A Smell I'll Never Forget

I have a lot to do. I have my marketing strategies to work on, clients to touch base with, estimates to write, invoices to mail, my boys' school stuff to take care of, laundry, dishes, cleaning, and boxes to unpack. But all of this crap seems strange and foolish with the flooding in Texas, my home state. 

Since being in trauma therapy, I'm more aware of how my body physically responds to stress. I pay attention to how shallow my breaths are, how tense my shoulders are, how alien my stomach feels. And every time I think about Texas, these symptoms descend on me.

 My home was flooded in Hurricane Katrina. My husband at the time rode a boat to our front door. Our house was four feet off the ground and there was four feet of water in our home. We were newlyweds and had just bought our house. I was in Texas with my friends. Rob was on duty with the guard and was in the thick of it...rather, the depths of it.

 I remember my return to the city. The landscape was gray and damp. Grass was overgrown, debris everywhere, houses and businesses torn apart, no one was on the road except a few cars. But the stench is what has stayed with me. It was the stench of rotting meat from all the refrigerators that had been without power for weeks. It seeped into the ground. It clung to you like a bad habit. It was paralyzing.

You don't really know at the time the impact that tragedy will have on you. Its tentacles extend for years...weaving through memories and experiences. It changes how you react to situations. It changes your personality. All without your full awareness that it's even taking place. The brain is an amazing thing...it adjusts and puts itself into self-protection mode to keep from being injured further. My guess is that we all have just a little bit, if not a lot, of brain damage.

I feel you, Texas.  Even though I might be a bit brain damaged.

oh so quiet

I was unprepared for this single mom life I have found myself in. Nothing prepares you for it. You can do all the necessary things to prepare .... read books, talk with friends in similar situations, pray, hash it out with your therapist. But like everything else in life, until you are actually knee deep in it you don't really get it. I'm without my boys for a week at a time. Though I have grieved this, the sadness doesn't go away. I put off going in their room until the last possible moment. As I type this, their bed is stripped, their clean linens sitting impatiently on top waiting to be put on. Their room is a disaster. And in an hour or so I will drag myself into their room to prepare for the glorious week they are with me. Which begins today. Now that I am on my own, I have had to find myself yet again within this apartment that is too quiet at times. I like my alone time. I'm notorious for it. But being alone for a week has made this girl a bit squeamish. I've not yet mastered this life of providing for myself/cooking for myself/cleaning for myself. I feel a bit lost. This too shall pass...as all things do...and in a few weeks I'll be an expert at this quiet life. But for now, I'll leave their room a disaster and drink my coffee in uncomfortable silence.

He can reach the sink....

I was 35 years old and had never experienced this emotion before. I felt like I had just been pushed off a cliff into questionable waters, totally unexpectedly. I had just dropped my son off to his new Pre-K teacher. I watched him walk away with her, holding her hand. I felt like I couldn't breathe. My heart ached in an unsettling way. This was way worse than having a babysitter. He was going off to a new place to form new relationships all on his own. Without me. He would cry for the teacher when he got hurt. He would sit in her lap and hug her when he needed reassurance. Momma wasn't going to be around. He would have to navigate his little life and I was relinquishing that role as his primary care giver, at least for six hours a day, to someone I did not know well. I was petrified.

I felt in that moment totally and completely helpless. Scared to death. It was worse than the feeling of coming home from the hospital with my first newborn baby. That was more of a panicky "WHAT THE HELL DID I JUST DO" feeling. But watching my 3 yr. old walk into a classroom, the first of many for many years to come of his little life....ouch...still takes my breath away.

Being a mother is an amazing, knotty, perplexing, disorienting gift...not even sure "gift" is the right term. It changes you in ways that you are totally unprepared for. And regardless of the many books you read, the many mothers who have gone before you that you surround yourself with, nothing. Prepares. You.

I became a stepmother before I was a mom. I adore that little girl. I was an extremely annoying stepparent because I was so totally caught up in being a part of her life that I overstepped. Often. If I had been a mom, I would have understood how precious and sacred that role is. But I wasn't. It was pretty great actually...I had the love without the paralyzing fear of being her momma.

But now that I am a mom, I get to feel this crazy dichotomy of love/fear/responsibility. This crazy pain and fierce protection you feel for your kids. That initial instinct you feel of wanting to erase any pain they are experiencing. The urge to be a helicopter mom is intense. I have to force myself to let them figure some things out on their own. It's not an easy task. I'm a GET IT DONE QUICKLY kind of girl. So watching your kids struggle with a simple task teaches you an incredible amount of patience and self-discipline.

Being a mom has given me the ability to genuinely think of others before I think of myself. It just comes with the territory. Their well being becomes more important than your own. You have to work really hard at taking care of yourself as modern society instructs us to do (my nails and hair tell a different story because momma has mastered the self-care aspect).

My youngest son went to the sink at my mom's house and easily reached the water to wash his hands. I was totally confused by this small action. When did he grow that much??? How many years have I missed?? Will he continue to get taller?? I AM NOT OKAY WITH THIS!!! I feel at times that I have lived my life as a parent in the urgency mode of basic survival. I'm just thankful when my kids are alive at the end of the day at times. Parenting is exhausting and requires constant motion and attention. And worry. I worry about their health, their friendships, their character, how they spend their time, their school work, their spirituality, their teeth. My mind doesn't stop thinking about them.

If my mind is constantly thinking of them, how the hell did I miss that he can reach the sink??????

I'm currently concocting a remedy to this growing my boys insist on doing. So I don't miss the details.

French Pressed Columbian Roast

I was staring at mountains of stuff in my parents' garage feeling a medley of emotions. There was of course the I HATE MOVING emotion. And the WHY OH WHY DID I BUY SO MUCH CRAP emotion. But mainly it was MY LIFE IS BEING DRASTICALLY MINIMIZED emotion. We lived in a three bedroom house that was 1800 sf. Complete with outdoor furniture and a full attic. My new space is 800 sf and no backyard. I poured through my things and brought only the essentials with me to my new space. All else went in the dumpster or still lives at my parents. My huge coffee pot is now a French Press. It is the most fabulous, minimal cup of coffee I have ever had.

Living in a small space encourages simplicity. With the rubble I left behind, I also sloughed off unnecessary barnacles of my previous life. I left behind the WHAT DO I DO WITH MYSELF ALONE box. I left behind the DIVORCED CONFUSION box. I ditched the UNSTABLE box. And the PLEASE DON'T LEAVE ME box (that one was particularly nice to say goodbye to). The I'M A TERRIBLE MOTHER box is stored there...not entirely ready to close that one completely. But the others can go to the place where Woody and Buzz hopefully reside (please God, do we need another Toy Story?). Ain't nobody got time for that s**t. Here's to my fabulous, small, intensely tasty Columbian Roast.

Hot Cup of Conscience

Conscience. Still small voice, superego, shame, censor, morals, duty, demur, scruples. All synonyms for conscience. I like them all except the shame one. Shame on that one.

Shame: noun. the painful feeling arising from the consciousness of something dishonorable, improper, ridiculous, etc., done by oneself or another: e.g. She was overcome with shame.

I heard myself saying to my 7 yr. old that he should be ashamed of how he treats his momma. It felt like lead on my tongue so I quickly told him that that wasn't the right thing to say. That I never wanted him to feel shame. I said maybe he should think about his behavior but it was not shameful to behave in a way that is unbecoming. Shame shouldn't have a place in your head.

I talk to them like they're adults sometimes. It's funny for all involved.

I have done a lot of research on shame in the past few years. It is an interesting beast of a concept. It is the root of most of our guilt but rarely spurs us into positive action. It creates in us an embarrassment about who we are, how we feel, and what we do. One of the synonyms for shame is self-disgust.

Yup. Adam and Eve hid from God when they were naked because they felt intense shame. These guys were all up in the bushes with leaves and plants all in their business. All because they were disgusted with themselves. Like we can hide from the One who made those plants and the crazy people hiding in them. The lengths we go to in order to hide our shame is astounding. We create distractions. We hide from our people. We blame others. We make poor choices. All as a result of our own self-loathing. It is a monstrosity without respect. It falls on the heads of great men, powerful women, the wealthy, the poor, the sick, the healthy. It is truly non-biased. Its tentacles reach into our relationships, our communication, our actions. It bleeds into our words and our thoughts. And causes paralysis. It offers nothing positive. It is a parasite.

Conscience, however, is my friend.

Conscience: the inner sense of what is right or wrong in one's conduct or motives, impelling one toward right action.

I like conscience. He pushes me to make good decisions. He hangs with me when I'm analyzing a situation and has great advice to offer. He guides me towards happy places with sunshine and flowers. He is good for all involved.

I dig Downton Abby. My momma and I watch it regularly and usually end up with a cup of hot tea. It's very difficult to sit through that show sans hot tea. It takes a great act of will. What I love so much about that show is their sense of conscience. It is often talked about...what's right and what's wrong. Integrity is something that most of the characters possess. And those without it are usually in the minority and not very popular. I wish that were the case in our "modern" society.

In my own life I have not necessarily looked for this trait...this unswerving devotion to what's good. Not intentionally at least. It is not a guide for my choice in friends or men. I find that I want to see goodness in everyone and often put on blinders as a result. It is not a great solution and certainly hasn't served me well. However, in my business I only hire those with a conscience because it makes them honest. I typically tell them at the interview that it is of the utmost importance that they never lie to me. If they're hungover, I ask them to resist making up some story about a bug that suddenly took over their body and just happens to coincide with a long night of tequila. I don't care that they drank irresponsibly. I care that they are honest enough to open themselves up to the consequences of their actions. This willingness to accept their screw ups makes them trustworthy. Honesty results in success in business. I had the wherewithal to perceive that at least. I'm not sure why that hasn't translated to my personal life up until now but let's just chalk it up to homegirl has been wearing very, very, very dark shades that were most likely purchased at Goodwill.

Downton Abby has served me well. I'll take a hot cup of conscience on a tray, please.

Beautiful Trauma

I was cleaning my car. I was on one side of the car and Graham was on the other. Brady was next to me. A mom bell went off in my head to go check on Graham. I found him face down in the bucket that had very little water and wasn't breathing. He was ten months at the time. The whole episode was kind of like looking through a windshield when it's raining without wipers. I knew there was a lot of commotion. I knew there were people. But the details and faces were indecipherable. Aside from my son who lied in a coma. Him I saw clearly. Tears became a part of who I was. I had serious conversations while I cried. I had lighthearted conversations while I cried. It just who I was. All I could think about was that I had let it happen. My son almost died on my watch. My trauma was sneaky and then violently demanding. It would creep up on me in the middle of the night and startle me from a deep sleep. It jolted me to attention anytime there was an unexpected noise. It was on high alert when driving, always listening for the sound of an ambulance. It made me break into sweats anytime I thought about something disturbing. It kept me from being alone with my boys for a while after. It was daunting. Overwhelming. Intimidating me at every turn. I did not function without it. It blanketed my life. But after months of being encompassed, my trauma delivered an array of beautiful things...my collateral beauty. It brought me to a trauma therapist who has changed my life. It brought me to a company that has forever changed my health and my finances. It brought me to my knees so that I would look at Him instead of me. It brought me closer to my kids, my family, my close friends. It made me a better mom. I won't ever fully understand the impact this event had. But I know that God made my traumatic experience beautiful. I would love to say that it doesn't visit me anymore. But I still have to practice my grounding techniques when I feel overwhelmed or insecure. I still have to breathe deeply and force my body to relax when I hear an ambulance (and try very, very hard not to curse at people who don't get the hell out of the way). I still jump when there is an unexpected sound around my boys. I still hold them tight and am hyper sensitive about where they are and what they're doing. I suppose that part will never go away. But my pain doesn't diminish the beauty.

Bottoms up!

My friend and I were talking about the transformation that seemingly took place overnight...one in which having a male counterpart was not a part of my happiness anymore. She was marveling at my metamorphosis. She was waiting for the previously predictable tears. She had been there from the beginning so this script was rehearsed. But it didn't go as she anticipated. Because I was thoroughly happy and had just been dumped. For a fifth time. By the same man. Each time it happened before, it was excruciating. I felt like that scene in Bridget Jones when she's crying in the bath tub. My tears being joined with the bath water...so very many times...over The. Same. Dang. Man. It was curious because he wasn't a great fit for me. He did not respect me. He said one thing and did another. He lied. He cancelled plans at the last minute habitually. One day he wanted to marry me the next he was with someone else. He had a short fuse and an even shorter tolerance. IT didn't make sense except for the fact that I was deathly afraid of being alone...and did not believe I deserved better. I lost friends over this disjointed relationship. They tired of telling me repeatedly that I was worth more. So they distanced themselves. Rightly so. It was too much to ask them to put me back together again. Over. And over. And over. And over. So they bowed out. For some reason, it took FIVE TIMES for me to receive a beautiful parting gift. The gift I'm sure God had been trying to give me for years. The gift that in my ignorance and desperation I ignored. It was the gift of feeling complete with just me.

It doesn't depend on whether I receive a text or am asked on a date. It doesn't coincide with receiving a phone call or a Facebook message. It. Just. Is. Without anyone adding to it. Without anyone taking away from it. It. Just IS. I read once that the difference between happy people and those who are unhappy is simply that happy people believe they are worthy of love. Chew on that for a bit. We are all worthy. We were all created by the same God. But the difference in happiness and unhappiness is simply belief in our inherent value. "Blame it on God. He was the one who made me." I said in response to someone picking on me about a physical trait. Who am I and what have you done with Rebekah???? I have navigated life looking for proof that I do indeed suck as I so firmly believed. Everything was filtered through this belief...that I was unworthy. I looked for approval in men that could not offer that for me. I sought out the ones who wouldn't or couldn't love me well so that my erroneous belief was justified. I have been in therapy for YEARS trying to solve the unsolvable...and on my last visit my therapist and I did a happy dance because I FINALLY GET IT. The God of the universe, the Alpha and Omega, my Savior and Redeemer already judged me worthy. He saw what He created and said it was good. He knit me together in my mother's womb. And He IS beauty. He doesn't make junk. How infuriating it must have been to Him for me to believe the opposite. I don't regret living my life in a fog of unworthiness because it has led me to where I am. But Damn, Gina, I could've saved myself a few tears. Ok, LOTS of tears. And others also...all because of the belief that I wasn't worth it. My friend didn't have to hold me while I cried this time. I'm 40 years old and just now feel worthy of love. Here's to doing life differently. Bottoms up!

Movin' on up

In my lifetime I have owned a number of houses. The last time I lived at home with my parentals I was single and engaged to be married. In December of 2016 I moved back in with my parents...with two boys in tow. Being at home when you're a 40 something single mom is amusing, humbling, confusing, peaceful. Regardless of the fact that my parents are incredible people. When I moved in with them, I swore I would only be there three months. When the divorce happened, I scrambled to find continuity in my family. Our family unit had dissipated and left in its wake a very confused momma and very fragile little boys. We were all discombobulated and shaken. Trying to find a footing that kept moving. Seeing my boys suffer and dealing with my own suffering, I knew we needed stability. And my parents are rocks. During these seven months we have all healed. Our hearts found a place that was solid and our wounds stopped openly bleeding. I prayed that I would know when the time was right. I had multiple opportunities to make a home for us independent of my parents. I entertained the idea of different roommates in various parts of the city. But none of them worked out, much to my chagrin at times. God was protecting me and my boys when my mind was out to lunch. Need is a tempestuous lover...finding costly solutions in order to satiate its debilitating infection. God knew I wasn't ready. He knew I didn't have the wherewithal just yet to provide solely the stability my boys and I needed. Thankfully God isn't erratic and given to reckless moods. I met Christy at my friend's house that I have known for years. Christy is her cousin. It was unusual I hadn't met her before. We began discussing the housing options around the city and she casually mentioned her place and the possibility of an apartment coming up for rent. I had already secured another place, so didn't pay much attention. But the day my housing fell through, I texted Christy and asked if there were any vacancies in her building. She said no. Three hours later, she called and said someone just put in their notice. Not only is this place a stable environment with tenants who have been there for years, but it was much less expensive than my original option. The next day I had an apartment. I would be daft if I assumed this was merely coincidence. It's a bit unnerving when you realize the God who created the universe just orchestrated something especially for you. I suppose I should be used to this phenomenon, but He's usually much more subtle. But this time, I get it. So thanks for that, God. I needed some special attention. And now, seven months later, my boys and I are finally moving out to make a home together. As our little family.

old blog post...still relevant

I wrote this in 2009...gotta love that the internet has a great memory.

I have a friend that responds the same way to my talking about Jesus. Every time I bring Him up, she turns it into a conversation about religion. Religion in our day has a negative sense. It means misuse of money, greed, power, sexual deviants, tediousness, judgement, condecension, overly opinionated people expressing themselves in political realms using their religion to justify their actions.

I find that we are not far from Jesus' day. We expected Him to come back to be a political leader, to release us from the oppression of the government. But He always side-stepped the issue of politics. He spoke about the heart, not the taxation of the government.

But we haven't knit Him only into our political views against His better judgement, we have also painted Him as a God who wants you only if you are worthy of having.

Now Christians will be the first to deny this. They believe they are extremely open & non-judgemental. But the opposite is true. They believe that if you don't become like them, then you are "lost." When they really have no idea about the state of your heart & your relationship with Jesus.You see, we have created a formula for what it means to serve God. We have put a big shiny ribbon on our best Bible memorizers, given deacons a big ol' grin & a slap on the back, praised those who always have religious jargon to give if you are in a pickle.

I am not in any way trying to diminish the importance of leadership in the church. As with all groups, leaders are necessary. I am, however, saying that we have given this a far greater importance than it is worth.Is it so hard to believe that there are people who come to church every now & then are just as close to Jesus as those who are there every Sunday? Is it unfathomable to believe that you can be a "good Christian" and not attend a church at all?

I believe it is. I believe that we have created people who feel they are serving only if they serve in a church. So what the outcome of this is that we are a people group who perpetuates itself...we have isolated ourselves from the world that we are supposed to be loving. We have set ourselves apart so much that our interpretation of the world is grossly mistaken & we are irrelevant. We have gotten stuck in a very sticky air bubble and can't seem to find our way out...or like the people in The Village (M. Night Shyamalan is my favorite) are too terrified to do so.

And if we do venture out, it is with the express purpose of witnessing to some poor soul, elevating ourselves to a greater position than the person whom we consider "lost." We have made people's souls our business. We have stuck our nose in, uninvited mind you, and placed a rubber stamp of what we consider as "saved" or "lost." They are "saved" if they go to church and "lost" if they don't. Then we proceed in a predictable manner after making our judgement. If they are "lost" we talk about Jesus to the point of idiocy & invite them to church, and throw around multiple religious phrases to bring them closer to Jesus...or to church, at least. If they are "saved" we are comfortable & free to be ourselves, so long as it is up to par and acceptable behaviour for a fellow Christian.

And when I say, "we have isolated ourselves from the world we are supposed to love" I do not mean the missionary type of love...that condescension of "I'll show you Jesus by not being myself but by being kind & soft-spoken & speaking only religious jargon." Loving people is messy. Loving people means you have given them the ability to hurt you. You have let them into your world, into your heart, into your thoughts of despair & anger. It is an equal love...they give to you, and you to them. It is exposed wounds, sweat, irritation, arguments, and phone calls late at night because you're afraid.

Missionary love does not look like that...it puts up a barrier because we really have no intention of getting to know these people whom we want to "save," or have them get to know us. We do not want them to add anything to us except possibly to increase our spirituality in a measurable way. We simply want to add them to our list of people we have rescued from the firey pit. This type of love is careful with what you say & do. It is constant guarding of your heart & mind. It is the kind of love a teacher has for her students...all one-sided & pious. Even when we are talking to people who have a higher IQ than we do & more life experience. How extremely arrogant of us.

I don't have it figured out. I'm just a girl who has been steeped in, marinated in, and soaked in the Baptist culture. I can tell you every Sunday School answer in the book. I have the plan of salvation buried deep in a place that would take me years to get to. But this has not aided me in life. It has given me a spring board upon which to make my decisions, but judgement of others has given me nothing but heartache & loneliness.

And then I think about Jesus, the author & perfector of my faith. And I know that He has it figured out. That I'm here simply to love Him as best as I can, and love others...love others equally, whether they are "saved" or not. (Being vulnerable & real with a person who is "lost" is quite refreshing. I recommend it if you've not tried it).

So for now all I know is...I love Jesus. But I drink a little.

Seven Day Trial

One week...7 Days...168 Hours...70,560 minutes. That's how long I have to go without my boys being with me. Every other week. Divorce is an interesting, ominous beast. You lose your other half, along with his family that you adored. You lose time with your kids, along with the sole influence as their mother. But it's the missing them that is the absolute worse. I can't go in their rooms when they're gone without being overcome with sadness. If I find a toy, again with the sadness. Clothes? Forget about it. Their little underwear? Totally slay me. I didn't handle this separation well early on. I found solace in bars and unlikely companions. Being home hurt too badly so I was out all the time. I felt lost and confused. I was trying to make my way without being a mom. Had I known at the time that I was avoiding the inevitable, perhaps I would have just hunkered down and waded through the emotion so I didn't waste precious time and energy on the boogey men (a.k.a. bad decisions) that likely wanted me dead. But emotions are sneaky things. We underestimate their sneakiness. But they do find you. And they stalk you until you face them directly. So I ventured into Graham and Brady's room one time when they were gone. I held one of Brady's blankets and Graham's shirt and cried til I couldn't cry anymore. I yelled at God and cried. He was crying with me I'm sure. But that was the first step to repairing my broken heart. And I eventually started to find my way. I got a new breath of adventure in my spirit. I started remembering things that I enjoyed doing when I was younger. I read a lot. I sat at the lake and wrote a lot. I listened to music with the lyrics in front of me so I could interpret the song (I did this incessantly when I was in college...mostly to Pearl Jam songs). I started playing the piano again (though homegirl had to reteach herself with Brady's books), I clung to my family and friends that support me and love me despite my brokenness. I renewed my drive to make my business succeed. I started picking up odd jobs to make ends meet. I started building a business with Plexus and found an incredible group of women had been there all along, ready to cheer me on. I found Jesus somewhere in the middle of that again...And realized He still thought I was pretty cool. Seven days is how long it took God to create the earth (aside from the day He took a nap). I suppose that in this seven day trial for me, I am also being recreated.

Bulls and Matadors

Dating is like being in a bull fight. According to Wikipedia, bullfighting is a physical contest that generally involves humans attempting to publicly subdue, immobilize, or kill a bull, usually according to a set of rules, guidelines, or cultural expectations. The color red attracts the bull initially. But once the bull is drawn into interaction, they are then seduced into immobilization, subdued, or killed. I'm a fan of red flags. These red flags are carried by all sorts of matadors. Some have the intention of handicapping. Some want to domesticate. Others want to terminate. I'm sure there are some matadors that genuinely care and respect for the bulls that are drawn to them, but those nice matadors won't be included in today's ramblings. I am mostly drawn to those matadors who want to handicap me. It is not their intention to build me up, to respect me or care for me with kindness and gentleness, to take the time to get to know me. It is their intention to cut my legs off and leave me bleeding so their own purposes are fulfilled. Mostly that is the need for an ego fix. Or a physical encounter. Or temporary companionship. But none of those matadors can do this if the bull is completely intact. It requires someone who is subdued, muted, restrained, domesticated, tempered, softened, toned down (all synonyms of subdued according to thesaurus.com). My favorite of these synonyms is "toned down." I am reading a book that wisely instructs people who are dating to divulge information in small doses. The author says it takes 3 months before you can connect to someone enough where you trust them to let them in a bit. Unfortunately for me and most of the other women I know, we don't do this. We are not TONED DOWN. We say too much too quickly and opinions are just as quickly formed whether they are accurate or not based on the bit of information we divulged. I am not toned down. I say too much. I have been told on more than one occasion that I am too open and vulnerable. That I'm too trusting and honest. I am the opposite of toned down. I have carried this message with me since I was young. That I'm TOO MUCH. Too passionate. Too honest. Too emotional. Too trusting. Too talkative. Too intense. Just TOO MUCH. Whether it was an accurate message or not, it sure did go in my basket of thoughts that defined me. It's been with me in all my relationships. Whether it was factual or not. I learned to tone it down quickly if I wanted to keep the peace. As my most honest self, I was simply too much. Fiona Apple says it best: "Hunger hurts, and I want him so bad, oh it kills 'Cause I know I'm a mess he don't wanna clean up I got to fold 'cause these hands are too shaky to hold Hunger hurts, but starving works, when it costs too much to love" I really wish I liked a different color.

Band of Medusas v. Collection of Mary Poppinses

I am made up of equal parts good and bad...aka Medusa and Mary Poppins. Each avatar gets their time. Some more than others. But they all bask in the spotlight at some point. I have two boys. They are in constant motion. I chase them around the house to get their attention. I yell. Loudly sometimes. Homeboys do not listen. They hear my voice but it isn't registering in their brains that I need them to respond or act. This yelling is not a trait I hold dear. It sits in time out much of the time, thinking about what it's done. But it does get out of time out...much to my chagrin...one of the many Medusas I would like to expel from my multiple personalities. Screaming Medusa needs to be entirely banished from the kingdom. I think much of our interactions in life are like this... eternally attempting to get the attention of others. SEE ME! PAY ATTENTION TO ME! VALIDATE ME! AFFIRM ME! And if we don't get it, we pull our Medusa out. We walk around with a running list of who has acknowledged us and who hasn't...filling up precious space in our brains. The people who pay attention to us get a microscopic space on our list, but as with most things, the ones who don't see us take up most of the damn list. The Running-to-Therapy Medusa is kinda one of my favorites. If I had to choose. Just sayin'. I watched Seven Pounds recently. I formed another personality to contradict my Medusas because of that movie. It changed me. For a week at least. That week I was super aware of whether I was impacting the people around me. Did I see them? If I had died in their presence, would they have said about me, a total stranger, that I was kind or funny or sweet? Would they have felt appreciated? Had I made their day a little brighter? Brought a bit of light into the space we shared? Had I SEEN them? Or would they have said (or thought so as to not talk ill of the dead) that I was grouchy and condescending and unappreciative? Would they have felt unsettled even more by my passing because I had filled the space we shared with negativity and sadness? Made them feel even more insignificant than they already naturally did? Had they encountered the I'm-Better-Than-You-Because-I'm-Having-a-Great-Hairday-and-I-am-Much-More-Important-Than-You Medusa? I don't think that needing to be seen is a negative thing. I expect that there are some versions of this need for appreciation that are Mary Poppins. My I-Need-You-To-See-Me-So-Clearly-That-You-Can-Tell-If-I-Flossed Mary Poppins finds satisfaction in having a vivacious personality with an endearing, self-deprecating sense of humor. I get attention from making others laugh and debasing myself so they feel good about themselves. It's a Mary Poppins avatar because homegirl has good intentions. Unfortunately My I-Need-You-To-See-Me-So-Clearly-That-You-Can-Tell-If-I-Flossed Mary Poppins brings with it co-dependency. Which means that I always come last. I accept less than desirable behavior from others, and loving Jesus makes it even more confusing. I think that I am supposed to love others and forgive their behavior. This line is fuzzy for me. Most of the time I need glasses. And bifocals. And contacts. And laser eye surgery. To. See. The. Line. Because I struggle with self-esteem, Hyper-needy Medusa comes out of time out for validation. Which means that I take care of others to be noticed and affirmed. I chase people around to get their attention. Hyper-Needy Medusa is my least favorite one. She surfaces mostly in romantic relationships. Thanks to our contorted belief that our significant other is supposed to embody everything we need, the Super-Sensitive--Insecure-Dissatisfied-I-Changed-My-Outfit-20-Times-Today Medusa makes her appearance, in all her glory. For a woman twice divorced and a survivor of a number of relationships, this Medusa is particularly disconcerting. She likes to beat my Humility-First-Because-I-Love-Jesus Mary Poppins up. That sweet Mary Poppins doesn't stand a chance to the Super-Sensitive--Insecure-Dissatisfied-I-Changed-My-Outfit-20-Times-Today Medusa. Regardless of how many lectures she gets, the Humility-First-Because-I-Love-Jesus Mary Poppins does not obey. So these two women hash it out. One is convinced that all problems corresponding to relationships are the fault only of myself. The other is firmly committed to her belief that she is important regardless of how she is treated. She is able to stand up to all sorts of bullying ways. But this Medusa has close behind her the Running-to-Therapy Medusa (whom I'm very fond of). And it is this Band of Medusas that resides in my head. At any given time. They are all battling for the light. They want equal attention. And homegirls get it. Mary Poppins homegirls never win.

Mad Scientist

It was a typical day in the life of a 40 year old. I wake up in my awesome king sized bed in a large house by the lake. Coffee has already been made. Newspaper has been brought in. Breakfast is cooking. The sprinkler is on watering the grass. Chicken eggs are fresh from the coop in the back yard. The fridge is stocked with fresh vegetables and fruit. My favorite foods are in the pantry. Lunches for my boys have been made and their clothes freshly washed and folded. The doorbell rings. It is my ex delivering my two boys. To my parent's house. I live in a house where everything is cared for as if I have a live in cook/nanny/house keeper/grounds keeper. I pay for nothing yet profit from everything. Totally typical of a 40 year old single mom, right? Not quite. The life I am getting to participate in belongs to my parents. And they are taking care of me and my boys unselfishly because that's who they are. It's what they do. I am a visitor in their home. Not a day goes by when I don't wonder just when my own life will define itself. My friend said to me last night on the breezy patio of my favorite bar that we are constantly reinventing ourselves. This was her response to my asking her how people figure out who they are and what they want, with a crack in my voice. Tears waiting for the cue to fall. Which is never far away. Her words filled my empty places and brought with them a picnic complete with wine and cheese and a blanket on a hill. I did cry. But the tears were sweet and laced with hope. I am the daughter of a Southern Baptist minister. He has been a pastor his whole life. He and my mom married when they were 18 and 19. My mom is a fabulous Household Engineer and a constant friend. I have two siblings, one older and one younger. So not only am I a preacher's daughter. I am also a middle child. Lovely, fantastic combo. I have attempted to navigate life by looking for stability in men. I needed them to tell me who I was. Where I was going in life. And just who I should be. Because of this lamentable fact I have been with a wide spectrum of the opposite sex. Maybe in an attempt to find closeness with my father. Maybe in an attempt to break free of perceived rules in my Southern Baptist world. Maybe just because I'm a rebel and very, very, very curious about human nature. Let's go with the latter. My curiosity supersedes my reason most of the time. I do not have that fearful gene where I run from the different. In fact, I don't view much as different from me. I am sold on the consistent nature of man across the board. We are all in part good and evil. The details of how that manifests itself does not change my belief that we are one in the same. Created by the same amazing God. Because of this curiosity, I get close to people that perhaps I shouldn't. My string of men before my first marriage was a long, knotted rope of dichotomy. They were artists, soccer players, business analysts, ministers, bankers, architects, doctors, lawyers, mechanics, construction workers, writers, comedians... Their personalities also widely varied. Kind, edgy, intelligent, withdrawn, rambunctious, driven, laid back, egotistical, unselfish, honest, seedy... They came from the quiet countryside, the rainy British landscape, bustling cities, slow towns, beautiful scenery, impoverished worlds. Their families were rich, poor, middle class, unknown, stable, abusive, creative, travelers, isolated, tender, formal. And because of this capacious assortment of men, who I was became convoluted and fragile instead of the desired goal -- someone who knew exactly who they were. This undesirable outcome also came with the unpleasant accomplice -- a need for constant companionship, regardless of design, and a bottomless need for validation and assurance. To most this diverse collection looked like an assortment of hasty decisions lacking thought and logic. And usually labeled poor/bad/ugly/stupid/meaningless/foolish/dense/rash/shortsighted decisions. But to me, at the time, they made complete sense. It was akin to being a scientist. I researched human behavior. I gathered data for my own pleasure and inquisitiveness. Therefore my tolerance for other people became unusually high compared to others and my subjects were never alike. It had its benefits, but as with everything it also had negative aspects, this curiosity about humanity. Research, if costly to the one gathering the information, becomes immaterial because the price of the research has exceeded the benefit of the denouement. It's a by-product of studying human behavior through the lens of intimacy. The participants don't escape the consequences. As a result, I have compounded what should have been a pleasant trait and created a blown up negative sphere of repercussions and the cost has been my sanity (at times) but always my amour-propre. So perhaps I was just experimenting with all the different partners. Or perhaps somewhere along the way the experiment itself became the need for someone, anyone, to fulfill me. It's probably a little bit of both. Now that I am a mom, I'm tasked with the job of being cautious with the hearts of my two fascinating boys. Graham has my personality trait of being unafraid. Brady has my personality trait of being inquisitive. And much to the chagrin of almost everyone in my life, they will be exposed to many different people. Which will hopefully be a positive part of them having me as a mom. Or perhaps I will scar them in a way that is irreparable. I would like to meet a parent who doesn't have this fear. In my atypical world, in my parent's world, perhaps I can use my compilation of studies and find purpose and meaning in each one. And create a woman who is comfortable in her own skin. At least for now.