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.

Four Randos and a Robot

"You can buy what you want.  You don't have anyone to answer to."  She said.  I was telling her I needed a pair of black booties because the cute brown shoes she commented on were the only pair of cute shoes I owned.  You don't need black.  Brown goes with everything.  She said.  I disagreed with her.  And her response is the topic of my now blog.

"You can buy what you want.  You don't have anyone to answer to."

I paused to let this sink in.  And it sunk.  Into the space where you need an oxygen tank to swim.  It's somewhere in the abyss of darkness where odd things live because no human has ever entered its habitat.  But I'm venturing there.

I have no one to answer to.

The enormity of this off-the-cuff comment is still being processed in my brain.  And this blank page on my blog is the lucky winner for part of the processing.  You're welcome.

I often thought when I was married that perhaps I wasn't cut out for marriage.  I really like my own space.  I like my own money.  I don't like picking up after someone else ... that is an adult.  It's not my favorite to go to bed with a spotless house and wake up to find it destroyed the next morning by a man who is hurrying to get to work.  I don't like having to share my closet space.  Or my drawer space.  Or my cabinet space.  Or shelves in the shower.  (I put my boys' shower things away when they're not with me.  But this is more because I tire of hurting every time I see something of theirs.)

I'm a pretty selfish person.

These things are probably not unique to me, though.  I would suspect that a majority of people feel this way.

What makes me suspect that I'm cut out to be single is that I thrive more when I'm alone.  I have not mastered the art of caring for someone while simultaneously taking care of myself.  I have to work on boundaries incessantly.  I lose myself when I have a partner.

I don't love this about myself.  I know it's happening, but I haven't yet fully grasped the skills of prevention.

My parents suggested meeting one of my dates yesterday.  "Um....no.  It is far too soon and I'm tired of introducing you to random men."  They have met four since my divorce. Some on accident. But still.  Four relationships that I lost myself in.  Temporarily.  Four failures.

I'm not far enough along in the divorce process.

I'm too good for him.

I want more than he does.

We just aren't a good fit.

All of which were probably halfway true.  But my guess is that the girl they were initially attracted to disappeared at some point and was replaced with a robot that was obeying orders from someone else not even remotely related to me.  And none of them knew me well enough to know this, or had the tolerance to dig.

I came home last night to a house that was just as I had left it.  It was tidy and smelled good.  My bed was made.  My things put away.  Everything was in its place.  I got myself a glass of water and just sat in the quiet and enjoyed my space.  I found my nighttime products exactly where I had put them.  My book was still in the same place next to my bed.  My Plexus products hadn't moved.  My bed was just as neat.  I adjusted the thermostat to whatever I wanted and went to bed with my very loud box fan next to my head after reading for an hour in the quiet.

And I have never slept so good.

I woke up at 6 a.m. enthusiastic about my day to myself.  I made my Plexus, took my Accelerator and Vitalbiome, made a glass of water, put the tea kettle on for my French Pressed coffee, opened the blinds, put the Pandora channel on Hillsong United, and sat down to write.  Still in my pjs.  With no one demanding anything from me.

I have no one to answer to.  So today I'm carrying my unattached self to the mall to buy some black booties.

Successful Party Girl?

Successful: having attained wealth, position, honors or the like

I had someone recently ask me if I was a party girl.  He asked this in response to my statement that I was unfit to teach Sunday School.  I chuckled as I hit the Send button.  It was a logical assumption on his part.  But incorrect nonetheless.

I enjoy being outside at my favorite bars with my good friends.  This atmosphere has been overall a place of joy and comfort to me.  I'm with my best friends.  Sharing a beverage of choice.  Relaxed, laughter flowing, the sun shining, good music playing (mostly), and worries left somewhere outside.  Banned because they aren't yet drinking age.  Worries are definitely teenagers who have no business inside a bar.  At least not at the bars I frequent.

I suppose to someone that isn't accustomed to the typical bar life, the image of drunkenness and tears and abuse and anger comes to mind.  Strangers connecting in dysfunctional and destructive ways.  Negativity overshadowing the possibility of anything positive.  And I'm sure this is the case at times.  But I've experienced that at the gym, church, the grocery store, sitting in traffic, at a kid's birthday party, at a school board meeting, at a staff meeting.  These attributes aren't expressly specific to a bar.

The underlying question that he wanted to ask was "are you successful?"  or "do you have your shit together?" because of course the ability to be fit to teach Sunday School is a mark of success.

And the answer would have been...

"It depends on your definition of successful."

To most people, success is determined by the house we live in, the cars we drive, the amount of money we are paid for our worth, the title we are given.  It is summed up in an unspoken word when we walk into a fancy restaurant.  Do we look important?  Is our hair neatly styled?  Do our clothes fit well? Are we in shape?  Is our jewelry appropriately paired? Are our shoes modern?  Are they good quality?  Do we have our nails done?  Lipstick on?  The newest iPhone?  Do we carry ourselves like we know our worth?  Is our bag a name brand?  Do we know anyone in the place?  Do they know us?  Can we afford to be in a place like this?

And if we're a parent, the list of criteria extends to our children.

This isn't the definition to only most people....I would almost say that it is a universal definition.  Whether we like to admit it or not.  If we have somehow escaped this paradigm, we are one of the lucky chosen.

I have been a boss for most of my life.  I have typically been in some position of management.  Whether that place be a classroom, business, restaurant, home; I have taken positions that required me to manage other people.  Because that to me, meant that I was successful to some degree.

When I left the business world to pursue cleaning houses, it was a bit of a shock to my high-heel wearing, perfume smelling self.  Instead, I donned tennis shoes and yoga pants and didn't shower before I went to work.

And I had never been happier.

I remember my dad saying to me that I could make this thing HUGE!  I could buy vans and hire teams of people and have a huge operation.  And we had a great time dreaming.  It excited me.  So being drunk with the idea of success, I kept taking on more clients.  More than I could handle alone.  Which made me hire my first employee.  And another.  And another.  And acquire insurance.  And a bookkeeper. And scheduling software.  And a marketing director.   And a receptionist.  And a manager.  And an office.  And multiple desks.  And a telephone system.  And multiple cell phones.  And networking meetings.  And TV commercials. And payroll.  And taxes.  And fancy restaurants.  And expensive drinks.  And vendors.  And bills.  And business accounts.  And financial statements.

And with all of this came my high heels.  And perfume.

And somewhere along the way my happiness found somewhere else to live because he was abandoned in my tennis shoes in my closet and collected dust.  Along with my yoga pants. (Ok, well maybe not those...they are my most favoritest piece of clothing. Til death do us part.)

By most definitions, I was successful.

But happiness alluded me.

The life I had built slowly eroded.  My marriage started falling part.  My anxieties soared to an all-time high.  My consumption of alcohol increased.  My visits to the doctor were more frequent.

I spent a good three years searching for what I once had.

I found it in a small apartment without a husband, in my dusty tennis shoes and of course my faithful yoga pants.  I love those damn things.

I combated the damaging feeling that I was a failure.  I wept about it in therapy.  I wrote about it in my journals.  It invaded every thought I had...I. Had. Failed.

Despite the evidence of my happiness, failure seemed to permeate my thoughts about myself.  One of my dear friends told me I needed to change the title of my blog because there was so much more to me than failed marriages.  My parents agreed.  It was this revelation that made me question my definition of success.

So today, my definition of successful is something like this:

Successful:  having attained joy, perseverance, integrity, contentment, genuine relationships, mind/body/emotional health, or the like.

And the answer to the aforementioned man who asked if I was a party girl would have been.

Why yes, yes I am.

Sweaty Triumph

I looked a mess.  I was sweaty.  I'm sure I smelled.  My clothes didn't hide much.  But despite my appearance and smell, I was perhaps the most triumphant feeling person in the weight room.

I have been terrified of that room for as long as I've been going to a gym.  There are mirrors everywhere, fit people, good looking people, fitness savvy people.  If I did go, I would sneak in quietly and leave as quietly and hope no one had seen me on the machines or by the dumbbells.  It has been a place of extreme discomfort.  It holds all of my insecurities in one place.  The mats haunt me with their slick blue facade and their dingy surfaces.  The overhead lights zoom in on every flaw on my imperfect body.  Other people's sweat taunts me with their high profitability potential.  I. Hate. That. Place.

But for the first time, I worked out without my amazing friend and partner who has been my security blanket, and I didn't feel in the slightest uncomfortable.

I carried a book around like a dork.  I was in typical gym clothes that were faded from multiple washes.  I was doing squats and walking with that weird jump rope thing that makes you walk like you are about to birth a baby.   My hair was matted to my head.  My muscles timidly peeked out from under my layers of fat.  My mascara had abandoned my eyelashes.  And yet, I beamed with confidence.

I can only attribute this sudden reversal of esteem to what is usually a temporary burst of tenacity.   During these stints, I feel content with who I am.  Comfortable in my people clothes.  I feel satisfied with being a single momma.  Happy with my choice of career.  Enthusiastically progressing in my business and spirituality.  Contented with how I look.  At ease with my personality.

When I was younger these moments of good self esteem were few and far between.  I have found that lately, however,  they take up the majority of my existence.  And the terrorized, insecure Rebekah is the temporary person.

I wish I hadn't wasted my youth on insecurity.  But perhaps the sweaty, gym induced triumph now wouldn't be so sweet.

Goodbye Amateur

Goodbye: farewell (a conventional expression used at parting)
synonyms: parting; so long; leave-taking

I'm not great at goodbyes.  I've moved many times during my life so you would think I would be better at it.  But nope.

Maybe it's because I'm a Baptist in New Orleans.  Baptist church goers that  I've met over the years were only here for a short time for whatever reason.  I didn't expect to make this my home, either.  But it got under my skin and into my soul so here I am....21 years later.  After Katrina, this phenomenon of people exiting the city became an even greater concern.  I said goodbye to many friends as a result of that storm.  It destroyed more than just our city.  I started asking people immediately if they were from here when I met someone I bonded with.  If they weren't from here, I did not invest in them because  it was likely they wouldn't be here long term.  It was a matter of keeping my heart from being in a state of continual breaking.  I'm sure I've missed out on some great friendships because of this.  But survival demanded it.

My tender hearted Graham unfortunately got this trait from his momma.  He would cry and cry when he was younger if he had to leave or if someone was leaving him.  If he did have to say goodbye, it was a long affair of kisses and high fives and booms until he was completely satisfied with the way the goodbye was administered.  I think God needed to teach me patience because he put a damper on any kind of hurry I was in.  Poor little guy still struggles with goodbyes but has toned it down.  At least externally.  I'm sure his little heart feels the same way, but as with most things, aging has taught him to internalize his feelings.  And going back and forth between his parents I'm sure is exceptionally difficult.  I hate this.

Romantic entanglements are not great for someone who has a hard time with exits.  Nor is it great for someone who is not great at deciphering between a good fit and one who is not.  Because I find people curious, I usually let the relationship linger longer than it should have because I'm just not done getting to know them.  I end up focusing on them instead of what I need/deserve/want.  This conundrum of curiosity and goodbye procrastination is not awesome for my tender heart.

I loathe finishing a movie or book when I love the character.

I'm a goodbye amateur when I should be an aficionado.

My Grandpa's Legacy

We were all singing the familiar song that I've been singing my whole life.  My cousins...many of which I have never met...young and old all singing "Come and Dine."  My aunts and uncles beaming with peace to have their family together.

I will never forget years ago when my Grandpa said to the whole family as tears fell that it was his desire for us all to love Jesus.  Above anything, that was his wish for us.  This strong, very masculine man, the patriarch of a very large family, weeping.  It was almost too much for me.

My family has flaws like anyone else.  But at the very center of everything is Jesus.  My grandparents loved Jesus.  And that permeated through every fiber in our family.  We were a family of Jesus people who just loved.  And loved well.

I have thought many times that it is almost unfair to come from such an amazing family.  It doesn't quite prepare you for the world.  It's deceitful in its presentation of what people are like.  When you come from a family where malice, deceit, betrayal, just pure ugliness doesn't have much room, it's difficult to comprehend that many others have these as a resounding trait.

I was naive.

I remember the first time I met these traits.  In myself.  I hid in my parents' bedroom, ashamed that such traits were inside of me.  But I was up close and familiar with the Man who remedies that.  And I chose to hide in my parents' room.  They love Jesus. I didn't recognize it at the time, but their room was a safe haven where I could sort out the ugliness.   After all, they were the ones who introduced me to the Man who remedies ugliness.

Perhaps that is the difference.  It's not that these attributes don't reside within my family.  It's just that we know what to do with them when they poke their ugly heads....leave it at the feet of Jesus.

My Grandpa left us a beautiful legacy...and now he gets to dine with the Master.

I miss him.

Muscle Shame

There is a room at the gym that I am terrified of.  It is full of mirrors, questionable machines and very fit people.  I make myself go in there because it terrifies me.  I feel awkward and foolish the entire time, and most likely have a face the color of my Plexus drink.  But still I go.

My gawkiness reached its all time high when I attempted to do a pull up.  I consider myself to be strong.  I do push-ups/sit-ups/lunges etc... often.  But this was a new skill.  A new set of muscles.  And something which proved to be a challenge.  A kind soul was showing me how to do it the amateur way....by just jumping up and grabbing the bar.  She underestimated my ability grossly.  There was no world in which I would be able to pull myself up even a little bit.  I finally compensated with a machine that would hold my knees while I did my inverted pull ups.

I was thoroughly ashamed of my muscles.  Or lack thereof.

My sweet friends assured me that it would take me a while to reach my goal and tat one point they weren't able to achieve it either.

Instead of retreating to the mats where I could safely perform my other exercises, I pressed on.  To my surprise, I became determined to overcome.  Not ashamed of my lack of skill.  (Though my muscles were in a time out for their shameful behavior.)

It was as if looking like a fool motivated me to succeed.

This is a completely new and different arena for me.

Who am I and what have I done with Rebekah?

I have now reached a place in my life where challenging myself is more important than the need to look like I have it together.  I am OK with making a seeming fool of myself if the result is more strength.

I have even reached a point where I am not terrified of people looking at my GB aka Ghetto Booty at the gym.  I have searched for clothes to hide this physical trait, but to no avail.  It has always been an uncomfortable part of my body and I was rid of it only when I was grossly underweight.  So, I am even embracing that gawkiness.  We are good friends now.  Me and GB.

I wish sometimes that I could go back to the afraid, insecure Rebekah who avoided feeling foolish.  But my hunch is, my young self would not appreciate just how massive this growth is because being without it means you don't understand what it means to carry it.

So in all my glorious mess, I embrace gym clothes and the horrid pull up bar.  And very soon I will be able to say that I conquered the crap out of that, too.

Goodbye Therapy!

I am officially released from therapy.  I have sat across from this woman for 3.5 years and struggled.  She took me from a scared, traumatized momma who ran from her kids to a proud, strong momma who doesn't want to let her boys go.  After Graham's accident, I was an intense mess of a person.  I made poor decisions.  I didn't want to be alone with my kids.  I self-medicated and sought temporary relief in sketchy things.  I had nightmares.  I had flashbacks.  I jumped at the slightest noise.  I cried just as easily.  It was a hard time, but because I had a woman who specialized in trauma therapy cheering me on, I had hope.

The changes were subtle.  And mostly invisible to others.  I gained knowledge on how to calm my brain down when I was triggered.  I practiced relaxing in the middle of stressful situations.  I picked exercises that permitted me to strengthen my body without stressing my mind.  I journal almost daily, and the woman who wrote entries 3.5 years ago is a shadow of who I am now.

What is cool and supremely scary about life is that changes happen subtly.  They come with small decisions that you make throughout your day.  In five second intervals.  You decide to forgo the second cup of coffee and drink water instead.  You turn the TV off to read a book.  You pick music to work out to that is more intelligent and less chaotic.  You light a candle.  Put bubbles in your bath.  Take deep breaths when you're upset.  Wade through painful emotions without pouring a glass of wine.  Cook brussel sprouts instead of pizza.  You finish the laundry before your kids get home.  You actually pay attention in church and put your mental to-do list on hold.

1,277 days in 3.5 years.
1,277,000 small decisions.

I didn't get it right all the time.  But I got it right enough times to help me overcome my demons.

And yes, I go to bed fighting them and will wake up again tomorrow looking the same ones in the face.

But this time, I'll know what it is I'm staring at.

Awkward

I found myself floundering for words...I wasn't making sense... I was contradicting what I had just said.

This doesn't happen to me often.  By most standards, I'm a decent communicator.

But this conversation was painful.  And with someone I hadn't known for long.

The primary thought running through my mind was... He just doesn't know me.

The worst part of dating is taking your time to get to know someone.  After being hurt so many times, it takes an act of congress to get you to lower your guard enough to let someone in.  All sorts of walls are built in order to maintain sanity so you can parent well, provide well, function without seeming like too much of a mess.  After all, you have parent-teacher conferences to attend, dentist appointments to make, homework to help with, clothes to wash, new pants to buy because your kids insist on growing, activities to make, haircuts to give, birthday parties to attend, discipline to carry out, chunks of time to give up so you can volunteer at their schools.  All this while running a company, managing people, connecting with clients and prospects, planning marketing strategies, paying bills, balancing budgets, hiring and firing, working out so you don't get fat, remembering to take your car in so you don't ruin the engine, grocery shopping, returning items so you don't allow clutter to overtake your small living room, reading to keep your mind sharp, and writing so you can release all the craziness in your brain.

It's amazing I am erect.

Getting to know someone with all these balls in the air is lengthy and uncomfortable.  And very close to impossible when it's difficult enough to be erect.

And it leads to a multitude of fumbling conversations.

At what point do you stop investing in someone when you know you don't have all their cards on the table?  At what point do you reveal your cards?  Fear of wasting your time is looming there somewhere amidst the millions of balls.  Fear of being rejected when they really just don't know you.  Fear of rejecting them when you don't know them either.

Just writing this makes me want to go back to bed.

But I press on.  Having awkward and annoying conversations.  Listening calmly when I want to run away.  Being patient when this is not a trait I maintain easily.

I have two little boys counting on me to make good decisions.  They are worthy of me enduring awkward conversations.

What if I gave up?

I'm not there yet...where I want to be.  It's looming and is possible, but it's not yet here.

But that doesn't make me unsuccessful.

I read this post by a Jewel Ambassador in Plexus and it blew me away...she listed all the reasons she had to quit and why she didn't give up.  She is currently making about $240K a year with Plexus. Granted, I'm making 13% of that but I'm not done either....

And all her reasons were relatable cuz this homegirl has been there.

So WHAT IF ....
--I had listened to a well intentioned man who told me God hates divorce and stayed in a miserable marriage feeling small and afraid for the rest of my life?

--I had given up when my friend told me she couldn't be my friend anymore because I had too much drama?

--I had believed my husband when he told me it was my fault our son almost died?

--I had stopped growing when someone told me I had too many red flags and too much baggage?

--I believed it when I was told that I was crazy and incompetent?

--I shut down my business because an employee told me it was worthless?

--I stopped working out because the man I was dating told me my muscles were gross?

--I gave up because four of my employees quit and started their own cleaning business?

--I threw in the towel after two divorces and again dated a man who did not see my value?

--I was not desperate enough to try Plexus and never took the products in the first place?

--I allowed the lies that I had slept with everyone and was kicked out of two bars to identify me?

--I believed the man I was dating when he told me I was inappropriate and shared too much?

--I had given up on God when my friend told me I was a typical, judgmental Christian?

--I gave up because my sister and brother succeeded in marriage and surpassed me?

--I stopped posting about Plexus because it annoyed some people?

--I believed it when a client/friend told me my company was mis-managed?

If any of these things had happened, I would not be where I am today...Paying my own way...Able to pick my boys up and drop them off from school and sing loudly to Justin Bieber on our way home..Able to stay home with them when they are sick...Able to shed the many reasons I have to give up and still wake early and tackle the day. 

I am still changing, growing, hoping.  I still love.  I still laugh.  I still choose to be happy when there are plenty of reasons to cry.

I press on.  Knowing that regardless of the negativity, and possible truth behind the negativity, my life counts.  I have a job to do.

And I'm not there yet.  I can taste it.  Touch it.  Feel it.  But it's not yet in my hands.

I am a glorious mess, but the trying is pretty dang fun.

Messy Syllabus

I read a story once about a man who was happily married and very successful.  He had people flocking to him with adoration.  His wife wisely saw through the superficial sentiment and reminded him that they would be gone if he lost his wealth and fame.

That day came and he was alone.  His wife died.  His dynasty crumbled and left him with no one.

My said dynasty has crumbled on me a few times.  I had invested my time in people who weren't invested in me, thus leaving me with a handful of genuine friends.  These friends sat with me when my son was fighting for his life.  They helped me move out of the many homes I lived in.  They called when they knew I was having a hard time.  They showed up when I was at my worst and had nothing whatsoever to offer them.  And they loved me.  Ugly or not.  Broke or not.  Sane or not.  Single or not.  Lively or not.  They showed up.

I will never forget looking around the waiting room at the PICU and seeing the faces of the ones who showed up.  They didn't speak.  They didn't hug me constantly.  They just showed up and sat beside me.  And let me cry.  Or yell.  Or whatever it was that I was feeling in that particular moment.  They loved me when I couldn't love myself.

Now that I'm older and have a full life with two kids and two businesses and multiple other jobs, my time is extremely precious.  I have to be thoughtful about how I spend it and with whom.  Do they make me a better person?  Do they encourage me to follow what's right?  Do they assist me in conquering my fears and unreasonable expectations?  Are they themselves moving towards something greater?

Do they love me when I'm unloveable?

This is a tall order for anyone.  And unfortunately as Christians we feel it's our duty to be this to everyone.  I was so glad when my Sunday School class didn't show up to help me move.  It restored my faith just a bit in the genuineness of the people in church.  They didn't know me and if they had showed, it would have been out of legalistic duty and nothing more.  It wouldn't have been a true act of kindness.

I think this is perhaps the core of free will.  God gave us the ability to choose Him or not.  We get to choose whether we love Him and how we love Him.  We get to choose what that looks like for us. In turn, when we force ourselves to follow a script, the free will becomes simply a rote task that reeks of insincerity.  And never quite makes that treacherous trek to our hearts because it is surrounded by sterile checklists and agendas.

But when we do act freely simply because we love, the choir in heaven must break into song.

Sincerity and pain have joined together in a song that no one can develop into a syllabus.

And when your dynasty falls, perhaps you'll find just who is willing to get messy with you.

Not YET!

In a study, students were taught that every time they tried "something new and difficult that pushed them out of their comfort zone the neurons in their brain can form new, stronger connections and over time they can get smarter.

In that study, students who weren't taught this growth mindset continued to show declining grades.  Those who were taught the study showed a sharp rebound in their grades."

Carol Dwecker said this in her Ted Talk The Power of Not Yet.

If we change "I've failed" to "I haven't accomplished it YET" perhaps our brains would get to the NOT YET faster...or perhaps if we didn't and just accepted failure as the outcome, we would never achieve the NOT YET.

I was walking with my boys while they rode their bikes and watched Brady continuously struggle to get going.  He recently learned how to ride his bike, and the take-off in the beginning proves to be the most challenging part.  I had listened to this Ted Talk today, so I just told him that it was difficult right now, but he would get it.  He just hadn't mastered it YET.  In the past, he would give up and cry and we would end up cutting our walk short.  This time, he got on his bike and pushed through the difficulty with the cutest look of determination on his face.

I breathed a sigh of relief that I hadn't FAILED in the past with my parenting, I just hadn't achieved greatness YET.  But in that moment, I felt like I had arrived.  I gave myself a little pat on the back and ran next to my two boys who were beaming with confidence.

Being divorced twice screams FAILURE.  Very loudly.  It perpetuates in my brain like a record that continuously skips.  I have FAILED at having a steady relationship.   I have FAILED at finding my life partner.  I have FAILED my kids.  I have FAILED my parents.  I have FAILED myself.

But if I translate that into NOT YET this is what it looks like:

Being divorced twice means I haven't found the right one YET.
I haven't achieved a steady relationship YET.
I haven't found my life partner YET.
I haven't YET achieved awesome parenting.
I haven''t YET achieved making my parents proud.
I haven't YET arrived.

I may not fully accomplish these things, but the challenge that I can makes me want to put on a headband to catch the sweat that will fall from my determined face.  And if I don't arrive, I'll die trying.

With my brain at full speed.

About Time

My son saw the book I was reading... "How to Avoid Falling in Love with a Jerk"....

Perhaps this is why people have switched to tablets/iPads to read.

He looked curiously at me and again asked if Daddy was a jerk.  This was the second time we have had this conversation.  He saw the book months ago and asked the same thing.  My response was the same...his dad and I were both jerks in our marriage because we just didn't know how to get along.  And it was better for everyone if we weren't together anymore.  But I assured him that just because something is true doesn't mean it's easy.

I have had to learn the hard way most of my lessons.  I am very stubborn and strong willed.  I like to talk things to death, simply out of curiosity.  I always make the decision that I want to make regardless of the feedback I get.

Sometimes these words not heeded led to pain.

But with my intense pain also came my intense joy.

(Not that I shouldn't have listened to wise advice....but you know. whatever.)

It's impossible to have one without the other.  The yin and the yang.  Good and Evil.  Dark and Light.  One cannot exist without the other.  I had the happiest moments of my life when I was married.  The pain didn't remove those.  Nor did they lessen them.

One of my favorite movies "About Time" captures this concept.  The lead character is given the gift of being able to go back in time to any point in his life and redo.  Of course he does it often in the beginning for silly reasons...to avoid looking like an idiot, to kiss the girl he ignored, to stop an argument, to pass a test he failed.  But what ends up happening is he misses out on LIFE.

We were created to taste, touch, hear, see, smell. (I may or may not have had to look up what the five senses were just then).  We wouldn't know what smells pleasant if we didn't smell something gross.

The character then goes back just to slow down and LIVE each day fully.  He listened to someone's pain instead of spewing advice.  He paid attention to the girl who served him coffee and received a smile.  He saw the beauty of a building he had run through in a hurry previously.

Living fully requires acceptance that we will sometimes be late.  We will often look like fools.  I mean, often.  We will stand out when we want to fit in.  We will have to be social when we want to be introverted.

If living fully means I get to fully experience life, then bring on the clown suit.  I'd rather look like a fool than miss out.

happy boys

I met with the boys' teachers and was thrilled to hear that they are doing well at school.  Graham is behind academically and will most likely have to repeat PK4 but he is loved by everyone.  Brady is a super bright kid who is also loved and is respectful to his teachers and peers.  Both teachers said they were very happy kids and I should be proud.

This was music to my ears.  Relief dripped through me and my shoulders relaxed a little.  I was expecting to hear the opposite.

Dragging them through a divorce can be summed up in one word...PAINFUL.  They miss their dad when they are with me.  They miss me when they are with their dad.  They have two rooms.  Two sets of clothes.  Two sets of parents.  They have people in their life that I won't ever meet or know.  They don't deserve the pain.  They are worth more than this.

I worry about their hearts.  I worry about their relationships with other people.  I worry.  Constantly.

As with Graham's accident, I will be prone to blame everything negative in their lives on the divorce.

E.G...

Graham is behind because his brain is damaged from the accident.  

Brady is addicted to his iPad because he is avoiding his harsh reality of a broken home.

Graham has speech issues because of the accident.

Brady sucks his thumb because he feels unsafe since the divorce.

Graham has temper tantrums because his parents aren't together.

And the list goes on.  But the truth is, I don't know.  No one does.  And this is terrifying.

In church yesterday, we were singing a song that escapes me right now but my prevalent thought throughout was that I had to cling to Jesus if I wanted to keep my sanity and raise my boys.  I have to trust Him.  I have to believe that whatever happens, He has them in the palm of His hand.

And He is a far better parent than I will ever be.

red face and sweaty palms

I could feel my face getting hot.  The warmth spread up behind my eyes and tears were threatening to fall.  My therapist had hit a nerve and knew it.  Per usual, she asks me to process what I feeling.  Per usual, the feeling under what she had said was that I felt rejected.

Rejection doesn't sit well with me.  It causes my insides to twist and my color to change.  It makes talking difficult sometimes.  It changes the pace my heart is beating and turns my hands clammy.  It is not at all my friend.  Not even a little bit.

Unfortunately, rejection is something that will never stop occurring.  Especially as a business owner.  Especially as a single person.  It will continue to come.  It will continue to cause a color change.  It will continue to threaten tears.  It is one of the few guarantees in life.

Struggling to speak, I dive into the why behind my tears.  I came into therapy happy and light and left heavy.   I have to face it in order to grow.  It's why I go.  Otherwise, my face would be continually hot.

Rejection has a purpose.  It has given me thicker skin.  It has helped me to weed out the important from the unimportant.  It has forced me to nurture my own soul.  It has catapulted me, sometimes screaming, out of bad situations.  I'm healthier because I have been rejected. 

Despite the benefits, I'm not really a fan of having a red face.

The difficulty is remaining yourself despite rejection's frequent visits.  And as a person who likes others to be happy, I find this an arduous task.  It is tempting to to change my game in order to avoid rejection.  I have done it frequently in my past.  I have abandoned my tasks as a mother in order for a relationship to survive.  I have let my friends dictate decisions that should have been mine alone.  I have made poor decisions in business in order to avoid it.  Rejection looms in the background, ready to pounce.  Taunting me with its red face and broken voice.  I change who I am in order to keep it at bay.  But this has not served me well.  Instead of having the desired effect, it results in even more tears and red faces.  If I would just persist in being true to myself, I would not find my life so challenging.  Or rejection so ominous.