My Friend Anger

"Lack of emotion causes lack of progress and lack of motivation." -- Tony Robbins

My primary emotion lately is anger.  I would much rather be angry than hurt.  Anger propels you to act.  It gives you the fuel you need to conquer the pain that loves to paralyze you.  I have found that hurt doesn't cause progress or motivation.  It causes paralysis.  So instead of the usual tinge of pain I feel when I see an old flame, I just feel anger bulldozing a path in my veins.

It's simply delightful.

I know that underneath the anger is sadness.  But anger is sadness manifested.  It's the not so silent partner that requires you to respond.  It deflects any self blame you feel and rests it solely on the person receiving your anger.  For someone who has internalized every problem in my life and made it my fault, this newfound placement of blame is thrilling.

I can now look at a situation in which I feel misunderstood or wronged and instead of the I-want-to-hide-in-the-bathroom-and-cry feeling, I get the I-have-this-overwhelming-desire-to-punch-you-in-the-face feeling.  One feeling makes you take a break from life and one makes you act.

I prefer the action.

I suppose this is a phase.  Which goes hand in hand with my "I don't give a crap what you think" phase.

I'd much rather be feisty and active than crying and hiding.

So, Tony, I disagree with you.  Lack of emotion doesn't cause lack of progress.  Sadness does.  Anger, however....he's my friend.

Be very careful if you happen upon me in a dark alley....feisty Rebekahs in dark alleys are dangerous.

Apathetic Me

I was loading up my car with my supplies uptown after cleaning a house and I saw signs on a neighbor's house that said, "Smile! You're on camera" posted in multiple places.  I panicked for a minute, like I had been doing something wrong and someone was going to catch me on video.  Then I realized the silliness of this thought and relaxed.  I was torn between being grateful that they had a camera outside in case someone stole something from my car versus the feeling of being violated.

Crazy hair ... just don't care

As a house cleaner, I see the inner workings of people's homes.  It is fascinating the difference between people's public personality and their private one.  Not that I know them privately, but I get a small glimpse of it.  It made me think about who really knows us...what we show people as opposed to the person we are unintentionally when we are intimate with someone.

When I was writing about the personal life of a divorcee, it made me quite uncomfortable.  I knew it would be upsetting to some.  I knew it would outrage others.  But I also knew there would be the few that understood and would be glad someone finally spoke it.  So out of that place, I chose to write about it.  For if I'm behaving in a way that is shameful, I should not be behaving that way at all.  And I've worked too hard to rid myself of shame only to hide amongst it again.

What is it that impels us to pretense?  Why are we so deathly afraid of people really knowing us?  Of the neighbor hearing us yell at our kids?  Why are we afraid of people catching us on camera unknowingly?  Or reading our journal?  Or getting a glimpse into the raw side of who we are simply because we can't control the emotion anymore?  Why do we fight so hard against being authentic?

My dear friend is very sensitive to others.  She can read people well as a result.  But she is also affected by them more easily.  To her, I am insensitive and brusque.  I am affected only by a small handful of people.  I lack empathy.  I can logically understand others, but the emotional side of me doesn't empathize often.

I wasn't always this way.  I believe I must have gradually become that because I was a boss who was frequently berated.  Or perhaps it was when Graham was in the hospital and I cried untapped.  Or maybe it was having my heart broken so many times.  Or maybe it was having to date and finding that rejection is around every interaction.  Whatever it was that created this hardness in me is not going away and prevents me from remembering what it was like to live without it.

There is freedom in having this covering.  It means I most likely do not think much about the opinions of others.  I can logically listen and accept them, and perhaps filter them through what I know to be true of myself, but tears are typically not part of that process.  I remember years ago my sister in law telling me that one of her favorite things about me was that I didn't care what other people thought.  At the time, this was a shocking thing to hear because I most definitely did care.  But I also remember thinking that I hoped one day that statement would be true.

Well, I've arrived.  Or not.  Perhaps I digressed.  Whatever the sentiment is around this, the fact remains.  I largely do not care what other people think.

I instructed my sister years ago to burn all my journals if I should die before her.  She laughingly said, "not a chance.  I'm gonna publish them and be rich!"  The sheer terror of this statement made me sweat like a sinner in church.  Now, however, I'm not sure I would mind. 

I am equal parts sinner and saint.  I am equal parts kind and mean.  I am equal parts considerate and destructive.  My guess is most of us have these dichotomies residing within us.  So why the urgency to hide?

Big brother is watching...whether it's through the eyes of your kids or a camera on the street.  He is watching and we cannot hide.

Warning: For Adult Audiences Only

Dane Cook is dating a 19 yr. old.  She was 18 when they started dating.  He is 45.

This makes me want to throw up.

This used to be an acceptable practice...men taking child brides.  Back when women were commodities good only for child birth, food, and marriage.  It wasn't unusual for a man in his 40s to take a teen bride.  It wasn't considered horrific.  It was the norm. (Side note: this still exists in some societies.)

Now, however, women are equal to men.  In our society, at least.  Or we're supposed to be.  We can buy houses, vote, run for president, choose NOT to bear children.  We juggle careers, school, parenthood, solid relationships.  We do not need a man to succeed in life anymore.  We are pretty amazing.  We have risen to greatness because we had much to overcome.  

I am often troubled by the lack of respect women have for themselves...the lack of respect that I have for myself.  I find that I, too, have bought into the lie that I am good only for sex, child birth and food.  I, too, have made choices based on this limited value of myself.  Being a single woman, this is a tricky line to walk.  In the dating world post divorce, I have often found it to be true that a man doesn't have interest in me unless I am willing to sleep with them.  The thought of waiting until I know someone is rather extraordinary and not at all the norm.  Forget the idea that you wait until marriage to have sex.  That is simply an outdated idea for divorcees...like taking a teen bride.

For all my conservative baptist friends/family, the thought of this is probably appalling.  But they are in marriages and have not had to face this reality.  It's quite easy to judge when you do not have to walk in the shoes of another.  When you don't have to function in the world of dating as a divorcee...when the likelihood of you actually finding another mate is slim you deal with what you're given.  And in our sex-crazed society, sex is a vital part of getting to know someone.  Right or wrong.  It is what it is.  Without sex there is a deficit in your relationship that can only be overcome in the bedroom.  Or so we think.

I have had to overcome this idea that I am good only for sex.  Many times I have cried with my girlfriends about how demeaned I felt because they were the only ones who wanted to know who I really was....they were the only ones who actually took time to get to know me.  They wanted to spend time with me because they enjoyed my brain and my personality.  Their love for me extends beyond my skin.  Which makes it a deep relationship that actually provides connection for my soul.  So why couldn't this translate to an intimate relationship?

I have gone through many different stages of dating since my divorce.  The last stage was earnestly trying to find a partner...someone who got me, who appreciated me, who enjoyed spending time with me.  Someone who was healthy and who had minimal red flags.  I began to see only those who did not pressure me about sex.  I did date someone who fit this criteria and was utterly confused the whole time.  I was in new territory.  I did not know how to get to know someone without sex being a factor.  Because of that, I found new ways to destroy the relationship because I knew it was inevitable anyways...right?  Nothing lasts that I had found.  And the requirements for having a steady relationship are something I don't quite get yet.  And poor guy was one of the first healthy relationships I had experienced...which meant it was a conglomeration of fumbles and failures on my part.  I did not know how to communicate with him.  I had been stripped of the one communication that I was familiar with.  I had to actually talk to him.  I told myself that he didn't really care about me or how I felt, so I chose not to communicate.  I distanced myself from him because I was too raw.  The vulnerability made me scared in a way I hadn't previously experienced.  So I ran from it. My brain chose the flight response as a way of protecting me.  He saw me without my usual props.  He didn't like me so it ended.

Pause for dramatic effect.

As a result, I have discarded the hope of finding someone and have decided to just enjoy dating.  I no longer worry about getting to know someone because that test failed miserably.  It still ended.  I had just given myself more than I usually did in that time frame.  And it still broke my heart.  

So if the results are the same...relationships ending...then why change the behavior?  They say you can't expect different results if you do the same thing.  But I did something different and got the same result.

Which makes me think that perhaps we as divorcees in this current climate do not know how to form healthy relationships with each other.  We have been too hurt.  We are too damaged.  We have kids to worry about and careers to maintain.  Our hearts are no longer accessible to others.  So sex becomes the only way that we can connect.  Or the only "safe" way, rather.

Randall Collins, the great American sociologist who’s been writing on the subject for decades ..., argues quite persuasively that human sexuality can be fully understood only in a social context. Human beings, fundamentally, are distinctly, spectacularly social. Lonely and isolated, we cannot survive, let alone thrive. For us, power and meaning emerge through making connections. Sexual desire, thus, is not chiefly aimed at physical pleasure or the production of children, but at connectedness with others. Sexual pleasure is fundamentally a social construct, an emergent property of social exchange. -- Noam Sphancer, Psychology Today

So if our idea of what is right or normal changes...dating someone who is 19 when you are 45 now is just gross... then that also extends to how we approach sex as divorcees.  Taking that off the table completely no longer works.  It is, in fact, how we interact as social beings who are divorced.

I do not view it as disrespectful any longer.  It simply is.  Period.  It is.  I find my respect not in how others treat me, but how I treat myself.  If I allow myself to be degraded, then I am degraded regardless of the action of the other party.  If I approach it with the full knowledge of what it is, then my dignity is still intact.

But with or without it...my heart is still broken.

(Since I was thinking about my last relationship, I played my Depeche Mode Pandora station...this was the song that played first.  Ironic.  Pause for dramatic effect.)

https://youtu.be/IsvfofcIE1Q

Master and Servant

Depeche Mode

It's a lot, it's a lot, it's a lot, it's a lot

It's a lot, it's a lot, it's a lot, like life

There's a new game we like to play you see

A game with added reality

You treat me like a dog

Get me down on my knees

We call it master and servant

We call it master and servant

It's a lot like life

This play between the sheets

With you on top and me underneath

Forget all about equality

Let's play master and servant

Let's play master and servant

It's a lot like life and that's what's appealing

If you despise that throwaway feeling

From disposable fun

Then this is the one

Domination's the name of the game in bed or in life

They're both just the same

Except in one you're fulfilled at the end of the day

Let's play master and servant

Let's play master and servant

Master and servant

It's a lot, it's a lot, it's a lot, it's a lot

It's a lot, it's a lot, it's a lot, like life

It's a lot, it's a lot, it's a lot, it's a lot

It's a lot, it's a lot, master and servant

It's a lot, it's a lot, it's a lot, it's a lot

It's a lot, it's a lot, it's a lot, like life

It's a lot like life and that's what's appealing

If you despise that throwaway feeling from disposable fun

Then this is the one

Let's play master and servant

Come on, master and servant

Let's play master and servant

Come on, master and servant

Let's play master and servant

Come on, master and servant

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.

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.