Soiled

Torn overalls stained with sweat. Dirty, wild hair. Gap-toothed smile from having recently lost some of her baby teeth. Breast buds. Smelly. Knees and elbows. She was long, and awkward, and sensitive, and kind. She was smart, but she knew how to play stupid. She was bossy, but for everyone's own good. If she wasn't the one to keep the roof up, then who would? She was beautiful. She had the presence of something that hadn't quite emerged yet...like a sunrise brewing on the other side of an ocean at 4:30 am.

She was the moment before dawn.

It was a Saturday in the spring. The weather was moderate. Kids in the neighborhood were playing. There were trips to the store and rocks glasses full of clinking ice cubes soaked in scotch and water...a little something to help the adults put away the groceries. There were the towels to fold and the school project to finish up.

She waited until just after they left for town. She knew they would be gone a few hours. She unlocked the chain-linked gate and met her girlfriend outside. They walked up the steps that led up to his trailer and knocked a few times, opening the door before an answer came. He was inside. A 60 year-old man with children of his own, one of which was 15 years her senior....the playboy of the town on whom she had a deep, longstanding, childhood crush.

It was the usual scene. He was in his underclothes with a stained white t-shirt. A half-smile emerged from his semi-toothless mouth. He smelled like booze and body odor. She could see he was hard underneath his underwear, and it made her tingle. She looked past the spit cups of tobacco lying out across the counter-tops with last-nights pizza crumbs, pushing past into the living room where he was setting up the VHS with porn. She laid down in her spot, just on top of his left shoulder with his left arm wrapped around her as they started fucking on the TV screen. Her girlfriend was in her usual spot on his right shoulder with his right arm wrapped around her. The two girls laid there, one on each of his shoulders on the dirty shag carpet. They looked across his chest at each other, looking into each other's eyes as he slid one hand down each of the girl's shorts, putting one finger inside each of them, one on his right and one on his left. He laid there, on the dirty shag carpet of his worn-down trailer, with spit cups and pizza crumbs, fingering both of the ten-year-old girls as the porn rolled on. Occasionally, he'd pay attention to one of them, kissing on them...tickling their flat chest, giving them some well-earned tongue through his half-toothed smile. They had to earn it, though. They couldn't just get attention for free. It cost them a self-initiated penis-grab or a lick or a suck. But if a girl initiated it, it was met with reward.

Twenty-five years later, she was in her therapist's office.

"I was 29 before I had my first orgasm." My broken voice piercing the silence.
"Mmm hmm." She said. Her feminine energy was inviting, safe. There was nothing that couldn't be said. "Why do you think that is?" She asked me.
"I learned how to escape my own body. I learned when the abuse was going on how to divorce myself from myself. I liked being touched, and I felt that nobody could understand that. Nobody except her...my ten-year old girlfriend who was abused with me....and him, our abuser. We had both had our sexuality turned on way too soon, and once it was turned on, we couldn't turn it off. Initially, the first time, he was predatory in nature. He forced himself. I was afraid, but I didn't know what to do. After the first time, once I surrendered to being touched, I was different. I had changed. I found my friend and we went back for more. I wanted to be touched, to be tickled. I wanted the sexual attention. It was something I couldn't accept in myself, and it was something I couldn't share with anyone else. But, it was true."
"Go on..." She told me.
"I learned how to be two people. I learned how to be the little girl who enjoyed being touched and attended to. At the same time, I could still be the ten-year-old big sister....the over-achiever. I learned how to hide parts of me from myself. Once you learn how to hide one part of you ...the part that you cannot accept in yourself...that gives you a playbook of how to hide other things..."
"When did it stop?" She asked.

I was silent. Out of everything to be shameful for, this was the most difficult for me.

"Well, that's the thing. I got involved with his son when I was 14, the one I had the childhood crush on. He was much older than I was, and it was considered abusive because I was so young and he was so much older. But, it didn't feel abusive. It felt like he saved me. He saved me from the toothless man who smelled like booze. And the shag carpet. And the pizza crumbs. I felt loved. Even though every social norm tells me that what happened was wrong, even now....25 years later, I feel gratitude for him."

She was silent for a moment. There was a heaviness in the air.

"Things are not always black and white. There is beauty inside of pain, and there is pain inside of beauty sometimes. It's not wrong to feel gratitude, and if that's what you feel for him, then feel it. Don't let anyone tell you how to feel," She said. The tears rolled down my cheeks softly. Those words were the words I needed to hear. I needed to express everything, even the shame I felt for having gratitude, and I needed to expose everything in order to receive permission to feel my feelings. Permission to know that my feelings are never right, and they are never wrong...they are just feelings. Somehow, somewhere in that process the two parts of me became one again. The scab had finally been ripped off, the wound was debrided, and finally the two halves of my whole self were allowed to join again and to start healing.

There has to be a certain quality in the air for someone to finally speak their painful truth...their shame...their self-doubt, into existence. First off, the benefit of speaking it into the open has to outweigh the cost of keeping it to yourself. And, because you've learned how to keep your secret locked down inside for years often covering it up with layer upon layer of coping mechanisms...addiction and controlling behaviors and game playing and not letting your heart get involved...that is just your status quo...it's easy to do. You're a master at it. Secondly, it has to be safe for you to speak your truth. The environment that meets this horrible secret that has lived inside of you cannot accuse you. It cannot shame you. It has to allow the truth to be revealed, and then kindly, gently, pull that truth away from you into the sea of suffering.

My son and I had a conversation the other day in the wake of the #metoo conversations that have started surfacing all over the internet, along with the daily news stories uncovering yet another high profile sexual predator/victim situation.

"Mom, what I don't get is why they say they were ashamed....I mean if they were victims and they did nothing wrong, then why feel shame?" He asked me.

I referred to my story. Not the details, but the seeking of approval and attention from a 60-year old predator. The wandering out and across the street where two girls willingly entered a broken-down trailer knowing what was coming next. I told him that sexuality is part of our humanity, and once it is turned on, it cannot be turned off. I told him that when you are 10 years old, and you are sexual, you don't feel understood. Other kids are worried about sleepovers and TV shows and grape hubba-bubba, and you are wondering when you are going to get touched again....and there is only one person who knows you like to get touched...the man who touched you to begin with. The shame comes in the repeated returning to get more. It's like you're turned on, prematurely and in full force, while others are waiting for the slow, natural process to take place.

As an adult, I think of all the ways that this abuse has affected me. I think of my girlfriend who found heroin, had a daughter, and died of an overdose 10 years before I had the courage to make it in to my therapist's chair. I think of how I missed out on my coming-of-age...when the lights are flicked on abruptly and sharply, it circumvents the gradual natural process of becoming a sexual being. I think of the Smashing Pumpkins club concert I wasn't allowed to attend with my high school girlfriends as a teenager....when I thought to myself..."It's not like I'm going to get raped. And, if I do get raped, it's nothing that hasn't already happened..."

I think of the anger I carried for years...towards anyone I could find to be angry at...the blaming and the shaming that I would never allow myself to speak, yet they were present in my words, my actions, in all of my being. I think of the flashbacks I had for years when I was in my early 20s, how I had to to keep my eyes open during sex so that I could focus on the person with me, knowing I was in my 20s and consensual...not ten years old with breast buds and baby teeth. I think of the memories I held down and away from me that would start bubbling up in my young adult years at the most inopportune times. A smell, a feeling...and all of the sudden I would be back remembering something that I had tried so hard to forget. I think of that powerful, first orgasm I had when I was 29. I think of the fact that I propagated with someone I knew was a little crazy, but he was just enough crazy that people would stay away from his children...his kids would never be victims. I think of the gratitude I still posses for the man thousands of miles away from me, with a beautiful family of his own...the man who knew in his soul what was happening to me, and he reached out and saved me, taking on risks of his own in doing so.

Cat calls and misogynistic remarks and occasional hand-grabs are the daily norm in our society by asshole men. They are often tolerated because the women experiencing these insults have already lived through much deeper trauma. The damage seems like a few pennies when there are already thousands of dollars worth of shame mounted against her, shame that she has carried for years....shame that has shaped her life and her choices. Choosing to look into that shame took me 25 years and a female therapist that I could say anything to, and she wouldn't judge me. She listened to me, as if it was a story she had heard a thousand times before, and she held out her hands and let me put that shame and anger into them. She washed it away, cleansing all of my soul by allowing me to speak my truth, my experience, and to revisit that 10 year old child that still lived inside of me. She showed me how to stop divorcing myself from myself. She taught me to allow myself to fill up all of me, to become truly present inside of my own being, to engage instead of escape. She allowed me a place to look at that beautiful little soiled girl and speak into her. She showed me that although I felt alone, I was far from it.

Of reported cases, one in five girls and one in twenty boys are victims of sexual child abuse in America. That statistic is according to The National Center of Victims Of Crime. My case wasn't reported. My girlfriend's case wasn't reported. I would venture to say that those numbers are very, very soft. It took me 25 years and a lot of broken relationships and self-sabotage to get to the point where I could speak about it openly...using my grown-woman voice. By that time, he had probably abused hundreds of girls.

One in three women are sexually harassed at work...but we all know that's a lie. I would venture to say that probably every woman that I know has been sexually harassed at work at one time or another. And I know some bad-ass bitches... Upstanding men who do not victimize or misogynize women are staggered by this. But as women, we look at it as if it's skittles in an ocean in narcotics....like, 'Pffft....yeah. Of course the workplace is violent and hostile towards women....' It's so common, it's just not even mentioned anymore. Sometimes, as a woman, that's just chalked-up to the price you pay for the cost of doing business. You want to play, you got to put on your big-girl panties and just take it.

Four hundred people will read this post in the first week it is posted, a large portion of which identify with being abused as a child, well before the stage of puberty sets in...years before your first period or spermarche. For men, it must be doubly confusing if your abuser was a man and you identify with being heterosexual. And, almost every woman reading this will identify with being in situations that are against you, where your sexuality and your humanity are on one side of the road, while your ambition and your skill remain on the other.

Maybe sometimes it takes something real and powerful and over-the-top to light a fire under us....like maybe a man in the highest office of our nation, a position reserved for the finest, most powerful, most talented. A man who has so obviously and blatantly been abusive towards women, women who represent one-half of the population he has sworn to serve. A man who in every way violates the respect of the position that he holds. A man stained with such a deep and offensive track record of bragging about how he has been a predator...that the scales of justice are finally being tipped in favor of speaking out...not just about him, but about all predatory men. I was an observer during the women's march in DC. I took my children, and we walked and we watched...not as active participants, but as intrigued observers looking close-up at a revolution. As we walked, I felt the feminine energy running through me. I felt the collective strength and pain of thousands of women as they peacefully walked the streets of DC, with an energy that said they were done tolerating this. They were done divorcing themselves from themselves..cognitive dissonance was behind them, and they could keep silent no more. Each woman with her own story, her own light. We have all experienced the beautiful unfolding of truth since then, in the media...in the news...online...and within ourselves.

Let her tell her story, all of it. Let her stop holding onto the shame and the denial and the layers and let her expose herself and rid herself of that prison which she has held onto. She is your mother. She is your sister. She is your daughter. Meet her with open arms. Allow her to speak her truth. Put her pain in your hands and carry it away from her, out to the sea of suffering. She is soiled no more.

Now, we are all finally talking.

Liquid Love

I remember the moment that it happened.

I was walking through Walgreens, picking out lavender lotion for my sweet Auntie. I was hitting up the store for a bottle of wine and a small gift for her, and then I was meeting her and my father for dinner. The three of us would be sharing a meal in my dad's kitchen. My father was cooking. My aunt was making a salad, and the wine was mine to bring.

I had watched her through the years, growing up as a niece. She had an energy about her that I always admired. I knew part of her story, probably not much...but enough to know that she was just like everyone else in that she'd experienced joy and pain, beauty and hardship, love and loss. Yet, she was somehow infinitely different. Her face glowed. She had a contagious laugh. Joy always entered the room before her. People around her were drawn into her energy.

I came alone. We poured the wine. She smelled like patchouli. I got lost in her face, her smile. I let go of inhibition, and just for a few hours was completely present and in the moment, and entirely myself...unedited. We ate. We laughed. Music played. A few tears of joy shimmered up in each of our eyes, and vanished before spilling over. For just a few hours in my life, I was transported. I forgot about the dread I would feel later that night when I would pull into the driveway to find a dark room filled with depression and anger. At one point, my aunt looked at me and said..."You just look amazing. You must be so happy right now..." I thought to myself, "If you only knew..."

Somehow, that dinner with those two people flipped a switch in me. I thought to myself that I need to find a way to steal her energy and make it mine...joy independent of my circumstances. I need to take that joy with me, to carry it in my heart so it can light my way. Then, I realized...I don't have to steal it. I have my own supply.

"Fuck it," I thought. I'm gonna be happy.

I don't care about the dark house with the blacked out curtains. I don't care about the difficult days and nights ahead of me balancing studying and working and mothering and enabling. I don't care if I leave nursing school with the same GPA I entered with. I don't care if my marriage lives or dies, if my broken heart heals, if my checking account says $5 million or 5 cents, if my credit ever rebounds. I don't care about all of the bad decisions I've made that got me to this place, the earned and unearned shame I've experienced as I've chosen to dig my hole and then own it. I'm going to stop trying to control shit I cannot control, and I am just going to be happy.

Life can change in one moment. We can look at the same situation with different eyes. From that dinner on, something was different. It was like joy became viscous, and seeped into all of the cracks in my life, covering everything. School became fun. Coming home became fun. Studying became fun...working, mothering...all became fun. If something wasn't fun, I didn't try to make it fun....I just accepted that it wasn't fun, and I looked for the fun elsewhere and followed it the way a dog sniffs out food and goes after it without inhibition. I became happier. My children became happier. Work became happier. Studying became happier. My relationships started healing. It was like every person, every crack, and every surface of my life became bathed in the liquid love that my aunt taught me to channel and pour out.

I once heard Kyle Cease say something along the lines of..."Wouldn't it just be amazing if we all just are who we are...instead of trying to be what everyone else wants us to be...because if we are who we are and others reject us, they just leave. People and things that are like us stay, people and things that are unlike us leave, and they do us a favor by going..."

I stopped editing myself and I just started speaking my truth. I stopped being afraid of being me. I accepted me, all of me...even the parts I don't like. I stopped caring about failing, and I stopped caring about being successful. I stopped worrying about the outcome, and just completely became absorbed and present in the process. And, the joy flowed. The people in my life started changing, slowly. Some rejected me, and that was okay. Some rejected the joy, and that was okay too. There are some who I still piss off, and I don't even know how. But, I don't care so much anymore, because I cannot waste another minute of my short life trying to make someone else happy. I have no cures for insecurity, not in others...not even my own. I ask the love to come each day and cover everything, heal everything, seep into every aspect of everything I do. I ask for the courage to speak my truth, to accept me for me....and then I leave the outcome to someone else.

I see my children act uninhibited sometimes, and then I watch them as they pull back and edit themselves. I'll tell them how its just so important to be who they are, to do what they are meant to do...to give themselves permission to be happy, to be joyful, to be different, to not care about what everyone else thinks...or being liked...or being popular. I'll tell them that they will be judged, either way. They will be disliked by some no matter what...It's okay. Some people will leave. That's not theirs. They are incapable of saving anyone from their pain. Theirs is to speak their truth, to let love flow like liquid, to channel the good vibes, to have fun, to do what they were created to do and not worry about the outcome.

I hope I can teach them what it took a lot of years, a ton of pain, and one amazing night with my sweet Auntie for me to learn.

Neither The Builder, Nor The Architect

"Hi there..." I hear myself say. I'm completely caught off guard to see him, and I think that was his intention. A glass of beer in his hand. Weird, I think....I never see him drink, especially beer. I see the foamy surface on top of a bed of yellow in a glass, not a mug. He opens the door for me and I walk through. I hear my son, not our child son - the young boy that my son was when we were together...but my 13 year old present-day, young adult son. My 13 year old son calls out to me...
"Mama. Mama, don't go in there." There's a level of anxiety present in his voice. I feel it in my soul, too, but there is a trajectory in my motion that I don't know how to change. It's like I cannot control my footing or the path this is taking, and in obedience I follow it.
"Mama..." The door between us closes. I don't see his face, but I continue to feel his presence behind the door.
"It'll be okay", I hear my own voice say to him through the closed door...but I know it won't.

I look up and see it clearly now. He looks like the joker. Pale face. High cheekbones. Over-emphasized, rubber smile running across his lips. His hair is gelled-up in its haphazard manner. His clothing matches his hair. He puts his glass of beer down and pulls something out of his jacket pocket. I see it's some sort of small knife disguised as a pen. A joker pen.

"Jet, call 911...." I say calmly. Even though I know my son is behind the door and I cannot see his face, I know he can hear us and that he knows what is taking place. I'm glad he is behind the door. I don't want him to see what's about to happen to me. I continue to look at his joker face in front of me, his joker smile. His eyes looking into mine.
"Mama...Mama..." I hear more anxiety now in the tone coming through the door.
"Jet, honey. 911 now..."
He never says a word. He pricks my foot with the joker pen. My foot is bleeding. I feel sleepy. Everything starts to fade as he stares into my eyes, his big plastic smile is the last thing I see.
"Mama....Mama..."
"Jet, honey. I love you...be safe. Take care of your sister.."

I wake up, throwing myself out of my slumber to a straight upright position in bed. My heart is throbbing in my ears. My hair is wet from my sweat, as I feel the constant breeze from the bedroom fan on my face. I'm breathing just as fast as my heart is beating as my eyes adjust to see the tranquility of the peaceful night surrounding me. My slippers are on the floor beside the bed. Everything is still, everything is calm. There's a soft darkness blanketed over the room. The windows glow with moonlight. I realize it was just another dream, my third since we've been in this house. I adjust my position so I sit on the side of the bed, my feet touching the floor as I allow my breathing to soften. I don't let the dream go, not yet. I sit with it awhile. I let it sink into me. Like being completely safe in a frightening roller coaster, I realize that I can sit with these thoughts without them hurting me. They cannot get me here.

I wonder if the dream was an alternate reality that would've happened if different choices had been made, or maybe it is just some old fear coming back to remind me. Maybe it wasn't about me. Maybe the joker was just another piece of a puzzle in the portrait of my son. I let my thoughts drift to him...my 13 year old son who is downstairs sleeping peacefully in his bed, and will soon arise to go off to his 7th grade class.  My eyes close. I lay back down. I feel the energy of the person I share the bed with. I touch his naked back, and I feel his heartbeat pulsating against my hand. I feel his warmth, his kindness, his protection flowing through his skin and filling up the room. I think about how our home is pulsating with this warmth, how our children fill up with it...how they drink it in here inside our home, then take it out with them as they walk about their day, so full of warmth that it oozes out of them. I think about how grateful I am that my son can just be a 13 year old, and no longer has to be the one to call 911. There is a man in the house who provides that protection...a man who is a man so that my 13 year old son doesn't have to be...he can take his time and become the man that he's meant to be, not some haphazard joker.

A few years ago, I shared a collective moment when a different man offered his story. He said that he had spent his childhood raising his kid sister while his single mom worked 3 jobs. He did whatever it took, often working odd jobs to pay for food while still providing safety and protection for his sister. When he went off to Marine Corps Boot Camp, it was a welcome respite. He no longer had to worry about juggling jobs. He just had to do the one job...to become a Marine. He could send his checks home, his mother could quit her additional work and just be a mom to his sister. This same man said that now...years later...his own teenage son had multiple high school male friends who would come around and congregate in his home. He could feel them yearning to be taught how to become a man, how their cloaked questions between bites of cereal in his kitchen on Saturday mornings were really gentle requests. They wanted so badly to navigate the road, and knew they were in the presence of  a worthy guide. That, he said, was the cost of finding the way...to teach others who want to learn.

There are times I look at my 13 year old son, and it washes over me that I'm standing in the presence of greatness. I get frustrated when he doesn't listen. I punish when he doesn't complete his chores or if he comes home with grades that are beneath him. I check him when he oversteps his boundaries, which he does quite often...but I know that lessons he's learned are difficult to unlearn, and asking him to just be a kid after being forced for years to step up like a man must be difficult. I look at him, and I know he is far greater than anything I could create with my own hands, and I cannot take credit. Like a farmer adding nitrogen and aerating soil, my contribution is limited. I didn't design the seed, I just planted it. I simply offer my few resources, and watch in awe while the sunlight and rainfall do their jobs. I tend to the weeds, plucking anything away that threatens the homeostatic environment. I stand back at the majestic unfolding before me shooting away from the ground and up towards the sky as he grows more and more into the man he's meant to become.

And I regret nothing.

I do not regret that he only nursed five months, and I gave up so quickly in frustration. I do not regret bringing him home from the hospital to a three-room apartment in the blankets I stole from the hospital. I do not regret the cross-country move where he spent five days in a carseat while my father drove a squeaky U-Haul carrying all my personal belongings from Utah to Houston, surviving a break-in at the hotel in Albuquerque. I do not regret the marriage, or the divorce, or the heartbreak that he must have felt when he couldn't wish his own father a happy birthday one November. I don't even regret that 911 call he had to make at age 9. Even though my heart breaks to a million pieces every time I think of all of these things...my heart breaks and the tears fall, yet I regret nothing. Such a contradiction.

There are lessons that only the darkness can teach us. While the moon is present during daylight, it takes the night time for us to appreciate it, to search it out...to look for the moonlight which cannot shine during the daytime. We become resourceful, or we don't survive and the joker gets us with his pen. So it is with him...I want him to grow in his own way, the way that the seed and the soil and the sun design him to go. The way that the guide shows him, the guides of his own choosing. As I am neither the builder, nor the architect, I know that his natural direction has very little to do with me. Yet, I know he cannot grow without the right balance of everything....soil, sunlight, and rain. That means that while I do not create nor force the rain, I must also not try to be his umbrella. I could spend my life wishing that some of those awful, heartbreaking moments didn't happen, but what if they actually contributed to the man he's becoming? What if they were what was needed for him to yearn enough to search for the road...to seek out the worthy guide...to ask the right questions to the teachers that have been placed in his path. Teachers he found in the darkness, like moonlight.

I hope he becomes the kind of man who pulses with warmth and protection. I hope his own children fill up so much with it that they ooze, that their friends come over to congregate because they follow the good energy. I hope that one Saturday he finds himself with a bunch of his son's friends around the kitchen table asking cloaked questions...searching out his guidance the way a sapling reaches for the sun. And, I hope he realizes that the cost of finding his way is to teach others... those who've decided they want to navigate the road and are in the presence of a worthy guide.

The Push

I think that every woman handles deployments differently. Some drink. Some cheat. Some crawl into a hole and don't come out. Some work, and some don't. Some volunteer. Some get involved in PTA. Some work out religiously, while some get fat. Some make a full-time job out of being a supportive wife and mother, attending all of the Army-wife meetings. Some home-school. Some do yoga. Some embrace their time alone and watch whatever television program they want without fighting over the remote.

I grow a penis.

I'd like to think that I'm the one who gets up early each day to go to the gym, then grabs a hot shower as coffee is brewing...a full day of work, then an errand or two...kids get to activities, homework gets done, trash cans get out to the curb on time. I'm at work with nice makeup with my hair done looking like a strong bunny nursing princess. Like magic. Unfortunately, my ideal in my head is far from my truth.

Thus far, this is pretty much the scene...a week before, I start getting solemn. The heaviness of what is to come begins to settle in. He gets increasingly distracted with his tasks at hand. Big, enormous ARMY green bags large enough for one of my children to sleep in come out of closets and make their way onto my floor as contents start filling them up. Equipment and ARMY boots and uniforms litter my hallways and trash my laundry room as items are washed, wrapped, folded, and packed. He's gone a lot, off to meetings at odd hours...like a Saturday at 5pm. When he isn't running around, he's on the phone. The more distraction I sense from him, the more it feels like the mission is taking over my life and my relationship, and the more internal I find myself becoming. I start closing up. I become quiet. I become introspective. I become independent.

When he leaves, I feel like in many ways he was already gone. The physical separation is just a continuation of the emotional separation that has been occurring in our home for the days leading up to the event. It's usually a quick kiss, not a long embrace. Then, like a flash, he's off.

I come home and move the coffee pot. I put his blender away on a shelf. I rearrange everything in the home to put it in a manner that's going to serve me. I set up a few massages. I concentrate on my upcoming work schedule. I arrange child care and transportation for my kids. I go with them on walks. I cook dinner...not his huge, elaborate dinners...but pot pies. From the freezer section. I pull out the list of things I've been waiting to do until he's gone, and I roll up my sleeves and get to work.

I remember who I am and what I'm made out of. I remember that girl who fought her way out of the trailer park into a swimming scholarship at a Division I University, and I connect with her.

I call it The Push. It's my own #bosslife, my version of Sasha Fierce, if you will. I've noticed characteristics of her, this woman I become, when he's gone. Instead of putting him in front of her, or my children in front of her, this #bosslife woman stands alone and puts nobody in front of her. She can do it all. She sets up the coffee on a timer the night before. She arises early before her alarm has gone off not to work out, but to go to work and get paid what she's worth. Her children are in amazing hands because she does her vetting with childcare. She teaches them, not through her words, but through her actions...what a strong woman looks like. She comes home, visits with her children over another dinner courtesy of the freezer section, discusses their days, and is off to bed, sleeping five hours instead of her normal eight. She searches for moments to find her children wherever they are emotionally and connects with their souls, not with their activities....those, she leaves up to them.

Emotionally, she's only open to certain kinds of energy. Instead of the usual openness and kindness and sensitivity towards others that I'm accustomed to feeling, #bosslife has turned off the heat in all the rooms she's not using while he's gone in order to conserve her energy. She has zero tolerance for bullshit. The passive aggressiveness and manipulation that the world brings don't go far with her...she's lost her patience for those. If it serves her, she includes it. If it doesn't, she's quick to cut it off. She doesn't have time for games in her dog-eat-dog mindset. Get in her way, and you'll feel her bite. It's nothing personal, it's just her way.

When I become this version of me, I remind myself of a man. My normal, highly feminine energy that is sensitive to the universe completely shifts into a masculine, task-oriented, zero tolerance person...the kind of woman who would get up in the 400 IM against TCU as the fourth seed and win the event. The kind of woman who says, "You fucked with the wrong woman on the wrong day..." She has no patience when children aren't doing chores, when coworkers are being lazy, or for anyone's drama....subtle or not.  When I connect with her, it's like an old friend coming for a visit. I remember how much I used to be her, how I found her somewhere in the depths of hell and she took over my entire being for the climb. She's a part of me I don't have to use very much anymore, but it's comforting to me to know that she's there in The Push. I'm glad I can call on her when she's needed and she happily emerges with her badass self.

When he comes back, it's another story. #bosslife's highly masculine, strong energy takes up a lot of space, and she's quite directive. She's the kind of woman who cuts through traffic without apologies, and her confidence can come off as being a bit of an asshole. She's not a giver, and she refuses to receive anything she didn't earn herself. She has no time for anything that isn't in her sights...which is probably why she's profoundly asexual. She's someone I love deeply and admire greatly, but I don't like very much. When she's here, it screws up the polarity in the relationship with his highly masculine energy. I mourn as I see her go away, as she was there for me when I needed her. I fall apart a little...after having kept it all together and making sure everything got done the way it needed to during The Push. As I see her walking off in the distance, a wave of emotion and sadness sweeps over me as she departs.

Conjuring our strength is an important part of being a woman. Connecting to our softness, our beauty, and our femininity is also important. Some women can be strong and soft at the same time...that is an art that I have yet to discover. It takes time for my kindness and tolerance to re-emerge after she's gone. He'll make dinner. We will go to the gym. He'll pour wine and ask me how my day has been, and the furnace that has been turned off in each room of my soul will be lit one by one, pop on, and eventually I'll begin to feel their warmth. I'll begin to feel sultry again. My voice will become smooth as I start to purr. From my heart outward, I'll start to glow. Like a flower in the sunshine, I'll open up and becoming vulnerable once I'm certain it's safe to do so.

I'll say goodbye to my strong, fiery friend for awhile...knowing the next Push isn't too far away, and she's always there when I need her. And, God....how I've needed her.

Plastic And Porcelain

I spent the majority of my childhood in a trailer. In the desert. Surrounded by dirt. And pedophiles.

The evening sun setting was just about the only thing that reminded me that I was just like everyone else...that same sunset was gifted to everyone. Brilliant, bright colors spread across the sky in evening sacrifice was no different for the children who grew up at the top of the foothills of the mountain than in was for me, down in the valley.

I remember the hollow feeling of the flooring each time I took a step. The hard desert ground full of rocks and pebbles sounded so solid under my feet. Then, I'd step onto the stairs...usually two or three that lead up to the front door. I'd open it and step in. Immediately, the sound changed. It no longer felt solid. It felt like all it would take is one hard jump, and there would be a hole in the floor....my feet on the solid dirt a few feet below. The walls and doors were all the same. Like graham crackers, those paper surfaces were mostly made of air.

In the bathroom, the tub would be plastic. The sink would be plastic. There would be a plastic-y film to everything and cleaning it just made it seem more plastic. Understandably, who'd put a porcelain tub in a paper house? It made sense.

Even now, after two bachelor degrees and a professional job, when I visit a place or live in a place or go inside somewhere and the surfaces are that of an upgraded life, it takes me awhile. Its as if somehow solid windows and hard wood floors and central air conditioning are all above my pay grade.  Each time I go back to the desert, the paper house with its hollow floor surround and engulf me, as if they've got some sort of power over my worth. I feel drawn back in. I feel like I'm eight years old again, looking up at the hill at the life that I wanted for myself, but had no idea how to get.

I believe it has something to do with the psychology of a caste system. People don't need to imprison you when you imprison yourself. Somewhere in the middle of childhood, we start to make friends, or we attend a birthday party, or we somehow find ourselves in someone else's home. And their bedroom doesn't look like ours. The dishes they eat on and the utensils they use are different...better. More quality. Less flimsy. With the reinforcement of seeing it over and over and over throughout our childhood, we continue to grow under the assumption that things just work out better for the people who live up in the hills. They're funded. There are expectations.

There are also a different set of expectations for the people who grow up in the trailer park.

I don't go back to the place in my mind very often when I ask these memories to arise. They are far too painful. But, every time I step on a hollow floor, there they are...reminding me of how I was shaped so fluidly by those early years. By the rocks. By the dirt. By the dusty trails that would rise up from the earth each time a car would pass by in 100 degree heat. By the pedophiles.

As I embark on my dreams and work hard to get them accomplished, often trying to relax into them just as much as pushing through and doing the work, I look at the porcelain life and in my mind I know that I deserve nothing less...but knowing that in the heart can be another story. Often, my biggest enemy to accomplishing work that serves me is me. Getting on the other side of the psychology of victim-hood can be difficult, but it is liberating. It is really hard for me to stand in the middle of that upgraded life with nice things and nice people, and believe in my heart that I deserve it.

I remember watching the documentary, Food Inc. In it, someone said that people who are poor are poor in everything...education, healthcare, food. Rising above that poverty of money and of spirit can be most difficult because of how we learn to define our worth. We put beliefs into motion that both shape and bind us. We believe we deserve McDonald's when others deserve gourmet.  This is why I believe white privilege is so prevalent. The children growing up on the foothills never ever happened to walk into my old neighborhood. Never did I see any of them wandering the dusty streets with broken windows and dogs on chains. Never did they take up residence there. Never did they amble through to water roses dug out in the dirt patches around trailers in scattered attempt to beautify. No...those kids were playing soccer in grassy parks. They were swimming at the tennis club. They were attending the birthday parties of other kids who lived in the hills, in homes with hardwood floors, nice lighting, and porcelain. The last thing on their mind was what was going on in the trailer park down below 20 miles away. It's not that they were insensitive...they were blissfully ignorant to the un-privileged, plastic and paper life just down the way. They did not know what they didn't know, and even today, those children who've grown up to become adults don't have the same internal conflict with nice surfaces and textures. The same is true of our own societal caste system. For someone to think that they understand another's culture, beliefs, or challenges is not only ignorant, it is also arrogant. To think that someone can just get over their past...what they've seen, what they've experienced...and rise up and become something different than what they've learned through repetition and reinforcement applies one person's experiences, principles, and beliefs to another person with a completely different background. I cannot know another's journey by looking at them through my own eyes. It's impossible. Just like someone can look at me and not know that sickening, nauseating feeling that brings back horrible memories that comes with the feeling of hollow floors, the smell of scotch, or porn...I can never look at another person and know what chains bind them.

When I was 14, we moved from the trailer park into the foothills. I spent my high school years in those grassy parks. Then I went on to college and got a degree, then another. But the beliefs that draw me back into bondage are never far at bay. My best friend from those years wasn't so lucky. She died of a drug overdose in her 20s.

I understand the psychology of being raised in the dirt, how becoming a rising phoenix is next to impossible. The internal caste system we create where we identify some people as better than us, and then elevate them above us is almost impossible to break. Beliefs don't just change without a ton of internal work. And, it makes it so much worse when others continue to remind us that they grew up on the hill and we didn't, or that we should just get over it.  As a white woman in America, I know I'm completely ignorant to what I don't know. I don't know what it feels like to be marginalized and stereotyped. I have absolutely no clue what types of forces, both internal and external, need to be overcome just to speak out.

As long as we believe we deserve plastic and not porcelain, someone is holding us hostage...and we're the ones who gave them the key. It is time that we stop giving our power away. It is time for those who live on the hill to take a stroll through the desert, with arms open and wide, inviting others to educate us.

Never Sell Your Sword

When I was thirty-eight, I learned how to love. Really love. For the first time. It went something like this...

Me: I'm here because want to talk to someone because I don't know what to do.
My therapist:  What to do about what?
Me: It's really hard because my husband is experiencing a lot of pain, and he suffers as a result. And then, I suffer.
My therapist: You're here because your husband is experiencing a lot of pain?
Me: Yes. And he suffers.
My therapist: Right. So he experiences pain, and he suffers.
Me: Yes.
My therapist: And...then...you suffer.
Me: Yes. Exactly.
My therapist: Ok. You're here because you suffer because your husband suffers. Because he experiences pain.
Me: Well, yes.

Long, awkward pause...

My therapist: Did you cause the pain?
Me: No.
My therapist: Can you control the pain?
Me: Well...no. I guess not.
My therapist: Then why do you think you are capable of curing the pain?

The conversation continued. I didn't realize that within the 2 minutes she'd met me, she'd already had my number down, and that the next hour would just be the cathartic unleashing so that the exorcism could begin. She allowed me almost the entire 60 minutes to go through my story, taking tangent upon tangent. My tissues soaked. My heart broke open and laid bare. My insecurity of feeling as if the problem was so complex that it must be difficult to follow. She didn't take notes. She didn't seem all that interested in the details. She politely listened, quietly...offering me a fresh, dry tissue each time I needed one. Then, as we were nearing the end of the hour, she took a long sip of her hot tea. She looked at me lovingly and with the most sincere, penetrating kind eyes someone could offer. And, she spoke into me.

"Mariah...if what you are telling me is true, and I believe that it is...then your husband is a very unhealthy person. Healthy people are not attracted to unhealthy people. Healthy people are attracted to healthy people, and unhealthy people are attracted to unhealthy people. So, if he is this unhealthy...that means that you and I have some work to do about you."

The next few years...yes, years...took me on an inward journey that resulted in learning how to accept situations, people, relationships, and myself just as we are. If we don't see people as they truly are, then how can we really love them? What we love is the version of them we want to see, discarding all of the parts we don't like. With the unskilled coordination of a child trying to tie his shoes for the first time, I learned how to set boundaries so that I could start to participate in self love and self-care instead of living in over-extension and resentment. I was terrible at it, but I set boundaries anyway. I inventoried every nook and cranny of my heart....finding earned guilt and unearned guilt, and making amends where they needed to be made. I started backing out of situations that I knew were a trap for me, patterns in my own life that I did not yet posses the maturity to stop, so I just avoided altogether. It was ugly, really REALLY ugly. In the process, I angered almost everyone and deeply offended more than a few.

Here's what I learned....

Some people are stuck. They were hurt terribly in their own lives, often as children. They relied on coping mechanisms to escape from their pain because it was their next logical step...control, addiction, anger, violence, passive aggressiveness, immaturity, manipulation, taking, saving...They reached for the wrung of the ladder that felt better than the wrung they were dealt. And that's their business. What they put into their own body, how they behave, who they hurt, who they use (as long as it isn't me or those to whom I've been entrusted to protect)...that is their own business...not mine. The key to my own happiness is to accept them, me, and the situation exactly as it is...without the intoxication or inebriation of denial.

There are also people who find themselves somehow stuck and desire to become unstuck. These are the same people as above. But, one day they wake up and realize that what they are doing doesn't work for them anymore. Old patterns served well in old relationships and old situations, but are no longer needed and now they are a hindrance to the life they feel they really deserve. So, they seek out guidance and start doing the work...

...doing the work.

I've learned that I don't like unfinished business. Closure just feels good. I like having the kinds of friends in my life who call me on my shit, people who are kind, and honest, and real. I like owning up to my side of the problem, and utilizing dialogue and discourse to work through a solution with people who have the emotional intelligence and maturity that I'm attracted to. I've learned that I'm better around people like that...I like myself better, I feel better, I do better. It doesn't feel game-y. It doesn't hurt. It doesn't have the highs and lows that the toxicity offers, its much more boring..and predictable...and consistent...than that. It's two real women having a real conversation about real life. It's steak and potatoes instead of Oreo cookies. I've learned that I desire those deep, spiritual, honest friendships with the people with whom I am most intimate. People who at the same time honor and respect unspoken boundaries. People who never have to be reminded of where lines are drawn.

Healthy people are attracted to healthy people...

I've learned that if I find myself caught up at margarita night with a crazy girlfriend with a lot of drama, that's a reflection of me...what I'm attracting...and it's time to do a personal inventory. I've learned that I am highly sensitive to energy fields and auras, and I've come to trust my intuition like it's a compass that always points north. When I sense any of those old negative energies like passive aggression or manipulation, it is as shrill as nails on a chalkboard, and I can feel it from miles away. I've learned that, unfortunately, some people choose disrespect or are just incapable of respect. Either way, it is not an attractive relationship for me, and gently withdrawing participation is always best for everyone. I've learned when enough is enough...after being pulled and pushed, after holding the hands of the sick, after giving what I am willing to give of my heart, there is a moment that comes when I am just done. And, that's not just okay, it's what's best. It's not about cutting someone off, it's more like the tide rising and then retreating. We are not better when we rise because we sacrificed more....there is a time to retreat and give no more. There is something holy about not robbing others of their right and responsibility to carry their own burdens.

Veronica Shoffstall once said that love does not mean leaning. Holding a hand does not entitle us to chain our lover's soul. We must learn to plant and decorate our own garden. And, it is with our defeats, not our triumphs, that we learn the grace of a woman.

Love everybody, but never sell your sword.

Under Lights And Wires

Today is the first day of October. It has been exactly four weeks since he left. Suddenly. On a plane into a storm....which turned out to be two storms. Two catastrophic storms...

...no return date in sight.

I received some devastating news today. A childhood friend of mine, the son of my father's best friend, is dying. Under lights and wires, my children and I were at Oktoberfest on base at our local post. Three amazed faces at the excitement and energy as their faces would light up with the flashing lights of yet another ride as it went round and round. I rode until my tummy hurt. I chatted with my son about Westpoint. My daughter educated me on box braids. The four of us shared a funnel cake, each of us with powdered sugar on our faces. We talked. I feel like those lines are constructed so that there is forced bonding. Ultimately, conversation starts to occur...partly to distract from the nervousness of the anticipation...partly because you're just sharing a moment with your most precious, loved ones.

As I was waiting in the car for the three not-so-littles to arrive after their last ride of the night, I plugged in my phone and received a barrage of texts informing me of the unfolding events half a world away.

My heart sank. I was already on the brink of tears, and I've just needed a good cry for some time. Between riding the people-flingers and eating the bratwurst and listening to music, I would catch myself people watching. Every family reminded me of my own....father with shaved head, tactical sunglasses and watch, fit trim waist with broad shoulders. Every woman pretty, smiling eyes, kid in tow or pregnant...or both. Catching moments together. Camera. Ice cream. Slide, ride. I felt sadness and gladness at the same time. There's a sense of family. There's a sense of community. All different colors, all different races, yet a common thread. Me and my three don't stand out because there are so many partial families with a deployed soldier running around. Life must go on living, nothing stops when he's gone. So, we don't endure. We live.

And then I checked my phone. The tears that were squeezed down tight emerged and spilled over. A man I barely know, but shared a childhood with...his daughter the same age as my son. He won't live to see Thanksgiving. I wonder if last Christmas, when he was opening presents with his daughter...if he knew that was the last Christmas he'd spend with her.

I've come to realize that with each deployment, I am going to feel every single emotion. And not just feel it...but FEEL it. In my bones. Anger, sadness, jealousy, and resentment are all committed for the stay. They've become long term residents who leave to do their daily activities, but come knocking back on the door come dinnertime. To try to keep them at bay is fruitless. To pretend they don't exist is unnatural. Even though its a choice to be here, these emotions are going to stop in to raid my fridge. It's okay. I get it. Then, there are the other emotions that are harder to pinpoint. Gratitude. Solidarity. Community. Solidarity and community because there are just no words that need to be said....people take care of each other when there are deployments. Nobody knows how you feel more than the woman standing next to you, and she has your back. And the gratitude...that comes because you know that complacency cannot exist in a relationship with as many ups and downs and unexpected turns as the one the ARMY gives you.

I wanted him to hug me and wipe away my tears. I wanted him to make me a cup of coffee and give me some good conversation, to validate my feelings of loss over a man I barely know. I wanted him to hold me tonight in the crisp autumn air. Let one of those other men leave their families behind, tonight let him be the one here to share an ice cream cone with me.

But it doesn't work that way.

Soon, he'll be under lights and wires with me. And it will be someone else's turn. We all sacrifice, we all learn to self-soothe. We all learn who we are in the absence of one who can hold us when we hurt. Sometimes, we look in the mirror and we don't like what we see. But sometimes....we realize that we are built of more solid stuff than we thought.

So Far From Zen

In my years of being a trauma ICU nurse, I've seen every form of shock that there is. The story is similar and repetitive...a young man is driving home and falls asleep at the wheel...a young woman gets brutally injured after a driver hits her while crossing the street...an old man falls while hanging Christmas lights for his grand kids...

They all have one thing in common. They happen suddenly, without warning. One minute, everything is fine. The next minute, the whole world changes.

In each case, I see family members struggle for control. A young mother will freak out when we don't get her a blanket fast enough to cover her 19 year old son's feverish body. "He's COLD!!" She will yell, her shrill voice screaming out for someone, anyone, to listen. "What do you do?" people will ask me. I tell them that I get her the blanket, then I stand there and hug her, and listen to her. I'll take a deep breath and quietly ask the universe to calm me down and work through me. Guide me. Somehow, it always comes back to the same thing...

Control.

If there's one thing I've learned from nursing families through the emotional trauma of a physical trauma, it's that they all struggle with the complete loss of control. Imagine it....You get a call at 3am to come to the hospital. There's been an accident. You frantically get there, walk into the hospital room, and see the busy hustle of nurses and doctors. They ask you about your son's wishes 'in the event'...CT scans, chest Xrays, study after study after study. Days turn into weeks, each doctor more grim than the last. One morning, you wake up sore, foggy, and wishing that this terrible dream would end. Your whole body aches. You go up to the hospital to see your son lying there. Breath in...breath out. 14 times per minute, just as the breathing machine is set. Eyes that once looked into yours don't wake. Arms that hugged you...don't move. Lips you kissed on their first day of school now kiss a breathing tube. Breath in. Breath out. It's breaks your heart to watch. I cannot imagine the hell of living it.

Give her the fucking blanket.

That control thing is a bitch. I don't dance around it at all. I touch them, if they let me. I'll look them in the eye and speak to them directly and lovingly. My eyes always well up with tears, and I don't even try to choke them back. I'll talk about what their son needs, and why doing something to warm him when we are deliberately cooling him down could harm him. I tell them that the blanket is best used to wrap around their own arms in this cold, dark room. And, then...I'll give them something that they can control. I'll teach them how to do oral care. I'll grab lotion and show them how to care for his skin. I'll let them assist me as I turn them so that their son doesn't get pressure wounds. Like a baby needing their safety blanket, I'll let the mama control something...anything....for her son.

The irony of it all is that to be a good ICU nurse, you have to be a control freak.

The last year of my marriage was aching agony. I was always on guard, waiting for the shadows to jump out and bite me. On the afternoon of one Christmas Day, I went for a walk with my sister-in-law and told her that I just wished he would fall in love with someone else. I couldn't express to her what I really felt...that I wished that the universe would not make me go the treacherous path that lay ahead. A year and nine months later, and I was sleeping with a knife under my pillow, the same knife that had been held to my throat on several occasions before. I was such a hypocrite. I was assessing for family violence in my patient's families by knowing the indicators of victim behavior because they reminded me of my own.

I started praying to a God that I knew existed, but couldn't understand. I prayed that somehow I would get through it without a hospital bed or the morgue.

Somehow, I surrendered. I don't know how it happened, truly. I went to Al-Anon meetings and I memorized passages of Codependent No More. I searched for answers in my Psych Nursing textbook from school. I prayed. I found true joy that was completely independent of my circumstances. I committed to therapy. I remember the redemption of my work nursing others, how it was the only thing that really gave me perspective and gratitude, and I leaned into those conscious thoughts. I knew that this was about me and my issue with control. Like that patient, my marriage was on that hospital bed. Whether or not it survived was already written in the stars, and I'd been screaming for a fucking blanket long enough.

When the student is ready, the teacher appears.

There was a patient. She was hit in the head with a blunt object by a man to whom she professed love. She had a child. She did not survive. I cried for her, but I cried harder for me. Then a feminine energy surrounded me. It came in the form of a few women that I allowed to get close and became vulnerable with. After telling my story, I listened without speaking. It spoke into me with such clarity, such focus. I knew my path was before me, and her collective voice was so clear and so wise that I was sure that God must be a woman. But I was still afraid.

So then, the universe brought to me a Marine. His jaw was chiseled and his shoulders were broad. He used them to protect those who were vulnerable. He had a hard outer shell with a gooey soft center. He told me his own story long before I was in the place where I could tell him mine. He showed me what friendship really looked like. And I felt safe and protected, and I was sure that God must be a Marine.

I took the advice of those wiser and I told my family. After the safe house shelter, someone from church offered up their home for me and my children to stay in until he was arrested and charged.

Like a warm blanket in a cold, dark room the universe brought them to my side. My brain-dead marriage with its mechanical ventilator...Breath in. Breath out. There are no trophies for the one who hurts the most, there is no glory in suffering. What is best for us is always what is best for everyone. I let go. I closed my eyes. I put a foot out in front of me into the dark vastness of space, and then the ground appeared beneath my foot. Then another. And, I walked with my eyes closed and my heart open. The ground would not show itself to me until my foot was already suspended above it. With no control of where I was going or with whom I would travel, I walked.

Fifth Grade

Fifth grade was the first year I became keenly aware of my awkwardness. I remember my feet growing faster than the rest of my body, going days without brushing my teeth if my parents didn't realize it, and being semi-disgusted and semi-intrigued with my cubbie-mate's fascination with spitballs. I hated it when they landed on me, yet I hated it more when he directed them at other girls.

Fifth grade was the year that I became aware of the heightened sexuality of my teacher, Mrs. Ford. She wore t-shirts that were so tight, her nipples poked through. She taught class in three inch high heels, and wore night-time makeup during the day. She would often have us grade each other's papers and she would give one student a note to run to Mr. Marshall, the teacher next door. They passed notes frequently throughout the day. When one teacher was absent, so was the other.

Fifth grade was the year I returned a little roughed-up after a summer on the big island of Hawaii with my mother. My father, whom had custody of me and my brother, was dating his girlfriend of three months when they announced to us that she was pregnant and moving in. My brother and I painfully stayed with a family member while they went on a little adults-only trip together, and came back married. Fifth grade was also the year my sweet sister was born.

Its amazing how the memories that shape us are so three-dimensional. There's beauty sprinkled in with the pain. Nothing is ever all good. And, nothing is ever all bad.

The week after my children got home from their summer adventures, my fifth-grade daughter was overheard talking about her recent experiences. She kissed a girl playing truth-or-dare, and took up the habit of dumpster diving. The suitcase she brought home was riddled with used canisters, cracked vases, and half-broken picture frames. Not long after she arrived home, I was informed that she snuck off into the woods with one of the boys from her class, and they kissed. When I asked her about it, I said..."How did you kiss? Like this..." and I pecked her on the lips. She looked at me completely puzzled. "Is there another way to kiss, mom?" she asked.

I recall how I made the awful mothering mistake once of giving my daughter the birds-and-bees talk as if her future partner was going to be a male. I said, "One day...you're going to want to kiss a boy. You might want to touch him, or to look at his...privates..." When I was later telling my friend about this (you know they're a real friend by how impolite they are willing to be with their straight-up feedback), her response was...

"Really. Really? You really fuckin' told her that?"

I looked at her completely puzzled. After all, I thought I was killing it on the cool mom scene.  She continued, "What if she doesn't want to look at penises? What if she likes vaginas? You just conveyed bias on the subject, letting her know that she is only safe around you in the context of a heterosexual relationship..."

Wow. Bam. Just like that, I'd been hit. Gravity. My friend was completely right.

She went on..."What you should've said is that one day, you're going to get curious. You might want to explore, to touch your body...and you might want to touch someone else's and to have them touch you. And it's okay...it's normal to be curious. It's normal to explore. As long as you decide what you're comfortable with and what you want to explore, nothing is wrong..."

My daughter is so much like her father. The good parts. The self-confident parts. The parts of him that I fell in love with that were enough to sustain me so that I could overlook all of those other things that caused me great pain. When I see that same fiery spirit well up in her, I think to myself...there he is. Somewhere between the dumpster trips and truth or dare games, I see that same curious glimmer of the eye. I recognize that that fire, that adventurousness...that risk.

I love it that he lives inside of her, even if he is dead to me.

I have no idea what my daughter's fifth grade year will end up looking like. I see some of my same awkwardness in her, but maybe that's true of almost all fifth graders. On the other hand, she is far more sure of herself and experimental that I remember being. We are still in the first month of school, and already she has used birthday money she saved to get bangs cut into her hair, gone to school in cornrows, and is well on her way to earning her next belt in taekwondo. What I do know is that I'll continue to have those moments when I really see her. Moments when I honor her...all of her. Moments when I'm thankful that I've got a daughter who follows her feelings and desires enough to bring me trash out of a dumpster the way a cat instinctually brings you the rat they just killed.

And, somehow in doing so, somewhere in my seeing all the parts of her I like and don't like, yet love because they makeup her...I am able to honor her father from afar. They're nowhere near the same person, yet there's an undeniable thread woven into the fabric of her being.

She definitely got that dumpster thing from him.

Dear Soldier

Because I'm a woman in a home with a male soldier, this is written from that perspective...

Dear Soldier,

If what you want is a healthy, happy life with a healthy, happy wife and kids...this is for you. I'm about to give you some nuggets, the key, if you will, to having it all. If you love suiting up in your uniform, crossing oceans to move mountains for our country, posting facebook photos of you eating street cuisine with the locals, and coming home to serenity...listen up. This one's for you, Soldier.

Close your eyes for a minute and imagine that you've switched places with her. Imagine that you're up each night working on school projects, talking to an emotional child who misses their mommy, fitting in your daily workout with work commitments with grocery shopping and teacher's conferences. Imagine that every time you check your email, someone is asking you how she's doing. When you hear from her, it's only for a few minutes every few days where she talks about her mission, her job, her.... Imagine that after working, and cooking, and carpooling, and grocery-shopping you come home to an empty bed. Invisible. No medal on your uniform.

The woman you choose and how you treat her will make or break you.

Choose wisely.

The woman who is going to thrive by your side is a strong, lively, independent woman. She has her own friends, is a great multi-tasker, has good relationships and great boundaries. She doesn't need your help when it comes to managing multiple tasks, getting kids educated and athlecticized, getting in her yoga or daily run, and holding down a full time job. She is a pleasure to have on your arm at any social function, and makes you look better than you actually are. She doesn't drink too much, is good at managing money and working on a limited budget, and can go long periods of time in your absence without so much as looking at another man, even though every man notices her. These women are hard to find. Make a mistake in your choosing, and you'll find yourself in another country wondering if your child is getting the care they need and what kind of a mess you're going to come home to. Imagine trying to do your job overseas when your mind is a million miles away. Pick right, and you'll be able to give good focus on your job at hand knowing that the home you come home to is safe and sound.

Honor her.

Kids don't get themselves to soccer practice. Children don't learn to read on their own. The spouse I describe above is a master at juggling a hundred tasks and making them look simple. She can get kids to do chores and behave themselves at social functions. If she works, then she is often juggling home responsibilities while also contributing to the bottom line and making up for any income that you don't make while you're sporting your night vision goggles. She gets no glory if the house didn't burn down, the new babysitter arrived when they needed to, and she made it to work on time. Hers is a thankless job, and when everything goes well, nobody notices her. It's only when things don't go well that people see the cracks. Not to mention, if she realizes that she's been doing it on her own and can do it better without you since you have nothing to offer her, she is entitled to walk away with a good chunk of your retirement, savings, alimony, and child support.

Find out what she needs and give it to her.

Nobody can pour from an empty cup. Most spouses don't want help with the logistics, they just want to be validated. Nobody is sending her a care package. Every time you go away, her job gets more difficult because the same amount of work exists with less hands to do it. But, she doesn't get a raise. She molds her career around yours, finding jobs that will allow her mobility and flexibility so that she can be there for you when you've got to drop everything and POOF...be gone.

You get to see the world while she gets to see the drivers seat of her mini-van. She wants to know that even though she's the silent partner in your team, and that the world tells you that you're the hero...that you SEE her, she's YOUR hero. Find out what she needs, and give it to her. If she likes gifts, set up an Amazon Prime account and set a calendar event to remind yourself to send her something each month. If her love language is acts of kindness, set up a weekly cleaning service to come clean her home or a Massage Envy account for her and book her a service. If she just wants to be heard, then set aside 10 minutes every few days to call her and not talk about training exercises, missions, staffing, or logistics and just talk about her.

Find out what fills her cup, and fill it. If you do, she will pour over and pour over and pour over.

Good luck, Soldier.

My Duckling

Some time ago, I saw a story about a cat in Ireland that had taken a group of newly hatched ducklings and began to mother them. The cat had recently given birth, and the ducklings were orphaned. When the farmers found the ducklings, they were nursing milk from the cat alongside her new kittens. Bizarre. Yet, there are so many examples in nature where this happens.

One of the structures in the limbic system deep in our brain is the habenula. We think that the habenular complex is responsible for mediating the hormones that provide us with nesting or instinctual maternal behaviors. I remembered learning about this structure in my neuro-anatomy class thinking that maybe some mothers just have really small habenulas, and maybe I got two or three of them from people who didn't get them at all.  That cat must have a mega-sized habenula.

Right now, winds at 165 mph sweep over the Caribbean Ocean. By tomorrow morning, the first of the high winds will start to reach the San Juan airport, and around 2pm the eye of the Category 5 hurricane is expected to pass over the island. After the bashing of the gulf coast less than a month ago, resources are slim. Men and women are protecting the interests of the island while their spouses and children are at home without their protectors. Their big shoulders move mountains, but often those mountains are overseas.

My soul mirrors the winds. Semi-predictable. Amid the hurricane party and the work/play atmosphere that will be sweeping over the island tomorrow, it's hard for me to concentrate. I'm living at the intersection of jealousy and worry. There are times I'd like to the be the one out there on the leading edge. Hell, being an ICU nurse, I often am...but there are more similarities between me and him than I'd like to admit at times. The work, the glory, the adrenaline, the fear, the homecomings.

No hurricane parties here. I've got yoga in the morning, dinner to plan for the kids, and a little juggling this week with a Thurs/Fri/Sat work schedule in the midst of three children. My leading edge is figuring out what they'll be doing this Saturday while I'm working 7a-7p. A little bitterness is sometimes sprinkled in with the mundane.

And, then I hear them sleeping. Three children...my leader, my follower, and my free spirit. Two kids that came out of my body, and one sweet soul that this beautiful universe brought to me. Like a duckling.

Puerto Fuckin' Rico

It's someday in September, and we've got a Labor Day BBQ planned for tomorrow with guests already making the side dishes they're bringing. We sit down for dinner, then the phone rings.

"Just got the call. I'm leaving tomorrow. Puerto Rico."

I'm mid-bite between flank steak and zucchini when my stomach drops. His bag has been packed for two days. I knew he was on the national response team with a 2-hour call-out for the next tropical storm brewing somewhere in the ocean. He had already told me that there was a 100% chance that he wouldn't see Tuesday. Yet, my stomach still turns at the thought of him leaving. I take a moment to text everyone coming to the BBQ to let them know we have to cancel.

I'm not one of those moms who do stay-at-home mom-ing well. I've found that the more I'm around the house, the more I fill up on junk TV and facebook. I've found that I'm most productive when I'm lost in something else. Nooo...life for me is so much better when I'm juggling - work, kids, activities. I've known this for awhile about myself. Sadness and jealousy sweep over me as I struggle to swallow my steak. Sadness because I'm going to miss him, and there's always a chance...jealousy because I know that going to Puerto Rico to work will be hard(ish), but staying at home with three kiddos is a helluva harder.

Puerto Rico.

The conversation fades into some talk about how granola bars and potato chips should be saved for school-day snacks and not consumed on weekends. Voices fade. I can hear people talking, but I have no idea what they're saying. When I'm asked for my opinion, I cannot contribute. I think..."Who gives a fuck about granola bars..."

I see a bottle of wine in my future.

This is the life. This is the moment-to-moment, I don't know what tomorrow brings, I'm going to raise my kids and hold my head up and appreciate every damn second life. I'm new to it. Other women, much better and stronger than me, have been doing this life for much longer. Lifetimes. This is where we earn the military dances and the free health insurance and the no-tax grocery benefits that we get. There's no such thing as a free lunch, and the fact is that this is the price we pay so that our children can see the world and we have guaranteed income doing work we love.

Last week, we went away for my birthday. It was a 7-hour drive. As on all of our road trips, I lose myself in him. I purchase the 2 for $3 Rockstars at every gas station even though I know they can send me into renal failure. I find the best cup of coffee an Exxon can offer, and I listen to his voice. I ask him about something that I know nothing about. He explains, often going on tangent after tangent. I allow him to lose himself as I listen. The song list plays in the background. Sometimes he'll sing along in his off-key raspy voice. And I'll think about how lucky I am...that I have this moment.

Because tomorrow he'll be in Puerto fuckin' Rico with a bunch of men telling dirty jokes...and doing work that keeps our country safe. And our bed will be empty. I'll make my own damn coffee. The kids will wake up and get themselves ready to catch the bus as I'm getting report at work. The world will be just a little smaller without him in it. And after a dinner of leftovers and conversation, I'll lay my head down in our lonely bed. I'll close my eyes and think of his voice. His raspy, smoky voice.

Self Reflection On My 43rd Birthday

It was 5am on my 43rd birthday. In usual birthday fashion, I arose early to find a quiet place where I could be alone. A moment of stillness, this time on the balcony of the vacation-stay we'd rented. I felt a feeling...you should write, I thought. I hadn't had that feeling in such a long, long time.

Its been years since I've written. It's been years since I've wanted to, needed to. I used to feel like I'd write out my thoughts and sort them out fully to provide myself clarity and perspective. I'd share them with the world on a blog, which means I attempted to appeal to an audience as well. But, with the shame of the demise of my marriage and the inevitable pain that followed, I felt it difficult to even begin to put words on a page, thought to meaning. I was wiped.

And now...this. Sitting in quiet stillness somewhere in nowhere Tennessee. My kids both physically and emotionally safe sleeping inside. My heart full. A few more pounds on my body, a few more lines on my face. The tear down, the desolate wasteland, the rawness and the bitterness having already swept over me. Then, the rebirth where buds sprout, then begin to mature into fruit. I sit outside looking at waterslides I will ride on with my kids later that day. How beautiful the pain was...how this moment couldn't have gotten here without the pain.

It was a hard road. People say that you've got to be brave enough to tell your story while being kind enough not to tell someone else's. I'll attempt to do that. So here's mine...

I loved. I loved deep, and hard, and fast. I loved my family, my children, my husband. I felt that I often tried to love people who I thought were unlovable, did despicable things. I'd look at the good side of them and focus on that, I'd turn off the bad things, the aggressive, volatile things. I found happiness in my life, fulfillment in my job. I started seeking out friends and counselors. I went to therapy. The more happy I became in my own life, the more difficult certain relationships became for me to maintain. And then, the crack and fault lines really started to show. Aggressiveness started looking less like aggressiveness and more like abuse. The honeymoon periods between episodes became shorter. Volatility became the norm. Eventually, I would look in the mirror and I would no longer see a wife and mother. I would see myself as a single mom. I had a life, and I shared it with my children. I was striving to make it a healthy life....and the unhealthy just didn't have a place in it anymore. I could no longer tolerate the intolerable because I was no longer the person I once was. Compassion left me. Empathy was nowhere to be found. Encouragement and enabling were replaced with a fiery strength...the kind a mama bear can muster to save her cubs, but cannot find to save herself. .

I no longer cared if people liked me, instead I cared if I liked them. I wasn't paying attention to whether or not they wanted to be around me, instead I'd pay careful attention to the way I felt when they came around. I started following the good energy. I stood up for myself. I thought about something I'd heard in an al-anon meeting once...

"Every once in awhile, I'd get angry enough to actually take care of myself..."

What came after was a whirlwind of a dissolution of my marriage, the restructuring of my family, and grief. I lost myself in chocolate. I found friends, amazing friends. I stopped caring about what people knew or thought, and I just told my truth...if people self-selected to not be around after meeting the real me...well, they did me a favor. I fell in love with myself. And then, I fell in love with someone else.

I had one of those moments that 43rd birthday out on the balcony...one of those moments when you just cannot believe life gets this good. As my therapist once said to me..."Mariah, you have an amazing life waiting for you. But you cannot carry it yet. Your arms are too full. You must first put down the burdens you are carrying in your arms so that your arms are empty. Only then, will you be able to grasp what is waiting for you..."

I hope you find the courage to find what is waiting for you.