Death of A Fairytale

Ever since I was a little girl, I believed in fairytales and the notion of living happily ever after. I had to. Witnessing all the things I did growing up, I think it was my way of surviving in the world. My brother and I would spend countless hours making up stories and building towering forts on my Nana’s living room floor. In our eyes, the fort, simply made up of chairs, boxes and sheets was our castle and the living room floor was a big moat surrounding us, protecting us from all evil. I made a crown out of construction paper and placed it high on my head so everyone would know that I was special. I would be the distressed princess and my brother; the heroic prince would fight demons with his magical sword, risking his own life to save mine. Those days were simple and happy. They are some of the best memories I can recall from my childhood. I admit, I grew up way too fast. Along the way, I learned a lot about relationships and love; mostly, their failure. But I still wanted to believe in the fairytale. I wanted to have it all one day; a beautiful home, a wonderful and rewarding career, a husband that was passionately in love with me and children that adored me. I suppose I watched too many movies or read too many romance novels but I grew into a young woman believing that my prince charming was out there and one day he would rescue me from the life I was granted. Needless to say, my first marriage did not work out although I was blessed with the most amazing son. I had part of the dream but certainly not the whole fairytale. My friends would merely laugh at me, reminding me that there is no such thing as fairytales; there is no such thing as prince charming. And yet, I still believed I could have it all….especially when I met my second husband. He was everything I could have ever wanted. He was absolutely in love with me. He wanted me and my son and he needed me with his whole heart; something I had never experienced. He wanted to marry me and have a family of our own. We would spend hours making love in front of the fireplace, drinking wine, laughing, telling stories and dreaming big dreams for our future. I could now laugh at all my friends who mocked my fairytale.

He & I finally got married last year after nearly 8 years together. Our relationship had its share of ups and downs over the years but one simple fact remained, we loved each other and could not see a life without each other. There was no denying that. And as I sit here today, I still love him and am still in love with him, but my dream of the fairytale is dying a slow and painful death. My closest friends are kind enough to not say “I told you so” but the look they give me tells me all I need to know. They had been right after all. There is no such thing as having it all. It has been a devastating blow to my world. Although I wanted the so called fairytale, I was not naïve enough to think that this prince and princess would not have their share of problems. Every marriage does. Everyone has bills, arguments, kids, dogs, cats, a messy house and a plethora of other things that can weigh down a marriage. I went into this union with an open mind and an open heart. I was prepared for anything. Well, almost anything. I did not expect so many changes to happen so quickly. People keep saying the first year of marriage is the hardest. It’s merely a time to get to know one another. I married him because I already knew him, knew his quirks and I knew his heart. That’s why I married him. But sometimes in a marriage, life’s issues become so great, people become so stressed out that something has to give. Something must fall by the waist side and I fear it has been me.

 The part of the fairytale that remains is this big, beautiful home that we built a couple of years ago which now seems far too large to fit our needs. My near teenage son spends most of his time in his room with the door shut and usually only ventures out to ask when dinner will be ready. He is far too cool to hang out with his mom anymore. My vision for this house was to be filled with the pitter patter of little feet. There was supposed to be the sound of nursery rhymes and bedtime stories. There was supposed to be the sound of laughter to fill up all the empty space of this big beautiful house. But as I said, some fairytales are not meant to be. My husband and I both have jobs but nothing that propels us out of bed each morning except for the fact that we have bills to pay. We each have our own friends and our own hobbies. We don’t have a fireplace anymore. We don’t ever drink wine together anymore. We don’t really discuss our dreams anymore. We discuss work, the house, the pets, racing, bills that need to be paid and the differences of opinion on how my son should be raised. Oh and by the way, the topic of having children of our own is now no longer up for discussion.

Maybe this is the way a marriage is supposed to be. As I sit here now, I feel pretty foolish that I ever believed in fairytales at all. Maybe marriage is simply a life with monotony, routine and loneliness masked by edges of small joys and triumphs every now and then. Maybe it’s simply an institution made up of nothing more than a comfortable kind of love surrounded by compromises, sacrifices and a vow to stick it out together, through thick and through thin. Maybe I fantasized so much about what I thought my marriage would be like instead of focusing on what marriage truly is like.  Although I do not regret marrying my husband, I now no longer know why I did. Maybe things would have stayed more the same if we hadn’t. Maybe I would still be able to catch a glimpse of the man that I fell in love with. I think he is still in there and I long for nothing more than to find him again. But in the meantime, I, the foolish princess is taking off my crown and building a big, safe moat around myself.

To Mattie

My dearest Mattie,

First and foremost, I love you. Not just like the regular “I love you” but the kind that you will only understand when you see the sight of your own child. It is the kind of love that melds into every fiber of your being, every nook and cranny of your heart, body and soul. It is indescribable, really. But I wanted to take the time to share a few of my thoughts with you as you enter the world of middle school and high school. It’s tough, kid. It always has been and always will be. Hopefully my words will help.

1. Always, always be kind to others. You don’t know when you will need their kindness in return.
2. It’s okay to wear your heart on your sleeve. Just remember to take your head with you.
3. Follow Your Bliss. Find the one thing you love and have passion for and then go and do that. With all of your heart.
4. If you are being bullied. Tell me. Tell someone. Don’t suffer in silence.
5. If you see someone being bullied. Do something. Tell someone. Otherwise you are no better than the bully.
6. Nothing is ever as bad as it seems. Never. Ever.
7. Tomorrow will always come and usually with the light of day, you gain perspective on an otherwise hopeless situation.
8. Nothing and I mean NOTHING you could do would ever make me stop loving you.
9. Be kind to your elders. Listen to what they have to say. They know our history better than any book could provide you.
10. Hold close to the friends that ground you. One day you will understand how valuable they are.
11. Dismiss harsh comments said to you. More often than not, they have nothing to do with you and everything to do with the person saying them.
12. Confidently chase your dreams. Be aggressive. But don’t be greedy.
13. Stay a kid as long as you can. Being an adult will come soon enough and trust me, it’s not always what’s its cracked up to be.
14. Keep it simple.
15. Run and play as hard as you can now. One day when you are older you will understand how hard it is for me to always keep up with you.
16. Smile. Everyday.
17. Study Hard. Not just in school, but in life. Being book smart is valuable but so is having common sense and street smarts.
18. Hold on to your beliefs and values. It’s the one thing in this world no one can take away from you.
19. If a friend is trying to get you to do anything that you know is wrong, they are not your friend.
20. As far as girlfriends and sex go. Wait as long as possible. Once you venture down that path, you can never come back. Trust me on this one. It complicates everything.
21. Laugh. Everyday.
22. If you are sorry, say so.
23. If you love someone, tell them.
24. If you need to cry, cry. Showing emotion does not make you less of a man.
25. If you make a mistake, do your best to correct it.
26. If you hurt someone, take immediate steps to heal it.
27. Surround yourself with people that make you feel good about yourself. Dismiss those that don’t.
28. Remember that it is more honorable to fail than to cheat.
29. Be creative. In whatever way you can.
30. It is okay to take when you are in need, but always find a way to give back more than you take.
31. Be Happy. You only get one life. Make it worthwhile.

Well, my son, I know there are probably a million other things I could say; a million other tidbits of advice I could offer but I know that you will do your best to find your own way, to learn in your own time. Know that as you grow, and become the person you are meant to be, I will always be here for you. Always and forever. You are my guiding star and the truest love of my life. Be well, my son. Have a wonderful and safe journey. I love you.

Love Mom

Arithmomania

After yet another sleepless night, a certain question needs to be asked…are there any other slightly obsessive compulsive people out there whose very compulsion keeps them from sleep? I do not have OCD in the truest sense. I don’t wash my hands a thousand times a day. I don’t constantly check for locked doors or light switches. I am not a germaphobe. I do not obsessively clean my house although I am sure my husband would be greatly appreciative if I had such an affliction. Unfortunately, I have a kind of compulsion which really isn’t good for much of anything. I am a counter. Yes, that’s right, a counter. I count my steps from point A to point B wherever that may be. I count objects in my house if I feel there is a need. I count in my head, randomly. At times I have no idea what in fact, I am counting but nevertheless, I do. I will count to 1000 in my head and when I get to the point where I feel I have counted enough, I simply begin again. Maybe the next time I will count to 100, 10 times or count to 10, 100 times. I also know there are exactly 506 ceramic tiles in my bathroom. I know there are exactly 156 books placed not so neatly, on my bookshelves. I know there are exactly 93 steps between my two buildings at work. It is these random acts of counting that are simply part of my world, everyday.

I did not know until today, when I looked it up in Wikipedia, that my disorder actually bears an official name. Arithmomania. It sounds like a fancy term that would make me excel in the study of mathematics. However, that couldn’t be farther from the truth. It is this very act of counting that hinders my sleep. It is not the only culprit of my insomnia because as I have previously expressed, my brain just never shuts down. It is simply another puzzle piece to my sleep deprivation. Many people have nightly routines; practices that help calm them before they drift off into never Neverland. I share in some of these practices. I get in my pajamas, brush my teeth, get my stuffed monkey, fluff my favorite pillow and lie down. This is truly where my pleasant experience ends. When a “normal” and I use the term loosely, person cannot sleep, they clear their minds or go to their happy place and inevitably, sleep will come. Well, not for me. I have even resorted to counting sheep. One would think that my lunacy would actually benefit me in this instance. Wrong again. This is where my overactive, never shutting down, never shutting up brain comes in. I cannot not count the sheep because to me, that would be crazy. However my brain takes it one step further and wanders to other sheep associated thoughts. Such as….why does one even count sheep? It’s not the counting part that stumps me but the sheep part. I mean why not dogs, or cats or my favorite, the spider monkey. Really. What’s not to love about a spider monkey?  And then, for some unknown reason, I think of the nursery rhyme, Hey Diddle Diddle. The line “the cow jumped over the moon” hurdles to the forefront of my mind and I picture sheep jumping over the moon which is simply more ridiculous to me than cows jumping over it.  

I am unsure of when this compulsion began. I cannot recall it from my childhood so I am left to assume I developed it as an adult. It wasn’t as if I woke up one day and decided it was time to count everything around me. It’s just been there. It has never really bothered me before and I am not totally convinced that it bothers me now. However, the first time I mentioned this to my doctor, he sat back in his chair and simply said, “Interesting”. Then my brain went full throttle. Is that interesting, good or interesting, bad? Does it mean I have finally gone crazy? Does it mean I have been susceptible to crazy all along and it’s finally caught up with me? Do I just have an affinity for numbers? Will it stunt my personal growth? Will it hold me back in any way? I truly do not know. I suppose my real question of the day is this: am I doomed to live a life of seemingly random, useless counting practices or is there a cure for me? Maybe, as I say all the time: it is what it is. Maybe there is no rhyme or reason to it all. Maybe there doesn’t have to be. Maybe there is no harm in it at all. Or maybe, just maybe I am perfectly sane, simply counting my way through this insane world.

Reason Enough

It seems like just yesterday I was dropping Mattie off at my mother’s house in an infant carrier. I would lug him, along with a massive diaper bag, up the fifteen or so stairs that I had become all too familiar with. And as I travel those same stairs today, only to have Matt running on his own two feet, beating me to the top, I can’t help but wonder….where in the world did the time go? How did he grow up so fast and where was I when it happened?

He stands before me now, a handsome young man, only a few inches shorter than I. Our conversations no longer consist of crayons and matchbox cars but rather what college he dreams of attending, what he wants to do with his life and if I think he is smart enough or talented enough to get a scholarship. I search his eyes trying to find a glimmer of that little boy that I once knew. But at 12 years old, all his baby fat has turned to lean muscle….the toothless grin I once loved has been replaced with adult teeth that will soon need braces and his dream of marrying his mommy has been replaced with dreams of becoming a professional ball player. I’ve noticed that this progression of change in him have produced significant changes in me. The me that once longed for him to grow up has been replaced with wanting to turn back the hands of time. I long for the days when he would call me mommy, crawl up on my lap and snuggle with me. He would fall asleep in my arms and I would think to myself what did I ever do in my life to deserve this amazing child? I remember it all like it was yesterday and yet the view becomes blurred with each passing day. He grows a bit more and becomes less of an extension of me and more of an individual with his own mind and his own views of the world. And although part of me is saddened by these changes, I know it is just simply a part of life.

Part of me feels better because I have been there with my son at each and every milestone; every “first” of his. I was there for each first day of school. I was there for each and every birthday. I was there for his first haircut, his first tooth falling out, his first bad grade, his first scraped knee, and even his first broken heart. I have been careful to miss nothing and yet I feel as if I have missed so much. I guess part of my anxiety is that I don’t have another child trailing behind him. He is all I have and I suppose my fear is that in having only one child, did I somehow miss the boat on doing it different, doing it better?

Most people I know have been blessed with more than one child and with that I think a parent learns more, grows more and evolves in a way that single child parents may not. But mostly, I think these parents get a second chance to fix any mistakes they might have made along the way. I do not have this luxury. It isn’t that I didn’t want more children. It simply didn’t seem to be in the cards for me. So when I look at my son, I understand the miracle I was given but I also see the mistakes I have made. I can only pray that over time these in discretions will take care of themselves; that these scars, however small or insignificant, will fade from his consciousness. I, like every other parent want to get things right, the first time. But you simply never know when your first time may be your only time. I speak a lot about mistakes and “wish I could have/would have done it different” but don’t misunderstand. I am mostly proud of the job I have done despite my ever changing circumstances. My child is a lot like me…sensitive in nature, hopelessly optimistic about the world and yet weighted with a certain sadness that perhaps only he and I can understand. But it is a sadness marked with hope…the kind of hope that says no matter what happens in this life, we will be okay. It is a look between us, a gesture, and a silence that lets us know that we are part of the same mold, the same makeup; that we are on the same page. So as I watch him grow and the fear of losing him to an adult world that I don’t yet understand sets in, I am comforted by the belief that he will be just fine. He will face this life with the same strength and resilience that I have passed on to him and he will brave forth with my spirit, his impenetrable will and a faith in something that is larger than us both. With a quick smile from him as he runs pass me to the top of the stairs, I am reminded of why I was blessed with this one, beautiful, miraculous, perfect child. God simply knew we were meant for each other and that is reason enough for me.

Pencil Fever

I know this is strange, but I absolutely love pencils. I always have. I love how they smell; that concoctive mixture of lead and wood. I love how they write. I love how the swirl of my words leaves an edge of roughness and dimension. I love the texture a pencil has between my fingers just as I touch it to paper. I love that if I make a mistake, I can, stop. Erase. Do Over. I told you it was strange. But seriously, there is really no better feeling (well, that is an exaggeration) than buying myself a brand new package of #2 pencils, preferably DIXON Ticonderoga HB soft pencils, followed by my second favorite, the Papermate pencil. I am not really sure when this affliction began for me. We are taught from pre-school about pencils and their ability to erase our mistakes but it wasn’t until the day I fell in love with the idea of becoming a writer that I began to really, really love pencils.

I realized very early in my life, the power of words; how much happiness they could bring but also, how much pain they could deliver. So ever since I can remember, I wrote. I wrote on paper, in notebooks, on chalkboards, in journals, on walls, scrap pieces of paper or on my skin, absolutely anywhere there was space for me to write. I would write poetry, stories, fragments or thoughts about my life and it was there, that I discovered my beautiful relationship with pencils. The idea that I could write whatever I wanted about myself, regardless of its substance and then erase all the mistakes I made or thought I made, was an exciting concept for me. It was as if nothing was forever. Nothing. And with one fell swoop of the erasure, my words would vanish and I could start over. I think a lot of writers prefer to master their craft in pen. Only because what, at one time, could be considered bad writing or a mistake, may one day present itself as a useful idea with new life, new meaning. Pens naturally have a smoother flow, a more even pressure when applying to paper. It has a permanency. Whereas my writing once erased, is gone forever unless I miraculously come up with the same idea at another place and time. This usually does not happen. My brain is far too busy to retain something I thought of yesterday, let alone, years before. With the invention of the computer, my writing completely changed as did everyone else’s I suppose. It was similar to the pencil in the fact that all you had to do was highlight words and then hit delete, much like the erasure. But different in the fact that you could simply hit “undo” if you made a mistake in mistaking your mistake was a mistake. Simply marvelous, really. Plus with things like a built in thesaurus, spell check, grammar check, well, what’s not for a writer to love? My like for the computer is simply because after being a secretary for so many years, I can type Mach 4 which is about the speed my brain operates. It is too bad for my beloved pencil which has struggled for years to keep up with my thoughts. The process of having to stop writing because my cramped hand can no longer stand the pain is often a necessity. But with a couple shakes of it or some stretching, I am back in the game with pencil in hand. Will I ever resort to using a pen, a computer, a crayon if need be? Absolutely. I would prick my finger and write in my own blood if I thought it was the only way I would be able to write. But today, in honor of the pencil, I write this draft on a college lined piece of paper while using my favorite Ticonderoga pencil.  Welcome back dear friend, welcome back.

Blessings

I had a conversation last night with my best friend who was having a very bad day and we spoke of our children and life's complexities and all the other little things that friends talk about and somehow we got on the subject of our blessings or the things we should feel grateful for. We wondered why all the wonderful things in our lives; our families, our children, our friends sometimes just aren't enough to see us through days when we feel like everyone is against us, even those that claim to love us most. During these times, we feel more alone than ever and no matter how many wonderful things you have in your life, no matter how friendly the voice is on the other end of the phone, you feel as if you are wandering the earth aimlessly…alone. I don't think it is that we forget about all the blessings we have but we certainly seem to lose sight of them from time to time. ..

We all walk through life with the weight of the world on our shoulders, so much baggage that we can hardly stand up straight anymore. We take on so much, so much that is not ours to shoulder and yet we think that if we don't continue to take the brunt of everything, be responsible for everything and everyone; that somehow the earth will shift and fall off its axis. It is far too much for anyone to bear alone. And that is where our blessings come in. Because no matter how alone we feel in those awful moments of our day (month or year) we must remember that we aren't. We just have to accept help when it's offered and we need to learn how to drop some of the baggage at the door. Life is far too short and I know when a situation or circumstance subsides, and the smoke clears, we will look back on these moments and realize how much time and energy we wasted being angry or sad about things that most of the time, we have no control over. That is precious time we will never get back. I know that while the pain is creeping up and you find it hard to breathe, it is difficult to see anything else but know that there are those in the world who will walk with you and help carry your baggage when it becomes too much to carry on your own. There are those who will shoulder the burden with you. There are those in this world that want nothing from you but to see you laugh and find joy. To have you live peacefully, the life you were intended to live. At times the world may seem so dark that you feel like things will never be okay but then tomorrow comes and with it, the sunshine. I have no doubt that life works out, one way or another. It usually isn't just as we planned but we take along our blessings and all the other things that make our lives good. This does not in any way take away from the pain or sorrow we feel in our own hearts from time to time but it may help to know that others are on your side, fighting the good fight right along with you

That is why it is so important… when our blessings come knocking to remind us that they are still there…We need to let them in…

The Bitch Advice

The other day, I felt, once again, that undeniable feeling; my heart beginning to race, the uncontrollable shake of my hands, small beads of sweat starting to form, an overwhelming feeling of uneasiness and fear and for the umpteenth time this year, I knew I was having another panic attack. It comes on slowly but before you know it, it grabs hold and there is little you can do to tame it. You just have to ride it out and wait for it to subside, which unfortunately, for me, takes at least 30 minutes. I was frustrated by the fact that these attacks still visited me, especially after I felt as if my life was, at the very least, heading in the right direction. Not great…but under the circumstances, I was managing. And just as my panic attacks crept up on my so did the reality of my plight. I knew that my life was not perfect. I certainly had issues but didn’t everyone? I realized that the stress I had been through over recent months had taken its toll and it was finally catching up to me in the form of anxiety. Simply stated, I was no longer in control of my own life. It was being run by other people. It is not an unusually foreign concept to me as it was taught to me early in life. Things like…take a backseat to everyone, try and please all around you, be afraid of everything, always be accommodating, keep quiet, never speak up, don’t get angry for fear of what others may think, etc… These are only a few of the examples on how I have learned to run my life. Until now, that is. Make no mistake though. I am not having a pity party not am I sitting back placing blame on the bystanders or participants in my life. I, alone, am responsible for my circumstance and every single day, I take on the overwhelming consequences of being a doormat.

An amazing person in my life, whom I have come to trust more than any other human being, told me that all I had to do to correct my situation and to stop the panic attacks was easy. It surely wasn’t going to be some little pill that would alleviate my stress and anxiety. The answer was simple, at least in his eyes. He said I needed to learn to be a bitch. I suppose some would argue, at times, I already am but he meant a different kind of bitch. Not the kind that thrives on hurting others but rather, the kind that rises up in protest when someone is taking advantage of me. The kind that lends a protective cover from the hurtful blows that people can throw. The kind that teaches me to say no to people and things that don’t deserve my time or my loyalty. The kind that teaches me to stand up for myself and allows me to speak my mind regardless of what others may think. The kind that gives me the knowledge and the strength to let go of things in my life that are no longer good for me, in spite of my heart telling me to hold on. The kind that understands the difference between those who have my best interest at heart and those who simply have their own interest at heart. And lastly, the kind that teaches me to have a thicker skin when it comes to heartaches, to endure life’s disappointments with a little less impact. Changing from the “good, always there, never complaining persona”…to simply “bitch” persona could prove difficult for me but for my own sanity and well-being, I promised this individual that I would make the effort. Realizing that this transformation was not a complete change in my personality but merely a modification of the me I’d always been. I was fairly confident that I could somehow lean to be a bitch. To somehow turn off all the emotions I was feeling about everything and everyone around me and concentrate solely on myself. I was also confident that the world would not collapse and that people would still go on in spite of my absence. All would be well even if I chose to bow out for awhile.

So, during my “transformation” of sorts, I am hopeful for many things. I hope I can learn to speak up, lighten up, smile a lot more and jump into my small, beautiful world with both feet. I hope I can learn to let go, take it easy and let the insane world around me, run itself. I hope I can stop beating myself up over people and things that I have absolutely no control over. I hope I can put the words “no” and “I don’t’ want to” into my vocabulary of life. I hope I can learn that everyone is responsible for their own lives, their choices and the consequences of those choices. I hope I can find a balance between the things that are important to me and still remain the kind of mother, daughter, sister and friend I have always been. But my greatest hope is that maybe after this experience, after becoming a bitch of sorts, I will end up being a happier, better version of myself…

It must be said that in my 37 years of life, I have been given plenty of advice; some good, some bad, some even catastrophic but certainly advice to become a bitch is a first for me. Gaining a bit of humor and possibly for the first time, a backbone, I thought I might take a chance and run with it…

P.S. I’m tossing out the doormat!