I’m shaking. I can’t stop shaking. I’ve been shaking all morning.
It’s days like today when telling myself I’m fine and I have moved on that are the hardest. Like I’m being slapped in the face and forced to acknowledge I’ll never be fine; I’ll never fully move on.
I shouldn’t be expected to move on. I shouldn’t be expected to accept the situation. I shouldn’t have to be fine for the sake of being fine when I’m not always going to be fine.
I’ve successfully gone 6.5 years without having to be the one who sticks around when my ex visits Evelynn. Yes, visits. Always visits. Those first few years, I got away with my parents being the ones while I either, more often than not, left the house to work out or hit up a yoga class and do some retail therapy—and I racked up the debt to prove it—anything to take my mind off the fact my kid was meeting with the man who hurt me; or, I would hide in my parents room or the basement, areas off limits to him and Evelynn. His voice would carry through the halls, though. I couldn’t drown him out when I wanted him drowned.
When we moved out of my parents, by this time my ex had cancelled enough on my daughter that his visits were down to only twice a month. Every other weekend Evelynn would go to her grandparents for two to three days and for a couple hours one of those days my ex would see her there. My parents didn’t know at the time what he had done, only that he had hurt me but not the extent or how exactly. They haven’t seen him or had to deal with him since finding out this fall.
By the time the pandemic came around and Evelynn and I moved in with my most recent ex, A. was a saint at letting me leave the house and he be the one to deal with the baby daddy. Until A. caught her dad talking negatively about us and A. to Evelynn; her dad made E. feel bad for calling A. “daddy” or “Andy dad” and A.’s parents Grandma and Grandpa.
Now, I’m forced to be in the same room as him. Forced to watch him interact with my daughter. Forced to witness the man who raped me on my birthday simply because it had been too long for him and it felt too good to him. Forced to wonder what he could possibly say or do if my daughter was ever assaulted or worse.
Nothing, he could do nothing. That same night of my birthday, a guy at the bar had grabbed my ass hard, full palm, and he did nothing to the dude. Two girlfriends, however, had words to say and drinks to throw and we had to leave the bar.
I spent the drive here telling myself I’m okay. I’m okay I’m okay I’m okay. I spent the drive here trying to focus more on the road than the lies I was telling myself.
I’m not okay. I am never going to be fully okay.
I have moved past many things regarding this situation but the more I’m forced to see him or hear his voice, the more I’m pushed back into that bed and the harder it is to ignore my daughter’s dad raped me because it was more important for his dick to feel good than me begging for him to stop when I felt as though I was on fire.
We met at a restaurant today. Always public places. I won’t allow him in my home, I won’t even tell him where we live. He’s not allowed in my space. When I was with A., it was different. I had three bulldogs and a beast of a man. It didn’t bother me that he had to enter our home. Since the breakup with A., it has all changed. Parks and restaurants only. The first time was at a pizza joint, and I sat there and read. I couldn’t eat, didn’t even try to attempt it.
I never eat well on days when he comes around. I have to force it. Sometimes it stays down, other days I can’t even try.
Today we met at a restaurant for him and Evelynn to have brunch. I sat at a separate table. I ordered her food for her to ensure it was gluten free safe. I sat here writing this damn blog and dealing with all the conflicting shit roiling through me.
And I puked.
Drank more coffee. Failed to control the shaking. Succeeded in controlling any frustrated tears.
Frustrated as hell over the situation.
I hate him. “Hate” is not a word in our vocabulary I allow to be spoken. I find it poor choice when there’s so many others that can better articulate our emotions. Yet, I hate him. There is no other word accurate enough. I have struggled with accepting the fact that I will not only always hate the father of my child but also the fact that I am allowed to do so.
Evelynn has begun to ask why I don’t like her dad and it’s been draining. I don’t want her to know, I don’t want her to know how her dad betrayed me or became a monster. I don’t want her to know the hell her dad is capable of doing to a woman. I don’t want her to have to experience the emotions behind all of this bullshit. We only tell her that he hurt me and that I’m allowed to not like him but that doesn’t mean she can’t like him.
The strength it takes for me to tell her that completely drains me. There’s a voice in my head screaming, “LIES! BULLSHIT! KEEP HIM AWAY!” There’s a quieter voice in my head wondering why he can’t disappear already. Right now, all I can think about is how I would love to drown out the noise with some Jack Daniels and friends. Surround myself with people who support me not hurt me. Fuck a guy who if I told him to stop mid sex he would do so because he understands and respects consensual sex. I want the intimacy of feeling loved and appreciated.
Not a toy.
It’s been a struggle dating this season because of the comments guys make on my body. I like me, I’ve worked incredibly hard to become me. I’ve pushed past physical obstacles to build strength and correct issues. It hurts when guys only want me for my body after Evelynn’s dad did what he did to me. I can have a sexual relationship with a man, not date them, and they still respect me for more than my body, where we have a strong friendship. Yet, I’m struggling with this concept of gaining weight, fat not muscle, to make the comments stop. I don’t mind if a guy wants my body—me—as long as he’s not objectifying me.
That’s how this began. That’s how he felt the need to rape me in the first place.
He didn’t respect me to stop. He didn’t see me as human to care. I was nothing to him.
I am not okay.
I won’t look at him. I won’t converse with him. He’s been in the mode of kissing my ass ever since A.’s and my breakup. It’s eating at me. I want nothing to do with him.
I refused to even have us walk out of the restaurant with him.
Back home, I’m better. Still shaking. Not as sick. Secure.
I’m not always okay. I’m strong because I choose to always move forward. I choose to pick me. I choose to look for the good. I choose to look towards tomorrow. I choose daylight over nightmares.
I might not always be okay, I wasn’t okay for most of today or last night leading up to this day, but I firmly believe I will be okay. I will be more than okay. I will not be defined by a nightmare.
I will be okay. I am more than a body, I know this. There exists in me more light than this nightmare.
This is my story of darkness. This is my story of tragedy. This is my story of weakness. This is my story of sadness. Of loss. Of grief. Of heartache.
This is also my story of overcoming. Of growing. Of strength.
But let’s be clear of one thing: this is my story.
You will inevitably have questions. Concerns. Comments. It’s natural. You’re human. We want to know everything about certain events to understand, to heal, to help, to sympathize. For some, to properly judge and feel righteous about it even—yes, I did just call those folks out. You don’t get that. You don’t get that luxury. This isn’t about you. It’s not even about me. It’s about how broken we have become as a society. How broken systems have become. How much we’ve made everything about the individual instead of as the whole. How much we’ve ignored the individual to make it about everyone else.
This is about the silenced. This is about the abused. This is about the unprotected. The uneducated. The loss.
My god, this is about the loss.
And this is also about the gains.
I am not a victim. I am not a survivor. I am me. That is still my superpower.
There is an immense power and feeling of achievement in being secure in my own skin to have done a boudoir shoot after everything. I will not let that power be stripped from me.
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“Want to play the rape game?”
“No.”
“That’s the spirit!”
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The first time I had sex I was raped. We had been hardly dating, both virgins, and shared the same birthday.
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They say you have to say it. That saying it is what helps you get over it. False. But there. I said it. It’s true what they say: the hardest thing is admittance. This next one, though.
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The second time I was raped it was by a long-term boyfriend and on my 25th birthday. I might also mention he is the father of my daughter. My daughter who partially shares his last name. If you think I had her name changed because I’m a single mom with full custody of my kid and I was sick of proving she was mine—we had different last names—you’re wrong. That’s just excuse I had given him. I had her name changed because his name makes me physically ill. I still hate that it’s partially attached to her.
His name. The sound of his voice. The sight of him. Sends me into a downward spiral. Chasing the flush of the toilet.
And did I mention he knew about the first occurrence? Talk about a betrayal. Talk about the hurt. Talk about the disrespect.
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I wish I would have seen what her doctors saw.
My daughter’s first two doctor visits, they made a point of asking me if I feared for our safety. The first visit, he was with us, they made an excuse to pull me into the hall. They asked me twice. Are you sure? The next visit, I took her alone and they asked me once again.
They told me it was standard procedure, normal protocol. They ask all the moms.
I’ve asked other moms about this. It’s not standard practice. They were never asked.
Why didn’t I see what the doctors saw??
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I hate my birthday.
Eleven years ago, it was a different kitchen in this same city. I was of a different mind. There were no brown cabinets. Everything was white—the counters, the cabinetry, the appliances—but I was picturing them stained red. Instead of laughing with my daughter in my lap, there were silent tears with a phone in one hand and a knife in the other. I couldn’t see the future; I was blinded by nightmares. I was reliving a moment I couldn’t even fully remember.
Yellow light. Lines. The carpet tells me it’s daylight. His snores tell me it’s early. My head confirms it’s too early. Then the flashes.
Hands on thighs. Spinning room. Darkness. Limp hands. Fingers wrapping wrists. A tug. Pounding head. Nooo. Thick tongue.
Darkness.
Denial.
Text message.
Gathering clothes, shoes, keys.
Down the stairs.
Out the door.
Car.
“I think I had sex last night. Mind if we stop at the drugstore first?” Oh thank God.
“You know what? Same here,” Denial reroutes. Changing story.
We took the pills together. Nobody cared. All was silent.
Denial loves silence.
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The thing about private colleges is they’re small. Too small. Everyone knows everyone. Everyone parties with everyone. Everyone knows who bangs who.
Or didn’t.
They never knew. It had been a week. We stopped talking. It was as if neither existed. Then I’d hear him slip past my dorm room door with a different girl almost every night. My how the mighty virgin had fallen. They don’t know.
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It was lunchtime when I learned he supposedly lost his virginity differently than how I’d lost mine. There was a party at a larger campus and after years of waiting for the right girl, he chose a random chick to hook up with. The story was out. It was news. It wasn’t me.
But it was.
Denial.
Twenty months later I “lost” mine on Christmas Eve to a random guy I graduated high school with. It was over. No more falsely holding the title Virgin. No more being asked why I hadn’t yet or what I was waiting for. Over. The story was wrong, the time was wrong, but it was over.
Twenty months were spent in nightmares, wondering. Piecing together a night of clips. Until one night when it became too overwhelming to deny. I ran from his house, puked along his driveway. Lost the battle to tears on the drive home. I couldn’t get home fast enough.
Because, what if I just ran this truck into a tree instead?
I made it home, only because I wasn’t sure if crashing would work.
The following years would be spent hopping beds in drunken stupors.
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Stranger Danger. That’s what we’re taught in schools. We don’t learn how sometimes it’s the closest ones we allow in who we have to fear. How that guy you’re dating could be a monster. How even if his friends know you’re dating you might still want to keep him at an arm’s length. How you can’t trust the guy to just cuddle you in bed. How you can’t trust the guy for an untampered beverage. How you can’t trust the guy for just some Advil.
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My 25th birthday was rung in fighting off my boyfriend and then sleeping with the palm of my hand cupped around my own private after throwing up—not because of the alcohol—and a shower to wash him off me. 3:30 am on my birthday and I’m standing in the shower scrubbing him off me furiously—why won’t he just wash off me?! I was stone cold sober. He couldn’t get it through his drunk skull that I didn’t want sex. He thought he was being irresistibly cute. I, however, wasn’t drunk enough to forget a fucking detail. This time, I didn’t have enough in my system to forget and two and a half months later, I didn’t have the mind to deny it any longer.
He doesn’t remember a thing. Doesn’t understand why that was the last night I let him touch me until I finally broke it off over two months later. How I was short fused and found the presence of him annoying, ugly. How I would find every excuse in the book not to be alone with him.
How two weeks later I locked him outside of his own damn house.
We had gone to a friends’ wedding. I played I had migraine when friends asked me what was wrong—they noticed I would flinch at his touch, my forced smile, my aggravated voice, my judgmental tone, and disgusted stare—he couldn’t do a damn thing right. I didn’t allow him to go out with the after party—I encouraged him. I went home to his house—I was in town visiting—and ignored his calls and texts when he got home. I had locked him out of his own house. But that fucking banging—he wouldn’t stop pounding on that goddamn front door for me to open up.
He tried again. This time when I forcibly said No, he heard me—though not without calling me a tease first.
I was his fucking girlfriend.
I was revolted.
I wanted him gone.
I still do.
I want nothing more than that night to be erased and the man who did it, as well.
Do you have any idea how it feels to be the type of person who wastes every single birthday, shooting star, 11:11 wish on the disappearance of someone? Not just someone but the father of your child. I’ve done it so many times I’ve lost count. Seven years of wishes wasted on a sickness.
Do I think he was intentional? No. He had no clue what was going on. He’s a compulsive liar and the most selfish person I’ve met. Do I think he knows what he did? I’ve watched him spin so many lies over the years, he could never comprehend. If you told him the story as it involved two other people, would he recognize the wrong? Absolutely, he’s not that stupid.
He thought it was a game. He thought he was being sexy—he said so. And it had been so long. Seriously, that’s what he said: “But baby it’s been so long,” “But baby, doesn’t it feel so good?” No, it didn’t. In fact, it hurt. I felt raw. I was dry. It was like sandpaper. And I told him such when I begged him to stop but he didn’t believe me because to him, it felt “amazing” (gag me). “But baby, I can’t believe you’re doing this to me.” No, baby, what YOU are doing to me; I can’t even fucking fathom.
Apparently, that’s common after giving birth. Not being able to get wet enough for sex or feeling overly tight. But it was six weeks to the night post birth, and it had been so long for him.
One-in-four women are sexually assaulted by the time they’re 25. I read that statistic once and it’s never left my head. I was lucky enough to be assaulted twice. Correction: Raped.
I wonder what the statistic is for that.
I hear admitting the actual term is great for healing and moving past a tragedy.
Catch me later on it, maybe it will have worked by then. No promises.
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Full confession: I hate the #MeToo movement with a passion. It capitalizes on this idea that men in power assault women who want to rise up. It negates the fact that majority of these cases actually happen between relationships, in the home or with a boyfriend or close friend. It’s not men in power. It’s everyday men who we give the world to and abuse that power, that trust.
Newsflash: marriage doesn’t give one ownership of a body. The only one who owns my body is me.
Consensual sex: agreeing to have sex the entire time for which the event of sex occurs.
This means that as soon as one person wants out or says no or becomes unconscious to where they can no longer say yes, it is over. Done. Pull out. Get off.
I was in a college classroom—Sex Ed for my health education minor—when our teacher reiterated this again and again. As I sat in that seat and couldn’t stop shaking. I was the last to leave the classroom. The reality, the last little straw of denial that I had tried to hang desperately on to had simply evaporated. Funny how they don’t reiterate it when it matters—when we’re kids. Twenty-six years old, I was just then hearing the firm definition of consensual sex. Funny how my teachers never went into the details or exercises of what consensual sex means when it counted—before the rape, when I was innocent and ignorant of sex. Maybe then girls wouldn’t be blamed for the guy’s abuse of power. Maybe then society wouldn’t assume guys were the only gender who could commit such a crime. Maybe then victims wouldn’t feel like the justice system was rigged when it came to rape cases.
Not just rigged, assaulting.
Who am I kidding? I still wouldn’t have had the mental capacity to come forth and fight for the truth.
And who am I kidding? He still wouldn’t have pulled out when I had told him to.
That didn’t happen. Instead, I had to wedge my knee in there and force him out and off of me. Me, 118lbs. pushing a 190lb. male off me. Because it had been too long and I couldn’t possibly be saying No to him. I was. He just didn’t want to hear it.
One good thing about not having enough to drink that night: I could overpower a clumsy drunk ogre.
I didn’t sleep that night. Instead I thought of all the ways of how this could’ve been my life. How this could’ve happened twice. How my baby’s daddy could do this to her mother. This couldn’t be real life.
But this was my life. And I had made it through it once before.
Though, before I hadn’t been capable of accepting the truth and working through it. Instead, I blindly found guys to replace the memory, to put as much distance (sex) between that first rape and the present—a futile effort that never succeeded. I chased sex to erase that first time as if it was the only way. Instead, I learned how many guys listened when I did say no. Some may have been assholes about it.
But they stopped when told.
Somehow, that knowledge and recognition was healing.
I don’t think every walking male is a rapist and I can be in a room alone with a man I don’t know. That’s the stereotype, that’s why we don’t speak up: we aren’t all victims, we don’t all let it ruin our lives, we don’t all allow it to blur the lens when we look at the rest of the male population. Just because one guy hurts us doesn’t mean we believe all men will.
It’s the victim mentality that keeps us quiet. That and the truth. We suddenly know the worst part of someone, we’ve been held captive (literally) by their evil, but that is not always who they let the public see. Then, there’s the little girls who cry wolf—they are the ones who shut us up. They are the ones who make us believe we won’t be heard because too many have lied before—yet we don’t dare call them liars because who are we to judge and assume? We can’t know which ones are lying, we just know some are. Or we question their tale because we knew the man or because their story is never consistent or because whenever something doesn’t go their way they’re quick to claim sexual harassment. Or we question their tale because we had been there and it’s not a laughing matter. It’s not the butt end of a joke. It’s not for fucking talk radio.
It’s fucking hell. It’s suffocating. It’s drowning. It’s clawing at my throat to breathe. It’s my god why can’t I just crawl out of this fucking life and be done.
Speaking up isn’t hard because of the fear of not being believed, it’s because we first had to fight someone off and then we are forced to fight the world in telling them who someone really is; when really, we just want to forget. We want to move on. We don’t want to live in the nightmares and we don’t want your pity. We don’t want to retell the same story we relive every night when we fall to sleep. We don’t want to be put in the same room with the one person who makes us dizzy, whose voice makes our skin crawl, whose proximity makes us fight to not lose consciousness.
We don’t want to fight to prove we were raped—we want to fight to forget the entire event and the person exists. We don’t want to recount our story over and over again for someone to find fault—someone who wasn’t even there, who couldn’t feel the warmth of our tears on our cheeks or taste the saltiness when they reached our mouths; who couldn’t understand the inner turmoil of “this is really happening” and “this can’t be fucking happening”; who isn’t sent back to that fucking nightmare with just one word from one voice and then we’re fighting to be out of that room even though we’re already miles and years away.
No, fighting for justice is another form of rape.
We aren’t survivors. We are living.
sur · vi · vor
noun
the remainder of a group of people or things.
a person who copes well with difficulties in their life.
I hate that fucking term. It assumes the odds are against me. The odds were never stacked against me. I decide my odds.
Let me be clear when I state the only thing that died that night was my respect for this guy and our relationship. I am very much alive. It didn’t kill a part of me. It was a tragedy, it was by all means a “difficulty” to “cope” with—still is, I refuse to be put in the same room with him, I avoid all his phone calls—but I refuse to let it define me. I refuse to let this one night, and the other night, determine the woman I have become and am still becoming. I didn’t “learn to cope”. I was already strong. This didn’t make me stronger. It just taught me evil exists in the world and sometimes, it’s close to home, closer than we can ever imagine. I refuse to give him or this event credit for who I am today.
He does not get that.
I can love my body, feel good in my body, feel secure in my body, and show some skin without it being an open invitation to my body. I am the only owner of my body.
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I didn’t realize how much that first one affected me until I realized I had stopped singing in the shower. I was always singing in the shower. When we had to be quiet in the house and my mother would tell me to keep the music down in the shower, I would get an attitude. It was habit. I don’t remember many times during my childhood when I didn’t sing in the shower. But that changed when I came home my first summer of college.
I started singing in the shower again last year. I had met a guy who made me feel unbelievably safe. I was never one who fell asleep easily but somehow, with him, or his one dog that always slept on the bed with us, I could pass out quickly and sleep through the entire night.
I’d give just about anything to feel that safety again. It has been the hardest part of our recent breakup—not being able to sleep well or through the night—for me to give up and get over. He wasn’t perfect but for the first time in twelve years, I had felt safe behind closed eyelids.
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My rapists don’t get to define me. They don’t get to have a piece of me, not even the broken pieces.
Here’s a reality: I love sex.
That feels so damn good to say.
After everything.
The fact that I get to say this makes me feel so incredibly good about myself and how far I have come. What they couldn’t keep from me. What I have been able to put behind me because I know. I know the beauty of intimacy; I know how good it can feel. I know that it is not the clothes I wear or how I act that determines my choice to give someone my body. It is me saying yes, for the entire time we have sex. And it is someone accepting and also saying yes for the entire time.
They don’t own the broken pieces of me because I didn’t break. I may have wanted to end my life at one point, I may still collapse at the slightest appearance of his name, sound of his voice, or sight of him…
But I’m still here.
I bended. I chose to move on. I have said the words that no one should ever have to say, and I kept going.
I still choose to date. I still open myself up to love. I’m still standing. I still choose to believe there are good guys. I still choose to trust.
More importantly, I choose to live. Every day. Not walk around in a daze, not succumb to the fear or the nightmares. I choose to fall asleep at night. I choose to close my eyes. I own my life and my body and I make sure I know this.
These days, I put myself to sleep at night and I wake up wanting and ready for a new day.
I’ve been through hell, and I visit it on occasion, but I refuse to become a resident there.
Why do I so firmly believe in pushing forward? It’s the only way to move. I’ve been held down, I’ve been stripped, I’ve been taken. There is power in knowing we can overcome.
We can. I am.
What happened to me will never be okay. It will never be okay that our system is rigged. It will never be okay that I will never feel safe to talk about this shit. It will never be okay with me that my daughter’s father is a disgusting human. It will never be okay that even though I have confronted him about this once, I will likely never hear an apology from him. It will never be okay that I can’t seem to simply forget, forgive, and move on—I would love to forget, maybe forgive. It will never be okay with me that people could talk behind my back but could never ask me, “Why can’t you be in the same room with him?” It will never be okay that as soon as this is posted…if I post it…people will look at me differently. It will never be okay that some people will have the nerve to talk about this even though it doesn’t consume them, it doesn’t involve them, they are not part of the nightmare.
It will never be okay.
But I am okay. Not every day, but most days. And I will be okay. And I am more than okay with that. You don’t need to be—this doesn’t involve you. But I need to be.
And for anyone who thinks they have been in my shoes, you haven’t. And if you have had to spoke those words or are still trying to admit those words and give them a voice, I haven’t been in your shoes. Because your nightmare didn’t involve me, it’s yours to work through and overcome and I will not talk as if I know your nightmare. I don’t.
I thought I had hit rock bottom almost 13 years ago. This past week proved me wrong if you went at all by the liters of tears shed. I was broken and lost. I got everything so wrong.
Thirteen years ago I had to pick myself up off the kitchen floor. I was broken down by the nightmares, the replays, every time I closed my eyes, every time I got close to a guy. I couldn’t see through the madness. I was living in denial until the darkness suffocated me. I thought the only way to get through was getting out; drinking myself into a state where I couldn’t think nor remember wasn’t working.
I grabbed the sharpest knife I could find in the kitchen; and I kept wondering how much cutting I’d have to do to get the job done, how much blood would there have to be, how red all these damn fucking white cabinets and tile would be, and if they could even get the stains out. I really wanted to know how long the pain would last. How deep I’d have to cut—if I’d be able to cut deep enough—for it to be quick.
Knife in one hand, phone in the other, I don’t remember getting up. I don’t remember hanging up the phone. I don’t remember dropping the knife—did I put it down on the counter?
I only remember flipping the switch and turning off the lights.
I am beyond stubborn. It’s one of the reasons why I’m likely hard to date—at least I know it, though, right?
The stubbornness got me through. Helped me see to the other side. I couldn’t let him win.
I don’t like my birthday. It’s a shitty reminder of the first guy I really dated—he shares my birthday—and what he took from me.
Why don’t people of sexual assault and rape speak up? We have to fight with ourselves to get through it, and then we have to fight others for our stories to be heard, and then there’s the nonbelievers picking us apart. It’s the one crime guaranteed to rip us apart twice. It’s never just the incident, it’s the after effects.
I was a virgin.
And then I wasn’t.
The first time I openly spoke about it was in a college nonfiction writing course. The paper was assigned around the time of my birthday, and it consumed me—the nightmares, the fear, never really leaves. It had been over three years but I was back in that bedroom, under him, like not a minute had passed. By the time the paper was due it was too late for me to change the topic and write something new.
I have since wrote and deleted the story countless times. Every anniversary, every birthday. How do you talk about an event that cripples your tongue, that you don’t want to answer questions to, but that you physically need to release from your shoulders? That you need to let out into the world. That you need to let go of. A weight you can’t and shouldn’t have to carry.
Sometimes I’ve wondered if it weren’t for Evelynn how much strength would I have?
The first time it happened was long before she came along in my life.
The second time? Almost seven years ago, only weeks after her birth and on my birthday.
That fucking birthday of mine.
No, that second time wasn’t the same guy. Yes, both were guys I dated.
I have intimacy issues. I don’t need a therapist to outline or draw up a map to find the root problem. I’ve faced it in the bedroom multiple times—the difference is all the other guys stop when I say. They don’t force me as soon as I say “No” or turn away.
My stubbornness pushed me forward. Forced me to focus on tomorrow. Stop living in the past. I swam my damn self to shore. I breathed for air when I thought I would drown. I walked on.
The road was unpaved with no mile markers or street signs, but I walked it headstrong and alone.
I have high standards—I won’t date less than my worth again. And I’m too damn old to teach a guy how to treat me…again. My standards are my shield. I’m real quick to leave any relationship that no longer fulfills me, that no longer gives me happiness.
I create my own happiness, but I’ll be damned if another relationship brings me down.
There was nothing normal about our relationship. We didn’t get to date—we met during quarantine. He met my daughter on the first “date”, which was going on a walk. I quickly gave him allowance to co-parent. We fully moved in together within only a few months. We’ve had to navigate each of us starting new jobs within the first year together during a pandemic.
I thought this time was it. For the first time, I felt safe. I thought I was loved. I forgot about the past. I was so certain. Everything felt so incredibly natural. Even when it was hard and we were navigating something new together, I felt assured. For the first time in my life I fell full on in love, and I did so without fear. It felt beautiful.
I had never really loved before, never allowed myself to. When I spoke it, it was a lie due to the guy’s expectations.
This one was different. It was refreshing.
I have a knack for getting it wrong, though.
Here’s the thing. I don’t need someone to pull me out of the deep end, out of my worst self, out of my nightmares. I don’t need someone to take care of me.
I pulled myself out twice before. I’ll do it again. I do it every single time.
If I can survive the conviction that suicide could have been the answer, I can survive anything. I have two lungs that breathe, legs that not only walk but can run. I have a daughter—albeit as stubborn as I—who grounds me. I have people in my corner. I have everything I need.
I don’t need someone in my life who doesn’t even know if they want me in theirs.
Read that again.
I
do not
need
someone
in my life
who doesn’t even know
if they want me
in theirs.
One week ago, Andy said he wanted a break. Scratch that, “we are definitely on a break.”
First, what the fuck is even a break in a relationship besides a Friends show fantasy?
Second, if you haven’t learned, I don’t do breaks. I’m absolutely terrible at hitting pause. My brain goes static and my body convulses at the idea. I like movement. And I’m not sure what good it does waiting around for someone who claims to be unhappy about so many things in their life but is solely blaming me and our relationship for it all. He’s not hitting pause on anything else, just us. (Thanks Bill, for my sign.)
I’m not okay with that. I’ve spent more time in the last week crying than not crying—I’m not someone who cries.
It hasn’t been a perfect relationship—I don’t think any relationship is perfect. However, I do fully believe they are a reflection of how two people work through problems and respect each other.
I can’t be the only one wanting to fix things or wanting to try. It’s that simple.
Some people believe distance can make the heart grow fonder—apparently, he thinks space will provide the answer if he misses me or not, misses what he had or not—but we’re still living in the same house. There is no room for “space” in this house.
And there is the root of all my pain this past week.
I don’t even get a clean break up. I’m just getting a break, a maybe, an “I’m not kicking you and Evelynn out.” Seriously, bless his heart for that kindness, not many men would be so willing. But limbo is purgatory for me. I walk through this house struggling—failing—to keep it together while he hums and goes about his day as if nothing has changed. How could I mean so little to someone who meant so God damn much to me?
When I made the decision to move out—not easy in this housing market, by the way, and as a real estate agent, I know—it broke me even more. Especially because it’s not immediate. I’m still here—this fucking holiday weekend. And it means I’ll be throwing money away at rent, not even an investment—cue another bullet hole.
But I’m not the girl who sits around and waits for a man to decide if he even wants me. I’m not second best. I’m not a second thought. You don’t get to give me up like I’m a light switch to be flicked on and off.
Saturday, I spent the entire day searching for rentals and housing options. It took a toll on me. By nightfall I packed up a suitcase and drove across the state to my parents for the night. I needed out. It’s hard watching someone so easily throw away something that was so good without hesitation. You doubt yourself and everything you thought you knew in the relationship.
I gave this man everything, easily. I would have given him more if he’d asked. Right now, he also took my ability to trust. I’m not sure he realizes that even if he chose me again, that I could choose him without fear that he would do this again. He cleanly chipped off a piece of my heart. It’s not about how much I love him or want him, it’s about a relationship where two people want each other and will work through things together. Not with a wall up between them. It’s about a partnership not two ships sailing in the night.
Sometimes, the very thing that hurts the most—my god does it hurt—is the very thing we need to do, to respect and protect ourselves. I don’t want to walk away but am I even really the one walking away if he already has a foot out the door?
Yesterday I was told, “Well, if there’s one thing I know it’s that you’ll get through this. You always do. You’re stubborn enough to make anything work once you’ve made the decision. You’ve done it with every new job and Evelynn. You always make it work.”
My dad ain’t wrong. I do and I will.
Every time.
I might be broken and the future feels very unknown but this still stands: I’ve picked up those broken pieces before and put myself back together; and I sure as hell am no stranger to traveling the unknown road. I may have taken the wrong turn somewhere, but I’ll end up where I need to be.
I spent most of the last year fighting—to keep going, to push through, to stay positive, to persevere, to not give up.
When 2020 began, I was dating my boss and less than a month into the year he ended the relationship. And when he broke it off during lunch at work, my exact words to him when he told me to “say something”, were something like, “well I can’t be too surprised since it feels more like I’m a workplace sex toy.” And I wasn’t wrong.
Less than 2 months later I’d lose my job along with the rest of the staff, only for him to pursue hiring high schoolers and college students on the cheap. Or so I heard.
It takes something from you when you lose a job where you had also had a physical and romantic relationship with the owner. It wasn’t something I had entered into lightly—there were four girls all under the age of 11 involved, both of us being single parents. And the last time I’d dated a boss, I was pregnant & he fired me (by telling his superiors I had put in my two weeks when I hadn’t) in fear of not getting a promotion when management asked about our relationship. It wasn’t something I ever wanted to repeat.
And yet there I was again.
Like I never learn.
I questioned all of my worth. I questioned my mind. I questioned my decision making skills. I questioned my body—not if it was good enough or if I was pretty enough, but if that was all I’d be seen as by a man. An ornament, an instrument. Something only meant to please them and to covet.
Not for me to be loved.
I was once told at a job to wear heels to a meeting because we were meeting potential partners. I had been asked on more than one occasion if I’d gotten where I was at because I slept with someone, if it was because of my body.
I don’t mind using what I have when it’s appropriate (aka not career) but I do mind that being seen as all I have to contribute.
I more than doubled my salary in 3.5 years of my marketing career and suddenly I was jobless. When I changed jobs and moved across state over two years ago, I had been kept on at the first as a consultant for a term. I went from working 60-80 hour weeks to being labeled “unemployed.” I went from 430am workouts before work and working until 11pm at night to not having to do anything. Except parent.
And then I couldn’t find a job. I started applying at 530am the morning after I lost my job. I was devastated. I filled out hundreds of applications and 95% of them I never heard back from. The rest? I didn’t have childcare during a pandemic and they wanted me at work during the shutdowns. With virtual school on the horizon and everything unknown, they didn’t want a single mom who couldn’t come in 8-5. I was too experienced for the job and they couldn’t afford me—I literally told them I am not above anything, I had lost my job. But for most of that 5%, they changed their minds and were no longer hiring for the position due to an uncertainty with the economy and shutdowns.
So I wore that godawful unemployment crown.
And I took my background in marketing mortgages and decided to pursue real estate instead.
Only for me to receive a letter last month claiming I owe the state almost $30K (with monthly interest) because I was never eligible for unemployment due to not having childcare during a global pandemic that shut down the state.
I was so mad. At the government. At my old boss. At hiring companies. At fucking politics. At this fucking virus.
I’m still waiting to see if my protest will be approved or if I have to go to court.
My health and fitness have often felt like the only thing I could control. It has helped keep me sane. Helped my sanity and mental health, helped me check those self doubts.
I have questioned my worth—in career, in love, in parenting—more days than I would ever be willing to admit. But I’m still here.
I’m. Still. Here.
Because in the last year, I have made a career jump to real estate, met an amazing guy and fell in love, I have learned I can love my body—I should—and relish it and not accept that it is all someone sees of me, and have never once heard my daughter tell me she hates me. She has never once physically fought me or threw a temper tantrum upset at me like I’ve heard many parents go through with their young ones during the shutdowns and pandemonium. Instead, I still hear everyday how much she loves me.
So I’m still here pushing for more because even on the worst mental health days, there’s still a light, still a desire, still a flame in me, no matter how small. It’s still there. No matter how worthless I might feel, I know—I KNOW—I am in fact more than enough. I am more than just a body. And sometimes, life is simply hard. I simply have to overcome. If it was easy, there’d be little to appreciate.
I spent most of this morning in tears and I am not one who cries. Caught between the pain and feeling emotionally run down, unsatisfied, I cried because I was crying.
Did I mention I don’t cry?
I cry when I’m in very intense pain. I cry when I’m overly pissed and have no outlet because I’m not someone who calls someone to complain, I don’t scream, I don’t punch anything, I don’t crawl into bed. I work through everything. I work out for therapy.
I do not sit and cry. When I do, it’s for five seconds, three streaming tears I can wipe away with one hand, and one trembling lip I can easily—kind of—in six seconds.
But I don’t wallow.
I’m the tough love, get over yourself, keep going, play the hand you’ve been dealt or find a new game—life, after all, is a game—but I don’t quit. I don’t throw in the towel, I don’t let life bring me down. I persevere. No matter how hard things might get. I don’t believe in wallowing in self-pity because the thing is, someone somewhere has it worse.
My mom believes it’s partially due to seeing how much my brother has suffered and missed out on in life. And she ain’t wrong.
Some people have called me naïve. Some people assume I don’t know hardships. Some people believe I’m inexperienced in life. This is a naïve thought that can only be derived from either negative people or people who are unwilling to believe you can overcome struggles or rise out of the darkness.
Others believe I’m just strong—stubborn and strong will-powered. These people are not wrong.
I am strong. I am stubborn. But as my lovely boyfriend also pointed out the other night when I was suffering in pain from a neck issue derived in a soccer game, I’m human. Or as he said, “it’s nice to know you’re mortal and human like the rest of us even if you’re like superwoman or supermom.”
So here’s the truth: you can be strong and get knocked down. And here’s my reality: I refuse to stay down. Even when I’m an emotional wreck for a morning. It just means I need to change my stance.
Get knocked down. Change your footing. Duck the blow. Float the fucking butterfly.
“If all your prayers were answered, would it change the world or just yours?”
I don’t believe in the power of prayer to heal. I believe in its power for strength and acceptance, but as for asking for wellness or to live or to beat something? No. (*snort) No, I’m sorry.
Evelynn was sick last week. Again. She came down with walking pneumonia, which is basically pneumonia but without a fever is how the doctor described it. When someone asked me how she was, they immediately went into the mode of “Did you take her to the doctor? Has she been put on medications? Did you pray for her?” First, I was already annoyed that a near stranger was asking me about my parenting skills when I had already had it taken care of. I don’t need someone checking on me with basic common sense.
Second, I don’t believe in praying for someone to get better.
That is favoritism.
Health might not be a materialistic item but I’m still asking for special favors. I’m asking not for me to have the strength and ability to overcome something on my own (or in this case, Evelynn’s), but for God to grant me health when there are thousands of other sick people on this earth, as well. I’m asking for special treatment.
And I love when it’s a “speedy” recovery people pray for.
I won’t do that. In fact, when people ask for prayers to get better, I move on. Well, first I pray fo something else entirely and then I move on.
I know, I sound cold.
Hear me out.
Taylor is 22 years old. He wasn’t supposed to live past a week, then a year, then two years, then five years, then ten years. Then he wasn’t supposed to make it to be a teenager, then into adulthood. They gave up guessing his life sentence but continued to be amazed by his survival. Damnit, he’s old enough to drink. He has the second largest spinal fusion surgery, beat only by one more vertebrae—yay Taylor (eyeroll). He lives his days in a hospital bed sleeping and watching television. He’s hooked up to oxygen and heart monitors. Somedays he’s constantly being suctioned to remove mucus buildup. He’s never grown out of a diaper and gets sponge baths via the kitchen counter. He’s fed through a g-tube. At one point, he had been put on a ventilator after his spinal fusion surgery, which lead to him now being fed through said g-tube. He’s my height (5’5”) about and half my weight—he’s less than 70lbs. You read that right. Cut my body in half vertically and you have the size of Taylor. Literally.
He’s 22 years old and didn’t celebrate his 21stwith alcohol—it wasn’t an option and not by choice but by total health restrictions. Hell, he doesn’t even get cake.
I don’t pray for Taylor to get better. I used to pray for Taylor to magically walk one day but then I hated the idea that maybe he’d be stealing someone else’s ability to walk. I loved him but hated that idea. I lost my faith in God in high school because I didn’t understand how God could be cruel. I found my faith again years later and it’s not conventional or founded in the church.
It is founded within.
He’s not cruel. Life is just unfair. There are other kids worse off than Taylor. Kids who don’t make it until 22 years old. Kids who don’t have the mental or physical strength to withstand abuse and neglect. Kids who are unloved.
Taylor is very well loved. He smiles. He laughs. He can’t talk but he can communicate.
Taylor is a living miracle.
Taylor is strong.
Strength is what I pray for. The ability to handle the outcome. I think it’s the only thing God can give in abundance, besides love, because it’s requires our own will power.
Yes, I believe God gave us free will. In that free will, he gave us strength. The strength to accept any outcome life throws at us. We have to decide how strong we are going to be. We have to decide what is worth it in life. We decide what is worth losing everything over and what is worth moving on from.
When someone passes away, I pray those they leave behind are strong enough to grieve and make it through. When someone is diagnosed with cancer, I pray they are strong enough to battle the fight; and if their body isn’t physically strong enough, I pray they are mentally strong enough to accept the outcome. When someone needs a transplant, I pray for strength and acceptance because the alternative—to pray for someone else to die in order for them to get that transplant—fucks with my head too much.
Strength and acceptance. Those are the only two things I will ever pray for. I hope you have the strength to accept the life you make for yourself. And if you can’t accept it, I hope you have the strength to change it. I hope you have the strength to rise above. I hope you have the strength to live instead of simply survive. I hope you have the strength to make a life worth living.
I am strong. If there’s one thing I am that I know people recognize me for because they’ve told me passionately, it’s that I’m strong. Hell, I’m fairly confident someone would suggest it to go on my tombstone somehow or in my obituary. But I didn’t always believe it about me. It wasn’t a trait I often associated me with. I thought they were crazy. I thought they weren’t privileged enough to see inside my mind and heart. I thought they were blind to the chaos surrounding me. I thought they were neglectful to the tears I sometimes shed in pain and sadness.
I was wrong.
You don’t go through heartache and have a voice without being strong. You don’t get knocked down and stand back up without being strong. You don’t push forward or move on without being strong. You don’t recognize sadness and make moves to become happy without being strong. You don’t become the queen at bouncing back without being strong.
I’ve questioned myself and my strength more than someone ever should over the years. I’ve doubted myself. I’ve wondered if I’m just being stubborn and should instead move on. I’ve pondered over how I’m able to keep going and why I haven’t just given up.
Part of this, I will recognize, is due to this stupid belief that thinking positively about myself is conceited or annoying to others. I fucking hate that.
Mindset.
For me, it all comes down to mindset. I was lucky enough to somehow be raised over the years in environments that nurtured mental strength. I was lucky enough to meet people who believed in me just enough for me to not stop, who were mindful enough to articulate their belief in me at the moments I needed to hear it most. I was lucky enough to witness my brother’s survival through the years and him continuing to laugh and share smiles with the world despite all his handicaps and diagnoses and limits.
I’m a firm believer that “depression” is often an overused term and mislabeled. Depression is a chemical imbalance in the brain. It’s an extreme sense of loss and helplessness. It’s overrated. I have a hard time trusting people who toss it out there to describe a temporary feeling when really the terms they’re looking for are sad or unhappy. In our quest to accept and normalize mental disorders, we’ve disassociated ourselves from recognizing a feeling as just a feeling. We want to attach it instead to a very troubling—depression, in its proper form and diagnosis is extremely troubling, debilitating, crippling, and heart wrenching, leading to loss of interest and inability to function—issue that many folks go undiagnosed with until it’s too late. However, sadness and unhappiness are feelings we can overcome if we choose to. Failure, stress, grief, tragedies are not one-way streets to the road of Depression. They might be the trigger, for some, but they are not the deciding factor.
I can’t get behind this notion that just because life isn’t going someone’s way or moving at the speed they imagined or aren’t entirely happy with it, they are depressed.
No. Those are obstacles, predicaments, circumstances. That’s not depression. That’s a poor outlook and a negative, unhealthy mindset.
Depression is not a “normal” state we want to be. Having a spectrum of feelings is normal.
When I was pregnant with Evelynn, some people assumed I was depressed because I had migraines, was constantly sick or nauseous, read a lot, napped a lot, and had little appetite. To be honest, it wasn’t much different than the previous 24 years of my life it seemed, except this time I had a little human growing inside me and I was bedridden. They wanted to cure me of a mental state when it was instead a difficult pregnancy and a physical state. Despite the difficulties and fear for the unknown, I was never entirely lost or felt helpless. I could see a future. It was, however unknown, tangible. Thenowmight have been a difficult timebut it never felt like the end of the world or like things could never get better.
Things got better because I persevered. I decided I was going to make a change. I decided to keep going.
After pregnancy, I still threw up. I remember asking my doctor, “Are you sure you missed like a twin or something? Because I’m still sick every morning and after every meal.” Seriously, that was my joke that wasn’t really a joke. I was so perplexed and scrambling for answers, I was damn near delusional. I was at a loss but I wasn’t lost. I was also seeing a hematologist to find answers regarding my low platelet count.
And then I heard about celiac disease. And after talking to numerous specialists from various fields throughout almost 3 years, I was firmly diagnosed. As firmly as you can with a disease where the testing is 20% inaccurate. Suddenly, the week-long migraines and daily puking and inability to gain weight on my 5’5” 115lb. frame devolved. Going gluten free and understanding celiac saved my health.
Fighting for me, knowing me, saved my mind.
The one and only gastroenterologist we saw, was a bitch—I don’t use this term lightly—before she even tested me for celiac. It was only 5 months after I heard about the disease. She told me NO based on the fact that I was the one who inquired with my doctor on the disease, despite that I had almost every single one of the symptoms and removing gluten from my diet was the only thing that had helped me in decades. I was a walking billboard for celiac flashing neon green to boot. She told me the tests came back with a firm negative and I could have gluten, I might just have a sensitivity. Years later I found out those tests were actually inclusive and given my symptoms and the fact that my platelet count had increased to the highest they had everbeen in my life by simply going off gluten, other specialists and my hematologist were very confident I most definitely have celiac disease. The hematologist even joked he would look into this further for his other patients he was having extreme difficulty diagnosing.
I don’t recommend self-diagnosing. I think most people do it out of paranoia. However, when we were told No by one doctor, it didn’t mean the others were also convinced it wasn’t. Conversations, knowing your body, asking yourself why you believe something—that’s key.
And for the record, celiac, because it can cause extreme fatigue, can show symptoms similar to depression.
I was never depressed. And I’m not afraid to admit when I’m sad—I hate to admit when I fail and I hate crying, there’s a big difference.
Last fall, I was sad. I was stressed but I was immensely sad. I couldn’t get control of my migraines again; they came like clockwork every Thursday, forcing me to work from home Thursdays and Fridays. I became sick and couldn’t get control of my workout routine—workouts are healthy and I’ve always been active. The endorphins they release are a natural anti-depressant. It also helps build your immune system. It’s also often my therapy. I felt overworked and undervalued. I felt unstable because I couldn’t gain control of anything. I was in a city with my only friends being coworkers who I rarely talked to outside of work. I felt alone. I felt like I was failing.
But I never felt lost or like there was nowhere up to go.
Failing, to me, does not mean an end. It just means something else, something better is best for me.
My favorite thing is recognizing you can only go up. There’s only growth. When you only have the best ahead, even if there might be more dips along the way. When there’s a gorgeous view to reach and take in, you have a beautiful future ahead. I think the climb up is a beautiful and amazing process. Recognizingthatis a key ingredient to a strong mind.
Most people hit rock bottom and think life is over, so they continuously allow rock bottom to become their sanctuary—that is depression. I didn’t hit rock bottom, not that time. I hit rock bottom years ago during a winter break in college and some subsequent semesters.
This was just a moment of sadness.
I was scared to make a move across the state to Grand Rapids but I didn’t let that fear of the unknown stop me.
When I first moved out of my parent’s house with Evelynn and to the Detroit area, the first time I was on my own fulltime with a child—who let that happen?—I was terrified. I was scared of possible migraines (not having them regularly always seems to foreign to me) and stress and finances and just staying alive. The always thriving independent part of me, however, was electrified. She was so excited for the freedom. So I made it happen.
I refused to be the one to stand in my own way. It was a healthy move—I needed that freedom and control of my own life.
That happiness of living in the area only lasted about 4 months. Instead of dwelling, though, I asked myself Why? Why was I suddenly so unhappy?You don’t need to pay a therapist to look within, you just need to have the mindset and strength and courage to ask yourself the hard questions. And allow yourself to recognize the answers instead of running from them or denying them. You need to accept them and then do somethingabout them—that’s another key.
For a girl who was considered crying a weakness, I bawled often. In the shower and in bed at night after Evelynn went to sleep. I have a habit of bottling up emotions and feelings until they pass. I don’t talk about my troubles well. I’m an introvert to the core.
I wasn’t okay with that state of feeling.
I looked around at my life in Detroit and realized everything that made me unhappy. I hated fighting with Evelynn’s overpriced school and stuck-up principal; loved the area and what it offered but it was missing something, compared to every time I visited Grand Rapids my heart sank when I left the city. I loved the challenges of my job but questioned the value and growth at the cost of me. I was upset up for every guy who asked me out but I wasn’t interested in; I felt like a bitch turning them down. I found myself constantly angry or annoyed over the smallest things. The city was wrought with heartbreaks for me and not feeling like enough.
And I wasn’t writing.
I’ve had one goal with a deadline for as long as I can remember: be a published author by the age of 30. I turned 29 in October and I hated that I wasn’t writing. Not poetry. Not one of the multiple books I had to start in college for various writing workshop assignments. Nothing but the occasional blog following a dating annoyance or travesty. I’ve damn near wrote more blogs so far this year than all of last year.
Despite how down or sad I felt, every day I told myself, “Today is a good day. My daughter is healthy and I’m alive. I’m able. I’m moving. I’m breathing. I can think for myself. Today I have opportunities. It’s all about my outlook. Mindset.” I might have been undeniably sad to the point where I couldn’t escape its recognition, but I also chose to look up. I wanted that climb.
I decided to take the unhappiness and fear and run with it. I embraced it. I changed jobs and moved across the state. I have even less time “off” as a single parent and for someone who enjoys being alone or spontaneous trips and adventures, that can be difficult to reconcile.
But I chose to move. I chose to recognize my capabilities, sought what I could change, and refused to let my circumstances or fear stop me. I chose to embrace the unknown and not let any fear define me. I chose to be strong. I chose me.
And honestly, choosing you is the happiest choice you can ever make.
Jo Taylor Blogs 