Bully or Maiden

My sons are very different...one is fidgety, anxious, hyper intelligent, thoughtful.  The other is enigmatic, wary, jolly, sensitive. 

Graham goes to multiple doctors.  He is entering kindergarten next year, or is supposed to, and so I am in full investigative mode.  He has testing from education professionals.  He has neurologist appointments.  Geneticist appointments.  He will undergo a psychological evaluation, a neurological eval, an EEG.  He is currently in a private school, but his needs supersede the school's abilities at this point.  The decision to change schools is being discussed.

I had to have a talk with Brady about Graham's behavior.  Brady is prone to tease his little brother if he acts in a way that is immature or irritating.  But we are all scratching our heads at some of his behaviors...because it is possibly because he can't help it as a result of brain damage or that's just who he is.  Who knows what the answer is.  Either way, we all have to be aware of the possibility of deficits and invoke more patience than we previously have.

But our boy is amazing.  He is hilarious and vibrant.  He lights up a dark room.  He attracts smiles and energy wherever he goes.  He is loved by most.  Graham was not given the deficit of an awkward personality.  He is delightful.

In the midst of all of this, I am somewhere without a life jacket.  I have amazing parents.  And friends.  But there are times when a companion is sorely missed.  My car makes weird noises.  Or I forget to change the oil.  Or I have to get a ladder to change the light bulb.  Or my plumbing is backed up.  Or I have heavy things to take down from the attic.  Or I simply need a hug from a large man who can shoulder my worries.  And give me CPR when I'm gasping for air.

I think this is perhaps what makes being single so difficult.  I am a strong, independent woman with a lot going on.  While simultaneously I'm a scared little girl who has no idea how to change a tire.

My sons are very different from each other...as are my two sides.  I'm the bully and the maiden.  It all depends on the day.

Petri Dishes of my Discombobulated Self

I'm no longer a dissected person with parts of me in various petri dishes.  My boys are home.

As much as I try, I can't quite figure out who I am when they are gone.  I attempt to live my life just as I did when they were home, but the result is usually bleak failure.  I stay out too late.  I drink too much.  I date too much.  I work too much.  I eat unhealthy.  My book typically sits untouched.   Every other week, I'm in this challenge to make a coherent picture of my discombobulated life.

When they are with me, I'm in bed by 9.  I read my book.  My kitchen is clean.  There is healthy food in the fridge.  I cook.  The laundry is done.  My phone is somewhere of unimportance.  I am the best version of myself.

Having to switch this mom button on and off is the most unnatural request.  It's like asking a dog to act like a cat.  Only for a week.  And then change back.  The result is seven days of settling into a routine that changes once you've settled.  And you find yourself meowing instead of barking.  Awkward.

I'm not great at this.

Maybe I should start a support group for women who have to endure this craziness.  I'll entitle it, "Seven Days of Being a Cat."  There's probably already one in existence.  Homegirls...we love our support groups.

(My Pandora Chopin station is not reading my mood right at all today.  Waltzes at 6:30 a.m.?  Firm eye roll.)

In order to dissuade myself from living opposite lives, I'm starting 30 day challenges.  I listened to a Ted Talk that said this is the best way to start something new or change a behavior.  I believe most things I hear on that Ted.  He's a great man with lots of wisdom.

My first challenge is simply to be in bed by 10 p.m. Sunday thru Thursday.  Consistently.  Homegirl has to see just what happens after 10 on occasion...thus, the weekends aren't included in this so I'm free to roam.  I do, after all, have a wandering spirit.

Maybe this is the answer to my discombobulation.  Consistency...regardless of whether I have little boys calling my name over. And over.  And over. And over. Again.

I need to put those petri dishes in the hands of someone who knows what to do with them.  So far I've been very confused by their purpose.

Permanent Bleeding

It's not ever going to go away.  You don't heal from something like this.  You don't get to put the pain aside.  It just becomes a strand in your myriad of patterns.  I thought I was over it.  But sitting in that conference room with his teacher and counselor, one thought permeated the awkward silence....this is my fault.

After Graham's accident, doctors told us that we wouldn't know the extent of his injuries until his brain was ready for that specific skill.  It could be a multitude of things that would reveal themselves over the course of his youth and early adulthood.  He's experiencing it now.  The effects of his accident are evident in his academic development.  My heart just hurts.

It's my fault.

I should have been watching him more closely.  I should not have let him explore the ground.  I was more concerned about the cleaning products than the bucket.  I should have thought about all possible dangers.

I remember being really aggravated that day.  I was furiously trying to clean my car quickly so I could get dinner on.  I was sharp with the boys.  My brain was anxious and stressed out already.  I wonder if that was another way that God was preparing me for what was to come next.

Finding him in that bucket and realizing he was not breathing was the worst moment of my life.  But my brain was ready for it.  It leapt into action.  Had I been in a calm mood who knows what the outcome would have been. So many little things that all put together may have ended up saving his life.

It's my fault.

I can't shake that feeling.  It won't go away...it will just be a part of how I parent.

Guilt is an interesting thing. It hibernates until it's stirred.  Then it holds your hand for a while until it becomes sleepy again.  But you know it's there.  Under the covers.  Dormant at times but still a living organism.

Hearing that your child isn't developing correctly is not fun.  It's even less fun when you can assume responsibility for it.  Hurting for your child is a different kind of pain.  It's not a surface pain.  Like a paper cut.  It's like having an internal bleed.  It's a steady, numb, heavy pain that is in collusion with your soul.  And the bleeding never stops.

Stagnant Memories

I still have pictures of my past family together hanging in my house.  I pass them daily and think, "I really need to take those down."  It was when I was with my boys' father.  I still had a step-daughter.  And a husband.  And a dog.  And a house.

It's not because I long for that again.  OK, maybe the house and the dog and the step-daughter part would be nice to have back... I just don't want my boys to forget what it was like when we were all together.  It's a part of their history.  It's a part of their memories.  Good or bad.  It's a part of them.

They were young when we separated.  Brady was 5 and Graham had just turned 3.  The likelihood of them having a lot of memories from that period are slim.  But they are affected by them.

Memories are like little tributaries that feed into the huge body of water that is you.  As long as they aren't dammed, they will flow continuously and the destination is where it is supposed to be..a fluid part of who you are.  If, however, they are dammed, it erodes the whole area around that one memory.

The bank starts to widen.  It engulfs grass and rocks that were meant to be left on shore.  Things that were previously moving along are now dead weight in the bottom.  It becomes sedentary.  Still.  Foul water that you can no longer safely drink.

When my most recent relationship ended, I tried to ignore the memories.  I knew where that would take me and I wasn't ready to invite it into who I was yet.  I needed for it to settle to the bottom and become foul so I wouldn't move on.  I needed to grieve not only that relationship, but all of them.

And boy did it become foul.  The memories were little pebbles that would have had no problem moving along, but I blocked the stream and so they made a home where there should have been only a sandy bottom.  Memories of laughter and inside jokes, affection and tenderness.  Memories that should have been pleasant instead brought pain.  And they contributed to the stench of the stagnant water.
I guess maybe it's time to take the pictures down and find them a home.  In a box.  And allow not only myself but my boys the chance to be fluid and not stagnant...to finally move on.

https://youtu.be/KwbeHSI-3Co

Ghost

Indigo Girls

There's a letter on the desktop that I dug out of a drawer

The last truce we ever came to

In our adolescent war

And I start to feel the fever

From the warm air through the screen

You come regular like seasons

Shadowing my dreams

And the Mississippi's mighty

But it starts in Minnesota

At a place that you could walk across

With five steps down

And I guess that's how you started

Like a pinprick to my heart

But at this point you rush right through me

And I start to drown

And there's not enough room

In this world for my pain

Signals cross and love gets lost

And time passed makes it plain

Of all my demon spirits

I need you the most

I'm in love with your ghost

I'm in love with your ghost

Dark and dangerous like a secret (don't tell a soul)

That gets whispered in a hush

When I wake the things I dreamed about you (don't tell a soul)

Last night make me blush

And you kiss me like a lover

Then you sting me like a viper

I go follow to the river

Play your memory like a piper

And I feel it like a sickness

How this love is killing me

I'd walk into the fingers

Of your fire willingly

And dance the edge of sanity

I've never been this close

In love with your ghost, ooh

Ooh

Unknowing captor

You never know how much you

Pierce my spirit

But I can't touch you

Can you hear it

A cry to be free

Oh I'm forever under lock and key

As you pass through me

Now I see your face before me

I would launch a thousand ships

To bring your heart back to my island

As the sand beneath me slips

As I burn up in your presence

And I know now how it feels

To be weakened like Achilles

With you always at my heels

This bitter pill I swallow

Is the silence that I keep

It poisons me I can't swim free

The river is too deep

Though I'm baptized by your touch

I am no worse than most

In love with your ghost (in love with your ghost)

You are shadowing my dreams

(In love with your ghost)

(In love with your ghost)

Southward Thoughts of a Primary Care Giver

It was that kind of day.  I felt sluggish under the pressure of life.  Breathing was hard.  Moving even harder.  My thoughts were full of angles and southward turns.  I had convinced myself in that moment that it was better to go be with Jesus.  That was the only thought that calmed me.

But there was a serious problem with that solution...two little boys.

I liked to shirk my importance as a mom when they were younger.  I told myself that others were more capable than I.  I felt like a little kid raising kids.  It took me going through a divorce and becoming a single momma to understand how far from the truth this was.

I am their primary care giver.

Pause for dramatic effect.

Their dad and I decided long ago that his role in their lives was just as important as mine.  We share custody of them.   They were going to his house for a week at a time and then to mine.  When we met with our parenting coordinator, she adamantly opposed this schedule.

"That's a really long time for your boys to go that long without seeing their mom."  She said.

Part of being a primary care giver is accepting that you have the most influence on your children.   You are the one who teaches them how to care for themselves.  You are the one who will affect how they bond with others because they learn how to bond from their primary care givers.  They learn whether it's safe to love freely from you.  They learn how to respond to difficulty by how you respond.  They learn affection from you.  Their brain development depends on you.  You have the power to make or break how safe they feel.

In the beginning of our separation I needed help from whoever would give it.  Or I thought I did, at least.  I did not want the responsibility of being their mom.  I was a mess.  I didn't trust my judgement.  I was grieving and lost.  I used sitters often because it was more comfortable for me to leave them in the care of someone I thought was more capable.  I had people over often because I was scared to be alone with them.  It wasn't a great time for this mom.  I looked for companionship so I wouldn't have to do it alone.  I almost made a grievous decision that we all would have paid for out of this false belief that I wasn't important.

But Jesus took care to resolve that.  He continued to put people in my path who affirmed my role as a mom.  He spoke to me through my sister often.  With kindness she helped me find my way.  I'm sure she wasn't alone in her prayers for me...and my boys.

Now my time away from my boys is planned.  If I get a sitter it is thought out.  My boys and I talk about who they want to come over and "play".  God and I made a deal that I wouldn't leave them with someone else unless I had to work or they would benefit from it.

I'm their primary care giver.  On my worst days where my thoughts are southern, two little boys call me momma.

The Tale of an Evil Business Owner

"You don't know how to run a business..."
(sent in a group text to me and all my employees)

"You need to pay me more."
(came from someone in college who was making $12 per hr. + tips)

"You act like we don't have kids to feed."

"I'm not sure what you do with your time, but you don't work on your business."
(from my manager)

"I wish I had the luxury of staying at home with my kids when they were sick."
(from an employee in her 20s)

"I've never worked for so little money."
(employee in her 20s making $13.50 per hr.)

"You can ignore me all you want.  I'm going to call the cops."
(from an employee who was unhappy with having to wait 5 minutes for a response from me)

Comments that came from a mixture of employees over the years.  Comments that were made out of anger and frustration and aimed at the one person throughout history that shoulders such ugliness....

...business owners.

When I became an owner, I did it simply out of need.  I couldn't keep up with the amount of work I had.  My first employee was delightful.  She was hard working, honest, diligent, funny, and always respectful of me though I was younger than she.  She spoiled me for those who followed.

I had to pay unemployment to an employee who simply abandoned her job.  She didn't return calls or texts.  She took my supplies with her.  She disappeared for three months and then came back and demanded her job back along with an increase in pay.  When I refused, she filed for unemployment.  I was on the phone with the Louisiana Work Force for hours defending my case.  She received the benefits anyways.

I've had multiple employees over the years who left and started their own cleaning businesses.  They took clients, connections and knowledge that they learned from me.  And left in their wake stinging remarks and jobs undone.

I remember the first time I received an insensitive remark.  I was too stunned to react immediately.  After it settled for a bit, my face got hot and tears threatened to spill.   I was sweaty and dirty from a long day's work.  We had just finished cleaning a house.  I was right alongside her scrubbing toilets with an aching back and raw fingers.  But because I signed her checks, I was the enemy.  She was done for the day.  I still had to go to the store to buy supplies, pay bills, invoice clients, collect payments, tweak my website, answer emails, schedule appointments, return phone calls, fill out paperwork for employees.  My job was very far from over.  It was 5:00 p.m. and I had a baby at home that I was nursing.  And she was paid before I was.  I sometimes went weeks without seeing a dime.

I suppose I felt this way before I became a boss.  I remember demanding more money from an employer.  I didn't know how the world of business worked.  I just knew that the people I was serving were paying a lot for their services and I wasn't paid a grand salary for my work.  I answered phones at a construction company.  I was 22.

Pause for dramatic effect.

My husband and I often argued over his treatment of his bosses.  He was frequently late.  He was frequently ill.  He was disrespectful to his bosses.  He did just enough to get by, yet when bonus time came around he expected half his salary.

But he was the employee.  I was the boss.  He had never experienced what I had.  And I couldn't remember what it felt like to be the employee.

All of the comments that I was on the receiving end of were from young employees.  They were all races.  They had few similarities between them, but the one common thread was that they weren't business owners.

After years of off-handed comments, I became numb to them.  I found solace in friends who were also business owners.  We all had similar stories about the behavior of employees.  I probably deserved some of the things that were said to me.  But the negative remarks weighed so heavily on me that I became hardened to the possibility of truth in them in order to simply survive the attacks.

I am very different from the young girl who used to weep when she saw homeless people on the streets.  My experience has made me so. (side note...movie scores should not be played on a Chopin pandora station...)

My hard outer shell means protection for me.  It is the reason I'm able to bow out of nasty disagreements that are unnecessary.  It is the reason I block people.  It is the reason emails go unread and voice mails go unanswered.  I requested that my employees remove me from a group text where they were ranting over their job.  It wasn't that I was upset by their remarks.  I was fine with them trading horror stories about working for me.  But I knew they probably forgot that I was included in the texts and would be embarrassed if more was said.  One employee apologized for it and my response was, "No worries!  Just figured that was something you girls needed to talk about without me being a part of the conversation."

Now that my time of being a boss has come to an end...or perhaps just paused...I am still paying on old debts.  But as I told my dad, at least for nine years I have supported countless others and their families.  So it's a good debt.  Not a bad one.

I'm still very far from the misconceived idea of what it means to be a business owner....I don't spend my days counting my money and watching Netflix.  I'm just a girl.  Sitting in front of a computer screen.  Trying to make ends meet.

Don't judge a man until you have walked a mile in his shoes....or something as cliche applies to this scenario.  My feet hurt.  I'm sure yours do, too.

Chaotic Purpose

"Momma, watch this flip!"
"Momma, look at this booger!"
"Momma, I just farted on you!"
"Momma, catch!"
"Momma, watch out!"

These are just a few of the things that are said daily in my house.  #boymom

My boys spill. Regularly.  They don't walk.  They bounce.  They don't sit.  They fidget.  You can tell what they have eaten by looking at their face, hands and clothing.  They are like Pigpen...wherever they go, there is a cloud of mess in their wake.

And for this clean freak it's a bit of a challenge.

Not that you would know that I like a clean house by looking at its current state.  We have been cooped up for two days.

I am almost out of food and I just went to the grocery Sunday.  They eat CONSTANTLY.

My friend who is single and without kids is easily unnerved when she is here.  My boys will be wrestling and things will be falling all around them and I am calmly sitting in my chair reading or playing on my phone while the hairs on the back of her head are standing at alert.

Having these two little boys is an instant guarantee for singlehood.  I told a date once that I do not expose others to my boys in long stints because they are so full of energy it is hard for most people to handle them in large doses.

I could do what some do and attempt to make a family with a man who isn't their dad.  But the chances of finding someone patient enough to deal with two rowdy boys and a momma who is fiercely protective is slim.  It would most likely be a picture of stress and chaos.

After all my research on the brain since Graham's accident, I am overly sensitive to chaos.  When I was picking schools for them, this was the guiding force in my decision.  The most popular private school gave me anxiety from the moment I walked in.  I had a tour scheduled, but I turned around and walked out.  When we go to events where there are large crowds and lots of noise, we stay only an hour.  Our activities are typically limited to the library and the outdoors or playdates with a few kids.

They make enough noise on their own.  Without any added stimulation.

I have friends who plan activities for their kids often.  And there are times when I feel like I should be more involved.  But then I think about all they have had to endure and the stress their little brains must already feel, and that guilt goes away.

I think as a society in general we have become used to being busy.  It induces a feeling of productivity and accomplishment.  And purpose.  So instead of taking a day to putz around in our own homes, we feverishly run around.  We do errands on our day off.  We go to the crowded gym to workout with lots of others.  We go to the movies and sit with a multitude of strangers.  We eat out just the same.

And our brains most likely are begging us to be still.

We are over-medicated and under-nourished.  We are over-involved and under rested.

And we wonder why our bodies are not keeping up and our brains are broken.

There are times when I have to turn my phone off and spend time being "cut off" from the world.  I can feel that my brain needs to rest.  Facebook alone invokes so much stimulation, it is probably the maximum stimulation that your brain needs if you look at it for ten minutes a day.  We are on it for an accumulation of hours.

I had a friend tell me that when I didn't have my boys, I just needed to make money.  "So you want me to clean four jobs a day and come home and do more work?"  I could feel my heart rate increasing just by speaking that.

"If I don't have enough money cleaning four jobs a day, there is something wrong with the way I am living." was my reply.  The thought of "working" continuously is repellant to me.

Another dude asked me why I didn't wake up at 5:30 a.m. and go to the gym when I didn't have my boys.  Again, increased heart rate just contemplating that scenario.

I am an early bird so it wasn't the idea of getting up at 5:30 a.m. that made my heart pound.  It was the thought of forgoing my cup of coffee and my contemplative time.  This is the time when I make sense of what has happened and what is happening.  This is when God and I work together on my brain to make good choices and plan for better.  If I needed to rise and rush out of the house to build my "muscles" I might look good and feel falsely productive, but I would have a stressed out brain which would eventually erode that good looking body.

Having said this, I am far from lazy.  If I am sitting still, it is intentional.  I am always doing something that God and I decided was important.  Laundry, cleaning, organizing my house, texting my friend, planning my week, looking up recipes, listening to music, watching Netflix while doing my exercises, paying bills, invoicing clients, ordering supplies, writing.

A scene from "The Shack" (the movie):
God is sitting in a chair with sunglasses on.
Mac to God:  God has time to sunbathe?
God:  You have no idea how much I'm getting done right now.

If I don't accomplish another thing for the rest of my life in my career, I will have fulfilled my purpose.  My purpose is to love well and be a great momma.  Period.  Nothing needs to be added.  That is my calling.  Life is lived in the quiet as much as it is in the hustle and bustle.

And until I feel God expanding my brain to handle more stimuli, I'll be in a messy house wrestling with some rowdy boys.

Ocean Sized Bed of Pain

I have a huge ocean of a bed.  It's so big that half the time I have stuff residing in the bottom opposite corner where I know it won't bother me. 

I sleep in a small corner of this large body and sometimes find that I am almost falling out of bed.

It's ridiculously large for a single person.

Except when my boys sleep with me.  Which is every Friday I have them and on special occasions.  Like snow days.

Nothing calms me more than watching and listening to my boys sleep.  I can stare at them all I want and they don't move.  It's my personal heaven.

Someone recently told me, "Wow you must've really been hurt before, huh?"  He was referring to romantic relationships, but my mind went to all the big hurts I've experienced.

Watching my boys sleep reminds me of when Graham was in the hospital.  He was in a coma so I could stare and touch him all I wanted.  He didn't fight me like the feisty kid he was because he was immobile.  And I stared at him and touched him often.  And cried.  I became a human form of a non-stop crier.  It was simply a part of everything I did at that point.  Instead of speaking words I cried them.  I ate and cried.  I laughed and cried.  I took a shower and cried.  I brushed my teeth and cried.  I talked to the nurses about his delightful disposition while crying.  I had no filter for the tears.  They were simply a part of me.

I've grieved the loss of two husbands, a cousin who died too young, three grandparents, countless friends and boyfriends, pets, numerous houses that I made into homes.  I said goodbye to three young kids I had the privilege of caring for for two years while the oldest pressed her face against the window and cried my name as I drove off.  I've lost a step daughter.  I've lost jobs.  I've lost employees who were dear friends. 

And then there are the countless times I've been in the pit with others.  I've cried with two of my best friends who buried their babies.  The depth of their pain has no end.  I've grieved with my siblings and their spouses.  I've grieved with my parents.  My aunts, uncles, cousins.  I've grieved with my city in the wake of hurricanes.  And when the Saints lose (which is also intensely sad but not quite on the same level).

If everyone made a list of their hurts, they wouldn't be dissimilar to mine.  Some probably much worse than mine.  Some less.  But the hurt is the same.  It impacts us the same, whether big or small to others.   Pain does not diminish because others do not see it as pain.  Great or small.  Pain is pain.

The difference is how we carry it.  I suppose in they eyes of some, I have not carried it well.  I feel like May in The Secret Life of Bees at times.  May has a wall where she stuffs little pieces of paper that are marked by each hurt she feels.  It is a very long wall full of paper in every nook and cranny.  Her sisters try to keep her from the knowledge of pain, but it's something you can't reign in.  She lived her entire life the way I lived for those critical weeks in the hospital with Graham. 

Rightly so.

Pain is infinite.  And inevitable.  It isn't unique to any one person.  It is a part of the human experience.

So do we carry it like May who can't function because the pain is incapacitating, or me who was the embodiment of tears?  Or do we lay it at the feet of the only One who can take it from us? 

I think in order to revel in the beauty of my little boys sleeping in my huge ocean-sized bed that is ridiculously large for a single person, I'll leave it at His feet.  I have life still left to be lived.  I can't afford to be incapacitated.

Stinging Hands & Messy Love

I sat next to my son and watched him eat salad, peas and lasagna.  And garlic bread.

Long pause for dramatic effect.

I've never wanted cafeteria lasagna so badly.

After he ate, I got a cup of decaf and sat next to an old friend.  I was fully present in that moment.  My brain was calm and clear.  I was comfortable in my skin.

(That same lasagna eating five year old is currently sitting on my lap watching me type.  His hair smells so good.)

I had a good friend tell me that he was surprised at how low my self esteem was.  This was shortly after my divorce and I was in the throes of looking for peace.  I was shocked that he was able to pick up on that.  More shocked that I didn't pick up on it.

I had been masquerading so long as someone who was happy with who she was, I was in serious denial that I wasn't.  But it found me.  It always finds you.

Denial is a form that we take when we are not strong enough to handle the consequences.  Or the time just isn't right.  It didn't make me unintelligent or weak, it simply meant my brain was protecting itself adamantly against something that might just break me.

Before my decision to fast, I had made a string of really poor choices.  It coincided with my family being in town and put a spotlight on these choices.  If my family had not been present, perhaps I would have denied these poor decisions and just continued on that same destructive path.  But they were there.  Taking a front row seat to my cancerous behavior and denial was not an option.  Because they know me.  Inside and out.

Having someone know you and love you thoroughly carries with it a great amount of responsibility.  You are responsible for your behavior because it affects them.  You are responsible for your words because they affect them.  You are responsible for how you spend your time, your money, your resources because their love for you supersedes the superficial and demands your soul.  Everything about you affects those who love you because they are connected to you.

I have a dear friend who has not had a friend love her thoroughly.  Whatever the reason, she is unfamiliar with messy love.  She is good at loving others but not good at allowing others to love her.  It's interesting to see how she responds to things as someone who is missing this piece.  It's quite different from me who has been loved so well ... I just expect others to know how. 

But the bleak fact is that this is not the case with many people.  Many do not have the kind of family that I have, the kind of friends that I have.  Many are living their lives without experiencing that messy love that sees your flaws and meets you where you are....in the pit if necessary.  Getting dirty with you.  Being scared right along with you.

I shudder to think where I would be if it weren't for my family.  For my decisions, even with this tremendous amount of messy love, have been sub-par.  Had I not had them I would most likely be dead ... or stripping on Bourbon ... or stuck in an abusive relationship.

Which is why I withhold judgment of others....I know what my soul looks like.  I know that I have been given the great gift of intense love and that is perhaps the only thing that has saved me at times.

So for this reason, denial is not an option.  It would be an act of squander for me to live without thought...in a way that is unbecoming and destructive.  I would not only be cheating myself and the ones who love me, but also others who haven't experienced messy love.  I would be metaphorically slapping my friend in the face that has had to make do without it.

I have slapped many faces.  So many times that my hands stung.

And still I was thoroughly loved.

I actually kinda like myself now...with or without cafeteria lasagna residing in my belly... so perhaps the stinging hands are a thing of the past.

Greasy Hamburgers and Cacti

Day 3 of my fast and momma wants a burger.  Like a really greasy cheeseburger with onions and pickles and tomatoes and lettuce.  And lots and lots of mayo.  It is my favorite condiment.

I'm assuming this phase will pass and I'll move past what I can't have and onto what the purpose of this is...forcing my brain to create new connections.  And learning to be still.

This stillness is something I've not encountered before.  It forces my brain to consider things about my life and my decisions that used to be automatic actions.  It opens up space for change.  In the stillness, I found peace about things that typically invoked extreme anxiety.  I'm able to rationally pick apart the problem with what my values are as a guide.  Without this serenity, I was South though my compass should have been pointing North.  I was sweating in the tropics being eaten by mosquitoes while my heart was bundled up in the snow.

Living life on auto pilot is a terrifying thing.  I'm sad for all the things I must have missed.  The opportunities I missed out on.  The friendships I could have had.  The peace I passed up.  I was simply making important decisions out of fear of hurt.  It's my brain's fault.  It was trying to protect me.

And protection meant living safely.  Decisions made simply out of fear of change and difficulty.  I had trained my brain to react a specific way to stimuli.  If someone was hurting me, I pursued them.  Because somewhere in my youth this made sense to the Young Rebekah.  As a result, I carried that same behavior into my adult life because my brain was used to making those decisions, and change meant fear...which translated to my brain as a failure to do its main job...protect.

How intensely unnerving that is.  As adults, we are perhaps living life based on how we responded when we were young.  Before our brains had even finished its growth.  All because we fear change.

My therapist told me when I was close to the end of my time with her that she would know I was fully healed when I broke up with someone.  She was there to challenge me every time I found myself in a relationship that made no sense.  She pushed me to think about their character, how they lived their lives, their values...and whether they aligned with mine.  Of course they didn't, but I stayed.  Because I had taught my brain to pursue when rejected and broken hearted.  I clung to the cactus because I feared a life without pain.  (Insert eye roll at my young self.)

So now that this stage of life calls for me to actually think about who I spend my time with, I have weeded out the cacti.  Texts now go unanswered.  Social Media friendships are now severed.  The cactus is no longer appealing.  It no longer represents protection.  It is the embodiment of pain.  Rightfully so.

If going without that greasy hamburger means my brain is responding in accordance with who I am, then I'll leave it on the grill.  In the hot, sweaty tropics.  My heart resides elsewhere.  In the opposite direction.  And I have a garden of un-prickly flowers to plant.

Brain Damaged?

I was on my knees praying.  It was an odd position for me.  My prayers are usually throughout the day, more as thoughts than a focused prayer.  I told God I was sorry I hadn't been loving him better...

...and even more sorry that I hadn't allowed Him to love ME better.

After I said this, something in my soul rested.  It was as if my anxiety about my life melted and formed a fragrant candle instead of painful, hot wax.  I felt incredibly protected.

And no longer alone.

It's curious how carrying God with you throughout your day is very different from actually meditating on Him.  I suppose it's the same as concentrating solely on something that requires all your brain power.  The result is a beautiful painting instead of a haphazard sketch.  The difference is the process.  When I focus on something, like writing, it requires me to make use of all my senses.  I have either a candle lit or my diffuser w/ lavender oil on.  Chopin Pandora station is playing in the background.  I have a soft lamp on.  I'm wrapped in my fuzzy robe with socks and a blanket.  And a cup of steaming coffee completes the picture.  My thoughts are calm and organized.  There isn't a part of me that isn't participating.

My five yr. old craves alone time with me.  He asks me often, "come sit with me, momma."  And when I do, I get the sweetest picture of who he is.  We make eye contact and snuggle.  I can feel his breath.  I stroke his head.  I am totally present and soaking up this amazing little boy that I carried in my womb.  It changes my love for him.  The world stops and it's just the two of us.

These moments change my son, too.  He is at rest in the comfort of his momma's arms.  He feels safe and secure.  His breath slows down and is able to function better.  He has no worries in that moment.

If I actually focused on Jesus instead of the erratic prayers I am used to, how incredibly different my life would be.  If I allowed Him to stroke my hair, hold me, look intently at my face, allow Him to be with me uncensored, how changed I would be.  I would have less anxieties.  Perhaps I would be kinder to random strangers.  Perhaps I would have confidence in a difficult situation.  Maybe I would refrain from losing my temper with my kids.   Maybe I would be more successful in my career.  Maybe my friendships would be more genuine.  Maybe I would end a toxic relationship.  This closeness to Him would calm me in a way that would allow me to be fully myself...who He created me to be.

Prayer is for me.  It brings me closer to the One who knows me intimately.  It changes ME.  It benefits ME.  God craves it because He loves us.  He doesn't need it.  But we do.

Tomorrow I begin a 21 day fast. I'm resetting my brain.  I have read that changing your pattern for 21 days in turn changes you.  Your brain starts responding differently to situations because it is forced to develop new cells and forces your neurons to grow.  I was telling my friend recently that I felt as though I was brain damaged.  My brain has been tricking me into making poor decisions that do not have good consequences.  And do not at all line up with my value system.  The more astute part of my brain has been shut down so many times because of its need to protect me.  I swear.  It's science.

"Normal brains, when overfed, can experience another kind of uncontrolled over excitation which impairs the brain's function." (Dr. Mark Mattson, Chief of the Laboratory of Neuroscience at the National Institute on Aging)

During this period of fasting, I'm bracing my brain to be totally shocked.  After all, the definition of insanity in the Urban dictionary is: "doing the exact same f#$*ing thing over and over again expecting s*@t to change."

So change it is.  And a part of that change is sitting silently with Jesus.

If we sat beside Him, all of our senses engaged, the product would be damn close to a Michelangelo painting instead of a jot on a piece of scrap paper.  Not that we would ever reach perfection, but the result for that one sitting would be perfection because we actually focused on the only One who is perfect.  Besides, you are the company you keep.

And the company I have been neglecting is calling me.  I have a painting to complete.  And someone to get to know better ... my most Perfect Companion.  Me and my brain damaged self.

Nine. Long. Years.

I have been a business owner for 9 years.  I've had countless employees whose livelihoods depended on me.  I worked to make sure their families were fed, their schedules were conducive to their family schedules, their work rewarded.  For nine years I have paid them before I paid myself.  Nine. Long. Years.

I had multiple people along the way tell me to close my business.  It cost me too much emotionally.  It drained my finances.  It was unpredictable.  But I kept pressing on.

I pressed on because the appeal of being the boss fed my ego.  I  pressed on because it was who I was....a business owner who managed the people who did the actual work.  It was rewarding and fulfilled me.  For a long time.

One of the first Facebook posts

That time has come to an end.  Being a boss has not been the joy it once was.  I have tried to find contentment in my work to no avail.  It is simply not there for me to partake of anymore.  I am tired.  I suppose it is because my livelihood solely rests on my shoulders now.  I do not have a companion to contribute.  It's me alone.  And the weight of having to sustain myself, my two boys, and my employees is too big of a load for me to bear.

And my ego has become a silent child sitting on the bench of a big game.  It's the last one to play.

My A String is now my boys.  And my boys need a momma that isn't worried about anyone else but them.  They need a present momma who spends her emotional energy on them.  I love to clean, anyways.  And that simple pleasure was replaced by an ego that now demands more than I care to give.

The Nine Years' War in 1688 is often considered the first global war.  Mine has definitely been global.  Rebekah Global.

Nine. Long. Years.  My white flag has gone up.