Category Archives: single mom

Mar18

Green Grass.

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Recently I was informed, again, how “easy” my life is and how lucky I am. Usually I can shrug off these comments but this is a week where I’m just not in the mood to accept idle judgments.

Let’s get one thing straight: I am lucky but my life only appears easy because I have great people in my corner and I have an unbeatable will power.

I don’t think there’s a single person on this earth who has had it “easy.” They may deny tragedy or refuse to face hardships, but everyone at some point has faced a battle we likely know nothing about.

Robin Williams made millions laugh but committed suicide.

My brother lies in a hospital bed but we’ve never heard him moan or scream or cry.

There are two sides to the coin of life, some of us wear tragedies on our sleeves while others hide them behind steel doors.

It’s true, I have it easy with my mom providing daycare but reality is I couldn’t afford daycare if she weren’t able to do so. And it makes it harder to go out to see friends or go out on a date or even go to the gym because that’s just more time my mom is watching Evelynn. (Not to mention that’s more time away from Evelynn.)

It’s also true how I have it easy not having to pay for rent or a mortgage. Trust me when I say if Evelynn could live within city water limits I would rent my own place or if I had the finances to finagle purchasing a home, I’d jump on the opportunity in a heartbeat. There is nothing exciting about being 27 years old and living in your childhood bedroom—it’s a shot to your independence and ego. (& it really improves my dating life–we’re not even going to go there in this blog.) But racking up debt or making my daughter bathe in chlorinated water is not in her best interest—everything I do is done with my daughter in mind.

It’s also very true that my boss is understanding and supportive of my situation to allow me to work from home whenever I want. I don’t have set office hours. I choose to make it into the office 3-4 days a week and work long hours so I can work a “normal” day from home the rest of the week. (Let’s not get me started on my commute, one reason I want to move.) Evelynn hates these hours. On working from home days, she likely lays in my bed next to me while watching a movie or playing with puzzles. She doesn’t leave my side. She even eats her lunch in my bedroom sometimes. Good thing she knows to behave so I can work or she gets booted.

It’s also so very true I’m skinny (dear lord I hate that term, it’s derogatory). I used to be about 20 pounds heavier, give or take depending on the day, but I’m not proud of how I lost it—from a difficult pregnancy not hard work in the gym. I’ve had a hard time gaining muscle back. I don’t overeat and I eat about 85% healthy—no artificials, no preservatives, mostly veggies—and that’s how I stay….skinny.

It’s also so very unbelievably true that my daughter is fucking sunshine, but her father and I don’t have a good relationship and I’ve dealt with plenty of snide comments from “friends” who thought they knew the story between the two of us. They don’t—I’m not the type to gossip. There are very few people I confide in, for others they must pull teeth. I have to deal with recognizing this will likely always be the case.

There is nothing easy about being the one who holds your daughter’s stars and feeling like you let her world crumble just because you must leave for work or you just need to get in the shower or you’re not there when she wakes up. It breaks my heart that she can be with me uninterrupted for an entire day and still will not let me use the bathroom alone. “Mommy is coming right back” doesn’t work. We do distractions—a movie in my bed, a couple m&m’s, a snack in her uncle Tay’s room, a diaper change, etc.—for me to be able to sneak out of the house or into the shower without a meltdown. Half the week she sleeps in my bed. And on those nights, she throws a fit to sleep on the outside of my bed (it’s flush to the wall) as if to barricade me in.

It’s not even a little bit easy.

I’ll never understand parents who WANT their child to be sad over them leaving or walking away. Who purposefully instigate a negative reaction just to make themselves feel wanted or to boost their own ego.

I want Evelynn to be independent enough to know she will be okay and that I’ll come back. I love how she loves me…I don’t love how I can’t be there whenever she wants me. The doctor warned me of the clingy stage but that doesn’t make it easier.

I got lucky in my will power to stand up and fight for what I want in my life, and for those in my corner: parents that will watch my kid so I can work and not have 60 percent of my paycheck go to daycare; a boss who, if I tell him I’m offline Friday mornings because it’s Operation Evelynn Social (a weekly playgroup), accepts my kid is my number one priority; & a daughter who brings the sun.

I won’t deny the luck—I don’t want to.

But I have never met a single person who has had an easy life. And if they do, it’s because they were determined to make it that way.

My life is “easy” because I have an indomitable will to make it the best life I could have ever lived—I water my own damn green grass.

Feb25

High On Me.

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I ate my feelings two weeks ago for the first time in my lifetime. It was the equivalent of one full pint of Hagen-Dazs coffee ice cream (as if there’s any other option) over a Criminal Minds episode and no fucks given. About that decision, at least. Can’t say the same about the event leading up to it, though.

I blame my boss for jinxing me: A couple days before, I had off-handedly mentioned to my boss, “well it’s this or The Bachelor.” He seems to find my dating life hilarious. At this point, I do, too. I’m not sure what had brought the topic up but he was definitely against the idea despite my telling him it would be free publicity for the company. And I’m not sure why it came up because Lord knows I’d never agree to such a thing—dating a guy who is dating 24 other women. I might watch the show and have for years—it makes me feel sane!—but I would never subject myself to such treatment. 1) I don’t get along with most women. 2) I’d end up committed in an insane asylum or wearing orange for the rest of my life. 3) I’m not that sociable. 4) Not trying to be famous—I go by a penname! 5) I don’t do airplanes. 6) I prefer to think that if a guy likes me, he’s not going to make out with some other chick 3 minutes later. No thank you, I’ve got a little bit more self-respect than that would require.

Moving on.

I know I’m a smart girl, I don’t need the affirmation, but my god am I a fool. Trending: me finding guys who don’t respect me. That night of the Hagen-Dazs tongue drowning marked yet another episode of getting stood up. I had passed double digits sometime back in early fall. It was a low low despite expecting little. Also trending: me getting stood up.

It’s hard not to make the jump and wonder what is wrong (yes, I’ve wrote about this before & more in-depth) but it was more than that. It was the accumulation of consistently putting myself out there, being the one who travels the 40-90 minutes to meet a guy (one way) only for the guy to be a complete asshole within a couple days.

The being lied to—an implication of complete disrespect—constantly by different guys has drained me. That’s the part: consistently, by multiple guys. It’s made me question my ability to read guys. How do I keep putting myself out there? How can I continue to believe any guy in the future? I try like hell not to bring previous fears and issues into any dating and relationships, but my god is it difficult.

And my god do I have the worst guy radar.

A couple days later I spent 48 hours or so in bed sick. Talk about forcing you to live in your head. The worst part of being sick is how it can trigger overthinking. Naturally, I got to sleeping, but then I got to a whole hell of a lot of thinking when I couldn’t sleep no more.

A lot.

Too much.

And I realized I don’t want to date. I’m so sick of guys, so turned off by everything, the idea of dating is depressing. A nightmare. A clusterfuck.

A living hell.

I’m at a point where I don’t believe promises and hate making plans with a guy. I make back-ups. Half the time I don’t even plan on someone watching Evelynn.

Yeah, definitely think I’m done.

I want more kids but after everything that’s gone down with Evelynn’s dad, I’m not sure I want a man beside me in the future. (Lord Jesus, please don’t let me be crazy.) It’s not that I want to make a career out of being a single mom, the hardships and loneliness are a total drag some days and nights, but I would choose to stick with my fierce independence for a lifetime than be mistreated for three seconds.

Enter our company meeting one week after the piglet episode, where we were asked to come up with at least one personal goal and one professional goal. I love my daughter, I love my career, but I’m not in love with where I’m at in life. So I got to thinking about becoming a fucking ninja at social media and creative and marketing, and how I could set myself up for making the whole single mom thing work really well.

And then I kicked ass all week.

A coworker kept asking me why I was smiling—I was happy. I stopped trying. I got off the dating sites—flipped those fuckers the bird. (Seriously, why do guys think it’s okay to be entirely inappropriate. I could gag.) I put everything this week into three things: Evelynn, work, health (fitness).

It’s weird. I’ve been on a high all week and it has everything to do with me. It’s true what they say: fall in love with you and your life. Maybe the rest will come but I’ve got other dreams to chase, dating can catch up to me later.

Jan24

Fact: You ARE Heroic.

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Recently I read a remark “there’s nothing heroic about handling shit alone” in regards to being a single mom. I didn’t know heroism had limitations.

It’s true, I’m a single mom. It’s not exactly something I can get around by simply snapping my fingers and making my ideal man suddenly appear at my side. I’m single and a mom. Fact. Therefore, I am a single mom. Fact. I didn’t create those labels but I’d be lying if I said I don’t wear them with pride. The alternative would be to settle and I refuse to set that example for my daughter. I would rather be a single mom handling shit alone than in a loveless relationship where the guy handled shit for me. I refuse to be with guys who don’t understand the meaning of a partnership, the value of walking beside me rather than tugging me along. I didn’t wake up one morning and decide to do it alone because I thought it was “cool.” I decided I was going to do it alone because the alternative was unimaginable. 

It amazes me how easily we judge; the stay at home mom, the working mom, the single mom. It amazes me how quick we label. It amazes me how righteously we compare. We should be empowering. And for the record, none is better than any of the others.

One of the hardest things I’ve had to learn to overcome is people will judge me for my situation. I had a baby out of wedlock. I lost friends who thought they knew the story of my relationship—they didn’t. I had an ex who thought I handled it all wrong—again, I didn’t. I have been with guys since who have  had quite a boisterous opinion of how I should deal with my ex. There will always be some noise from people who think they know how you should handle your life better than you—it’s just noise. I think mistakes are the greatest educational tool. And independence is the trademark for allowing you to become who you are–and that’s a sweet melody, when you finally learn your tune.

I woke up one morning needing a hero. It was the new year (literally) and as the cliché went, the new year called for a new me. When I needed a hero I became my own. And I sought to become my daughter’s until she becomes her own. I want her to be her own hero one day. There’s no limit to the number of heroes one can have.

There is something entirely heroic about handling things on your own but it’s also entirely courageous to allow yourself to be vulnerable in asking for help when you need it. Nobody can say which is better. Nobody has the right to judge you. I just wish you this:

Be strong enough to stand alone

but have the courage

to allow someone to walk beside you.

 

Dec31

Hike Mountains With Me.

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Confession: My biggest regret since entering the dating world, specifically online dating, is not keeping a journal of notes to turn it all into a bestselling novel. That shit would be a one-way ticket to the New York Times Bestseller list and the downpayment for a writing home on a beach down south or a cabin on a lake up north.

One thing I’ve learned is how strong the human spirit is. We are resilient when we want to be. Our will power is not something to be taken for granted or overlooked. At 27-years-old, I have seriously contemplated giving up, forfeiting the dream of a big family, and entering into a fuck buddy only relationship for the rest of my life to fix those needs. But even those relationships can’t be trusted, and the idea of exchanging vows with a vibrator is even too much for myself to handle. (Pun not intended, surprisingly.) And like any single person, the questions arise of will I ever find someone. I don’t have a fear of ending up alone, I have a fear that I will overthink things or run a love into the ground before we even have a chance to fly.

My last relationship, we lived in the fast lane. It didn’t last long but it seemed we rushed everything in just a few months. So much so that when I broke it off, I had serious doubts of was I running? Would I regret this and not be able to fix it? Or could ending it be the best thing for my future? Turns out, I never regretted it, it was just a fear of not finding someone that made me hesitate. But what if that wasn’t the case?

People generally seem to think I’m a very closed off person because I suffer from severe resting bitch face syndrome. Yeah, it’s a thing. Too often in life I get “you were too intimidating to approach.” I don’t think guys realize what they are saying with this statement: 1) I’m scary (thanks for that by the way), and 2) they aren’t man enough to take the risk (thank you for automatically disqualifying yourself, that was easy). Then, for those who do take the leap, they’re surprised when I turn out to be “real” or “unfiltered” or “candid” or “open”—their words, not mine. I’ll let you in on a little secret: I’m the most open book you’ll ever meet but just because I’m so honest doesn’t mean I’m so quick to let you in.

And suddenly, we hit the hardest thing about dating as you grow older. You date more, you get hurt more, your heart bars its windows and locks its doors. You learn to give it everything, take chances, without allowing yourself to freefall. You learn to open up without letting them in.

I live in my head. I’m such a simple, low maintenance gal guys quickly assume I’m very chill. They’re right, I am. That doesn’t mean I don’t have a tendency to overthink things. I’ve just become very good at telling myself to shut the fuck up. I think things through—whether its dating, health, career—from every angle I look at the different paths a choice could lead me down, the repercussions, the negatives, and then I tell myself to get over it and deal. To take the chance. To see where it goes. Why? Because I’ve learned my strength, my independence, my resilience.

That’s why we get back up, put ourselves out there repeatedly—we know we will survive.

At least, I know I will.

This past year, I’ve dated a few guys. And by dated I should more accurately say “done stints” as they never made it pass more than a few dates or hangouts or whatever we’re to call them these days. Unfortunately, I seem to have a knack of getting hooked on the guys who had a number done on them. Guys who were cheated on, have trust issues, are scared to take any leap, or who are already thinking about the repercussions of a breakup before we’re done with the first date. That last one is the biggest pet peeve. I have this theory that if you’re already preparing for a breakup, you’ve already determined how the relationship will go—down the drain. And what does that say about me? Enter insecurities. It’s so easy to doubt yourself when you seem to hit it off with someone and suddenly they’re preparing for the crash without ever having hit the gas pedal.

But I don’t want a guy to take the wheel of the car. I don’t want to fall. I don’t want to be an accessory or a trophy or just the girl the guy comes home to.

My last two relationships were with guys who built dreams and wanted me to ride along. They said it was for our future without asking what I wanted or my goals in life. Or they know my goals but didn’t account for them. (Apparently, wanting to be a writer is “childish” and “not actually a dream for a career.”) Here’s the issue with dating today: we are so focused on meeting our own dreams and want someone beside us for them, we fail to allow their dreams to flourish, too. As we get older, we get more set in our ways. We’ve grown into who we are without allowing someone to grow with us. It’s depressing.

The best thing I ever did was become I mom. I don’t doubt that for even a second. But I won’t lie and say it hasn’t created some insecurities or fears. It’s harder to date. It’s discouraging to hear a guy tell me he likes me but could never love another man’s child as if s/he were his own (okay, goodbye). On the reverse side, it’s disheartening to know a guy is scared to date me because he’s scared of loving my daughter and then losing both us in a breakup (again, pessimistic much?). It’s difficult repeatedly opening myself up to guys who take for granted my time—time spent with them, is time away from daughter, do I really need to explain this?—or who get upset because I can’t drop everything to hangout last minute—again, I really shouldn’t have to explain how I need to plan in advance for my kid to be watched—or who waste my time talking until a better, single nonmom comes along to grab their attention—you, sir, are an asshole of the most definitive sort.

I don’t believe in sitting on fences. If a guy wants to keep me on the sidelines, I’ll join a different game. That hesitance speaks volumes. I want to hike mountains and stand in the clouds.

You wanted me to be your better half,
for you to complete me
when I wanted a better man
& to be whole on my own.
Dec4

Death Never Scared Me.

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Death has never scared me. And anyone who has driven in a car with me will tell you the same. I was brought up believing it was natural; how and when we go is, for the most part, out of our control; some people, who we never think deserve the second chance at life, are given a miracle while others, who touched so many people in so many ways, who were the epitome of greatness, are taken too soon. It’s one of life’s greatest tragedies and mysteries. You will swim your head into the bottom of a bottle of whiskey chasing such answers, letting your mind never move on from the whys and hows.

In one week, I lost a young relative I didn’t know as well as I should have and a professor who I attribute 85 percent of my writing skills to—he pushed his students to be vulnerable in their writing, to ask themselves the hard questions of why they make certain choices in their style, diction, format, tone, etc. He was always so quick to write a recommendation letter for me and it was his comment regarding me dropping out of the Written Communication M.A. program this fall—it happened with his first M.A. program of study, too—that lead me to be entirely okay with my decision.

I try not to ask myself why; why we lose some too early in life and why others spend a lifetime suffering. I have to believe there is an afterlife of peace—I refuse to believe that after Taylor has spent his life suffering, he will suffer after death as well. Life can’t be that cruel.

No, death has never scared me…until Evelynn came along. Then everything changed. Even my driving. I don’t tailgate as bad as I used to—though, that may also be because I’m no longer in a rusty truck (this WILL change next year; I need a truck, yesterday). I have this insurmountable fear that Evelynn could be taken from the only other people she really knows, her grandparents, losing her entire home in the event of my death. It gives me hives, the possibility. My jaw clenches, my throat tightens, my body becomes rigid. The very idea makes me nauseas.

She’s a girl of routine. She likes her morning breakfast in Taylor’s room watching television with him. She likes her movie before bed in my room. When she wakes up in the night, she scurries into grandma and papa’s room. She starts her days off with juice and then it’s water for the remainder of the day (she doesn’t like pop and carbonation, thank god). She has a strict gluten free diet that most people simply don’t understand. She’s bossy when it comes to Taylor’s needs—heart or oxygen monitor going off, his show is over and needs a new one.

Then let’s not forget every parent’s fear: growing up without an advocate. Everything I do is done with my daughter in mind, every decision. Who and when I date, my work ethic and career choice, the car I drive and my choice in purchase, the routes I take, my decision to stay at home despite the blow to my independence.

Then there’s more: will she remember me? Will she know my love for her is unbreakable and everlasting? That simply the sight of her fills me with such pride and light? They say there’s nothing greater than a mother’s love, I can believe it.

Yes, death itself has never scared me. It still doesn’t, for the most part. It’s the impact on Evelynn that I fear.

Dec2

Notch On Confidence

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My father taught me to believe in myself. Told me I am my last line of defense. What other people think of me will never compare to what I think of myself. Most people who know me will tell you I’m a confident borderline cocky gal—they’d be correct. There are two things guys routinely tell me when we first start talking: I curse like a sailor and I’m one hell of a confident woman. Dating is ripe with insecurities and I’ve always been one to bulldoze right through them, ignoring any doubts or voices of “you’re not good enough for him.” But dating as a single parent is a whole different ball game—it highlights those doubts and those voices shout in echo.

Single mom dating: It’s no longer about me and guys are quick to remind me of it. Some, ask for “time” to determine if they can handle it—the prospect of being a dad, the possibility of becoming attached only to break up later (empty glass much?). That’s a cruel letdown. How about we skip to the end and just call it quits? I like my time, I don’t like it wasted. The worst are those, “I wish you weren’t a mom” or “Why do you have to be a mom? You’re so freaking perfect.” Umm….bye. Anyone who wishes or wants my kid gone gets the immediate boot. It’s devastating. How can the girl who is the very light in my life be the one element guys quote as the thing turning them away? It’s painful. It’s heartbreaking.

It’s downright laughable.

It’s going to lead me down the path of singlehood for my remaining days by choice.

And before that, it might knock that ego down a notch because there’s no way that ray of sunshine can turn someone away.

So I list all the other acceptable reasons why the guy is turning me down, and let me tell you, I am one hell of a catch:

  • I live at home with my parents (not my first choice, but it’s the best choice for my daughter and financially—what I tell myself daily to make myself okay with it).
  • I don’t own my own car anymore (sore issue, let’s not talk about it).
  • Just this year I got the “serious” career gig (about damn time).
  • Eating gluten free means I’m high maintenance diet wise (hell, my diet and eating choices are high maintenance).
  • I’m not pretty enough (well, no comment—see last blog post).
  • I’m not fit enough (but I am quite athletic—now there’s a line to skate).
  • I’m boring (false, I’m witty to the point of psychotic).
  • I’m dumb (false, quite smart).

And oh hey there, hello again you cocky bitch, you’re back. (I told you, psychotic—I’m going to end up with cats and I HATE cats.)

Every month there’s a time period when I swear off guys. As the months go by, I should change it to, “there’s a small window of opportunity when I’m willing to give dating a chance.” That’d be a more accurate description. The last three weeks I’ve been living in the Swearing Off Guys time frame. I’m ready for the switch. Again. I just hope it doesn’t place me in an asylum or grant my daughter her wish of a pantry misconceived as a shelter for cats.

Dec1

Light Up YOU.

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I can look in the mirror and pick apart my flaws. I often do. It doesn’t take much. The fucked-up eyebrows I gave myself on purpose back in high school because I hated the emphasis people put on beauty and makeup and how they should be a certain shape or only so bushy. The acne breakouts from stress and my need to pick—I hate this about myself, how I take my stress out on my body. The small boobs that rival a scrawny prepubescent boy’s; so small an ex asked me if I’d consider implants before he became overtly happy with the pregnancy boobs I was later granted and then disappointed again when they disappeared; so small he wasn’t even the first to ask me if I’d consider getting implants. The sternum that points out and highlights my already small boobs, that I was relentlessly teased about when I was young, that I’m still highly self-conscious of every time I take my clothes off for a guy. How I went from a little too much meat on my hips to a boney ass in less than a year.

Oh yes, my body isn’t perfect and I’m the first to notice it.

You’d never guess with a glance at my Instagram account, though, with the selfies that pepper my page and the abundance of #youareenough quotes. When I realized how unhappy I was with my looks, I forced myself to take selfies and accept my looks. I never wanted my daughter to grow up doubting herself—her mind, her strength, her wit, her beauty, everything—and began to change my view of myself, my outlook after she was born. When I’m told I’m beautiful, my immediate thought most times is still, “and you’re so full of shit” or “are you for real?” before I respond with the appropriate “thank you.” It’s a work in progress. Society teaches us that to accept our beauty makes us conceited, to not accept is insecurity, and to question is appropriate—unless we somehow have mastered skinny with curves and flawless skin. I haven’t.

I’ll never forget the Halloween a few years back when my drop-dead gorgeous friend turned to me and said, “T, tonight is the first time I feel pretty. I haven’t felt like this in years.” My jaw hit the floor. I couldn’t believe she would doubt her looks when for years I’d watch guys fight over her and comment on her natural beauty. But how many people question their looks? Stare at themselves in the mirror and pick apart their flaws, put everything they have into diets and fitness and makeup and clothes to change their appearance? I don’t want my daughter to dress for anyone but herself.

I want her to shatter glass ceilings, as either a plain Jane or with purple streaks in her hair and a tattoo sleeve on her arm or in high heels and pearls or as anyone in between. I want her to know there’s more to her than looks. I want her to be able to look at herself and not only accept her but be happy, too.

I want her to shine. She lights up my world, why shouldn’t she light up her own?

And I want the same for you.

Oct13

Tulips In Springtime.

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The past year has been one long lesson in dating, with September marking the one-year anniversary of my reentering the dating world. My single mom status led my daughter to be assumed as “baggage” by a number of guys (assholes!), easiest method of knowing not to give them my time. My single mom status also led to plenty of guys getting “cold feet” at the last minute, canceling the night before or the day of a date, only to never be heard from. Again, quick method of determining who was worth my time, I just wish I hadn’t wasted the time leading up to that point. Then there’s the guys who assume because I have a child, I’m quick to bed. Honey, I’m not desperate—I’m borderline shallow.

Clarification: entering into the world of online dating.

Six sites I have done stints on in the past year, and most of them didn’t last a week as the blocking of assholes became too much of a hassle. Tinder, the notorious hookup site, was downloaded and deleted monthly. Weekly I swore off guys. And weekly my high standards inched higher.

What happened when a guy called up a girl? Being asked out in a text message is so unflattering, almost degrading. And can someone please explain to me why guys want to “hang out” but then refer to it as “dating” later on? Like no, dude, two totally different phenomenons there. I know, I don’t sound like I just turned 27 yesterday. This is the norm, & completely unacceptable to me, to many. Then why do we accept it? Go with it? Allow for it?

What happened to chivalry? Dave Chappelle thought women killed it and Meg Ryan believed it simply caught the flu. I think it hides in shadows like abandoned, trapped flies.

Last weekend I went on a date and it blew my mind when the guy held open my door. Every time. It’s a lost art but it wasn’t lost on me, not when I nearly asked him what he was doing—I thought he had to rearrange shit or was simply out of it. (Awkward turtle.) It’s sad when such an act, one many fail to do for strangers—we should!—is lost in a world where kind acts need to thrive. What happened to the simple “hello good mornings” and “goodnights”? Those have always been a favorite in dating but rarely appear throughout the entire relationship. They eventually get swept under the rug with everything else. After the first impression has been made, why do people slack on the simple things? Relationships are often made and kept over the little things—it’s the little things that will also often begin to drive the wedge into the relationship.

Male or female, reentering the dating world is always ripe with fear and concerns. With each ex, I learned something about myself, what I’m not willing to put up with, how I want to be treated, and what I deserve. And it has also added up to a mountain of trust issues and second-guessing the guy’s intentions.

I have always jumped into relationships, letting the guy choose the pace—fitting considering my nonchalant attitude of going with the flow, but that only lasts until I realize we aren’t on the same page. I’ve been with the guy who wanted me to commit, for us to be exclusive, only to find out the beginning was an act or the same rules didn’t apply to him—he had needs I couldn’t fulfil due to distance, I couldn’t expect him to do the same, according to him. But I don’t do cheaters. I don’t do second chances.

The disrespect and “not good enough” that comes with cheating is mind-fucking. If they remembered you, you weren’t enough to keep them from performing the act. If they did remember you, you didn’t mean enough to keep them from performing the act. It’s a lose-lose. The hilarious part is when they use the former as an excuse. Thank you for telling me how little of significance I rank in your life.

I stayed with Evelynn’s father longer than I should have. It was another relationship battling distance, among a slew of other issues. I lost myself. I compromised too easily and lost my identity, what I wanted. I settled for settling. It was over before it ended. When it did, I went off the grid for nine months. Then I jumped into a relationship with a guy and once again sidelined what I wanted and needed in a relationship to be happy. It only lasted through the holidays but afterwards, I went off the grid again.

I compromise myself in dating.

I find myself in solitude.

It’s a trend.

Correction: it was a trend.

Dating is harsh. It’s constantly opening myself up to heartbreak and re-erecting walls when they confirm my fears, only to be the one to demolish them again if I want to make an effort. It’s exhausting and draining. It’s empowering when I remember I control my happiness—it’s ultimately my decision to allow a guy in. I control my own happiness. I dictate my future.

Dating might be degrading and harsh but I also learn my strength, the heartbreak I can take.

We aren’t made of glass to shatter on the floor, prick others to bleed with us. We aren’t rock, to stand still and lie doormat, to crack and be irreparable. No, we are tulips. We soak up the sunshine and take beatings from rainstorms, bending until we break…and then we grow back again to reveal our beauty, our strength.

We are tulips in the springtime.

Sep30

The Motherload (no pun intended).

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Tuesday was marked with the motherload of meltdowns starring me, party of one. And I don’t cry. Wednesday followed in a broken-down mood as I attempted to overpower it with a dominating attitude. Thursday was the lost soul that led up to me waking up this gloomy Friday morning in clarity—and dropping out of my MA program at Eastern Michigan University. But that phone call brought sunshine to this rainy day.

I’m not a gal who cries. I can count on one hand the number of times I remember breaking down in tears over the last decade. Unless I’m watching The Voice—there’s something about watching someone chase their dreams, don’t judge me, and that’s just a tear brimming on my lower eyelid anyway—I’ve got the round the clock dry eyes to match the resting bitch face. But Tuesday I bawled for a good hour and had the running mascara and puffy red eyes and migraine to prove it. My breaking of the dam and unlocking of the backup floodgates was a major concern, for me and for my parents. (Mom: “Well, I’m concerned. You’re not one to cry. We need to do something about this. We can’t just let it go.”) So I looked at my life and all the stress and Tuesday night I went to bed defeated, under the expectation that I could do nothing about this.

Wednesday, as I drove to my night class on the opposite side of Ann Arbor—forty minutes of allowance to purely stew—I wondered why I’m so hard on myself. How I can console and accept it when friends cry but think it childish and weak and entirely inappropriate for me to do the same. I told myself it was okay. I was allowed this once in a decade break.

On Thursday, yesterday, that was no longer okay. Why was I settling for that unhappiness? Why was I even pursuing a MA program degree that is heavily and disappointingly misrepresented? The Written Communication program I was so excited about being accepted into last spring and beginning this fall turned into a program heavily geared towards Technical Writers and defending the 90 percent focus on this particular field. Forget the design and social media organization and blogging and professional writing aspects. Those were insignificant. And those were the reasons why I was initialing pursuing this field.

This morning I went through the list in my head as to why I was unhappy and everything boiled down to this course of education. I couldn’t let the fear of people viewing me as a quitter or the pressure from family to further my education make me stay on this course. I NO LONGER WANTED TO BE ON THIS COURSE. I wouldn’t want my daughter to stay on such a course if it was the source of not just stress—that can be overpowered—but depression. My god, and I don’t do depression. Three days and I was done.

For two seconds after I withdrew from classes, I panicked—What did I do? What will people think? Why do I care? I didn’t. Third second in and the relief blanketed me. I looked at a future not ridden with financial strain, tuition payments, apologies to Evelynn for not having time, cancellations on friends due to last minute homework, constant yawning at work and leaving early for class…I was ecstatic for my future. I looked at a mostly open weekend and was elated. It was euphoric—the relief and lightness. I didn’t know how heavy I was until I realized how happy I could be without the burden from one course of action.

I’m not quitting, I’m flying.

Aug1

Confession.

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IMG_9006Lately I’ve been feeling like a shitty mother. & it has everything to do with lack of time.

One of the main reasons it didn’t work with her father was our differing beliefs. Whereas I don’t believe in putting anything before Evelynn, he had gone six weeks without seeing her for one reason or the other. But this past week, I hate how I’ve been feeling like a hypocrite. Between two part-time gigs, I haven’t been able to spend much time with Evelynn. & it’s hitting me hard. Dedicating fifty or sixty hours a week to work has greatly reduced time spent with Evelynn. I didn’t see her for almost 48 hours because of how my shifts were set up. Typically, I have a “rule” of always being home either in the morning or at night everyday, but it didn’t work out that way last week. It was depressing.

My mother is the most stable person in Evelynn’s life. She’s a stay at home mom who can rarely leave the house due to Taylor’s situation. There are times when Evelynn only wants her grandma and it’s painful to watch. I had set an entire day this past week to Evelynn, but instead I spent it in Grand Rapids recovering from the previous night’s escapades. I spent the day close to tears and feeling like a failure. It was the third time this year I had gone out with friends I hadn’t seen in months. I know I deserved a night out and away but it didn’t make me feel better. It still doesn’t. I got home with time to say goodnight to Evelynn and not much else to spare. I begged coworkers to work my morning shift so I could spend it at home with her. They couldn’t. After a long day of both gigs, once again I didn’t make it home until after dinnertime.

What do I keep telling myself? The “creating a life” and “financial stability” excuses don’t work for me. I might spoil the hell out of Evelynn but none of that means anything if I can’t spend time with her. No, it’s the setting an example to chase dreams. It’s the idea that if she were in my same position twenty-five years down the road, she wouldn’t let being a single mom hold her back from accepting work positions and doing well. Because I don’t ever want her to settle, not in anything.