Stick a Fork in Me, I'm Done

Yesterday I had a day that rocked me to the very core of my vain, still relatively young (IT NEEDS TO BE SAID), being.

Yesterday I found some gray hairs.

And by "gray" I mean straight-up-blinding-pure-as-the-driven-snow white.

And by "some" I mean a giant strip along the crown of my head, conveniently hidden all this time by my sneaky part. I'm talking Cruella DeVille-style stripes.

When I found them I gasped so audibly and dramatically that my daughter thought I had maybe cut myself or something. She ran into the bathroom to find me running my fingers through my hair in horror and disbelief, and then that's when I also found the rogue, solitary grays, splayed willy-nilly across my scalp. Because insult to injury and cruel jokes, apparently.

The bathroom light was hitting those suckers in all the right places, and they were shiny and there was no questioning what they were. They were there to taunt me and remind me of my mortality and that it's all downhill from here, baby.

Now, please don't get me wrong. I can totally embrace aging gracefully. But the aging part needs to happen slowly. I need to be eased into this.

I am 31. I can understand one, MAYBE TWO, grays. That's like dipping my pinky toe into the water of "Hey, you're no spring chicken anymore." I can tolerate that.

But like...a colony of grays? And an apparent mutinous colony at that?

At first I thought I could grapple with my grays because let's be honest, the Miranda Priestly character is pretty freaking fabulous in The Devil Wears Prada.

SLAAAAAAY.
source: Vanity Fair

But like, I'm still mostly brown. And old, grown-out-highlight blonde, because I haven't been to the salon in oh, about six months.

So no, Miranda Priestly I am not. Which is unfortunate.

After five long minutes pep talking myself into thinking this would all be okay, I flipped my part back over to camouflage my skunk stripe and went about my business.

And THEN. Oh, and then. This is the part where it all goes to crap.

Later that day, I was chit chatting with the intern at the office, who is a young, full-of-hope and not-full-of-existential-despair-and-dread 20 years old. I was talking to her about these grays I found, but mostly about how I've been having trouble sleeping.

She asked me, "How old are you again?"

I responded, "31."

She responds: "Oh, well you aren't THAT close to menopause, because my mom..."

And then I stopped listening and died because:

1.) She was suggesting that menopause could maybe, possibly, be the cause of my sleep-deprivation woes.

2.) I was just compared to a 20 year old's mom.

You guys, I am all about aging gracefully. But do you know what else I am all about?

AGING GRACEFULLY WHEN IT'S MY TIME, DAMMIT.

Whole30: (FAILED) Lessons on Willpower & Why I'll Try Again

So, the Whole30.

I'm sure you've heard of it, somehow, some way, in the last few years. 30 days straight of eating whole, unprocessed foods and zero sugar, alcohol, grains, legumes, dairy, or really anything that brings any sort of joy to my life.

I've made three attempts at the Whole30 in the last two years.

And I've failed three times, all within the first 14 days.

I don't know why.
I know that eating real food makes me feel good.
I know how good I felt at Days 10 and 11.
I know how great my skin looks when I'm eating in a way that feels right and drinking ALL THE WATER.
And speaking of drinking--I know how crappy I feel the next day even after one or two glasses of wine (ugh, curse you, 30s).

The science behind the Whole30 (seriously, read It Starts With Food) is legit. It makes sense.

But there's just something about that halfway point that has me throwing my hands up in the air and saying "Ahhhh, screw it," and popping the lid on that pint of Ben & Jerry's I know damn well I SHOULD have thrown out before Day 1 even started.

And it's always Ben & Jerry's. Always. And it's so weird because I don't even like ice cream all that much (I know, judge away you haters). When I fall off a wagon, I fall HARD.

Besides, I am a fan of moderation and enjoying all things within reason. You do you, and all that.

But the truth is--I don't really feel like my body is functioning the way that it should. My digestive issues are riiiiiidiculous. I am constantly in a total mind fog. Sleep has been crappy. My clothes fluctuate between fitting "just OK" and "WTF happened to my waistline overnight." My skin is breaking out worse than it did when I was a teenager (although I have suspicions that might be tied to my good friend, the IUD). And I have all the energy of a slug during the day. I'm really not in it to lose weight (but I mean, hooray if that happens), but I just want to feel better.

And I'm like 97.8% sure it has a lot to do with the fact that chocolate has become one of my main food groups and I am running through the Chick Fil A drive-thru more often than I care to admit. Moderation has been blown out the window and replaced by eating all the things, all the time.

So for the sake of accountability and (hopefully) moral support, I boldly declare that yes--Whole30 attempt #4 commences on Tuesday, January 2, 2018.

No cheating.
Going HAM for 30 days.

Dammit.

Now--will someone hold me and tell me this will all be okay, please?

If you are doing a January Whole30, I'd love to know all about it! I'll be posting here weekly (or more often if I feel the need to whine about it), and I'd love to hear how its going for you in the comments and all about your attempts at avoiding SWYPO, your best compliant mayo, and slaying your sugar dragon--because, solidarity.

Our Elf on the Shelf: A Brief History

It's that time of the year, friends with young children! You know what I'm talking about.

You probably have one. You know.

This bastard:

I see you, with your creepy, shifty eyes.

Now, let me preface this by saying that YES--I love Christmas and December and all the magic and fun that goes with it. Having a child who still believes in Santa is the BEST. The wonder and excitement just pushes me over the edge into unequivocal joy and reduces me to a pile of teary-eyed mush to be able to experience Christmas as a child via my very own offspring.

But THE ELF. The freaking elf YOU GUYS.

Our elf, fondly named Sparkle--just like about one million other elves on their own little shelves--appeared at our house when Peyton was three years old. And by "appeared" I mean I spent $29.99 at Target for this doll and its book in its cutesy little box and I brought it home (and briefly questioned my reasoning skills for spending that much money on THIS THING) and proudly set it up one morning after Thanksgiving. We read the book and baptized our elf into the world by naming her, and Sparkle has been gracing us with her presence every Christmas season since.

Year one was great. I was still married and had back-up in case I forgot to move the elf. Sparkle did crazy things like appear in the most unexpected places and played pranks on our family that required me to both MAKE and CLEAN UP the messes, all in the name of Christmas spirit.

Year two was more of the same, except this time I was living in a house with who was now my soon-to-be-ex-husband and I'm not going to lie--Sparkle saved my Christmas. Making sure my daughter woke up every morning to a new Sparkle-surprise forced a sense of normalcy for me and allowed me to make her Christmas as special as I could even when everything else was falling apart.

Year three found me navigating the waters of the holidays as a single mom for the first time. I fondly remember texting my ex that I needed the elf sent to my house ASAP just before Thanksgiving, which he did stealthily provide, double wrapped in plastic bags like some sort of merry contraband.. And dammit, I did my best with that elf--but I was TIRED. Sparkle lost her originality and mischief. Less messes, and more half-hearted plopping from one flat surface to another. And then I would forget to move her and then realized that bold-faced lying to my child is a skill I am quite adept at. All in the name of Christmas, after all.

And last Christmas morning, I forgot to put Sparkle away. Peyton woke up, as excited as could be, and the dread hit me that Sparkle was sitting right where I had left her the morning before and had NOT, in fact, "flown back" to the North Pole like she was supposed to. So I ran downstairs as fast as I could, beating my child by mere seconds, and stuffed her into the nearest drawer I could get to--which was in the wine rack (typical). There Sparkle sat for an entire year.

Here we are at year four. Sparkle has gotten some of her mojo back (read: mom is getting her mojo back). She does some silly things here and there, but when I see immaculately-staged elf shenanigans on social media I can't help but roll my eyes (you people need hobbies). I set an alarm on my phone at 6:15 every morning labeled "MOVE THE DAMN ELF" because let's face it--nine times out of ten I am collapsing into an exhausted heap next to my daughter at 8 PM for the night and that elf ain't moving until the next day.

I'll admit I, personally, don't find as much joy as I used to in planning some elaborate scene that requires props and messes and any more effort than is absolutely required after a day of ALL THE OTHER THINGS. I am busy making sure my daughter is alive and well-adjusted after a pretty turbulent couple of years.

But if that also means schlepping a creepy doll around the house every morning at 6:15 and tucking it into some ridiculous pose or setting for four weeks--then I'll do the damn thing.

Because Christmas.
And magic.
And how my kid's eyes light up every morning.
And our fond goodbye to Sparkle on Christmas Eve before bed when Peyton begs to hug her "just this once mom, please".

Dear Elf on the Shelf: I really don't like you, but I get you. Thanks for making Christmas special.

PS: If I turn up dead between now and Christmas Eve...someone needs to look into Sparkle.

On Loneliness

After my divorce, I had never felt more lonely.

On the weekdays I had Peyton with me, but getting accustomed to my new role as a single mom was a sharp slap in the face. The days of another parent handling bath time and bedtime while I cleaned up dinner were no longer a reality. And now there was homework and activities to worry about.

On those weekdays, I was busy. There was no time to consider any other frame of mind.

But the weekends. Oh, those weekends. How I loathed them.

Peyton goes with her dad three weekends a month. From after school on Friday until 7 PM Sunday, she's all his. At first I had a very, very hard time adapting to this.

You never realize how much motherhood changes you until you don't have a child around. Of all the things I considered about becoming a single mom, it never occurred to me I'd have to learn how to be a single person.

The first month or two of weekends was crippling. No Peyton to tuck in on Friday night. No Peyton to have breakfast with on Saturday morning. No playdates. No nighttime snuggles.

Her dad was getting all of those things, sure--and I will be the first person to agree that she needs her dad in her life. But I was a little resentful because I felt like my identity had been ripped away from me and I didn't know how to react.

I was downright lonely, and it sucked. The magnitude of choosing to end my marriage had set in, and it set in HARD. Even though I was married to a mentally abusive man and felt emotionally lonely, being physically alone felt completely foreign and difficult.

I felt depressed at the idea of calling up my mom friends. They were busy parenting and I was busy feeling sorry for myself.

I felt depressed at the idea of calling up my single friends. I wasn't quite prepared to go out and attempt mingling.

So I sat at home and wallowed in my own self-perceived inadequacies.

SPOILER ALERT: I don't recommend this. It's not very fun.

Eventually, I realized that yes--during the week I am a single mom. My daughter is my first and foremost priority.

But the most amazing thing gets to happen on the weekends: I get to figure out who I am. This is where the magic happens.

I can read books--and I can read as long as I want with no interruptions.
I can catch up on current events.
I can go on a hike.
I can go to the gym.
I can learn a new skill.
I can pick up a new hobby.
I can pick up an old hobby.
I can try a new experience.
I can revel in my flexible schedule.
I can watch a documentary on Netflix without anyone rolling their eyes or demanding My Little Pony instead.
I can take a nap.
I can go see a movie that I actually wanted to see--and have no problem sitting in a theater alone.
I can stay out until 2:00 AM and not have to worry about morning parenting duty (another spoiler alert: the next morning is still not very fun).

What makes ME tick? I had no clue until I left my husband. The silver lining to those "lonely" weekends was finding out who I am. It just took some time to find my groove.

I got reacquainted with myself. And it turns out I am a pretty cool person AND a pretty cool mom.

On Stasis & Soul

I am feeling very stuck.

Not necessarily in a bad way, though. Things are normal. Even keel. Same old, same old.

Routine is routine. And I guess that's great and all. I thrive on solid routines.

But but but.

I am feeling wholly uninspired and stagnant and it all just feels so...icky.

I have had several near-breakthroughs in the last six weeks. Fleeting moments of sparked joy and purpose and the lightness that comes with a "yes, this is it!" feeling and then...nothing.

Silence.
No flames.
No sparks.
Just...ick.

Everything just kind of feels like that black and white fuzz you used to get on old TVs. Like maybe there's a picture there behind all that fuzz? But it's all distorted and weird and you can't really tell what the heck is going on.

And now I can feel that feeling manifesting physically, which is really THE WORST. I feel tired and lethargic. Just "meh". Very low vibe. No bueno.

Clarity.
Purpose.
Soul.
Community.
Momentum.

I am craving all of it, but I can't for the life of me visualize a viable way to create these things in my life, and do it consistently. I feel so. damn. close...yet still so far.

Stasis: another word for equilibrium. And also the conductor of my own personal struggle bus--because I am in a funk of the most epic proportions right now.

I sit here and wonder if the universe put me here to really shake things up and make a difference somehow. I feel called. But how? Where do I start? There is zero clarity. It's so frustrating.

Finding that thing, MY thing that really sets my soul on fire. I need me some of that.

This is all so millennial of me, isn't it?

Gross.

Lynch Syndrome--So Can I Join the X-Men Now?

I'm fairly used to my body failing me. It's happened twice in the last six years.

First time: 2011. I was in labor with my daughter. I had developed preeclampsia. My blood pressure spiked severely after hours of labor and after failing to progress in dilation, I wound up with an emergency c-section. I can very vividly remember the guilt I felt. I tried so hard to avoid an invasive procedure, had the perfect vision of how Peyton's birth would go...and instead I wound up in an OR, the very last person to hold my (thankfully healthy) baby girl because my body just couldn't deal. I grieved, albeit selfishly, for the birth experience I wanted to have but couldn't.

Second time: 2013. I was 14 weeks pregnant with my second child. I went to the doctor for a routine check-up and ultrasound and discovered that my baby had stopped growing. My body never physically miscarried. My pregnancy symptoms were getting stronger. There hadn't been a heart beating inside me for weeks and my body just...carried on with business as usual. I can very vividly remember how betrayed I felt by my own body, being wheeled (yet again) into an OR for a D&E because the risk of infection was too great and my body wasn't working the way it was supposed to. This time I grieved for the baby I'd never know.

And now, I am faced with yet another blow regarding the ineffectiveness of my human body, this time slightly more sinister and a lot more long-term: in January 2017, I was diagnosed with Lynch Syndrome.

Lynch Syndrome, also known as hereditary nonpolyposis colon cancer (HNPCC), is a hereditary disease caused by a mutation in a mismatch repair gene (mine is MSH2) which ultimately gives me a significantly elevated risk for a whole slew of cancers, including two big risks: colorectal cancer and endometrial cancer; but also: stomach cancer; ovarian cancer; gastrointestinal cancer; bladder cancer; kidney cancer; liver cancer; pancreatic cancer; skin cancer; brain cancer...and a few more.

And if that list doesn't leave you scratching your head thinking, 'What's left?', WAIT THERE'S MORE...cancer diagnoses usually occur pretty young in patients with Lynch Syndrome.

So basically, I'm a mutant. But instead of doing cool things like showing off my superhuman strength or harnessing my telepathic powers for the greater good, I'm just SUPER likely to get cancer at a young age.

Jean Grey I am not. How disappointing. Very anticlimactic.

My diagnosis left me very frustrated and defeated. But when you're lucky enough to be armed with your damning genetic information like I am, it would be stupid not to act on it.

I put on my big girl pants and I started making doctor appointments. ALL THE DOCTORS APPOINTMENTS.

The number of specialists I have seen and screening procedures I have had since April makes my head spin. I had my very first colonoscopy and endoscopy in May. They found two polyps during that procedure. This is what drove the gravity of my diagnosis home: had I NOT known about my mutation, I wouldn't have had my first colonoscopy until 50 at the very least...could that have been cancer in a few years? The statistics say yes, probably so. Instead, the doctor removed the polyps and I get to go back next year to do it all over again.

In the last three weeks alone, I've had one skin biopsy on my stomach, a uterine biopsy, an IUD inserted (due to research that suggests such devices can minimize the risk of uterine cancer), and a second skin biopsy on my left glute. I am sitting here on my fluffy pillow nursing my wounds and really--it's all emotionally and physically exhausting. I have never felt more tired and defeated in my entire life...and I haven't even gone into detail about the potential ramifications this has for my daughter's health and that of any children I have in the future (Peyton currently has a 50% chance of having Lynch Syndrome, too, which we will test for when she turns 18).

There is something very morose about looking at your body in the mirror and KNOWING you're playing more of a "when" game than an "if" game. That the odds are stacked against me, and the routine of doctors and screenings are a permanent fixture of my life until they either find cancer and I swiftly kick its ass (a likely scenario), or I die of natural causes at a happy old age.

This is my new normal. And yet I wonder--

Maybe there CAN be something superhuman about me, too?

My father has been bravely fighting cancer since 2015 and is the reason I know I have Lynch Syndrome--because he has it too. His strength is the very definition of superhuman. He is missing a section of his colon and one of his kidneys and is STILL fighting the good fight against the cancer currently housed up in his liver. And his determination has never faltered--not one minute.

When I talk to him on the phone and I hear the pain or sense the slightest edge of discouragement in his voice, he still presses on.

After enough rounds of chemotherapy that I've lost count--he still presses on. Trying the newest treatment, determined to beat this disease that his body is simply hardwired to be susceptible to.

When a lot of people might have given up, refused treatment and given in to cancer...my dad presses on.

I got my Lynch Syndrome from my dad, yes--but I pray every day I also get my superhuman strength from him, too.

So Dad, when do we get to join the X-men for real?

The One Where I Got the IUD

So. yesterday I got an IUD.

Glad I can say I did it because I can assure you it will never happen again. When it's time to remove it in five years they can just leave it where it is and take my entire uterus out of my body because I am NOT having that thing dragged back through my cervix.

No way.
No how.
GTFO.

After talking with my OB/GYN regarding my Lynch Syndrome diagnosis, my reproductive plans, and potential future prophylactic surgical options, she kindly brought up the fact that there has been some research suggesting that a hormonal IUD can, in fact, help prevent cancer. She made the suggestion that I should maybe consider getting one and keeping it until I either decide to have another baby or have my hysterectomy/oopherectomy.

Well then. Sign me up. Anything to help prevent cancer when the odds are so stacked against me as it is. So I made another appointment for a few weeks away for a brand new Mirena and went on my merry way.

The very premise of no-effort, long-term birth control is amazing. The idea of maybe not having a period: also amazing. I'd literally lay on my back for five minutes and walk out with five years of baby protection AND the added benefit of shorter, lighter, maybe non-existent periods, and maybe even a chance my uterus would not give in to my pesky cancer gene.

This is the part where the rosy glow starts to wear off a little bit.

I had done some research on first-person accounts of the insertion procedure itself. Reports varied, to say the very least. Some people claimed it was NBD. Others claimed the pain was horrendous.

However, I KNEW I could handle it. I was in non-medicated labor for almost 12 hours with Peyton until I caved and got an epidural, and then I got myself cut open hip to hip and had a small person forcibly removed from my body. I could handle a little bit of cramping. This would be a breeze.

The day of my appointment. I was mentally prepared. I took a couple of ibuprofen an hour before my appointment. I knew what to expect--and then once I got there my doctor was like "yeeeeeeah, we're going to talk more about your cancer risks and then let's go ahead and do a biopsy instead today before we put this plastic inside your uterus." He did the biopsy, and then rescheduled my IUD insertion for later in the week.

And that was the first day in one week my cervix was breached and my uterus was violated.

The morning of my rescheduled appointment I forgot to take my ibuprofen, but now I know it would have done NOTHING. Literally, zero. A horse tranquilizer would have maybe helped a little bit better.

Once I was comfortably resting on my back, feet a-stirruped and pried open with what I can only describe as the mother of all speculums (speculi?), my doctor said, "Okay, quick pinch."

Friends, that was not a pinch. It might has well have been a swarm of angry hornets blasting through my cervix.

"Two more quick pinches."

And then I unleashed all the expletives and questioned every motive I had to get this devil's contraption put inside of my body. No babies? No periods? No cancer? Who gives a crap.

Literally it was maybe 90 seconds of pain, but WHAT THE HELL. It felt like my uterus has been sucker punched. Repeatedly.

Any procedure done while I am still awake that causes me to break out in a cold, clammy sweat and threaten vomit that is NOT childbirth...is not a procedure for me.

I have never been so betrayed by a tiny piece of plastic before.

I decided that I could handle the remainder of the work day, but to be honest--I must have blacked out on the way to the office because one minute I'm in my car and the next minute I was sitting down at my desk, grasping the edge of it with white knuckles and grimacing through the pain that I was FINE. This is fine. I'll be fine.

But instead I was 99% sure that my body was doing everything in its power to push that tiny little T-shape out of my uterus and back to hell where it belongs. So I texted my mom, my sister, my friends, and my boyfriend that I thought I was dying and started saying my goodbyes.

Today I woke up and I felt fine. So anti-climactic.

Was the pain worth it? I guess we'll find out.

So yeah, I got my Mirena.



{Pssssst....donate to Planned Parenthood here}

Raising My Own Personal Glass Ceiling

Hi, my name is Brittany and I am a recovering Control Freak.

Recovering perfectionist.
Recovering Type-A do-it-all babe.
Recovering previously-infallible human.

Can I tell you something about releasing some of that? It sucks.

I LIKE being in control. I LIKE doing things right and well the first time. I LIKE having my shit together.

So why am I giving that up? Doesn't everyone want to have their shit together?

They do--I do.

But I'm tired of disappointing myself when I can't do all the things and do them well.

Society- and self-imposed expectations of women are ridiculous even if you've got the wife-husband-2.5 kids-dog-white picket fence thing going on: work hard; shatter the glass ceiling; go to the gym five times a week; cook healthy meals from scratch on the regular; spend enough quality time with your kids so their therapy bills won't be too expensive when they're older; spend enough quality time with your husband so you don't hate each other--be more, achieve more, earn more, do more.

This. Is. Ridiculous. It's unfair, unattainable,and it's frustrating as hell.

We are forced to lower our glass ceilings from the sheer weight of it all--and in effect we suffocate under them.

Life as a single mom has forced me to shift my perspective. I tried to maintain the same level of productivity and perfectionism I carried when I was living in a two-adult household. I still wanted to do all the things I knew I was expected to do and I wanted to be DAMN good at them. Everyone would admire my strength and my ability to have it all, even though I had lost everything.

 I'll tell you what actually happened:

Doing all the things would often result in none of the things being done, because the level of self-induced stress I found myself under would render me effectively useless. The bottom would nearly always fall out, and everything would always be a mess. There was no room for personal growth and fulfillment because I was turning myself into a martyr.

Fact: I suck at juggling. I spent too much time chasing the balls I dropped as they rolled away

But healing from a destructive marriage has brought a lot of gifts. Mostly in the form of self-compassion and a whole lot of grace--and it's still very much a work in progress. To be forced to sit down, identify what my true priorities were (mine and my kiddo's health, wellness, and happiness), and cut out the thoughts and activities that didn't jive with those priorities gave me such a sense of lightness. It felt a lot like freedom.

It gave me room to move. And to stretch. My ceiling has been raised.

Some days I struggle with not feeling "enough" by some imagined societal standard and definition. It's the sneaky ex-perfectionist rearing its ugly head. It makes me feel small.

I've learned that I cannot control everything. It's impossible.

I can, however, control how I choose to react--and that goes for how I react to my own feelings of woeful inadequacy.

I am kind to myself.
I remind myself that my best is good enough.
My daughter will have a mother who is happy, unburdened, and flexible.

And on the days when all of the shit is not together? We try again tomorrow.

My Truth: On Knowing Better & Getting Better

I always thought I was too smart to allow a man to abuse me.

I'd know better, I'd tell myself.
"Battered housewife" is not an option for me.
The word "victim" is not in my vocabulary.
I have too much respect for myself and I'd leave in a heartbeat if that ever happened to me.
Any woman who allows herself to be treated such a way is a coward with zero self-esteem.

The funny thing is I was telling myself these things and sharing all the happy social media posts as I was slowly and surely being abused. The only catch was that my husband never hit me.

I mean, sure--there were times he jokingly twisted my arm behind my back, applied the slightest amount of pressure to my elbow and asked me, "Do you know how easily I could break your arm right now?"

But that wasn't abuse--he was joking.

I could not have been more wrong about anything in my entire life. Looking back, I could see him growing and me shrinking. Me less, him more.

There were times he would tell stories that made me look stupid or lazy in front of friends and family. I'd laugh along with him, but internally I'd be absolutely mortified.

He painted me as a drunk and a mess and I, in complicity, watched him write the narrative of my own life right in front of me.

He would call me an idiot in public and then laugh as he suggested I walk three feet behind him. It was always a joke.

My friends suddenly became drama, trash, and troublemakers. My circle grew smaller.

There were times when I would need extra money for something (anything, really), or could not afford to do something he wanted me to pay for--and he would call me "Broke Ass Brittany" and tell me I was terrible with money.

He told me he would raise his daughter to be an independent woman so she wouldn't grow up needing a man like her mother did. His salary was twice mine, and we split all expenses evenly. It was a set up for failure.

I would share with him that I had lost seven pounds in five weeks and was met with "That's it?"

He would poke fun at my breasts, my belly, my thighs, my "back fat".

At family gatherings, he would supervise me as I ate and if I put something on my plate he didn't deem "healthy enough", I would be shamed in front of everyone for it.

He would make fun of my "flat ass" and tell me I needed to squat more. He encouraged my daughter to tease me: "Do more squats, Mommy!" I was overreacting and being too sensitive when I would try to explain that body positivity is a something I wanted our daughter to embrace.

He would get angry with me in the bedroom because I felt uncomfortable being naked and exposed to him. I wasn't "freaky" enough.

I'll never forget the night he groped me in public and when I explained that consent still exists in marriage and I didn't want him to touch me (and therefore he shouldn't), he claimed I ruined the night and we drove home in silence interspersed with bouts of him explaining what a disappointment I was.

If I caught him looking at another woman he would tell me it was because I wasn't working hard enough to please him.

He needed to watch pornography because I was unable to provide him with what he really needed.

Any accomplishment, big or small, was immediately deflated and rarely celebrated. I could have done better. I always could have done better.

His demands were hefty, and if I could not meet them I was berated because I should have known what I had gotten myself into when I married him. He had standards, and I consistently failed to meet them.

If he felt like I was on my phone too much, he would turn off my data for 24-48 hours, or until he felt like I had learned my lesson.

My family were big mouths and know-it-alls when they tried to stick up for me. I was no longer allowed to confide in my mother or my sister. He'd rather I "talk to the walls" before I talked to either of them about anything.

I was asked privately by concerned family members if he had ever hit me. Several times.

He told me he hoped I wrapped my car around a tree one night when I was going out alone with family and some friends. And then he denied it.

He would tell me I was lucky I had it as good as I did. I should be grateful. I had no right to complain.

At the end, when I finally worked up the courage to tell him I was leaving, he told me I was an ungrateful bitch and that he knew plenty of women who would be happy and willing to take my place.

No one would want a loser like me if I left. He was the only one willing to deal with my bullshit.

And I deserved all of these things.

---

I should have known that this is not normal. I should have known that this is not love.

But emotional abuse is sneaky. It starts small, with things like jokes and subtle comments, and then escalates until you question everything you do and think. Your thoughts are no longer your own--instead, your thoughts have been shaped into a horrifying alternate universe by the very person who vowed to love and protect you. It's the ultimate bait and switch.

You are subconsciously taught to devalue your personal worth. It's cruel, and it happened to me.

I thought I was too smart, but I found myself clawing my way up and out of that huge void.

It has been almost two years since I left my now ex-husband (a little over a year since our divorce--which, as easy as I tried to make it, was a spectacle in and of itself), and I am finally feeling brave enough to write about this. I spent a lot of time debating with myself that maybe I wasn't really being abused, and that maybe I really had done things to deserve what I had endured for so long. Maybe I was just overreacting and being dramatic.

This, friends, is a lie. The effects of gaslighting are real, and they persist. When your personal reality is screwed with, it really takes its toll.

Was I the perfect wife? Absolutely not. But now I do know that no one deserves to be treated this way. Never. Under any circumstances. This is never, ever acceptable.

It took almost a solid year of counseling, praying, breathing, and a whooooooole lot of digging deep within myself to climb out of that hole. It was ugly, dirty work--but here I am.

And yet the absolute best part of this entire experience was finding myself in picking up the pieces. As I worked to repair the damage, I found the tiny fragile bits of who I am--the parts that I suppressed because I lost myself in the endless cycle of becoming less--and was able to get reacquainted, nurture, and love them for what they are.

The end result is an unapologetic, authentic me that I celebrate and love fiercely.

---

So...why share this now?

Two years later, I'm happy. My life is not perfect by any means, but I have zero expectations for perfection. I have worked on setting my personal boundaries and have defined what is unacceptable and not tolerable to me in any relationship. I know and value my worth. I am dating an incredible man who sees the same in me. My support network is through-the-roof incredible. I am blessed, humbled, and so full of gratitude it feels like my heart could explode.

And just last week, my ex-husband called me a cunt via text message. Instead of it absolutely crippling me like it would have two years ago, I rolled my eyes and went on with my day (okay, I might have taken a screen shot of it and sent it to a few close friends with a quick "WTF?" and THEN I went on with my day). I don't allow his negative energy to interfere with my life any longer. I have done too much work to backslide. I see it for what it is. I have named it, and I do not allow it power over me.

This is why I bring it up now.

Because I know there are women like me who think they are too smart to fall into patterns of subtle abuse, only to find themselves deep within its grip.

There are women like me who will tolerate the absolute worst even though they deserve more.

They will succumb to being less than.

They will believe lies.

And years later, a simple angry text message could be enough to send them into a spiral of self-blame and loathing and unhappiness.

I want these women to know that they are not crazy. That their own thoughts CAN be trusted. They are not defined by another person's definition of who they are. They are valued. They can find their truth...and in finding truth, find strength as well.

---

Here is my truth. It's burned white-hot on my heart and I share it here:
I was a victim of domestic abuse.
I have fought the good fight and won.
I have become less to become even more.
I am broken and rebuilt--stronger than before.
I am not stupid. I am brilliant.
I am not lazy. I know where and how to devote my precious energy.
I have friends and family that are my rock.
My body is perfect and strong and beautiful.
I can be vulnerable. I can share my thoughts and feelings without feeling shame or fearing ridicule.
I matter.
I know what I deserve.
I am worthy of every good thing my mind can conceive.

The beauty in finding ways to repair what seems irreparable: 

the thing you put back together is more powerful than before.

{NOTE: The truth is that abuse--both physical and verbal/emotional--goes both ways. It is irresponsible to suggest otherwise. A woman can be an abuser just as much as a man can. Due to the nature of my personal experience, I am sharing it from a woman's perspective. But I encourage anyone being abused--male or female--to seek help immediately. If you suspect you or someone you love is being abused, this link is a good place to start.}

Hard Things

I am having a particularly difficult time digesting what happened over the weekend in Charlottesville.

Imagery of white men with their torches and their helmets and their weapons.
The epithets they hurled.
The symbols they carried.
The anger they harbored.

And their faces--exposed, clear, proud.

Hate is not hooded in 2017.

I am having a hard time with this--but I should not be surprised by this.

In the wee hours of the morning post-Election Day, I very vividly remember being ridiculed for posing the following question on social media:

"How am I going to explain to my daughter what it means that we elected a man like Donald Trump to the American presidency?"

People told me that Peyton is too young to be wrapped up in such things. This is beyond her. This will all be a blip in history by the time she's old enough to care. To suck it up and move on.

And now, more than six months into a presidency that broke my heart and made me afraid for the future, disgusting and hateful campaign rhetoric has manifested itself into action.

Hate is not hooded in 2017.
These people are no longer afraid.
So why am I afraid?

By not having conversations about hard things with my daughter--about things like hate and bigotry and racism--I am failing in the work of equality.

By choosing to wait until I think Peyton is old enough to talk about hard things, I am complicit in allowing subtle social cues in our world to covertly shape the way she sees other people. I am failing in the fight for justice.

By hoping my daughter isn't paying attention when the news is on, I am failing in teaching her about how we can find opportunities to love harder.

I saw things that made my heart ache this weekend. And I need to do more. We can all do more.

Educate yourselves. Talk about the hard, terrible things. Acknowledge they exist. Name them. And then work to dismantle them.

For me, it looks like talking about hard things with my daughter--and going from there.

To all my parent friends teaching their wide-eyed children about fairness, equality, justice, compassion, dignity, and human decency: I see you. I salute you. Let's keep fighting the good fight in raising up an army of world changers.

"We are not to simply bandage the wounds of victims beneath the wheels of injustice, we are to drive a spoke into the wheel itself." - Dietrick Bonhoeffer

On the Other Side

Well hi there, my little space on the interwebs. Long time no see.

I'd be a dirty liar if I said I missed this blog. After writing for so long here, looking back through the archives had me feeling some type of way. It was a pretty vicious reminder of how much things have changed. Some changes are good--some changes still sting a little bit.

Coping well...that's been my mantra for the last year of my life. Making do. Ditching the five-year plan. Mindfulness. Leaning into certain moments, no matter how painful, knowing there is potential for growth on the other side.

I've done a lot of coping. A lot of flying by the seat of my pants. A LOT of leaning in. A lot of kicking and screaming through some pretty awful days and nights when I felt like sticking my head in the sand and knowing full well that cannot be an option. I could not allow it to be an option.

And, as I'd hoped, I lived. I am slightly bruised and wincing, but alive nonetheless.

There is a quote by Jack Canfield that I've been clinging to pretty closely:

"Everything you want is on the other side of fear."

If you asked me what I wanted 365 days ago I would have probably just said something like, "I just want to wake up tomorrow and have it be a normal day." Please understand that my definition of normal then was "nothing that will make me want to curl up into the fetal position and cry for the rest of the day." I was afraid of literally EVERYTHING--my foundation was already so broken that a minor bump in the road would rock me to my very core. What was on the other side for me? Beats me--I couldn't look past my fear.

Ask me now what I want and the definition has changed again. This time, I've learned enough about myself and who I am to know that what I want (and deserve) is everything of which I am worthy--great things.

Happiness.

Love. 

Support.

Fulfillment.

Belonging. 

Potential. 

Success.

And with that, I almost find myself back in the same place I was last year--but this time it looks different. Last year was more about merely keeping my head above water. Living in fear because my life as I knew it had been destroyed. This year is more about thriving and finding my groove in the universe as I am meant to live it. With that comes a new kind of fear: stepping outside of my comfort zone. Pushing myself into finding my potential. Discovering what personal fulfillment looks and feels like. 

I can feel my mindset shifting because I am feeling the itch to be creative again. It's scary--but it's kind of thrilling, too.

The last year has been an adventure to say the very, VERY least. I'm just grateful that I am on the other side of that adventure, ready and more prepared than I could have ever imagined for the next one.

So on this day, exactly one year since I walked out of a court room clutching a piece of paper that said my life was changed forever--I say bring it on.