I've been on a journey. Not an icy, slippery hike to the top of Mt. Whatsoever kind of journey. Not a time-skipping, Back to the Future kind of journey. More of an "Oh! That's who I am," kind of journey. A bright light bulb that has just begun shining kind of journey. I've spent months getting reunited with myself. I've rediscovered things I always thought to be true about myself, but lost along the cobblestone path of life. I've come to grips with ideas that I've spent years trying to disprove. I've even learned new things that I don't recall ever realizing in the first place. My journey is an internal discovery of myself and those surrounding me. And it's been everything I could possibly wish it to be.
As a child, I remember truly respecting certain ideas of my dad's. Not many, as he is a stubborn, closed minded, grown child of the Forties, but definitely some. More specifically, I respected that he didn't lie. He was always honest and unapologetic. He was who he was, and nothing anybody thought or said put a dent in his attitude or self-esteem. At least, not on the outside. But, in hindsight, any of that was probably shielded by the unforgiving alcoholism. Needless to say, I held on to the idea that "I am who I am" and nothing or no one could break that. And I never felt a need to hide anything, or lie, thanks to this guardian wall.
As a teenager, these ideals inherited from my father stuck with me like a patch that was superglued to my sleeve. I had focused so much on these ideas for years, most likely so I didn't actually have to deal with any of the dysfunction that surrounding me, but probably even moreso I didn't have to deal with how dysfunctional the dysfunction made me. It became my velvet ribbon, so as to tie my head on straight in order to make it through day to day life. It was these lucrative years that I focused on how being independent and self sufficient made me feel, as opposed to being dependent on someone else for my means, esteem, and even sanity. Back then I believed I was smart, creative and talented. These feelings somehow turned to mush and absorbed into the mist of the daily routine once I became a young adult.
At some point, for the sake of anonymity, my dysfunction moved to the fore-front when it was pushed and prodded by other people's insecurities. I lost my common sense, it seemed. Another emphasized needed quality by my dad. I lost my self esteem. I lost my beliefs about myself. I disappeared.
I've had mountains and valleys of growth and recovery over the last couple of years. It's been rocky. Foggy. Clear. Humid. The odyssey, in its entirety, has been one of all seasons and storms. All silences and calms. And the last few months have emerged as the pith of my journey. I've regained my personal independence and been challenged intellectually. I've learned my position among others and how to play well together. I've overcome insecurities and learned that I desire to trudge forward even further to see exactly how far I can go.
I am who I am. I'm not ashamed of it. I am smart. I am creative. I am talented. Each of these to an extent I'm unsure of. Maybe ever growing. I enjoy my alone time - what writer doesn't?? But there's more. I'm dark. Not in the Twilight kind of dark. Not in the emo-goth kind of dark. More in the spooky, passionate kind of dark. The dark that is overwhelmed by light most of the time, but waits there in the shadows, for the perfect time to take over and compel. I'm also funny. Not in the always entertaining physical hilarity Chris Farley is so well known for. And not because I'm awkward. But because I just happen to be genuinely witty and enjoy, myself, to laugh. At least, that's what I tell myself.
All of these newly re-realizations are evolving me into the person I know I was always supposed to be. The person I've been told I was supposed to be. The person I've fought off trying to become. And I am inspired to see what new lands this journey will continue to take me to. I am inspired to see what kind of creativity will emerge. I'm inspired to see what kind of sister I will be. I'm inspired.
Showing posts with label 2012. Show all posts
Showing posts with label 2012. Show all posts
Thursday, April 19, 2012
Sunday, February 5, 2012
Surf City, USA
I grew up in Huntington Beach. Surf City. The waves are consistent and the tans impeccable. There is a certain smell of salt and a hint of fish around the city, and the wind seems to blow the same way every day. The sun shines about 360 days out of the year, and the rain on the other five days is so refreshing. Its like rubbing chilled aloe on a sunburn; the rain amidst so much sunshine.
I was proud to be a Huntington Beach-ian. I played in the water in the never-ending summer days. I tanned. I went to the beach. I didn’t know any different. I rode my bike in the blazing street. I bleached my hair with lemon. I greased my skin with oil. I would sail down the slip-and-slide, carelessly, and end up in the too-small baby pool at the end, and nobody cared. Activities would ensue with no worries and no conflict. I would play with my friends, or not, and there was never any drama. We seemed to always just do what we wanted, when we wanted, and no one really worried about it.
My street was half filled with kids, and half filled with older people. The kids always played outside during the days, when we weren’t at school. We played together. We got along. The girls against the boys. We’d hide together and talk about the boys and giggle, and the boys would be loud and obnoxious and run by to moon us. And we’d scoff and giggle some more. All the kids went to school together and all the adults knew each other. Neighbors would deliver cookies. We’d look out for each other’s loose dogs. It was the ideal community. And the elementary school was just around the corner.
Lake View was where all my neighbor friends and I attended elementary school. Most of us walked to school, since the neighborhood was so safe. Most people left their cars unlocked, and even their front doors. I, however, was not allowed to walk to school. My mom, I guess, after the experience of raising five other kids, decided she should make sure I actually made it to school. Walking home was a different story. Until I stopped communicating clearly with my mother, I was allowed to play at the park for about an hour before the hike around the two corners and back home. We would tear that park up, until our imaginations couldn’t think of any other use for a spiral slide. No longer could we imagine the now referred to “swiss cheese wall” as a spy bunker hiding us from the enemy. It was time to go home.
As the pre-teen years crept up, we began being bused to middle school, where the kids were far less forgiving. The easy-going, nearly grungy style of Huntington Beach was no longer acceptable. It was all about name brand jeans, expensive shoes, and of course, a trendy and no less fancy shirt. Sure, surf trends were still cool, but only if they were sold on Main Street, at HB Surf and Sport or Tilly’s. I, personally, didn’t fall into this stereotype, somewhat keeping me out of the reality of teenage tensions, but it was always apparent. Sports were a prerequisite, and good grades a necessity if you wanted to fit in.
These adolescent years were spent tormenting Main Street and the beach daily. Whether it be organized ditch days, or just ditch days I took for myself, the volleyball courts would be played, the waves would be body surfed, and the sun would burn my skin to a lobster shade. All the surfer boys would be flirted with. The 10 o’clock curfew would be broken, and the police would try to scare us straight with the threat of driving us home to our parents at 10:15pm. That same smell of salt water, the sound of music and waves crashing, and the incessant need to be around everyone else drove us.
I didn’t know much past school and after school. I didn’t go to any specific church, although I’d attended many nearby. All seemingly the same; God, Christ, and the chosen relatable lesson. I played after school sports, but those were all held on school grounds. My high school, in fact, had no tennis courts or football fields. All of our home game football games were held at a nearby high school. Kind of defeats the purpose.
I’ve moved other places as my life has progressed. I’ve lived in South County. I’ve lived in Pasadena. Fullerton. All with their own wonderful aspects, but none with the nostalgia the scent of salt water and fish bring. The busy hustle of Colorado Street is different than that of HB’s laid back consistent flow of pedestrians. Fullerton’s curvaceous streets were the opposite of Huntington Beach’s graph paper like, grid layout. The surrounding mountains and greenery were found no where around the home city, except for the well-manicured lawns of public parks and libraries. Otherwise, I missed the dirty sand-trod streets. I missed the heavy air. I missed mostly, the waves crashing on the beach in a familiar and persistent form, when I was away from my nesting grounds. I wasn’t able to cruise the streets when I was distressed, because, what I found in other places was traffic and freeways. There was no easy way to the peaceful solitude of the beach. There was no possible way to drink in the moonlight in stop-and-go traffic. The relief of my hometown was miraculous in that it happened only there. The visits to my childhood home. The many nights of prayer at the Jetty. This salty, fishy, grungy, persistent, predictable, fun, easy-going, place was my home. It is my home. It is my life.
I still reminisce in the nights I stay in Huntington. I’ll do a sleepover at my parent’s. I’ll take a drive along the coast. I’ll drink in the sunlight. I’ll drink in the moonlight. The 80 degree weather in January will remain a mystery, but will nevertheless be taken advantage of. The pier, in all of its young, fleshy flare, remains harmless. A place where bums and the wealthy meet in a practically non-judgmental way. Where people can catch their dinner or elegantly dine. Where health is taken seriously, but so is socializing with a cocktail. This is where I grew up and I am still proud to call Huntington Beach my home.
I was proud to be a Huntington Beach-ian. I played in the water in the never-ending summer days. I tanned. I went to the beach. I didn’t know any different. I rode my bike in the blazing street. I bleached my hair with lemon. I greased my skin with oil. I would sail down the slip-and-slide, carelessly, and end up in the too-small baby pool at the end, and nobody cared. Activities would ensue with no worries and no conflict. I would play with my friends, or not, and there was never any drama. We seemed to always just do what we wanted, when we wanted, and no one really worried about it.
My street was half filled with kids, and half filled with older people. The kids always played outside during the days, when we weren’t at school. We played together. We got along. The girls against the boys. We’d hide together and talk about the boys and giggle, and the boys would be loud and obnoxious and run by to moon us. And we’d scoff and giggle some more. All the kids went to school together and all the adults knew each other. Neighbors would deliver cookies. We’d look out for each other’s loose dogs. It was the ideal community. And the elementary school was just around the corner.
Lake View was where all my neighbor friends and I attended elementary school. Most of us walked to school, since the neighborhood was so safe. Most people left their cars unlocked, and even their front doors. I, however, was not allowed to walk to school. My mom, I guess, after the experience of raising five other kids, decided she should make sure I actually made it to school. Walking home was a different story. Until I stopped communicating clearly with my mother, I was allowed to play at the park for about an hour before the hike around the two corners and back home. We would tear that park up, until our imaginations couldn’t think of any other use for a spiral slide. No longer could we imagine the now referred to “swiss cheese wall” as a spy bunker hiding us from the enemy. It was time to go home.
As the pre-teen years crept up, we began being bused to middle school, where the kids were far less forgiving. The easy-going, nearly grungy style of Huntington Beach was no longer acceptable. It was all about name brand jeans, expensive shoes, and of course, a trendy and no less fancy shirt. Sure, surf trends were still cool, but only if they were sold on Main Street, at HB Surf and Sport or Tilly’s. I, personally, didn’t fall into this stereotype, somewhat keeping me out of the reality of teenage tensions, but it was always apparent. Sports were a prerequisite, and good grades a necessity if you wanted to fit in.
These adolescent years were spent tormenting Main Street and the beach daily. Whether it be organized ditch days, or just ditch days I took for myself, the volleyball courts would be played, the waves would be body surfed, and the sun would burn my skin to a lobster shade. All the surfer boys would be flirted with. The 10 o’clock curfew would be broken, and the police would try to scare us straight with the threat of driving us home to our parents at 10:15pm. That same smell of salt water, the sound of music and waves crashing, and the incessant need to be around everyone else drove us.
I didn’t know much past school and after school. I didn’t go to any specific church, although I’d attended many nearby. All seemingly the same; God, Christ, and the chosen relatable lesson. I played after school sports, but those were all held on school grounds. My high school, in fact, had no tennis courts or football fields. All of our home game football games were held at a nearby high school. Kind of defeats the purpose.
I’ve moved other places as my life has progressed. I’ve lived in South County. I’ve lived in Pasadena. Fullerton. All with their own wonderful aspects, but none with the nostalgia the scent of salt water and fish bring. The busy hustle of Colorado Street is different than that of HB’s laid back consistent flow of pedestrians. Fullerton’s curvaceous streets were the opposite of Huntington Beach’s graph paper like, grid layout. The surrounding mountains and greenery were found no where around the home city, except for the well-manicured lawns of public parks and libraries. Otherwise, I missed the dirty sand-trod streets. I missed the heavy air. I missed mostly, the waves crashing on the beach in a familiar and persistent form, when I was away from my nesting grounds. I wasn’t able to cruise the streets when I was distressed, because, what I found in other places was traffic and freeways. There was no easy way to the peaceful solitude of the beach. There was no possible way to drink in the moonlight in stop-and-go traffic. The relief of my hometown was miraculous in that it happened only there. The visits to my childhood home. The many nights of prayer at the Jetty. This salty, fishy, grungy, persistent, predictable, fun, easy-going, place was my home. It is my home. It is my life.
I still reminisce in the nights I stay in Huntington. I’ll do a sleepover at my parent’s. I’ll take a drive along the coast. I’ll drink in the sunlight. I’ll drink in the moonlight. The 80 degree weather in January will remain a mystery, but will nevertheless be taken advantage of. The pier, in all of its young, fleshy flare, remains harmless. A place where bums and the wealthy meet in a practically non-judgmental way. Where people can catch their dinner or elegantly dine. Where health is taken seriously, but so is socializing with a cocktail. This is where I grew up and I am still proud to call Huntington Beach my home.
Friday, January 27, 2012
Against All Odds
Yes, another hiatus. This time I have an excuse. I have plenty ideas, so that's not it. I need serious therapy, so that's not it either. No. Instead, I've finally gotten out. I've gotten out of the toxicity. I've gotten out of being the victim. I've gotten out of the "tolerable" hell I've been in for so long that it felt normal.
The camel's back got broken. And believe me, I think everyone knew it was going to happen. There was that typical build-up. The kind they teach you to use when writing a good story. The kind I've seen over and over again, if not in my own situation, in those of my troubled loved ones. Money was tight. I'd become physically healthier than I'd been in a while. I got my own job. Gasp. The stress of all of that is maddening, right?? Well, if you are a person with very little self esteem, a drug and alcohol problem, colleagues and/or family and friends enabling, and quite possibly an undiagnosed mental illness, it is.
Somehow, some financial stress mixed with my own gaining independence became a devil of infinite proportions. Because, no one else in the universe had financial stress. No one else knows what it's like to give up a little. To save. To live like, well, a poor person for a little while. Of course, I'm being sarcastic, but sadly, this is how he felt. At least that's what I'm assuming to make my own monster seem much more human.
Needless to say, I don't have all the details. The Big Man and I stopped talking about real things years ago. I've tried, to no avail. He, I guess, just doesn't know how it works. The whole talking thing. Instead, I find 12 random shot bottles of vodka in his trash at work. He comes home from work reeking of booze, barely able to walk straight, refusing to admit to one tiny taste of anything alcoholic. He's irate at the thought of me talking on my phone. Because, I've never had to deal with any of these circumstances before. I'm sure I'm dumb enough to believe he was just tired, and overworked. At a "job" where he's self-employed and I've witnessed his mostly lack-of-work first hand.
No, I'm sorry. This isn't my first rodeo. And even if it were, I've been to God-Knows-How-Many growing up. We'll call this the twelfth straw. And yes, I'm completely comfortable documenting this, for one: this is MY platform. Where I can say what I want; you can judge me or not; we breathe in and move on. And two: out of 8 years and multiple pleadings to read my blog and tell me what he thought, he'd been interested enough to do it never. Okay, he tried once and got less than halfway through and told me my writing was much to textbook style and that no one would want to read it. So amongst everything, I'm quite comfortable documenting this.
So, in accurate form and grace, the lying and paranoid accusations grew. Obviously I was dating a trainer. Why else would I go to the gym. And obviously there was more payoff than just health, I must be dating other random men. And obviously I'm having orgies because I'm working somewhere away from him and being happier and more independent than I have been in ages. It makes sense. So instead of taking these insecurities and using them as anything remotely close to a positive as he could; say...working out to thin down, working out to clear his mind, becoming healthy to be in control of his financial decisions, etc; why not drink himself to oblivion daily. But I don't think that's the extent of it. Although he was angry enough with just alcohol, he began smoking an immense amount of marijuana, which generally, in my knowledge, will calm you down and mellow you out, neither of which was the case. But, he was left to his own devices for 8 hours out of the day now. No more babysitter, and we all know, when the cats' away, the mice will play. His behavior began to emulate that of which he had when I met him. Back when I found out he wasn't just unbalanced, but was also using meth.
Now is not the time for lectures, folks. I'm the first one to say good, clean people don't stay with druggies unless they do some themselves. That is the furthest thing from my case. You'll see, from my previous blogs, the addict lifestyle is what I was raised in. It took so much from me. Loved ones. Self esteem. My life. I didn't have to do drugs to feel it's anguish. I already knew it very well. And this was why, in good political fashion, it was my mission to clean up every druggie, one by one, and prove to them and to the world that they can do it and that I can help! Got me pretty far, I'd say. Two kids and right smack dab back where I started.
But back to the point. This series of unhealthy events led up to a Monday night, much like that of many other nights. He's in charge of the kids while I do something for myself. Said something being going to the gym like I do every Monday. And the five-minutes-ago guy who wanted a hug turned into a paranoid asshole, recklessly trying to prove that I'm cheating on him, all in front of the kids. Mind you, this happens nearly daily. I explain, as always, that this is something we can talk about later after I get back and the kids go to bed, but he doesn't back down. He persists, in fact. He knows how to push every button, until I'm defending myself from these made up actions. It's literally crazy. But finally, I leave for the gym, with fear in my heart that those were the hands of an incapable parent in charge of my children. And I was right.
I got home to an excessively inebriated person, blaring my running playlist (mostly club-quality songs)at 9:20pm with two very tired but very awake children in the living room. This was the norm on Mondays and Wednesdays. He had apparently forgotten how to put the kids to bed. And so instead of questioning him and his lack of parental skills, "why don't I be a mother and put the kids to bed??" And that was just the beginning of a very steep spiral downwards.
After ignoring my pleas to stop until the kids were in bed, I was forced to call in backup. This is where it turns ugly. To keep it more short and sweet, this guy went ape on everyone. Straw number: enough. The camel collapsed. I took the kids to my neighbor's, and called the police so I could gather some things. Of course I got a plethora of obnoxious and victimized, abusive messages. I'm used to it. But what I also got was the courage to stay as far away from this situation as humanly possible.
I know it's still early to say I've beaten the odds, because statistically, the majority of women in this type of situation go back, but I'm determined. I don't love him. I don't need him. And I don't want him tearing me down, in general and in front of my kids. I always hoped he'd get well, but I also always knew he was sick. I actually still hope he gets well because, in my opinion, children need both parents. But only when he's able to be such.
So a week down, and I'm feeling disgusting. I feel like I'm living out of a car. I feel like a slob. I haven't gone to the gym. I haven't done anything. I haven't slept. The kids are sick. They are displaced. They are tired. I've barely eaten. I have no idea how I'm going to do it financially. But, through it all, I'm positive. I know I'm doing the right thing. I know the future holds great things for me and my kids. I know it could be a lot worse. And I know the lack of comfort is building my strength and character so I can be a better parent and a better person.
I was given the idea to do a bucket list, which is something I'll elaborate more on next time, and immediately wondered what grandiose things I wanted to add to it. Still, I haven't started it, but I have thought long and hard. My bucket list so far consists of: getting my own apartment for my kids and me; buying an economical car for us; relinquishing and maintaining meaningful relationships with friends and family whom I respect and are positive forces in my life; proving to my boss and myself that I'm capable and able to excel in what I do, even if it's out of my comfort zone; and finally, basically be able to financially maintain a healthy and well-groomed house full of happy babies and a happy mama. I think after that, the other aspects of my bucket list will fall into place.
Do not misinterpret this posting. I am not lacking in self esteem. I'm not sad, in most meanings of the term. I am extremely proud of myself, and I know that these sloppy days of displacement are temporary, and that I am smart and capable enough to pull right out of this like a jet pilot at an air show. It's just a loop in life, and I can't wait to be the happy, laid back, fun-loving person I have repressed for so long. I'm free.
The camel's back got broken. And believe me, I think everyone knew it was going to happen. There was that typical build-up. The kind they teach you to use when writing a good story. The kind I've seen over and over again, if not in my own situation, in those of my troubled loved ones. Money was tight. I'd become physically healthier than I'd been in a while. I got my own job. Gasp. The stress of all of that is maddening, right?? Well, if you are a person with very little self esteem, a drug and alcohol problem, colleagues and/or family and friends enabling, and quite possibly an undiagnosed mental illness, it is.
Somehow, some financial stress mixed with my own gaining independence became a devil of infinite proportions. Because, no one else in the universe had financial stress. No one else knows what it's like to give up a little. To save. To live like, well, a poor person for a little while. Of course, I'm being sarcastic, but sadly, this is how he felt. At least that's what I'm assuming to make my own monster seem much more human.
Needless to say, I don't have all the details. The Big Man and I stopped talking about real things years ago. I've tried, to no avail. He, I guess, just doesn't know how it works. The whole talking thing. Instead, I find 12 random shot bottles of vodka in his trash at work. He comes home from work reeking of booze, barely able to walk straight, refusing to admit to one tiny taste of anything alcoholic. He's irate at the thought of me talking on my phone. Because, I've never had to deal with any of these circumstances before. I'm sure I'm dumb enough to believe he was just tired, and overworked. At a "job" where he's self-employed and I've witnessed his mostly lack-of-work first hand.
No, I'm sorry. This isn't my first rodeo. And even if it were, I've been to God-Knows-How-Many growing up. We'll call this the twelfth straw. And yes, I'm completely comfortable documenting this, for one: this is MY platform. Where I can say what I want; you can judge me or not; we breathe in and move on. And two: out of 8 years and multiple pleadings to read my blog and tell me what he thought, he'd been interested enough to do it never. Okay, he tried once and got less than halfway through and told me my writing was much to textbook style and that no one would want to read it. So amongst everything, I'm quite comfortable documenting this.
So, in accurate form and grace, the lying and paranoid accusations grew. Obviously I was dating a trainer. Why else would I go to the gym. And obviously there was more payoff than just health, I must be dating other random men. And obviously I'm having orgies because I'm working somewhere away from him and being happier and more independent than I have been in ages. It makes sense. So instead of taking these insecurities and using them as anything remotely close to a positive as he could; say...working out to thin down, working out to clear his mind, becoming healthy to be in control of his financial decisions, etc; why not drink himself to oblivion daily. But I don't think that's the extent of it. Although he was angry enough with just alcohol, he began smoking an immense amount of marijuana, which generally, in my knowledge, will calm you down and mellow you out, neither of which was the case. But, he was left to his own devices for 8 hours out of the day now. No more babysitter, and we all know, when the cats' away, the mice will play. His behavior began to emulate that of which he had when I met him. Back when I found out he wasn't just unbalanced, but was also using meth.
Now is not the time for lectures, folks. I'm the first one to say good, clean people don't stay with druggies unless they do some themselves. That is the furthest thing from my case. You'll see, from my previous blogs, the addict lifestyle is what I was raised in. It took so much from me. Loved ones. Self esteem. My life. I didn't have to do drugs to feel it's anguish. I already knew it very well. And this was why, in good political fashion, it was my mission to clean up every druggie, one by one, and prove to them and to the world that they can do it and that I can help! Got me pretty far, I'd say. Two kids and right smack dab back where I started.
But back to the point. This series of unhealthy events led up to a Monday night, much like that of many other nights. He's in charge of the kids while I do something for myself. Said something being going to the gym like I do every Monday. And the five-minutes-ago guy who wanted a hug turned into a paranoid asshole, recklessly trying to prove that I'm cheating on him, all in front of the kids. Mind you, this happens nearly daily. I explain, as always, that this is something we can talk about later after I get back and the kids go to bed, but he doesn't back down. He persists, in fact. He knows how to push every button, until I'm defending myself from these made up actions. It's literally crazy. But finally, I leave for the gym, with fear in my heart that those were the hands of an incapable parent in charge of my children. And I was right.
I got home to an excessively inebriated person, blaring my running playlist (mostly club-quality songs)at 9:20pm with two very tired but very awake children in the living room. This was the norm on Mondays and Wednesdays. He had apparently forgotten how to put the kids to bed. And so instead of questioning him and his lack of parental skills, "why don't I be a mother and put the kids to bed??" And that was just the beginning of a very steep spiral downwards.
After ignoring my pleas to stop until the kids were in bed, I was forced to call in backup. This is where it turns ugly. To keep it more short and sweet, this guy went ape on everyone. Straw number: enough. The camel collapsed. I took the kids to my neighbor's, and called the police so I could gather some things. Of course I got a plethora of obnoxious and victimized, abusive messages. I'm used to it. But what I also got was the courage to stay as far away from this situation as humanly possible.
I know it's still early to say I've beaten the odds, because statistically, the majority of women in this type of situation go back, but I'm determined. I don't love him. I don't need him. And I don't want him tearing me down, in general and in front of my kids. I always hoped he'd get well, but I also always knew he was sick. I actually still hope he gets well because, in my opinion, children need both parents. But only when he's able to be such.
So a week down, and I'm feeling disgusting. I feel like I'm living out of a car. I feel like a slob. I haven't gone to the gym. I haven't done anything. I haven't slept. The kids are sick. They are displaced. They are tired. I've barely eaten. I have no idea how I'm going to do it financially. But, through it all, I'm positive. I know I'm doing the right thing. I know the future holds great things for me and my kids. I know it could be a lot worse. And I know the lack of comfort is building my strength and character so I can be a better parent and a better person.
I was given the idea to do a bucket list, which is something I'll elaborate more on next time, and immediately wondered what grandiose things I wanted to add to it. Still, I haven't started it, but I have thought long and hard. My bucket list so far consists of: getting my own apartment for my kids and me; buying an economical car for us; relinquishing and maintaining meaningful relationships with friends and family whom I respect and are positive forces in my life; proving to my boss and myself that I'm capable and able to excel in what I do, even if it's out of my comfort zone; and finally, basically be able to financially maintain a healthy and well-groomed house full of happy babies and a happy mama. I think after that, the other aspects of my bucket list will fall into place.
Do not misinterpret this posting. I am not lacking in self esteem. I'm not sad, in most meanings of the term. I am extremely proud of myself, and I know that these sloppy days of displacement are temporary, and that I am smart and capable enough to pull right out of this like a jet pilot at an air show. It's just a loop in life, and I can't wait to be the happy, laid back, fun-loving person I have repressed for so long. I'm free.
Tuesday, January 10, 2012
Webster Has Nothing On Me
Yes, I haven't blogged in a handful of days. And yes, that's not keeping up with my resolution. As a matter of fact, the first week of my year (aka 2012) hasn't gone anywhere near the way I wanted or expected it to. But I'm not going to let that define me.
2012. My Year. Supposed to be the year of opportunity and experience. The year I learn who I am. The year I learn what I want. The year I learn what I want to surround myself with. So, how has the last week and a half gone?? A good friend suffered a brain aneurysm, and is fighting, still, to overcome it. My aunt passed away. My brother-in-law and niece and nephew got hit by a drunk driver while on a bike ride through their neighborhood. Yes, I'd say that's less than a positive start to the year. But I'm not going to let that define me.
Trying to keep a positive outlook through all of my experiences, I continually remind myself to look for the opportunity in each experience, no matter how hard it may be to see. To keep my eyes and my mind open. Because what seems like the end of the world could quite possibly be the beginning of something amazing. At least, that's what I'm choosing to believe this year. So at first thought, I think, "Dang, didn't keep to my resolutions. Of course!" But, that's not true. I have all year to try to maintain these changes; all year to keep trying to do better. Be better. So, I'm not going to let that define me.
I've decided that as I see myself slipping back into the norm; into what's easy and comfortable, that I'm not going to see that as a failure. Instead, I'm going to notice myself doing these things and...wait for it...CHANGE THEM. It's a minor setback, not a way of life. I refuse to let this define me.
So now, I vow, again, to push myself harder and make the resolutions I set become habitual. I vow to make myself the best I can be in 2012. I vow to, even when I feel like I might break, to push on. Which brings me to something I've held onto since the last time I attended church.
Preface: I consider myself to be a Christian. Not a hardcore Christian. Not a Bible-thumper. Not a Jesus-freak. Just a Christian who is spiritual. I believe in God. I believe in ethics. I believe in the Bible. I don't attend church regularly; not because I don't want to, but just because I don't feel like it's imperative to go to church every week to have a relationship with God. Although, I do think it's important to get to church once in a while to be a part of a congregation.
Anyway, the last time I went to church, I was in a hard place. So, accordingly, it seemed as if the sermon was constructed completely around me. What I remember the most from it, was something along the lines of God wants you to push yourself to the point that you feel like you might break, so that in that moment you realize you didn't, in his grace, and you will have proved your faith and become a stronger person. Again, I'm not well-versed in the Bible, but that's what I got out of it. To not quit. To keep pushing, even if you feel you might break. To not let the struggle define you.
At first, I engulfed myself in the message. I repeated it again and again on mile 6 and 7 of Sunday uphill runs. I repeated it when it seemed like there were no answers. I repeated it when I thought I might break. And I felt so amazing when I pushed through the struggle, only to realize that wasn't the end for me, whether it be the run, the fight, the story. There's more. And recently, this message has crept back into my mind. Not as dramatic or extreme, but subtle. The way I think I need to hear it right now. Saying that just because I haven't run in a while, or because I haven't pushed myself to breaking in boxing, or I haven't exhausted myself detailing my home, doesn't mean that I've failed to keep my resolutions. I will not let that define me.
I will, however, let the fact that I am renewing my faith in myself and in God; that I will change today and hold true to who I want to be, define me. I'm determined. I'm optimistic. I'm faithful. I will make sure, no matter what happens, that 2012 will be my year. My year of years to come. I will not give up, and I will push past that breaking point, and prove to myself and everyone else that I can do it. I will prove I can do anything. This is what will define me.
2012. My Year. Supposed to be the year of opportunity and experience. The year I learn who I am. The year I learn what I want. The year I learn what I want to surround myself with. So, how has the last week and a half gone?? A good friend suffered a brain aneurysm, and is fighting, still, to overcome it. My aunt passed away. My brother-in-law and niece and nephew got hit by a drunk driver while on a bike ride through their neighborhood. Yes, I'd say that's less than a positive start to the year. But I'm not going to let that define me.
Trying to keep a positive outlook through all of my experiences, I continually remind myself to look for the opportunity in each experience, no matter how hard it may be to see. To keep my eyes and my mind open. Because what seems like the end of the world could quite possibly be the beginning of something amazing. At least, that's what I'm choosing to believe this year. So at first thought, I think, "Dang, didn't keep to my resolutions. Of course!" But, that's not true. I have all year to try to maintain these changes; all year to keep trying to do better. Be better. So, I'm not going to let that define me.
I've decided that as I see myself slipping back into the norm; into what's easy and comfortable, that I'm not going to see that as a failure. Instead, I'm going to notice myself doing these things and...wait for it...CHANGE THEM. It's a minor setback, not a way of life. I refuse to let this define me.
So now, I vow, again, to push myself harder and make the resolutions I set become habitual. I vow to make myself the best I can be in 2012. I vow to, even when I feel like I might break, to push on. Which brings me to something I've held onto since the last time I attended church.
Preface: I consider myself to be a Christian. Not a hardcore Christian. Not a Bible-thumper. Not a Jesus-freak. Just a Christian who is spiritual. I believe in God. I believe in ethics. I believe in the Bible. I don't attend church regularly; not because I don't want to, but just because I don't feel like it's imperative to go to church every week to have a relationship with God. Although, I do think it's important to get to church once in a while to be a part of a congregation.
Anyway, the last time I went to church, I was in a hard place. So, accordingly, it seemed as if the sermon was constructed completely around me. What I remember the most from it, was something along the lines of God wants you to push yourself to the point that you feel like you might break, so that in that moment you realize you didn't, in his grace, and you will have proved your faith and become a stronger person. Again, I'm not well-versed in the Bible, but that's what I got out of it. To not quit. To keep pushing, even if you feel you might break. To not let the struggle define you.
At first, I engulfed myself in the message. I repeated it again and again on mile 6 and 7 of Sunday uphill runs. I repeated it when it seemed like there were no answers. I repeated it when I thought I might break. And I felt so amazing when I pushed through the struggle, only to realize that wasn't the end for me, whether it be the run, the fight, the story. There's more. And recently, this message has crept back into my mind. Not as dramatic or extreme, but subtle. The way I think I need to hear it right now. Saying that just because I haven't run in a while, or because I haven't pushed myself to breaking in boxing, or I haven't exhausted myself detailing my home, doesn't mean that I've failed to keep my resolutions. I will not let that define me.
I will, however, let the fact that I am renewing my faith in myself and in God; that I will change today and hold true to who I want to be, define me. I'm determined. I'm optimistic. I'm faithful. I will make sure, no matter what happens, that 2012 will be my year. My year of years to come. I will not give up, and I will push past that breaking point, and prove to myself and everyone else that I can do it. I will prove I can do anything. This is what will define me.
Sunday, January 1, 2012
Insert Cheesy 90s Love Song Title Here
I love to cook. I'm a professional chef, in my own MoonsandCookies world. I know how to mix and use raw spices and herbs. I know my way with practically every Henckles knife known to man. And, therefore, I like to challenge myself. I try almost every recipe that crosses my path. I sometimes have to google certain ingredients, but I never let anyone know that! Needless to say, I base my grocery list on a compilation of recipes I hunt down in the endless array of cooking and lifestyle magazines that float through my mail slot. To start off 2012, I started going through the gigantic stack of magazines, looking for the perfect grouping of recipes to feed my family for the next two weeks. As I got through the first four, with a mounting grocery list, I came across my Women's Health magazine. I figured now was as good a time as any to go through these magazines and purge them to make more room for recipes. Then, as engulfed as I've ever been in Women's Health, I came across a picture of a woman and a man cuddled together, about to kiss, on the cover of the "Sex and Love" section. And in my spastic mind, it brought me back to something I was actually still awake to see on the NYE countdown.
On the Dick Clark special, they put together a bunch of different Top 5's as compiled from Facebook statuses. One of these were the Top 5 New Year's Resolutions as discussed on the social networking site. You know what beat "lose weight?" "Get into a relationship" beat it. I was flabbergasted. Why would someone resolve to be in a relationship?? Is society made up of a bunch of dependent and co-dependent people so desperate to be in a relationship that they would make that more of a priority than healthy eating and adequate exercise? I don't get it. Maybe it's because I have had nothing but bad luck in relationships. Maybe its because I'm very independent and stubborn. Maybe it's because I have kids and they take up all of the time I might be spending daydreaming about Prince Charming, had I not had kids.
And of course, this is when I really started to break it down and over-think things! The people in the picture looked like they were in love. They looked like all they wanted, in that moment, was to be next to each other forever. Yes, I know its a photo staged with professional models, whose expressions are meant to compel the reader not only to read the article, but also to believe every word as if it were written on stone by God. But, hypothetically, if that was real sentiment, I want some. I, after much consideration, would love to share that feeling with someone. I would love to have someone in my life who supports me 100% and shares real love with me.
I was in love once, I think. I felt like I always wanted to be with him. The drama and passionate fighting was never enough to make me second guess if I wanted to be with him or if there was someone else out there for me. You know, if the grass was greener. I never even looked at another male. I was in love. Of course, I was also 18. Still a baby, even though I could change the world through a hole punch on a ballot. I could get pregnant. I could choose to blacken my lungs to death if I wanted to. But I'm pretty sure we all know 18 is a little immature for love. Still, I was with him for over a little over 5 years. I got a ring. And then, I left. He chose other hobbies that didn't fit into my life and I was forced to end it. I cried for a year straight. And finally, I healed.
I've been in other long term relationships, none in which I was nearly as enamored, all just as drama filled. So obviously, I've pretty much ruled out love as a real thing. I figure, you find someone you can basically deal with, and go from there. Do your own thing. Take care of the kids. Sleep. Eat. Live another day. I've believed that there's no such thing as the love you see in magazine photos or Shrek trilogies. That's fantasy, like Puff the Magic Dragon, Harry Potter, or The Curious Case of Benjamin Button. Stories. Stories that you can feel. Smell. Taste.
But now, after much deliberation, I think I want to find that too. I want to feel, smell, taste that kind of magic. I want to be the girl in the picture. And if it's not real, what do I have to lose? And if it is?? In essence, the whole idea mimics that of spirituality and religion. It's all about faith, and living all the time you don't know for sure to the fullest. So I've banished the idea that love and the desire for a relationship is only for the dependent and weak minded, and I've now added it to my list. Not a list of resolutions, because it's silly to resolve to do something mostly out of your control, but on my list of what I want. What I want to know is real. What I want to be positive about. I hope that you, too, stay positive, whether you are in a loving relationship and just trying to get over that hump of struggle, or if you're like me and have just had bad luck/judgment/series of unfortunate events. Cheers to 2012!
On the Dick Clark special, they put together a bunch of different Top 5's as compiled from Facebook statuses. One of these were the Top 5 New Year's Resolutions as discussed on the social networking site. You know what beat "lose weight?" "Get into a relationship" beat it. I was flabbergasted. Why would someone resolve to be in a relationship?? Is society made up of a bunch of dependent and co-dependent people so desperate to be in a relationship that they would make that more of a priority than healthy eating and adequate exercise? I don't get it. Maybe it's because I have had nothing but bad luck in relationships. Maybe its because I'm very independent and stubborn. Maybe it's because I have kids and they take up all of the time I might be spending daydreaming about Prince Charming, had I not had kids.
And of course, this is when I really started to break it down and over-think things! The people in the picture looked like they were in love. They looked like all they wanted, in that moment, was to be next to each other forever. Yes, I know its a photo staged with professional models, whose expressions are meant to compel the reader not only to read the article, but also to believe every word as if it were written on stone by God. But, hypothetically, if that was real sentiment, I want some. I, after much consideration, would love to share that feeling with someone. I would love to have someone in my life who supports me 100% and shares real love with me.
I was in love once, I think. I felt like I always wanted to be with him. The drama and passionate fighting was never enough to make me second guess if I wanted to be with him or if there was someone else out there for me. You know, if the grass was greener. I never even looked at another male. I was in love. Of course, I was also 18. Still a baby, even though I could change the world through a hole punch on a ballot. I could get pregnant. I could choose to blacken my lungs to death if I wanted to. But I'm pretty sure we all know 18 is a little immature for love. Still, I was with him for over a little over 5 years. I got a ring. And then, I left. He chose other hobbies that didn't fit into my life and I was forced to end it. I cried for a year straight. And finally, I healed.
I've been in other long term relationships, none in which I was nearly as enamored, all just as drama filled. So obviously, I've pretty much ruled out love as a real thing. I figure, you find someone you can basically deal with, and go from there. Do your own thing. Take care of the kids. Sleep. Eat. Live another day. I've believed that there's no such thing as the love you see in magazine photos or Shrek trilogies. That's fantasy, like Puff the Magic Dragon, Harry Potter, or The Curious Case of Benjamin Button. Stories. Stories that you can feel. Smell. Taste.
But now, after much deliberation, I think I want to find that too. I want to feel, smell, taste that kind of magic. I want to be the girl in the picture. And if it's not real, what do I have to lose? And if it is?? In essence, the whole idea mimics that of spirituality and religion. It's all about faith, and living all the time you don't know for sure to the fullest. So I've banished the idea that love and the desire for a relationship is only for the dependent and weak minded, and I've now added it to my list. Not a list of resolutions, because it's silly to resolve to do something mostly out of your control, but on my list of what I want. What I want to know is real. What I want to be positive about. I hope that you, too, stay positive, whether you are in a loving relationship and just trying to get over that hump of struggle, or if you're like me and have just had bad luck/judgment/series of unfortunate events. Cheers to 2012!
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