A Mermaid in the Desert

You stranded me in the desert, a girl with a mermaid heart.

You promised me a life, but you tore mine apart.

You chained me to a boulder, buried me in the sand.

You cut off my siren song, and stranded me on land.

 

I settled into the rubble, pretended chaos was normalcy.

I smiled and nodded like a good girl, as you seeped the water from me.

I was on the brink of disappearing, submitting to nothingness.

But through the desolation, I heard the sea's call. I felt her kiss.

 

I dug deep into the earth, through the fire and brimstone,

Right through the center of hell, but it got me home.

I made it to the ocean, stood ankle deep in the waves.

With the cool sea mist wetting my skin, I knew that I was saved.

 

I dove into the abyss, so deep I got the bends.

I surfaced, choking and shaking, but healing at the mends.

The strength of the water can't be held in your hand,

But it can move mountains. It can destroy men.  

 

 

****

I went to the beach last Friday and it got me thinking about how I ended up in the desert. After living with a monster for over a decade, even after leaving him, he remains that monster in my head, robbing me of truth and hope and trust. I might be living by the beach, but a part of me will always be in that desert, praying for rain during a famine.

I can't totally blame him. He might have been a crazy person from the beginning, but I was the one who couldn't see it. I'm the one who stayed after I did. It took years for me to regain the strength I once had. It's still a work in progress, but drop by drop, the well within me deepens, the sea ebbs, the storm rise.

That's the thing about water. It can be gone for years, but eventually the skies open up. It bathes the earth. It replenishes. Water can seem weak, always forming to the world around it or slipping through your fingers, but water is strong. It can renew life as well as end it. It can erode and reshape stone.



 

 

Runway Bride: Cancelled Wedding Anniversaries and Listening to Your Gut

Does your gut ever speak to you? Do you listen?

It's August 23rd, a day that would be my thirteenth wedding anniversary. I remember how beautiful the temple was, how white and pure and peaceful. The flowers were purple and pink, the morning sun bright orange and beautiful. How could anything bad take place here?

I was early for my wedding, and he was late. There was a ten minute window where I thought that he changed his mind. And I wasn't sad. I was relieved. Something inside me said, Run! I chalked it up to nerves, cold feet, or fear of change. But it was my gut speaking to me. My gut never lies, and whenever I ignore it, it's to my own devastation.

So I spent nearly a decade, slowing killing the girl I was, pushing her out of my heart, trying to be the girl he wanted. I could never be enough, and I couldn't be me. I was quiet and lost and turned inside out. But I found my voice, I found my way home, and I turned right side out again. And it all hurt like hell. I am stronger in the places that were broken. My heart is lined with steel and there is a fire in my belly. I laugh until I cry now. My smile reaches my eyes. My boys get to see me. The messy, honest, funny, and kind woman I always was. They will learn from me to be brave, to keep going when it hurts, to work hard, and to never give up because they are worth it. I am worth it.

Call it your Spirit, God, or your gut, but listen to that little voice inside. The voice is watching out for you. It wants to spare you grief. My gut almost got me out of an abusive marriage, but it got me my boys. I would marry three more sociopaths. I would live in a poisonous snake den. I would give up birthday cake for the rest of my life if it meant I got to have Seth and Ben. But then again, my gut helped me find a way out. It told me to run, and this time I listened.

Sometimes I do get sad, but not because I mourn the marriage. I mourn the fact that I have never been loved the way I deserve. But I won't worry about that for now. Instead, I will rejoice in my singlehood. I will not shave my legs, leave the dishes in the sink, and watch every teen drama that the CW produces. I will do all of this without scorn or ridicule. I will be unapologetically me.

Today my gut is telling me that my life is just beginning. I have a wonderful career, a happy home for my children, a determination to get everything I want, and a heart lined with steel and a bellyful of fire. My literal gut may be covered in stretch marks, but I won't hold that against it. I will listen to it.

 

Why Size Matters

If I could cut my heart and soul from this skin,
I would bleed out in the pursuit of perfection.
And I have tried.
The red, dried blood cakes beneath my nails,
After hours spent, standing naked in front of the mirror,
Berating and cursing the imperfection of my stomach,
Loathing every stretchmark and scar. Raking my fingers
Over the flesh I hate.

This is the body of a woman.

But this body tells a history of loss, love, and life,
A story of two boys who changed everything.
Dimpled thighs with no gap in between them,
A gift from my mother, a legacy of strength and steadiness.
The fullness of my hips tells of cupcakes,
Shared among friends, of laughter and happiness.
The breasts that sway too much
Have fed babies and made grown men weep.

This is a body of a woman.

It is mine, the mortal flesh the Lord granted me,
The one thing I can't take with me when I leave.
It can be ugly and breathtaking, young and old,
Desirable and womanly, but never enough for him.
Not enough for me. But it is mine.
Every inch speaks of tears and tenacity, of peace and pain,
Curves of womanhood that deserve worship.
Love. Lust. Acceptance.
It houses my heart and soul. All that matters.

This is a body of a woman.

 

I'm a size ten. When I get the flu or in the very early hours of the morning, before I've have anything to eat, sometimes I'm an eight. The average woman in America is a size twelve, so I'm smaller than average, but I'm really not. Everywhere I look, the TV, the magazines, the gym, the club, the freaking library--skinny bitches. (If you're skinny, I'm sorry to be cruel. It must be so hard on you, to be so thin and desired by the world.)

I remember the first time I thought I was fat. I was six years old, and probably weighed forty-five pounds. I was at my friend's house. She had a pool and we wanted to go swimming, but I didn't have my bathing suit. I suggested that I could borrow one of hers, but she said I couldn't because I would stretch it out. I was in the first grade and I realized that my thighs rubbed together.

They still do today.

I am not thin. I never will be, and this haunts me. No seriously. I know I'm funny and sarcastic about almost everything in my life, but the fact that I'm not skinny is something I'm obsessed with. OBSSESSED. I can't get over it. A few weeks ago, I was talking to a friend about my personal trainer, and I was telling her all the parts of my body that I wanted to work on: my arms, my legs, my back, my stomach, my butt, my hips, my inner thighs. I told her that the only part of my body that I like is my elbows, and she looked at me, her pretty blue eyes wide with disbelief, and asked me if I had a body dimorphic disorder. Whenever I see a picture of myself, all I can see is my wide hips, my giant, sausage arms, and thick, thunder thighs. In this world, it's not your goodness or you kindness that attracts people. It's your tight ass and skinny arms.

People think I'm crazy when I bring up my insecurities. They try to be kind and tell me, "But you're so strong. You have muscles. And yours boobs." This is the opposite of what I want to hear. Putting on a swimsuit is a freaking nightmare. I love the beach and the water so much, but I sit on my towel, afraid that if I move, my legs will jiggle. Because I am not thin, I feel like a less of a person. Like I don't matter or I'm not a romantic option to men because I'm not a size zero. Mara keeps telling me that there are men out there who will go crazy for my body. It has to be a lumberjack, hiding out there in the deep woods of Florida, because I can't find him.

 

You accept the love you think you deserve and that is why I ended up with my asshole ex-husband. No one had ever loved me before, and I thought it was my only shot. This body is the reason I can not have the man I want. (You all know it's a blond lumberjack or Zac Efron). To those men, I am a friend. Maybe if I lost ten pounds it would be different. Believe me, I'm trying. But I also love dessert, so I'm not sure it's worth it.

 

Loving myself has always been a struggle, but I'm trying. I could find in the breakdown, so there must be some on the upswing. I am not this body, but it is me, and I'm trying to be kind to it. 

 

Cinderella is a Liar!

I saw Cinderella this weekend, and I have some problems with it. While it was beautiful and magical, I couldn't get into it, even though Gus-Gus was fat and adorable and that Goose was hilarious. I wanted to pull the fire alarm and stop the movie. I wanted the warn all those little girls dressed in pretty blue taffeta dresses that life isn't a fairy tale. Your waist will never be as small as Cinderella's. You will never have a Fairy Godmother. Your prince will not come. There is no ball. If you meet a mysterious stranger in the forest, he's going to kill you.

Most importantly, there is no happily ever after.

Just after.

Cinderella did get a few things right. You will most likely have to slave away, your only reward the blackening ash from the dying embers of a fire. You will lose your favorite shoes.

I know I'm bitter, but I deserve to be that way. I have worked and worked and worked, but never get the thing I want. Even if you keep on believing, the dream that you wish won't come true. No one is coming along to recuse you, honey. The only person you can count on is yourself.

Have courage and be kind. Well, I've had courage and I've been kind, and nothing has come of it.  I'm sorry, but Cinderella is a liar, and she's not the kind of heroine the world needs. This is why I have never been a fan of the Disney Princess (except for Mulan and a few other modern day princesses). They wait in towers, daydreaming of a prince instead of training themselves to fight. They fling themselves down and cry instead of taking action. They marry the first idiot who comes along and shows some interest. (Oh, wait, that's what I did.) They take abuse. They turn the other cheek. And maybe this is WWJD, but sometimes kindness is the wrong answer. I always ask myself. WWBuffyDo.

Buffy wouldn't take the abuse. Buffy would fight against it until you get free. Kindness is all well and good, and there isn't enough of it in this world, but kindness doesn't get you what you want. Kindness gives you false hope. Kindness breaks your heart.

I wish I could be Cinderella and find magic in the cinders of the fireplace. Magic and Miracles take time, and I have put in my time. I will continue to be kind because kindness is my weakness. I don't understand meanness. It's not in my heart. Maybe that's the point. To continue to be kind even when kindness doesn't come to you.

I Will be Your Father Figure

I worry about my boys growing up without a father. It seems like every serial killer or deviant had an absent father. They were never taught to be good men, so they turn out bad. I don't want my good boys to go bad. I want them to be real men. I want them to work hard, camp, and fix cars. I want them to be educated, physically strong, and also kind. I want them to respect and value women. I want them to be able to throw a spiral and gut a fish. I do what I can. I take them to sport's practices, I do homework with them, and I let them see just how tough a woman can be. I do what I can, but it'll never be enough. I am for gender equality--I can do anything a man can do--but I can never be a man.

Their own father, who can't even bother to call them more than once a month, surely has no time to teach them how to be a man. He's too busy racking up debt on a credit card in my name. He's too busy trying to win back his most recent ex-wife (his former mistress who he married), still trying to convince me that his absence is my fault. Apparently I need to pay for his trips to see his children. You know, because my income is enough to take care of myself, two growing boys, and a worthless ex who doesn't even have a job. This is the bullshit I deal, a barrage of insanity from him. It's the same shit my boys have to deal with. I have become an expert at ignoring and forgiving idiocy, but I swear he gets worse and worse. He's the engineer of the crazy train.

Is this all we get, this half-man, who doesn't understand responsibilities, or consequences, or even karma? Are there any lumberjacks out there? I think that is why I desire a woodsman so much. I want a man to smell like earth and work. I want a man among men, someone who can teach my boys what it is to struggle and come out triumphant.

I am not sure this man exists, at least for me. Hell, I don't know if I ever want to get re-married or even seriously date again. It's all a big disappointment when the world is filled with little boys instead of men. I have been so burned by it all. I rushed into marriage, (I admit that was MY mistake.) not really knowing who I was marrying. I wanted to believe he would get better, mature, and become the man he claimed to be. I thought I could love him into it. But love can't force someone to change. I have learned that people are who they are. They rarely change. They only reveal who they were the whole time. And would I want someone who changed for me? No. I wouldn't want to be the reason someone bent and contorted themselves into something they are not.

So how can I make sure that my boys have a man in their lives when I don't want to remarry? What I wouldn't give for a good ole guy friend. Someone for me to hang out with and someone for the boys to be manly with. I wholeheartedly believe that men and women can be friends, but I have found it impossible to find a guy who agrees. If I talk to a guy, they seem to think that I'm not just being friendly, but I actually want their man parts in my lady parts. I want nothing to do with your man parts, just your friendship.

The boys are lucky. They have my nephew Cameron. This boy is a boy scout, an honor roll student, and an A+ babysitter. He plays football with them, tells them all about politics, and teaches them how to start a fire. I am also grateful for my friend's husbands, who worry about them and takes them on manly outings. It's sad, but also wonderful, that my friends' husbands worry more about my children than their own father.

But will it be enough? Will they be okay without a father? I think they will be, but I still worry so much. I just want them to be whole people, who are good, law-abiding, working citizens. Is one parent enough to do this? No, but I have a village helping me out.

Valentine's Day Clearance! 50% off all cheap flowers and ugly teddy bears!

Was it Valentine's Day? I hadn't noticed all the red and pink shit all over the stores or the hearts I've been endlessly cutting out in my Pre-K class. I hadn't even thought for one second about how I will not have a Valentine yet again this year. Or how everyone in the flipping world will be eating chocolate covered strawberries and sipping wine and getting lucky. No, sir, I haven't thought about any of that at all.

This year, I'm celebrating my lady friends instead of dwelling on stupid, stupid boys. Have we talked about how boys are stupid? Have we talked about that for some reason I signed up for Match.com? They emailed me this insanely good deal on membership and I was vulnerable and remembering how much I liked having a boyfriend that one time. Yeah, so now I'm on Match and am like, no thank you to everyone. Sometimes I talk back to the endless emails I get, and I'm just disappointed. You are not allowed to be perverted with me, not until we've been dating for a while. What happened to being polite and respecful? What happened to being classy? Where have all the cowboys gone?
Where are all the 35 year olds? It's either 27 year olds of 55 year olds. Don't get me wrong, I have a thing for younger guys. Like Boyfriend was 27 and I loved it. Every time we went out, I wanted to explain to everyone that I was 8 years older than him. Hey, world, a younger man dated me! I wish I was into older guys, but I'm just not. I like them young and cute and ultimately wrong for me.

That's my problem. I want to date, but really I don't. Boyfriends are fun, but they are all kinds of complications. My life is so busy and full of stuff that I can't cram another thing into it. Unless that thing is a successful, tall, blue eyed, blond haired lumberjack.

And can we take a minute, on this February 16th, to talk about the fact that my ex-husband secretly married his mistress in January? Oh, yes, my friends. They didn't want anyone to know. She said she was trying to right the wrong of having an affair with him and breaking up my family. (Yes, I talked to the Queen of Crazy Bananas. I couldn't help myself. When my ex is a lying, liar who lies, I have to get information from somewhere. And I normally stay the heck out of the drama. I'd rather not know. But sometimes my curiosity gets the better of me. And looked at what I learned from Queen Banana). Can we also talk about the best part? She is trying to get it annulled only a month after the marriage. I can't even tell you how gloriously happy this makes me.

So why am I ranting and raving about Valentine's Day? Because I can. I had a wonderful Galentine's Day with my favorite ladies. I don't need no man. That's the point of all this. I'm getting out of the dating world again. But if you have a blond lumberjack in your reach, send him my way. You owe me that much.

If I had a boyfriend, my tiny bit of free time would be eaten up with him, and I just can't even. I have about twenty minutes a day to myself and I would like to spend it writing. Remember when I wrote books? I'm getting back to that. And I am happy being alone. I don't need a man to buy me wilting roses from Walmart or a man to make me feel special. I know I am the bees knees, the cat's pajamas, and the catch of the county. I'm going to spend my time going to the gym, eating salads, and getting so hot that news of my hotness will reach Hollywood and my baby Zac will fly down here and whisk me away. I'll also be eating pizza and cake and watching Netflix, because let's remember who my true loves are.

That One Time I Had Boyfriend

Did you know that there is a break-up station on Pandora? Did you know that if you eat a cake by yourself while also drinking Coke that you might barf? Did you know that you over-analyze everything at 3 in the morning? Did you know that no matter how hard you stare at your cell phone that you can't will a text message into existence? Did you know that breaking up is hard to do?

I've been trying to figure out how and when to write about this, but I've decided to put my balls (boobs) to the wall and just go for it. And just as a disclaimer, I'm okay now. I'm over it. Mostly.

Yes, I had a boyfriend. And no, I will not give you details of the who, why, where, or when, but I had one. I know I share the crap out of my life, but I kept him private and all to myself. Well, some of my close friends and family members knew about him or even met him, but I didn't want to talk about him on the blog or even on Facebook because I was afraid I would jinx things. About a month ago, (I guess this gives away the timeline a little) I finally remembered to update my relationship status. It would have been fine, but I accidently allowed the world to see it for a few minutes when I meant to keep it private. I guess I did jinx it because it's over now.

I knew from the beginning that it wouldn't work. We wanted different things out of life, we were too far apart in age, we had opposite views on religion and love and The Family Guy. We were wrong from the beginning, but I am an expert at ignoring the wrongness and hoping it'll work. I am an expert at attracting the wrong guy.

The ending of it sucked, but the beginning and the middle were fantastic. Something stupid romance novels are written about. I was terrified to be in a relationship again, but I'm so glad I did it. He was cute and hilarious. He was a wonderful kisser. He took me to nice places. He made me smile and feel important. He allowed me to have opinions and to swear and be the pervert I am deep down. He simply allowed me to be myself.  

See. You don't need to be afraid that if you date me I'll bash you on my blog. I tell the straight up truth. If you're a cool person, you will be portrayed as such. He was a cool person. He still is. We just weren't right for each other and that's okay.

It wasn't all the serious, but it still hurt because it mattered more to me than I thought. He mattered to me and I mattered to him, and I will miss it. Having someone to talk to late at night, having someone to hold my hand, having someone kiss me goodnight. It might have been wrong and doomed from the start, but the middle made it all worth it.

But because of this ex-boyfriend, I have gotten my groove back. He helped me remember that I am awesome and amazing. He helped me find my confidence again, something that had been stolen by my ex-husband. He made me remember that relationships can be good and fun and two-sided. So thank you, Ex-Boyfriend. You know who you are. Thank you for making my life a little brighter. Thank you for being you and for prepping me to date Tom Hiddleston or Zac Efron. I'm sorry it ended, but I'm not sorry that it happened.

Welcome to the Baggage Claim: There be foul language up ahead. But I edited it because I'm nice like that.

Will you wait for me at the baggage claim?
Will you help me sort through luggage and the pain?
The contents are black and heavy
I'm afraid to look inside, afraid the break the levee.

Oh, the proverbial baggage. I've got a sh*t ton, y'all. Enough to fill up the JAX airport. I'm trying not to let it weigh me down, but it's heavy. My back aches from dragging it around. I try not to think about it. I shoved it into the corner of my bedroom, and there it sits, like the fat, pink elephant in the room. The giant thing taking up so much space, but we don't speak about it.

When I love you, I trust you. Completely. My trust became a joke, something to be used. I don't trust now. I am wobbly and unsure, and pretty certain that everyone, even the pope, is a liar. I used to see the best in people only. Now the cracks and fissures consume. It's hard to see the good, the potential. All I can see is the future when he'll change his mind, when all he can see are my cracks and fissures, the ugliest parts of me. It'll end because everything does. Even the brightest star explodes into nothingness. And the darkness stays, and stays, and stays.

I keep seeing this quote that goes a little something like this, "Find someone who loves you enough to help you unpack your baggage." Here's my problem with it. I don't like help, especially when I can do everything all by my own damn self, all the time. I am an independent woman, who don't need no man. I don't like the idea of a man being the reason I get over my crap. I want to get over the crap all on my own. It means more when you go it alone. It makes you stronger, braver. Or maybe more hardheaded, which is also the truth about me.

And maybe having baggage isn't a bad thing. When someone gives you up so easily, all you want is someone to give a crap. Someone to fight just the slightest bit. Maybe I do want someone to help me unpack. Complicated things are the things most worth working for. I am a mess. I am a tight ball of neurosis and fear. I have learned a valuable lesson from it all. Nothing is a guarantee. Not next week, not your tomorrow, not your next breath. I have learned that life is full of the unexpected. Life will screw you over. Love will make you cry, but the pain is worth it. The pain makes it real. So don't think about how much it could hurt. Think about how happy it will make you, if just for a little while. But sometimes I'm scared the baggage will crush me. The refining fires will burn me beyond recognition, and I will fade. I don't want to fade. I want to burn brighter than the sun.

Who will stand with me in the stormy baggage claim? Who will see me through the hurricane and help me unbury the life I want? And who will be there when I finally get there, when I'm at my best, when I am everything I've ever wanted?

If I were you, I'd get in on the ground floor because pretty soon this girl is going to meet Tom Hiddleston or Zac Efron, and let's face it, once we met, we're as good as married.