I was wrong.

I am not worthless.

I am not disgusting or ugly.

I am irreplaceable. I am priceless. I am beautiful and every last "disgusting or ugly" quirk I have seen in myself, I see as gorgeous when they appear as quirks in my children. Logic therefore tells me that because they are gorgeous when I look at my children, I am gorgeous by default.

I have flaws. I am not a finished product. I am an ever changing project of the man who made no mistakes when he breathed life into me and filled this body with soul.

I am not a problem. I am well worth the wait and so glad he waited for me to evolve into this curvy, snarky, silly creature I've become. It is bittersweet to know that he and I have reached a point in our lives as adults that it is illogical to create life together outside of the lives we are living together. It took God seven days to create Heaven and Earth just to get some well needed rest. Now we rest together, seven children and too many years later.

When he and I are together, I don't see stretch marks and rolls and imperfections. I see myself as the woman God created me to be for him. I want to outlive all my expectations for myself beside him. He is not the father of my children, but I see a fatherly concern and love for them that makes my heart burst. He takes the time to speak to them, sheds a tear or two when Lou says his name or talks to him unexpectedly... He listens to them and HEARS them when they speak.

I am a work in progress, but I was wrong.

For so many years I was wrong. I was wrong to believe that my partner's happiness is a direct result of my role as their wife. We are only responsible for our own happiness, and our attitude and outlook are a direct result of our own actions. I was wrong to believe that marrying someone who's lifestyle and ethics were so different than my own would change with time as hope in the knowledge that people change over time. People don't always change for the better. I was wrong that believing "for better or worse" meant that there would be a "better." I was wrong.

The "us" that has blossomed over the past year is an "us" that explodes with future. Future travels, future responsibilities, future companionship and passion. It means compromise and understanding. It means acceptance and cultivating the dreams and goals to make them realities for one another. It means trust beyond measure, as you can't fully love based on a relationship full of crumbly hit or miss trust... something else I was wrong to believe in so many years ago. It means research and discussions and late night rambling. Studying each other, our love and our friendship so we can be better for ourselves and for one another.

I was so wrong, but in being wrong I learned how to look for the love and light in life.

Writing from the wings.

"I'm going to need for you to give me my keys."

He walked up the sidewalk leading towards the house, and I repeated myself, "I'm going to need for you to give me ALL my keys."

His face held no remorse. He knew what he'd done. He knew he'd been caught.

I'd sent the older kids to their grandmother's house the moment they got off the bus.

He wanted to go inside to get some things. I told him the clothes on his back were enough, we'd sort shit out once I could catch my breath.

"Yeah... I may have inadvertently made it happen without meaning to. Relax it isn't you and me. She doesn't know. She tried to hug me last night and I couldn't reciprocate what she was searching for." 

For weeks, months leading up the discovery, things had been going south fast. He would deny my touch, but then I would find him inebriated or high on top of me as I slept or exposing me enough to take pictures. I was only wanted when he was numb enough to tolerate me which left me disgusted by any and all advances. That is not love. That is not what our marriage had been built on. This was not going to work.

I tried so hard. For the babies... for him... for myself. When he walked away, I wanted him to leave everything behind. All of it. He had chosen to close his heart to me so he could open it for someone else. He had betrayed our marriage, the vows made before God, and the promises he made our children. Promises that would make my heart swell and cheeks flush to hear the words drip from his mouth like honey. These false promises gave me hope that it was going to be ok. I never in a million years saw this coming. Being so naive, so gullible even, it's why I get sick to my stomach and nervous knowing that not everyone is truthful. Not everyone is thinking of your best interest. Sometimes it's easier for others to lie than to attempt the truth.

I don't want to go into a new relationship, a new marriage even, with fear of the unknown sour and unwelcome on my tongue. My partner has not given me any reason to doubt him or his love for me. He's not given me any reason to question his stability or devotion. Which of course leads me to feel like something's just not right. Because that's how my brain works. Because for over 11 years I kept a letter in my wallet from the man I called my Husband, vowing to never stop loving me and working for me well into our old age... imagining our children and how we'd be the best parents to them, better than what we grew up with in regards to split homes and broken dreams. But that's now how things worked out and I despise the unknown.

Despite the fact that I find it insanely easy to get my words out through my fingertips, I am TERRIBLE at speaking. When it comes to conversation, it is so much easier for me to write you a letter or type out a blog post. When it comes to debate or argument, I'm better at constructive friendly debate than emotional brawls. I can't find my words or purpose in the situation. My brain turns to fog and evaporates out my eyes in the form of tears. Confrontation robs me of my speaking voice and it takes a ton of prep work or practice to utilize my voice. A blank screen, like a canvas, allows me to paint my inner words into air. The divorce was hard because I was already deafened by silence from the other party. Relationships are hard because the silence is awkward with expectation and anticipation, of which the words build up inside my chest like bricks waiting to fall at any moment.

I want to apologize. I want to say I'm so sorry to the people I love. I want to beg them to read me, read these accounts and inner workings of my mind. Understand me for the words that can't come out and fill the spaces between us. Know that I love with my whole heart even when my face can't express it. Know that I'm scared to death every last person is lying to me while I can't even fake a good poker face, that it's not because I think I'm surrounded by compulsive liars but because the one person I committed myself to and devoted my whole heart and more to robbed me of any ability to believe what I see and hear anymore. That because I've heard my heart scream, "He's the one I love, he's the one I need to wake up to every morning, and giggle myself to sleep beside every night," that I'm having to reassess my head and heart and really confront my fears while washing myself in truth.

I want to be able to hold his hand, hear his vows to me whether it's in front of a priest, the world, or just pillow talk and know that this is the truth. This is real and amazing and there's not a doubt in my mind that I am worthy after years and years of me judging and gently whispering to myself that not a single girl he brought into my presence was ever worthy of him and his goodness.

And I can say I am worthy all day long, but as the emptiness and hollowness of my heart is filled up with the golden light of his love, that last little bit of darkness wants to question and pick before it's gone forever.

I won't give up.

In the interim from date of enlightenment to the date of court for the divorce proceedings, I lost a bit of weight. It was hard to eat when you were grieving the man you thought you were married to. It was hard to breathe between the gut wrenching sobs and the need to sleep life away. In moments of clarity and light, I found myself opening my heart through yoga and reading.

In discovering love and acceptance, I've kind of let those things slip. When I feel my body crumpling in on itself, I stretch it out and take a few moments for myself to realign my spine and breathe. I know I need to get back on that saddle. I KNOW that my body will thank me. I know that the softness won't go away by making time to return to my breath and my body.

I shouldn't lose my attention to my body and breath when my focus is on the glittery, awe inspiring love that has washed over me this past year. I want to keep my health on the incline. I want to keep my mind sharp for both my present and for my future years to help defer any memory loss or issues with my cognition.

I want to spend the rest of my life feeling like this is the BEST of my life, that I can go on adventures... I can join in on last minute 5k's... or even stop, drop and yoga without killing myself or putting any bystanders in danger.

I want to know that my kids and partner are in it to win it with me as well, but first and foremost, I can only worry about my own motivation.

Just a little breaking and entering.

I've heard the story so many times of our first home, the home my sister and I grew up in, that there are bits and pieces of my memory that I can no longer tell if they are made up or real.

I was barely 5 when my parents toured the neighborhood next to my grandparents house. We must have pulled onto either before the agents on duty started their shift or after they'd all gone home. My parents parked in the driveway of the house I would spend my entire childhood. I can feel myself on my father's hip, smell his cologne on his button up... My mother, forever nosy, peered through each screen as best as she could to catch a glimpse of the layout. They were in love. They were in love with each other and smitten beyond reason with this little 3 bedroom 2 bath ranch home with a great big backyard. I can see my parents waving their hands over the yard, dreaming out loud of garden space, where a shed could go, how big a clothesline they should have, where my swing set would go...

Although they tried each door, nothing would budge as they'd all been locked tight. Despite the doors being locked, my dad was determined to get my mother and I inside to dream some more. He placed set me down and began looking for unlatched windows along the backside of the house. Once he reached the master bedroom window, he began prying the screen off gently so as to not damage it in the process. This was my first lesson in breaking and entering and I learned everything I knew from my father. He was able to shimmy the window open and picked me up again. He let me look through the window before placing me inside. He and my mother walked me step by step how to go from the bedroom to the front door and what I needed to do to unlock the deadbolt and let them in.

I like to imagine, as I can't distinctly remember doing this, that once I was inside I explored on my own first. That my little voice would call out that I was working on opening the door or that I'd accidentally gone into the wrong room. Little me would be so innocent, walking into my soon to be bedroom... maybe my hands would brush along the wall where I got my first real kiss, how my back would be pressed up against my bedroom door to listen to footsteps as we would kiss again... and again... and again... all in between painting murals on my bedroom wall located conveniently behind that bedroom door. Little me might even curl up in the same place on the closet floor as I'd done over and over again over the timeline of my adolescence. I had laid on that floor many times when overwhelmed, specifically after my sister was born, wondering if anyone would miss me if I disappeared.

I know that I succeeded in opening the door for them eventually. I can barely recall the details of the original wallpaper and flooring. The trim is all the same still, but we've lost a bay window over the years and replaced it with a standard window. I remember the strawberries on blue gingham wallpaper in our kitchen, or maybe that was the Corning ware my mother was obsessed with at that point in the mid to late 80's. How many Disney movies did we watch together as a family on Friday nights? My mother would swing by the Disney Store at the mall on her lunch breaks when she worked in downtown Atlanta and pick up the latest "fresh from the vault" flick and all four of us would make a huge deal out of it. I remember my sister being so small and so tired during our first watch of The Jungle Book that my mother signaled for my father to look while Jenna's little foot would twitch in an attempt to keep herself awake, meanwhile her eyes would flutter and roll telling a completely different story of alertness.

I walked that house alone for who knows how long before letting them in... looking back now I joke that I was an accomplice to my father's breaking and entering crime. He claims that it wasn't breaking and entering as nothing got broken and the front door was unlocked for him.

What memories will my children have of the home/homes they grew up in when they're my age. Will they remember the dreams their father and I held for them as we walked the empty bedrooms, will they remember me nursing their brother while I signed the paperwork in the middle of the stairway as Lou was hungry RIGHT THEN? I write all this knowing that I have to renew my lease within the next two months. Knowing that I want to run away from this town that their father has discolored over the past few years. Knowing that I want to be able to see a "home" that hasn't experienced negativity and intense sage smudging just to change the vibe. What will they remember? Will their childhood home hold as much potential in their minds?

Not forgotten.

I've lost many things in my life. I once lost a $20 bill inside my car door. Just recently, Lou lost one of his cats at the beach as it was sucked from his hand by the current and sent to Africa... or at least that's the story I told him as I tried to comfort his grieving heart. I've lost family, friends...

One of the more heartbreaking and more noticeable losses in my life is the years I lost getting to know and forming a relationship with my little cousins. And they aren't exactly so little anymore. When I was pregnant with Logan, the younger two cousins were only 3 years old. To help my Grandmother out as she watched them, I led them downstairs to watch movies and help me assemble baby gear. When one of their mothers fell ill with cancer, I was there watching them in their home every day I wasn't on a plane. Once their mother passed, they spent many nights at my grandparents home despite the fact that my grandmother had passed at that point as well. The biggest difference being they didn't dare go downstairs to where I lived with my then husband and two kids.

Their fear of my ex-husband kept them from visiting, I brushed it off as silliness and would beg my aunt and uncle to let them come play video games or hang out... promises made by them would be long forgotten until I would bring it up again. They were afraid of him, afraid of his outbursts as they'd heard him beneath their feet yelling at myself or the children. They had heard the way he'd talked to their parents or my grandfather. They didn't feel comfortable in his presence. Children and dogs have uncanny abilities of knowing good from bad and I dismissed them. I dismissed my cousins in a way that I can only regret and attempt to make up for now.

Now they're High Schoolers and they couldn't care less about their snot nosed second cousins that they have in my children. They're too old and too cool to be in their presence. The sting of personal time loss with family because I felt THEIR view of HIM was ridiculous will never leave me. I haven't forgotten the pride I felt when I'd hear of Cello concerts and baseball games and chorus concerts and every other event they would shine in. I haven't forgotten their silly toddler ways. I haven't forgotten all the hours I would spend with them when they were tiny even though they'll never remember those moments as I do. If I could have them know anything, it's that I'm so proud of them. So proud of what they've managed to overcome after one set of cousins lost their father to suicide and the other set's mother lost her battle to cancer. I'm so proud of the strides they've made in life, how their motivation to move forward is inspiring. I'm so proud of them, and I wish I'd been allowed that time despite knowing I can't ever get that time back.

My door is always open for them and maybe one day they'll remember my voice and hear me calling for them.

The monsters under my bed.

Most nights I fall asleep right at 11. I'll tell the mister goodnight, turn out the light and that's all she wrote.

At least once a week though, and often leading to a 2-3 day stretch, I fall off that routine and find myself sitting at the top of the steps watching the front door and listening to my babies snore softly until closer to 1 AM.

Will Logan's aneurysm burst in his sleep and I won't hear him cry out? I sleep through everything. I've slept through earthquakes.

What if Lou gets out of his room by some Houdini type magic act and get lost out in the world?

Who's going to take care of Lou when I'm old? Will he be a higher functioning, self sufficient adult?

How am I going to pay for the kids college costs if they decide to go?

How am I going to pay for a new car?

What if their father "loses his job" conveniently when I file for modification?

What did I do wrong as a wife that he felt he didn't need to work or put forth any effort towards anything of importance?

Was I a bad wife?

Will I be a bad wife again if I ever get married?

Am I a bad person???




Why yes, as a matter of fact I *do* suffer from depression and generalized anxiety disorder, why do you ask?

A morning in the life.

5:15 AM

A series of complicated math problems scroll across the screen, the phone screaming at me and vibrating increasingly with each passing second. I wipe the crud from my eyes and tunnel my vision towards the flashing lights and I attempt to focus on the numbers in front of me. I can't see the screen no matter how hard I rub my eyes. Glasses, I need my glasses. The countdown starts at the top of the screen threatening to punish me with more math problems than I feel I've signed up for. Once the screaming is over, it takes everything inside of me to NOT fall back onto the bed and go back to sleep. Before I can slip my feet into my flip flops the screen starts flashing and screaming at me again. "Run, Bitch, Run!" Emojis of running woman flit across underneath the time. Looks like I'm going to need to put socks on instead.

5:40 AM

Beads of sweat drip down into my ear, down the wire of my earbuds. My heart is pounding. The smell of coffee? Intoxicating. I stumble off the elliptical and into the kitchen. Ice falls to the floor as I unsuccessfully scoop cup after cup full into my insulated tumbler. Coffee melts the ice as I pour it over, the creamer swirls and takes it from intolerable to tolerable. Lou's lunch and snacks are assembled and tucked away into his backpack, vitamins and bagels are lined up on the counter.

5:45 AM

"HELLO, SWEET BOY, GOOOOOOOD MORNING!" I slide through his door with arms spread wide. Lou rolls over on his bed to all fours and meows loudly at me. He tucks his kitty of the day up under his arm and climbs up my body to snuggle his sweet face into my neck. He's still drowsy, but every day is exactly the same. I'm so happy to see him, and he is equally as happy to be in mama's arms. But just as quickly as the moment comes to be, it passes and he leaps off the bed and dashes out of the room.

6:05 AM

I tell Siri to set an alarm for 20 minutes. This gives me just enough time to refill my coffee and snuggle with Lou who is now crabby and sweaty from fighting getting dressed. His least favorite part of the morning is putting socks and shoes on; Lou would much rather run around on all fours or tip toe around the house than suffocate his toes. I leave him to his tablet and begin gently waking Lillie up who is my bear. I turn on her bedside light and she hisses between her teeth that she doesn't want to get dressed. I tell her she has 30 minutes to get downstairs and if she's not downstairs by the time I come back inside from getting Lou on the bus, there'll be hell to pay. I say this lovingly, of course. Threats are best issued in a hush hush whisper voice whilst crouched down on their level.

6:25 AM

I sling Lou's backpack over my shoulder and reach my hand out with the other hand on the front door. "Time to go, buddy! Let's go ride the bus with Mr. Wayne!" He throws his head back and chucks his iPad across the living room. He is suddenly possessed by the wave of "NO NO NO NO NO NOT YET," monster. He storms upstairs to grab a different cat and slaps my tummy signalling a need to be held. It is a long, sweaty wait with a 4 year old at the bus stop during August in Georgia. I can feel gnats and no-see-ums nibbling at my flesh as Lou hums "the wheels on the bus" and laughs hysterically when he begins slipping in my arms. My back doesn't think any of this is hilarious. A big mischievous grin crosses his face as the blinking lights echo off the surrounding trees as the bus crests the hill into our neighborhood. When the doors open I place him on the second step and hand the bus assistant his backpack. It is in this 2 second window of time that he, without fail, leaps into my arms again and I have to hoist him over my shoulder like a sack of potatoes. Every. Single. Day. I plop him into his seat and wish him a great day and tell the bus driver I'm praying for an easy week.

6:35 AM

I brace myself as my hand twists the door handle going back into the house. Seeing that Lillie is not downstairs I scream her full government name and refill my coffee again. I can see Logan's mouth hung open through the doorway of his room from the kitchen. His hair is floofed up with the longer portions flapping in the wind created from the fan by his bed. I can't understand how he can be comfortable with his legs at such an angle while sleeping. Nor can I understand how he can sleep through the insanity of getting his sister on the bus each morning. I poke my head around the wall to look into the living room and she's still not downstairs. I've learned from the house we're in that stairs are very much overrated, this fact is reiterated every time I have to vacuum them. It's worse when you have a daughter who is the VERY opposite of a morning person. I can hear her thumping overhead of me. I'm sure there are clothes being flung far and wide; the outfit we agreed to the night before long discarded. She officially has less than 15 minutes to be dressed, brushed in all the places needing brushing, medicated and out the door. I hold my coffee tumbler to my eye in hopes the twitching will stop with the pressure. News flash, not so much. She finally descends down the stairs. Her hair is wild as if she'd slept with a pack of rabid raccoons, yet another eclectically pieced together outfit consisting of a NASA tee shirt, black leggings, and a black sweatshirt with gold foil stars. At full volume she screams that she hates me and she knows I don't care about her or I'd actually take care of her. How she doesn't want me as her mother and she wishes she never had this family. She screams that she wishes her brother was dead and she's going to call DFCS herself because nobody in this house loves her. I hand her her vitamins and she slaps them out of my hand. She screams to not talk to her and stomps out of the house with her backpack unzipped, papers dropping one by one with each step she takes. I wonder to myself how she doesn't break a leg with the amount of aggression used to walk so hard. I wave to the neighbors as they walk up the street with their child and make sure to yell loud and proud, "I LOVE YOU, LILLIE!! MAKE IT A GREAT DAY!!"

7:00 AM

I create a rave effect with the lights in the small pantry hallway leading towards Logan's room and bang on the wall. "CONGRATULATIONS, YOU'VE SLEPT THROUGH ALL YOUR ALARMS! YOU HAVE 15 MINUTES BEFORE THE BUS ARRIVES!!" He groans and begs me to stop with the lights already as he rolls over and plops both feet onto the floor. I can hear his drawers opening and closing with increasing agitation. Lord Jesus no... HE'S WORN ALL OF HIS TRACK PANTS AND THERE ARE NO CLEAN ONES LEFT. The world has come to an end. His life is over. He pulls out the least stinky from the pile near his door and dances into them one leg at a time. Once his hair is thoroughly soaked in the sink and brushed to the side just right, he shoves a bagel into his mouth and bolts out the door while I chase him down with vitamins and his heart meds.

7:20 AM

The house is officially quiet again and the cat and I are left to stare at each other while I contemplate whether I need to wash my hair now or later and if I should do dishes or laundry. Pick up the floor or play makeup. Just kidding, the cat and I both know I don't wear makeup unless I'm required by law to be fancy.

8:30 AM

I'm in full on panic mode. How did an hour pass? Did I doze off? Did I stroke out or fall into a black hole? I'm blending my breakfast smoothie and chasing my meds with watered down coffee. I'm throwing random snacks, fruits and veg into my lunch bag and making sure I don't leave the house without my coffee... my keys... my phone... aforementioned lunch bag... it's always just ONE thing that I forget. I slide behind the steering wheel of the truck and toss my bags in the passenger seat. I can't tell if I'm wet from my shower still or if I've actually sweat THAT MUCH in the 10 minutes I hustled out the door. I check the rear view mirror, if it weren't for the sudden patches of sweat on my shirt I'd say I pulled off a cute outfit today. Meanwhile there's no saving my hair as it's already 80+ degrees outside, my hair is ALL THE IRISH and I have no A/C in my truck meaning I'm having to drive with my windows down. Another day another dollar dollar bill, y'all...

Undone.

Headlights bounced off the trees surrounding the developing neighborhood. Signs posted up on stumps lining the gravel blueprints of roads yet to be notated no loitering. They pulled off onto a dark cul-de-sac and turned off the headlights.

"Spinning on that dizzy edge, kissed her face and kissed her head. Dreamed of all the different ways, I had to make her glow."

They talked about the differences of Freshman year versus Senior year... about friends they had in common... about the movie they just saw. Their hearts were begging for this to go well, that this could actually be categorized a date and not just another night as "friends who see movies together." She spoke of concerts with stars in her eyes and with enthusiasm she rarely allowed anyone else to see unless she'd been friends with someone for years. She's not one to let people see this uninhibited, relaxed side of her, but he's different in a way she can't place her finger on. He talks to her in a way that's respectful of her, he takes genuine interest in her and what she has to say. He makes the move to touch her hand and she can feel the heat radiate from her spine up her neck to her ears. Her fingers slip effortlessly into his and they keep talking as if nothing happened despite the awkwardness tickling on the tail edge of her voice.

"Why are you so far away, she said, why won't you ever know that I'm in love with you?"

The heat from their breath fogs the windows creating a muffled water color of darkness surrounding them. She knows this conversation between them could happen just as well in the driveway of her mother's house, and yet it's not. She slides her hand back into her possession and begins to pull it back off her neck in an effort to distract herself from the newness of the situation. He's so many years ahead of her, going to college soon, he's done all of this before she's sure. She hasn't done any of THIS before. He notices her ears are red and reaches out to stroke the lobe with his thumb. Alarmed, she jerks her hand up to grab his. She's suddenly stuck in a place where she doesn't know whether to let go of his hand or guide it... elsewhere. This is it, she thinks, this is actually happening. She leans over the gearshift and guides him to the backseat. With the heater off she is freezing and glad she decided to wear at least a sweater while out with him.

"Dancing in the deepest oceans, twisting in the water. You're just like a dream."

Their lips met awkwardly after fumbling around not knowing where hands went, where their bodies belonged. Lips met, tongues met and she pulled her head back wiping his saliva off her face wondering if this was how it was supposed to happen. Was this much "swapping of spit" natural? People like this? People continue to do this even after they drown to death or suffocate on the other person's tongue? This can't be natural. She leaned into his neck and breathed him in. Kissing him along his jawline up to the lower length of his earlobe. His hands traced the straps and latches of her bra against her sweater. She was heating up, her hair was wild, she locked eyes with him and thought THIS she can most certainly do. Her torso leaned into his, chest pressed against his neck as he kissed along her neckline with his hands all but begging to make their way through the sweater. They slip beneath the hemline and trace their way inch by inch up her back. She can feel his hands warm and rough so close to her... but also so close to the latch of her bra. Momentarily panicked and glad the sweater is snug against her, her heart bubbles up through her throat, "This is not a good idea! My mother would KILL me and my father would kill YOU if they ever knew." She just wasn't ready and she just wasn't as into it after the flood of saliva between them both. She didn't want them to not be friends and she cared for him so fiercely, she didn't want this to be how it began or simply ended. And she was good, she knew she was good, her parents knew she was good... this wasn't how her story needed to twist just yet.

"You, soft and only. You, lost and lonely. You, just like heaven."

"I respect that, let's go." His voice cut through the thickness of body heat and anticipation. She didn't understand. She thought there'd be more of a fight, that it would get awkward or she'd have to walk the 2 miles through the dark back to her home. Her embarrassment overpowered any voice she had left as she plopped back into the front seat, the clicks of their seat belt buckles were deafening. His hand reached out across the gearshift and grabbed hers. "Hey," he said, "it's ok, I get it and I respect your decision. Maybe we'll try again some time." She was still mortified but agreed. Maybe one day.

Hocus Pocus

A week ago DFCS showed up in my driveway. Not because of anything I'd done, but because of an apparent investigation that has been placed upon their father. I was lucky in that I wasn't home yet from work when it happened. Lucky in that my mother and stepfather are honest people and were truthful and passed on the caseworker's number to me when I got home.

It took me the entire weekend to get up the nerve to call her. I had no idea going into the call what this was about, how it even came about, or what landed her in my driveway Friday. As I pulled into the office I decided to just leave a message for her verifying I was the ex-wife and my children are in his custody for 36ish hours every other weekend. The end. Just confirming what my mother had told her. Most sane people don't go into work at 8:30. She answered her phone. For a solid 27 minutes my Fitbit registered as if I was running a marathon.

It was a tense call.

I decided to strictly answer to the best of my ability and not to prompt.

I don't drag beliefs into arguments regarding the kids unless I feel that they're getting confused in a harmful way. Regardless of whether he believes in worshiping donkeys and making hot dog sacrifices to their donkey lord or Jesus Christ himself, religion can't be used as a determining factor UNLESS it puts the children in harm's way. Even if the other parent sees it as psychologically harmful. I was raised to question everything. And so I do, and what I believe in and what the kids have been raised to believe I want them to question as I do. If you don't understand, question your elders and your heart and the book itself. Research, meditate on it and research some more. Right now I have one kid that is so disturbed by their father's belief system that it brings him to tears of frustration. And I agree with him 100%. How could a man who openly spoke about philosophy and theology and other logical and intriguing debates now believe he's among wizards and witches, that he's an actual "healer." How can a man who spent years of his life in the emergency medical field witnessing the power of miracles and modern medicine turn to crystals and energy fields...

In the months leading up to the divorce proceeding I stumbled across so many strange finds that it broke my heart. Cans upon cans of salt emptied along the perimeter of the garage where he slept after I discovered the infidelity. What had I ignored or been oblivious to in my marriage? He claimed to have an alter ego that he and his family referred to as Hector. I scoffed at this and blamed a lot of bad behavior on Hector and the mess he would make in the family. I would become embarrassed and increasingly appalled or concerned when "Hector" would make him overdose on his ADD medication leaving him hanging from our bedroom closet sweaty and belligerent. I silenced my screams of fear and paranoia when he would touch me at night claiming he was allowing me to say goodbye to my "Husband," explaining to me that my tears were from grief. I justified reading and copying to PDF pages from his journals and sketchbooks after he used my own words against me from my journal. I can't unsee the darkness and acidic heartbreaking hatred spewed upon those pages. Pages from my own writing used against me that were cries to God for help, to help me let go of this man who had stolen my Husband in order to help me release the fear and chaos for the benefit of our children. Words I'd written detailing his addictions and choices he'd made to justify the illegal activity he'd favored over his wife and children.

I kept all these words to myself when I talked to the caseworker. I held them in my heart like a smoldering coal.

What I did answer? She asked...

Was I aware of any pagan or "dark magic" being practiced by him or the both of them while the children were present.
Was I aware of any verbal abuse towards each other or the children.
Was I concerned about my children's well being while in his care.
Did I know if her children were in therapy or counseling.

I told the truth, loud and proud, I will go down protecting my children from the darkness in him.

C.P.

Marriage Material

What is a marriage made out of?

Is it two people passionately in love? Is it a bond formed over similar interests? Is it something settled upon because at night you fit like puzzle pieces?

Is it a fabric of sorts that despite holes and tears, discoloration or stains, still manages to withstand the tests of time to shelter those beneath it from the elements?

What makes GOOD marriage material?

I'm not thinking about marriage for myself... much. There's too much in my life at this very moment that all planets and stars and galaxies and eyes would have to cross JUST RIGHT for that process to even fall into place and become a thought worth entertaining. But it IS entertaining to play with that thought, tossing it back and forth between us and letting it lay wherever it lands; leaving hearts a flutter and last thoughts of the nights filled with puffy creamy dreamy pink princess daydreams like cotton candy colored clouds during a psychedelic sunset.

First step would be to live in the same city, same region of the same state even... where job descriptions don't change too much and following one's dreams doesn't mean standing in the middle of a spaghetti junction filled with dreams and knowing you can only choose one.

Responsibilities would have to be stacked and managed. Three little people would need to be prepared beforehand as they are the most important part of this package deal. I'd want them to be asked if he could have their mom's hand and if he could hold their hand also into adulthood. I want that for them. I want them to have someone structured and stable. I want them to have a good role model, not just on what it means to love and how to love, but someone who they could turn to for good moral advice and to talk to when they're too scared to ask their mama (because mama might have a stroke or call a priest.)

I do have my "Princess Moments" where I Pinterest and double tap on Instagram... when I get googly eyed over sparkly things... and dream of days where the Princess meets her Prince at the end of that aisle and they live happily (and realistically) ever after.