Luggage & Baggage & Totes… Oh My

baggae1

Luggage. Baggage. Totes. To most people, most of the time, for the most part, these things bring on images of travel and adventure. Movement and destinations. Fun and excitement. Accessorizing and accentuating.

But to others, it might have quite another, less positive, meaning: evidence of a less-than-ideal past.

We all have baggage. Whether we’re married, divorced, single, with kids, without kids, living with our parents, living on our own or living with way too many cats. Baggage is just a trendy way of saying that we’re all a bunch of emotional hoarders.

Even those who claim they don’t have any baggage, usually bury their emotions deep down packed up tight in one of those plastic bags that can be attached to their vacuum in hopes of sucking out all of the hurt and memories of what brought them to be.

No. Such. Luck.

I tried it.

There’s no way to escape or deny that a woman my age doesn’t have a matching set of emotional baggage. In today’s world, there are 20-somethings who have a tote or two of their own.

Some would say that in order to get on with life, one must do away with their baggage. For most of us, it’s not only practically impossible, it’s also kind of foolish. Our baggage can serve as good reminders.

The key is in how you choose to distribute the contents inside. The stuff that belongs, you just come to understand why it belongs and you’re careful to pack it well. If it’s not something you’ve learned from, either figure out it out or leave it behind. At least, that’s what I’ve learned from my baggage.

For many of us, there may be a few things packed inside that are incredibly heavy. But they don’t always weigh us down.

Personally, I have my seasons where my baggage can slow me down. In those times, I really wish they didn’t exist at all. But I can’t go through life without them. They remind me of where I’ve been and that I’m not done traveling.

I don’t lug them around just because… I need them.

There are long stretches of time when they are hardly noticeable. They just sit in a corner. They aren’t in my way but they are there. I notice them, in passing, but they don’t affect my day to day life. They’re exactly where I put them. They remain in place. Waiting for me to add another experience to them. There’s always going to be an experience to add to them. It’s part of the journey.

For a middle-aged, single mom, like myself, most times the weight of my baggage can be as easy to carry as a fashionable attaché but I have my moments when they can be as hefty as a steamer trunk. And sometimes when I’m faced with having to travel to old, familiar places, I get a little overwhelmed and unnecessarily over pack.  Case in point, taking a voyage into any realm of the dating world. For most women ‘my age,’ It can be… well…  quite a trip.

wpid-screenshot_2014-04-14-21-03-58-1.png

Oh sure, many of us hop aboard with more than a snap-sack when compared to less (cough, cough) experienced women. But the difference between most of us and our younger counterparts (aside from the fact that they probably don’t need the underwire or the hair-dye or the concealer) is that we know how many pieces of luggage we have and what’s inside of them.

More importantly though, we know which bags a potential suitor can help us carry and which ones, no matter how chivalrous he is, he will have to let us carry ourselves.

Wisdom will dictate that last part.

When going through any excursion, as we trek along, sometimes some of the contents in our bags may shift and things can get thrown out of whack.  Most of the time, it’s no big deal. We can just readjust things or ask a friend to help carry them. We might even realize we don’t need what’s in a few of those bags, after all, and we can just leave them behind. Those are all great moments and add to the quest.

And then there’s the one bag with that one thing in it that you need to keep close and handle on your own. Maybe someone might ask if they can help you with it. Odds are, it’ll be the well-intentioned guy in the next aisle with the sweet smile. But know your stuff well enough to know when to say, “Thanks, but not this one.”

bag4

Don’t be mistaken, there will always be that one bag that each of us has to handle on our own. No man or woman or parent or best-friend or favorite child can help us with it. It probably seems bigger and heavier than all the rest.  It holds within it the stuff that make up the parts of us that we hate the most.

It stores the darkest hurts we’ve ever felt from pilgrimages life took us on that we never, ever would’ve planned to take on our own. The roads that lead us to ugly, scary places. Places where the only souvenirs we came back with are ones that left us so scarred, we cannot even remember what that scathed part of us used to look like.

We all have that one bag. That mangled, used, tattered, ugly piece that we want to keep hidden from the world but we, ourselves, can’t seem to get away from. No matter how much we try to leave it behind.

Here’s a little secret, most people don’t see your bag as mangled and used and tattered and ugly. Most of people see it for what it is… proof that you’ve been there… you’ve done that…. and you made it back.

Not only did you make it back. You made it back with stories to tell. Some are amazing because they were beautiful. Some are amazing because they were excruciating. All are amazing because they are all part of your adventure. And who, in their right mind, would come back from an adventure without some baggage?

dv1984017

warrior2

YOU BELONG HERE.

Momastery is an open window. It’s a place to take a deep breath. It’s a place to drop out and tune in. It’s a place to stop striving, stop competing, stop suspecting, stop hiding. To hear and tell truth. Mother Teresa said, “If we have no peace, it is because we have forgotten that We Belong to Each Other.” If we find peace here- it’s because we remember. Glennon Doyle Melton — http://momastery.com/carry-on-warrior

I’ll Have The Chicken

I went down to the cafeteria to grab a bite to eat.

Yesss… I see pasta.

I’m starving and, of course, there are 2 people in front of me who can’t decide what they want.

Out of nowhere, the good looking guy next to me says…

him: the chicken looks good.
me: (suddenly adjusting my posture) sure does.
him: (smiles and winks at me) let’s go for the chicken
—-ummm… LET’s???? did he just say ‘let’s”???
me: let’s.

We both order the chicken and I pay first (still wondering what he meant by “let’s”). I figured, if he follows me to the table, then I know.

I sit.

He sits at the table next to mine, facing me and smiles.

A’ight.

I smile back and as classy as one can cut a piece of chicken with a plastic knife and fork, I proceed to do so.

I take my first bite.

Chew. Chew. And then the clearing-of-the-throat thing starts to happen. — OK, Tania… keep your cool. Just drink some water.

Of course, drinking water would require that I open my mouth. I can’t open my mouth. You see, the piece of flippin chicken I had just bitten into was covered in an Asian-infused sauce I couldn’t pronounce. An unpronounceable sauce I am now sure translated into the words “this chicken is flavored to taste like the inter-sanctum of Hades.”

I thought of spitting it into my napkin but guess who forgot to grab napkins? How on earth am I supposed to smile, pay for my food, keep my posture and remember to grab napkins???

So I have no other choice but to swallow the slimy, lavaric bit of poultry. What was that for? Not only did the clearing-of-the-throat sound become a steady cough, suddenly my eyes start to tear up. Still trying to play it cool, I manage to get the words out…

me: whoa, this is really hot.

he’s still smiling… clearly not realizing my head is about to combust.

him: yeah. doesn’t it taste amazing?

People, just so you know, turns out the devil really is good looking.

I lift my shaking hands to my eyes in a last ditch effort to stop the tears from trailing down my cheek while simultaneously trying to grasp for air through my failed attempts to do the sexy-cough (oh, shut-up!). And as if things couldn’t get any worse, wouldn’t you know it, that’s when my nose starts to run. Flowing like the Mississippi River during a torrential down pour.

That’s about the time Beelzebub realizes what’s going on. I suddenly sense him standing next to me as he offers me a napkin from the few he had remembered to grab. At this point he has to place it directly in front of my face because I no longer have peripheral vision.

I grab all of the napkins from him as if they were a life-bouy, clutching the small stack with both hands, wiping off my nose and eyes… in that order (I said, shut-up!).

All elegance and decorum is long gone right after I blow my nose and just before I GULP my water down.

I see him looking at me so I compose myself as best I can.

me: well that was interesting.
him: maybe you should’ve had the pasta.

I hate that guy.

I hate him so much.

Ratchet Bun and Pink Lipstick

Ladies,

Ever wake up with a heavy heart saying… no… (inwardly) SHOUTING… to the world ENOUGH ALREADY!?!?

One of those mornings when calling/texting/reaching out to anyone, anywhere, seems pointless because you know they know… but, still, they

Just. Don’t. Know.

No one does.

So instead of laying in bed thinking about the million different ways you could’ve done things better, if not completely right, you roll out of bed, shed a tear or two under a scalding, hot shower till your skin begs you to move, put a decent pair of jeans on (because you know if you put the sweats on, you’ll end up back in bed), tie your hair up in the most ratchet hair bun and FORCE YOURSELF TO WEAR THE PINK LIPSTICK…

because, dammit, today you’re gonna pretend to feel pretty no matter how ugly you feel inside.

Ever had one of those kinda mornings??? I feel ya, sister. And to you I say: know you are loved, thought of, prayed for and needed just as you are. So give that version of the world, the one that’s trying to convince you that the ugly stuff is all you’ll ever be, the finger.

Not sure it’ll be your finest WWJD moment but it does help… oh and don’t forget the pink lipstick!

#ratchetbun #paleskin #pinklipstick #thinkingprettythoughts

pinklipstick

 

An Hour Later…

Let me preface this story by stating that Kid 2 will go to just about any party he’s invited to if it is implied that there will be LOTS of food and even more dancing…

It took him under an hour to get ready and another 20 minutes to figure out how to get his tie perfect but, alas, by 7:45, he was ready. Technically, the party started at 7:00. It was his umpteenth sweet 16 party invite this year. He looked quite dapper sporting his new way too expensive haircut and purple/gray tie. We get in the car 5 minutes later and I ask, “where to?” to which he replies, “um, just drive west on Division.” — red flag #1

I drive up Lake St. instead and he tells me to turn right on Central — red flag #2

I slow the car and stop in front of a door that is clearly decorated for a birthday party. As he starts to exit the car, a mini-van cuts in front of me and 6 people get out of the car. They look at me, I look at them, we all look at Kid 2… Kid 2 looks ecstatic. — red flag #3

So in the most sensitive, politically correct manner, I ask Kid 2, “so, whose party is this again?” To which he rolls his eyes and says a name that sounds an awful lot like Kahlua. I’m a fan of the liqueur so I thought to myself, it’ll be fine.

As he closes the door, I hear one of the kids from the van ask him, “you sure you at the right party?” To which my jovial ‘ready to get his party on” son smiles and disappears with the group behind party door number 1.

I drive off, run some errands and wait for him to text me when he’s ready to come home.

Text from Kid 2: Mom you can come pick me up now.

I drive up to birthday door 1. He pops out of the hall and walks over to the car with a smile on his face.

me: so how was it?
him: memorable
me: did you have fun?
him: at first I just sat there for a while but then when the dancing started it got fun… that is… until the ambulance was called.
me: oh… wait… what?
him: it happened during the twerk-off
me: uh
him: this one girl twerked so hard she slipped and dislocated her knee… mom, she screamed soooo loud. her body was this way and her leg was that way and she kept screaming but the music was so loud some people kept twerking. I didn’t know if I should cheer for the other girls or help her… but you know how I feel about blood and people in pain. I was so confused. (very short pause) Needless to say, the bday girl won.
me: um
him: also, I walked around and saw there wasn’t any real food so once the paramedics left I figured I should just go home.
me: um
him: Kaliah looked nice though. At first she had on a pretty dress and then she changed it up for the twerk-off.
—- awkward silence —-
me: so let me get this straight… you got there, sat around, then danced a little, then watched a dance…errr… I mean twerk-off, then witnessed a young lady practically cripple herself, then saw her carted off into an ambulance, where then the ‘competition’ resumed to end with the winner being the bday girl who actually changed outfits and in that time, you scanned the venue and noticed there wasn’t any food to your liking. — baby, YOU WERE ONLY THERE AN HOUR!

Bacon and Grace Makes Everything Better

“Why can’t you two be like normal divorced parents and NOT talk to each other?!?!”

Turns out he told her she could do something, after I told her she couldn’t, and then retracted his yes to pair with my no. She was not a happy camper. Ahhh, parenting from two different homes and making every effort to show a united front can be as challenging as, well, parenting from one home while making every effort to show a united front.

I know both forms of parenting all too well. Thirteen years of 1-house/2-parents was way easier than 2-houses/2.5 parents has been (hard, but not as hard as it could’ve been). Parent 0.5 is quiet and shy and generally sits on the sidelines and let’s us (parent 1 & parent 2) do what we do. I appreciate her involvement in my children’s lives without getting involved in our parental decision making. I’m not quite sure what she thinks of our parenting skills or how he and I relate to each other but, for four years, she’s been good and patient with my kiddies (yeah, even with kid 1!) and that’s all that matters to me.

I’m not oblivious to the fact that kid 1 was correct when implying that the co-parenting kindness the ex-husband and I have towards each other is not at all normal. What she sometimes fails to miss during her Veruca-esque fits of anger is what it took to get here. I can only surmise that none of this would have come to pass had it not been for a whole-lotta grace.

Last Saturday the ex-husband and I had our annual sit-down-face-to-face breakfast. I had the french toast and bacon as we talked about what, where and how we will continue to parent two of the craziest, fun, smart and sometimes most difficult kids ever (and when I say ‘difficult kids’, I think we all know who I mean). I won’t deny that it doesn’t really make my “Top 5 Awesome Things To Do” yearly list. But, for us, it’s a necessary pow-wow. The first couple of years were the hardest but by year three, thankfully, it just got easier to show up less angry.

For the record, it wasn’t only him with whom I was angry. I was really pissed at me too.

WHAT?!?!

What reason could I have possibly been angry at myself? After all, it was due to his actions/choices that we were now co-parenting over phone calls, emails, texts and annual french-toast and bacon breakfasts.

Well, in all honesty, I was angry that I had failed. I was so ashamed that I couldn’t keep my family together. The way I had seen it, in the realm of all the dozens of tasks I did throughout the day, I really had one main job and that was to keep my brood in tact.

Given that we didn’t start our marriage the traditional way, looking back, I would’ve bet on the odds against it working out. Though we’d been together for over two years before we married, my proposal came in the form of ‘The stick turned blue. Guess who’s getting hitched?’ Not exactly romantic. Not exactly promising.

The first couple of years into the marriage were less than thrilling but, apart from that teeth-grinding thing he did when he slept and thinking it was cute to leave ‘his scent’ in the room for me as he walked out, everything seemed to be going smoothly by the time year 3 rolled around. We were definitely one of those families who enjoyed being around each other and had our calendars filled with things to do. 

Of course, I didn’t know it at the time but over a dozen years worth of daily to-do lists and scheduling had become such a comfort. That is, until my very structured, very put together, very content life, suddenly ended. I know, I know, all the pros will say that there must’ve been years of deterioration before the actual day it all ended. Far be it from me to question the pros, so let me just state, without question, I did not see it coming.

One summer afternoon I dropped my husband off at the airport and the next time I saw him, he sat down next to me on our bed, took a deep breath, looked me in the eyes and told me, among other things, that he didn’t want to be married anymore. That may have been what he said but what I heard was, “I don’t want to know your thoughts, share your dreams, see you smile, make you laugh, rub your feet, share your bed, go for walks, be your dance partner, watch movies or make memories with you anymore.”

That was seven years ago.

It became an uncomfortable comfort to hear those damaging words play over and over in my head throughout that time. But, thankfully, they slowly died out. Well, mostly they did. To say that I ever possessed the power within myself to display kindness and grace to the ex-husband throughout those two years following that dreadful night, would be an outright lie. In fact, there were more than a few moments when I tried to figure out how to really, really hurt him in a way that couldn’t be traced back to me. I was an emotional wreck but I wasn’t a total idiot. There was no way I was going to be brokenhearted by him AND do hard time because of him. Needless to say, I’m grateful that my seemingly evil plots were always foiled when I realized it would mean that I would have to get out of bed.

All kidding aside… kinda… I can truly say that being patient and kind to him during that time can only be attributed to barely a fraction of what I knew to be God’s grace. Don’t get me wrong, I was far from understanding what all of that meant at the time. I’m still not completely sure. What I do know is that as much as I wanted to be and say cruel and hurtful things to my husband who had betrayed me, I really couldn’t bring myself to say them to my children’s dad. Most days I really hated that ‘they’ were the same person. But as the weeks turned into months and those months turned into years, the process of forgiving and trusting that the Lord would give us both the wisdom and strength to get through it, prevailed.

How my marriage started may not have been ideal but all of the in between stuff was really good and fun and hard and frustrating and silly and mundane and, well, for the first time in my life, it was exactly what I wanted. I didn’t always know it’s what I wanted but I did appreciate it. I did. Not every minute of every day. But, on most days, I knew that it was a good thing. It was a good life.

But that was a lot of yesterdays ago.

As I chowed down on my second of the three slices of bacon on the plate (he actually asked me for a slice… *sigh* it’s like the man never really knew me at all), he and I discussed our parenting hits and misses in 2013 and went over our list of hopes and aspirations for this new year.  He was saying something about his summer plans with the kids and suddenly I had the urge to cry. And so I did. While I sat there silently crying crocodile tears into my last wedge of french toast, I knew that he was freaking out a little. And, as far as he knew, there was no apparent reason for this spontaneous flood of tears. But there was, in fact, a dozen or so apparent reasons. But none that I could really express or explain to him.

As I sat across the ex-husband, a flood of memories hit me. The thing is, they weren’t even memories of things that actually happened. They were memories of dreams and desires I once had. Ones that I had hoped and prayed for, for so many years. Some were unrealistic but there were a few requests I petitioned for which made my heart ache as I realized the Lord’s answer wasn’t ‘yes’ or even ‘wait’. It was, simply, ‘no.’

In that instant, I had become a little more understanding of the angry outburst kid 1 had displayed, regarding her father’s decision to no longer allow her to have what she felt she had earned.

So there I sat in the booth at Cozy Corner, across from the ex-husband who was now visibly upset because I was upset. He reached over and did the patting-of-the-hand while giving me the ‘there, there’ look. Comforting never was his strong suit but I give him an “A” for effort. Once again, he apologized for how things had turned out for me. I shook my head and said, “It’s not that. I promise. I’ll be ok.”

The thing is, I really wasn’t mad at him nor did I even think he should feel guilty for my sadness. I know it would be easier for me to blame him for everything when things in my life aren’t going as I had hoped. Allowing him to believe that he should still feel like he owes me an apology for something for which he’s already said he’s sorry and has also proven it in his actions, would only cancel out everything I’ve learned grace to be.

I know some people don’t get it. And that’s ok. For a time, I didn’t either. And then one day, it just made sense for me to do it this way. Extending grace to someone who hurt me more than words can describe was no simple task. But once the decision was made to do it, I only had to keep my word to me. I didn’t promise the ex-husband or my kids that I was going to do it. I didn’t even promise God I was going to do it. I do remember praying for the strength to do it. And then I did it.

We sat in silence for a minute or two looking out of the window. He never asked why I was crying and I didn’t offer a reason. Though we can once again break bread, talk and be friendly towards each other, we are no longer best friends. But we can, ONCE AGAIN, break bead, talk and be friendly towards each other. Grace = another chance; even if it looks nothing like the chance we thought we wanted it to be.

I watched as he reached over his side of the table and cut the last slice of bacon in half. He handed me one half then extended and held up his half as if to give a toast. I smiled, held up and extended my half and said, “to bacon… it really does make everything better.”

What The Funk?

What the… as if the snow and cold temps weren’t bad enough, I went to make myself a mug of hot chocolate this morning only to realize the milk went bad. I’ve tried and tried to deny this is happening but I can no longer put off what I’ve been trying to fight for the past 3 weeks and 6 days. I guess this last straw only means one thing… ladies and gentlemen, I am officially in a funk.

And instead of sitting in a corner, crying uncontrollably, eating my hair, I thought I’d try to write myself through this thing. I would love nothing more than to write an uplifting story right now but I can’t. I simply can’t. Try as I might (and I have been trying for about 3 weeks now), I can’t seem to find too much joy in anything. That’s not to say that I’ve taken to wearing all black and responding to people in one word sentences. It’s just taking a whole-lotta effort to find the glass-half-full stuff in my world.

Funks don’t happen to me very often and even when they do, I usually only allow them to have a couple of days of my time. But I’m finding it awfully hard to shake it this time. Did I mention how much I hate it when folks publicly crank about how awful life is when, in fact, it ain’t all that bad? I mean, if I let myself be reasonable about this whole thing, I’d realize that the injustices and catastrophes in this world far out weigh my issues. But, alas, funks are not about being reasonable. They aren’t. They are an ‘all about you’ thing… or all about me, as is the current case. Funks are never-ending thoughts of ‘that’s not fair,’ ‘why me?’ ‘why now?’ ‘not again’ ‘how come my life can’t be as perfect as theirs?’ Funks make you want to believe that everyone else’s life is exactly the life you were supposed to have. Funks get us to believe lies about who we are or who we aren’t, what we’ve done, what we haven’t accomplished, if we’re good enough and, worst of all, that we’re not worth it —sidenote: not sure what ‘it’ is but funks are not very specific on naming ‘it’, they’re only good at making us feel worthless when it comes to having or being ‘it’— I hate feeling this way and thinking this way. I wish I could just turn it off. It should be that easy, shouldn’t it? I’m a very sensible woman. I know that funks are worthless and time consuming and are no good for my complexion. I know this. I KNOW THIS. Why can’t I shake it? Funks suck!

Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad if there wasn’t so much crying involved. It’s horrible. And so inconvenient. I find myself fighting back the tears for just about every little thing. I’m at work working on a spreadsheet and the numbers 07-05-06 come up as sequential numbers I have to enter and suddenly my bottom lip is quivering. Why? you ask. Well, that happens to be the day we moved out of our home in Florida. I didn’t even know I remembered that was the date until today. —another sidenote: one more great thing about funks, all of a sudden, you have the best memory EVER—  Usually I remember all of the bad stuff but apparently any memory that can make me long for the life I once had is also fair game.

For the record, funks do not limit themselves to just conjuring up memories that make you weep like a moirologists. Case in point, my 11 month old niece made a sound that kind of sounded like my name and, wouldn’t you know it, 2 seconds later I balled. You’d think she’d reenacted that one heart-wrenching scene Sally Fields did in that one movie (eh, you pick… there have to be a least a dozen to choose from). Just so you know, I am NOT watching any movies/tv shows that can add salt to my open emotional wounds. I have purposefully stayed away from romantic-feel-good-type entertainment as much as humanly possible. But it doesn’t matter. Can you believe I actually got a little misty eyed when they ran the Memoriam segment on The Talking Dead. True Story! Then there was this morning’s last ditch effort to find entertainment that would help to ease the funk in my attempt to find solace with music; music without any lyrics. That didn’t go so well. I tried listening to soothing, classical music only to find myself in a pool of tears at the end of the song. Turns out it was a Beethoven piece that goes by the name of “Pathétique.” Perfect. (insert staleface here)

This weekend I thought I’d try to make the most of this funk. I mean, if I’m going to go through it, something good should come out of it, right? With that said, I thought I’d try out this whole ’emotional eating’ thing people keep talking about. I realize it’s not a good thing for the majority of mankind to eat their way through a funk, but, given that I’ve lost a few lbs in as many weeks, can you see how I thought this might be a good idea? — one more sidenote, logic is not our friend when in funk mode— Here’s why that didn’t work out for me. I realized the reason why I lost a few pounds is because when I’m in a funk, the sight of food makes me nauseous. I didn’t make the connection until after I bought a pizza and wings and chips and some other stuff that I’m not gonna take the time to type out because just thinking about it makes me want to hurl. Geez Louise, I can’t even drown my sorrows in chocolate cake. Although, I did have 2 slices of pumpkin bread… IN A ROW. Please note that I did put forth the effort. FYI: I’m not bulimic or anorexic. I’m in a funk, people. Let’s try to stay focused.

All attempts to defeat this funk have failed. I’ve gone to concerts, read books, over worked, blow-dried my hair, got my eye-brows threaded, bought new shoes, volunteered my time,  journaled (yeah, I won’t be re-reading that stuff for a few years), talked about it, prayed and prayed and prayed about it, oh and did I mention the crying? So where does that leave me? How do I get past this? How do I get to place where my head isn’t swarming with a million thoughts? How do I get rid of the invisible 100 pound weight that seems to be sitting on my chest? When does the moment come where I can stop reminding myself how to breathe? My guess is, none of those questions will be answered anytime soon.

Did I mention how much funks suck? Out of nowhere, they just take over. They’re the emotional version of squatters. And they move into our heads without signing a lease. And for some unexplainable reason, they have rights. They belong. They’re ugly and unruly and scary and sad and angry and frustrating and they represent all the shitty things we know exist in our world but don’t want to deal with. We make every attempt to bypass them and distract ourselves as much as possible when we see them coming. And even when we know they’ve moved in, we try to ignore them as if they don’t exist. Sometimes, we even try to pawn them off on someone else. Like squatters who live under the viaducts or sleep on park benches, we look for ways to avoid eye contact with them until we have no choice but to look them in the eyes. When all is said and done, there’s no denying, they’re there. They exist. And there’s one living in my head… right now.

Maybe that’s where I’m at today. Maybe this is my way of looking this squatter-of-a-funk of mine in the eye. Maybe I’m done bypassing and trying to distract myself from dealing with it. I hate that it’s here. But I can’t deny that I may have given this recent funk the impression it could pay me a visit. I made unwise choices and trusted someone who has their own multitude of squatters to deal with. And though I may have given this funk the impression it could visit, I certainly have no intention of becoming roommates with it. But it’s here now and, as with every single other funk that has paid me a visit, I have to figure out how to get it out of my head without causing any more damage.

And I guess that’s where you come in. I assume you’re reading this because you care to know me a little better. Or maybe you just happened to come across this blog on accident and found it so riveting that you had to read this complete stranger’s ranting about being in a funk. That works too. Given that we all now know I cannot get over this funk on my own, would it be too much to ask if you would say a prayer or two for me? No worries if it’s not your thing. I only need one or two people to help out (though I won’t be mad if the numbers exceed that). I realize the verse in Matthew says, “for where two or three gather in my name, there am I with them.” and I know we aren’t really gathering together in one place but let’s not get all boggled down in those details. I just need you to pray for me. I need to laugh again with reminding myself how to laugh. I need to eat without force feeding myself. I need to sleep without the help of Tylenol PM. I really need to stop crying. But most of all, I need to remember why it is I really am worth ‘it’.

A Public Apology To My One True Love

Hello my love. I’m writing to you to publicly apologize for abandoning you this morning. You have to know that I didn’t want to go. Please believe me when I tell you that leaving you is always the worst part of my day. I know it’s hard for you to believe because I do it all the time. And like all of the others who say that they love you… need you… can’t live without you, I offer up my very own heartfelt, “I’m sorry” and “I love you” and “I can’t live without you.” Honestly, it’s not a petty apology. I do love you. I do need you. I really can’t live without you. I truly am so incredibly sorry. I don’t want to make this all about me but you need to know how I feel… what I go through when I have to leave.

Let’s start with the obvious… morning. For some unexplainable reason, someone, a very long time ago (before I could give my input) decided that when the sun came up, it was time to start the day. Had it been up to me, I would’ve made it so that I wouldn’t have to leave you for a full 3 hours after sunrise. — which reminds me of a few weeks back when I was on vacation. Remember how the sun came up and I didn’t have to leave? Remember how I just laid there and you let my conjure up ridiculous notions of bike rides and taking long walks by the beach. You let me believe I could lay there with you as the hours passed and that I would still have time to clean, run errands and frolic under the sun.

Hmmm, something just occurred to me. If you cared about me as much as I do for you, why do you allow me to believe such ridiculous thing? I can’t lie in bed all morning and still have a full day to do the things that need to be done. Not that I wouldn’t love to but I can’t just stay cozied up under the blankets and make plans that will never happen. You let me believe that the world is mine. You let me believe that I am the smartest and wittiest and cleverest woman who has ever walked the earth. You let me believe that I can do crazy things like run a 5k in under 35 minutes and look cute when I cross the finish line. You let me believe that I can get out of insanely dangerous situations with ninja-like skills. You let me believe that I’ll live in houses I’ve never been in, love children I’ve never seen and dance in 5 inch spiked heels I don’t own. You even let me believe that I look good in yellow. LIES, sir… all lies!  I give you an extra hour of my time and I walk away believing a ton of lies. 

WHY??? I have been so loyal to you. I am all yours when you decide you want me. Sometimes I lay in bed for hours just waiting for you to show up. Not that I’m ever disappointed when you do. But, 6 hours is just not enough. And don’t get me started on the nights you show up at 2am and suddenly you vanish by 5. And you think I’m selfish and inconsiderate??? And don’t think that just because you give me a half-hour nooner on Saturday afternoons that it makes up for how you treated me during the week. Don’t get me wrong, I adore you. I really do. But what do you want from me? I wait for you with bated breath. Longing for you to show up. I do what I can to prepare myself for your arrival. I shower and brush my teeth. I wear cute pj’s. When I dry the sheets, I throw in gently scented lavender fabric-softner. You think I do those things for just anyone? No sir, it’s for you… all for you. And don’t think that others can’t tell how unfair you treat me. On those nights when you decide to show up for a few measly hours… or not at all… I go to work with bags under my eyes, lose my appetite, have no desire to work out and absolutely no energy to perform daily tasks.

I wish I didn’t need you the way I do. I wish I could be one of those people who can just walk away from you in the morning with a smile on my face and feeling completely satisfied with our night together (no matter how short a time it was) . I hate those kind of people.

Anyway, I realize I went off on a tangent here. This letter was supposed to be about how sorry I am for, once again, putting my son and work and life before you. I hate that it has to be this way but it’s just how it goes. With that said, I look forward to being with you tonight. I was thinking that after a nice, long bubble bath, I would pour myself a glass of wine, wear my oversized t-shirt, crawl under the blankets and try to focus on my book until you show up. Don’t keep me waiting too long, my love.

You’re so dreamy. I love you, Mr. Sandman.

T

Image