I Can't Take the Heat

I remember when my blood test came back positive,

"Congratulations, is this your first one?"

I nodded to my doctor. I was with child. For the next few months, I puked and cried and slept. I tried to maintain a normal life and I failed. I had to turn vegetarian, I cut out sweets, I was disgusted by cheese. I lived off peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and prayed it was a boy.

Every ultrasound, every sonogram I was terrified. Panicked there'd be no movement, no growth, scared it would somehow all be taken away from me.

Three years earlier, I was told having children was going to be extremely difficult. That I should look into in vitro and adoption. I was told to go back on the pill to help regulate my Polycycstic Ovary Syndrome.  I cried for days over this news.

Now, pregnant, I am constantly filled with fear that I'll do something wrong, something will go wrong. I'll be alone with the memories of terrible kicks to my spine and punches while I desperately tried to sleep.

The day we found out it was a girl, I was slightly crestfallen. I'm one of four girls, all I wanted was a boy. My husband, patted my leg with so much joy in his eyes.

She's alive.

That's all that I cared about. She was alive with no major issues. Seeing her, really seeing her changed something inside of me.

I thought it was a positive but things quickly went dark. I cried, daily. I was anxious and frustrated and some days I simply couldn't get out of bed. There was the fear of somehow losing her. There was the disaster that was my home not even partially prepped for a baby. There was the financial stress I was already under being added to by specialist visits to manage my high risk pregnancy. There was the slow limitations of my body. There was the unsexifying of my body. There was a distance brewing between my husband and I. My frustrations were not his frustrations. He had started a new job, working nights and my concerns over a nursery currently burdened by essentially the leftovers of a move from two-years ago were not a high priority for him.

September 26th looms in the distance and I am overly ready and at the same time not at all. My house is in shambles. It's a dry heat in the 90s where I live. I'm exhausted. Just maintaining the dishes, laundry and daily dog walks is becoming a strain. I still work full-time and plan on returning to work after the birth. I need the money. I've started to retreat from social gatherings. I've started to hate that I do that. I don't know what I'm doing. I don't know where I am. I don't know who I love.

Envious of those women who have happy pregnancies, blissful even. Those who beam with love and pride. Those who say they never felt more beautiful than when they were pregnant. I don't feel beautiful. I don't feel happy. I feel fear. I'm quick to anger. Fast at annoyance. I'm tired. I'm so tired.

I can't afford these feelings. I can't afford this baby. I can't afford to not find joy in my life.

At night, with these feelings trying to pull me under. I feel her kick. I feel her shudder. I feel her grow. She's making me weaker. She's already draining me. I still muster the strength to whisper "I Love You" to her as she let's me settle into uncomfortable sleep.

One Year Older

The day before my actual 30^th Birthday I was a mess. I was a pile of insecurities and to be honest I’m still that blubbering pile. I don’t know what it was but being 30 seemed like the worst idea my body ever had. Before my weekend trip to Vegas to celebrate this monumental turning of the clock, I would have spit venom and cynical mayhem over my 30^th birthday. I work 2 dead end jobs. I have no career. I gave up on writing aka my dream. I have no children. No House. No immediate big picture plan to get me to a better place. I’ve got an amazing husband who is also struggling and some dogs. I’m in debt, can’t pay my bills and struggle with medical conditions to lose weight. I fail, daily, to see the beauty in myself or my self worth. This was my year in review prior to Friday.

However, over the weekend I had friends who flew in from all over the country to celebrate with me and to re-assure me. Our lives are our own. There are twists and turns, backtracking and leaps forward. It’s not always linear. It’s not always point a to point b. I’ve got to accept that just because at 30 I’m not where I wanted my life to be that it doesn’t mean it will ALWAYS be that way. 

I have noticed little changes in myself and I like it. I find my energy cannot even be used for hate, envy or jealousy. I don't talk about anyone or anything. If I see a stunning woman walking down the street I don't try to pick apart little things to bring her down instead I find myself mentally complimenting her and smiling. Where do all these cute shoes live and how can I afford them? 

I’m making no grand announcement. No, I’m not going to go back to school and change my life. No, I’m not going to re-dedicate myself to my writing. I’m struggling. I don’t see an end in sight. My days are accounted for down to the minute. My weeks are exactly the same and right now having that routine, that normalcy, that pinpoint knowledge that I know exactly what is coming and when, it’s comforting. Right now I don’t have to think and it has allowed me some calm. I honestly can't even find the time to care about anything outside of my bubble. GMOs, Religion, Politics. Don't care. I budget and buy what I can afford. I eat what my body allows me. I understand that I could be a "better" person if I made my own laundry detergent, dog food, clothes, etc. If I spent more time researching the foods I should buy instead of just buying what is available and affordable. I'm doing everything to the best of my abilities and I'm okay with my life and what I eat. How I shop and what I spend my money on does not concern you. Spending time with my friends reminded me that I am loved and that I am good no matter what.

I expected a lot out of myself by the time I hit 30. The only person who seems to be disappointed in me, is me.

A Day

I feel it is okay to have a day. Whether it’s a day to yourself or to be sad, happy, to reconnect with nature, to eat a pint of ice cream, to sleep, to drink till you forget, the list continues. It’s okay to have a day. Don’t beat yourself up. Don’t regret your day; don’t be upset that you had it.

I am many things – Awesome, fragile, loving, supportive, petty, funny, smart, stupid, beautiful, etc., etc. I’m not one thing. I am a writer simply because it’s in my heart. Do I get published or even write much anymore, nope. Would I like to, yep but I’m not going to be upset with myself because of my time restrictions or lack of motivation. I can’t be mad at me all the time. Recently it’s been drawn to my attention that I am apparently a photographer too, though I am very, very hesitant to say that. I know many photographers and I by no means can compete with them but I am selling prints of my scenery so I guess I have to accept that I am what I am and that’s all that I am. I am a hula dancer. This I can say confidently. I’ve dance with 3 halaus and 1 group spanning 14 years. I am not a kumu, I would like to be someday, though. I’m just a little brown girl in a little grass skirt in love with my culture, my heritage and the graceful beauty that is hula dancing. I am a runner. No explanation needed, I hope. It took many people to make me realize what I am, what I have the potential to be and what I need to appreciate about myself.

My day today is a pitiful one. My husband and I just moved to California from Washington leaving behind, for me friendships that I cannot replace. Today he leaves for a 2-day trip. I’m alone with my dog in a house full of boxes. I miss my friends, my Washington sunrises, my husband and my crafts. There is the crushing weight of defeat pressing down on me today. This move was stressful our stuff got thrashed in the move, our financial situation is nonexistent, my job got reformed and I was fearing I’d lose it, there was a lot that went into this move. To top it off the move made running sort of null and void for a while and I find myself starting from scratch. Slowly building up my endurance again. My wrist and left hip are both damaged. Hula dancing is on the back burner as is photography. Writing has been on the back burner since 2006.

I feel off track, disassembled, lost. I’m allowing these feelings. I’m letting them happen. I’m letting them wash over me. I’m allowing all the fear, guilt, sadness and pain soak in through my skin. I’m giving myself this day because I know tomorrow is a new day. One where if I need to I will list the benefits of this move. Life is interesting it pulls a lot of magic tricks, a lot of suspense, a lot of pit falls. Give yourself a day to appreciate what you are truly feeling. Let it be one day, then wash that day right out of your hair and send it down the drain.

Something I wrote (somewhat) recently:

Other People

One of my favorite Photos I've ever taken:

Losing a Same-Sex Parent at a Young Age

“It's just like waking up,
In that second and a half,
The bliss of not remembering,
Before it all comes flooding back.” – Ben Folds

Yes, everyone dies. Yes, sometimes it is sudden. Yes, you are never prepared for it. At some point you lose someone you love, whether that someone is a friend, family or even a fur baby, it hurts and cuts deep and is so permanent.  

Here’s the part where my story may differ from some. I was 13 when I lost my mom. When you lose a parent as an adult you have memories to hold onto, you have a life. When you lose a parent as a teenager, pre-teen or child, you have scraps of memories. Little pieces you try to cling to and you hold on so tightly they tend to crumble to dust. Some days I can remember my mom’s laugh, other days her scent but most days, it’s a wash. I can tell you she dyed her hair a red-brown color and wore green contacts over light brown eyes. I can tell you she was a cardio queen and taught morning aerobics up until the day before she died. I can tell you she hated western medicine and doctors and believed in healing crystals which helped contribute to her downfall. I can tell you I loved her with all my heart. I can tell you it hurts everyday like a scab you can’t stop pick at and it festers and leaves a scar as a constant reminder. Some mornings I forget she’s gone, or that I’m grown up or that I grew up without her.

Most of the time I just feel guilty, because I don’t remember her, because I’m supposed to, because I hold a torch for someone I was only just beginning to know. My mother shaped me and molded me, even put me in the kiln but I wasn’t done yet, I wasn’t ready. I had just started puberty. I had no mother to walk me through hair and makeup, clothes and shaving, bras and tampons. Some people tried to help, but it was hard and there was pain in their eyes. My dad, tried, but he’s a man. If I ran out of deodorant or shaving cream he told me to use his. I spent one year of my teens smelling like Mennen without a bra and rarely shaven legs. I spent another year shaving everything including my stomach and chest because I didn’t know any better. My hair was a mess, my sense of style a disaster and it has taken me years YEARS to find the woman inside of me. To understand my looks, my skin tone, everything. Losing my mom meant losing my guidance and I had to feel my way through adolescence. My mother wasn’t there to tell me there’d be other boys or spend the night letting me vent with cookies and ice cream and movies. It was just me. I was angry for a long time. But it’s no one’s fault, there is no one to be angry at, my mother had a brain aneurysm. She had a blood bubble that slowly leaked into her brain. It amazes me how a little bit of blood can destroy a life, a family, a child.

Losing a same-sex parent at a young age means you don’t only lose your guidance, you don’t only live with guilt for not remembering, it means you also; don’t know how to respond or how to act. My husband told me at his father’s funeral, he didn’t cry and everyone thought this 11-year-old boy was brave. I didn’t cry at my mother’s funeral and everyone thought I was a heartless, cruel child. I’ve cried many tears for my mother over the years. What people don’t understand is as a child you have no coping mechanisms, you have no clue what you should be doing. You are in SHOCK. The gravity of the situation doesn’t hit you for YEARS. As a kid you barely understand your numbers and ABCs let alone death. Something so permanent, so absolute and final how can you expect a child to understand that? I cry at the drop of a hat, over anything, commercials, movies, breaking a glass, but my emotions are bewilderment even to me. I could mechanically tell you about how my mother died and what I had to do to survive without a tear in my eyes and usually with a smile because I know you’re just curious. My emotions have been severed and reattached and so they don’t work like you’d expect. You could be pouring your heart out and I will be dry eyed and supportive but maybe we could be shopping for clothes and I just start crying for no apparent reason. I never learned how to express correctly, how to be appropriate. My mom’s funeral showed me that people judge you constantly and it also showed me that it’s okay because I won’t force feelings, I’m me and that’s all I can be.

Today marks 15 years since my mom passed away. She’s been dead longer than I even had time with her. Each year the anniversary hits me a different way. Some years I completely forget, other years I am overjoyed thinking about the time I did have with her, some years it hits me hard and I can’t contain myself and other years I remember but am neither happy nor sad, it’s just another day. Losing a parent at a young age turns them into a ghost, they are a pale comparison to the person they were or we think they were. They are in your peripherals. They are misty and ambiguous. There are only so many pictures or videos to remind you of someone you can just see the outline of, like a mirage. When the pictures run out, when you've memorized them, when you look at yourself in the mirror and try to pull traits, there's not much more you can do. Some days I remember her voice and think I hear it in mine. Today, I remember everything, the way she clicked her tongue, the way she lost her temper, the way she danced, the way she laughed, her perfume, her outfits, her walk, everything. Tomorrow I might not be so lucky, best to hold on to today.  

Divorce is for Quitters?

For those who haven’t gone through a divorce, they don’t understand its importance when it’s over. While a wedding is supposed to be the bonding of two souls for eternity, sometimes it doesn’t go that way. Divorce seems to have become a rite of passage in this country. What once was considered taboo is now widely accepted, kind of like birth control. Divorce is never easy or looked back on with joy, but it’s a new fact of life that touches almost 50 percent of Americans.

In my case, I got married a month after I turned 18 and after 5 years of marriage we were just heading in different directions. No matter how amiable the break up is, it’s not easy. It’s dissolution of marriage. A breaking of vows. A plunge into the unknown. Even if you are the initiator of the divorce it’s hard. You waiver, question yourself and are in pain. You have to civilly divide up all the things you collected and loved as a married couple, all the wedding gifts, the money, then there’s alimony, kids, pets, cars, etc. It’s horrible and it’s dragging both people through the mud. It can get really petty and kind of ridiculous. Maybe he stipulates that he gets back all the love letters her wrote you, which requires you to find them and then of course you’re going to read them and then you start questioning why this whole thing was put into motion.  

No, it’s not the same as someone who dated for years and “broke-up.” When you’re dating someone it usually doesn’t require a lawyer and a judge to dissolve your union. Also, there’s no legal documentation that you get the couch.  You have to be nice and smile and hope that the other person isn’t going to be an asshole. Okay that part is a lot like a divorce. The main difference is once the divorce is finalized, you’re done and you never HAVE to see that person again. With a break-up, you will probably interact with that person for the next 3 years. You’ll have left a really important CD in his car or he forgot you had his jacket 2 years later. With a divorce, there is no going back, no revisiting. Sure, it may take a year or two to finalize a divorce where both the parties are happy with their stuff and money but once the judge signs that paper what you have are yours and that is that.

A divorce until it is absolutely finished weighs down on you. It changes you. Perhaps you’re more sullen, quiet and contemplative. Maybe instead you’re more into bars and parties and want to use any method to escape the fact. It’s hard for you to focus on much else because you’re thinking a million things at once – Am I doing the right thing? What if he demands his ring back and we have to go through another revision? Will he give me the tool box? I hope he doesn’t fight for the dog? I hope he doesn’t hate me? Do I hate him? Will I be okay on my own? Why did we get married in the first place? Oh yeah, that’s right that was a very sweet moment in my life. It goes on and on until the judge signs the paper and you’re done and then for whatever reason the sun shines brighter and the sky seems bluer. All those questions, all the worrying, all the fretting and cursing and crying and emptiness vanish because if nothing else that part of your life is done and you can, willingly, finally move on.

My divorce required a year separation and then it took 2 months to finalize the divorce papers and get it signed by a judge. A year is a long time to look at your marriage in review. It’s stressful and horrible and makes you feel like your life is amiss, like you did something wrong. When my divorced papers came in the mail, I went to my favorite local bar and drank and drank. I didn’t tell people why. Even though I initiated the separation I hadn’t planned for divorce. I was happy and sad all at the same time but having the papers heavy in my hands gave me the kick in my pants I needed to move on with my life. There was no going back to the way things were. I was surprisingly okay with it and found the next week granted me the ability to revel in the little joys of life. No more questions.

To those with the signature of a judge drying on your papers or to those still in the process of getting there, I raise my glass to you. It’s a long, hard road but this is the moment your life begins anew. Enjoy it and don’t take it for granted.