flatlined

I’ve told most of my story in repeated formats, even disclosing parts of that journey that hadn’t been shared before, earlier this summer. But there is yet another piece of the puzzle that I feel compelled to speak truth to today.

Through the last 25 years of my life, where in trauma after trauma has been laid at my doorstep, and I have worked overtime to ensure healing on my children’s part, and while I have spent HOURS in all forms of therapy and counseling, I have never been on any kind of psychiatric medicine as a regular RX. I have taken, literally, 6 pills of various psych drugs over the last two decades. 6 individual pills. Period. And I have been damn proud of that. That accomplishment had been my shining moment in my mind.

But for someone who valiantly defended and advocated for mental health for everyone else, that wasn’t a rational mindset. At all. It wasn’t logical or progressive in nature.

But I fought for that pedestal with everything in me. Why? Because I lived with someone for 12 years, and have had to continue to deal with him for 17 years more, who made me feel crazy every chance he got. When I divorced him, he claimed that I was the mentally unstable one, that I’d had a nervous breakdown, I was the drug addict, I was the unfit parent. He worked so tirelessly to destroy me in this area, that he was held in contempt of court FIVE different times for character assassinating me. FIVE different times.

And so I was gonna be damned if I was going to give him any ammunition to prove his point in any possible way, because if I had to be on any meds, he had told me he would use everything he could find against me to say I was unstable and unhealthy, and project his issues on to me. So instead I mustered all of my own mental clarity, emotional energy, and spiritual effigy, put myself through two “therapeutic” degrees, and held my shit together for all these years.

Until this summer when everything else about my health was falling apart. And I flatlined. Or rather I realized that I had been flatlined for years.

I had been a very purposeful parent. A very focused educator. A very over-achieving doctoral student. But an unusually uninspired, overly introverted, no libidoed, unpassionate, sad person. A person who had once wanted to change the world and was thrilled with simply living, I simply wanted to sleep and watch Netflix.

Then one day recently my old soul 17-year-old son approached me one day, after going to HIS psychiatrist for a check-up, saying, “mom, you won’t be weak or crazy for going to a psychiatrist. You’ve been strong for us for so long. You got us the help we needed, now you need to love yourself too. You deserve to love and enjoy your life, not just survive through it.”

So I went to a psychiatrist today. We talked for almost two hours. When I thought she would tell me I was dramatic or prone to being emotionless, or needed to just get over my past, and reduce current stress, you know what she did? She gave me an official medical diagnosis of PTSD, something that was so deeply validating and vindicating that I cried. I had been diagnosed with that by different therapists repeatedly, but never by a medical doctor on my official record.

And she gave me two different medicines that are supposed to help supplement my nonexistent serotonin production, and help me to calm my hyper-vigilant mind enough to sleep at night. She said that the medical world tends to misdiagnose the effects of PTSD in multifaceted, overlapping ways, often missing the key dysfunction trigger, the trauma; and that it takes time to heal many aspects of the PTSD brain because in order to prescribe enough dosage to truly heal the most dramatically injured areas, a person would have to become a medicated zombie.

I went into this appointment today expecting to be made to feel like I really WAS crazy, and I was trying to be ok with that. But instead, I walked out with the knowledge that what I believed to be true for everybody else, was true for me too. The ways I was violated and betrayed, and the ways I didn’t let them break and destroy me, are a testimony to how sane I really am, and that the ways I was injured CAN be helped to be healed through medicine, because my mind and emotions are showing a healthy response to pain, not in spite of their response because I just feel high maintenance.

Footnote to Yesterday’s Disclosure

As a footnote to yesterday’s disclosure, I would like to address an elephant in the room. It had actually been ASKED of me way back during my original court proceedings, in several different ways, why I chose my first husband; and that, in essence, what did I expect to get for marrying a black guy from the ghetto? This whole racist shame blame was one of the reasons I stayed married, and tried to make our relationship work, for so long. I didn’t want people to judge my experience as a blanket statement that all black men were a certain way….which I learned, was how many white people quietly felt.

And once I did leave my first husband, and I was asked to start telling my story to help others, I didn’t want my experience as a domestic violence victim to be founded on the premise of the color of skin of the man I married; that would be an evil betrayal of victims of all “skin colors”, including white, that domestic violence can only happen in certain demographics. It happens across, and up and down, the demographic board.

That being said, while I know that there are real men in every racial and ethnic group, I know from experience that there are losers too. Grown males being boys crosses all barriers too. I grew up with an uncle, a white guy, who ended up in prison for years for murder, but not before he first pulled a knife on, and threatened to kill, my aunt. My first husband was African-American and Caribbean. My second husband was Filipino and white. And my third husband was Mexican, Spanish, and white.

So please, when you read my story, throw all notions of racism out the door. The issues I’ve dealt with in relating to the men in my life are defined by the heart and character of the men I’ve chosen, not the color of their skin, ethnic heritage, or even religion. It’s about power and sexism and patriarchy, and a crippling misunderstanding of what it means to love and respect women, no matter the cultural background.

My parents raised me to always look at the heart and soul of a person, not how they look or where they were from, to determine their value in your life. And I ask you to still do the same. The brokenness of the men in my life was not because they weren’t white, or were white, or rich, or poor, or from a dysfunctional family, or spoiled. Their brokenness was caused by choices they made that, as an adult, they still chose to define themselves as victims, boys, and in need of being babied at all costs, all the time, instead of being the men that they had the potential, and were intended, to be.

I saw that potential, and loved that possibility and often times promise, rather than who each of them very clearly lived their actual lives being. My mistakes were in misjudging character, not culture. Please don’t do the same. There are amazing men out there that never get the chance TO be judged by their character, because they are too quickly judged and written off by their culture and color.

Full Disclosure of My Greatest Shame

This is a full disclosure post on the part of my life that I’m most ashamed of, even though those who know my story well find no fault for me in my journey, only a well-advised directive that my choice in men has to reflect my worth, not their potential.

And while this has been a developing thought process over the last several years, it was brought to a head, for some reason, through the wedding of Harry and Meghan. Weird, because I’m not a Royal family watcher or fan, I’m certainly not a person for power and position, and I am the last person to be formal and fabled. But I’ve learned a powerful lesson from watching these two and learning their story, and it has helped to heal mine.

To set the stage, all I ever wanted to be growing up was a wife and mom. I come from a long line of long marriages, and my soul desire in life was to carry on that legacy. However, the men in my life who loved the best were not men in positions of wealth or power or influence, and then men who were, were often drunk, violent, and unpredictable. I learned to trust the underdog and reject the seemingly accomplished.

Those who know my story know that I was married the first time to my children’s father, my first supposed love, for 12 years, before barely escaping via a full restraining order and police escort, weighing under 100 pounds. I say “supposed” first love because you can’t truly let anyone in who has abused you and controls you, even if you THINK it’s love initially.

And those who know my story know that I was married for eight months, about three years ago, after being a single parent for a long time….having worked hard, hard, to get myself healthy and whole, thinking that I had finally chosen a healthy, whole person, only to find out that he had been serially cheating me with multiple women, the entire time I’d known him, dating, engaged, or married to him, including the solicitation of sex on Craigslist.

Both of these marriages I’ve documented well. But where my shame lies is with a second, rarely mentioned marriage, that occurred about three years after my first divorce. And I’m not sure why I feel such shame, because I chose not to sleep around, I chose not to just live with someone, I chose not to party and drink my blues away, but I was in such a broken, battered, and bruised spot at the time that I feel like I had no business entertaining a relationship at all, let alone a marriage.

We met on MySpace, dated long distance for a few months, married in Reno, and then, 8 months later, after calling me a nympho the first 8 months of our marriage for WANTING sex, he came home one day and told me that he was bisexual, currently having an affair with both another woman AND a man, at the same time, and wanted a divorce. He’d suffered a TBI a few years before from a motorcycle accident, it had completely changed his personality, and he was just figuring out who he was again, is what I was told. All I DO know was that the TBI really did happen.

So that little girl whose only wish was to be a wife of one husband, for a lifetime, was a three time divorcee; a shame that, for me, I’ve been haunted by for the last decade.

And in that process, one has to then acknowledge that their picker is broken, and try to fix it. And in that process, I’ve learned some things about myself. I’ve always played small, wanting to shrink my talents and personality as to not draw attention to myself and to remain in the background. I have a deep anxiety about my worth, or lack of it, and have felt my whole life that I have had to earn the love I’m given. Which has led me to men that “need” me, and need “fixing”, and have great “potential” and that maybe I can prove my worth by helping them find it.

And conversely, men who are confident and who are powerful, or in positions of authority have intimidated me, made me feel more broken than I already was, and I felt like either they wouldn’t truly love me, and only want to control me, using me as their trophy wife; or I wasn’t worth their genuine love and protection because there was nothing to earn, and I wasn’t worth being valued, respected, and loved, simply for being myself, and my imperfect self, at that. I’ve spent years trying to be perfect because then my weaknesses would be strengthened and my armor fortified.

Needless to say, my own hang-ups, and then my life experiences, have done a huge number on me, and my view of men in my life. And it would be really easy just to succumb and wallow in cheap one night stands, or write relationships off completely, but deep inside me I’m still a believer in the love of the likes of Ruth and Boaz, and furthermore, I’m raising a son, and what kind of a man do I want to raise in him?

And then I see Harry and Meghan, a man of power, position, privilege, wealth, and yet when I see him look at her, I see a man who deeply loves and honors his wife, and everything else fades to the background; who, in all his strength, in his wholeness, he chooses her, not because she was the seemingly perfect choice, but because she was HIS choice, and he is made better still by the compliment of her. And her “being” and value to him is based simply on who she is, not what she can offer, make whole, fix, or make small so that he can shine brighter.

So may I raise my son to value himself enough not to remain a victim, but to step into his sacred masculinity like a boss, and love the women he will with an empowering presence. May I model for my daughter to never use her beauty to lord or power over a man, but to also never shrink in their presence to make any man feel more “manly” and in control, at her expense.

And to myself, may I learn to own my story, never play small again, choose not to make equal with me men who can’t even stand on their own two feet; relish my imperfections and scars because they have been forged by me at a great price; not shy away from men who have their s*** together because I’ve worked my a** off to get mine together, and iron sharpens iron, but rocks, papers, and scissors only destroy each other; and to entertain and choose a partner that looks at me the way Harry looks at Meghan, learning to rest and trust in the fact that I am worthy of a man who needs me for nothing other than me simply being myself.

Ocean Wave Tattoo

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The first time I remember being at the ocean, I couldn’t have been more than four or five years old. My family was at family camp in the Santa Cruz Mountains, and we were at the ocean for the “Beach Day”. Today that meaning carries with it the image and expectations of the rides and hype of the Santa Cruz Beach Boardwalk, elaborate sandcastle contests, and competitive volleyball tournaments. But in the mid-70’s, “beach day” was simply the day you spent time at the water’s edge, digging in the sand, looking for hermit crabs, and eagerly running away from the oncoming waves’ froth.

My family never spent time at the beach other than this one designated day each year. So I hadn’t had a lot of experience with sand, or waves, or the stinging sea salt spray that the air seemed to be heavy with. Nor had anybody ever told me that waves could be unpredictable, unexpected, and unforgiving.

I, in my eagerness and zest for life, full of an extrovertism that would quickly vanish in ensuing years, I stood at the water’s edge, bucket and shovel in hand, turning to wave at my mom and dad who, not being beach people themselves, were grudgingly “taking one for the team” and hanging out at the sea for a day.

It was when I had just stopped waving, and started to bend down to dig up the sand to fill my pail with hard, wet globs to carry back to our dry sandy spot, that it hit. I didn’t hear the roar, amazingly, maybe because I didn’t even know what to listen for. I didn’t feel the ground pulse underneath me, probably because I was full of the pulse of my own heart beating happily with life, and I didn’t see the receding water in expectation for a gathering wave.

I only remember being knocked off balance, and pulled out to sea by the power and relentless pulse of the wave that fully engulfed me in it’s angry embrace, seemingly mocking me for standing in its way.

I remember everything going dark, being strangled by the water’s curling and curdling grip, and struggling to gather my tiny frame. I willed myself back to shore with every ounce of energy I could muster, frantically fistfighting the heavy and heaving riples, stopping only to cry when I was safe on the dry sand. It was then that I looked back at the now  darkly mysterious and fully alive sea, finally fully grasping what had really happened to me, realizing that the enemy had almost won; I had nearly been defeated.

And then I don’t remember the ocean again really, for another 15 years. Until I was on my honeymoon with my first husband, in the Bahamas. I was already on edge and not myself due to issues written about in other posts. And I vaguely remember there being a tipped sign, barely legible, warning of dangerous riptides. And, much like the rest of my experience with him, this barely 48-hour-ed wife believed him when her husband said that she would be safe, to just ignore the sign.

So I walked out into the seemingly never-ending shallow waters, beginning to relax from the warmth of the tropical waters mesmerizing me with their sparkle. Only to then all of a sudden have my feet sucked out from underneath me, like a quicksand presentation running in slow motion. The tide yanked me back from behind, submerging  me to it’s depths, slamming me into the ocean floor with a power that created a sand paper effect over the entire front of my body. And for an instant, I was paralyzed, suctioned to the ocean floor in a magnetic grip.

Again, I struggled to right myself, and free myself of the gale.  I gasped for hair and choked on salty froth that had ballooned in my lungs and nose. It wasn’t until I reached shore that the sandpaper effect began to show pinpoints of blood from where the sand had been engraved into my skin. And I remember sitting on the dry, sandy shore, shaking from adrenaline, wondering if in some weird way,  the ocean was sharing a premonition with me of what this marriage was going to be like.

And then I don’t remember any ocean or beach experience for another 12 years. This time, I was alone literally, not just figuratively. But at this point, alone was the safest refuge I could find. When I finally left my first husband, under 100 pounds, hair falling out in clumps, six different kinds of hives all over my body, bruises and scars dotting my skin from the war I had been in for the last 12 years, I desperately sought solitude. And the place that kept drawing me to it was the ocean, with a yearning that filled me equally with awe and comfort, surrounding me like a blanket on a cool winter’s night.

Instead of fear or anxiety, the sea called me to it. The pounding waves anchored my broken heart. The rough, warm sand seemed to exfoliate the scar tissue both on my skin and my psyche. The pungest salt-filled air seemed to cleanse the muck and mire from my very breath. The sea was calling to me, the ocean was welcoming me home. The waves, in their angry rhythmic song, sang to me a lullaby.

And it was another 15 years later that I realized the sea had made me. It had been preparing me, from the very beginning, to know how to not only survive, but to thrive, when everyone around me was simply surprised that I was alive. When I should have been terrified of being pulled out to the breadths, or slammed into its depths, instead not only did I rise on my own, and survive the defining comb, but I actually gathered strength and found my home, from what many would flee from and simply randomly roam.

So I learned that the waves, like so much else in my life, had tried to break me, but instead they made me. And this tattoo is to remind me, when I feel discouraged and weary and sad, that my life has been defined.  And over and over in time, I have learned to see from what once made me blind;  and rather than becoming bitter, these sands have made me kind. Not the type of kind that pats your head, or speaks platitudes, forever being cliche. No, it’s the type of kind, that sees the light in the mind, and is able to identify what most see a common, as actually the sacredly sublime.

Queen Anne’s Lace Tattoo

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My daughter was six years old the day I finally gathered the courage to leave her, and her brother’s, father. That day, with the cathartic seriousness of a therapist, my daughter turned to me and said, “Mom, I’m proud of you. You’re finally growing up. You’re finally standing up for yourself, and us.”

She. was. six.

Growing up, all I ever want to be was a wife and mom. While I was a tomboy in every other way, and I had no desire to cook and clean, I DID want to be barefoot, pregnant, and save the world. Little did I know that the world that would need saving would be the one inside the four walls of my own home, and the people most in need of rescue would first be myself, and my two young children.

Because that’s the thing about being in an abusive relationship/marriage. While in hindsight you can look back and see a million red flags pointing to the oncoming storms, at the time, you simply feel the stillness in the air, and hold your breath.

And the deeply etched heartache in the abusive context isn’t just the victim of direct abuse, but it’s the children. The little’s that everyone thinks can’t hear, can’t see, can’t possibly internalize the electrically charged atmosphere; can’t possibly remember years later, if not in conscious memory, than subconscious muscle memory, the stealth terror which froze them in their beds at night, clinging to their stuffed animals; or the stealth fear during the day at not wanting to let their abused parent out of their sight for fear that they can’t protect them; or the stealth anxiety that eats away at their childhood, clawing away the simple joys of the newness of the world, and instead replacing it with the simple and singular focus of realizing that their world isn’t safe, and how do they defend themselves, and those they love, against it?

Which pops the bubble of yet another childhood idealism for children of domestic violence relationships, that of a child being able to trust that the adults closest to them will first and foremost protect them.

That’s where this tattoo comes into play. When I left my abusive marriage, and my daughter spoke the words that have haunted me to this day, I was NOT the person I was supposed to be. And yes, I can justify and explain, and even use solid research to back up why I was an absolute mess at that time in my life. And that matters. And it’s a million conversations for another day.

But today, it’s about her. My then six year old who lived in constant fear and constant anxiety. My six year old who chose to step in the middle of me and her father, because she wanted to protect me from his blows. My six year old who hated all dark colors because they were a sign of weakness to her. Why? Because I only wore dark colors at that time in our lives, and until the day I left her father, she saw me as weak. My six year old was my emotional strength, and what kept me sane, in those early years when I felt like my world was crashing, and spinning, and destructing, before my very eyes; but she carried a burden that was not hers to carry.

And another aspect of being a child of an abusive marriage is that they struggle to know who to “align” themselves with. While they want to protect the parent that is being  hurt, the survival mechanism kicks in as well. So their young and innocent mind decides that they better draw close to the abuser, as scary as that can be, because it’s probably safer than being closer to the abused; heck, the abused can’t even defend themselves, how will they be able to protect them? Their world of clarity and truth is obscured by the dense clouds of confusion, and fraught with the discordant rhythms of a childhood that has been stolen from them.

Then, besides having to heal from all the other trauma that we lived through, once the three of us escaped the situation, another challenge confronted us. I had to earn back the right to be respected, and the right to be the authority, and the right to be the creator of a safe and trusted place…… so that slowly my daughter could learn to be carefree in who she was….. a now 7-year-old. I had no voice, no commanding motherly presence ( still working on the commanding part), and I offered very little hope. And while my love for my children was large, and wide, and deep, and overpowering, it wasn’t expressed in the language where they could sense or feel it. So I had to heal myself,  heal my daughter, heal my relationship with her, and heal our home, all under continuing adverse circumstances. Our home was no longer a war zone, but many other places were still. And I had to learn how to fight for her in those areas too.

Which means that we kinda raised each other. Which means that there have been many days when we have been more like sisters than a mother and daughter. Which means that I have worked overtime to ensure that my daughter trusts my authority, feels safe with the boundaries I’ve drawn, and is secure enough to fall apart herself, knowing that I will be there to pick up the pieces.

We were discussing tattoo ideas a couple of years ago. She turns to me and says, “mom, I think you should get a Queen Anne’s lace tattoo.” I look up at her and ask her why.
“Mom,  the meaning behind a Queen Anne’s Lace is ‘haven, sanctuary, place of safety and rest’. You have been, and are that, for my brother and I. You need to have your next tattoo be that as it tells the next part of your story,  our story. We feel safer with you than anywhere else or with anyone else, now; and you don’t understand just how important that is. My brother and I would be involved in so much s*** if it wasn’t for you and your example. ”

And once again, like the raw emotion I felt the day she was six, I look at her, stunned,  in wonder and amazement.

All those sleepless nights, all those deep conversations, all those occasional yelling matches and slamming of doors, all those days when it took all the energy I had to physically cradle her through her rages, all those times I did not back down when she challenged me, the time I believed her when she disclosed the unthinkable abuses that had been done to her……all of the underpinnings of parenting that were magnified a zillion times in our case. All… of….. it….. mattered…. All of it made a difference. All of it created a world of order from chaos, hope from despair, and peace from what started as a war zone.

There are a lot of things I’ve failed at in my life. But being a mom evidently isn’t one of them. So while others toast to celebrate, I get inked.  Cheers!

 

Reminiscing A Year Ago

A yearblog ago today, my divorce was final from the marriage that lasted less than a year….. a marriage that, unbeknownst to me, was being strangled from within before it ever even caught it’s first breath. Infidelity is the most incidious of thieves… and multiple robberies, veiled in silence, secrets, and sudden sedations, steals the very core of who you are. You find yourself grasping for anything that’s not a murky mirage. Nothing is as it seems. Nothings is what it looks like. Nothing is what you believed to be real.  I wrote this poem a year ago today. And while much has healed, and much has been restored, much remains broken. Grief changes you. And while you heal, the scars will always remain. On  International Women’s Day, to those women who choose to remake themselves whole when others have done all they can do to break them.

Ironic, or perhaps providential. Definitely a justified juxtaposition. Today, on International Women’s Day, my divorce is final.

And while I rejoice and I am relieved, I grieve and I am sobered. I laugh through my tears. I shake through my strength. I sigh through my exclamation. I celebrate through my silence.

I pause, breathing deeply, exhaling the toxins of the recent, inhaling the blossoms of the next. It’s the day of closure. The moment of the dream deferred. The door locked, key thrown away. The promise severed, ripped away. The skin scarred, marked forever. The body swelled in death’s final blow.

I don’t grieve the person, who turned out to be, no one that I ever truly knew. My heart instead aches at the need to once again be strong; the resolute one, the barrier between the war zones; the hope-filled one, the warrior one, the bearer of all prophetic news. My soul is tired and weary, and wanting to quit, my arms are heavy and laden, and dense from traversing through all the bull****.

So now, I pause. Be still. And wait. And retie my loosened threads. Now I slowly gather strength, like the slow rising of the bread. I will draw from all the storminess, the raging gales that roared, to be the eye, where calm rises, showing it’s wholly humble side. From my depths, my pain, my deep angst of what if’s, I muster courage, and focus, a resolve to transcend my fists’ tight grip. I rise. I reckon. I make the wrongs be resoundingly right.

I am woman. A she. A her that won’t quit. I am female. A daughter. A mother that won’t sit. So yes, on this women’s day, I understand the fight. I understand the rift. I understand the reasons why women’s backbones’ are curved and quick. I respect deep down the importance of celebrating the “weaker sex”. For those who aren’t valued and treated with an equitable view, the fight is not just corporate, with salaries in view. No, this fight is personal, with families in full review. My son will be raised, with honorable wit, always expecting worthy and equal women by his side. My daughter will know, that more than her shape, there is a reckoning power in her eyes.

One day, when my being quits, it will not be for naught. I will stand before God one day, as He welcomes me to his lot. He will say well done my faithful child, for though with iron you were wrought, you stayed the course, you didn’t defeat, you never caved in your pursuit. Your love for Me is how the world will know how deeply they are loved; that when the world order around Me screamed to sift the “lesser we”, I stood in quiet, stealth defense, to show Myself first to thee. And that against the violent norms of social orders of the day, I stood in stark contrast to honor women, and respect for them I will always portray.

So today, I am free. I am unshackled, I am torn. I am woman. I am warrior. Through my strength yet I will soar.

Grief, Exhaled….. Tattoo

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This tattoo took me over the edge from being a person who had tattoos that were “cute”,  to a half- arm- sized tattoo on my left arm.

For a while I often wondered if it was “too” big, or “too” out there, or “too” much, quickly covering it up whenever I was around someone who maybe I  thought would judge me as having gone “too far”….

It even caught me off guard at first, startling me into thinking I had black marker on my arm from teaching…

But then…. as I’ve slowly evolved and grown as a person over this last year, this tattoo has become not only my life’s mantra, motto, but it’s the embodiment of how I’ve chosen to see life.

The impetus for me to formally verbalize my thoughts, cohesively turning them into the deeply etched phrase here, was in living through  the most recent of traumas in my life.

Without going into detail, after being a single parent for over 10 years, I remarried, only to find out that my husband of less than a year had been serial cheating on me during the entirety of my knowing him…. friendship, dating, engaged, married. To sum up one of  his mistress’s words, which he corroborated, he married me because I provided a good reputation for him, and I loved his children.

A whole different trauma. A while different betrayal. A whole different grief.

And from these ashes, these words took shape. While I created this for MY life, I choose to treat everyone who comes into my life with these life affirming beliefs as well,and pray that I can pay my pain forward, through being a vessel of transformed grace and hope.

So here is what I think….

BEAR WITNESS….Do you see injustice? Do you see abuse? Do you see oppression? Do you see evil? Don’t turn your head. Don’t shut your eyes. Don’t silence your screams. Don’t ignore the pain. Face the storm. Sound the siren. Summon the jury.

REVEAL TRUTH….The truth can’t set you free until you first unwrap it, unhide it, and uninhibit it. Truth speaks for itself. Don’t drown it out. Don’t shovel it over. Don’t bury it in and slam the door. Lay it down, and out, for all to see. Bare your naked soul. Call it for what it is. It is not YOUR burden to carry the sins of someone else. Lay blame where blame is due. And then step back, unburdened, and fret not anymore, the shadows no longer hold you captive.

HOLD SPACE…..Sometimes there is nothing to do, but sit with the grief, let the tears flow, tend to the shuddering silhouette. Grief bottled in is no mourning at all. Don’t rush. Don’t downplay. Don’t compare. Don’t rebuke. Simply……..be.   Light the candles. Rest in the refuge. Be silent in the sanctuary. Stand down.

EMBRACE PAIN……Life causes all of us pain. We either allow it to shape us, or we spend our lives fighting, as it swallows us. Before we can heal, we have to simply acknowledge it. Weakness isn’t in being betrayed, or in losing, or in being ripped apart. Weakness is in acting like it never hurt us to begin with. Let yourself feel all of the bitterness and rage. Let yourself be broken. Let yourself fall apart. Let yourself be real. It’s ok to not be ok.

CARRY GRIEF…..Never let someone tell you that you EVER heal whole again, unscarred, unblemished, unfractured, back to who you once were. You don’t. And don’t try. A part of your grief will go with you for the rest of your life. Own it. Respect it. Carry it. You are who you are because of the heartache etched on your heart. Make grief your ally so that, rather than embittering and imprisoning you, it creates a compassion for others you meet on your journey who need to know they aren’t alone. Because no one can walk this road solo. And no one is untouched by grief. And the darkness doesn’t discriminate, but it DOES fade to the corner when we light the path together.

HONOR JOY……There WILL be moments, even amidst the worst of the storms, when laughter will bubble over, the sun will beam bright, and life will kiss you with joy. Don’t downplay it. Don’t sabotage it. Don’t disgrace it. Don’t ignore it. Don’t destroy it. Don’t disown it. Honor it. No matter the cards you’ve been dealt, you’re  bound to draw an ace at some point. Hug it. Enjoy it. Grasp a hold of it. And….even if it’s just the eye of the storm, and the clouds are drawing nigh again, engrave those moments as memorial stones of what can be, what has been, and what will be again. Because the darkness and storms may rage for a night, but even the gloomiest midnight ends. And the sun comes up. And joy…..joy….. joy…. always comes in the morning.

 

 

Warrior Tattoo, and thoughts on Dating as Single Parent and Woman

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My first name, Carolee, is a derivative of Carol. My nickname is Carrie. The combination together means “song of joy” and “strong woman” depending on how you look it up. My middle name is Louise. Louise is a French name meaning famous warrior or renowned fighter. “Laoich” is Gaelic for hero or warrior.

I got this tattoo around the time that I made two intriguing discoveries as an adult single parent and woman. Don’t get me wrong. I could apply this tattoo to many areas of my life where I have had to fight for justice and for self-respect. But this tattoo, and it’s placement where I would see it as a constant reminder to myself , was inked as a reminder to me that it is better to be single than to lower one’s standards. And you never, EVER, put someone you’re dating before your children. EVER.

I have seen so many parents of students I teach, children of friends of mine, and just random people around me, who believe that their right to be happy trumps their children’s rights to have a safe and secure home, and the necessary attention needed from their custodial parent in order to grow into healthy adults; a feat that is challenging for any parent, let alone parents who are already navigating divorce or single parenthood for whatever reason.

Upon discussing recently with my daughter a couple of friends we have who AREN’T putting their children first, my daughter turned to me and said, “Mom, I’ve said it before. And I will say it again. You might not have had the best luck with men to date ( true), but one thing I’m so grateful for is that you have ALWAYS put me and my brother first, no man has ever come before us, and I’m so happy you’ve always loved us,and parented, like that.”

And my son, he sends me text messages or Instagram posts, thanking me for being the best mom AND dad he could have:

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Which leads me to the second meaning of this tattoo. I have always wanted to be a person who was respected versus loved. I don’t know why I’m driven to that, but I am. People can love you,but still walk all over you, and not value you. Which I guess some people would say isn’t love, right? And you make a good point. Obviously, as I’m writing this, I realize I’ve pinpointed a place where I still need to heal and grow. But being respected affords you some protection and voice. And if I had to choose between being someone’s muse or their battle partner, I would choose the latter. I have never wanted to be anyone’s plaything, or their trophy, or their status symbol.

Which leads me to the games men play. Women play games too, I know. But since I’m a woman, attracted to men, I will focus on the games that men play. I am 43 years old, not quite as in-shape, or wrinkle-free, or young, as I once was. I am definitely past the “I yearn to have more children,” phase of my life. I don’t party, give the illusion of being a club girl, a casual date, and maybe even a “fun” date (sad, I know).

And I get that some people can construe my tattoos as being those that belong to an easy girl, a hard girl, a “been around the block a few times girl”, and maybe part of my attraction to tattoos is because they DO give an illusion of toughness. Because my whole life I’ve had to fight to be taken seriously, to not be seen as naive, and all sweetness and light. So maybe part of my attraction TO tattoos is that they provide a form of armour, a weapon if you may, to keep idiots at bay.

I’m not looking to date right now. I’m pretty burned by what my next tattoo blog will address. But my interactions with other single men, in general, is woefully depressing, and has been, across the years. Dating sites? Anybody can say and purport to be anything. I’ve tried several, and people just aren’t who they say they are. Church socials? Some of the crudest men I’ve dated have been from these circles. Random people you meet in life? All I can say is that I’m grateful for the internet. Everybody I meet who has a potential to be a serious date? I background check them. It’s worth the money, trust me.

But the most frustrating thing to me is that most men, no matter their age, have to be told the same things that my daughter has told guys HER age:

No, I won’t send you pictures of me other than pictures that I would also post on Facebook on Instagram.

No. I don’t want ANY pictures of you other than ones that YOU would post on Facebook or Instagram.

No. I won’t sext you.

No. I don’t want you to sext me.

No. I won’t have sex with you.

No. I won’t watch porn with you.

And no, I won’t be a casual text. I don’t have time for that. Either pursue me, friends first, as a serious commitment, to friendship, at the very least. Or move on to other pastures.

I know that there are good men out there. Godly men. Feminist men. Men of honor. And yes, the pickings get slimmer and slimmer the older I get. Or maybe they don’t. I think that pickings for real men have been slim all along.

But now? Now I know my worth. It can’t be bargained for, or traded in, gambled, or taken for granted. I am FAR from perfect. But for finally in my life, I know what I bring to the table, I’m not afraid to eat alone, and the romantic in me is willing to hide beneath the warrior in me, protected, unless someone strong and heroic enough wants to fight for the right for it to be seen.

Celtic Nature Tattoo

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When I was a young child, I lost my grandma to cancer. I watched her slowly wither away.  I was devastated. I went from a happy-go-lucky child, to one who was almost obsessively  worried  with the fear of losing my mom too. Worry and anxiety dominated my life for several years after my grandma’s death. Then, again, as an early adolescent, I lost one of my grandpa’s to  cancer as well. He literally shriveled up to nothing right before my very eyes.  This pushed me into a second depressive state.

Through both of these experiences, I internalized my worry and fear, so much so, that for several years my doctors thought I had a stomach problem. I was tested for stomach cancer, Crohn’s disease, ulcers, colitis, celiac disease, IBS…..every possible digestive condition possible. And every test came back negative. The reason for my ailments? I was LITERALLY internalizing all of my stress and worry into my stomach and digestive tract. My stomach was eating toxic emotion for every meal, every day.

It’s also why, when I went through the stress of my first marriage, I dropped nearly 60 pounds, from 160 to under 100, in a few short months time. I simply stopped eating, and literally “lived” off the stress hormones.

During my first marriage, I also developed extreme TMJ. I would grind my teeth, and clench my jaws so intensely from the stress I was dealing with, that my jaw would simply lock shut, causing excruciating pain. To this day, I wear nightguards in my mouth every night, and I have a heavy duty narco-psychotic RX, that is for a short term use, to loosen the muscles in my jaw, for those now rare instances where the TMJ rears its’ugly head.

After I left my first husband, I broke out in 5 types of hives, resulting in my family rushing me to the ER. Every possible test was run for what could possibly be causing my rashes. The diagnosis? All my tests came back negative. The extreme stress I was under caused my body to simply flip out and basically set off emergency signals. The RX given? Eliminate stress from my life.

I had a skin cancer removed from my face at 37.

I went on HBP medicine at 38.

I had to go to physical therapy at 39 for a shoulder injury I had experienced at the hand of my ex-husband, only to suffer the muscular consequences almost a decade later.

Without hair dye- I was almost completely gray at 40, stress induced I’ve been told.

At 41 I had ovarian cysts that ruptured, causing me excruciating pain.

I could go on, but I think you’ve got the picture. You can experience so much stress in your life, endure so much trauma, that  at a certain point, your body will simply say, ENOUGH. It will go on strike. It will flip out. It will check itself into rehab. It will say to your mind, “I’ve put up with you, now you need to listen to me.”

And while I’m a hypochondriac ( hey…..I pay $2,000 a MONTH for Kaiser coverage for my kids and I, so I’m going to darn well go to the doctor whenever I FEEL like it), I have also become a growing believer in Eastern medicine too. I don’t want to treat my ailments simply by reactively popping pills. I want to get myself holistically healthy from the inside out. I want to prevent as much, if not more, than what I am simply reactively medicating and treating…. I’ve already started using essential oils daily (if you’re interested, I’m a distributor of doTerra Essential Oils), and they make a big difference, in certain areas of my physical and emotional health.

I’ve  also recently started studying the ancient Indian practice of Ayurveda. I’ve learned that my dosha is a combo Vata/Pitta dosha. The elements that I primarily embody are represented by  air, space, fire, and water. Noticably absent is earth, which is the dominant element in the third dosha, Kapha. Earth is the grounding, balancing element, offering stability and steadfastness of nature. And while I’ve learned to be very stable and steadfast as a parent, it is not my natural bent.

And then it dawned on me…. It’s the reason why, every opportunity I get, I want to be in nature. It’s why I love gardening, and find it so therapeutic. It’s why I love walking barefoot in the sand and dirt. It’s why, growing up, you’d more often find me in my tree house or backyard lawn than inside in my room. It’s why I always need to see horizons in my vision, why my house decorations reflect mountains and beaches; and why, if I ever get the option, I choose sunlight over fluorsecent lighting any day. It’s why I’d rather camp in a tent than be in the highest, most beautiful fancy hotel room,at any opportunity.

And then it dawned on me….. All of this is why this tattoo, with its’ shades of brown and green, has always brought me such pleasure. Because the earth, browns, greens, natural fibers, and being able to be in places where I am surrounded by greenery and granite, bring me so much joy…because they balance me out. They strengthen areas in my own psyche where I’m weaker. They literally breathe life into my soul. And it’s why, since I’ve been a young child, I have loved the lyrics to the songs I sang in my church’s children’s choir,“Down By The Creek Bank” and “Ain’t Gonna Let the Mountains Praise The Lord”.  And it’s why three of my all time  favorite Bible verses are, ” But now, O LORD, you are our Father; we are the clay, and you are our potter; we are all the work of your hand  Isaiah 64:8“; ” Behold, I am doing a new thing; now it springs forth, do you not perceive it? I will make a way in the wilderness  and rivers in the desert. Isaiah 43:19“; and “The Lord will guide you always; he will satisfy your needs in a sun-scorched land  and will strengthen your frame.You will be like a well-watered garden, like a spring whose waters never fail.Isaiah 58:11.”

The very rocks cry out, reflecting the very essence of God Himself; and it’s in that Rock, that I find my strength. Namaste.

Ecclesiastes Tattoo

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I come from a long lineage of very long marriages.

My parents have been married 47 years, and counting. They haven’t killed each other yet    (although they’ve had some doozies over the car AC, especially).  At the height of my parents marital stress level, right after my mom went back to work after being a stay at home mom for nearly a decade, I heard them arguing one night. This was the only time I have EVER  heard a SINGLE uttered swear word in my home growing up. It stressed me out. I asked my mom if she and my dad were going to get divorced. She looked at me increduloulsy and said, ” No. I made a commitment to God to love your father until the day I die. I might KILL him so that day comes sooner, but I will never divorce him.”………ah….my life was rebalanced again….

My dad’s  parents were married 41 years before my grandma died.

My mom’s parents were married a month shy of 70 years before my nana died. 70 years!!! I asked my Boppo one day, if he had to do it over again, would he still have married my nana? He looked at me, ever earthy and blunt in nature, and said, laughing gruffly, “Yes I would; it’s been hell WITH her, but it would be hell WITHOUT her too.”

And even though none of these marriages were perfect, they were what I aspired to. I wanted to be a wife and a mom. Period. I saw life as something less than the ideal if I had to walk it alone. And THAT was coming from an only child who loved solitude and being alone.

My parents were a cross-classism couple, my dad being from a working class, “Oakland flatlands” family, and my mom being from a white collar “Kensington/El Cerrito hills” family. Progressive and all-inclusive was how I was raised. Color and class didn’t matter. All that mattered was whether someone loved God, and respected himself and his family, or not. So to marry someone outside of my given social status was irrelevant to me. Love conquered all. I saw itplay out  repeatedly within the four walls of my childhood home.

When I got married to my children’s father, it was for a lifetime. Come hell or high water. Come interracial couple backlash. Come class conflict. Come parenting challenges. Come financial issues. Come drug addiction……..come domestic violence…….come child abuse………

Slowly my ideal dream of being married for a lifetime, and being a couple like my parents and grandparents, slowly slipped through my fingers like sands in an hourglass. I fought it. Boy did I fight it. Probably 11 years too long. I gave up everything to keep my marriage in tact. Because I believe that marriage is worth fighting for; that the person I pledged my life to, to love in good times and bad, sickness and health, deserved my loyalty, because, if you aren’t supported in your own home, nothing else makes much sense.

Until the day I realized that the refuge I had created for him, had conversely become a war zone, battleground for me and our children. And then I had a huge decision to make. Did I leave my marriage, and quite possibly save myself and my children, literally? Or did I hang out, and go down with the sinking ship, keeping the candle lit until the fierce winds engulfed it’s light?

I went to church that Sunday. The weekend where everything had come to a head. By myself, as usual, at that time. A white woman, in a predominantly black church, carrying a burden about my black husband, where I felt like years of racism and oppression and institutionalized “everything”, had fallen on my shoulders. So many things went through my head. Was his brokenness my fault? Was the fact that I was white push him over the edge? How did I reconcile what I know was a very traumatic past on his part, with how he was traumatizing everyone in his present? How did I extricate myself from an abusive marriage without the expected and judgemental mindsets whispering, “See, you should never have married a black guy anyway,” or, ” What did you do to him, you oppressive white chick?”, or ” He just needs to be understood, he’s  a black man in America. That should say it all.”

I struggled and struggled with this, until MLK’s words came to my mind. To me, how my then husband acted in the four walls of our home wasn’t based on the color of his skin, but the content of his character. And his own demons, black, or brown, or yellow, or white…. were winning, at the cost of all of us involved. It was a pastor at this church who said to me, “Marriage is a very personal thing; and while everything that happens outside of that home does effect the inside, each adult is responsible for what they allow of themselves, and each other, inside those four walls. God did not create marriage to be a punching bag of any kind, for anyone. And the second that you are afraid to be home, is when you need to forget everything that you think should hold you there, and fight for the things that should make you leave.Your children need to have a man in their life who handles himself as a true man, with honor and protection of those he loves, rather than abusing them. And rather than feeling like you are letting a black guy down, look at it as though if this is the only black guy your children will know, what will they think of them? The stereotyping can go both ways.”

The sermon that day was on detours that God puts in our lives. We are going one direction, and all of a sudden, the road verges sharply in another direction. And  those detours are God’s way of recalibrating our lives, refocusing our priorities, and rebalancing the status quo. The passage the pastor preached  from was Ecclesiastes 3, there is a time for everything.

A time to be born, and a time to die; 

A time to plant, and a time to pluck up what is planted;

A time to kill, and a time to heal;

A time to break down, and a time to build up;

A time to weep, and a time to laugh;

A time to mourn, and a time to dance;

A time to cast away stones, and a time to gather stones together;

A time to embrace, and a time to refrain from embracing;

A time to seek, and a time to lose;

A time to keep, and a time to cast away;

A time to sew, and a time to tear;

A time to keep silent, and a time to speak;

A time to love, and a time to hate;

and a time for war, and a time for peace. 

And just like that, I knew it was time to let go; to release what I had so tightly held; to embrace the unknown of a detoured road; to trust a God who loved me enough to disrupt the status quo, who embraces His people more than His expectations for His people.

And this tattoo was born. Changing Autumn leaves to represent the changing of our lives, and to celebrate the idea that sometimes certain dreams have to die before they can be reborn, that the Phoenix must burn before it can rise again.