Masculine Momma and a Middle Finger

It was all I could do to contain my middle finger.  I could feel it aching to shoot up and say in one motion what my mouth could not speak.  But I refrained and just screamed it loudly when I got into my car.

I may be a southern woman, but sometimes a well placed curse word is necessary to keep the lava from spilling into your soul.

The gentleman (I hesitate to even call him that) was a nosy neighbor who degraded me in about five seconds.  It was his mission.  I think he seriously woke up that morning and decided that he was going to find a woman to belittle that day.  I was the chosen recipient.  He was a cop.  And I was a woman in distress.  He was not protecting me in that moment.  He was protecting his ego.

I have an amazing dad.  He blows most men out of the water.  But like most fathers, he was focused on providing for his family when I was younger and unintentionally left me feeling exposed and scared when I was a teen.  I didn't have the kind of dad who would open the door with a shotgun when I went on a date.  He was too kind for that.  Or he was gone.  I suppose because of this, I looked for men who I felt would beat up anyone for hurting me.  I succeeded a few times in finding that trait.  But mostly, I just felt alone and degraded.  Much like how I felt when I encountered the cop who was the recipient of my silent finger.

I told a man the other day that he shouldn't mess with single mothers.  We are a special breed of women.  We are heartily wary of almost everyone.  We don't trust easily.  We are feisty.  We are strong (simply because our situation calls for it, not because we necessarily love it).  We have kids who rely on our mental health and our financial stability.  We don't have the luxury that most married women do of falling apart.  Survival for our kids is always the driving force behind every decision.  We cannot afford to be lied to or played with.  We simply don't have the time or the emotion. 

I find that the longer I am single the more I am manifesting what are typically "masculine" traits.  

Traits traditionally viewed as masculine in Western society include courage, independence, violence, and assertiveness.  (Wikipedia)

Check on that.  I have become more confrontational.  I am not likely to empathize with people I consider to be weak.  I am not afraid of much aside from the many things that could hurt my boys or getting hurt again myself.  I am fiercely independent.  And check on the violence...road rage is creeping into my lovely array of personality traits.  Not to mention the urge I have to use my middle finger more often than I would care to admit.   

I don't expect men to protect me or care for me.  (Except my dad who is now brilliant at this in his old age.)  They don't seem to have the desire to exercise this ability.  Perhaps it's because I give off the FU vibe and they are aware of how often my middle finger twitches.  Or perhaps they are evolving into men who exhibit what are typically feminine traits.  

Traits traditionally cited as feminine are gentleness, empathy and sensitivity. (Wikipedia)

So if my situation calls for me to be the "man" of the household, then my chances of pairing with a protector are slim.

But how I would love the luxury of falling apart knowing someone has my back.

In the meantime, I have a middle finger and I'm not afraid to use it.  Unless you're a pompous cop.  Then I'll just yell it in the safety of my car.

Trashy Momma

I was quickly hurrying out of my house, pizza box in one hand and my keys in the other.  I rushed to the huge dumpster at my apartment complex, opened the lid, and chunked in....my keys.

After running through the different alternatives that would keep me from getting inside the dumpster to retrieve my mistakes, I found I had no choice but to climb in.  I live across from a school so there was a line of cars dropping their kids off for school.  A line of strangers that got to witness just how much of an airhead one person can be.

Had I not been on my way to scrub some toilets, I would have been more discombobulated.  But knowing it was OK to go to work smelling a little like trash, I sanitized myself and set out for my destination.

There are times when I feel a bit small in my chosen career.  I clean offices where women are wearing heels and skirts.  I pass people in high rise condos who clearly have desk jobs...it would not be so great if they came to work smelling a little like trash.

Those times of feeling small do not last thankfully.  I love my job.  I love cleaning the heck out of a house that is filthy.  I love making things smell good and creating beauty from chaos.  It suits me that I scrub toilets and take out the trash.

I often forget to brush my teeth or wear deodorant.  It is not unusual for me to have one eye with mascara and the other without.  I have holes in most of my clothes.  My socks rarely match.  My nails are long forgotten because I use them to scrub so polish doesn't last.  I have replaced my foundation with moisturizer.  I go weeks without waxing my lip/eyebrows.  My feet could use a pedicure.  I dye my own hair and cut my own bangs (you can definitely tell that this is DIY hair).  Compared to the woman I used to be who didn't miss her scheduled 2 week nail appointment, I'm a mess.

I suppose I'm a little trashy.

When I was first divorced, I was very conscious of my appearance.  I wouldn't go anywhere after I worked until I had showered and changed.  I wouldn't let anyone I was dating see me without makeup.  I was uber self conscious. (apparently, uber isn't a word according to this platform. Get with it, google.)

One of my favorite things to buy is toiletry products.  Makeup, hair products, skin care, facial scrubs....Sephora is my heaven.  I genuinely love all of that expensive junk.  I suppose that will never change. 

But what has changed is my lack of fear for being seen without makeup. 

I'm a full blown housekeeper sans makeup and a bit of a trash problem.

Oceans of Small Decisions

https://youtu.be/1m_sWJQm2fs







My sons and I went on the Global Wildlife tour with my friend and her son who is 3.  On the car ride there, I realized how close Graham and her son were in their communication and interactions.  Graham is 2 solid years older.  But they behaved in similar ways.  It affirmed my belief that Graham is his own special version of a 5 yr.old.

With this realization came the other realization...homeboy should NOT be in the church service with me.  I fought his inability to behave in church for a while.  I kept telling myself that he is capable of behaving in Mass at school, so surely he can sit still in the Baptist service.

This was a test that homeboy did not pass.

I'm sure my church is happy that I have conceded to the fact that he can't keep it together in church.  The many times he had to get up.  The many fits he has thrown.  All super disruptive.  So momma gave up.  This is a battle I will not win.

I took him to the nursery Sunday and almost didn't go back in with Brady.  But they were playing my song.  So in we went.

That 5 minutes was by far the best moment I spent with my oldest all week.  He snuggled up to me.  And then I heard him singing.

There are so many times I feel like I'm not doing anything right as a mom.  I get easily frustrated.  The boys jump.  Constantly.  Their feet do not stay long on the floor.  I do not handle this constant motion well.  They spill stuff.  Everywhere.  And look at me in fear to see if I saw.  I do not handle messes well either.  I skip reading time sometimes just because I'm being selfish and just want them to go to bed already.  I worry that my bad moments will exceed my good moments.

Like exposing them to good music.  Music about Jesus and love and fear and life.  They know good music.  They know who Michael Jackson is.  And Kenny Chesney.  And Pearl Jam.  And Aretha Franklin, Stevie Wonder, U2...and maybe Justin Bieber a little.  Ok, I may be slightly obsessed with the Biebs.  So they know him well.  But you know, whatever.

Hearing our voices together that day singing a song we both love about Jesus ... Visa cannot buy that crap.  That 5 minutes changed me.  And to think I almost hung in the lobby.  #smalldecisions

This is SO NOT Us

I'm not a huge crier these days...but This is Us brings all the tears to the yard.  Crybaby, crocodile tears where I'm really glad I'm watching it alone because I can Super cry.  Ugly cry.  Noisy cry.  It's delightful.

As much as I love the show, I know it's not reality.  For most.  We don't have meaningful conversations.  We don't communicate well.  We don't hug on cue or fight well.  We aren't cute when we have breakdowns.  We don't have well-timed, witty comebacks.  And mostly we experience our pain alone.

Life is more of a fumbled football or a missed goal.  Mostly we don't get it right.  Mostly we miss opportunities to say what we mean.  Mostly we miss out on genuine affection and timed humor.  Mostly we say awkward things and communicate poorly.

Mostly we miss out on connection.

On the rare occasion that we do get it right, our life seems made.  Sometimes we do connect with others.  Sometimes we do have a witty comeback timed just right.  Sometimes we do hug when we should.  Sometimes our conversations are meaningful and we're able to say exactly what we mean.  Sometimes we are able to be vulnerable and that vulnerability is well received.  Sometimes we aren't alone in our pain.

I have found that those rare moments are the moments which have defined my relationships.  It's what kept me from giving up.  Or holding on longer than I should. 

I can pinpoint moments in each of my romantic relationships that caused me to align my heart with theirs.  In one relationship, it was when I was walking away because I was ashamed of my tears and he chased me, grabbed my hand, and walked alongside me while I cried.  In another relationship, it was being held tight when I realized I was pregnant and scared.  It was a raw moment of genuine connection.  In another, I looked across the room at a social function and found he was staring at me in admiration and telling a colleague how amazing I was.  Another time, we napped on the couch, our faces within inches of each other and our hands intertwined.  One scared me by hiding when I opened the door to let him in my house.  We giggled unhinged. 

Each of these moments caused us to seek out genuine companionship in each other because we got a glimpse of what it was like.  Perhaps there is something more...or so we tell ourselves....so we explore deeper.  Only to be disappointed.  Typically.

When I was searching in earnest for a mate a year ago, I read all sorts of nonsensical material.  "How to Keep Your Man Committed for Life"
"How to Get Any Man you Want"
"How to Act like a Lady but Think Like a Man"
"Why Men Love Bitches"

......and the list goes on......and on.  Our modern society of lonely people is not short on books to read for how to get companionship.

In one of the trite books I read, I remember being baffled by a statement that at the time was something unfathomable for me.  It said, "the best way to make a man want you is to genuinely not care whether he is into you or not."

Duh.  I thought to myself.  Of course.  If I didn't care, why would I have bought this book?  What an asinine statement to make to women desperate enough to have this book as part of their collection. Firm Eye Roll.

But I vowed to work on it.  Like the desperate woman I was who had just purchased said book.

Sometimes, however, you are genuinely just NOT READY for change.  Your brain hasn't endured the necessary steps to get you to the place of wanted change.  Resources for said change haven't emerged.  Friends who are supposed to aid you along in this change are busy.  Experiences haven't yet come your way that would catapult you into said change.  You haven't met the one person that would push you to change.  You genuinely have no choice but to wait sometimes.

After a year, I finally get the statement.  Because I have changed.  I no longer care whether I "get" the guy.  Genuine connection should take more than just a moment.  It should be a string of moments that change how you feel about someone.  It shouldn't be easy.  According to google, the chance of you meeting someone you have a genuine connection with is 1%.  (Everything on the internet is true, just FYI).

It is just NOT us.

It makes complete sense to me why so many relationships fail.  We have settled for the mediocre connections.  We have settled for those who don't quite get us...don't quite respect us...don't quite love us.  And vice versa. 

What the show does portray very well is that life is difficult.  And connections have to be damn near indestructible to survive the difficulty.  Or you just have to be paired with someone who is equally as stubborn as you and will press on with or without connection. 

What it doesn't portray well is that each of the characters in their immediate family found their 1%...

Pause for dramatic effect.

What is fabulously sad is that we are an incredibly LONELY society of people who are FABULOUSLY afraid of genuine connection.  So even if your 1% has come across your path, the likelihood of you discovering this fact is slim because we hide behind walls and walls, GREAT FREAKIN' WALLS OF CHINA of false toughness and illusions of independence. 

And we have a ridiculously low tolerance for pain.

So we choose, instead, to forgo the connection and find it in what is convenient and non-threatening.  We choose, largely, to cry alone.  So we can Ugly Cry.  Super Cry.  And there is no one there to judge our weakness.

I found my 1%...they are 5 and 7...and they are SO Me.

Therapy Session ... at the Dentist?

I have a confession to make.  I am a wary uptown parade goer.

I have tried for years to enjoy them.  I go to a house right on St. Charles Avenue so I have a bathroom, food, and drinks, and a lovely home with a balcony and fenced in front yard to watch the parade from.  I get to watch them from what is essentially like a suite at a sporting event.  Every year I try to dip my foot in the pool of enjoyment along with everyone else.  But every year I leave irritated and exhausted.

I'm so UN-New Orleanian.

I live in Metry...a suburb.  I love that everything I do is within a five mile radius.  My grocery store.  The car wash.  My gym.  My church.  My bar.  I feel settled and at peace in my hood.  The parades here are easier to get to and more kid-friendly.  I can come and go as I like.  I don't have to sit in traffic forever trying to find a parking spot just to walk another ten blocks to get to my destination. 

Maybe it's the expansion of the crowds uptown that I don't love.  I don't know many people.  I'm in unfamiliar territory likely surrounded by people who are also in unfamiliar territory.  It's not my hood.  It's not their hood.

The older I get, the more content I am to stay in my place.  I used to love traveling.  I loved experiencing new things.  I was on a date recently and the dude was telling me all the places he had been recently, his upcoming trips, and all the events he had attended around the city.

"You don't have kids, do you?"  I asked.

The response was predictable.

Being a parent changes you in ways you can't anticipate.  One day you're a carefree, adventurous person who loves going to uptown parades and holding baby alligators.  Post kids, you find yourself in the bathroom at your favorite bar a few miles from your suburban apartment crying because you found out your son went to school without Valentines to distribute to his class and was the only one without.

I went to the dentist yesterday and caused my sweet dentist to worry.  He made me a mouth guard over a year ago and had to make it twice as thick as normal because I grind my teeth so badly at night.  I was destroying my teeth.  And jaw.  Unbeknownst to me, my jaw clicks every time I open it.  It has for a while but I just thought it was something that everyone had.  I finally addressed it on my last dental appointment thus causing my dentist to worry.

"How do you feel, Rebekah?  Like emotionally?"  He asked.

I stared at him blankly, feeling very unprepared to have a therapy session in a dentist's chair. 

"I feel fabulous!" I finally responded.

"And how do you sleep?" He asked.

"Like a freakin' baby."  I responded.

He looked puzzled.  Because the evidence of my stress was in my super, unusually thick mouth guard that will not withstand much more of my grinding at night.  And my TMJ will eventually cause me to be in a great amount of pain.  To him, it was amazing that I wasn't sleeping poorly and wasn't in a serious state of anxiety.  I guess I am that good at compartmentalizing.  I reserve my stress only for nighttime grinding, apparently.  And the occasional cry in the bathroom at the bar when I find out something distressing about my kids.

He prescribed me a muscle relaxer and neck/shoulder/head massages as often as I can afford them.  I clearly am a walking time bomb.  Who knew?  My mouth guard and my dentist, that's who.

So my life is kinda different since I became a momma.  I'm wary of uptown parades.  I grind the hell out of my teeth.  I receive unexpected therapy sessions from my dentist.  I cry in bathrooms when I think about my son being hurt. 

And if I do hold a baby alligator, I will be worrying about the diseases I am catching and whether he has brushed his teeth.

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.