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.

Glenn, My Veteran Hero

I had a neighbor for several years. We became good friends because he felt that I, as a single parent, in a less than perfect neighborhood, was a vulnerable and an often sitting target.

As we got to know each other, I noticed the limp in his walk, endless hours on the phone he would spend, pacing back and forth. And I would hear is seemingly agonizing nightmares he would live through at night, even when all windows and doors were tightly fastened. He was a mystery to me.

Until one day, needing to borrow a tool that he had, I walked in on him crying, and looking through a box of memorabilia. It was then that he told me his story. He showed me his double Purple Heart medals from Vietnam. He showed me pictures of the day he enlisted. He showed me newspaper articles celebrating his heroism.

I assumed his limp was from the heroic injuries he sustained, and applauded him for his service. I assumed the phone calls were to a long lost lover or child. I assumed his nightmares were due to his poor health habits.

But it was then that his face grew dark, and the demons flitted across his countenance like the nightmares I heard him relive at night. His body froze in a twisted position of terror. He then started convulsively sobbing, reliving his victimization, as a first year enlistee, of being raped and sodomized by his commanding officer, leading to destruction in his body that would never heal properly. His hours on the phone were with the VA. For years he had drank his agony away, and only then had the VA doctors and counselors finally begun to address my neighbors experiences. His nightmares harkened him back to that night when not only were his innocence and idealism ripped from him, but every semblance of trust in authority, trust in himself, and trust in his ability to ever be lovable or love again. I sat and just absorbed who he was, what he was saying, what he was saying when he didn’t speak at all, and I walked away from his house that day, forever changed.

I then became his defacto advocate, driving him to the VA, talking to necessary parties on the phone for hours, all while seeing this gentle hulk of a man who often shadowed into a fetal position, a shell of who he once was, slowly start to stand straight, a semblance of a smile flitting across his face, a strain of laughter filling the air.

As the years of opioid addiction racked his body a second time, due to the constant pain he experienced, the VA decided to use medical cannibis to treat him; so I was asked to be his medical marijuana caregiver. I took him to his doctors appointments as he was on full disability and couldn’t drive. He started bbqing and would often feed us, and we gardened in our shared plot together, what was once very clearly a delineated line between my thriving garden, and his weeds, became a single lush space.

Once he shared his story with me, and I believed in him, this whole other side of his personality emerged. It was like I was seeing him whole, unbroken, like the young boy he once had been. He would keep the neighborhood nasties away, and I would make sure he took all of his meds, ate on a regular basis, and would sit silently with him and just “be” when he needed to talk.

Then one night, after a couple of harrowing weeks of conflict with a friend of his, who had betrayed him in a business deal, I woke up to lights and sirens and commotion outside. Sheer mayhem. Found out the next day that my neighbor had 51-50’d himself, the grief of losing that friendship being the straw that broke this camels back.

So remember, we don’t celebrate today simply for those who never came home, for those for whom we know why the flag is lowered to half-mast. But we remember those who DID come home, but will never be the same. And we need to remember those whose lives are a daily struggle, often lived at a half-mast capacity, because they did the most heroic thing of all; they lived to tell their story, and owning it has almost destroyed them.

Glenn, I don’t know how you’re doing, or where you are anymore; but if I could see you, I would tell you thank you for your sacrifice, thank you for protecting my kids and I when we couldn’t protect ourselves, thank you for allowing me to bear witness to your story, to hold space with you, to help carry your grief, and know that your brokenness and survivor stance kept me from going off the deep edge in addressing and owning my and my children’s own story of trauma and violation. Your struggle was not in vain, and even while you struggled to maintain a sane and living relationship with reality, you played a pivotal role in me staying rooted and grounded in mine. I will never forget you.

#ptsd #veteran #woundedwarrior #sexualassault #memorialday #owningyourstory

Queen Anne’s Lace Tattoo

FullSizeRender (30)

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.

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

FullSizeRender (21)

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:

7302EB3B-E5FE-4A14-ACB0-4173ADC37BFC          551080CB-032B-4A4B-B7ED-F48A57843988           FC54A166-35D9-439D-8435-6DCCDFFDD1E4 (1)

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.

My Son’s Tattoo

IMG_8223

I almost didn’t get pregnant with him. Abuse and drama grew to an all-time high.I had almost left my ex.  We had gone to marital counseling at our church, where my ex had finally acknowledged that he had a problem that he needed to fix.  We decided to give our marriage, and family, one more try. We went away for the weekend to “save” our marriage. And yowzers….. I was pregnant.

The “saving” died a quick death. With a cocaine addiction of his  that began spiraling out of control, so further did our lives. During this pregnancy, I was pushed down a flight of stairs ( 7 months pregnant), and held at knife-point, arched back over our washing machine ( 8 months pregnant).

I was under so much stress during these months,  that our son was born a month early. His eyebrows were nonexistent. His eyes were still sealed shut. His tongue hadn’t detached from the bottom of his mouth yet. He was born with bronchiolitis, a condition that has major ramifications to this day, manifesting in serious sinus allergies and asthma. He was also born with a skin condition covering much of his tiny body, a mix between eczema and hives.

Even though he had been scheduled for a routine c-section, he ended up being delivered emergency c-section, without initial medicine because it was too late in the process to give me the regular labor medicine.

I had to literally pump my milk through a special attachment, and then feed him through a preemie tube, in order to breastfeed. I did this even after I returned to work at eight weeks, pumping every recess and lunch break, for the final months of school. At home feeding him took twice as long. Pump, then tube feed. Pump, then tube feed. Pump, then tube feed.

And yet, through all of that, he was my relational child. I remember the first time he laughed; the sound filled the room with joy. He enthusiastically participated in life. He gave love. He gave compassion. He gave fun, all from the moment he was able to communicate. He was full of hilarious antics and humor. His very personality screamed,” Love me! I love you!” He wanted to be held and he wanted to touch. He wanted to play and be played with. He was always on the move, rarely still, unless he was asleep.

He was also the child to see his father punch his mother in the nose.

He was the child to see his father push his mother into a bookcase, shaking loose the books.

He was the child to see his father spit in his mother’s face, block the door from her escape, and throw a glass cup at her head.

He was the one that could never live up to his father’s opinion of what it meant to be “a man”, even as a young child. He was called “sissy”, “mama’s boy”, “weak”, and every other form of derogatory  term a father could call his son.

It was this child of mine that didn’t want to be a boy, or black, when he was 4, because to him , male and dark were people who were mean, and scary, and hurtful.

It was around this time that he wrote this note to me, seen here on this tattoo. He was always writing notes, drawing pictures, leaving little gifts, reminders of his full-hearted love for me…..

It was this child, at 8, who told me that he had an anger management problem because of how mad he was at his father, and that I had better get him into counseling. Which I did.

It was this child that, unbeknownst to either of us, would establish at bond together, that would define how we each interacted with the other sex, for all future references.

It was this child that told off his father repeatedly in later years, telling him that he would never forget how he saw him treat his mom;  and, while he could forgive his father, he could never forget his actions. He would honor him, but never trust him.

He was also the great encourager, with a hero mentality far deeper and intense, than belied the youth in his years.

We would often go on walks together, and he loved to blow dandelion seedlings with me. His favorite colors were bright and strong and vivide, full of life like him, orange, red, and yellow; hence, the colors in the tattoo.

He is also my child that was diagnosed with depression, and who yet carries himself with pride, shoulders back, bringing awareness to the fact that boys can suffer from anxiety just as much as girls can.

He is my child who, now at 15, stands taller than me, his voice deepened, who calls me to always first pray when I’m upset about something; telling me that I taught him how, and I better walk it myself if I talk it.

His depth is far more complex than  his age.

He is an old soul in a young body.

He is a self-proclaimed feminist, who, having been raised by a mom and sister, fiercely guards the privilege of women to be seen as equals to men.

He’s the one who thinks I should take care of myself first,  before I can take care of anybody else, and reminds me of this when I forget.

He is my yin to his yang. And, like I always used to tuck him in at night, saying the same little phrase tattooed here…..the day he wrote it to me, this mommy heart was healed in places that I hadn’t even realized were ripped open .

The bond between a mother and a son is often a precious gift; mine has been a priceless lifeline of light in a journey darkened by shadows.

I love him, deeply, heart and soul.

 

 

Matching “Break The Silence” tattoos

IMG_8225

She and I have been like “Thelma and Louise” since the day I knew about her. I remember the exact day I got pregnant, it was a warm summer evening, a rare moment of peace….. Extended family arrived later the next afternoon. And with that, an onslaught of violence delivered “on the down low” in our bedroom, as was the usual case whenever family from either side was around. Only he wasn’t quiet enough that time….. afterwards, his family asked me if I was ok……. I couldn’t say “no, I wasn’t,” because that would leave me open to “asked for” retribution later that night. So I said I was fine, we all nervously laughed, and my habit of living a double life took on a new passenger.

I had always wanted to be pregnant. I couldn’t wait until the time came. But I quickly found out that, for ME, my growing bump meant yet another liability to try and protect, and detract attention from. With every, “you’re adorable”, or “how cute is that bump”, I would be splayed into the limelight, a limelight that only spotlighted yet another hurl of cutting remarks and accusations, never knowing why my pregnancy only drove his jealously and insecurities deeper into the abyss of illogic.

She arrived on a full moon night, three days after her due date. Later, she would tell me she was only being considerate, that she had been due on my 25th birthday, but wanted me to celebrate my quarter century for myself.

The L&D department was packed that night. The doctors were running around frantic.The wolves might as well have been howling in their packs, outside the waiting room door.

I was in hard labor for 18 hours. After the first doctor told me repeatedly that I “just wasn’t pushing hard enough”, a new doctor came on shift, took one look at “us”, and frantically rushed me into the OR, saying that her head was stuck in the birth canal, and that we were both about to have life-threatening issues and/or injuries.

Through an emergency c-section, she was delivered safe and sound. Everyone went home. An hour later, I was rushed into the OR again. My uterus had collapsed, and I was hemmorhaging. When all was said and done, I had to have an emergency DNC, and I was placed in ICU for a week. I had lost almost 5 pints of blood, necessitating numerous blood transfusions in hopes of saving my life….

Her father came to me the next day, threatening to take her out of the hospital away from me. I must have done something wrong, he argued,  in order to have all the trauma happen to me at birth. Oh wait, he said, he decided he knew what the trauma was. She wasn’t his child, but his brothers’. Repeatedly over our twelve years of marriage, he had pretty much accused me of having an affair with almost every person our age in our lives, including his sister, and a friend I taught with. If I had even LOOKED at someone a second too long for his liking, I was accused of being a whore. In fact, he compared himself to the Hosea of the Bible, and me as the one he “saved”.

But for this particular moment, it was one of his brothers. He was so mean, accusatory, and verbally abusive,  that the L& D nurse told him he needed to leave, that my machines were beeping abnormally, because my heartrate was skyrocketing, due to our argument.

It was there, in that moment, utterly physically and psychologically broken, that my heart broke fully in two. I had been hurt and angered and shamed at his abuse before. But this time, after just giving birth to our daughter, I was fractured in a way that would literally take almost two decades to heal from. And it was in that moment that I created a bond with her that was what propelled me six years later to be able to leave him, to protect her and her brother. Because at that point? I didn’t matter for me. I was nothing. All of my life, for MY life sake, left me that night in the hospital, the day after she was born.

But for my child, and, eventually children? With a more urgent burden than I ever imagined parenting to be, because literally our life and death lay in the balance, I decided that being a good and Godly mom would be THE driving force in my life.

So, 16 years later, when she wanted to get matching tattoos, representing all that we had had to fight through in our lives, just to get to where we were that day, how could I ever say no?

“Break the Silence” is an organization that was started to bring awareness to domestic violence, and how, unlike any other crime except for sexual assault, it’s the silent crime. No one talks about it. What happens behind closed doors stays behind closed doors. It’s family business. It’s protected by shame and denial and terror. It wreaks havoc and chaos on the one place that you’re supposed to feel safe, your home.

And she and I, we raised each other. She protected me, even getting hit once by her father when she was trying to intervene in a fight between he and I, when I couldn’t protect myself. She was my logic and backbone when I was silenced by fear. She was the fighter when I had no fight.

She was born stoic. I remember watching her as a baby. She would take in everything around her. No nonsense. No fussing. Missing nothing. Her eyes could pierce you with a simple stare. She sucked on her binky with an intensity that belied her calm exterior.

The few times she did let down her guard, and showed vulnerability of any kind, I held her dear to my heart like one would hold a fragile glass doll; the moments were rare indeed.  Little did I know just how important that strength and stoicism would be for her a few years later.

And when we did escape, and start to heal, I had to work hard, very hard, to earn her respect, and my rightful place has her authority figure and mom. We have often been more like sisters than mother and daughter.

But I know that now she can look at me, and model herself after me. If I’ve done nothing else right with my life, I have grown into a healthy, strong, woman, who fights for what she believes in, who protects her children, who speaks for them when they can’t defend themselves, and who holds them when they themselves have been broken in two.

This shared tattoo is about so much more than ink, and wrists, and letters. It repesents a bond between she and I that has been forged by the same molten iron, shaped by the same, unforgiving mallet, and cooled with the grace of the same God that has turned those ashes into phoenixes of beauty.

IMG_8066

And people wonder why I don’t get out as much as I could, or live my “own” life more, why I insist on being there for my kids so much. I remember when it was threatened to me  every day that they would be taken away from me. I remember what it was like for our house to be a war zone instead of a home. I remember what it was like when I had to literally fight for them, with every breath in me, some forty-five times in court.

So to say that I take parenting as my number one joy and priority, and that I’m even fanatical about it,  is to define me exactly as who I am. I will never be a hovering parent, but a warrior parent? Everyday.

Before you can break the silence, you have to have found your voice.

 

Celtic Nature Tattoo

FullSizeRender (15)

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.

Solas, Mol, &Tearmann Tattoo

The voice of the Scotch-Irish, Gaelic, has always held a fascination for me. In fact, words and languages, quotes and pithy memes, even dialects, have always intrigued me. For my Bachelor’s Degree in Ethnic Studies, I wrote a final project paper on the origins of Ebonics. I came to observe that African-Americans did not talk “ghetto slang”, because amazingly , white southerners spoke the same way. No, Ebonics is actually a documented dialect of the English language, combining numerous aspects of West African language norms into the English discourse, hence rubbing off on white southerners as well.  For example, in reflecting their culturally specific holistic world view, most African languages don’t discriminate between tenses, whereas Western worldviews are linear in nature, denoting categories of time, so tenses ARE observed. For example, where as an English speaker will differentiate between whether they “already went”, or “are going”, or “will be going”, African languages simply say, ” I be going”, which could mean “they went”, “they are going”, or “they will be going,” because it doesn’t really matter WHEN one goes, as long as you go.   origins of Black English

Anyway… about a month after I had left my ex-husband, my parents helped me hire an attorney. When I first met with him, he looked at me and told me that he was concerned that I wouldn’t be able to withstand the relentless and cutthroat environment of a courtroom. He was worried that I would cave in, give up on my fight for myself and my children, and go back to my husband. And, weighing in at under 100 pounds, with my hair falling out, and sitting meekly in his office chair, I’m sure that I didn’t seem like a good candidate for him to represent. But…. I sat there and told him that I had tried everything I had known how to do to save my marriage; years of different kinds of secular counseling, pastoral/church counseling, fasting, praying, couples retreats, couples workshops, mentor couples…. and that when I had finally decided to leave him, there would be no turning back.

That conversation was the start of a decades long court journey. What would end up being 400 court filings, 45 court appearances, 6 different judges, 7 different family mediators, a Alameda County DA investigation, a Fremont PD SVU investigation, and a several thousand dollar custody evaluation, all started in that little office where my attorney told me that I reminded him of a lost puppy dog.

About a year into this court journey, I read the words “solas”, “mol”, and “tearmann” somewhere, and I fell in love with them. Solas means “to be a light”; Mol means “to be an advocate”; and tearmann means “to be a refuge”. Without even knowing the strength and voice that I would have acquired by year ten, at the one year mark, I was proud of the person I had become even in that time, in terms of learning how to fight to protect and advocate for my children.

I also knew that I wanted to get a tattoo near the place where my family had gone to family camp for years, Mt. Hermon. So I found a little place in Felton, California, that would even let my kids come watch me get the tattoo too. The symbolism of my children being able to come with me, while we, and my parents, were at family camp, was not lost on me, and the meaning of the tattoo. In the early days, when I was not strong enough to go to court on my own, my mom would always go with me. And, before I finally started representing myself as in pro per in our court appearances, my parents pretty much gave up their entire retirement savings to pay for my attorney, so that my children and I got the best possible protection and advocacy we could get, something that will never be lost to me. So while I was busy advocating, being a light for, and providing a refuge for my children, my parents and attorney were doing that for me.

Late summer of 2005, tattoo number 3 was born.

A Time to Draw a Line in the Sand 

Twelve years ago, June 1, 2004, I made the hardest decision of my life. Weighing in at less than 100 pounds, my hair falling out, my body broken out in 3 kinds of hives, I left my marriage under a police escort, protected by a full restraining order. Twelve years of abuse had nearly destroyed and broken me. My sole focus was to protect my children because I didn’t think that what happened to me mattered at all.
The last twelve years have included 348 family law and criminal law registry of actions, 41 court appearances under 5 different judges and 6 different family mediators, a police investigation, a DA investigation, 8 different counselors, and hundreds of hours of counseling for the 3 of us. I went back to graduate school and earned a second MS, this time in Forensic Psychology with an emphasis on how growing up exposed to domestic violence and drug addiction effects the development of children because I needed my own answers to help my own children. I started the PhD program to address trauma-informed care, and conflict mediation/negotiation regarding at-risk students and families who need advocacy because I wish that I, and my children, had been given more support in those areas.

Four years ago I spoke and told my story to 400 people at SAVE’s annual breakfast because I want to help others who have lost their voice like I did. My greatest legacies are the two people who call me mom. My sole drive these last 12 years has been to raise them to be healthy and whole children, and to teach them by example that God can take the greatest heartache and pain and make things out of it of the rarest and most precious beauty. I am proud to be a survivor at this point in my life; I lost too many years being a reluctant victim. Every June 1 is a day of celebration for me.