It has been just over a year since I recognized in myself that I was depressed. When I wrote about it back then, I can remember (and re-read) that I did not think of it as "classic" depression because I was functioning, even if just barely. I could get to work, see my friends, care for myself and my children, and get my bills paid. I had a new house, a job that, if not liked, at least I did not hate, and had been hanging out with a guy that was okay to date, though it was soon to be ending. I could sleep. I was not binging. I did not call out sick. I was alone, and walking through mud daily, but too depressed to know that I was depressed, so I kept functioning.
I have recently had to answer that for myself, the *big* question about why it is (or in my twisted depressed thoughts, isn't) okay to be alone. I didn't even know what alone meant. It equated so congruently with *lonely* that I could not breathe. My kids were away for the weekend, and I needed to call a friend within 2 minutes of them driving away. They would fall asleep, and my couch, and more to the point, my bed, would feel huge and empty. I hate to admit some of the more desperate things. I once slept on the floor of my daughter's room because my room felt overwhelming and scary. I once took my sleeping son out of his bed and brought him into my room, just so I had someone next to me to hear breathing. That was not alone. That was lonely. Depressive all-consuming lonely. Bordering on psychosis. It was bad.
Depression is a strange beast. It comes in various forms, at least it does for me. Last year in January my depression looked like a halfway decorated Christmas tree I did not have the energy to take down. In April, that same depression looked like a whole bunch of blog posts and complaints about my ex. In August it was a sunburn because I was too tired to walk back to the car to get the umbrella. It kicked my butt in a hundred different ways on an everyday, small, immeasurable scale to where I didn't even know I was getting better.
And I have been getting better. It has been a fucking lot of work, and (as you can see) I have been cussing about it a fucking lot. But I know. How? Little things like having an actual conversation with my mom that did not involve one of us walking out angry at the end (well, technically the middle, since we used to never get to the end). It has actually opened the door to other non-angry conversations, imagine that. I have been able to pinpoint my menstrual cycle and how it effects my mood. When before I would have just curled up in a ball every 4 weeks or so, and cried, blamed it on being on my period, yelled at my kids and ate chocolate for 4 days, I can now *feel* my mood shift, and know what to do to get through it. I still eat chocolate (duh) but now I can also relax enough to acknowledge that my temporary bad mood will pass, and to not make decisions right then. I make it to work, but I also allow myself to be sick when I am. In my pre-acknowledgement world, I would go to work even when I was sick because staying at home sucked.
So having learned this, and as I keep expanding my arsenal of tools in finding myself and getting self-esteem back in place (if I ever had it, but that is a different train of thought) I want to reach more people. I want other people out there to know that they are not alone, or don't have to be in that strange way I defined it. And alone is a strange beast, too.
It is not bad anymore. I have learned the difference. It has changed the way I see depression, and how having a place to talk changes the view, changes the very basic definitions of words. Alone is not so scary anymore. It has come around to mean resilient. It means unafraid. It means ope to happiness. I will write more about this side of it soon, today, I just want you to know you are not alone. How can I help you?
Friday, January 27, 2012
Tuesday, January 3, 2012
Hope Floats
Personal growth and responsibility for my own choices: I usually fight them, feeling sorry for myself, pouting and indignant that everyone around me just can't see it the way I do. This is the way I feel about having to explain to someone why I still "love" all the people I have ever loved, even if I don't want to be with them. This is a story about why hope floats to the surface, and becomes a life vest.
Patience.
Yep, time for me to explain the story.
The first man I fell in love with (and mean that in the adult sense, and not the crushes I had during school) was a wonderful guy I met my senior year of high school. He was brought to my class as a subject matter expert in the Church of Jesus Christ Of Latter Day Saints. Yep, a Mormon boy stuck in a room full of Catholic girls. I was *lucky* enough to have picked LDS as the religion I would write about, and he seemed like a really good source. We exchanged phone numbers after class, and made arrangements for him and his companion to meet one day to talk.
Many things happened, not the least of which was getting to know his room-mate, who hated the Church and was only on his mission to be away from the beatings his father used to give daily. I learned about the church, wrote my report, made an actual choice not to let these two men out of my life. The room-mate was candid and funny and for some reason trusted me enough to know that I would never tell anyone about his plan to disappear after the mission was over, and never come back. The man I fell in love with was shy, sweet, a pleaser. He had his whole life already mapped out with a fiance back in Idaho whom his parents had arranged for him, and a job waiting. He would be an elder in the Church, a good husband and provider, and would settle into a routine that would create harmony for his life and Church. He hated every minute of it, and though his faith seemed certain, he was questioning, the way I was questioning my Catholicism, that there had to be something more.
During that five months, while I played softball and ditched my extra religious studies classes so that I could spend time with him, I learned about faith and pressure and love in a way I never had before. I knew I was not really a Catholic (in my mother's definition of the word) and he learned he was not really Mormon. The difference was that when he talked about being together it was based in his definition of the future. I would move to Idaho, we would live far enough away from his family to not get the dirty looks from having dumped his fiance, but we would join the church, work in a family business, and have a bunch of kids.
He had been devastated to find out I was not a virgin when he talked about saving ourselves for the wedding night. He was overwhelmed to learn I was not moving from California any time soon. He was grief stricken to be confronted with my new found enlightenment on religion, and that I had no intention of joining the Mormon church, then or ever. He left, begging me to go with him. I said no, I could not become how he expected me to be when that version of the future would doom us, and I would end up hating him ,and hating myself in the process.
So why write about this now? It happened 27 years ago. It is because I still carry the guilt I feel over not complying. Over promising love and then backing off when it seemed to get too hard. Shouldn't I have been able to withstand being in a suppressive religion, popping out babies to satisfy a church directive? Shouldn't I have been willing to sacrifice my education, my family, and my roots for the sake of the love he was offering me? Shouldn't I have been grateful to have a man say he loves me and that be enough?
Turns out it wasn't enough, but that hasn't seemed to keep me from holding on to it.
The next man I loved that deeply disappeared in the middle of the night because of baby-momma drama. I was at his house one day, and heard from him again 6 months later. We had been together 2 years. He had moved to Nebraska, was working as a carnival roadie and wanted me to drop out of school to come on the road with him. He said I could make a lot of money and he had a wonderful trailer and room in his bed waiting for me. We would be on the road during the season, about 8 months, and could drink beer and have sex the rest of the time. When babies started coming (and he is now the father of 7, but that is a different story) we could buy a bigger trailer and maybe some land in Omaha. I said he would have to come to California to get me. He never did. I never went.
I fell in love with my drama boyfriend because dancing and sex was a priority. I left that relationship because, well, the drama, and his desire to have a boyfriend as much as I wanted one. It was complicated, and heading nowhere.
I fell in love with my first ex-husband while being stood up for a date. When, 7 years later, he left with a pregnant mistress, I did not try to get him back. It had zip to do with loving him. I just could not see my future as anything but hurt and pain.
When I left my children's father, it was for the same reasons as all the others. My need for stability and love, growth and happiness, a future with hope and desire was met with something I could not wrap my brain around. In the last case, it was alcohol and despair and, for lack of a vocabulary word, it was the opposite of fulfilment and connection.
Through all of this, and maybe why I still hold on, is that there was, and still is, this sense of longing. I want to be in love. I want to feel needed and desired. I want to share and give and find the goodness in a single man, in a single joined life. I want to know that there is value in differences without there being predefined roles that must be lived. I did not want to be a metal-worker's religious baby maker. I did not want to be a carnie's trailer whore in the middle of nowhere. I did not want to be a fag hag with a lifetime supply of condoms in a box under my bed. I did not want to be the nurturer to a child that was not mine, constantly reminded that the child came from a devastating infidelity. I did not want to be scared ever day that I might come home to a drunk, mean, abusive man who could not plan Thursday, much less the next 20 years.
I did not want to be alone, and yet I am because honestly I was already alone as each of the relationships took me into, or tried to take me into, roles where I could not go. And the guilt of that selfishness still finds a way into my world. Not as much as it used to, granted. It was never because of potential, it was because of reality. If I could have changed to be what they wanted, then we could have been happy, right? If I could have just been happy with what I was given.
So my task is to figure out the balance between letting go, and not giving up hope. How to still love all the things and future and brightness, while accepting the darkness but not letting it swallow me. It is about loving on all levels, but mostly about knowing who I am in the process and not regretting the choices to not stay when I was sure staying would not change anything. It is about growing up, and still finding wonder. So when I tell you, and mean it honestly, that I LOVE every single person that I have ever loved, do not take it as a bad thing. It is trying very hard to hold on to hope, not with them, but with myself.
Patience.
Yep, time for me to explain the story.
The first man I fell in love with (and mean that in the adult sense, and not the crushes I had during school) was a wonderful guy I met my senior year of high school. He was brought to my class as a subject matter expert in the Church of Jesus Christ Of Latter Day Saints. Yep, a Mormon boy stuck in a room full of Catholic girls. I was *lucky* enough to have picked LDS as the religion I would write about, and he seemed like a really good source. We exchanged phone numbers after class, and made arrangements for him and his companion to meet one day to talk.
Many things happened, not the least of which was getting to know his room-mate, who hated the Church and was only on his mission to be away from the beatings his father used to give daily. I learned about the church, wrote my report, made an actual choice not to let these two men out of my life. The room-mate was candid and funny and for some reason trusted me enough to know that I would never tell anyone about his plan to disappear after the mission was over, and never come back. The man I fell in love with was shy, sweet, a pleaser. He had his whole life already mapped out with a fiance back in Idaho whom his parents had arranged for him, and a job waiting. He would be an elder in the Church, a good husband and provider, and would settle into a routine that would create harmony for his life and Church. He hated every minute of it, and though his faith seemed certain, he was questioning, the way I was questioning my Catholicism, that there had to be something more.
During that five months, while I played softball and ditched my extra religious studies classes so that I could spend time with him, I learned about faith and pressure and love in a way I never had before. I knew I was not really a Catholic (in my mother's definition of the word) and he learned he was not really Mormon. The difference was that when he talked about being together it was based in his definition of the future. I would move to Idaho, we would live far enough away from his family to not get the dirty looks from having dumped his fiance, but we would join the church, work in a family business, and have a bunch of kids.
He had been devastated to find out I was not a virgin when he talked about saving ourselves for the wedding night. He was overwhelmed to learn I was not moving from California any time soon. He was grief stricken to be confronted with my new found enlightenment on religion, and that I had no intention of joining the Mormon church, then or ever. He left, begging me to go with him. I said no, I could not become how he expected me to be when that version of the future would doom us, and I would end up hating him ,and hating myself in the process.
So why write about this now? It happened 27 years ago. It is because I still carry the guilt I feel over not complying. Over promising love and then backing off when it seemed to get too hard. Shouldn't I have been able to withstand being in a suppressive religion, popping out babies to satisfy a church directive? Shouldn't I have been willing to sacrifice my education, my family, and my roots for the sake of the love he was offering me? Shouldn't I have been grateful to have a man say he loves me and that be enough?
Turns out it wasn't enough, but that hasn't seemed to keep me from holding on to it.
The next man I loved that deeply disappeared in the middle of the night because of baby-momma drama. I was at his house one day, and heard from him again 6 months later. We had been together 2 years. He had moved to Nebraska, was working as a carnival roadie and wanted me to drop out of school to come on the road with him. He said I could make a lot of money and he had a wonderful trailer and room in his bed waiting for me. We would be on the road during the season, about 8 months, and could drink beer and have sex the rest of the time. When babies started coming (and he is now the father of 7, but that is a different story) we could buy a bigger trailer and maybe some land in Omaha. I said he would have to come to California to get me. He never did. I never went.
I fell in love with my drama boyfriend because dancing and sex was a priority. I left that relationship because, well, the drama, and his desire to have a boyfriend as much as I wanted one. It was complicated, and heading nowhere.
I fell in love with my first ex-husband while being stood up for a date. When, 7 years later, he left with a pregnant mistress, I did not try to get him back. It had zip to do with loving him. I just could not see my future as anything but hurt and pain.
When I left my children's father, it was for the same reasons as all the others. My need for stability and love, growth and happiness, a future with hope and desire was met with something I could not wrap my brain around. In the last case, it was alcohol and despair and, for lack of a vocabulary word, it was the opposite of fulfilment and connection.
Through all of this, and maybe why I still hold on, is that there was, and still is, this sense of longing. I want to be in love. I want to feel needed and desired. I want to share and give and find the goodness in a single man, in a single joined life. I want to know that there is value in differences without there being predefined roles that must be lived. I did not want to be a metal-worker's religious baby maker. I did not want to be a carnie's trailer whore in the middle of nowhere. I did not want to be a fag hag with a lifetime supply of condoms in a box under my bed. I did not want to be the nurturer to a child that was not mine, constantly reminded that the child came from a devastating infidelity. I did not want to be scared ever day that I might come home to a drunk, mean, abusive man who could not plan Thursday, much less the next 20 years.
I did not want to be alone, and yet I am because honestly I was already alone as each of the relationships took me into, or tried to take me into, roles where I could not go. And the guilt of that selfishness still finds a way into my world. Not as much as it used to, granted. It was never because of potential, it was because of reality. If I could have changed to be what they wanted, then we could have been happy, right? If I could have just been happy with what I was given.
So my task is to figure out the balance between letting go, and not giving up hope. How to still love all the things and future and brightness, while accepting the darkness but not letting it swallow me. It is about loving on all levels, but mostly about knowing who I am in the process and not regretting the choices to not stay when I was sure staying would not change anything. It is about growing up, and still finding wonder. So when I tell you, and mean it honestly, that I LOVE every single person that I have ever loved, do not take it as a bad thing. It is trying very hard to hold on to hope, not with them, but with myself.
Wednesday, December 14, 2011
The Universe is a stand-up comedian.
I get to have my wishes to the Universe tested.
I have been sending out, almost to the point of mindlessly, the idea that if I could just have my children's father in the same room for a conversation for, say, an hour, we *might* get to work some things out regarding our children. I asked for this as an intention on the Solstice in June. I wrote it as a wave wish a dozen plus more times over the last five months. I have written about it here, and even added it to recent court documents.
The universe answered my desire by forcing me back in to court mediation, where my ex will sit, papers in hand, in front of a mediator, with just me, for a little over an hour, at an appointment next week. The humor of it being on the Winter Solstice did not escape me. It fits, to the day, the timeline I had asked for back on the Summer Solstice. It is also humorous to note that the Solstices are the two actual "holidays" I truly celebrate, and asked for through the courts, only to have them denied as too complicated to work into a schedule (Like somehow June 21 and Dec 21 each year comes at a different time on the calendar, but I digress.) So this "meeting" I have wanted seems like a funny-ha-ha way of getting what I need.
Need, you say? Yes, it is my need. It is going to give me a chance, not to bash my ex, but to tell someone, anyone who matters in the legal system, why I am a good mom, and why the stability I provide my kids should continue. I am going to do my best to work on my tone, and not come across as a selfish bitch just because I put up my big-ol-fear wall to keep from getting hurt. I am going to explain our schedule and routine, talk about how we bond and reconnect at the end of each day, and on the drive home on visitation weekends. I am going to show the report cards showing perfect attendance and good grades, and praising my children as social and creative. I am going to also talk about sleep and friends and play that will be lost if the schedule changes.
At my attorney's urging, I will also talk about my ex's inconsistency with decisions, with desires, and with routines. I will point out that while he has good intentions to participate in his children's lives, he has had 63 opportunities to come to their counseling appointments, and has managed to make to only 1 in 2 1/2 years. I will have to tell the mediator that while he says he wants time to volunteer at the school, he has picked up the kids on Wednesday 89 times, and has yet to stop in to volunteer in the classroom. I will have to tell the mediator about the missed Parent Open House, and the missed School Festival, and the missed field trips, all known about in advance since I give him the heads up, the paperwork, and the sent-home notes every single time.
I will have to talk about my children. I will need to talk about how my son hates transitions, and about the crying at drop off time at preschool, and the whining at pick up time at the youth center. I will point out the counselor’s report talking about consistency for him in everything from schedules to meals and bedtime, and how he functions on the premise that if anything needs to change he needs days to assimilate it before a tentative change can occur.
I will need to talk about my daughter wanting to be a beautiful fashion diva. I will talk about her bathroom time, and her bedroom being decorated, and about the jewelry box. I will tell the mediator about how she doesn't like baseball curtains and sharing a bunk bed with her brother. And about how she feels about her body, and her hair, and her nails, and her clothes. I will talk about her best friend moving to Singapore as part of her father's military job, and how much my daughter has been worried about this for months. I will talk about comfort and sadness and desire. I will tell the mediator about the day my ex's new wife decided to euthanize the family dog, and how my daughter called me for comfort, even though there was 7 other people in the house. I will talk about loss, and memories, and why she loves her life now.
I will have to talk about alcohol. I will have to talk about vicious emails. I will have to talk about broken promises.
I will have to tell the Mediator that the kids already told this to their father, not only once, but multiple times, in Family meetings he had to be forced into attending, and in notes about things they want changed, and to their counselor, and while sitting on his lap, very specifically, while simultaneously being ignored. I will have to point out that he doesn’t really know anything about his children, because how could he. He doesn’t have that skill.
I will have to keep my cool, show why I am stable, and not give in to my usual temptation to try to fix things for the abusers in my life. Yes, I said that: Abusers. I have done this consistently for such a long time that it has often felt normal. The role I accept and continue to feel outside of as I stand up for myself.
It will try my best not to cry and hold my ex’s hand (that was what I did at the last mediation, 2½ years ago) and remember just how much better my life is now. I just need to be myself and allow all that I have learned and become to be the guiding force.
But here is my Universe, answering for me, that maybe being in the same room will help. I don’t expect my children’s father to suddenly come to his senses, stop drinking and start a twelve step, and begin praising me as the good mother I am. I don’t need his approval or acceptance. What I do need is to have him be himself in front of the mediator, and let the actions of the last couple years be what comes through. His and mine both. It really does speak for itself, if the people who matter can listen.
I think the Universe is sending me a signal. It is saying the test is coming, but it is coming at a time when I am at my strongest, with the most support. Blessed Solstice. I will try to make my wishes more specific though. How about I ask for comfort and ease, blessings and virtue, friends and love. Can’t go wrong with those.
I have been sending out, almost to the point of mindlessly, the idea that if I could just have my children's father in the same room for a conversation for, say, an hour, we *might* get to work some things out regarding our children. I asked for this as an intention on the Solstice in June. I wrote it as a wave wish a dozen plus more times over the last five months. I have written about it here, and even added it to recent court documents.
The universe answered my desire by forcing me back in to court mediation, where my ex will sit, papers in hand, in front of a mediator, with just me, for a little over an hour, at an appointment next week. The humor of it being on the Winter Solstice did not escape me. It fits, to the day, the timeline I had asked for back on the Summer Solstice. It is also humorous to note that the Solstices are the two actual "holidays" I truly celebrate, and asked for through the courts, only to have them denied as too complicated to work into a schedule (Like somehow June 21 and Dec 21 each year comes at a different time on the calendar, but I digress.) So this "meeting" I have wanted seems like a funny-ha-ha way of getting what I need.
Need, you say? Yes, it is my need. It is going to give me a chance, not to bash my ex, but to tell someone, anyone who matters in the legal system, why I am a good mom, and why the stability I provide my kids should continue. I am going to do my best to work on my tone, and not come across as a selfish bitch just because I put up my big-ol-fear wall to keep from getting hurt. I am going to explain our schedule and routine, talk about how we bond and reconnect at the end of each day, and on the drive home on visitation weekends. I am going to show the report cards showing perfect attendance and good grades, and praising my children as social and creative. I am going to also talk about sleep and friends and play that will be lost if the schedule changes.
At my attorney's urging, I will also talk about my ex's inconsistency with decisions, with desires, and with routines. I will point out that while he has good intentions to participate in his children's lives, he has had 63 opportunities to come to their counseling appointments, and has managed to make to only 1 in 2 1/2 years. I will have to tell the mediator that while he says he wants time to volunteer at the school, he has picked up the kids on Wednesday 89 times, and has yet to stop in to volunteer in the classroom. I will have to tell the mediator about the missed Parent Open House, and the missed School Festival, and the missed field trips, all known about in advance since I give him the heads up, the paperwork, and the sent-home notes every single time.
I will have to talk about my children. I will need to talk about how my son hates transitions, and about the crying at drop off time at preschool, and the whining at pick up time at the youth center. I will point out the counselor’s report talking about consistency for him in everything from schedules to meals and bedtime, and how he functions on the premise that if anything needs to change he needs days to assimilate it before a tentative change can occur.
I will need to talk about my daughter wanting to be a beautiful fashion diva. I will talk about her bathroom time, and her bedroom being decorated, and about the jewelry box. I will tell the mediator about how she doesn't like baseball curtains and sharing a bunk bed with her brother. And about how she feels about her body, and her hair, and her nails, and her clothes. I will talk about her best friend moving to Singapore as part of her father's military job, and how much my daughter has been worried about this for months. I will talk about comfort and sadness and desire. I will tell the mediator about the day my ex's new wife decided to euthanize the family dog, and how my daughter called me for comfort, even though there was 7 other people in the house. I will talk about loss, and memories, and why she loves her life now.
I will have to talk about alcohol. I will have to talk about vicious emails. I will have to talk about broken promises.
I will have to tell the Mediator that the kids already told this to their father, not only once, but multiple times, in Family meetings he had to be forced into attending, and in notes about things they want changed, and to their counselor, and while sitting on his lap, very specifically, while simultaneously being ignored. I will have to point out that he doesn’t really know anything about his children, because how could he. He doesn’t have that skill.
I will have to keep my cool, show why I am stable, and not give in to my usual temptation to try to fix things for the abusers in my life. Yes, I said that: Abusers. I have done this consistently for such a long time that it has often felt normal. The role I accept and continue to feel outside of as I stand up for myself.
It will try my best not to cry and hold my ex’s hand (that was what I did at the last mediation, 2½ years ago) and remember just how much better my life is now. I just need to be myself and allow all that I have learned and become to be the guiding force.
But here is my Universe, answering for me, that maybe being in the same room will help. I don’t expect my children’s father to suddenly come to his senses, stop drinking and start a twelve step, and begin praising me as the good mother I am. I don’t need his approval or acceptance. What I do need is to have him be himself in front of the mediator, and let the actions of the last couple years be what comes through. His and mine both. It really does speak for itself, if the people who matter can listen.
I think the Universe is sending me a signal. It is saying the test is coming, but it is coming at a time when I am at my strongest, with the most support. Blessed Solstice. I will try to make my wishes more specific though. How about I ask for comfort and ease, blessings and virtue, friends and love. Can’t go wrong with those.
Friday, November 25, 2011
millimeters and miles
When my phone rang yesterday, with the ring tone I have set for calls from children's father, I knew my daughter had won a small victory, and that my ex is doing some saving face in the process. I think it is a win-win, in everything except how it might play out in court.
I know, more about court is getting old. It is for me, too. This time, I am being dragged back in because somehow the first six times the court made a decision must have just been practice, and not the real thing. It must be my singular definition of "permanent" that is getting in the way.
I am grateful. My children are amazing. They are bright and intelligent and well mannered. They are creative and funny and loving. They make me smile by their presence and their hugs and their unrelenting love. I am thankful because it has taken me until very recently to realize that I can take a lot of the credit for that. They are polite because I taught, and expect from them, manners. They are creative and intelligent because I read to them, and let them explore and encourage them to try things a little outside their reach. They are funny because I show them the less serious sides of the world and pay attention when they show me and tell me the things they create in their hearts and minds. I know them individually and as collaborators. I teach them daily through modeling and touch and smiles that they are loved and how to love in return. This is my definition of permanent. It is who I am, and who they are, and how we are connected in ways that are so far beyond what a stack of sorted and filed papers say. I am their mom.
So why was the sound of the ring tone exciting to me? It means that my daughter gets it. The stuff I have been doing since before my children were born is working. My daughter can make a phone call to her mom on this "odd-year" Thanksgiving, against her dad's wishes, because she knows the connection is there, even when we are not in the room together. She knows that saying hello from 43 miles away is exactly the same as 43 millimeters away. She knows that my heart and her heart are big enough to not only survive, but to thrive. It is permanent. We no longer have a choice, as if we ever did.
How this translates into court is anyone's guess. Oh, I have a good attorney, who cited case law, and pointed out the obvious to a potentially overburdened and feeling-neutral court. I got the fun job (said with as much sarcasm as I can muster) of telling the court why I rock as a mom and why my children's father is all talk and no walk, and the plethora of examples of why his already filed statements to the court are either exaggerations or lies, and not in the "best interests" of the children. It sounded harsh as I wrote it, but truth often is, especially from me, a woman who usually pleases and never takes any credit for a job well done. Touting my own virtues is new. I do it with more frequency these days, but it still leaves me shaky. This time, with a potential change in visitation , and thus my time with my kids on the line, tooting my own horn has become completely necessary. I want it to keep being exactly who I am, and who my kids are in the process.
Here I go with the whiny part though: all this is in the "nothing to lose" category for my children's father. If the courts decide he gets what he asks for, he "wins". If they decide to give me what I asked for in response, everything stays the same, and he"wins". The things he could gain won't happen because of "extra" time spent with the kids. He could have the hugs and the manners and the amazing creative wonderful relationship with them right now if he wanted it. He doesn't. He could see and foster a loving relationship daily with phone calls and emails, and reading to them, and paying attention, and listening. He won't. What he doesn't realize, and never will is that he "wins" nothing. He will not suddenly become a good father because he gets an extra Sunday night. But more that that, (and what I already know is the "real" reason he drags me through this) is that I won't stop being a good mom. I will have the same connection with my children no matter what. He doesn't get that. He never will.
So it was a gift this Thanksgiving in the form a phone call, confirming for me what I already know, that my kids do understand. It is the part where my singular definition of permanent doesn't change, and I get to be thankful that "permanent" for them doesn't change either.
I know, more about court is getting old. It is for me, too. This time, I am being dragged back in because somehow the first six times the court made a decision must have just been practice, and not the real thing. It must be my singular definition of "permanent" that is getting in the way.
I am grateful. My children are amazing. They are bright and intelligent and well mannered. They are creative and funny and loving. They make me smile by their presence and their hugs and their unrelenting love. I am thankful because it has taken me until very recently to realize that I can take a lot of the credit for that. They are polite because I taught, and expect from them, manners. They are creative and intelligent because I read to them, and let them explore and encourage them to try things a little outside their reach. They are funny because I show them the less serious sides of the world and pay attention when they show me and tell me the things they create in their hearts and minds. I know them individually and as collaborators. I teach them daily through modeling and touch and smiles that they are loved and how to love in return. This is my definition of permanent. It is who I am, and who they are, and how we are connected in ways that are so far beyond what a stack of sorted and filed papers say. I am their mom.
So why was the sound of the ring tone exciting to me? It means that my daughter gets it. The stuff I have been doing since before my children were born is working. My daughter can make a phone call to her mom on this "odd-year" Thanksgiving, against her dad's wishes, because she knows the connection is there, even when we are not in the room together. She knows that saying hello from 43 miles away is exactly the same as 43 millimeters away. She knows that my heart and her heart are big enough to not only survive, but to thrive. It is permanent. We no longer have a choice, as if we ever did.
How this translates into court is anyone's guess. Oh, I have a good attorney, who cited case law, and pointed out the obvious to a potentially overburdened and feeling-neutral court. I got the fun job (said with as much sarcasm as I can muster) of telling the court why I rock as a mom and why my children's father is all talk and no walk, and the plethora of examples of why his already filed statements to the court are either exaggerations or lies, and not in the "best interests" of the children. It sounded harsh as I wrote it, but truth often is, especially from me, a woman who usually pleases and never takes any credit for a job well done. Touting my own virtues is new. I do it with more frequency these days, but it still leaves me shaky. This time, with a potential change in visitation , and thus my time with my kids on the line, tooting my own horn has become completely necessary. I want it to keep being exactly who I am, and who my kids are in the process.
Here I go with the whiny part though: all this is in the "nothing to lose" category for my children's father. If the courts decide he gets what he asks for, he "wins". If they decide to give me what I asked for in response, everything stays the same, and he"wins". The things he could gain won't happen because of "extra" time spent with the kids. He could have the hugs and the manners and the amazing creative wonderful relationship with them right now if he wanted it. He doesn't. He could see and foster a loving relationship daily with phone calls and emails, and reading to them, and paying attention, and listening. He won't. What he doesn't realize, and never will is that he "wins" nothing. He will not suddenly become a good father because he gets an extra Sunday night. But more that that, (and what I already know is the "real" reason he drags me through this) is that I won't stop being a good mom. I will have the same connection with my children no matter what. He doesn't get that. He never will.
So it was a gift this Thanksgiving in the form a phone call, confirming for me what I already know, that my kids do understand. It is the part where my singular definition of permanent doesn't change, and I get to be thankful that "permanent" for them doesn't change either.
Thursday, October 13, 2011
Hot Wheels and blue painters' tape.
I learned something about my son yesterday.
It is Fall Break here on the Central Coast. Kids in grade-school get a blissful week of nothing to do except play and read and hangout. I got to spend two 1/2 of those blissful days with my kids, doing nothing except enjoying each other's company. Scooters, movies, beach, rain. It was wonderful. A relative memory-making factory. I thought I had been doing so well at it, that I forgot that old memories don't go away, no matter how many new ones get built on top.
We started out playing with Hot Wheels at about 1100am. We had already exhausted our Lego building, our drawing time, our walk to the Labyrinth around the corner, and our slight desire to play with scooters. My daughter was content to sit (in her very clean room, she would be quick to point out) and read a book in the series she is loving. So playing with cars did not interest her even one tiny bit. It was all on me and my son. It was awesome. We took out all the Hot Wheels, threw in some Matchbox (the enemy evil cars, I was told) and parked and drove, and attacked for a long time. We had used up the last of the blue painters' tape as we built garages, and ramps and hideouts out of cardboard boxes scavenged from the recycle bin. The project/play area/dream city spanned the kitchen table, the floor, and a couple chairs. (I really wish I had remembered I own a camera.) It was spectacular.
At about 1145a, I knew we needed to clean up, as my children's father would be there at 12noon to pick the kidlings up for his blissful (one can hope) two 1/2 days with these two wonderful and creative children. Needless to say, while it was a little heartbreaking to put all the boxes into my son's closet (no, we could not put them back in the recycling as I was assured they were now toys), we were cleaned up except for the one box of cars by the time their dad rolled up. My son, joyfully ran out to greet his dad, and asked him to come in and see his cars.
Whoa. Yep, that was somewhere near the not allowed point. My ex had not been in my house since last December, at my son's birthday party. Though he has picked up and/or dropped off the kids at least once a week since then, an old conversation from at least 18 months ago played in my head about control and anger and how I didn't fucking want the bastard in my house, ever! That fear based reaction to the last mean conversation he and I had lasted about 2.1 seconds before the words "Sure honey, you can invite your dad in to see your cars. It is your house, too." came out of my mouth. WOW, that is huge.
So as my children's father walked in, I tried to assess what I was feeling. Was that first gut reaction the reality, or was the words I said to my son closer to the truth? It turns out it was a combination of both. I didn't want the bastard in my house. I did want my son's father. I didn't want the mean, nasty, cruel, son of bitch, piece of shit husband I left any where near me. I did want my children to know they had a comfortable home where people they loved were welcome as long as they were polite.
In that split second of self evaluation, I managed to let go of the anger I had, and see the world through my son's eyes. Here is the kicker though; my son saw it, too. As we were at the kitchen table, chatting superficially about Red-line Hot Wheels and their collector status, my son says, without looking up, "This is new." Curious as I was, and in my happy little space of non-anger, I thought he was talking about cars. Nope, no such luck. His answer to my query about what was new, he replied (again without looking up) "Usually you don't let Dad past the porch, and usually you are fighting." Whoa, again. Self evaluation said I was pissed, since the whole reason my ex did not come into my house was because of the aforementioned bastardness and the cruelness of words that happened, what? over a year ago, in the old house. And didn't my son remember that it was that same fuckup-he-calls-a-father that said to his strong and independent mother that he would never set foot in my house since I was such a controlling bitch. And again, in that same 2.1 seconds (an absolute eternity!) I said "Yeah honey, that has been true. I think I will work on that, and do better." My son, the angel that is can be, hugged me and said (still not looking up) "Thanks, Mom."
As I stayed feeling happy about the tiny exchange, I started to remember that I don't get to choose my children's memories of me, or their father, or their life. That the harshness, no matter how fleeting (that I "thought" I was keeping from them, ha!) can be what sticks with them, and it was my job to do better. I had already realized that my love for my son is stronger than my dislike of his father, and had seen the first step of welcome-to-my-son's-home as a good thing. I am going to trust myself to maintain it. After that will come repair and amends, and I know I am heading that way, I can feel it.
I was still happy after all that self evaluation, and that is a good thing, too. Maybe it means I am healthier than I thought. Maybe it just means that, for the first time in over a decade, I am relying on my own sense of right and wrong, and testing my self-esteem measurements by my own yard stick. Maybe I just love Hot Wheels, and blue painters' tape, and the little boy who makes that magic. Maybe I just love myself for feeling everything and still being okay.
It is Fall Break here on the Central Coast. Kids in grade-school get a blissful week of nothing to do except play and read and hangout. I got to spend two 1/2 of those blissful days with my kids, doing nothing except enjoying each other's company. Scooters, movies, beach, rain. It was wonderful. A relative memory-making factory. I thought I had been doing so well at it, that I forgot that old memories don't go away, no matter how many new ones get built on top.
We started out playing with Hot Wheels at about 1100am. We had already exhausted our Lego building, our drawing time, our walk to the Labyrinth around the corner, and our slight desire to play with scooters. My daughter was content to sit (in her very clean room, she would be quick to point out) and read a book in the series she is loving. So playing with cars did not interest her even one tiny bit. It was all on me and my son. It was awesome. We took out all the Hot Wheels, threw in some Matchbox (the enemy evil cars, I was told) and parked and drove, and attacked for a long time. We had used up the last of the blue painters' tape as we built garages, and ramps and hideouts out of cardboard boxes scavenged from the recycle bin. The project/play area/dream city spanned the kitchen table, the floor, and a couple chairs. (I really wish I had remembered I own a camera.) It was spectacular.
At about 1145a, I knew we needed to clean up, as my children's father would be there at 12noon to pick the kidlings up for his blissful (one can hope) two 1/2 days with these two wonderful and creative children. Needless to say, while it was a little heartbreaking to put all the boxes into my son's closet (no, we could not put them back in the recycling as I was assured they were now toys), we were cleaned up except for the one box of cars by the time their dad rolled up. My son, joyfully ran out to greet his dad, and asked him to come in and see his cars.
Whoa. Yep, that was somewhere near the not allowed point. My ex had not been in my house since last December, at my son's birthday party. Though he has picked up and/or dropped off the kids at least once a week since then, an old conversation from at least 18 months ago played in my head about control and anger and how I didn't fucking want the bastard in my house, ever! That fear based reaction to the last mean conversation he and I had lasted about 2.1 seconds before the words "Sure honey, you can invite your dad in to see your cars. It is your house, too." came out of my mouth. WOW, that is huge.
So as my children's father walked in, I tried to assess what I was feeling. Was that first gut reaction the reality, or was the words I said to my son closer to the truth? It turns out it was a combination of both. I didn't want the bastard in my house. I did want my son's father. I didn't want the mean, nasty, cruel, son of bitch, piece of shit husband I left any where near me. I did want my children to know they had a comfortable home where people they loved were welcome as long as they were polite.
In that split second of self evaluation, I managed to let go of the anger I had, and see the world through my son's eyes. Here is the kicker though; my son saw it, too. As we were at the kitchen table, chatting superficially about Red-line Hot Wheels and their collector status, my son says, without looking up, "This is new." Curious as I was, and in my happy little space of non-anger, I thought he was talking about cars. Nope, no such luck. His answer to my query about what was new, he replied (again without looking up) "Usually you don't let Dad past the porch, and usually you are fighting." Whoa, again. Self evaluation said I was pissed, since the whole reason my ex did not come into my house was because of the aforementioned bastardness and the cruelness of words that happened, what? over a year ago, in the old house. And didn't my son remember that it was that same fuckup-he-calls-a-father that said to his strong and independent mother that he would never set foot in my house since I was such a controlling bitch. And again, in that same 2.1 seconds (an absolute eternity!) I said "Yeah honey, that has been true. I think I will work on that, and do better." My son, the angel that is can be, hugged me and said (still not looking up) "Thanks, Mom."
As I stayed feeling happy about the tiny exchange, I started to remember that I don't get to choose my children's memories of me, or their father, or their life. That the harshness, no matter how fleeting (that I "thought" I was keeping from them, ha!) can be what sticks with them, and it was my job to do better. I had already realized that my love for my son is stronger than my dislike of his father, and had seen the first step of welcome-to-my-son's-home as a good thing. I am going to trust myself to maintain it. After that will come repair and amends, and I know I am heading that way, I can feel it.
I was still happy after all that self evaluation, and that is a good thing, too. Maybe it means I am healthier than I thought. Maybe it just means that, for the first time in over a decade, I am relying on my own sense of right and wrong, and testing my self-esteem measurements by my own yard stick. Maybe I just love Hot Wheels, and blue painters' tape, and the little boy who makes that magic. Maybe I just love myself for feeling everything and still being okay.
Tuesday, October 4, 2011
Remnants of a former comic book idol.
Today my blog is an assignment. Yep, I get to write about anger. I probably should be pissed about that, but I am not. Maybe it is part of letting go, finding new avenues.
I could write lists about all the things in my life I am angry about. I could number them, add bubble speech captions, color-code them with pretty pastel pencils. I could write novels. I can, and have, held them close as specific possessions that I could line-up on a shelf, take each one down and tell the story. Creative words, funny words, things that could make you cry. It almost feels like each story that has anger and hurt attached is some kind of badge of honor. Yep, that sounds pathetic even to me.
I wrote before about taking photos. Professional photos where I look beautiful. I have been enjoying what that feeling is, and the more I enjoy that comfort, the easier it is to be in it. I can look at myself in the mirror and see outstanding qualities instead of just the flaws. I had been holding on to the flaws, not because I liked them, but because they were comfortable, a known quantity, and having had years of backup pointing out the flaws, it was routine. I think anger has been a lot like that.
Now, with that said, I can't even begin to pretend that I was DOING anything about my anger. Nope, that would not have been my style. I wouldn't have an artifact on my shelf if I had already done something about it. Seems I am a hoarder. I hoard my anger and turn it in to my own head and heart. Channeling Yoda: MINE MINE MINE. The anger becomes depression, and duh, depression is the reason I have this assignment to begin with. I must have thought that if there was no anger, there would be nothing at all, and that is scary, not feeling anything. Been there, done that. So I guess I am doing something about it, at $115 bucks a pop.
What would my life be like with out all of the anger? hmm... Maybe I would stand a little taller, without the anger backpack attached. Maybe I would be thinner, without the anger blanket wrapped so tightly around me. Maybe the people (read that as men) I have in my life would not spend their entire time trying to shoot grenades at me just to see what kind of reaction they could get, and then laugh it off as "only kidding" (being the overly sensitive bitch that I am you see HA). Maybe the new emotions of love and respect and generosity would stand a chance.
I was listening to a song this morning on my drive to work. Five for Fighting I think, a song about Superman. Now I don't think of myself as a Superhero, but I thought about Superman and his relationship to Kryptonite. All the comic books, and all the movies portray Superman as weak and helpless when he is confronted with a stone from his own world. He cowers and falls. He is weak. But the more I thought about it, the more that did not make sense. He was not weak, he was just suddenly normal. His abilities to shrug off huge problems became the same as any other person on the planet, and he failed to see that his super-human false shield made him forget that he was okay without it. Yes, his head could now get whacked off by a meteor precariously plummeting towards Earth, and yes, being able to get from New York to LA in 6.4 seconds would be missed, but what was he really losing in just being human. Humans are pretty damn strong come to think of it.
So what happens if I let go of the anger. First, I guess I get to recognize that I am human, and anger is just ONE of a million emotions I am allowed to feel at any time. Second, I am going to remember that I like the positive emotions that I get, a lot. Third, as I feel the other/positive emotions and they become part of my comfort zone, I get to reset my brain to accept them. Fourth, fifth and sixth, I get a clean shelf for other pretty artifacts, ones I had not room for because of all the other crowed junk holding court in the space. I get more happy stories to tell, and these are ones I could actually tell and not feel all the energy drain out of me. And I get to save some counseling money that I could use to get a massage instead. Joy for me!
This Kryptonite is feeling pretty nice in my hands. It is kind of a pretty color. It is just the right shape, and see how it brightens up my room. I might decorate my whole life in these colors. What a thought. I could get used to this.
I could write lists about all the things in my life I am angry about. I could number them, add bubble speech captions, color-code them with pretty pastel pencils. I could write novels. I can, and have, held them close as specific possessions that I could line-up on a shelf, take each one down and tell the story. Creative words, funny words, things that could make you cry. It almost feels like each story that has anger and hurt attached is some kind of badge of honor. Yep, that sounds pathetic even to me.
I wrote before about taking photos. Professional photos where I look beautiful. I have been enjoying what that feeling is, and the more I enjoy that comfort, the easier it is to be in it. I can look at myself in the mirror and see outstanding qualities instead of just the flaws. I had been holding on to the flaws, not because I liked them, but because they were comfortable, a known quantity, and having had years of backup pointing out the flaws, it was routine. I think anger has been a lot like that.
Now, with that said, I can't even begin to pretend that I was DOING anything about my anger. Nope, that would not have been my style. I wouldn't have an artifact on my shelf if I had already done something about it. Seems I am a hoarder. I hoard my anger and turn it in to my own head and heart. Channeling Yoda: MINE MINE MINE. The anger becomes depression, and duh, depression is the reason I have this assignment to begin with. I must have thought that if there was no anger, there would be nothing at all, and that is scary, not feeling anything. Been there, done that. So I guess I am doing something about it, at $115 bucks a pop.
What would my life be like with out all of the anger? hmm... Maybe I would stand a little taller, without the anger backpack attached. Maybe I would be thinner, without the anger blanket wrapped so tightly around me. Maybe the people (read that as men) I have in my life would not spend their entire time trying to shoot grenades at me just to see what kind of reaction they could get, and then laugh it off as "only kidding" (being the overly sensitive bitch that I am you see HA). Maybe the new emotions of love and respect and generosity would stand a chance.
I was listening to a song this morning on my drive to work. Five for Fighting I think, a song about Superman. Now I don't think of myself as a Superhero, but I thought about Superman and his relationship to Kryptonite. All the comic books, and all the movies portray Superman as weak and helpless when he is confronted with a stone from his own world. He cowers and falls. He is weak. But the more I thought about it, the more that did not make sense. He was not weak, he was just suddenly normal. His abilities to shrug off huge problems became the same as any other person on the planet, and he failed to see that his super-human false shield made him forget that he was okay without it. Yes, his head could now get whacked off by a meteor precariously plummeting towards Earth, and yes, being able to get from New York to LA in 6.4 seconds would be missed, but what was he really losing in just being human. Humans are pretty damn strong come to think of it.
So what happens if I let go of the anger. First, I guess I get to recognize that I am human, and anger is just ONE of a million emotions I am allowed to feel at any time. Second, I am going to remember that I like the positive emotions that I get, a lot. Third, as I feel the other/positive emotions and they become part of my comfort zone, I get to reset my brain to accept them. Fourth, fifth and sixth, I get a clean shelf for other pretty artifacts, ones I had not room for because of all the other crowed junk holding court in the space. I get more happy stories to tell, and these are ones I could actually tell and not feel all the energy drain out of me. And I get to save some counseling money that I could use to get a massage instead. Joy for me!
This Kryptonite is feeling pretty nice in my hands. It is kind of a pretty color. It is just the right shape, and see how it brightens up my room. I might decorate my whole life in these colors. What a thought. I could get used to this.
Tuesday, September 27, 2011
Happy laurels.
Two weeks ago Saturday, I did a photo shoot. Not your average "pretty family with a blue background" type, but one where, at one point, I was wearing thigh-high stockings on the beach.
I have seen five of the pictures now, of the seven that are being cropped and edited. I have been both amazing and excited. Relieved and undone. Proud and sad.
The happy emotions come from the plethora of wonderful comments, outpouring of generous words spilling into cyberspace just below the posted photos. Women I know, men I don't, and everything in between saying words like "peaceful", "serene", "warm", "beautiful". That's where I get stuck. Beautiful. Um, yeah. Beautiful. Not on my usual list of self-adjectives.
I have tried, without much success over the past 4 decades, to come to terms with my body. I was a fat kindergartner, a fat school-age kid, a fat high-schooler. I graduated from college fat, I got married fat, I had kids fat. I got divorced fat. I've had sex fat, gone dancing fat, worked out fat. I get dressed daily, fat. I cook dinner for my kids, fat. I have coffee with my skinny friends, fat. What I never wanted to do is get my photo taken, fat.
There are not many pictures of me with my exes. I have exactly two pictures with my "drama" boyfriend. I have only one with another. My first ex-husband never thought of me as fat, and did tell me he thought I was beautiful. That felt great, and was still not enough to keep infidelity from rearing its ugly head in our relationship. I have a wonderful picture of the two of us, on our wedding day, in the prettiest dress I have ever worn, with him looking amazing in this tuxedo, looking at each other and smiling. I had it blown up to an 8x10. It is now folded in half, in a box in my garage, with a lot of other things I can't quite part with. I smashed the crystal frame it was in during our marriage the day he left. I can remember looking at that picture that day, and hating ever part of it, and thinking to myself that I looked fat, without the happy-veil I had placed over it.
My children's father never wanted to have his picture taken with me. There are lots and lots of pictures of one or the other of us, at camp, at holidays, at random drunk intervals. There are pictures of the kids, me with the kids, him with the kids, family with the kids. I have a wonderful picture of the two of us, with my daughter on my lap, 7 months pregnant with my son, all of us smiling and happy as we waited for our tour to begin at Hearst Castle. I had it framed and hung it on the hallway wall with other pictures I loved that were not of me. He told me during a rant one time that he hated that picture because it reminded him too much of the woman who took the picture, the woman he had an affair within a week after the picture was taken, and that I looked fat. I think that picture is in the same box with my wedding picture.
So when I first saw the work that a friend of mine was doing, and the amazing photographer she has aligned herself with, I was sure there was not a way in hell I would ever get close to doing THAT. Professional picture of me, fat. Not a chance. And then I softened, started taking care of my own needs, and decided to risk all of it for the chance of making myself so self conscious and miserable that I would die.
I confess, that I looked at them first through the filter of two failed marriages, years of being told I wasn't anything close to pretty, much less stunning, and my own twisted expectations of other peoples' reactions. I looked and found the flaws in my body and hair and shape of my face because I was looking at it with fear and self-loathing and self-esteem so low that it was making me hold my breath.
What I got was amazing. What I got was freeing. What I got was beautiful. Yes, beautiful. I look beautiful. I feel beautiful. I am beautiful. The pictures are of me. Me. Beautiful scenery and me. The beach and me. Some of my clothes and me. Yep, me.
So that explains the pride. What about the sad? Oh that comes now from feeling like I could have been there all along if I had given myself the chance. I am letting that go. Maybe the sad will go into the box with those old photos, but I don't think so. I am ready to let go of that, if not yet the photos. Maybe I might even take out the photos again and look at myself differently, through my new beautiful eyes and offer myself some forgiveness and self praise.
Nah, not taking out those old photos! I am going to show and look at the new photos and rest here on my happy beautiful laurels for just a while.
I have seen five of the pictures now, of the seven that are being cropped and edited. I have been both amazing and excited. Relieved and undone. Proud and sad.
The happy emotions come from the plethora of wonderful comments, outpouring of generous words spilling into cyberspace just below the posted photos. Women I know, men I don't, and everything in between saying words like "peaceful", "serene", "warm", "beautiful". That's where I get stuck. Beautiful. Um, yeah. Beautiful. Not on my usual list of self-adjectives.
I have tried, without much success over the past 4 decades, to come to terms with my body. I was a fat kindergartner, a fat school-age kid, a fat high-schooler. I graduated from college fat, I got married fat, I had kids fat. I got divorced fat. I've had sex fat, gone dancing fat, worked out fat. I get dressed daily, fat. I cook dinner for my kids, fat. I have coffee with my skinny friends, fat. What I never wanted to do is get my photo taken, fat.
There are not many pictures of me with my exes. I have exactly two pictures with my "drama" boyfriend. I have only one with another. My first ex-husband never thought of me as fat, and did tell me he thought I was beautiful. That felt great, and was still not enough to keep infidelity from rearing its ugly head in our relationship. I have a wonderful picture of the two of us, on our wedding day, in the prettiest dress I have ever worn, with him looking amazing in this tuxedo, looking at each other and smiling. I had it blown up to an 8x10. It is now folded in half, in a box in my garage, with a lot of other things I can't quite part with. I smashed the crystal frame it was in during our marriage the day he left. I can remember looking at that picture that day, and hating ever part of it, and thinking to myself that I looked fat, without the happy-veil I had placed over it.
My children's father never wanted to have his picture taken with me. There are lots and lots of pictures of one or the other of us, at camp, at holidays, at random drunk intervals. There are pictures of the kids, me with the kids, him with the kids, family with the kids. I have a wonderful picture of the two of us, with my daughter on my lap, 7 months pregnant with my son, all of us smiling and happy as we waited for our tour to begin at Hearst Castle. I had it framed and hung it on the hallway wall with other pictures I loved that were not of me. He told me during a rant one time that he hated that picture because it reminded him too much of the woman who took the picture, the woman he had an affair within a week after the picture was taken, and that I looked fat. I think that picture is in the same box with my wedding picture.
So when I first saw the work that a friend of mine was doing, and the amazing photographer she has aligned herself with, I was sure there was not a way in hell I would ever get close to doing THAT. Professional picture of me, fat. Not a chance. And then I softened, started taking care of my own needs, and decided to risk all of it for the chance of making myself so self conscious and miserable that I would die.
I confess, that I looked at them first through the filter of two failed marriages, years of being told I wasn't anything close to pretty, much less stunning, and my own twisted expectations of other peoples' reactions. I looked and found the flaws in my body and hair and shape of my face because I was looking at it with fear and self-loathing and self-esteem so low that it was making me hold my breath.
What I got was amazing. What I got was freeing. What I got was beautiful. Yes, beautiful. I look beautiful. I feel beautiful. I am beautiful. The pictures are of me. Me. Beautiful scenery and me. The beach and me. Some of my clothes and me. Yep, me.
So that explains the pride. What about the sad? Oh that comes now from feeling like I could have been there all along if I had given myself the chance. I am letting that go. Maybe the sad will go into the box with those old photos, but I don't think so. I am ready to let go of that, if not yet the photos. Maybe I might even take out the photos again and look at myself differently, through my new beautiful eyes and offer myself some forgiveness and self praise.
Nah, not taking out those old photos! I am going to show and look at the new photos and rest here on my happy beautiful laurels for just a while.
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