/4 cup sugar
1 teaspoon vanilla
3 eggs, separated
(Blend yolks in. Beat whites until they are stiff, then fold in)
1 cup cold water
1/3 cup pureed tomatoes

Sift together:
2-1/2 cups cake flour
1/2 cup dry cocoa
1-1/2 teaspoons baking soda
1 teaspoon salt

Mix dry mixture into creamy mixture. Bake in two greased and floured 8-1/2 inch round pans (I used 9") at 350ºF for 35-40 minutes (or for 9" pans, 30-35 minutes).

Frost with chocolate butter frosting. Top with strawberries.

Trust

2010-03-30T09:45:00Z

I've been thinking a lot about trust. Why do I trust people easily at some times, and yet at other times, I can't trust them at all? Once the trust is broken by the other person, how do I heal the situation and not be vindictive? Am I too naive at times, trusting too easily? I've really been struggling with those questions recently.

I usually have intuition and can tell when someone or something "just doesn't seem right". You know that nagging uneasy sensation you feel when someone's just not quite "right"? They're "off" somehow, and you can just tell you need to distance yourself from them. When I meet people for the first time, 9 times out of 10, I can tell whether the person is going to be trouble for me or not. I limit the information I reveal based on that.

For example, I met a man at a wedding who was involved with a group my husband belongs to in his free time. All that was done was introductions, and mild pleasantries. After he left, I turned to my husband and said, "That guy is trouble. You don't want him on the board of directors. Trust me." Did he trust me? No. Did they put him on the board of directors? Yes. Now they can't get rid of him and it almost has been the downfall of the organization as a result. I warned him. Yet, my husband didn't trust me enough to at least consider what I'd said. Turns out I wasn't the only one who didn't feel right about that guy being part of the decision making team of that group. I was just the only one who spoke up.

I trust my physicians to have my best interest in mind when they treat me. I don't consider them infallible though. I do my research, too. I just have to. I also trust my daughters' school to keep them safe when they're at school. I trust the teacher to be kind while teaching. I trust my stunt mom (aka sister) to drive safely when the girls are in the car with her. I trust the school bus driver to get my girls to school safely. Yet with all of that trust, I'm stuck, mired in the trust I can't give.

I don't trust people with my feelings. I constantly think I will either be judged, or have them used against me. The only exception of this is my neuropsychologist. That didn't come easy in the beginning. I've lost trust in my husband. I know it shouldn't be absolute, and I should keep an open mind, but the damage is like a wound that just hasn't scarred yet. It's as if, just as it starts to heal, he rips the scab off and cuts deeper. I don't know how to feel trust in him now. There's only so many times I can be burned over and over and not think, "Fuck this. He doesn't deserve my feelings." I know being bitter doesn't help heal a relationship. I also know I don't deserve to be treated that way, no matter what. Honestly, I've given up trying.

I know I have self-worth, and self-esteem problems. I know it because I get reminded of that fact constantly with my own thoughts. I just seem to not believe the proof to the contrary regarding my negative thinking. I had a friend recently say to me, "I think it should tell you something about yourself, that maybe you didn't realize. That maybe you are worth being loved, just as you are. Maybe you needed to know that." I want to believe it. I want to trust that feeling. I want to believe I'm worthy of being loved. I want to trust the person who says they love me. I want to trust it isn't just a token phrase to placate me.

I want to believe the people I encounter online as friends are telling me the truth. I really want to trust them. No body language, no tonal inflections of their voice, nothing to give me that clue I need so desperately to separate the proverbial wheat from the chaff. I'm not so stupid that I don't realize people deceive all the time. Yet I long for a connection with people. It's terribly lonely at times not having anyone with my same interests to talk to. No one to really laugh with other than my children. I know I need to get out more and meet new people. What stops me is the constant pervasive thought:

"If people knew the real me, they wouldn't like me." If that wasn't enough, I would wish people got to know me before they made judgment based on my weight. It's a strange internal dialog of Hades going on with me all the while I struggle with trusting a person enough to know me.

I stepped out of the shadows to try and trust people more with how I feel. It's excruciatingly painful being this vulnerable. It's draining to force myself to do this. It seems so damn foreign. I still work at it, because I'm hoping the more I'm vulnerable, the easier it will be. Many people trust me with their inner secrets and struggles, yet I don't trust many with my feelings. This blog contains my secrets, but they don't contain my intimate feelings to an extent. It's just parts of me that I choose to show. Trust is something I want to do so much, but I've spent my whole life learning to do the opposite. It's been proven over and over again throughout my life, that trusting people with my innermost feelings, dreams, and desires just results in pain, disappointment, and disillusionment.

I don't have the answers. For once I have no wonderful insight. I am afraid to trust people with the "real me". It's all I have left, and I guard it for all it's worth.