Remember That Time I Wrote a Book?

Remember when I ran three miles a day and dried my hair and wore eyeliner? Remember that other time I was an author? (Yes, I'm still doing that. It's in the works, man.) And remember that other, other time when I was posting chapters of the book I was working on. Remember when I worked for no one but Maragreg and Cousin Emily? I still work super, super part time for them, writing their favorite necromancer and reaper love story. This is for them because they are my fandom, and I must take care of my fangirls. If not, they will turn on me.

And I've been having so much fun at SJCDS. I've been with the Pre-Ks for almost two weeks. They are adorable, but exhausting, much like my own Ben. I also spent last night at the Spartan's football game. I'm loving coaching cheerleading and being involved with the school. Spartans for life!

This is horrible and full of plot holes and typos, but here you go. Sorry it took me so long.

Chapter 8

 

            “I didn’t do that. I swear,” I say, holding my hands up like I’m surrendering to Sheriff Michaels. The plastic orange chairs are all knocked to their side, and glass is littered across the floor, making it look like a disco ball exploded. “Lights break on their own all the time.”  I back away from all of them, wanting run. I’m not sure if it’s because I’m scared I broke the light or if I’m scared that I didn’t. What other explanation for it could there be?

But I’m not a witch. I have no powers besides raising the dead, Right? Right?  

            With his eyebrows drawn together, the sheriff studies me for a moment. “We’ll call you if we need any other help.”

“You believe me?” I ask, because no one ever does, and here I’ve got to adults who are listening to what I have to say.

“You should go home, Cass,” Sheriff Michaels says, not answering my question. “We need to clean this up.”

            As I walk away, I hear the receptionist chime in and ask them, “You believe her?”

            Instead of exiting the police station, I head down the hall that must lead to the holding cells that are located at the back of the building. The receptionist, Mr. Moore, and Sheriff Michaels are too busy to pay any attention to me. I stop just out of their sight, hide behind a fake plastic plant, and listen to what they have to say about me.

“Yes,” Mr. Moore replies. “Remember when my wife went missing.” There’s stretch of silence, and then he adds, “My first wife, Brittany’s mother. She disappeared right after Brittany was born. Everyone just thought she went crazy and left me, but I knew it wasn’t true. No one would believe me, though. At least until Judy Charon came to see me. She is the one who spoke to her ghost and found the body. Cass has the same abilities. If Cass is seeing Brittany, it can’t be a good sign. My daughter will be dead soon if we don’t do something.”

“Blake Harrington was the last person to see her, right?” Sheriff Michaels asks.

“Yes. He came over, but she didn’t invite him in. They stayed on the porch. I could hear them arguing from inside. He raised his voice to my baby girl, so I went out there and told him to leave her alone. He left, but as he got into his car, he yelled, ‘This isn’t over, Brittany!’. Then he sped off in his BMW. I’ve never liked the kid. So smug and self-righteous.”

I wanted to leave my hiding place and high-five Mr. Moore because he was possibly the only person in Ravines that felt the same way I did about Blake.

“Get him down here for questioning right away,” Sheriff Michaels says to the receptionist. “And Call Kyle Travis over in the Jacksonville FBI unit. He is already in town for another investigation. Tell him to get over here right away. If Brittany didn’t run away, we need to find her.”

             Mr. Moore leaves and they call in a maintenance man to clean up the mess I made. I don’t want to think about the lights that I may or may not have made explode and the fact that last night, I made out with the guy who is lead suspect in a girl’s disappearance, so I duck into the ladies’ room.

I splash water on my face, and as I straighten up, Reiner appears behind me. “Damn it!” I yell, flinching at the sight of him, not only because he startles me, but because his appearance truly is unnerving.

The florescent lights wash out his complexion even more than it usually is, making his veins appear black against the alabaster of his skin. His scars are more prominent, the arch across his throat red, like its fresh. I half-expect to see blood gush from the wound at any second.

            “It’s impolite to sneak up on people,” I say. “It’s also rude to show up in the girls’ restroom when you’re so obviously a male.” I glance down to his biceps, which are encased in his tight military sweater. I look away, hoping he doesn’t notice. Oh, but he does.

            “Is that a compliment?” he asks, raising his eyebrows at me.

            “Shut up,” I mutter.

            He smirks in return. I roll my eyes and look back at myself in the mirror. “Do I look any different to you?” I ask him. It’s a dumb question since we just met. How would he know if I’d changed? I fishing to see if I suddenly look like a witch.

            “You look the same as you have in my dreams,” he replies. “The wild blond hair, green eyes who has seen more death than life, and a mouth that doesn’t smile as often as it should.”

            I roll my eyes at him. “Stop trying to flirt with me,” I say. “You don’t dream about me.”

He shrugs. “You have dreamed of me, have you not? Why cannot I see our future together also?”

“It’s not our future. It’s just dreams, nothing more.” Curious, I want to ask him what he’s seen about me.

“Do you know what your name means?” he asks.

“I was named after my mother’s high school best friend.”

He shakes his head. “Cassandra literally means prophet. You are a soothsayer.”

I laugh out loud, and it lasts so long that I sound as crazy as everyone in town thinks I am. I clear my throat, and look back to Reiner. He isn’t smiling. Instead his eyes are narrowed, like he doesn’t understand laughter.

“Reiner, if I’m such a prophetess, I’d have much better grades in Algebra. And I never would have come into this bathroom because I would have known I’d see you here, when all I want to do is avoid you.”

One corner of his pale lips turn up. 

But what if he’s right? I did see myself with him in the Afterworld, and I can still remember what his hand felt like in mine, the warmth of Purgatory’s fires, and the happiness that bloomed within me. What if these visions are the start of some unknown part of my power? Maybe I’m seeing Brittany’s future as well as my own.

“I can’t foresee the anything,” I say, not wanting to believe any of it.

“Have you seen how you will die?” he asks.

He starts toward me, but I rush out of the bathroom. All the Reaper has to do it touch me and I’m dead. Once I’m in the hall, I look back, expecting him to be right behind me, but I’m alone. I breathe a sigh of relief. I’m dealing with enough. I’ve got to look up a spell to banish the Reaper from my life.

            I stop walking when I realize what I just said. A spell. What if I am what I’ve always denied? A witch. I stumble down the hall, like a drunk woman trying to find her way home. I’m not a witch. I’m not one if I say I’m not. I’m not.

            I go back out to the lobby. The glass has been cleaned up and the chairs put back where they belong. All proof of what happened is gone. See? I’m not a witch.

I’m about to leave the police station, but duck back behind the fake plant again when the

doors to the police station swing open and Blake strolls in. Despite myself and everything I’ve learned about him, my stomach still does a little flip flop when I spot him.

“I’m here to see Sheriff Michaels,” Blake says, giving the sixty year old receptionist his best smile. Her wrinkled skin turns pink at the cheeks. Then she spills her coffee when he leans unto her desk.

See. I’m not the only one who turns into an idiot when Blake is around. As he helps her clean up the mess, I duck back behind the plant, making sure he can’t see me when he straightens up.

If Blake and I make eye contact, I’m afraid I might punch him in one of his sultry green eyes. I don’t think assaulting someone while in a police station would be a good idea.

Before Blake can sit in the waiting area, a plain-clothes detective leads comes out to greet him.

“I’m Special Agent Travis,” he says, holding out his hand for Blake to shake. Dressed in a cheap navy suit, the FBI agent’s young age is apparent. He’s maybe ten years older than me, much too young to be taking on a case like this.

Travis shows Blake into the room, so I emerge from my hiding place behind the tree. Since the receptionist is reading a bodice-ripping romance novel and paying no attention to me, I step up to the interrogation room, and lean against the door, hold my breath, and since the city of Ravines didn’t swing for a sound proof interrogation room, I can hear everything.

            “When was the last time you saw Brittany?” asks Agent Travis.

            “Last Sunday. She came over to my house. We . . .” Blake’s voice trails off.

            “We know about the fight, Blake.”

            Blake sighs. “We broke up.”

            “I bet you were angry.”

            “No. I felt relieved. I didn’t want to be with her any more, hadn’t for a long time.  We weren’t that serious to begin with. We went out when we weren’t seeing anyone else. Brittany knew how to have a good time.” I can hear the smile in his voice.

            “I bet she did,” I say out loud. I still clamp my hand over my mouth as I glance at the receptionist, certain she had to have heard me, but she’s still busy reading about bulging biceps and heaving bosoms.

            “You and Brittany were together for almost a year. Sounds pretty serious to me,” Travis says. “Were you sleeping with her?”

            I perk up at this because I want know, too.

            “I don’t think that has anything to do with her disappearance,” Blake responds.

“Just answer the question.”

“Like I said, we were causal,” he says, keeping his answer vague. “It’s not like we were in love. Our parents were friends, and we just . . . it was complicated. Besides, I’m underage. You shouldn’t be asking me these questions about my sex life without a parent or an attorney present.”

“Do you need an attorney?” Travis asks.

“No. But it’s illegal for you to question me about anything while I’m underage and under duress.”

            “Oh, Mr. Harrington, we’re not forcing you to be here.”

“Then let me go,” Blake replies.

“We’ll release you. . .” Travis says, ending on a dramatic pause. “For now. But answer one last question. Where were you last Sunday night after you left Brittany?”

            “With my mom.”

            “A good looking, single guy like you was home on a summer night with his mother?”

            “Yes. What are you so worried about? Brittany does crap like this all the time to get attention. She always comes back.”

“We have reason to believe Brittany is being held against her will.”

“What?” Blake’s voice cracks a little.

“Brittany is missing, and you’re the last person to see her.”

“How do you know she’s missing?” Blake asks.

After a moment of silence, someone I didn’t even know was in the room speaks. “Cass Charon was in here this afternoon,” Sheriff Michaels says. “She’s been having dreams.”

“Cass sees dead people,” Blake says. “Not girls who have gone missing.”

“Maybe Brittany is already dead. Maybe you killed her,” Sheriff Michaels replies.

“Wait,” Agent Travis says. “You called me down here because of what some charlatan said? That’s all the evidence you have?”

“The Charons have helped me before on cases,” Sheriff Michaels says. “I trust them.”

“Then you’re a fool,” Agent Travis says. “Mr. Harrington, you’re free to go. And I must apologize for the unprofessional behavior of the Ravines’ police department.”

A moment later, the door to the interrogation room opens, and I almost fall over myself making sure I can’t be seen. I don’t even chance watching Blake leave, but I hear the door to the police precinct slam. I remain where I am for a minute, listening the Sheriff Michaels and Agent Travis argue over the sheriff’s ineptitude and me being a crazy witch.

            After looking through the front window, making sure Blake’s navy BMW isn’t in the lot anymore, I exit the station, and head out to my car. I crank the key, but the ignition doesn’t start. I slam my hand into the steering wheel, causing it to vibrate and making my hand sting.

I swear a lot and eventually get the car started. As I wait at the stoplight, I close my eyes, suddenly so tired I want to sleep right there in the intersection. The light is red so I have thirty seconds or so to myself. I try to think about butterflies and birthday cake, but all I can see is a dirty cabin where Brittany is being held.

I squeeze my eyes tighter, trying to force of vision, so I can see anything helpful. Nothing comes. Then I think about Blake. Could the police be right? Could he be a viable suspect? He had opportunity, motive, and the means. Brittany certainly had a romantic relationship with her kidnapper. I close my eyes and try to remember the guy’s voice. It didn’t sound exactly like Blake’s, but maybe Blake has some unknown talent at disguising his voice. I think I remember something about him being in a play once.

But could Blake really kidnap and torture someone? Even if he didn’t get along with Brittany, I don’t see him doing something so awful. Blake is all charm and smiles, but then again, he kissed me last summer while he was still technically with Brittany.

I don’t know what’s worse, suspecting him of kidnapping or cheating. He’s handsome and kind, but how well do I really know him? How well can you really know anyone?

Happy (Non) Wedding Anniversary?

I was busy writing all my cheerleading practices and football games on the calendar when I realized something. Saturday would be my 11th wedding anniversary. What am I supposed to do with that? Laugh? Cry? Eat an entire Publix birthday cake by myself? I'll probably do all three. I will laugh because I'm happier than I've been in years.I don't want to cry because it's over, I just want to cry for the wasted years and the pain and the sorrow. I have my boys and that is worth everything. I'll eat cake because that's how I deal with every emotion.

With my non-wedding anniversary looming on the horizon, I've been thinking about love a lot. The love I got, the love I wanted, the love I gave too freely. Maybe I'm a fool, but when I love you, I love you. I love you when you're happy or sad, fat or skinny, loud or quiet, funny or serious. I go all in. Not in a crazy stalker way, but I'm all about unconditional love. Love should never have stipulations attached to it. I used to joke with my ex, who LOVED returning things to the store, that at least he never returned me. Well, he kind of did. My love comes with no strings. I don't expect you to bend over backwards for me or buy me jewelry. Just love and support me. That's all I want.

But if you betray me, my love is gone, replaced by distain.

I'm a passionate person. I either love you completely, or I ignore your existence. I don't really hate, for hating is not an emotion within my heart. I have never understood hatred. I never will. This is one of the gifts the Lord bestowed upon me. For love is stronger than magic or heartache or pain. J.K. Rowlings taught me that. Love can overcome evil. Love is all you need. The Beatles taught me that.

I was never loved like I deserved, and I accepted that love because I thought that was all I could get, but I hold out hope for a grand love. A love someone will write poetry about. That person will probably be me. But can that epic love existed here in the real world? I don't know. But I do know that no one is ever going to love me like Peeta loved Katniss, Logan loved Veronica, or Cassel loved Lila, or Perry loved Aria, or Eric loved Sookie, or Damon loved Elena. (I read a lot.) I'll be loved differently that that's okay. I just want someone to love me for who I am--for my strengths and my weaknesses--and not want to change me in anyway. I want to be enough, just how I am.

I have the love of my little boys and they think I'm pretty great. In fact, I know exactly how I'm going to celebrate my non-wedding anniversary. I'm taking them out on a date to a restaurant I was never allowed to go to. I'm taking them to the SJCDS football game because my ex-husband hated sports. We're going to eat dessert for breakfast and have a grand old time.

A bicycle, a man, and a fish: I've Made a Terrible Mistake.

 

There is something you must understand about me. I am a feminist. This does not mean I have hairy armpits or hate men. Oh, contraire, mon frère. My armpits are smooth and I like men. I love them. Their biceps and brawn and brains. Yes, please! Feminism is simply the belief that I can do anything a man can do (maybe even better). I can run a household. I can work. I can change a tire. I can rule the world. Feminism is simply the idea that women deserve equal rights. Nothing more. That's it. Do you have a mother, a sister, an aunt, a granny, a cousin? Do you think they deserve the same inalienable rights as every other human being on the planet? You're a feminist, too.

I talk about feminism because I don't believe I need a man. Sure, a bike would be great. It could be fun. But I can swim just fine without one. There's this quote I keep seeing around Pinterest. "One day, someone will hold you tight enough to put all your broken pieces back into place." This sounds lovely, doesn't it? Some day, he will come along on his white steed and rescue me from myself. Nope. I saved myself, thank you very much.

The guys online seem so phony. All I get is stuff like, 'Hey, beautiful. Great picks.' This is a line. This doesn't mean anything to me. Don't you sweet talk me because the devil can talk pretty, too. If you want me to talk back, say something intelligent. Try. As you know, I have very specific tastes, so I did a search on my online dating site and one guy showed up in the entire Jacksonville area. One guy! You might think I'm closing myself off by being picky, but I know what I want. I know what I like. I know who I am. Opinions and sarcasm scare most guys. I need a man who finds self-confidence and passion and strength attractive. It's okay for women to be strong, because they already are. In today's world, I don't think he exists. This is why I wrote him into a book. (Read all about Abram once my book is finished and published.)

So I'm shutting it down. I deactivated my account. I can't do it. I don't need a man to make me feel pretty, or worthy, or loved. I have the power to give myself all those things. I decide how I feel about myself. I am a friggin' catch, and I don't need a man to tell me that.

I would like a guy friend, but I don't know how to go about it. Is there an opposite-sex-friendship website out there? So many of the people I went to high school and college with are married now, so they're out, and I do have single friends, but what do I say? "Hey, I'm in the market for a platonic friendship. Do you want to hang out sometime? No pressure. I promise I don't want to date you." Then I feel like I'll offend them when I tell them I don't want to date them. It's such a fine line with male and female friendship. I would never close off the possibility of something more, but I don't want the guy to think I want to marry him and make him my boys' daddy. I just want to swear in a normal conversation and not worry about offending anyone. I want to get dirty and sweaty while hiking in the woods. I want to talk about comic lore. I want a boy friend.

But don't you dare forget that I don't need one. I'm the best friend a girl could have.

Super Superficial: A Tale of Online Dating

I joined an online dating site. I'm not so sure about it. The real problem is that there are -7 single Mormon men in my area. There are other LDS guys in the state of Florida, but nobody is floating my boat.

I'm going to come out and say it. I'm superficial. At least at first. I have a very specific type. I like dark blond hair, blue eyes, and a little height. I like big biceps and abs and rounded butts. (Tina knows what I'm talking about.) I also like boys who venture out in the woods or take a swim at the beach in the middle of a storm. Who can fix things and look good while mowing the lawn. I need someone who would go ghost hunting and fishing with me. Someone who can swing an ax or command a surfboard or wield a hammer. I need someone who won't lie or cheat. I need someone who has a good work ethic, but not a workaholic. I need a man who will accept me the way I am, and someone who will love my boys. I like things besides biceps. I find brains and bravery very sexy. And if you've read poetry or fallen in love with a book in the last few years. Have mercy.

But all I find on the LDS dating sites are guys like these. And weirdos.

 

I feel bad when I click No, No, No, on my daily matches. I'm not perfect and I don't want people judging me by only by looks because I'm no super model. But this time I have to be attracted to my mate. Last time, the attraction was pretty forced. I need someone I can't keep my hands off of. I need a lot of things, and I'm scared I won't get them. It all makes me want to retreat into my yoga pants and date Netflix for life. I don't even know why I'm trying online dating. I'm not into chasing guys, and I don't talk back to anyone who contacts me. Maybe I'm just a big scaredy cat.


Do any men read this blog? Do I stand a chance in today's dating market? Would you want to date me? Do guys really pick a girl based on her personality? I don't have blond hair and stick-thin, spider-like legs. I was blessed with boobs, and muscles, and curves. I also have wrinkles on my forehead and dark under eye circles that make me look a little bit like I was punched. (I wear makeup to cover this up) I have a lot of opinions. I have a sugar addiction. I hate working out, but think it's important for everyone to do. I have sass and a sense of humor. But is that enough? Do guys have these types of insecurities? Am I alone in my neurotic self-assessment?


So now I've signed up for the free 7 day trial on another, non-Mormon dating site, and let me tell you, all the hot guys are over there. And they are talking to me and I'm scared of them. I think everyone is a Catfish and probably going to dismember me if I meet them for dinner. I just don't like the whole getting-to-know-you-over-the-internet thing. I need references and background checks and a guarantee that you won't murder in the bathroom of the local Chili's.

I used to be really good with guys. I had a giant map on my bedroom wall at college. I used it to mark the state's where the boys I kissed were from. I aimed to get all fifty states. I got most of the states (Alaska I was the most proud of), but I had a lot of fun. Like this one time I met a guy who I swear to you could have been a model. I told him I thought he was cute, and that was that. I got another pin in my map. I used to know how to flirt, but now I mainly know how to stutter and spill my drink.

Maybe it's time I turn to my internet to find a date. Does this make me desperate? I don't know, and I'm done caring. I am a badass single mother, a teacher, a tutor, a cheerleading coach, and an author. I don't have time to find guys on my own. I can't hang out at coffee shops or go to the bar or dance at a club. I need help. I'm not saying I want to get married again. I just want to go on a date, hold someone's hand, and get a good night kiss. I'm so out of practice. Does anyone know a hot, single, nonmurderer guy out there that they think I'd hit it off with? Am I sounding desperate again? Whatever. If I never put myself out there again, I'll never make out again. And I really, really miss making out. Really. 

 

 

 



Panic! In The Cat Food Aisle

A few years ago, whenever I heard stories about abuse, I'd think, 'Why is the woman staying? Why is she putting up with it. I wouldn't stand for it. I would be strong enough to leave.' The thing is, you think you'll never be that girl, but then you wake up one morning, terrified to make too much noise or in a panic because you think you might have left your towel on the bathroom floor. You are that girl. You're living a life of madness without even knowing it. Sometimes you can't see the mistreatment until you're out of it.

And I'm out of it. I moved myself, my boys, and our little trailer of stuff across the country. I found a job. I found an apartment. I found freedom from the constraints of control. But other weights are still there. Weights that took years to place on my shoulders, ounce by ounce, pound by pound, so slow that I couldn't feel it until it immobilized me.

 

Control works its way into your soul. It eats away until you don't remember who you once were. You question your every move because you're still waiting for someone to come tell you that you're doing everything wrong. I find myself still doing things "the way I'm supposed to", and suddenly I realize I can wash the dishes however the F I want. In fact, I don't have to wash them at all. They can sit in the sink for a week and no one can tell me any different. Like today, I had the sudden epiphany that I can take off the stupid seat covers in my car that I hate. I never wanted them to begin with, and now they are in the dumpster behind our apartment. I might have even ripped them to shreds.

As you all know, I'm in the process of rebuilding. During the time the boys were away from me, I had a lot of time to myself. I sat by the pool. I read. I exercised. I ate lunch alone. I painted my nails. I walked on the beach. I actually got to write like a writer. I know who I am, and I love myself, but then those weights start stacking up again. Self-doubt will always be louder than confidence. Just when I start to feel good about myself, I'm reminded that I'm a bumbling idiot.

Like the other day, I was at a store and thought I saw a cute guy I went to high school with (it wasn't him). I nearly had a panic attack. Seriously, I almost died in the cat food aisle. And why? I was worried that I would stutter or the guy wouldn't remember me or he would remember and wonder why the heck I thought I was cool enough to talk to him. This is what happens when, for the last several years, you are told you aren't good enough. Eventually you believe it. You keep quiet. You keep the peace because living in the delusion is easier than dealing with reality.

Rome wasn't built in a day. Neither was Lauren. The problem is that I'm kind of obsessed with personal perfection, though I know I'll never get there. Perfection is what I think I need for people to like me, but Maragreg Moore reminds me that the boy who gave me heart palpitations farts and picks his nose. I also need to remember that perfection is unattainable, and I am enough, even in this broken state. I'm no hero. I put my bra on one boob at a time, just like any other woman.

I have flaws and that's why you like me. It's why I like myself. I do. I promise. I've just been repressed for far too long. This will be The Year of Lauren. I will be awesome. I will get my book published. I will make others nervous to talk to me because I will have a radiant confidence that will be envied by Kanye West. But I won't be a jerk. I will be kind of others. I will love myself. I will be okay.

Jesus Take the Wheel!!

That Carrie Underwood song used to make me giggle, and I often quoted, but with irony. I even made a crossed stich about it.

 

My husband cheated on me, so I fled with only what I could pack into a small trailer. He got to keep all the furniture and household items, and I still don't own a couch. "Jesus Take the Wheel!" I interviewed for four different teaching jobs and didn't get a single one. "Jesus Take the Wheel!". Ben didn't get into the VPK program at Seth's school. I have no idea where to send him next year, and don't have the money for child care. "Jesus Take the Wheel!". I'm now a thirty-four year old single mother of two. Loads of men will want to date me. "Jesus Take the Wheel!" I've quoted and quoted, trying to laugh at my misfortunes when I just want to bawl my eyes out and eat sadness key lime pies.

It seems like lately, the more I pray for something, the less likely I am to get it. Maybe I've been too bitter and unbelieving. Before all this mess, I had so much faith in the Lord that I wanted to stop every person I saw and tell them all about it. But now, I sit in church, wishing I could find a shred of what I once had. It's mainly the unfairness of it all. And I know life isn't fair, but it doesn't seem right that I have to struggle while my ex-husband gets to be fun an fancy free. Not that I'm complaining about having sole custody of the boys. I would live in a box behind K-Mart if it I got to keep them. It's just harder than I thought it would be. I am eternally grateful that my mom and dad watch them while I'm at work, but I still hate that I am gone from them for most of the day. I hate working. I hate doing everything on my own. I hate to sleep alone. I hate that I'm scared most of the time. I hate that I now fear the future.

There are days when I feel like everything good and lovely that was once inside of me is dead. It was destroyed by the man who swore to protect me from harm, to love me at my weakest, and to never give up on me. All those promises were broken, and it broke me. I'm rebuilding. A work in progress. Someone get me those bright orange construction cones to place around me. I'll keep smiling through the pain, and continuing on my journey, even when I want to give up. I think this makes me brave. It makes me the Buffy Summers of your world.

I'm learning to love myself again. I doubt I'll ever think myself pretty enough to talk to a handsome man without stuttering and spilling my drink all over myself. I'll never be confident enough to strut around in a bikini. I'll never feel good enough about myself to leave my house without makeup on. I've got plenty of flaws to keep me humble. What I'm really working on is believing that I'm worth being loved. I'm genuinely surprised when my friends call me and ask me to hang out, or when my mom tells me she misses me. I don't expect anyone to care about me, even the Lord. This is what happens when you spend years forced into submission. You don't believe you're worth. . . anything.

Everyone tells me it takes about a year after a divorce to get your life back on track. I'm almost eight months in, and would just like to fast forward through the next four. Get me to the good stuff. I know eight months from now I will be writing this blog from London, where I am visiting my boyfriend Tom Hiddleston. I'll be working from home as a fulltime author. And I will be able to spend every waking moment I can with my little men. Faith proceeds miracles, and I have so little faith right now. I honestly believe my life is forever going to be like this, praying to no one and getting nothing I need.

So, Jesus, if Thou art listening, I'd like Ye to taketh the literal wheel of my life. I'm putting everything in, all my faith, all my hope, all my prayers. I'm all in and counting on a miracle.

I'm sorry. I know I complain a lot. That's not the reason I write this blog. It's because I want other people who are struggling to know it's okay. I'm there in the trenches with them. I have felt their heartache and failings. And I want to have this record, so I can look back one day and see that I made it through the hardest time in my life because of friends, family, and faith. I want to remember this pain and darkness, so once I reach the stars, I'll see them for how bright they really are.

Forged in the Fire

I didn't get the teaching job I interviewed for a few weeks ago. It would have been perfect because the boys would have been able to go to the same school. Maybe I'm not meant to be a teacher after all, but for some strange reason I love it. Besides writing, it's all I've ever wanted to do.

There is an opening at SJCDS that I'm in the running for, too, but it's hard to get my hopes up when I continue to be let down. Will things ever be a hundred percent again? Sometimes it feels like my enemies get everything they want, while I struggle and struggle, with each day my dreams moving a little further out of reach. I know I am blessed in so many ways, and I'm complaining again, but this is the ranting part of the blog.

I need a real job next year. Substituting pays crap, and I need more than crap to live off of. Little boys need clothes and food and an occasional toy. So pray or light a candle or call on the god of your people, and help me get some gainful employment for next year.

A few nights ago, I got a call from my ex-husband's girlfriend's husband. (Complicated, I know) I knew I should haven't answered the phone, but curiosity got he better of me. He'd read an email that my ex had written to his wife. It was when she was going back to the husband yet again. The ex said, "Well, I'll just get Lauren back and continue to cheat on her until you're ready to be with me."
How am I supposed to react to this information? At first it was rage. How dare he think I'd ever want anything to do with him again? How dare he think I was stupid enough to believe his lies? How dare he think he could still manipulate me?

And then I got sad. Is this all I get when it comes to love, to be scorned over and over? Will I ever mean anything to man again? Isn't there a hot lumberjack waiting for me somewhere in the forests of Florida? To be honest, I'm lonely. Yes, I have my children, my summer school kids, and my fictional characters to keep my company, but I need something real. I want a love that will shake me to the core. After living so many years in the darkness, I could used some light in my life.

Church helps. I'm always reminded that the Lord remembers me. He cares. He answer prayers. He says all these hard times are shaping me into the truest, bravest form of myself. "Into every life there come the painful, despairing days of adversity and buffeting. There seems to be a full measure of anguish, sorrow, and often heartbreak for everyone, including those who earnestly seek to do right and be faithful. The thorns that prick, that stick in the flesh, that hurt, often change lives which seem robbed of significance and hope. This change comes about through a refining process which often seems cruel and hard. In this way the soul can become like soft clay in the hands of the Master in building lives of faith, usefulness, beauty, and strength. For some, the refiner’s fire causes a loss of belief and faith in God, but those with eternal perspective understand that such refining is part of the perfection process." - James E. Faust.

I believe what James E. Faust concealed, but I also made up my own advise: Do not let the fires of loss and heartache burn you into ash and nothingness. Let the scorching flames forge you into a steel so strong and blindingly beautiful that no man dare try to break you again.

I will take this turmoil and disappointment and let it shape me into a badass, into someone who will get everything she wants and deserves, who was brave enough to forge her way through the fires of adversity and come out a precious metal.