Daddy's Girl

Surprise! Another  post so soon you ask?

Whelp, my OT thinks getting out of the house is imperative for my mental  and emotional success or just enough to keep me from throwing in the towel. Either way it gives my unemployed ass a chance to brush my teeth, wear something other than my crusty sweats and interact with other humans.

It's this 'humaning' I still struggle with especially when my body refuses to cooperate and I'm left looking like some feral housewife who's been locked inside the depths of Hell...or at least burdened with 10 loads of laundry and reruns of daytime T.V.   

And while I wish I could blame it all on the disease, part of me can concede that this chapter of my story started well before I started losing my bowels and hair.  This chapter, truth be told, began as a journey of grief.  Along the way I just added a few more pit stops.  Because why not?

I woke today with a crushing weight on my chest and as I lay in the darkness, I felt an overwhelming sense of emptiness.    Not a physical magnesium citrate emptiness, but a hollow space where my emotions used to reside.

Mental health is a taboo subject and we tend to joke and jest, throwing the word 'crazy' around as if we even know what it means.  Don't believe me? For one day make a note of how many times you might use this phrase or expression. How many of these people are actually crazy? And what makes one certifiable enough to be called crazy?

I could talk for hours on this subject, but no one wants to listen and the $80 a session to find someone feels forced.  So forgive me if this isn't something you want to discuss, but it's something I can't escape and I need to find out why. Or at the very least find a way to fill that hole I have left gaping.

It has been over 3 years since my dad died.  And everyday his absence is felt, seen.  In the faces of my children, the empty chair at the table and my mother's heart.   I can't escape it.  

Nor can I escape the last words we spoke.   I go back to that moment over and over, dissecting every second, frame by frame, trying to keep it from slipping away. It terrifies me that I will one day have difficulty remembering him.   Never mind the day I don't know who I am.   

I stood in the doorway, both kids huddled at my side, frightened by his deteriorating appearance, but more terrified by the reality that he would leave us soon. Every single moment we could spare, we spent at his side and that final night was no different.  Reluctant to leave, at 1:00 am I loaded my babies  in the car to give my mother the time she needed with him and to recharge.

I remember exactly what I was wearing, the smell of his pipe lingering in the hall, my girl's hand tightly clutching her brother's, who still struggled with letting him go. 

I called out to the bed " we love you, old man.  We will be back in the morning to terrorize you.  Love ya'".  He raised his arm which took all the strength he could muster, waved us on with an almost inaudible 'Love youuuuuuu....".   

His voice faded as his body weakened, and I trooped out with my crew in tow.   

Hours later he took his final breath with my mother at his side.    The part that makes this even more difficult for me is three days prior to his death, he caught me off-guard with a call at my office.   

It was 11:34 am on a Wednesday and I had just come back from refilling my coffee mug when our receptionist buzzed me.  With a quick 'your father is on the line', I was thrown through a loop.    My mother was making all the necessary arrangements to bring him home while a friend kept him company in ICU at MDAnderson.    Surely she was mistaken.  He was in no condition to be making phones.

She wasn't.  As I picked up the line, I heard his rattling cough and distinct "Big John" chuckle we have all grown to love.   I demanded to know why he was calling me.  Didn't he know he was supposed to be resting and saving his strength?

He told me that he could do whatever he damned well pleased in true John-fashion, and proceeded to crush my heart. 

I stood behind my desk, unable to get my legs to cooperate, as he commended me for all my accomplishments and failures.  He thanked me for allowing him to become a father and grandfather.  He thanked me for all the times I let him be a part of my life even when I fought and resisted.  He thanked me for making him proud.  

As I began to resemble Rocky Raccoon, I jokingly jested that he was fucking up my makeup and I was at work.  With a loud and audible guffaw, he stated his job was done and the line went dead.

I stood there, perplexed, angry, grateful and feeling like a complete and utter shit-heel.  

As I sunk into my chair, I struggled to wipe away the tears and compose myself.   

I wish I had known that was the last full conversation I would have with him.  I would tell him how much I didn't deserve his love.  How much I owed him for choosing us as his daughters and my mother as his wife. He gave us our family back.  I owed him a debt of gratitude for the life he so selflessly gave us all.  He told me I made him proud as a mother and parent.  I should have told him a thousand times how proud I was to call him Dad.  He believed in us when no one else did, and showed me for the first time in my life not just how a man should treat a woman, but how people should treat others. 

I wish I could tell him that I am nothing to be proud of and that my shortcomings will always outweigh and outshine my accomplishments.   I mean, it's a go-big-or-go-home mentality I live by. And that's ok.  

I wish I had told him...so much.  I will regret this to the day I die.

Many don't know this, but he had always been a part of my life long before he became my father. In fact he was the second person to hold me following my birth. There is a running family joke that even though we never shared DNA, I am my father's daughter.

And to that I call bullshit.   He was so much better than I ever will be.   

He was the compass this family needed and without him we have absolutely no direction.   He gave us the most beautiful 16 years and would have given everything to give us another 16.

And I lie awake night after night, year after year, and the hole in my chest, that hollowness keeps getting bigger and bigger.    The bond I have with my mother is unbreakable; she is one of my best friends.  I cannot imagine life without her, and don't want to. 

But the relationship he gave me was something I never thought I needed, much less wanted.

I don't know why I am writing this.  The journey of grief and loss is endless.  There will never be an end in sight, and I have to acknowledge this is part of life.  No one is immune to it.  We know this. 

But it doesn't mean to I have to accept it.   And today as I lay in the dark, the only sound my breathing labored as the tears become uncontrollable, I am rejecting it. 

Fuck death and everything it robs us of.  Fuck the idea that we move on, get over it or even learn to cope.

Because some of us never will.  Some of us are left hollow and lost. Fighting to find some reason to keep on going.  

My reason?  I want to continue to make him proud. 

Even if takes an entire lifetime. 

Because that emptiness I feel, that crushing weight I feel every night?

It's a broken heart.   And if I don't find a way to mend it, I will drive a fucking harpoon through it.

I haven't learned how to live without him and quite frankly, I don't know if I ever will.

But I will be damned if I am going to spend my life crying in the dark.

He wouldn't have wanted that.  Besides, I am fucking up my makeup again. 

A father's love for his son and the lesson he taught me

Fear.   It can be crippling and life altering if you allow it to become debilitating.   We all have the capacity to fear something. Unless you're a sociopath.  Then it's you that is feared.

That fear can be something as small and insignificant as filing your taxes or skydiving. It can also be that sweat-inducing pounding in your chest when you apply for a new job or face foreclosure.

Fear is fear.  Unless its that fear of losing someone.  And nothing is worse than that except said loss being a child.   This isn't to negate or invalidate the importance of any loss.  I don't want to argue of the semantics of grief and how one death is more significant than another.  All loss sucks.  It's fucking impossible to escape it as it's part of this shit-show we call life.

We know to expect it but we are never prepared for it.

But in all seriousness, I have experienced varying degrees of loss over the last 4 years and nothing compared to the death of my father save for our two babies.  And I deemed myself an expert, a connoisseur of the grieving process, dolling out sage words of wisdom and tips to others who turned to me for help or a listening ear.

Until I attended a performance art piece entitled 'Guac: My Son, My Hero' by Manuel Oliver.

Anything I thought I knew about grief, loss and fucking pain went out the window.  In that moment as I sat in the front row, I was given a stark look into the reality of what it means to lose a living child especially to an act of violence.

See, Joaquin 'Guac' Oliver was one of the 17 Parkland shooting victims.

Was isn't the right word because it isn't past-tense.  No amount of days or years will ever erase the fact that a 19 year old mentally unstable man was able to rob 17 individuals of their futures, hopes and dreams in the span of 7 short minutes.


This isn't going to be a rehashing on the background of this catastrophic event.  The shooter doesn't deserve the print, the small amount of you who will read this know the case or at least how to use Google, and this isn't a rambling about gun violence. 

Let's just say legislation won't change, but my 9 year old has monthly active shooter drills.

And I am not ok with that.  Even if you are.

That sums up where I stand.  I can say this as a mentally unstable person and previous gun owner.


No,  this is Joaquin's story told through his father who has been able to lend his voice when his son's was silenced too soon.  A man who was willing to expose the raw and ugly wounds he carried with his grief if it will change one life.

Because the love for his son could not be silenced by the shooter's gun.

This is the story of a budding activist, artist with an affinity for basketball, a fondness for Slash and his killer guitar riffs, and a untainted passion for life.  As I sat there with those 60 other strangers, I didn't know what lay in store for me.  When purchasing the tickets, I knew this was an interactive performance piece which warned of triggers or elements that may be found disturbing or upsetting.


This disclaimer was plastered on the door as we filed into our seats and I found it odd that people might actually not attend because of the content.  When did we become so afraid of reality, we choose not to face it?  What does that leave for us?  Some false sense of security.  Which is probably great for you.   As long as nothing real ever happens.

This show was especially poignant on a day when the world woke to the loss of a sports legend and his 13 year old daughter who showed promise in following in his steps and carrying on his legacy.

Another loss of a child.

In that 90 minute show, I discovered that not only did I not know the varying degrees and depths grief can bring, but what it means to bury your child.   There is a post I wrote sometime ago concerning my depression and grief over both miscarriages and I feel and see too numerous a friend traveling down the same path.  Its brutal.    The time and effort I have spent mourning a "what-if" of a possible life is nothing compared to the harsh and brutal reality of living without a "has-been".

I wish I had a crystal ball sometimes to see what would have been if both embryos had survived.  Would they have been 2 more boys ? Would I finally have one child who looks like me?  Daycare or au pair? Breast or bottle?  These questions and thoughts still keep me awake at night. Especially the painful, sleepless ones.

But I rest easy in the luxury of having no face to put to the madness.   I wake up secure in the knowledge that while these feelings exist, I am able to push them further and further away because it's nothing more than a fleeting glimpse into the life I could have had and didn't. And the reality of the life I am able to live now is beautiful.  And that comforts me and quiets those fears.

But what if you had more than a glimpse? What if you have the answers to those questions? What if you had that life?

What if you had 17 glorious years of laughter, tears, countless games and family holidays? What if you had 17 beautiful years of friendship, secrets and dreams?  A face, a name, a heartbeat to put to those questions.

And suddenly its stolen away.  What is left?   As I glanced around the audience, the glistening and stained cheeks shining under the dimmed lights, I saw it.

Love.  That's what is left.  Love.  Because no amount of fear, anger, grief, sorrow or violence can take that away.

Love.  One father's love for his son.

Love.  One mother's love for her son.

Love.  One stranger's love for another stranger.

Love.  One individual's ability to love themselves.

Love.   Unconditional, unbridled love filled that room and flowed over us all.

There is so much more I wish I could articulate, but for now I encourage, plead with you to educate yourself on this case and the work of the Oliver family with their foundation, Change the Ref.   If you live in a city where this show is playing, please purchase a ticket. Check out all the amazing things they are doing to not only remember their son and his life, but change legislation. https://changetheref.org/


All I know is that I thought I knew true fear.  And I don't and probably never will.

But I know that no amount of fear can change my ability to love and be loved.



And the world needs more of this.


             

Nuclear Fallout: The Aftermath

"Nuclear fallout or fallout, is the residual radioactive material propelled into the upper atmosphere following a nuclear blast, so called because it "falls out" of the sky after the explosion and the shock wave have passed. "

  Seems very apropos given the enormity of said nuclear blast.

The blast:  In the span of 4 years we lost two children, my father, my grandfather and now my father-in-law.  Along with numerous friends.  During that time we weathered financial instability and unexpected crises, emotional upheaval and an increase in our property taxes.  We overcame insecurities about our parenting, our jobs and lost countless hours with AP Chemistry and grid-lock on I-10.  We acclimated to life without those we lost and built up defenses for the potential loss of another.

We made checklist after checklist and then checked again. We picked up the proverbial pieces and thought we had gotten to a point of recovery.   We mapped out phone tree after phone tree, devising an "escape plan", something to better prepare us to cope with grief, loss and the inevitable chaos that would ensue.  Agonizing hours upon hours on how to prevent another blast we failed to realize the damage left behind.

Because what we didn't do was prepare for the fallout.

The fallout:  In my infinite wisdom, I decided in the midst of this to change companies.  I needed a change of pace, I was stagnating at work, and I was tired of being underpaid to do the work of others who were paid more than me.  Classic working tale.  What I didn't plan for was 22 days after starting finding out my routine physical wasn't so routine.  One diagnosis later and I was facing thyroid treatments and cold backless hospital gowns.

I won't bore you with the details, but three months later and I felt we were beginning to gain some sense of normalcy.   I was beginning to get back into the groove, but I couldn't shake the sense that something was off.  Chalking it up to a lifetime of doctors' offices, hospital beds, IV drips and ice chips, I still felt as if I was wading through mud.


That "mud" turned out to be so much more than I can wade through.   With a new  life altering diagnosis and new meds and new symptoms, the "mud" threatens to drown me.

And so it is that this phase of my life which I like to dub "the FML chapter" began.

This chapter is my rock bottom. This chapter is our fallout from the blast.  And for a recovering addict, you'd think I would be prepared.

I wasn't and am still not.

 I wasn't prepared for the inability to maintain "normal" routines like wiping my own ass,  braiding my daughter's hair or sitting through a baseball game for my son.    When your brain is fried to the point where every encounter involves someone asking if you're high or drunk, and you barely have enough function to write these words, it's difficult to keep up the act.

You know the act.  The one every woman is required to assume their part.   The inevitable assumption that this too will pass or how this is one more responsibility I should have as a woman, a mother, a wife.


When all I want to do, can do, is pull the covers tighter and turn the lights lower.

Even if it leaves me smelling like depression.  Because what's wrong with admitting defeat? With being honest with yourself and others that you are not ok.

And that's ok.


What isn't ok is the building resentment and anger I harbor for the people in my life who don't understand or don't want to understand what the fallout of all these things means long-term.  What isn't ok is having to explain, justify and argue for my mental and physical health.


One of my favorite words used to describe any situation is 'fuck'.

If you know me, it is probably one of the first things that pops to mind if you are asked to describe me.


  It is synonymous with both love, hate, anger and excitement for me.  It's the one word that can hold a significant weight. It isn't a word I use lightly; each utterance is meaningful for that situation.

I just happen to have a lot of meaningful situations where it applies.

And that's ok for me. Think of it like a safe word I use because the alternative to shouting 'fuck' is a complete loss of all faculties.

The only alternative I face is death. And that doesn't do fuck to help me.


Four months ago my biological father told me I was fighting for my life and I owed no one an explanation or apology.

Of course coming from one of my worst critics, a person who's volatile degrading parenting skills leave me confused with Daddy issues to the 10th power, I took it with a Costco-size grain of salt.


Fast-forward 2 months, and I literally was standing right where he told me I would be.  Only it's like showing up with a knife to a gun-fight.

And yes, he's one of those who takes the time to gloat with their 'I-told-you-so' grin.

However, Daddy Dearest forgot to mention that the amount of people who have already bet against me.

From the so-called "friends" who grow uncomfortable around sickness, death and their own mortality.  Their calls were the first to stop.   Then there were the nosy co-workers and lookyloos whose feigned compassion almost had me fooled.


But their calls stopped too.  Not before their snarky judgements brought rumors of drug addiction, breakdowns and outright accusations of the validity of my health. Or lack thereof.


It's surreal how many people lack compassion, understanding and the basic knowledge of autoimmune diseases.

And these fuckers were my friends.  If this is what I faced when things weren't all Pollyanna-sunshine-and-roses from the people who loved me, imagine what the rest of the world was like.

FUCK. 

All the Lexapro and Cymbalta produced by big pharma didn't prepare me for when these thoughts started to consume me and I found myself Googling medically-assisted suicide states and double, triple-checking the fine print of life insurance policies.

It didn't prepare me for the guilt and shame I experienced talking about it with others.  We are taught over and over again to internalize the pain, the anguish, the unknown for fear of others reactions, society's judgment.

To make it go away.  To make it better.

Everyone's a mental heath advocate as long as you don't talk about it in public or in private or at all.

So this is my stance, my confession, my anthem.  This is me talking about it.

 I am suicidal every day. And it isn't going away anytime soon.


 And it doesn't make me crazy, unstable, a bad mother, a broken person.

It doesn't make me ungrateful for the amazing family and friends I have.

It makes me human.  And right now the world could use more of those.


I don't write this because I want sympathy or empathy.  I write this for the others like me, the ones fighting a silent battle of any kind, the ones who feel like nothing goes their way, the ones
who experience pain and loss and they don't move on or bounce back fast enough.


The ones who too find they can't talk about it.  Or aren't supposed to.

This is for you.

For the friend who struggles with her own health issues, her child's and trying to climb that corporate ladder; for the friend whose wit and humor can only deflect from the pain of daily injections and tiny test tubes because realizing motherhood might take her a little longer; for the friend who lost his beautiful wife and sense of purpose and doesn't know where to from here; for the friend who resigned herself to a different version of life with the loss of her husband; for the friend who feels he won't ever realize his professional dream and equates that to failure as a person; to the friend who feels like they aren't good enough and suffers from whatever it is in silence.


Because it is ok to not be ok. And you deserve to hear that.

We all have our nuclear blasts, and while the fallout may come in different forms, it's fallout all the same.


I like to try to put my big girl panties on because it is quite possible this is temporary.  The threat of foreclosure, repossession and a wheelchair are only my life now.

But then it might not be.   This may be my happily-ever-after and somehow I have to find my footing, develop better coping mechanisms and a winning lotto-ticket to survive.

But I am here today, nuclear burns and all.


My problems don't define me, but they sure as hell are going to try.


Sometimes I have a grip and sometimes, like today, I don't.

We should all be able to speak up when we don't without fear of judgment and scrutiny.


The cleanup:  This is the next chapter for me.   This part involves doubling down on medical options, working my treatment plan, Coinstar visits and dodging debt collectors and Fannie Mae a/k/a Navient.

This part involves setting goals based on realistic expectations which can mean 5 days in bed with one shower and cold pizza.  It may equate missed school plays in lieu of PT/OT and everything else being medically disabled can bring.

This part brings mid-life crisis pontifications of faith, loss and love.  It also means purging my life of anyone not conducive to my well-being and letting go of the guilt.

This part it a lot like recovery.  Only I'm not dreaming of 8 balls and white lines, but days without canes, walkers and $50k IV drips.

And I just got to white knuckle it a little longer. Or at least until I can't anymore.


And that's ok too.











                                                             

A Modern Conversation between Mother and Daughter

 15 years ago I laid on the cheap shag carpet floor of a shitty apartment  in a drugged induced haze while a man whose name and face I can still recall in detail, stole what little self respect I had escaped puberty with.  After he had done the same to my friend.

15 years ago my shot guzzling, drug addled teen self who was barely legal decided to down a handful of Ecstasy with a beer at a party only to wake 48 hours later with a slight recollection of that night and an acidic aftertaste of the GHB I was duped into consuming.

15 years ago my cold ass cheeks clung to a scratchy table following a long and spotty ER visit, a slew of blood tests, two disgusted and bored police officers' questions and 24 hours on a friend's couch sleeping away the ugliness and shame of that moment.

15 years later I can still recall this man's name, face and carpet in detail.

Before the age of 19 I had experienced sexual assault at the hands of no less than 3 people, but nothing stays with me today like that night.  Perhaps it was the guilt and responsibility I take for putting myself in that kind of situation.

Or perhaps it's the fact that night pales in comparison to other brutal tales I have that didn't involve a drunken and stoned state of mind.  And somehow that is what bothers me. The not remembering everything, the fear of the parts that are unknown.

Most of the time. Until it comes to the surface.

Because the trauma of that encounter and night were delayed for months to come...the heightened need to snort, fuck and drink my way to an early death might have been a residual side effect, but the resulting conclusion is still the same.

I never wanted to experience that again. And I was fortunate I haven't.

The only reason I am reminded of that night 15 years ago is the silence filling my home and the fact that it's cause is slowly eating its way into our lives causing irrevocable damage.  The same way that man's face and name did.

Only the face and name that haunts me now is my daughter's father.

As today blurs into tomorrow amid the humid scorching heat of September, the lull in noise and humming in the normal whirlwind of my home has me frightened....because it means my daughter is slipping further and further away from me.

For the last 6 years we've trooped through a revolving door of doctors', psychiatrists, mental health professionals and specialists for a slew of behaviors that we attributed to everything from mercury in the water to a messy divorce and ensuing custody battle to bad genetics and latent bipolar disorder.

Rage that left our walls filled with holes and our hearts filled with despair.  Raw and furious slits and fingernail picked holes crisscrossing their way down her arms, her restless nights spent tossing and turning, my questions met with resounding doors slamming in protest.

The endless pills and therapy sessions pushed her further and further into an soul sucking abyss and I floundered to find the cause of her anger, depression and self loathing.

Perhaps it was her lack of snorting, fucking or drinking her way into an early death, but the signs were there and somehow I missed them.

When she finally broke her silence all these years later,  17 months ago to be exact, the world as we knew it imploded, she imploded and the wreckage left behind isn't any closer to helping her heal.

Huddled on a couch, the truth spilled out of her to the only person she truly trusted at the time-her therapist.   And that knowledge is a burden I will carry with me to the day I die.  That we had reached such a point in our relationship that she couldn't trust me...didn't want to....that I allowed her to shut me out until we didn't have a relationship at all.

The aftermath included spontaneous CAC visits, countless interviews, exams and more and more space building between us.

While the stress of harboring this secret for so long was now gone, the relief I thought she would feel was short lived.

What followed was the CPS letter confirming their belief that the crime had occurred as well as the division and alienation of extended family, the whispers and stares and resentment and misunderstanding that she was forced to relive over and over.

He had the opportunity to violate her over and over through the legal process and I couldn't stop him.

Just like I failed to the first time.

And then the phone call informing us that there would be no end. No closure, no responsibility, no justice would be found.

To say it was and has been horrific is an understatement.

And while he sleeps comfortably in his bed, in his new home with his new wife, his new children, she lays in the dark, the wave of fear, anxiety and panic pulling her under, making it unbearable and impossible for her to breathe.

17 months ago I made her a promise that she would have closure, that the day would come when she no longer had trouble sleeping, that this one thing didn't define her and the day would come when she could reclaim herself, that the shame is his, not hers, that she would never have to think of him again.

I made a promise I broke the moment the words left my mouth because while she has no contact with him, she still sees his face over and over....and what's worse in when she screams at me in anguish because she can't escape it because it's staring back at her in the mirror.

I made a promise I haven't been able to keep because the judicial system feels that due to the lack of witnesses and cloud of doubt brought on by the tumultuous court history he and I have due to the numerous court filings I pursued to ensure her safety and well-being due to his failure as a parent and human being nothing can be done.

How do I tell her that the court failed her?

That I failed her?

How do I tell her that the scars may never heal and her heart and mind might be forever broken?  Especially in a society when rapists receive 3 month jail sentences due to the color of their skin and the wad of bills lining their parents pockets.  When there is an overwhelming burden of evidence you get a slap on the wrist and when time has passed and it isn't blatantly  glaring back at them, no one deems it worth pursuing.

While the court and her father can act like it never happened, the reality that it did will continue to resonate in every aspect of her life.


That will haunt her for the rest of her life.


Always close to the surface. Always in detail.  Always his face.


The thought that I have to go home and have this discussion with my daughter sickens me and leaves me hoping I don't fail her again.

Spreading my Wings-Maxi Sized

Life has caught up with me again....and this time she hit me right in the feels. I'd say in the vagina, but since my surgery, I'm left wondering if I even have one of those.  All joking aside with the roller coaster of estrogen patches, binders/girdles and no sex for a total of 8 months, I still feel broken.

Broken in a don't-touch-me sort of way. Broken in a I-don't-know-what-I-am-doing sort of way. Broken in a everything-I-touch-turns-to-shit sort of way.  Broken in a I-cry-for-no-reason-and-yet-those-reasons-crush-me sort of way.

All the things I thought I could fix...well, they're still lingering. sort of.

There is the lingering regret of babies which is at the forefront of everything at the moment.

But not in the way that makes me run down the street to Texas Women's Pavilion, receipt in one hand, and a jar in the other.  Or vacuum pack and Igloo to make sure my uterus gets packed on ice.

No, it is more of a quiet, solemn flutter in my chest, like a bird or butterfly's wings flitting across my heart, and that deep, crippling sadness is no longer so unbearable.  I don't know if it's because I will it away because the thought of another prescription for Lexapro, Zoloft, Wellbutrin or whatever sour pill isn't crowding my medicine cabinet making its way into my hands is repulsive.

Or maybe it's the futility in lamenting the extinction of the what-if's with the big H.


Or maybe it's the closure I gained in the past month on my hiatus of conscious grieving.   I'd like to think it's this that keeps me sleeping more than 2 hours a night for the first time in over two years.

Said closure came in the form of one of the most defining moments of my life by far.  Save from childbirth, seeing my name in print for the first time, the day Hubs No. 2  grabbed my hand in public during our courtship and the day I realized my mother was one of my best friends.

Save for those few instances, I have never felt more alive, more aware, more present than the following moment.

That moment. The moment.  It came in the form of Listen To Your Mother: Southeast Texas (LTYM SETX) 2016.  For those of you who aren't familiar it's a national production of performances on the topic of motherhood. Think Vagina Monologues, but moms being the center of the pieces.

An email sent via my critique group with information piqued my attention shortly before the H when I was in a whirlwind of grandiose posturing, acting brave and hopeful busily filling my days with things to distract from the approaching final day. To-Do's (and Don't's), life plans and weight goals followed as I planned the "new beginning" I was certain would come.

And so on a lark I hit submit and added my name to a list of people auditioning.   I put it in the far recesses of my mind because I had 5 weeks before auditioning day to determine what I had to say.

Can you imagine ME not having anything to say? Nah, neither did I.  Honestly, it was more a matter of deciding what can I read that doesn't drop the F bomb too many times? Or if sexual dysfunction was an American phenomena or just my own private Hell?

Besides-it left me more than enough time to decide whether I was too chicken shit to make the drive.

With a slew of last minute appointments, the agonizing task of picking which less elastic blown granny panties to pack and the trek to the hospital, I forgot about that day. That drive.


Until I received the email reminder.  As I laid enveloped in my scratchy hospital issued sheets, food court Jell-O jiggling on the tray and my morphine drip filling the silence with its double time ploop, I panicked.

But not fast enough to delete said email before my mother reached over and snatched my phone away.


A dozen questions proceeded to make their way, garbled and fuzzy, into my brain.  After much buzzing and one more pump of the morphine via my trigger finger, I answered.   Brushing it off, I informed her I wasn't making the drive because no one wanted to hear what I had to say.

I believe if it weren't for the IV's, nurse and cannulas she would have slapped me silly.  However, given how medically high I already was I found that to be an impossible feat. Mustering a bravery I can only attribute to the Class C narcotics coursing through my veins, I informed her that there was no way I was showing up for that audition. Especially brave enough to wave my rainbow Popsicle in her face to emphasize my point.

I don't recall everything she said because she is a woman of many words, and most colorful at that, but I did catch how special she believed I was. And she insisted others would too.

And how achingly disappointed she would be in me if I failed to follow-through. In a quiet voice while looking down at her lap.  She might have even mustered a tear.

You know how moms are. And damned if it didn't work.

Well...long after the Popsicle melted, cannulas came out, and I was home with the nagging fear of disappointing my mother, I stood on the lawn, keys in hand and I took a deep breath.

 I was you know... Chicken shit.  But not enough to prevent me from climbing behind the wheel.

Even with stopping twice due to my impressive gastro pyrotechnics.

So I mustered all my strength and wrapped my girdle tight, and off I was to Beaumont and what I thought for sure would be my doom.  Or shameful rejection. Complete with sneers, eye rolling and slamming door.


Well....it wasn't.  What started as soft spoken words trailing into a brightly lit room with four strangers turned into the strong baritone bellowing from my gut to an audience alongside this little extension of a family.


Following my piece, and subsequent bawling in front of four kind and patient people, I had a whole 24 hours to breath in relief and laugh that at the absurdity of it all.

Until I heard that familiar ding come the next afternoon, and there I was officially a member of the 2016 cast.

The following weeks brought about meetings, rehearsals peppered with salty tears and cracking laughter.   I met some of the most extraordinary people, and listened , enthralled at every word as they shared pieces of their souls with me.


Wounded, some mended, others still healing, and for the first time in months I felt...something other than anger, grief or pity.  Something other than hate, spite and envy.  I felt...I felt something I cannot describe even now.


Except closure.  As I stood this past Saturday night and looked down to see my husband patiently and eagerly waiting to hear my words, I knew no matter the outcome that the flutter across my heart was just that.  A flutter. No crushing weight. No suffocating gasps, no undertow of grief pulling me further and further away from everyone else.

That this stop on my journey was divine destiny.  These people, this moment was needed for me to quiet that lingering regret.  To remind me of the possibilities I have ignored of living life.


Most of all it reminded me of two things:


I am still broken.  I will probably always be broken. Maybe not in a thousand pieces like before, but maybe precariously held together with Super Glue, zip ties and duct tape, praying it stands the test of time.

Mending.  And I don't know how long it will take. And I don't know if the flutter may one day turn into a beating so forceful I am thrown down that spiraling hole I have managed to crawl out of.

But today I can silence it. Today my soul isn't scattered into pieces on the floor.

Today is enough.


That I am not alone.  This part is crucial. This part right here is what has allowed me to sleep peacefully since the day I stepped into a room with those twelve others.  It's what sustained me to make the drive back and forth.  And this gives me hope.

It gives me strength.   That many of us remain broken, many of us are in various states of "repair" as we attempt to navigate past moments filled with anger, heartache, trauma, loss and regret.

And most of us never recover.

I don't know if next week, year or tomorrow the floor will drop out and I'll be back to square one.

What I do know is the flutter I once felt in my womb I now feel in my breast.

Tiny wings beating and fluttering in my ribs, I like to think it's hope. Or sanity. Struggling to burst free, but content to stay for just one more day.


All because of twelve strangers and the courage to make that drive.

CALLING ALL WRITERS and LIKE MINDED BOOKWORMS

The Houston Writers Guild is a nonprofit organization whose goal is to bring new authors' voices to readers and enhance literacy in our community. Please consider helping us fund the next anthologies to be published by the HWG Press.

As many of you know I've had the distinct pleasure of holding the post of HWG Press Director for a few months now.

With the help and guidance of my fearless mentors and numerous cohorts and tireless hours from passionate volunteers, we are are the verge of something great: the first anthology published by the internal press of the Houston Writers Guild.

But we need a little bit of your help.

One book isn't enough. We have a grand plan on publishing biannual anthologies of works handpicked from communities of writers. Writers whose words need to be heard...need to be read.

And we can't do it without YOU.

We need like minded people who believe in our creative vision or who have a few dollars burning a hole in their pocket and want to contribute to promoting literacy and to the splendid published works of up and coming authors.  

Please visit our Kickstarter campaign at the link below:

http://kck.st/1MFIb4n

Your donations to this campaign are tax deductible. Please take a moment too to share with others who may want to help build up this great nonprofit organization.

If you are unable to contribute I ask you share this post, this link with at least one person you know who loves reading.

Or who knows the endless possibilities that come with opening a book.

Your support is greatly appreciated!

the cross I no longer bear

       

 Four years ago I started this blog for the sake of my sanity and creative being. And truthfully in part so I wouldn't kill my husband and kids....or  rather lock them out of the house while I soaked in a bubble bath and ate dark chocolate and sipped Merlot.  (Who am I kidding??!! more like guzzling Merlot .)

       

A way to vent about the normal trial and tribulations that plague wives, mothers, sisters, daughters, women and basically any individual trying to survive life.

       

A journey to navigate the distance I felt existed between the What-To-Expect moments and the What-The-Fuck moments of my life.

Four years turned into sporadic and bumbling posts that relieved the anxiety and pressure I felt was placed on me by society...by my family and friends...and most of all by myself.

 A series of posts that chronicled the hilariousness and shallowness with which I seem to be failing at life coupled with bitter sweet shit-just-got-real moments.

Then BOOM. Nothing.

It stopped as abruptly as it started.

       

I could blame it on a million different things....but at the end of the day it's still just another fucking excuse.

Then a whole slew of horrible, evil and wonderful shit happened and I lost track of time. And then lost track of life. Somewhere along the way I threw it all by the wayside and collapsed.  I withdrew from all things requiring more effort, passion and energy than I could muster.  Hell, all the energy I could exert involved reaching for the remote in my elastic-blown sweats covered in Cheetos.

 I fell victim to self-loathing, self-pity and worst of all: donuts.

 One year ago last month down to the exact day I laid flat on my back, legs spread and the world as I knew it took a turn for somewhere in between the pits-of-fiery-Hell-catastrophic-worse and a non-existent-blip-on-the-radar nothingness.

It's that grey area between, maybe some sort of Purgatory if you will, that left a hollow space in between my heart and gut. Metaphorically and physically.

A resounding silence filled my womb....and I never imagined it would be so deafening, so grating.

And so devastating.

And I hadn't even a clue there was anything....anyone to be heard.

My roller-coaster of a life is severely marked by the whipped innards of my female reproductive organs so 9 times out of 10 irregular symptoms are nothing to be alarmed about.

Except when you bleed for 7 weeks. One visit to the dr. and I was that woman. The fat one who gives birth at the all-you-can-eat-buffet in the loo because she doesn't even know she's knocked up.

Yeah, THAT one.

Mind you I did everything medically possible courtesy of the pharmaceutical companies to prevent this very thing.   Of course the irony of this doesn't escape me fully....I have a Depo baby and Nuva Ring baby as proof of the sense of humor Mother Nature has had with my ovaries.

Seems I only get in a family way when I have medically induced balanced hormones.

Go figure.

So there I was laying there, streams of salt falling on the scratchy sheet under my quivering mountainous thighs, and an awkward glance filled with pity and boredom from a nurse who didn't look old enough to be driving...much less holding my hand as my OBGYN ordered the standard blood work and noted the said blip in my chart.

With little time to pull up my pants, I was propelled into a surreal trek down the hall for labs surrounded by women all swollen with seed.

And so it was I squeezed into the only free seat I could find, seething in silence, disgust and jealousy as I scanned the sea of bellies.  And I sent my husband a text informing him of our...non-situation.

A text. Because the tragedy couldn't play out on a phone call that would inevitable take a turn for the loud and dramatic amid the snortling of my blubbering.

Besides. Where would I make said phone call? Trapped in my seat by the overcrowding of fertile uteri.

A text. That warranted a phone call. THE phone call to end all phone calls.

His reaction still resonates with me today. Perhaps this is what has created this cataclysmic divide between us....perhaps this what has urged me to pick up the pen and begin again the journey I so desperately attempted four years before.

Anger. Resentment. Hostility. All three emotions bled through the phone as he hissed at me in disbelief as the blood ran from my womb.

Granted the shock he felt with crippling student loan debt,  low FICA score, a college bound senior, junior highschooler and destructive 5 year old wasn't already enough, he lacked the compassion and solace I needed at that moment.

That moment. It lives in infamy. And cut a jagged gaping hole in the ground where we stood and has left us on the edge of a great divide....that is precariously threatening to swallow us whole.

Solace I sought was found in the stepfather who drove me to said appointment so I wouldn't waste the time and money fussing with valet when I felt so wretched.

Solace found in the moment he took my hand and allowed me to cry with a force I never knew my body could handle.

Compassion found in the moment I realized what I had lost. And how much I never knew I wanted it.  And the screaming he endured for my sake as I headed back to the life I had left behind one hour before.

Compassion in the random phone calls said father figure makes on any given day to make sure I still am holding my shit together.  Or the impromptu workday cupcake delivery to strengthen the quivering facade .

All because I mourned the loss of something I never knew I had....and grieved the loss of someone I never knew I wanted.

It doesn't fail me the blessings I have had in this lifetime.  And it started with my daughter.

I wrote a friend of mine recently and explained the importance of my sun, my moon and stars: my daughter  I don't know if it's a general feeling most parents feel when you welcome that first babe or child into your home and heart....but I like to think it's something kind of special.

A one of a kind non duplicated feeling that only she can emit from me.  I love my children with every fiber of being and soul. Equally.

But my girl represents, IS something more than anyone can understand.  With her first breath in this world she became the catalyst that lead me here.   She is the reason I am still alive, and didn't die of an overdose in some back alley or on some asshole's floor amid a bunch of life sucking losers.

I may have been sober and cleaned up my life, but she gave me a reason to stay that way.  The bond I have with her is selfish, self-serving and maybe a bit co-dependent if examined too closely.

Let's not.   Take it at face value: she was/is my rebirth.  She gave me a purpose I never cared to find, and led me to the family I built and nurtured the growth I needed to be the mother I am.

The mother of tattoos, warts and mouthy G-D's and all.  Like I said, a work in progress.

The grief I felt on that day, in the coming months which brought a laparoscopy, more doctor visits, and more space between me and everyone else was all-consuming.

At times it was so suffocating I was left breathless, gasping for sanity amid unexpected bouts of crying in meetings, lunchtime anger complete with breaking of pencils and slamming of office doors.

Locked down in my office for hours at a time with little to no contact with any one person who may give me that oh-so-sorry look or soapbox about Angels and babies and Heaven and God.

They could take their fairy-tale Gods and Angels. I had no time for them. Leave me the ones of the old...the ones of fresh moist Earth, the swaying branches of the trees, the sweetness of the jasmine outside my house.    The ones who didn't damn me for the nights spent angry and cursing at a starless sky.

Who didn't condemn me for the scathing stares at strollers, onesies and pictures of newborns proudly displayed.

Like I said. It consumed me.  And it left me faithless. And filling with a darkness that allowed no room for the love I so wanted to give.

So it was I pushed away co-workers, friends, my children and finally my husband.

And when I was all alone, I realized even I couldn't stand myself.   This hate and anger building was burning through my body, leaving me scorching everything in my path.

I needed a change before I sobbed my way out of a job. Or was institutionalized .

Trips to understanding therapists brought countless yellow plastic topped salvation....a short-lived and bitter dry mouth aftertaste followed. And I managed.

I managed to make it through.  Through the motions of work. Home. And living.

An echo of the person I once was, I found myself trudging through the motions. Until those motions were not even enough.

Until the endless popping of yellow tops became futile and I found myself staring down the drain at a the tiny blue and white beads of sanity.

And hope.

So I sought hope elsewhere.  I perused MD Web, Pinterest, Facebook and every other outlet I could find inspiration, motivations. Salvation.

Hours spent huddled over my desk, late nights in the dark losing myself in the world wide web seeking a savior for the husk I felt I was becoming.

The dry whispers of my former self were out there somewhere....I just had to find them.

I began with a solid 3 week regime of boot camp.  Losing weight and gaining the pride and self-confidence I felt I lacked seemed to be an easier solution than divorce and cheaper than therapy.

Besides, my years of latent vegan-ism might bring the peace I was so desperately seeking.

And so it was I signed up, committing for a solid year.   Motivated by the excellent and genuinely sweet girl who was our trainer, I began to feel....well, to feel.

Emotions beside anger and pity.  Emotions that didn't leave me reaching for food, flight or fight.

Emotions I knew I wasn't alone with.  And the acceptance of setbacks and wins was even more powerful than the negative energy that had become my norm.

Until August hit. There I was belatedly Spring cleaning my desk and I found a page torn from last years desk calendar stuffed in the bottom of a drawer.

Unearthing that scrap of paper, the bleeding red ink slashed through the 10th and right into my motherfucking heart.

A heart so hardened with ice I have spent the last 13 years attempting to chip away.

A heart now puddled at my feet and splattered on my crisply tailored heels.

A heart I feel cannot be fixed.

The floor dropped out from under me, and I stopped living.  I have laid in bed numerous mornings wasting both my money, my trainer's time, and shamefully pulled the covers back over my head.

The floor opened up and down I fell down this spiraling hole, Alice-ing my way through homework, Open Houses and manager meetings.

Sand digging aside, I have wallowed in my postponed acceptance  for as long as I could.   Postponing the closure I so desperately needed for as long as humanely possible.

Because it's a goodbye I never intended on having.

Amid the unwarranted judgment and advice from co-workers, so-called friends and even family alike, I secretly longed for things to be different.

Longed for that day I laid splayed like a turkey for stuffing to have a different ending.

Mind you I have a fabulous life....on a 40 oz in brown bag budget.

I have 2, nay 4 pretty fabulous kids...when they want to be....or want money or Legos. or bail money.

And who don't hold it against us when we say 'no'.  Or stumble and crash their castles of plastic. Or leave them in the holding tank.

Who with their door slamming, Iphone tweeting, sticky jammed fingers, infrequent phone calls and emails and dropping trow in the front yard selves weaken me at the knees.

And leave me in this bursting-at-the-seams-awe induced state....that I get to wake up everyday to this. To these people. No matter the distance, that some pieces of my soul have attached themselves and are floating around in them. These people I love and adore. And who hold this infinite power of my existence.

Damn. It makes it sound like my kids are horcruxes.  But I guess in a sense they are.

And then there is the husband who may be an asshole 7/10ths of the time, but he's a well meaning asshole.  Sorta.

What he lacks in wealth, he doubles in working two, three jobs, tackling college at middle age and occasionally bringing home the free swag/fruits of said labor in the form of baseball t-shirts and Koozies.

And mowing the lawn of all the neighbors.  And B-B-Q'ing some awesome steaks.

And getting me drunk and giving me a laugh or two.

But now those laughs seem few and far between.

And that between is what brings about this last part.

I don't know where to hit the restart button. I don't know how I get to the part where I rekindle the love, the passion, the want I felt before...the fleeting sense of completeness I failed to grasp tight enough.

The part where I get past the business of dying and the business of living. Where I apologize to old friends when I am a no-show in their hour of need, yielding mop, bread and needed vino.

Where I cringe and freeze over the simplest things like ordering pizza over the phone, putting on pants or going in public.

Where I beg mercy for the deadlines left unmet. For the words falling on inattentive deaf ears time and time again from the little voice hitting me at the waist.

Where I press fast forward to the part where my daughter cuddles on rainy Sundays, the unspoken bond and comfort in her embrace as we lounge around in our Snuggles watching Olivia do her thing.

Or the time machine I need to backtrack to that day.  That day I laid flat on my back. The day that time stood still for me.

The day I lost my hope. My faith.

I am still looking for it, and now seems as good a time as any to resume that journey I started four years ago.