I don’t believe in child support. I don’t believe in government involvement.
There, I said it.
Friend of the Court called me yesterday for a friendly conversation. We had our 3-year review, guess who didn’t send in documents or fill out the form. Hint: it wasn’t the responsible parent—they even got my letter.
I have a great relationship with the FOC. I’ve always lived by transparency and honesty, the use of documentation to back things up, and being proactive. They called to ask me if I wanted to increase my child support that I received.
I turned the opportunity down.
The lady was absolutely amazed by my response. It’s uncommon. She couldn’t refrain from asking me why instead of letting it go, so we continued into a discussion.
It’s my belief that because I get to—not have to, I get to—raise Evelynn, she is my responsibility. Her dad may have donated the sperm but in my eyes, she only has one parent. Even if you ask her, she finds it weird when kids split parenting time between houses; she only wants to live with me and maybe visit with him. He’s a friend to her, not a parent.
I related to this woman how I believe Evelynn is my sole responsibility. I pay the bills. I handle her school and sports and doctor visits. Since I get to be the parent in her life every day, I don’t care about the money. Now, when he comes at me wanting to use Evelynn as a pawn in dating or for his ego or making claims of how he’s her father or because he’s jealous of a new guy in my life, then I make sure he is up to date on payments (he’s typically behind). I also don’t allow him to get crazy in changing the visitation schedule.
I believe in consistency. I will not allow for him to get her hopes up only for him to start cancelling again. It appears seeing her only five times a year is best for him not to cancel. We tried it, her last birthday, for him to see her twice within a month because he forgot about her birthday being the following weekend; SHOCKER he cancelled on the second one due to sickness.
Called it.
A man who claims he never got sick while we were together suddenly was always sick and had to cancel. He’s cancelled so many times over the years we are now down to him only seeing her—supervised visits only, of course—five times a year. When she was a baby, we started the schedule at twice a week. Imagine cancelling so much that he went from 104 visits a year to only five. Absolutely insane to me.
When we also broke up, FOC wasn’t involved—they forced their involvement eventually due to needing state insurance for Evelynn—and he only gave me $100 a month for diapers. When FOC told him that amount was increasing, he was furious. I didn’t really care. I even allowed them to lie about my income so he could pay less.
Once, I also offered him $25,000 to walk away with the promise I would lie to people and tell them I had cheated on him, that she wasn’t his. To his credit, he refused. More to ego, than anything. Though, I can’t fathom why over the years given how much he cancelled on her to golf with buddies or due to hangovers (social media and many mutual friends slapped me in the face with the truth). Then again, at the time, he had gone months without seeing her in hopes of manipulating me into missing him (yes, he admitted this). It backfired on him.
He’s a man of poor calculating skills.
Yes, I’m not afraid to admit I attempted to pay him off. I would rather my daughter have a father who is not involved at all than one who didn’t even want her, cancels on her, uses her to boost his ego, and quite frankly, not even worthy of her.
Evelynn is amazing. Her personality gives me life. She saved me. I’m not sure how anyone could ever give her up.
Then there’s the entire history of him hurting me, manipulating me, degrading me.
Clearly, I have no respect for him.
Back to FOC.
What infuriates me is this stigma against single moms wanting the dad to pay for everything. I could care less if he pays, I simply want him gone. My daughter is strong because I have nurtured that within her. I have made sure to love her twice as hard. I have played good cop and bad cop, parent and friend.
Evelynn will tell you how I’m “such a mom. The other kids’ moms aren’t really moms because they don’t make their kids eat veggies for lunch like you do. I know I don’t want to and why you make me, but you’re really a mom.”
I am that mom. I know my kid. As soon as we sway from her daily designated fruit, veggie, and protein intake and her sleep schedule, she gets sick. Happens like clockwork every time. Yet, she’s rarely sick, hasn’t been to the doctor since before covid (just a couple phone calls). Clearly what I do works. She’s not a fan of the rules but she understands them. And because she knows how much I love her, she respects them….mostly.
Anyway, back to FOC. Again.
This woman couldn’t believe me. She couldn’t believe my ex.
I can’t blame her.
He’s mandated to provide for Evelynn’s health insurance and pay 80 percent of her medical bills. He hasn’t. I have her insurance, I pay her bills. He racked up late fees and I paid them. She had a heart condition when she was born (she had two holes in her heart, thankfully they healed themselves) and multiple audiology appointments (diagnosis: stubborn and selective hearing, legitimately. She made a movement showing she heard the sound but then wouldn’t turn towards the sound to indicate she knew where it was coming from, instead she would do this very slight head tilt and a smirk. She was only three. They had never seen this reaction before, they found it hilarious. I did not). I racked up $18,000 in medical debt for her because I refused to ask him for money and I had to pay his late fees since most of the bills were past due.
By the way, he never asked when or how those visits went. Someone else had to bring it up for him to remember.
Holes in the heart is not normal. That’s not forgettable. It should not be forgettable.
I refused to be the single mom who made the ex pay for the kid he didn’t even want, a kid I would do anything for.
The woman at the FOC was appalled. I didn’t even give her details. She was simply appalled looking at his child support payment history and hearing he wasn’t providing her insurance or hadn’t paid medical bills. She’s sending me a form and highly recommended in the future, that I not only don’t allow for this to continue but to get the court involved if it does. It’s his responsibility.
Funny, he claims that as Evelynn’s father it’s his responsibility too, to provide for her, and yet he doesn’t do it. The boy only knows how to talk about doing and thankfully I’ve stopped listening. I learned early on he was never good at taking any action.
Let’s travel back to my core belief: I get to raise my daughter.
I get to tuck her in at night. I get to enjoy her laughter daily. I get to hold her daily. I get to watch her play soccer. I get to listen to her sing and hum through her entire day. I get to send her off to school and do the morning rituals of a kiss and “Have a good day, love you!” and for her to yell it back to me proudly. I get to do our nightly “I looooooove youuuu” song followed by tickles as I tuck her in. I get to do all that. I choose to. Every day. That’s a freaking blessing.
The fact that he has messed up so terribly and doesn’t even care, has allowed me to get that for over 7 years.
Get that.
Do you understand the difference? Do you understand the meaning of word change and how much word choice matters?
I’ve been thinking about it all day and night.
Yet again back to FOC, though. She couldn’t believe my decision. Asked me three times. Asked about the medical debt and going after him for repayment. It’s off my radar. I only care about lack of time he has with her. It still makes me sick knowing he’s around my daughter, knowing at some point in my life I had hit such rock bottom to allow him near me. Knowing what he did to me and yet gets to breathe the same air as Evelynn.
The only thing I wish they’d change is his connection to Evelynn. She deserves so much more than him. Her having his last name as part of hers sickens me, still. I’ve seen his dating profile—you would never guess how little he sees her. He shouldn’t have that privilege to “claim” her as his.
I’ve said it before and I will say it again: it’s 2022, family dynamics have drastically changed along with society’s acceptance and views. Providing half the DNA doesn’t make one a parent, it only makes a child. Our actions and love make the parent.
He loves to correct me when I call her “my daughter” instead of “our daughter.”
She is my daughter and I love the hell out of her. He can keep his money; I get to have her.
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.
__
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.
__
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.
There’s something about breakups that make me come out on the other side stronger and more in love with me and everything I still have in life. Even when it feels like things might be falling apart, or that I might be meant for singledom. When things fall apart, I learn just how many people I have in my corner; even when it feels like I’ve grown incredibly distant with everyone because I’m an introvert used to being alone.
They show up for me and it feels good.
This isn’t easy. I’m struggling. I’m hurt. I’m lost. I’m heartbroken. We’re still living together. We still sleep in the same bed at night. It’s incredibly difficult to walk through a house with someone who I firmly believed the best in him only for him to break up with me because he believed the worst in me. He held his ex and all her faults over my head as if I was her and it’s difficult to grapple with his reasonings when at the core of our breakup is not our relationship, it’s his schedule and his inability to communicate and love.
I can’t read minds. And I shouldn’t be faulted for such.
I dated a runner, though. What could I expect? I dated a man who has never been chosen and will only love his dogs. He loves the idea of love but I can’t say if he ever loved me. It sure doesn’t feel like it. You don’t give up on the people you love simply because something got difficult, or someone got busy.
I prosper with breakups. I suck at dating and finding good, mature men, but I prosper with breakups and excel at finding me.
And understanding what I deserve.
I deserve more than someone who will walk two feet ahead of me when going on a date and will let the door slam on me instead of waiting or holding it open.
I deserve someone who is willing to have the patience to win my kid over and work through issues, who understands she’s seven—and that by saying such is not an excuse, it’s cause to teach her and show her acceptance.
I deserve more than someone who will snuggle and love on all three dogs and then only give me a quick quiet shout before walking out the door or ignore me completely.
I deserve more than someone who believes that because I’m not his mother nor the mother of his child, he doesn’t have to recognize or celebrate Mother’s Day for or with me. I should not have to explain to someone that loving me is accepting that I’m a mom and therefor celebrating that with me, especially when Mother’s Day is one of my favorite holidays—highlighting all the accomplishments I’ve done to get where I am, everything I’ve overcome as a full time single mom.
I deserve more than having to pick up and pay for my own birthday dinner for the entire family.
I deserve more than just a “how much money will you make off that?” while still glancing at his phone when I announced I just released and published my first book of poetry, a longstanding childhood dream of mine that finally came through. I also deserve someone who will take enough interest to see what the book looks like and will at the minimum flip through its pages.
I deserve someone who will follow through with wanting to celebrate my first real estate sale rather than just chalking it up to his dad “doing me a favor” (I sold his grandma’s house).
I deserve someone who wants to show up to events and parties with me that we’re invited to and tries to recognize each other’s schedule instead of one reigning priority.
I deserve someone who will communicate with me when he’s going to be three hours late to our plans because he stayed longer with friends than he had initially said he would—and understands the difference between this being respectful of my time and not me being controlling. I should not have to explain this to someone.
I deserve someone who will not neglect my daughter’s birthday.
I deserve someone who will not tell my daughter to lie to me or keep something from me.
I deserve someone who will console me or talk to me when he makes me cry, not ignore me or intentionally hurt me more.
I deserve someone who will not attempt to belittle me in order to feel superior—this is a partnership, after all.
I deserve more than someone whose go to defense mechanism when Evelynn acts up is that he is not his father and she is not his responsibility, especially when I have never said anything remotely similar about his own son. And he should not be telling this to her with anger in his tone.
I deserve someone who wants to show me off and take me out and will speak highly of me.
I deserve someone who will believe in the best of me, be honest with me, love me, and respect me.
We met during covid, when things were relatively easy and we didn’t have jobs to show up to and we could be present for each other so easily. We could skip off to the beach, deliver GrubHub and DoorDash together, talk endlessly about life and philosophies and beliefs and our past. It is so incredibly hard reconciling this man; who I know he can be with who he ended up being. Why do I still believe the best in him? Why did I let all those things I didn’t deserve slide?
He taught Evelynn how to ride a bike. He taught her how to use her fingers and nose to do math. He taught her the alphabet in a manner where she could remember it. He was around when her own father only showed up five times in a year for her. He prioritized showing up for her school conference over coaching cheer. He would help her build a sandcastle and play in the water with her, two things I’m just not great at doing, whenever we went to the beach. He would lay in her dirty pool with her just because she asked and didn’t want to be alone. When she started calling him daddy in public, he took it in stride and just let her do her thing, what she wanted and needed. When she later was insistent that he was NOT her dad whenever she was asked, he accepted it even though it bothered him, her aggressiveness in stating that he wasn’t.
I’m not easy to date me. The whole 100% custody thing is difficult to get around. I’m a packaged deal, there’s no way around it. There is no break from parenting in my world. Andy took it all on. When Evelynn’s dad scolded her for calling Andy “daddy” and spoke negatively of Andy and his family to her, it created a major riff and thus began the spiral of Evelynn acting out against Andy. Her father was jealous and began ruining her relationship with the only man that had stuck around and took on the fatherhood role of showing up for her, asking her about her day, encouraging her with her education, not allowing her fear to get in her way of achievements.
Andy helped her break through so many barriers.
I hate her dad and hate is not a word I allow to be said in this house. It’s not something I allow in Evelynn’s vocabulary. Yet, I have spent too much energy wishing he would just disappear. What father does that to his daughter? Discourages a healthy relationship. I would have hoped that a man willing to step up and be there for her would have been an amazing thing to embrace and be comforted by.
Jealousy really is an ugly green monster.
Not to mention her own dad forgot her birthday. I can’t be shocked, he only saw her five times last year and has a history of cancelling, hence why we’re down to only every other month of supervised visits. He’s lied about being sick so many times I blocked him on social media—I was completely over the blatant truth of him instead being too hungover or wanting to hit the golf course because he didn’t prioritize seeing his daughter.
Andy, despite his conditioning to hold a grudge and not willing to be around to celebrate Evelynn’s birthday, showed up in other ways. He allowed us to move into a house he bought designed for just him and two dogs. Instead, he got three other humans (his son moved in with him about a month before we met) and yet another dog. He hasn’t had the ability to enjoy this home he bought all on his own through hard work and perseverence. We moved in and took over, and that’s another grudge he’s holding over my head.
But I never needed shelter from him. I needed love and support.
And grace and acceptance, as I had shown him.
I needed communication and no judgment.
And I needed a cheerleader. For being a cheer coach, he failed at cheering me on the moment it was inconvenient for him.
I don’t get a clean breakaway. I’m stuck until I find housing and it hurts.
There are so many moments where I would just be enraptured by him. I’d just stare at him and be so in love. I was so sure of him. I felt so unbelievably safe with him. My favorite sound was when him and Evelynn would wrestle and he would make her belly laugh. God, I miss that sound. I miss him being the sole reason for that sound.
It is utterly heartbreaking to find yourself at the end of a relationship where you thought you would and could spend the rest of your life with the person. When he was job searching, I had told him to look wherever he needs to because I could sell real estate anywhere. And we had fully discussed this possibility.
Somehow, instead, only months later, we’re over. That’s really fucking hard to accept.
While attraction draws me to someone, compatibility keeps me around. I was so sure we could make it through anything. It’s depressing to learn you’re the only one in love and willing to fix things, believing in your relationship.
All those things I deserve, I mean it. However, I also knew he could do them if he wanted to.
I remember our first fight. He’s a yeller. He sees red. It consumes him. He yelled so hard he spit on me—accidentally! Don’t get your panties in a bunch (still spit though, I know). I told him to walk away from me.
The next day I made it clear that I am not someone to speak to like such and that we will not have arguments of such nature. It’s not something I will allow. It’s not something I want my daughter to view as an acceptable form of communication. It’s not something I want his son to see and think is okay to replicate.
He never did it again. Not once. He learned to walk away when heated or upset. He learned to calm down first.
And I noticed. It meant something to me, oh dear lord how it meant everything to me, that he understood what I wouldn’t allow and didn’t do it again.
It’s hard moving on when I’m still here in this god damn house, sleeping in the same bed with him, exchanging niceties. It’s all so fake. I thought he was my best friend—he’s not. I still want to fight for us but again, I can’t be the only one wanting to fight for us; and also, again, I do not need someone in my life who doesn’t want me in theirs.
There are moments when I forget we’re broken up, and then it hits.
Those moments floor me. They knock me down. Makes it hard for me to breathe.
I still want his arms wrapped around me at night when we’re on the couch. I still want a kiss goodbye when one of us leaves to go somewhere. I still want to be invested in his day and accomplishments. I still want to be able to touch him in bed at night. Still want to love him and show him love.
How am I, really? I have a way of breaking free with breakups. I realize what I’ve compromised on that I never should have allowed. I will come out on top, I always come out stronger. Despite feeling lost, I have a way of grounding myself. I know I have a hell of a lot to offer someone, someone who will appreciate me and what we have; and I also know that I’m the best he will ever have, in all aspects.
I said what I said.
When he first mentioned going on a break, I wanted to hold on to the idea that he just wanted space and for us to date, traditionally, after I moved out…. but let’s be real, that was just worthless words he said in passing to ease the blow because he didn’t have the respect for me to break if off. I had to force him to make a decision. And let’s be realer, why would I want to hold on when he was letting me go so easily? It felt like he was leaving me to drown as he steered the boat away.
I loved hard and deeply and I lost big for it. I can be okay with this knowledge. I know, leaving, that I gave him everything. I showed up for him. I celebrated his wins. I cooked and meal prepped for him to make his nights after a long day easier. I took care of his dogs, and dealt with their attitudes and the one’s aggressive psychotic episodes, without refusal to do so or claims that they weren’t mine. I made sure his son ate every night. I didn’t push him away or reject him. I changed up my routine and how I do things to fit his style.
He did a lot for me…when it was convenient for him. That is where all the hurt lies.
I showed up for him regardless; behind closed doors where no one else could enter and in the public eye.
I made clear that I still love him and wanted to work on things, be with him. I made clear that I still believed we both could do better and be happy together. I made clear that even though there were things in our life I was unhappy with, at the end of the day having him made me happy overall.
And I made these things clear without hearing them in return. All I got was a “well, we’re definitely on a break, I know that much.”
So I’m working on breaking free because wild horses run in me.
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 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.
“But Mom, I’m a little busy right now.” — Evelynn’s response to me wanting to take a pic of her folding laundry last night.
Well, this girl might not be starting kindergarten in the fall. I knew there was a 98% chance the evaluation wouldn’t go well, and I had already been tempted to keep her back in the Young 5’s because of age, size, speech, and attention span.
Newsflash: she’s 4. She’s young and curious and has a very active imagination.
She has an impeccable talent to keep herself occupied for hours in the car by simply playing pretend with her hands—no socks, no puppets, no dolls, no clothes, just her fingers and nothing more.
Here’s what the teacher saw:
A child who could not spell her own name.
A child who could not stay on task.
A child who talked too much.
A child who was more interested in drawing and color than picking out numbers and letters.
Here’s what the teacher didn’t see:
That “R” initial for her last name was because she loves her preschool/daycare teacher Ms. Julie Rozek and she will go around and tell people her last name is Rozek.
It was at the end of a long day. She is one of the most on task kids in her preschool class and is exemplified for her listening and behavior. By the time I pick her up each day, her “following” skills are typically done and she’s all about doing things her way.
She’s social. She will talk her ear off. Her telling you she loves your necklace and asking how your day was and telling you about her weekend coming up because she’s excited to go to grandma’s house and see Logan is who she is. You’re an adult. It’s a one-on-one time. She doesn’t see this as a test. She sees it as an opportunity to have a conversation.
She’s an artist. She’s creative. She has an overactive imagination. She doesn’t count or pick out letters because she doesn’t want to—not because she can’t. She thrives on knowing the why behind why she is being asked to do something.
Finally, her stubbornness to do her own thing is not a developmentally delayed dependent child—I assure you she has more independence than most kids. She walked into your classroom without my assistance or urgency. She drew two very well done people that were not stick figures and even let you keep the picture without a fight, using all the colors at her disposal because she’s a kid who sees life in color. You said they were about her age level—that’s because of her great interest in coloring—but her inability to stop or to draw the items in your order of need made her lack discipline.
She does things on her terms. That doesn’t mean she’s developmentally delayed, it means she’s the boss of her own life.
She is not a child who does something simply because you tell her to. She does bend at your will.
Honey, she’s the strongest, independent child I’ve ever met.
Can we go back to the fact this is a 4-year-old doing an assessment at 4pm for less than 15 minutes?
Here’s what really annoyed me: she has a speech problem the teacher failed to inquire about. Evelynn’s teachers, first in Chelsea, then in Birmingham, and then now at her current preschool, have all made the same comments regarding her communication: she is very good and imaginative at creating ways to get her thoughts across.
I don’t doubt Evelynn should be in a Young 5’s class instead of Kindergarten next year. I was already on this fence. However, I’m disappointed in how they determined this recommendation. Children learn differently. They express themselves differently. They are not robots. This is not a time to give a child 7 tasks of yes/no. Children live in the grey area based entirely on their mood, especially come after 2pm—if they make it that long.
I’m disappointed that in less than 15 minutes this “expert” in young 5’s decided Evelynn didn’t know her numbers simply because she wouldn’t pick out a specific number on a list. Listen Linda, last night she helped me fold clothes and towels—not one of which I had to refold behind her, mind you—and when she spotted the number on the back of my soccer jersey, she asked me, “Why is there a 5 on your shirt?” I never encouraged the number recognition, she did it on her own. She’s curious, not a child.
When Evelynn was first placed in WISD and 3 teachers would come to the house to work with her on her speech—she was only 2 at the time—the eldest lady of the three, for all her expert years, didn’t understand Evelynn. She thought Evelynn didn’t understand her. They were playing on the floor. This lady repeatedly asked Evelynn to do a simple task with a baby doll and then proceeded to show her how to do it. When Evelynn continuously ignored her, the lady started to speak louder. Without even looking at the lady and breaking from working on her puzzle, Evelynn slammed the baby down on the floor to show the lady she didn’t want to do what she was asking. It wasn’t a mean slam, it was a “I’m not doing this” because the woman wouldn’t stop shoving the back at Evelynn—it was only a few inches off the ground. I had already told the lady to move on to a different task, Evelynn was uninterested—until Evelynn put that baby down, the lady didn’t believe me.
And you can bet your ass I told her, “I told you, that’s what she does.” It was only after Evelynn dismissed the doll that the woman tried a more appealing method.
I’m not an expert in child development, but I like to think I’m somewhat of an expert in my daughter. I watch her. I observe her. I know her. I can tell you when she’s fake coughing to avoid brushing her teeth. I can tell you how the first thing she does when she walks through the door is take her shoes and socks off and defuzz her toes and she can’t be expected to do anything else until she does that. I can tell you if we don’t sing “I love youuuuuuu” in a singsongy voice to each other as I tuck her into bed at night, she won’t go down. I can tell you how upset she will be with you if you unwrap her cheese or chocolate or open her juice or milk for her. I can tell you how her previous school told me she could count her numbers but she never would for me, she told me she couldn’t—I didn’t know she could until I caught her singing in the car. She’s sneaky like that. I can tell you she can’t leave her preschool/daycare without giving all her teachers and friends a hug; and if we miss anyone, she has to go back in. She’s an independent girl who needs routine and learns in tunes. More than anything, she’s her own person.
When I first walked out of that school after her evaluation, I felt like I failed as a parent. It doesn’t bother me that she might be going into Young 5’s—I want her to be in the best environment for her to succeed as a human—I felt like a failure because of how many times that teacher repeated “developmentally delayed”. I kept thinking about it. Kept watching Evelynn—I’m fully aware of her stubbornness and her attitude and the fact she can’t read—but I couldn’t see it. All I saw was a happy 4-year-old soon-to-be 5-year-old curious about life around her.
So here it is, I had misspoken. It’s not 2032. It’s hello class of 2033. Let’s just add on another year of Evelynn running the class because this kid is hellbent for election. Good luck teachers, she’s ready for you. I just hope you’re ready for her.
You can excuse yourself and still never give up. It’s not about your excuses, it’s about pushing, perseverance, resilience, and CONSISTENCY. Even if it’s hitting pause or slowing it down.
Hit pause. Slow down.
Then keep going.
My biggest pet peeve with past coaches was when I was having a blown asthma attack and they would yell at me to move my ass and stop giving excuses. I could run a 6-minute mile with an asthma attack at the end forcing me to walk a stretch before finishing strong. I made up my sprints after others were done and the attack passed. I had limits, I worked with them and I pushed them when I could. However, my coach’s expectations because I was a “child” were beyond unrealistic. I never pushed myself for them or because of them, I’m pretty sure I fought with them more than anything. I pushed for me.
I also hated when coaches would ask me, “What’s your excuse today?” because my physical therapist, for example, didn’t want me doing cleans with my shoulder—I always later dislocated it. It never changed: my therapist was very clear I was not to do that movement. I was hypermobile with little strength. It was a move I’d have to strengthen with other exercises, not something I would just jump into for a physical test, and nothing ever weightbearing. Tearing something was a big worry.
I don’t care about your excuses. We can work with your excuses. Excuses are part of life.
I’m a mom, sometimes I have to excuse myself from activities because I LOVE being a mom and that’s worth more. It’s an excuse to others; it’s my reality. My greatest achievement. Sometimes, I work long hours. Again, not an excuse when chasing dreams. I won’t try intermittent fasting despite health benefits some people claim—I have very, very low blood pressure. It’s not safe for me. This is not a method I will use for “more energy” because for people like me, it can do more harm than good. I’m gluten free because of celiac disease. Some people get annoyed that I have a limited menu and restaurant options to choose from. Confession: I like this restriction most days, it forces me not to go through the McDonald’s drive-thru when their fries are calling. I will accept this excuse all day—it helps hold me accountable.
It’s not about your excuses, it’s about what you do with them and how you allow others to perceive them.
Do they hold you back from what you want or do you overcome them? Do you let them control you or do you embrace them and push through? Do you find ways to make things work, no matter how many attempts it might take you? Are they a status of your life or are you using them to reconcile missing out on living your best life without trying to make things better?
That is the only excuse I care about. Stop missing out. Stop holding yourself back.
If you live a life with no excuses, honey you’re not living. At some point, you will embrace what someone else considers an excuse because you are damn proud of who you are. You are a mom and for one night, going to your son’s soccer game means more than stressing over getting a workout in that day. Take the day off. You are a sister and haven’t seen your family in months, take the weekend off. Eat all the homemade meals. Your wrist kills and can’t handle doing a pushup. Work up that strength. Take time to do it properly instead of further injuring yourself.
Confession: I have the Ann Arbor Art Fair butting right into Faster Horses for a long 4-day weekend this summer and I don’t plan on working out one bit for those 4 days because I will not stress myself out over scheduling and I will not stress myself out over using the communal gross showers. Instead, I have had my workout schedule planned all the way through that weekend since before April. That’s right, my March through July workout schedule is already set. Some might see that fun weekend as an excuse to ridicule—honey I’m grabbing on to it with both hands, it’s my reward for my dedication and consistency. It’s my reward for persevering.
If you live a life with no excuses, then all you’re doing are the motions without the why behind them. Eventually, years will pass and you will realize you wanted to take that one saturday off for donuts and beer festival with great company, lie on that beach one weekend to read one more book, skip a class to see Garth Brooks perform one last time. You have to prioritize what makes you happy with what makes you healthy to enjoy the most out of your life. Do you want to hike mountains or claim the couch cushion? Do you want to watch your daughter’s first ballet performance or train for your half marathon? Do you want to do yoga at sunrise or drinks to celebrate someone’s birthday at sundown? Prioritization and organization. You do what you can, and slowly you build it up and increase what you can do.
So hit pause. Maybe rewind. Maybe a little replay with a new DJ. Maybe slow down, reevaluate and reposition. Know the difference between giving an excuse and giving up, and know when an excuse can turn into giving up.
“Never confuse a single defeat with a final defeat.” – F. Scott Fitzgerald.
Confession: I roll my eyes every time someone says, “No Excuses.”
It’s not a concept I can get behind. I 100% support it if it’s the mantra one person uses to keep a promise to themselves and to reach their goals. If it makes sense to them for them, I’m all about it. Otherwise, I snuff my nose at the phrase when someone uses it to motivate others, as if they’ve walked in their shoes.
I don’t participate in the whole nature vs. nurture debate because as far as I can tell, it seems pretty obvious both impact your journey and every day you make choices. Ever go down that whirlpool of, what if I left my house 5 minutes earlier? What if I took this street instead? What if I hadn’t chosen this college to attend? What if I hadn’t stepped into this coffee shop? What if the DJ had chosen to play a different song? What if I didn’t buy this bottle of wine? The questions can be endless. Does the outcome remain the same? I think it’s most remarkable when looking at twins—they have the same environment but their thought patterns can be different.
Nobody is the same. Nobody thinks the same. Nobody faces the same experience, in the same manner, at the same time, with the same history for them to process the experience the same way. When I hear statements made like “No excuses” or “If I can do it, you can do it,” I become speechless. I stare at the words or the person speaking them. I have no response. These are not my mantras.
I never tell someone they can do something because I did it. It’s not that I don’t believe they can do it—they can—it’s because I believe they can do it simply because I believe in them. I was brought up through experiences that made me strong—strong-willed and stubborn—and with an outlook that if I want to make it happen, I can. It’s that simple for me. It might take time, pain, and many failures, but if I want to overcome something, I can. However, I also understand that life happens that could derail these plans and goals.
I’m a single mom with a good career who stays active—not every single mom gets lucky to have the support to do this. The amount of times I’ve had to call in to my previous job and now my current job because of Evelynn being sick or me having a migraine, and me keeping that job, blows my mind. Every time I’ve made that call I’ve worried it’s going to be the nail in the coffin, and I envy couples who can share these days or have a stay at home parent to more easily accommodate—not everyone has this. Some employers are very strict about time off or working from home, some jobs don’t accommodate working from home, then there’s the folks who live off tips for income.
I refuse to tell someone that just because I can find time to dedicate to my fitness, they can too. The reality is I struggled a lot. There were days I had to make compromises instead of excuses. Currently, I live on the rule “I get one day off from working out in the week, use it wisely.” If I have to take more than that, I refuse to double up the workouts for that day because they weren’t designed to be doubled up, they were designed with a rest. My bonus cardio workouts I don’t ever include in the formula—those are bonus for a reason and not part of my program.
And sometimes life gets in the way. I had to overcome a lot to tell myself, “No, you are doing this now.” Thursday night, I didn’t want to workout but I had to ask myself, “Do I want to take two days off this week from the program? Will I be happy with myself if I do or will I beat myself up for it wishing I had just pushed play?” I knew Saturday I wouldn’t be able to do the cardio flow workout that’s scheduled because my parents don’t have wi-fi. I had already scheduled it for Sunday, my normal “rest” day (if I want to take a rest day). I knew two days off I would regret. So, I buckled up and got it done. And to be honest, Sunday night when I got home, I didn’t want to work out at 7:48 p.m. either.
Saying No to sweets and Yes to healthy options, wasn’t easy. It came with learning that the unhealthy food came with unhealthy feelings. I love burgers, LOVE burgers, however, I learned that while a burger made me want to skip my to-do list and pass out or down 3 drinks and then deal with a hangover the next day, a salmon with roasted asparagus and seasoned red lentil noodles portioned right made me feel well-nourished and like I could tackle the day.
I’m not a fan of going out every weekend. I love waking up, sipping on my coffee, getting in a yoga flow, and just flying through my to-do list, even if it’s reading an entire book and chilling out the rest of the day. Why? It makes me feel good. Hangovers—not so much.
Not everyone can do this easily. Saying “No” and “Just Doing” mentality didn’t happen overnight. It happened after months of practice and consistency. It happened when I figured out my why—whyI wanted to eat healthy, workout 6 days a week, and focus on my health. Why it was important for me to say No to that which didn’t help me and Yes to that which made me happy—I also had to determine what made me happy.
Do I still have slip ups? You bet. After being stood up so many times the first few months of the year, I gave up puppy chow for lent. I was eating popcorn for meals so much that I gave it up for lent, too. Lent kicked my ass into gear when I knew what I needed to do but also needed a little extra motivation. Reality was I could have portioned the puppy chow and popcorn somehow into the balance of my diet, but I don’t like eating that much sugar and junk cereal. If it makes me happy and I had 87% control of the rest of my health, it’s fine to indulge (my theory for my body). However, I didn’t want that 13% to revolve around puppy chow popcorn every day. I like the occasional donut, bacon for breakfast, extra pancake with the maple syrup, dairy free butter on my sweet potato, red meat, White Claw, and there’s the whole lack of sleep thing some nights. I like my balance options.
Balance doesn’t exactly fit into the whole No Excuses mentality. Does it? I can’t see it.
The amputee who runs a marathon. The person who was confined to a wheelchair for the rest of their life but was able to beat all odds and walk again. These have been deemed No Excuse examples. These are strong will, strong mind and body. There are individuals who dedicate everything to overcome an obstacle that has a less than one percent chance of beating and yet are still unable to. I think you can do anything with a strong mindset and will power, but you also need the right tools and support, and sometimes those tools are dependent entirely on your body. I will not use No Excuse because I will not degrade the hard work of individuals who give everything but still get nothing. I will also not degrade those individuals who did beat unspeakable odds and made it happen for themselves—that’s extraordinary, not the normal. Saying anyone can do what they did seems to defeat the odds they beat, and simultaneously insults those who weren’t able to do so.
That doesn’t mean you shouldn’t go all in.
Go all in like you have the winning hand. Go all in like you have a straight flush. Chances are, you’re winning but then, sometimes, you might just end up in a game where someone else holds a royal flush. That’s life. You know what happens? You get dealt another hand.
Like poker, you don’t know what hands others are dealt. Simply because you have a winning hand now doesn’t mean your initial hand was applaud worthy or your first game brought attention.
An ex tried using the No Excuse mentality on me to have me do a push up. He didn’t believe me when I said my back was poor and my shoulders were even worse. That I hadn’t yet built up the strength. What happened? I did the pushup, heard a crunch, a flush of what felt like extremely warm liquid heat flowed through my shoulder blade area and I was in pain for days. I should not have done that pushup. Now, after a very scripted workout regimen and complete focus on form along with gradual increase in weights I’m lifting, I can do consecutive pushups with no pain. I didn’t get here because someone manipulated me into doing it by saying, “You want to do them again? Do them right here right now, no excuses.”
Sometimes those excuses aren’t excuses, they’re someone’s reality. Just because it’s not your reality doesn’t mean it isn’t someone else’s. I 100% believe in moderations, and if someone complains to me about not being able to do something without trying and failing at all odds, then I might push back on them. I won’t ever tell them, “Well, you said you wanted it, no excuses. Run 5 miles.” No, it’s, “Well, if you really want it then let’s make it happen.” Mindset. They know their body, they live in their body; I do not.
Let’s play the hand we’re dealt. And next hand, we’ll shuffle the deck because our hands will constantly be changing throughout our lives. Know when to fold and when to go all in—I hope you go all in every time, there’s always the next hand. But sometimes, just sometimes, the risk of losing is greater than the chances of winning. Sometimes excuses, aren’t something to slyly look over.
What does it sound like when I push someone or myself when working out?
Is it painful or are you just sore? Burns so good. That’s you living honey, keep going. This is less than 5% of your day. That’s all you have to give me. You get the other 95%, I get these 60 minutes, your body gets these 60 minutes. Five percent. Give five percent of your day every day to fitness and you are already on the ready to a healthier you. Progress baby. If it’s not burning, if you’re not working for it, it’s not working for you. Push harder. You can do this. If you stop now, will you look back and say, “Damnit, I wish I would have finished out these last 3 reps?” Don’t regret exercise, feel satisfied. If you need to drop down a weight, drop it but let’s finish it up. Let’s finish this strong. Those lungs are breathing, those legs are burning because they’re happy to live and they’re capable. You are capable. And if you’re not feeling capable to give more today, if you know you won’t regret stopping now, you will be capable tomorrow because you pushed yourself today.
Sometimes, I’ve been known for just yelling, “Go, go, go, go! Almost done ladies, let’s do this! 5 more to a healthier you! 5-4-3-2-1 YESSSSSS!!! You did it! How fucking proud of you are you??”
Pushing that hard isn’t for everyone, and sometimes, even myself, I’m so dead by the end of the workout it takes me twice as long to finish the reps because I refuse to do proper form but I don’t want to give up. It’s not No Excuses, because for many in that predicament, it might be best to end it and no risk damage or injury. For me, I know my limit, though, and it’s a, “Do you feel like you will die? Do you feel hurt? Or are you just fatigued and need to slow down? Will you be happy with your performance when you’re done?” And damnit, I love the finish line.
Not once did I say, “No Excuses” to push forward or to go all in.
I have a habit of saying, “Just say no” to people despite knowing it’s not easy. Don’t want the extra slice of pizza? Just say no. Want to make it to the gym tomorrow after work? Just go. Want to eat more veggies and less fried food? Just do it. It’s an easy concept but not easily done. I know this. And while it’s not always easy for me, I would argue it’s easier for me because of how I grew up. I saw sacrifices made, I saw the value of health and an active lifestyle, I witnessed the reality of cutting cold turkey is the easiest process. Watching Taylor, not having the experiences or luxuries that others had, I grew up gaining different values and a high respect for health.
Finding out I was celiac and couldn’t have gluten anymore, I had no choice. I had to give it up for my health or I faced bigger issues than fatigue, migraines, underweight, constant nausea down the road. I found out that when you decide something firmly and you do it, you just do it. There’s no other process. I found out that while I was a single mom but I also later decided I was going to chase a career and make both a priority, that I just had to do it. There’s no other option. It was either I wanted it and let it be a pipe dream, or I chase the fuck after it like I owned my dream and make it into my reality. I just did it. Some days I don’t quite make it, and that’s okay. That’s human nature not to have 100% perfect all in days—some hands we have to fold on.
It’s not, “Just say no” or, “Just say yes.” It’s, “Just say no this once” or “Just say yes this once.” Because once you show yourself you can do it this one time, you realize you’re capable of doing it. The second time is easier until what you thought was unimaginable becomes second nature and routine. And for the very few times you fall off, you know it’s easy to get right back on again the next opportunity you have because you’ve already proven to yourself you can.
I don’t suffer from anxiety and to be completely honest, I find the term—more accurately, the label—to be overrated. Anxiety is not a synonym for stress, sad, overworked, tired, or irresponsible. They might lead to anxiety but they are not the same.
Buckle up, I’m about to ramble. This is a difficult topic to articulate my thoughts and beliefs because it’s so complicated.
Anxiety is panic: increased heart rate, fight or flight mentality. It’s an entirely normal feeling but does not equate an anxiety disorder. Oftentimes fear and stress can pair up and create an overwhelming anxious feeling but it does not mean one suffers from anxiety.
I get anxious plenty. I have a fear of flying, of elevators, and of movie theaters. I have a fear of concrete failure—not the minuscule failures you overcome when you try again but the definitive failure of never reaching a goal. I have a fear of something happening to Evelynn—she can be a fearless and rambunctious kid 14 hours of the day aka when she’s not sleeping. By no means do these fears translate to me suffering from anxiety. I have a fear of not being enough so I overcompensate with dedication and time. Every fear I force myself to overcome and be okay. I get on the plane (if I have to), I travel the elevator, I watch the movie.
I think sometimes, we overlook what our mind is capable of in order to minimize something else. I read somewhere that anxiety is most prevalent in young adults, those ages 18 to 30. Do you know what happens in these years? Major life decisions.
And we’re suddenly back at fear.
What if we made the wrong decision? What if I chose the wrong school? What if I’m not cut out for this career or position? What if I let my parents down? What if I’m a bad parent? What if my boss finds out I’m not qualified enough? What if I don’t make the cut? What if he’s not the one? What if he doesn’t really love me? I’m not ready for this. I’m not ready for this.
I’m not ready for this.
It’s in our head. Fight or flight. Do we face the challenge and accept the outcome, or do we run away and blame it on anxiety?
And here lies my real issue with anxiety.
Many people claim to have an anxiety disorder and use it as a crutch without it ever effecting their life. It is not excessive, and it does not affect the lifestyle—until they want it to or unless they want to ignore an obstacle by blaming anxiety. Some don’t lose sleep, don’t overeat or lose an appetite, don’t even get an increased heart rate. They simply have a fear or don’t want to do something they need to do. It’s just worry. Nothing happens.
I believe there are many people who do suffer from anxiety, my issue is who is claiming to have it. Most people I know who suffer from anxiety don’t want to grow up, they don’t want to face adulthood, they don’t want to be responsible. Anxiety is a healthy emotion, it’s normal to get worked up over things we fear or are out of our comfort zone. Anxiety disorder is when that emotion is in abundance and happens too often with difficulty to cope.
It can be accompanied by OCD and depressive behaviors—counting or repeating words or actions to manage, inability to concentrate or sleep, repetitive or persistent dark thoughts, fatigue and irritability.
I’m in no way a mental health specialist but I have a habit of observing people. Often times I’m mistaken for being shy when really I’m an introvert who prefers to observe someone before I come out of my shell. I notice the fake smile, the limp they try to hide, what makes them flinch or tick or offends them.
I also notice when they may be worried or become anxious but that is where it ends.
You don’t hear about single moms working two jobs to stay afloat living in rundown apartments with an anxiety disorder. They don’t have time for anxiety. You don’t hear CEOs who juggle the demands of running a company while still having an active role in their children’s lives having an anxiety disorder. They have moments of anxiousness but they push through, they accept the emotion and move on to overcome the obstacle. Maybe they hide it well, who knows?
Instead, we hear about anxiety disorder from people who are stuck in life and who have time on their hands. We hear about it from people who suffer from boredom. We hear about it from people who aren’t active. We hear it from people who have moments of anxiousness and not a disorder.
This is the downfall with mental illness—too many are untreated and don’t speak up because others romanticize the issue.
Anxiety mirrors high level of fitness activity thanks to the increased heart rate. In fact, studies show that those who have suffered or still suffer from anxiety and who also workout regularly can overcome or control their anxiety. Why? Their body doesn’t panic when fear arises because they’re body has become used to that increased heart rate. These people recognize the feeling and push through because they know they can handle it. When that fight or flight mode hits them, they fight through.
There are moments in my life that I get anxious. When I get bored, I’m the most anxious because I’m very rarely bored or with time on my hands. I love to be active, whether mentally or physically. I can spend hours reading and be happy alone. I hardly know what boredom is, it’s so rare for me because I simply turn to fitness or reading, but I have had moments.
Notice I said I have moments of anxiousness not that I have anxiety. Why? I know it’ll pass and I’ll get through. I’m secure in my mind and self that I can handle and make it through whatever is thrown at me. I have dealt with enough troubling and difficult events to know what I can overcome and that I can overcome. More than that, I have never felt the need to curl up from it, ignore responsibilities, or shut out people around me. I’ve never closed down from it. I might want to, but it’s a moment that fades as I work through whatever I need to do.
I know, I seem naïve and I seem unsympathetic. It seems like I’m oversimplifying a condition that for many is a reality. In a way, I am. I am a firm believer in mindset—mental strength. However, there’s more to it. We are so quick to label ourselves for some fake “in” with a group of individuals—they claim to suffer from it but they don’t talk about the why. They don’t try to understand what causes the episodes; they simply accept them without any further assistance.
Mental health is real. Mental illnesses are real. The brain is another organ. When somebody has high blood pressure, they take medication, workout, and eat a more restrictive diet. When someone has diabetes, they take insulin and limit sugar intake. When someone has asthma, they use an inhaler and are mindful of physical activity and activity. When someone has celiac, they remove gluten and sometimes dairy or egg, too, from their diet. I’m not a fan of medication; it’s why I’m so adamant about my nutrition and fitness. I pop ibuprofen like candy some weeks thanks to headaches and migraines—I don’t want to rely on any other medication. However, with any illness, there’s a treatment plan. Few people wait and see what happens, even when there’s no cure.
So why are some people claiming to have anxiety only in hindsight and without taking initiative? By hindsight, I mean as an excuse. They claim it because they chose to nap instead of studying for a test, they chose to grab drinks with friends instead of finishing a work presentation, they chose to binge watch Netflix instead of hitting the gym. This isn’t anxiety, this is failure to take responsibility. Lack of self-awareness and increased laziness.
Don’t come to me telling me you can’t workout because of anxiety if you don’t plan on having an in-depth conversation and creating a plan to overcome this obstacle. Don’t tell me you can’t stop eating the fridge at 9pm every night because of anxiety if you don’t want to talk about the why and how to stop. Don’t tell me you didn’t get the job or the promotion if you don’t want to take a look at your work ethic.
Are you upset yet?
Anxiety disorder is a mental illness. It can be managed. Claiming to have anxiety only when it suits a need for an excuse, on the other hand, is bullshit. It’s like the person who claims to be sick every day of the week because they don’t want to go to work or school but then is magically healthy on the weekends enough to party and go on road trips—can you tell this is a huge pet peeve? My parents raised us to where if we couldn’t do our weekday responsibilities, we didn’t get the fun. If we couldn’t attend school, we didn’t get to attend soccer practice. If we couldn’t attend some boring event, we didn’t get to go to a friend’s house. If we couldn’t vacuum the house, we couldn’t play video games or watch television.
Mindset is amazing when you look at how or why you do something or feel some way.
Last fall, I was in a job where I felt overworked and undervalued. I was stressed. I was at times anxious. A lot. By Thursday and Friday I always came down with a crippling migraine—I have a history of migraines, this wasn’t big news. I prioritized getting my work done from home these days, leading Friday to sometimes be a blackout and Saturdays and Sundays as recovery days. Seriously, Monday I’d have to recheck work done on Friday because I couldn’t remember half the day or any emails I might have sent. I wasn’t even working out regularly. Some weeks, I didn’t work out at all.
I’m not an anxious person but I’m human, I have moments. I firmly believe in my strength and will power. However, I was in a losing battle—I don’t lose. I hated losing. So I looked at my life. I loved my job most days but I didn’t like how I felt so I made a move. I rooted around for the cause. I didn’t want to accept it but I had to. Anxiety is a normal healthy emotion when it happens on occasion—not when it becomes routine. Even when it was routine, I fought to cope and refused to let it take over my days. I still worked—I was an adult. Work paid the bills. It was hard as hell but it was fixable. And it was only for a short time.
Anxiety is overrated. Anxiety disorder, however, is real. So which is it? Claim the false label or see a professional to cope? Take the crutch or make moves? It exists. It’s very real. Don’t claim a title because it suits you in the moment when there are others who fight like hell to battle against it.
People fight against heart disease, against asthma, against diabetes, against celiac. They fight against cancer. If you’re going to claim a label, at least also be a fighter.
I’m entirely empathetic and supportive of those who have anxiety and suffer. I fully believe there are people who suffer from anxiety to the point where it’s crippling—that’s heartbreaking. I turn my head when others only admit to it for attention or a get out of jail free card, without working to cope. When it’s a minor case or just moments and by no means a disorder.
I don’t like sob stories—insensitive again, I know—growing up with Taylor showed me life is tough but you make the most of it, you push your limits and boundaries. It’s not about saying “No” to something, it’s about about accepting it but also breaking through. Saying no or overcoming something is never easy the first time—it gets easier with time.
I like the fighter. I cheer for the fighter. I respect the hell out of the fighter.
Jo Taylor Blogs 