Things seemed out of control. Really out of control. I've been feeling like Job, lost and wondering when the personal plagues will end. When will my depression stop sneaking into my thoughts after the kids have left to visit their dad? When will I stop looking at the carpet wondering how to get lost in its weaves instead of figuring out my emotions? When will I stop crying because I'm angry? When will I keep the power I have to continually fight to get back? When will I learn that it's okay to not be in control of everything?
I used to think that when bad things happened to me that they only happened in threes, come to find out, they also come in tsunamis. Large, overpowering waves that whip your feet out from under you and knock your breath out of you.
Driving into work a couple weeks ago I had a panic attack. I used to never panic, just low key stress and problem solve. I didn't think it was a panic attack until I realized that it was all in my head. So much is happening around me and I have no control of it. One of the things that has smashed my individual motivation was being turned down for a new car because of someone else lacking. I was approved, right there, the kids and I would finally have a reliable car and then, "It turns out ______ hasn't been making _______. So you can't get a car today." It turned into a snowball effect and the car I was blessed to be given started to slowly break down. The car I lovingly call, The Green Machine was dying when I needed it most. It had to be fixed twice, blessed to have it fixed for free, but in the process I depleted my savings on rental vehicles to get me and the kids where we needed to go. Then today, on the way to work, I was so worried and fearful that I was inhaling fumes or that the car would break down on me that I started to panic...and didn't even know it until I realized that I was about to pass out from the peaked adrenaline and rapid breathing. I'd never had an attack like that. Usually I just start to feel a little light headed and feel like my stomach is being stabbed by tiny ninjas inside my guts. I identify it and start working through some strategies that I found work for me. I ask myself, "What's the worst that can happen?" "Will you get hurt?" "Can you solve this problem?" and usually that works. But this morning was different. I couldn't get through to myself. I couldn't break through my mental and think logically. I was driving and I was frozen. I watched as the gas gauge fluctuated and began to obsess about it. I managed to turn the air around me into carbon monoxide and the "worst that could happen" was that I was going to pass out and wreck and then no one could pick my kids up from school. No one would know how to do Maliya's hair. No one would protect Little Matt from bullies. No one would tell them I loved them three times a day. I wanted to crack the window and was afraid to because, "What if it didn't roll back up? It's supposed to rain today." I looked at the clock and it was already 7:07 am. Late for work. I couldn't pull over because, "What if the car didn't start back up?" This is what anxiety does to you. It turns your logical brain into a "What if" factory and it can consume you so quickly that you go from positive and prospering to feeling like you're on the edge of death in a matter of seconds.
This is what my days are like almost constantly. It hits me like a dust storm. I can KIND OF see it coming but don't know where to run and most of the time once I'm in it I just have to let it run its course.
I used to watch commercials about anxiety and never really understood how someone could be paralyzed by their thoughts. After all, these are all fictional happenings. Anxiety isn't real. I didn't understand what was happening to me. My sessions of panic and anxiety started during my separation and got worse going through the divorce. Suddenly the level of unanswered questions kept growing. I didn't know where my kids were when they weren't with me. I was so used to seeing them every day and now I was forced to go days without seeing or talking to them. My normal was completely uprooted and I wasn't prepared for handling it all mentally. My brain went into attack mode but instead of attacking outside forces, it cried "MUTINY!" and attacked me.
I've been learning to take charge of my thoughts and let things "just be" but sometimes my brain likes to remind me that this is a process. Sometimes it seems like I have it worse because my brain functions in a chain. One thing will remind me of another. I can be sitting down picking at my nail, so I'll inspect my hand and think how they look like my dad's, then I'm thinking of my dad, "Why didn't he want to talk to me," "Why doesn't the father of my children want to talk to me," "Where are the kids," "I hope they're okay...." and spiral down.
See. The truth is. I'm a christian. But more than that, I have a relationship with God. I know that anxiety and panic attacks aren't from Him. I know what the bible says about healing. But I'm also human and sometimes it sucks.
Tuesday, April 5, 2016
Friday, January 29, 2016
Dear Him
Because no one sees me the way that you do
Exposed and ashamed waiting to be abused
I used to get anxiety at night wondering if I'd hear your voice
Then I'd cry with all my might because you had made your choice
Twelve
It took twelve years for me to hide myself enough
so that when others looked at me, I wouldn't seem to be tough
on the exterior and broken inside
I woke up every morning and I shared in your lies
I hate the color blue
It reminds me of the pajamas I wore when you ripped up my innocence and stained my sheets with rhythm and I can't even look myself in the eyes anymore because I see you
Don't mistake this for a love poem or a sonnet of happy tunes
Because you broke up my insides and crumbled them into fumes
That I inhale when I smell that old cologne you used to wear
I can't stand the feel of a man's facial hair against my face and I'll never know what it's like to have a man hold me in his arms and feel protected
Because when you held me, it was because I was neglected
To be seen by a woman who ignored you, so you found a place in my bed to feel brand new
Whispers into the night, "God please protect me from the monster all night and in the morning"
I moved my bed so that I could cover the memories with a desk
Little did I know I was building my own prison against a wall
Over and over again you would come in and my hope would fall
When I matured I got excited because I thought "this is the moment"
But I must have forgot
You still didn't feel man enough or maybe it was that you were too much of a man to admit that instead of hugging your little girl, you became an evil attack in her head
Well I'm a woman now
All grown up and reliving the past
I have a daughter of my own and I cry for her and pray that all she'll know are laughs
and innocence and that she'll find a man who loves her so deep that she'll never feel like me
Afraid to go to sleep
Exposed and ashamed waiting to be abused
I used to get anxiety at night wondering if I'd hear your voice
Then I'd cry with all my might because you had made your choice
Twelve
It took twelve years for me to hide myself enough
so that when others looked at me, I wouldn't seem to be tough
on the exterior and broken inside
I woke up every morning and I shared in your lies
I hate the color blue
It reminds me of the pajamas I wore when you ripped up my innocence and stained my sheets with rhythm and I can't even look myself in the eyes anymore because I see you
Don't mistake this for a love poem or a sonnet of happy tunes
Because you broke up my insides and crumbled them into fumes
That I inhale when I smell that old cologne you used to wear
I can't stand the feel of a man's facial hair against my face and I'll never know what it's like to have a man hold me in his arms and feel protected
Because when you held me, it was because I was neglected
To be seen by a woman who ignored you, so you found a place in my bed to feel brand new
Whispers into the night, "God please protect me from the monster all night and in the morning"
I moved my bed so that I could cover the memories with a desk
Little did I know I was building my own prison against a wall
Over and over again you would come in and my hope would fall
When I matured I got excited because I thought "this is the moment"
But I must have forgot
You still didn't feel man enough or maybe it was that you were too much of a man to admit that instead of hugging your little girl, you became an evil attack in her head
Well I'm a woman now
All grown up and reliving the past
I have a daughter of my own and I cry for her and pray that all she'll know are laughs
and innocence and that she'll find a man who loves her so deep that she'll never feel like me
Afraid to go to sleep
Thursday, December 31, 2015
Just a post about race and love from a racially ambiguous woman in love.
Recently there has been an issue on my heart that I'm never really ever sure how to address. It's 1:30 in the morning and I made the mistake of taking my migraine medicine and coffee at the same time, so of course I'm wide awake and my brain is racing. I've been kind of avoiding writing lately because I want to make sure that what I write is purposeful and meaningful. I've had quite a few topics dropped in my spirit and they will all flourish, but since it's the middle of the night and this is a sensitive topic, I'll start here and "whisper" drop this on my blog/social media feed.
Race and Love.
As a "racially ambiguous" woman I have had some difficulty finding a place or culture to belong to. Recently when people meet me it is immediately assumed that I am half black, others say Hispanic, Indian, the list goes on. Very rarely does anyone ever get it correct. I've grown up getting used to the question, "What are you anyway?" Eventually my sarcastic wit took over and my answer became, "Human." The issue of race and culture has taken on a new life for me because as I've gotten older I have become more aware of the social stigma that comes with racial divides. Even in my marriage (to a black man), he admitted that if I WAS black we wouldn't have conversations about race and ironically the racial conversations we did have were initiated by ME. I was slightly disturbed that as a black man in America (raising a young black boy), he didn't acknowledge his own struggles in the white suburbia where we resided. Was I making a mountain out of a mole hill or was it that I didn't have the right to discuss these racial issues? It was something that confused and bewildered me then and even now. How do I raise a young black boy as a single mother who is not black? How do I explain to him that there are people who will classify and segregate him because of his shade of black? And how do I address these issues with him if his father will not? The same questions can be said for my daughter. She's been asking me why our skin is different shades of brown or why my hair is straight and hers is curly. She yearns for my straight hair and I want her curly locks. I tell her she's beautiful all the time because I never want her to think that because her mom is lighter with longer hair that I am the definition of beauty. If it were up to me, she would be the new definition of all that is perfect.
Then we enter into the widely accepted or not accepted world of love and race. Growing up on a military base, I wasn't exposed to race issues. We were either military or civilian. THAT was our stigma. When I moved to Kansas City I started to notice certain looks from mainly black women when I was with my (ex)husband. Multiple times I overheard bathroom conversations about my "swirl" kids or how I "must have stolen my man." For some reason I was the homewrecker in the eyes of some women and I didn't understand the concept until I realized that I was in a love relationship that couldn't be hash-tagged as #BlackLove. Regardless of how beautiful I feel love is, or how supportive I am of unity in black love, that wasn't who I was when these women saw me. Recently in a restaurant with my current love (also a black man) I saw it again. The look of disdain and disapproval. I discussed with my partner what that look meant to me and how I wasn't "allowed" to have the conversation regarding it because of my race. There's a stigma that I carry, a guilt that maybe I shouldn't be loving who I am because someone disapproves of it and that look enhances that guilt and hurts. I feel like I am in a black love relationship because I love my man and my children and my family, all of whom are black. But because I am not, I cannot be a part of that love unity.
Yes, the relationship I am in is highly supported. My marriage to a black man was supported and that support had to be enough to make me stay quiet about my own pains and confusion about my race/culture and where I could belong. I've been given "the pass" by ALL of my friends. Some even mention forgetting that I'm not black because of the fact that I am so flawlessly ambiguous. At the same time, I still have difficulty being able to connect with certain conversations because when it comes down to it, I'm not black so there are certain inherent claims I have no right to and I know this. When and where is it acceptable for me to be able to talk about my identity when there is no one who identifies as me or my race? My children are TRIracial. How do I teach them about ALL of who they are?
I suppose this post is more questions than answers, but that's where discussions usually start. Statements that question social norms and beliefs. I definitely don't have the answers to these questions and who knows if there really is an answer out there. At the end of the day I'm just a woman in love raising babies that are just as racially ambiguous as their mama.
Race and Love.
As a "racially ambiguous" woman I have had some difficulty finding a place or culture to belong to. Recently when people meet me it is immediately assumed that I am half black, others say Hispanic, Indian, the list goes on. Very rarely does anyone ever get it correct. I've grown up getting used to the question, "What are you anyway?" Eventually my sarcastic wit took over and my answer became, "Human." The issue of race and culture has taken on a new life for me because as I've gotten older I have become more aware of the social stigma that comes with racial divides. Even in my marriage (to a black man), he admitted that if I WAS black we wouldn't have conversations about race and ironically the racial conversations we did have were initiated by ME. I was slightly disturbed that as a black man in America (raising a young black boy), he didn't acknowledge his own struggles in the white suburbia where we resided. Was I making a mountain out of a mole hill or was it that I didn't have the right to discuss these racial issues? It was something that confused and bewildered me then and even now. How do I raise a young black boy as a single mother who is not black? How do I explain to him that there are people who will classify and segregate him because of his shade of black? And how do I address these issues with him if his father will not? The same questions can be said for my daughter. She's been asking me why our skin is different shades of brown or why my hair is straight and hers is curly. She yearns for my straight hair and I want her curly locks. I tell her she's beautiful all the time because I never want her to think that because her mom is lighter with longer hair that I am the definition of beauty. If it were up to me, she would be the new definition of all that is perfect.
Then we enter into the widely accepted or not accepted world of love and race. Growing up on a military base, I wasn't exposed to race issues. We were either military or civilian. THAT was our stigma. When I moved to Kansas City I started to notice certain looks from mainly black women when I was with my (ex)husband. Multiple times I overheard bathroom conversations about my "swirl" kids or how I "must have stolen my man." For some reason I was the homewrecker in the eyes of some women and I didn't understand the concept until I realized that I was in a love relationship that couldn't be hash-tagged as #BlackLove. Regardless of how beautiful I feel love is, or how supportive I am of unity in black love, that wasn't who I was when these women saw me. Recently in a restaurant with my current love (also a black man) I saw it again. The look of disdain and disapproval. I discussed with my partner what that look meant to me and how I wasn't "allowed" to have the conversation regarding it because of my race. There's a stigma that I carry, a guilt that maybe I shouldn't be loving who I am because someone disapproves of it and that look enhances that guilt and hurts. I feel like I am in a black love relationship because I love my man and my children and my family, all of whom are black. But because I am not, I cannot be a part of that love unity.
Yes, the relationship I am in is highly supported. My marriage to a black man was supported and that support had to be enough to make me stay quiet about my own pains and confusion about my race/culture and where I could belong. I've been given "the pass" by ALL of my friends. Some even mention forgetting that I'm not black because of the fact that I am so flawlessly ambiguous. At the same time, I still have difficulty being able to connect with certain conversations because when it comes down to it, I'm not black so there are certain inherent claims I have no right to and I know this. When and where is it acceptable for me to be able to talk about my identity when there is no one who identifies as me or my race? My children are TRIracial. How do I teach them about ALL of who they are?
I suppose this post is more questions than answers, but that's where discussions usually start. Statements that question social norms and beliefs. I definitely don't have the answers to these questions and who knows if there really is an answer out there. At the end of the day I'm just a woman in love raising babies that are just as racially ambiguous as their mama.
Monday, November 16, 2015
Taking a Hard Look in the Mirror
Social media has this way of "flashing back" these days and reminding us all of where we were this exact day years ago. I have found that this turned into somewhat of an independent and sometimes daily mental battle. I'm reminded that I was once a wife. It's a strange feeling, to know that you once were in this position of entitlement and now you're simply the "mother of." That at some point in my young life I was someone's forever, I was the best part of their life, I was the wife and had rights that trumped privileges. On one post I even referred to myself as "the wife." Those words, so simple and easily slipping off my lips, tossed a stone at my heart and I started to wonder how I ever knew how to be a wife.
I don't think I really ever did. Not truly.
I'm much better at being a mother than I was at being a wife. I find fulfillment in being a mother and reflecting on how I was as a wife, I rarely found fulfillment. Whose fault is that really? Can I blame him for cheating if I wasn't excited about being his wife? Could I really have expected him to be honest with me if I couldn't be honest with myself? In trying to move forward in my current relationship, I've been forced to reflect on my past (self). I don't want to make the same mistakes and quite honestly, I'm afraid I will. I grew up in a family that was tainted with divorce. My parents, grandparents, aunts and uncles had all gone through a divorce. I didn't go into my marriage with divorce as an option, but being a product of divorce made the concept real to me and I also didn't go into my marriage knowing what forever truly meant. I've never seen who a wife is supposed to be in a marriage, only what norms have been forced on me. I tried so hard to adhere to those norms and in the process completely lost the small fractions of myself that I once had. I didn't even notice it when it was happening. I thought it was normal to be a wife and have no friends. I didn't think adults made friends. I developed tunnel vision and was blind to everyone else around me.
For the first time in my adult life I have been receiving a massive amount of judgement based off assumptions and what others think of as acceptable behavior. I am by no means perfect, I have tried and failed and with that failure finally realized that perfection is fleeting and in the end not an obtainable characteristic.
For years I would conform to what others wanted me to do, my passions and self love was thrown into the ashes because; who cares about my heart (it's broken anyway)? It seemed the moment I wanted to dust off the ashes and begin to love myself so many loved ones "didn't know me anymore." I'm experiencing being a failure for the first time. Initially I thought it would be a humbling experience, that I would feel stronger even though I had people telling me I was a "sorry excuse for a mother," everything they were "running from," "the worst thing to ever happen" to them, "selfish," "fat and disgusting." I'm a lover of words and words have been taking me out execution style. I never intended to be someone's failure. For so long I would pride myself on making the right decisions and being the one people would stick up for. Having someone you once loved show you nothing but hatred is probably one of the most difficult feelings to deal with (especially when you've chosen to forgive them and move on with your life).
I recently found a couple journals where I attempted to jot things down. I went through phases where I would write down my feelings, but then would be scared he would read them again, so I'd hide them away and forget about them. When I was reading through one journal last night there were numerous entries where I think I knew I was losing. I knew I was losing my soul and my strength and my own identity, but I was scared of how to find it all again. I wanted so badly not to fail and in the process I let go of a lot of the dreams and gifts I was given at a young age. I allowed perfection to dissipate and became comfortable in angst.
Age has forced me to look back at these things and I find myself questioning the younger me. When did I get so lost that I couldn't even see through the wind? I read somewhere that we will never know what we truly look like, only the reflection made from a mirror or in a picture. We'll never get to see ourselves the way others see us. Of course, I took this metaphorically as well. A mirror will only reflect what we impose on it, however, sometimes we forget that if there is a bend or crack in the mirror, our image may be distorted, The same can be said for the people in our lives, and in my case my husband (when I was married). He was my mirror. I only saw myself how he saw me, the reflection I imposed on him was what I thought was a suitable wife, but he was bent in some corners that were invisible to the naked (married) eye and cracked in the middle. I don't think we ever really see the distortions that the mirror has because we're so focused on how we have become distorted and fixing ourselves (in the other person's image).
Here's the hard part. I realize that perfection is only a manifestation of what we feel is flawless and the reality is that as human beings we are incapable of adhering to all the requirements those around us create in order for us to be perfect. However, there is a small population of us, who even in the midst of the opposition, still aim for that perfection with a blind eye to the fact that we will never reach it. But what is perfection anyway? Is it dinner on the table by 6:30 every evening? Is it completely altering your life to orbit another person's? Is it not talking about things that hurt your feelings? Is it being a size four? Is it having it all figured out by 30?
If this is perfection, I suppose I'll never have it, but I guess that's why I don't look in the same mirror any more.
I don't think I really ever did. Not truly.
I'm much better at being a mother than I was at being a wife. I find fulfillment in being a mother and reflecting on how I was as a wife, I rarely found fulfillment. Whose fault is that really? Can I blame him for cheating if I wasn't excited about being his wife? Could I really have expected him to be honest with me if I couldn't be honest with myself? In trying to move forward in my current relationship, I've been forced to reflect on my past (self). I don't want to make the same mistakes and quite honestly, I'm afraid I will. I grew up in a family that was tainted with divorce. My parents, grandparents, aunts and uncles had all gone through a divorce. I didn't go into my marriage with divorce as an option, but being a product of divorce made the concept real to me and I also didn't go into my marriage knowing what forever truly meant. I've never seen who a wife is supposed to be in a marriage, only what norms have been forced on me. I tried so hard to adhere to those norms and in the process completely lost the small fractions of myself that I once had. I didn't even notice it when it was happening. I thought it was normal to be a wife and have no friends. I didn't think adults made friends. I developed tunnel vision and was blind to everyone else around me.
For the first time in my adult life I have been receiving a massive amount of judgement based off assumptions and what others think of as acceptable behavior. I am by no means perfect, I have tried and failed and with that failure finally realized that perfection is fleeting and in the end not an obtainable characteristic.
For years I would conform to what others wanted me to do, my passions and self love was thrown into the ashes because; who cares about my heart (it's broken anyway)? It seemed the moment I wanted to dust off the ashes and begin to love myself so many loved ones "didn't know me anymore." I'm experiencing being a failure for the first time. Initially I thought it would be a humbling experience, that I would feel stronger even though I had people telling me I was a "sorry excuse for a mother," everything they were "running from," "the worst thing to ever happen" to them, "selfish," "fat and disgusting." I'm a lover of words and words have been taking me out execution style. I never intended to be someone's failure. For so long I would pride myself on making the right decisions and being the one people would stick up for. Having someone you once loved show you nothing but hatred is probably one of the most difficult feelings to deal with (especially when you've chosen to forgive them and move on with your life).
I recently found a couple journals where I attempted to jot things down. I went through phases where I would write down my feelings, but then would be scared he would read them again, so I'd hide them away and forget about them. When I was reading through one journal last night there were numerous entries where I think I knew I was losing. I knew I was losing my soul and my strength and my own identity, but I was scared of how to find it all again. I wanted so badly not to fail and in the process I let go of a lot of the dreams and gifts I was given at a young age. I allowed perfection to dissipate and became comfortable in angst.
Age has forced me to look back at these things and I find myself questioning the younger me. When did I get so lost that I couldn't even see through the wind? I read somewhere that we will never know what we truly look like, only the reflection made from a mirror or in a picture. We'll never get to see ourselves the way others see us. Of course, I took this metaphorically as well. A mirror will only reflect what we impose on it, however, sometimes we forget that if there is a bend or crack in the mirror, our image may be distorted, The same can be said for the people in our lives, and in my case my husband (when I was married). He was my mirror. I only saw myself how he saw me, the reflection I imposed on him was what I thought was a suitable wife, but he was bent in some corners that were invisible to the naked (married) eye and cracked in the middle. I don't think we ever really see the distortions that the mirror has because we're so focused on how we have become distorted and fixing ourselves (in the other person's image).
Here's the hard part. I realize that perfection is only a manifestation of what we feel is flawless and the reality is that as human beings we are incapable of adhering to all the requirements those around us create in order for us to be perfect. However, there is a small population of us, who even in the midst of the opposition, still aim for that perfection with a blind eye to the fact that we will never reach it. But what is perfection anyway? Is it dinner on the table by 6:30 every evening? Is it completely altering your life to orbit another person's? Is it not talking about things that hurt your feelings? Is it being a size four? Is it having it all figured out by 30?
If this is perfection, I suppose I'll never have it, but I guess that's why I don't look in the same mirror any more.
Friday, November 13, 2015
Dear Little Matt
Dear Little Matt,
Over the summer you told me that our relationship is "special because we talk about all different things." Any time I ask you to "Guess what?" you immediately know to answer "You love me." Your smile (your real one, not the fake one you use when I'm taking too many pictures) has a way of jumping straight into my heart and pumps life through all my limbs. You're almost as tall as me and you're only eight years old. You are the first boy in my life who is gentle with my heart and I'm positive that it's because you lived next to it for 9 months. You changed my life, my heart, my soul, my vision, and even my appearance.
When I found out I was pregnant with you I wasn't scared. I was calm because I knew I could do it, I could be your mom. It didn't matter to me that I wasn't married to your father (at the time). It didn't matter to me that I was only 21. It didn't matter to me that I was living on my own for the first time. Suddenly the biggest and most significant person in the world was living inside me and I wanted you. You didn't get to choose me but you love me as though you hand picked me from a sea of mothers and it makes me feel more than unique.
Music brings you alive and you're so weird that my weird loves your weird. Is that weird? You and I have a slightly off beat tempo that seems to match one another and when you laugh at my jokes, I become this superhuman who has scaled a volcano and suddenly I can conquer anything.
I want you to know that I will die protecting you. I will clasp your heart in my hands lightly and only allow a woman righteous enough to peek at it. I will consult God on your present and future. I will support you when you want to explore roads that others are afraid of and I will dance with you in department store windows and mirrors. I will always put ketchup on your rice and eggs in your Ramen noodles. I will buy you small action figures you will lose just so you can be genuinely happy for all your childhood.
When you grow up and fall in love I will let you fall, because that's the best part. The free fall and wind in your face as your heart starts to beat to that of another. And if she's not there to catch you, it'll be okay, because I'm a praying mother and you are strong and you will fall again and we'll do it again and I'll love you through it.
And when you leave me, you'll never leave me. I'll always remember your hugs that turned into grown man hugs at eight years old the moment I no longer had to bend down to kiss your forehead. I'll gradually (and quickly) get shorter than you and one day you'll be big enough to hold me in your arms the way I hold you. But I want you to know, you'll never have arms big enough to hold my love for you. You'll never want for acceptance or a partner. I will fight for you and you won't ever have to ask and you'll never see the battle on my face because for you, I became a warrior at 21 years old.
And I will always be a warrior, for you.
Over the summer you told me that our relationship is "special because we talk about all different things." Any time I ask you to "Guess what?" you immediately know to answer "You love me." Your smile (your real one, not the fake one you use when I'm taking too many pictures) has a way of jumping straight into my heart and pumps life through all my limbs. You're almost as tall as me and you're only eight years old. You are the first boy in my life who is gentle with my heart and I'm positive that it's because you lived next to it for 9 months. You changed my life, my heart, my soul, my vision, and even my appearance.
When I found out I was pregnant with you I wasn't scared. I was calm because I knew I could do it, I could be your mom. It didn't matter to me that I wasn't married to your father (at the time). It didn't matter to me that I was only 21. It didn't matter to me that I was living on my own for the first time. Suddenly the biggest and most significant person in the world was living inside me and I wanted you. You didn't get to choose me but you love me as though you hand picked me from a sea of mothers and it makes me feel more than unique.
Music brings you alive and you're so weird that my weird loves your weird. Is that weird? You and I have a slightly off beat tempo that seems to match one another and when you laugh at my jokes, I become this superhuman who has scaled a volcano and suddenly I can conquer anything.
I want you to know that I will die protecting you. I will clasp your heart in my hands lightly and only allow a woman righteous enough to peek at it. I will consult God on your present and future. I will support you when you want to explore roads that others are afraid of and I will dance with you in department store windows and mirrors. I will always put ketchup on your rice and eggs in your Ramen noodles. I will buy you small action figures you will lose just so you can be genuinely happy for all your childhood.
When you grow up and fall in love I will let you fall, because that's the best part. The free fall and wind in your face as your heart starts to beat to that of another. And if she's not there to catch you, it'll be okay, because I'm a praying mother and you are strong and you will fall again and we'll do it again and I'll love you through it.
And when you leave me, you'll never leave me. I'll always remember your hugs that turned into grown man hugs at eight years old the moment I no longer had to bend down to kiss your forehead. I'll gradually (and quickly) get shorter than you and one day you'll be big enough to hold me in your arms the way I hold you. But I want you to know, you'll never have arms big enough to hold my love for you. You'll never want for acceptance or a partner. I will fight for you and you won't ever have to ask and you'll never see the battle on my face because for you, I became a warrior at 21 years old.
And I will always be a warrior, for you.
Tuesday, November 10, 2015
Dear Ex-Lover-friend-confidant-artist-poet
Dear Ex-Lover-friend-confidant-artist-poet,
I understand that you don't understand me anymore. It seems strange that in the midst of confusion the only time I was able to make sense out of things was when we were talking or laughing or writing or just being. You helped me understand love and that it was okay to be who I was truly. When I questioned my confidence you reassured me that I was stronger than those who tried to emotionally kill me.
Unfortunately in this strange and baffling age of technology and multiple ways of communication, we no longer share air waves or likes or moments of subliminal "I know you are still present in my life" exchanges. It's okay. I understand, but I have to let you know what you taught me.
True, I was a dis-proportioned, hurt, damaged, tainted and confused female being when we met. You found a way to befriend the muse inside me and I didn't even know resisting was an option. I willingly gave into the creative being you managed to break out of my veins and suddenly I found myself learning how to be inspired. My fingers seemed to grace a pen as though they were lost lovers and you had reunited them. I would stay up until 3am writing of my 3am thoughts and allowing them to get lost in hidden posts or the lines of my notebook. I fell for you. Strangely, you never seemed to know how I needed your presence (lack of a presence). Now, here we are. Missing wave lengths and I don't even think you notice. Which is okay. I've learned to be okay with that. Not because I have a "new love" or because I've failed at my "old love," but because you taught me that love comes in different forms and molds itself around different people. You taught me how to love you in a way that I didn't think humans could love...from a distance, abandoned and alone, but okay.
I don't know how else to express to you how much your brief (even though I thought it would be for a lifetime) friendship with me helped birth what was lost for so long. I will remember and appreciate you until my hair ages and my memory falls into the air that once held your voice. I hope one day, you'll catch that breeze across your neck and remember that once upon a time, a distant and lonely girl learned to love again because you showed her it was okay.
And I hope you're okay.
Are you okay?
I understand that you don't understand me anymore. It seems strange that in the midst of confusion the only time I was able to make sense out of things was when we were talking or laughing or writing or just being. You helped me understand love and that it was okay to be who I was truly. When I questioned my confidence you reassured me that I was stronger than those who tried to emotionally kill me.
Unfortunately in this strange and baffling age of technology and multiple ways of communication, we no longer share air waves or likes or moments of subliminal "I know you are still present in my life" exchanges. It's okay. I understand, but I have to let you know what you taught me.
True, I was a dis-proportioned, hurt, damaged, tainted and confused female being when we met. You found a way to befriend the muse inside me and I didn't even know resisting was an option. I willingly gave into the creative being you managed to break out of my veins and suddenly I found myself learning how to be inspired. My fingers seemed to grace a pen as though they were lost lovers and you had reunited them. I would stay up until 3am writing of my 3am thoughts and allowing them to get lost in hidden posts or the lines of my notebook. I fell for you. Strangely, you never seemed to know how I needed your presence (lack of a presence). Now, here we are. Missing wave lengths and I don't even think you notice. Which is okay. I've learned to be okay with that. Not because I have a "new love" or because I've failed at my "old love," but because you taught me that love comes in different forms and molds itself around different people. You taught me how to love you in a way that I didn't think humans could love...from a distance, abandoned and alone, but okay.
I don't know how else to express to you how much your brief (even though I thought it would be for a lifetime) friendship with me helped birth what was lost for so long. I will remember and appreciate you until my hair ages and my memory falls into the air that once held your voice. I hope one day, you'll catch that breeze across your neck and remember that once upon a time, a distant and lonely girl learned to love again because you showed her it was okay.
And I hope you're okay.
Are you okay?
Friday, October 16, 2015
Dear Antonio
Dear Antonio,
Last night, I realized something that I've tried to deny for the past few months. You helped save me. When you entered my life, I was on the verge of self destruction. I never admitted it to you because I wanted to be that woman who had her life together and who you could flawlessly love without witnessing the dirt on her hands. Our relationship came as sudden and surprising as a snowflake in June and ironically we were formally introduced in June. When we met, I never gave you a second glance. You were off my radar and honestly, trying to get to know anyone at that point in my life was the last thing I was thinking about. But there you were, unexpected and present in my life and neither of us knew what that handshake would mean.
When you approached me months later about dating, I was more than hesitant. There were so many things stacked against you and I knew that with my background and freshly healing heart, the odds would be stacked up against us together as well. It took me a whole day to even realize you were interested in me and I threw everything I could at you so that you would find me unappealing. Yet, there, in the midst of all my negative and amplified characteristics you said something so cliche yet so needed, "I could treat you like the Queen that you are. You could be missing out." I don't know why coming from you it was like I was hearing those words for the first time and in reality I kind of was. No man had ever told me I was a Queen (I knew it though). No man had ever publicized that I deserved better. Suddenly, there I was handing you my phone number.
Even though our love formed fast, our relationship formed slow. You were clear you didn't want a commitment and I didn't want to rush into an "official" relationship quickly. However, as soon as we had a conversation about informing those around us that we were dating, I fell for you quickly. My love for you was fresh and I didn't know how it would grow, but I knew that it would. We prided ourselves on our privacy, taking the time to have quality one-on-one time, and being purposeful in sharing "us" with others. Here I was completely out of a failed marriage and for the first time in my life I was not only witnessing a healthy relationship, but I was half of it.
Now...here is where you saved me.
At the hands of other people I was allowing myself to decrease and any time I began to doubt myself, you loved me without question. I need to explain to you how your love for me has changed my life. You willingly prayed for me and my kids at the beginning of our relationship. You reminded me to focus on God and took time to fast with me. You didn't have to, but you did. When I cried over the pains that other men had inflicted on me, you hugged me and apologized for things you hadn't even done. When I got angry and didn't know how to express myself, you let me be okay with just crying for "no reason."
You call. You set an alarm and wake up every morning just to call me. Your voice calms me.
You play with my hair. You learned to play with my hair. Even though you haven't quite perfected it the way my mom used to do it, your effort is enough for me to love you more.
You support me. You do more than support me. You've found a way to include yourself in my life, into what I'm passionate about and you do so willingly and without making me feel like less of a woman or less of a mother or less of a person.
Your presence reminds me that it's possible to to have a custom made love.
You make me coffee in the morning.
You make me coffee at night.
When you did something that hurt my heart, you genuinely apologized and made sure I would never have to endure the pain again, and I never did.
You go on walks with me (even if you have to walk behind me because I'm being stubborn).
You chase me when I try to push you away because you know it's not what I really want.
You accept my apology when I realize I've been an idiot.
You love me even when I'm cranky (which can be often sometimes).
You let me stare at the stars.
You were constant and imperfect. You made mistakes and taught me that being human is okay. You taught me that men could have pride and not be prideful.
You held my hand.
When I felt like I couldn't hold onto life anymore, your hand was the umbilical chord to God.
All these actions, these verbs, are ways that you've loved me and your love helped save me from destroying myself.
God saw it fit to place you as an interruption to where I thought I wanted to be in my life. I'll never be able to clearly explain to you how grateful I am that you took a chance on me, even with seeing me with all my scars and bruises and baggage. Even my bad days are good because I have you. With you I have vision.
With you, I am home.
Last night, I realized something that I've tried to deny for the past few months. You helped save me. When you entered my life, I was on the verge of self destruction. I never admitted it to you because I wanted to be that woman who had her life together and who you could flawlessly love without witnessing the dirt on her hands. Our relationship came as sudden and surprising as a snowflake in June and ironically we were formally introduced in June. When we met, I never gave you a second glance. You were off my radar and honestly, trying to get to know anyone at that point in my life was the last thing I was thinking about. But there you were, unexpected and present in my life and neither of us knew what that handshake would mean.
When you approached me months later about dating, I was more than hesitant. There were so many things stacked against you and I knew that with my background and freshly healing heart, the odds would be stacked up against us together as well. It took me a whole day to even realize you were interested in me and I threw everything I could at you so that you would find me unappealing. Yet, there, in the midst of all my negative and amplified characteristics you said something so cliche yet so needed, "I could treat you like the Queen that you are. You could be missing out." I don't know why coming from you it was like I was hearing those words for the first time and in reality I kind of was. No man had ever told me I was a Queen (I knew it though). No man had ever publicized that I deserved better. Suddenly, there I was handing you my phone number.
Even though our love formed fast, our relationship formed slow. You were clear you didn't want a commitment and I didn't want to rush into an "official" relationship quickly. However, as soon as we had a conversation about informing those around us that we were dating, I fell for you quickly. My love for you was fresh and I didn't know how it would grow, but I knew that it would. We prided ourselves on our privacy, taking the time to have quality one-on-one time, and being purposeful in sharing "us" with others. Here I was completely out of a failed marriage and for the first time in my life I was not only witnessing a healthy relationship, but I was half of it.
Now...here is where you saved me.
At the hands of other people I was allowing myself to decrease and any time I began to doubt myself, you loved me without question. I need to explain to you how your love for me has changed my life. You willingly prayed for me and my kids at the beginning of our relationship. You reminded me to focus on God and took time to fast with me. You didn't have to, but you did. When I cried over the pains that other men had inflicted on me, you hugged me and apologized for things you hadn't even done. When I got angry and didn't know how to express myself, you let me be okay with just crying for "no reason."
You call. You set an alarm and wake up every morning just to call me. Your voice calms me.
You play with my hair. You learned to play with my hair. Even though you haven't quite perfected it the way my mom used to do it, your effort is enough for me to love you more.
You support me. You do more than support me. You've found a way to include yourself in my life, into what I'm passionate about and you do so willingly and without making me feel like less of a woman or less of a mother or less of a person.
Your presence reminds me that it's possible to to have a custom made love.
You make me coffee in the morning.
You make me coffee at night.
When you did something that hurt my heart, you genuinely apologized and made sure I would never have to endure the pain again, and I never did.
You go on walks with me (even if you have to walk behind me because I'm being stubborn).
You chase me when I try to push you away because you know it's not what I really want.
You accept my apology when I realize I've been an idiot.
You love me even when I'm cranky (which can be often sometimes).
You let me stare at the stars.
You were constant and imperfect. You made mistakes and taught me that being human is okay. You taught me that men could have pride and not be prideful.
You held my hand.
When I felt like I couldn't hold onto life anymore, your hand was the umbilical chord to God.
All these actions, these verbs, are ways that you've loved me and your love helped save me from destroying myself.
God saw it fit to place you as an interruption to where I thought I wanted to be in my life. I'll never be able to clearly explain to you how grateful I am that you took a chance on me, even with seeing me with all my scars and bruises and baggage. Even my bad days are good because I have you. With you I have vision.
With you, I am home.
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