The Upside of Anger

I made it through the holidays by the skin of my teeth. I usually go all out decorating and baking because it’s my absolute favorite time of the year. I am usually filled with happiness and the magic of the season. But not this year. This year I put on a happy face for everyone but inside I am dying. This year everything was different. Not only am I without my mother for the first time but this may be the last year I have Mattie under this roof, waking up with him on Christmas morning. Furthermore, Tom and I are just growing more distant. We are virtual strangers and I can hardly stand it anymore. Days pass and we barely utter a word to one another. We are roommates sharing a house but even roommates share some kind of intimacy. Between us, there is nothing.

 

I have learned not to cry. I have learned not to care. I have learned to live with the silence that was once deafening to me. I have learned to become angry. It is the only way I have managed to stay sane in a house that fills me with nothing but craziness. It is the upside of anger. It is the benefit of rage, of not caring. I am able to walk around and not give a shit about what he is doing, where he is going, when he is coming home. I have learned to tune everything out simply because I no longer care. It’s not to say that I don’t care about him. I’m sure I still do, somewhere deep inside. I care about his safety when he is working a job he hates. But he stopped caring about me and my feelings a very long time ago and to manage my pain and to stay in this house, to stay married to him for as long as I have, I had to become him. I had to become angry.

 

I’ve come to terms with this new me. I don’t think anyone has really noticed it except Tom. Maybe because I don’t need to be this me with anyone but him. I’m hyper vigilant, untrusting, irritated, resentful and downright pissed off all of the time. I guess I just got tired of pulling the entire emotional weight of this marriage. I’ve been doing it for nearly 6 years and frankly, I’m exhausted. I cannot do it anymore. It has taken the greatest toll on my heart for I no longer believe in him or us. I have absolutely nothing left to give. I am now as absent as Tom has been for the past 6 years and I’m okay with it.

 

What I’ve come to realize since my mom’s death is that life is so fucking short and that I deserve to be happy. She always told me so but I guess I never really believed that until now. I was so focused on Tom and Mattie, making sure they had everything they needed. And that if somehow I was a good mother, a devoted wife that happiness would be earned like a medal of honor that I could pin to my chest to show the world that I was good enough, that I had done right by my family. That for all my trying, I would get back a portion of the happiness I had given. But sadly, life doesn’t work that way. I have given everything of myself to the two people who have meant the most to me and although watching Mattie grow into a strong, intelligent young man who is well on his way to adulthood, is rewarding, it is simply not enough for me anymore. And every day, as I watch him gain more independence, I look around and wonder what is left for me here, in this house, after he is gone. What will become of me here? My purpose will be gone. My job. My reason for staying, will be gone. Tom has given me nothing of himself, showed me nothing. Our marriage, our life together is a joke. It is based on absolutely nothing. Built on dreams of a life he never really wanted and promises never intended to keep.

 

I promised myself I wouldn’t cry anymore. Secretly, I long to, each and every day. But my anger keeps me in check. It simply won’t let me betray myself in that way. It’s been too much hurt; far too many nights my cries were ignored. Far too many nights my pleas fell on deaf ears. So I will sit with my anger until it passes; until the anger turns to acceptance. Until I can look at Tom without seeing resentment. Until I can see him as just a man who made mistakes, who didn’t mean to hurt me. Until I can forgive him for letting me down, for letting Mattie down. Until I can stop blaming him for turning me into someone I hate.

 

Every day, I am still trying. Trying to figure out my place in this mess. And my responsibility. I don’t blame Tom for everything although it sounds like I do. I’m just stuck in the bitterness instead of the sorrow. It’s not where I want to be, it’s where I need to be, for now. The loneliness over the last several years nearly destroyed me and has leveled what little confidence I have left. So it seems far less toxic sitting with the animosity, having it resonate through my body, feeling the power of it instead of the crushing blow of disappointment. It’s the upside of anger and it’s where I belong.

 

The Fallout

I spent a wonderful night with my friends….dinner and a movie. It’s the typical night out, date night. Except my husband is working and I am, once again, finding comfort among my friends. Not that I do not enjoy my friends or even appreciate my husband’s hard work, because I do, on both accounts. But, I am without my husband more than not these days and I fear my friends are growing tired of my story, and truth be told, so am I.

When I arrive home, I look at the four walls of the almost 5000 square foot unfinished house I do not own and I am puzzled by my surroundings. This house, this life, with him, is all I ever thought I wanted. It’s funny how time changes things or at least your perception of it.  I never believed I would find myself here again, alone and tired. It’s not the kind of tired from too much work but rather, fighting the good fight and never coming out on top. I waited for this man for such a long time and when you break it down, I left my first husband for him. Not really though. My marriage had dissolved a long time before I ever met Tom but that is how the story goes among insignificant people in an insignificant town who think they know what happened in my marriage and frankly, I have already come to terms with all of that nonsense. But as it has been told to me, my consuming desire for another man, and my need for a new life was actually the demise of my first marriage. But, I, the person that lived it, have a far different story to tell. One that is far less likely to make the local headlines or be the lead story on a Friday night at the neighborhood bar. Nevertheless, it is my truth. My marriage dissolved because we simply grew apart. I no longer felt wanted or needed by my spouse. I no longer felt him look at me the way he always did. I no longer knew my place in his world. I no longer felt loved. The same could be said for my current situation.  Maybe this is how it’s supposed to be. Maybe this is the debt I am meant to pay for not staying and fighting for my first marriage. Maybe if I had been stronger, if I had stayed and tried to work it out…maybe I wouldn’t be in such pain now. I would like to think that’s not how God operates, but these days, I don’t know.

I suppose in my own warped sense of truth, I am getting exactly what I deserve. The fallout of a life wasted, a life I threw away. I am not crazy enough to think that the demise of my marriage was entirely my fault but I was the one who left. I was clingy, emotional, wanting more from him than I could ever hope to receive from any man. He was simply not capable of giving me what I needed. I thought my second husband was capable. I thought he was willing. I thought he loved me as no one ever had. He knew my personality craved affection, attention and acknowledgement. He was my friend. He knew what I had been through. He knew exactly what made me walk away from my first marriage and yet here I am, in the same exact predicament. Now I feel like this is all a test. A test that I certainly didn’t study for. A test in which I failed miserably before. And most likely will fail again.

Living my life is like being stuck on an island all by myself. I find the loneliness palpable. The anxiety grows in me each day and I look around and wonder how on earth I got here and what exactly was I doing when my life fell apart? Was I so busy that I just didn’t notice? This time, everything is worse though.  Mattie is a senior in high school and has dreams of going away to college. He is busy doing his own thing; a life filled with basketball, friends and activities. Tom is working so much trying to find his niche in a job that he hates, to pay for a life that he hates. I am merely surviving in a life I no longer recognize being a person I no longer recognize. I am certainly making the best of my situation because that’s what I know to do. I go through the motions. I am still a mother. I am still a wife, and I do all the things expected of me. I cook, clean, taxi kids, look after animals, do laundry…every single thing I’m supposed to do, mostly, without complaining. And as I struggle to make sense of it all, my sadness begins edging towards anger. And anger is not an emotion I relate well to. It’s like going to the diner and seeing the prime rib on the menu that I never seem to order. I know it’s there. It’s probably good but I merely glance at it and pick something that is comforting, something familiar, like a burger and fries. My fear, anxiety and sadness are my comfort zone. These emotions sit well with me. They play nice with me and I with them. Anger is the prime rib. It’s as foreign to me as the Italian language but as the days of my loneliness turn into months and then years, I’m learning that even the most unexplored territories have a purpose and a reason. The prime rib is looking better and better.

I’m not sure when I changed. It wasn’t a sudden thing, that’s for sure. I think it’s been a barrage of little things, a conditioning of sorts over the past 5 years that have made me angry, less caring and less emotional. I spent so many nights crying, racking my brain trying to figure out what I had done, what made me so unlovable, so unworthy that not just one man, but two men felt the need to abandon me. I know abandon seems a harsh word but it’s the only one I can use to describe how it feels. Then and now. It hurts to be left alone. To feel that the one person in the world who is supposed to love you the most, to need you the most, to want you the most, just doesn’t. It’s like pouring alcohol in an open wound. The pain is intense and long lasting. I don’t cry as much anymore. I’m quick to snap at Tom or Mattie because I’m literally at the end of my emotional rope.

I’m not sure where I go from here. Tom is here, in body only. He doesn’t talk to me. He certainly doesn’t touch me. I’ve often thought maybe there is someone else in his life, someone he found that makes him smile again, someone that makes his heart beat a little bit faster again. Someone like the me I used to be. But then I realize that he, like me, don’t have the time nor the inclination for such foolishness. So for now, I will wait. I will wait and see. I will wait until I figure it out. I will get through the holidays first and then decide. I don’t want to live like this anymore. I don’t want to be the fallout of another wasted life.

Some Undeniable Truths...According to Me

 

 

I am as good as I am going to get…so don’t ask me to go to therapy, take a pill that changes my personality or advise me to enroll in a self-help seminar. This is me and I am okay with me. If you aren’t, feel free to find someone better.

When it comes to doing laundry, that pesky sock(s) will inherently get lost. Just deal with it and move on. Buy more socks.

Some people are going to hurt you, let you down, deceive you or just be a complete a*@hole to you. It’s who they are and it has nothing to do with YOU! It’s a part of life and happens to everyone.

Always stock up on toilet paper. It’s one commodity that should never be left off the grocery list because if you do run out, and you will….You can almost pinpoint what your exact location will be when it happens!

A house doesn’t become a home until a family lives in it. Until there is laughter, muddy paw prints, clutter and noise, it is merely a building with 4 walls. If you are fortunate enough to have a home, do your best to honor it, protect it and cherish it.

Loving someone is the easy part. Share your life with someone you actually like, someone you would be friends with. Life is too short to share it with someone you hate.

Gravy is good on almost anything.

No matter how bad things seem, no matter how unhappy you think you are, there is always someone looking at your life, wishing it was theirs.

Women, in general are really not the complicated creatures we are made out to be. We want love, respect, a bit of humor, a kind word now and then and possibly some pretty shoes. That really isn’t too much to ask for, is it?

I am totally serious about the gravy thing.

If you have something to say, say it. But say it as kindly as you can. No one died and made you the boss of everyone. So, think before you speak. It’s not rocket science.

If you are asked a question and you don’t know the answer, ask someone, Google it or simply say you don’t know. There is nothing worse than someone who acts like they know everything, especially if another person in the room actually does know the answer. It’s uncomfortable for the person that has to correct you and it makes you look….well, stupid.

Do something every day that inspires you or makes you come alive. Write, paint, play; anything that keeps you seeing the beauty in this world.

If you are not a parent, please don’t tell me how to parent. You may think that you can teach me a few things, but trust me, you can’t. If you haven’t been there…you have no comprehension of the sacrifices, determination or love in which I do this job. So before you preach, chastise, correct or offer me your opinion, STOP! Some things are better left unsaid, and this is surely one of them.

If you have a point, get to it. Swiftly. Don’t let words or silence linger in the air in hopes the message is received. Be upfront and honest. Get to the root of the problem or the issue. No tap dancing or sugar coating here, please.

And finally, eat ice cream whenever possible. It is yummy and I do believe it is good for the soul.

The Bubble

I am in a quandary of sorts, once again. The fact that my boy, my Mattie is growing up so fast is completely throwing me for an emotional loop. I am at times, a mess and wonder and worry if I have prepared him well enough to step foot outside the security of his own home. I have done my best not be a helicopter mom but I know there have been times I’ve failed miserably. There have been times I have done the wrong thing because I was scared to let go, scared that he would get hurt, scared that I would hurt him. I have probably sheltered him too much, because of my own fears, not his. And as I sit here today, looking back on the last 15 years, I wonder if I am standing alone or does every parent have trouble letting go, letting their kids grow up and steer their path towards the unknown, away from the confines of the safety we’ve provided? I’m afraid that my fears will stifle his growth, his abilities and his potential to dream for a better life outside of this small town. As a mother I am guilty of one thing. I am guilty of placing my son in a big, protective bubble. The bubble I created, encasing him in safety; one he is desperate to escape, a bubble I have considered wrapping in tempered steel, forever.

 

Mattie is 15 now, a sophomore in high school, an honor roll student and a high school varsity basketball starter who stands 6’1. He is no longer a baby, this I know. He is a young man and I realize that he is way overdue for me to loosen the reins. It’s just my heart won’t let me. I have realized my problem has nothing to do with losing control over him but rather about the fear of not being there when he needs me, not being able to make things better, not being able to comfort him and not being able to fulfill the promise I made to him. I also fear when he leaves, I will miss him more than I can bear. If truth be told, at times, I am paralyzed by this fear. I contain it the best I can. I try not to burden him with my worries or my sadness. I try to encourage him, tell him everything will be okay, that I will be okay. Every day I witness his beautiful life of promise, his desire to journey out into the world, unafraid, to explore and find his place in it. He is just beginning to blossom and as I watch him, I am overcome with a personal sadness for the loss of my baby but am filled with happiness and pride for the young man he has become. And that helps or at least it should.

 

I do my very best to be excited about his joining the New York Golden Eagles Basketball team where he will be travelling to Pennsylvania, D.C., NYC, Ohio, Maryland, Jersey and South Carolina to play against some of the best athletes in the country and International players from Spain, Lithuania and The Czech Republic . He will go up against kids that are bigger, stronger, faster and have more experience, on and off the court and yet I know it is an amazing opportunity for him. As my heart is breaking, I smile and tell him that he is ready, he is prepared, and he can do anything he wants to do. He feels ready to venture out without me. He feels ready for this step in his life. I have no doubt about his desire to play with this team, the need to go out and make a mark for himself in the sport in which he loves so much. He is ready to let go, ready to move forward with his life. But the question is, am I?

 

The days pass by, the clock ticks on with lightning speed and I suddenly don’t feel there is enough time, for anything. I want a do over, a second chance to change things, to do things differently. Possibly something more, or something less. To prepare him, to better prepare myself for a life without him in it, every day.  I know the bubble is a purely selfish thing, a cocoon for this young man I love so very much and never want to let go. But I realize it’s inevitable. He will leave, sooner rather than later. This year it’s travel basketball, tomorrow it will be college, a more permanent separation and soon after he will have made a whole new life for himself. It’s something I should find complete and utter joy in, and yet I can’t. I’m not ready. It’s happening too fast. My head knows that going away, doing things on his own is what’s best for him. But what about my heart? What do I tell it? I’ve talked myself down off this ledge a million times. I tell myself that I will have less worry, and more time, to travel, to plan, to do nothing. But the hard part is my entire identity, my entire self is wrapped up in him. My whole life has been about him, about keeping him safe, about protecting him, about seeing that he has everything he needs, about making his life a much better and different version than my own, about making him happy. What do I do when he no longer needs me to do those things? Do those needs magically disappear when he does? Will a new me emerge and take with it the old, mom me? Or do I simply have to let time do its thing, sit with it awhile, learn to accept it and let him go. I am to blame for my situation. Mattie is simply doing what kids do. And that is to grow up, to move on to bigger and better things. For this, I cannot fault him. We’ve all done it. It’s the natural order of life, I guess. I just hope when he leaves home, he understands the sacrifices I have made for him and how very much I love him. I hope he knows how incredibly proud I am of him and even though I have made mistakes, I did the best I could do with what I had. I tried to be the best mother I knew how to be. I hope he knows that being his mother has been the greatest joy of my life. And finally I hope he understands my intentions were always good, misguided perhaps, but his heart and well-being were always at the forefront of my decisions. I hope as he grows older he will learn to accept my misgivings, be willing to forgive my faults and my failures and I hope he can learn to understand my reasoning for everything; even the bubble.

UPDATE*** Mattie decided not to join the Golden Eagles. He went with a more local AAU travel team. Is it a win for me? I'm not sure.

 

A Lonely Mourning

A Lonely Mourning

It was a Tuesday. March 19^th, 2013, at 10 a.m. My phone rang and I didn’t recognize the phone number, so it went unanswered. Curiosity kicked in because I thought I had remembered seeing that area code before. So, I Googled the number and to my shock, the search read, The University Inn, Tampa Florida. This address I knew well. It was my father’s. I knew something had happened to him. I felt it in my bones. And somewhere deep down inside, I knew he had died.

 

It’s not something that can be explained or rationalized or even truly understood unless something so unexpected and devastating happens to you. It’s a sinking feeling, in the pit of your stomach traveling to every recess of your being; a dream-like state that is perpetuated by your own thoughts and your own voice as you try to make fit, the magnitude of what has happened.

As I have previously written, I was not raised by my father, and in fact, he was only in my life until my parents divorced around 1974. After that, he fell further into the bottle, further away from his children and further into a lonely existence. I was a 3 year old little girl at the time, far too young an age to prepare for the loss of a father. Of course, as I sit here today I am reminded that there is no age where you can actually prepare for the loss of a father. Needless to say, I had little or no contact with him most of my life, despite my effort to find him and connect with him. For all intents and purposes, he did not want to be found, nor did he want to be a father. In my mind, he didn’t want me and there was nothing I could do to fix that. But life has a funny way of changing direction, changing our outlook and changing our fate.

My father did re-enter my life but I was grown up with a child of my own. We took things slow because we were not father and daughter, but mere strangers getting to know each other. We exchanged phone calls primarily on holidays or an occasional random weekday. I would talk about work or Mattie; he would listen, barely uttering a word. I was sensing that all the things I wished he could be, wished he wanted to be, just weren’t within his capabilities. He was struggling being in my life and I was just growing tired of it all. In that moment, I wanted to give up and let go. I wanted to be set free.

It’s not in my biological makeup to quit or to give up on anyone or anything that still holds a piece of my heart. So after a while, I decided to shift my focus and change my perspective on a situation in which I lost my grip. I gave all this pain I had experienced; all the tears I shed; all the struggling to “fix” my father, over to God. I had surrendered to my past. I had surrendered to my father. I had stopped fighting for him and began to fight for myself. The struggle was over, the tears gone, my pain had retreated for the first time in 40 years. I left whatever was meant to happen, in the hands of God, nothing more. And an amazing thing began to happen. Things started to progress and the estranged relationship my father and I shared for so many years began to unravel. Despite his uneasiness to relate to a grown daughter, he was making an effort to draw the stranger I had become, back to him, back to his heart. We did grow very close over the last year of his life. God had lifted me up and over the mountain of a wall that had separated a father and daughter. I no longer saw him as an absent, uncaring father, but as a man, a human being that could be no more perfect than I could be. And after a while, the deadening silence and one sided idle chit chat that used to fill the phone lines was replaced with laughter, and my fathers’ stories; stories that made him radiate from the inside out. He would often talk about playing the piano, like he used to do, his missed audition with Julliard in New York City, his now arthritic hands unable to grace the keys. He spoke of his regrets, his mistakes with my mother, with his children, with his life. On the other end of the phone sat a broken man who had nothing except for a connection through a phone line with a daughter that he knew had never given up on him. I could tell his heart was opening, reclaiming parts of his past that he had wanted to keep buried. He was coming alive probably for the first time in his life and he knew I was the reason for it.

Our last phone call was about 2 weeks prior to his death. It was one of the best conversations I had ever had with him. We spent an hour and a half laughing, reminiscing and complaining about the daily grind of life. As I listened, I smiled to myself realizing that this imperfect, beautiful, humorous man finally wanted me, finally wanted to be a father. I had given him the gift he had always been looking for, true forgiveness, unconditional love and acceptance. He was no longer unsure if a man like him, one that had abandoned his family, deserved a child to love him this much; and to have her be so incredibly dedicated to him. That sadness and regret was gone. He was my father and in that moment, he was free. And so was I.

The call ended the same way it always had. I said “I love you daddy” to which he replied “love you too baby”. Little did I know at the time, those would be the last words my father would ever say to me. We never spoke again. I suppose in a way, I should be grateful or feel blessed that I had that precious time, that last connection with him and somewhere under my sadness and pain, I’m sure I am. But in the bright light of day, I simply want to hide away, find the dark and be sad. I don’t feel blessed for having had him so briefly, but sadness for no longer having him, for no longer having, TIME.

As the months carried on, I gained some perspective on my father’s death. I have learned that my father lived a lonely life, lived most of it without knowing the love and loyalty that comes with being a family. I have learned that possibly my father loved me as much as his heart was capable of loving anyone, that the time he afforded me was simply all he had to give. The hardest part of his death has been living in the loneliness he left behind, I am unable to share my grief with anyone. Life went on as it does and no one stopped to share my pain, no one knew the man I grew to know and love. So there were no tears but mine. Typically when a loved one passes, there are family members, friends, flowers filling the parlor, people hugging you and holding you up when the pain becomes too much. People cry for your loss, for their loss and they get through the process by telling stories, sharing photos, reliving the wonderful person he or she was and then knowing within themselves that the world was left a far better place because that person had lived in it.

It seems my father meant nothing to anyone but me. I knew no one would make a big production over his death, no one would cry or cling to each other because they felt the loss of an amazing man. There was nothing. No friends, no family, no flowers. Just me, left to my lonely mourning. He was cremated and shipped to me in a pretty wooden box. Not being able to openly mourn his death or  share this overwhelming pain with another person who loved him, who cared for him, who finally understood him; the man, not the father; for his betrayal and his mistakes. To not have had anyone else on this earth to bear witness to his life or his redemption leaves me feeling empty and alone. On the worst of days, when I feel as if I am drowning, I think of him, I hear his voice as soft as the wind, whispering that he is okay, that he made it, that I can let go, that in his death, he is setting me free. For the last time.

I miss my father every single day. Some days are better than others, it’s true, and time is doing its best to heal the empty, dark place he left behind. But life presses forward as it tends to do and I know that I have press forward, without him.

My only hope and prayer is not that this incredible pain lessens for me, but that my father died knowing how very much I loved him. I hope he knows how much he meant to me. I hope he knows that his life did matter, to me, his one and only daughter. I am his truth and I am proof that he was here.

I love you daddy.

Get Over it Already

It’s what I tell myself every day. Sometimes you just have to get over certain things, especially the things that you cannot change. Sometimes you have to let go, forgive those that have hurt you and move in a direction that at least resembles a forward motion. But then I ask myself, what if you can’t get past the very thing that is hurting you most? When you think the resentment and hurt will never go away, I wonder is there any way for that relationship to survive?

On an ordinary night in September, sitting in our favorite little bar, my husband looked tense and somewhat uncomfortable. I, of course asked him what was troubling him. We had only been married for 3 months and had been trying to get pregnant for 4 months. I thought we were happy and heading down the right path, heading in a forward motion. To say that I was ill-prepared for what he had to say to me was an understatement. He turned to me and proceeded to tell me that he was no longer sure that he wanted to have a baby anymore. As I sat there, on the verge of tears, I think he went into a spiel about wanting to do things with me, travel and have time together and that somehow he didn’t think a baby really seemed conducive to the life he had wanted to share with me. I think my whole body went numb and I had tunnel vision because I couldn’t think straight. Everything went black. But I did come out of my coma just in time to hear him say, “plus I can already see us divorced and me paying for a kid that I don’t see”.

I am sure the words he spoke were not meant to sting as bad as they did. I am sure his words were said with no more of a filter or a concerning nature than he would typically use in conversations with me. I am sure he didn’t think of how his words would translate to my already emotional heart. I am sure his words were simply meant, not as an actual predictor of our future apart but more of his normal cynical view of the world. His words, of course, hit me harder and deeper than he or I could have imagined.

After that day, I went into a spiral, downwards and backwards, definitely no longer a forward motion. From that point on, we never really spoke of a baby again. I went on birth control pills because by that time, I knew I could never allow myself to have his child. Not so much because he had denied me the one thing that I longed for but because I no longer trusted him to take care of me or my heart. And as much as I wanted another child, why would I bring a child into a world where cynicism and negativity was the pre-curser to their existence? I don’t know what happened to me that day. In a sense I feel like I shut down, like part of me died. A part of my new marriage died that day too. But more importantly, the belief in my husband’s love for me died too.

 Fast forwarding 2 years, the words still ring in my ear and stings just as bad as they did sitting in that little bar that September night. I fear these feelings of resentment and hurt will never go away. We are functioning as best we can. We both know something is wrong but neither of us bridge the gap anymore. I do my best everyday to get over it, get past it, put it to rest and move forward but I simply don’t have the strength anymore. It hurts far too bad. I watch movies or see commercials about babies and I always end up crying and feeling heartbroken all over again. He watches me cry and says nothing to console me. He knows this was a decision, a life altering choice he made for both of us. I didn’t have a option. I am 41 years old. My time to have children is dwindling fast and as I said, I no longer have the trust in him that I used to, the kind of trust it takes to bring a life into this world. He is not a stupid man. He knows the hurt that I feel. He sees it on my face every single day. He knows what he has done and now he cannot fix it. I try to voice my opinion, my hurt and frustration but I can no longer articulate my heartache to him. I feel as if he doesn’t deserve that part of me.  Maybe he doesn’t deserve any part of me.

 Our plan all along was to get married and have a family of our own. In the 10 years I have known him, he has always wanted children so I don’t know what happened in the couple months since we had gotten married. Maybe this was his plan all along which I cannot even begin to wrap my brain around. I can’t allow myself to believe he purposely deceived me; that he pretended to want children to get me to marry him. I can’t allow myself to believe that he would hurt me that badly. My only other thought is that he wanted children but maybe, just maybe, he didn't want to have them with me.

As for the moving forward thing, I will find my way, I have no doubt. I always do. I am just venting, releasing the pain with words in hopes that it will go away. I am truly saddened by a decision he made without me; a decision that I cannot change. But I also don’t want this to overtake me, make me lose sight of all that I do have. I don’t want to be angry with him. I don’t want to be sad anymore. I want to look forward. I cannot allow the pain of never having another child overshadow my one blessing in this life. I am so grateful for the privilege God gave me to be Mattie’s mother. He has been the greatest gift of my life.

All I can do is promise myself that tomorrow I will try and give my blessings more power than my pain. I will promise to look forward no matter how hard it may be. I will promise that I will do my very best to put it to rest and get over it. But my one question is this…When he looks back on his life, a life possibly with me, or without me, a life with no children to watch grow up, no one there to carry on his name, I wonder will he be able to just get over it?

It's No Joke. Exercise and other things are a Bitch!

After months of doing nothing short of opening a bottle of wine, I decided that it was time for me to take my health and my life into my own hands.

My plan: Get up early every day, take my vitamins, exercise and drink plenty of water.

What happened yesterday: I woke up early, took my vitamins, exercised and drank plenty of water.

What happened today: Hit snooze button 5 times, forgot my vitamins, was too sore from exercise yesterday to exercise today, and at 10:00 am I have only consumed about 8 of my 64 daily ounces of water.

I would say that is not too shabby, right?

My main problem areas for which I need solutions:

1. I am not a good sleeper, I never have been. I have trouble falling asleep, staying asleep and not having knife-wielding clown dreams so when I finally fall asleep, I need to stay asleep. When my alarm clock goes off at 6 am, I simply cannot get myself out of the confines of my bed because the fact of the matter is I quite possibly have only been asleep for a few hours. So exercise in the morning (which I am told is best) is very difficult for me.

2. When I come home in the afternoon, I become a crazy person as I am trying to still clean up the mess from the day before. I walk through the dog hair tumbleweeds to the sink full of dirty dishes and become a frantic lunatic to figure out something edible for my family to eat for dinner. I open a bottle of wine and sit and stare at my surroundings. I think to myself, this would be a wonderful time to take a walk.

3. I don’t know how to take care of myself anymore. I am so incredibly busy caring for everyone and everything around me, that I constantly put myself on the back burner. This is I am sure, typical of many other working mothers. Secretly I tell myself that I must take care of myself in order to continue to work myself into the ground caring for everyone else but I simply don’t feel like there is time in the day. Either that or the guilt I feel doing something for myself, is simply too much for an ordinary weekday.

4. I would say, in part I am somewhat lazy or rather, unmotivated. I want to be in shape, have flatter abs, smaller legs and arms and I crave to be a size 4 again and yet I am not willing to give up certain things…like wine, bread, cheese or pasta. So shoot me! I am a real woman with curves and I wish at 41 I could come to terms with my body and stop wishing to have the body of an 18 year old. My mother keeps telling me that 20 years from now I will look back on my body and be amazed at how beautiful I was. That is hard to imagine. Supposedly in 20 years I will be praying for this not so flat belly, these not so muscular ex-dancer legs and these not so skinny arms.  So in my issue stricken desire to be a thinner, healthier version of myself but not give up anything I eat or drink illustrates my laziness aka my unmotivated tendencies. Ugh!

5. Metabolism sucks. Period. Unless you have one of those fast metabolisms where you can eat whatever you want and not gain a pound. In which case, I hate you! Think back now. The days of senior prom week when the dress you were going to wear was just a tad bit too tight and you gave up, I don’t know, GUM for the week and miraculously you lost 5 pounds. I guess this is where I revert to that 18 year old body image. I want it but don’t want to work for it. I suck and so does this slow metabolism that hit me when I was 35.

6. Media and magazines will destroy the true image of beauty. I wish someone would come out with a magazine featuring 35+ women that were sizes 8 and up, who were happy with their bodies and ooze their confidence on all the shmucks, like myself that are in peril over eating and dieting and hating themselves because they are not a svelte size 2 like LeeAnn Rimes or Victoria Beckham. I want someone with a Marilyn Monroe body advising me on how to love myself, how to stay motivated and how to cut back but not eliminate everything I love. Is that too much to ask?

As I re-read this blog, I am more struck by the fact that most likely, my issues have more to do with me being lazy or unmotivated rather than any other of my complaints. Of course, this is also me, being way too hard on myself. I am harder on myself than I ever would be on a friend or even a complete stranger. But I suppose that’s how it goes sometimes; being my own worst critic. Oh well. If self punishment were a true motivator, I would be putting down this piece of cheese in my hand and putting on my running shoes. Unfortunately, it’s not.