Have you met Taylor? Likely not given he doesn’t get out…at all.
A couple weeks ago I had covid and still worked out. I was over the negativity. I was over the pessimism. I was over the fear.
From others, not me.
The negative assumption that I wasn’t doing well. The pessimism of the worst-case scenarios and to make sure I watch myself. The fear that I could end up in the hospital or Evelynn would.
There was no, “Oh you’ve totally got this.” Or, “Well, make sure you’re eating and staying hydrating and take your vitamins.” Or, “This is why you eat healthy, right?”
When it’s my time, it’s my time. I’m a firm believer that I can do as much as I can and then it’s out of my control. Stressing over it isn’t worth the headache, time, or energy. I take care of my body and my body takes care of me. I fuel it with self-love: exercise and healthy eating habits.
Someone argued how did I get covid if I took care of my body so well. I had to promptly educate them on carrying an illness is different than succumbing to the illness. I never succumbed.
I may have been forced to be in quarantine jail but I still worked out every morning. I didn’t even skip cardio. I still don’t have my taste and smell back, three weeks later but I have so much more.
I still have lungs that breathe. Legs that walk…run….jump. I have a mind that can persevere, overcome, and stay positive. I push for more even when it feels like I’m being knocked down and pummeled by life. I don’t give up.
Why? I’ve seen someone, a kid nonetheless, live a life that’s less than and still smile. Still live.
So I repeat, have you met Taylor?
If not, you should. Let me introduce you.
Yesterday, Taylor turned 25. TWENTY-FUCKING-FIVE. I don’t think anybody thought this day would come. He’s officially a quarter century old. That is absolutely insane.
For over the past decade—13 years?—he’s lived in a hospital bed, being rotated between two televisions. When he was younger, we had hopes he might walk, might sit; might control a spoon even to feed himself, even if it turned into a mess and wasn’t pretty; might be able to speak or sign words to communicate. I used to put his feet on mine and we’d walk around, he loved it.
Now, he’s hooked up to those damn oxygen and heart rate monitors and is fed through a g-tube. He used to love ice cream but there’s no more for him. At one point in time, he could enjoy birthday cake. Again, no more. He aspirates.
Watching Taylor devolve over the years yet still smile, still laugh, still live, you can understand why I have no tolerance for excuses. You can understand why I’m so fucking fed up with this victim and why me and negative, toxic mentality so many people display these days.
Until you’ve gone through surgery and not known if you could wake up because you’re allergic to aesthesia, you don’t know death.
Until your lungs have operated at less than 50 percent, you don’t know what it’s like to not be able to breathe.
Until your legs are unable to hold you up, you don’t know what it’s like to not be able to walk.
Until you’re not allowed to taste your food or eat or drink because you can aspirate and you’re forced to be fed through a tube surgically inserted into your stomach, you don’t know what it’s like to not be able to eat or to have no appetite.
Until you’re forced to spend every fucking day in a bed, you don’t know depression.
Until you have to have someone roll you over because you can’t even turn over by yourself, you are not helpless.
Until you have lived with a life expectancy hanging over your head, again, you don’t know death.
Or maybe you don’t quite know living. The beauty of life, of today.
Growing up, Taylor was never supposed to keep living and yet, he’s still here. Imagine that, being told your younger brother should not live past his first birthday, fifth birthday, seven years, ten years, to be a teenager, twenty-one. Imagine that, celebrating every holiday and birthday with him as if it’s the last one he will be around for. It’s not something you pass up or overlook or forget easily. The negative expectation of a young life expectancy. Well y’all, we’re fucking here at 25 years and it’s fucking beautiful.
I am all for mental health, I am all for self-awareness. I am all for checking in.
But I will also call bullshit.
There is so much good in life. My life has been blowing up all over for the last 6 weeks. Shit is being flung at the fan and is sticking to the walls. But I haven’t melted down. I thought I might at times but life and the opportunities and possibilities that I still have, the abilities I have, are too good for me to let myself get down in the dumps. It’s really simple, I appreciate the small things immensely.
I love that I can breathe fresh air and can experience the difference in fresh air between all four seasons.
I love that I can walk and run up and down stairs and feel the strain in my quads from exertion.
I love that if I am craving a burger or a salad, I can enjoy them and savor them.
I love that I can curl up in bed and read as a nightcap.
I love that I can push my body through a strenuous workout, cussing myself for doing it, doubting if I can make it through but refusing to give up…until it’s over and I’ve completed it. That feeling of accomplishment, that feeling of becoming stronger every day. It’s worth so much to me.
Meet Taylor.
People always ask me what’s my motivation for working out, being consistent, eating healthy. It’s simple, I have little motivation—motivation is a fool man’s crock. I have a ton of discipline. I owe it to Taylor. I owe it to myself. I could very easily give up on myself but why would I when I can do so much more. Once you say yes to yourself, it becomes easier to keep saying yes.
You can have excuses or you can have results.
You can go to bed every night lying to yourself, “tomorrow will be the day I do better.” Or, you can wake up every morning actually doing better.
Do it for you. And if you find doing it for you isn’t a good enough excuse, do it for those who don’t even have the opportunity to do it themselves because I can guarantee you, they would give anything to be in your shoes. I don’t care how bad things might get in my life, I’ll never hit rock bottom. Ever. Why? I know there is someone out there, many people in fact, who have it so much worse and are praying to be in my shoes instead. When you pity yourself, when you give up on yourself, it’s like giving a “fuck you” to those like Taylor.
I wish you knew how good you have it in life. I want you to appreciate the small things in life. I really hope to God you can be happy even when life seems hard.
This is my story of darkness. This is my story of tragedy. This is my story of weakness. This is my story of sadness. Of loss. Of grief. Of heartache.
This is also my story of overcoming. Of growing. Of strength.
But let’s be clear of one thing: this is my story.
You will inevitably have questions. Concerns. Comments. It’s natural. You’re human. We want to know everything about certain events to understand, to heal, to help, to sympathize. For some, to properly judge and feel righteous about it even—yes, I did just call those folks out. You don’t get that. You don’t get that luxury. This isn’t about you. It’s not even about me. It’s about how broken we have become as a society. How broken systems have become. How much we’ve made everything about the individual instead of as the whole. How much we’ve ignored the individual to make it about everyone else.
This is about the silenced. This is about the abused. This is about the unprotected. The uneducated. The loss.
My god, this is about the loss.
And this is also about the gains.
I am not a victim. I am not a survivor. I am me. That is still my superpower.
There is an immense power and feeling of achievement in being secure in my own skin to have done a boudoir shoot after everything. I will not let that power be stripped from me.
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“Want to play the rape game?”
“No.”
“That’s the spirit!”
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The first time I had sex I was raped. We had been hardly dating, both virgins, and shared the same birthday.
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They say you have to say it. That saying it is what helps you get over it. False. But there. I said it. It’s true what they say: the hardest thing is admittance. This next one, though.
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The second time I was raped it was by a long-term boyfriend and on my 25th birthday. I might also mention he is the father of my daughter. My daughter who partially shares his last name. If you think I had her name changed because I’m a single mom with full custody of my kid and I was sick of proving she was mine—we had different last names—you’re wrong. That’s just excuse I had given him. I had her name changed because his name makes me physically ill. I still hate that it’s partially attached to her.
His name. The sound of his voice. The sight of him. Sends me into a downward spiral. Chasing the flush of the toilet.
And did I mention he knew about the first occurrence? Talk about a betrayal. Talk about the hurt. Talk about the disrespect.
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I wish I would have seen what her doctors saw.
My daughter’s first two doctor visits, they made a point of asking me if I feared for our safety. The first visit, he was with us, they made an excuse to pull me into the hall. They asked me twice. Are you sure? The next visit, I took her alone and they asked me once again.
They told me it was standard procedure, normal protocol. They ask all the moms.
I’ve asked other moms about this. It’s not standard practice. They were never asked.
Why didn’t I see what the doctors saw??
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I hate my birthday.
Eleven years ago, it was a different kitchen in this same city. I was of a different mind. There were no brown cabinets. Everything was white—the counters, the cabinetry, the appliances—but I was picturing them stained red. Instead of laughing with my daughter in my lap, there were silent tears with a phone in one hand and a knife in the other. I couldn’t see the future; I was blinded by nightmares. I was reliving a moment I couldn’t even fully remember.
Yellow light. Lines. The carpet tells me it’s daylight. His snores tell me it’s early. My head confirms it’s too early. Then the flashes.
Hands on thighs. Spinning room. Darkness. Limp hands. Fingers wrapping wrists. A tug. Pounding head. Nooo. Thick tongue.
Darkness.
Denial.
Text message.
Gathering clothes, shoes, keys.
Down the stairs.
Out the door.
Car.
“I think I had sex last night. Mind if we stop at the drugstore first?” Oh thank God.
“You know what? Same here,” Denial reroutes. Changing story.
We took the pills together. Nobody cared. All was silent.
Denial loves silence.
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The thing about private colleges is they’re small. Too small. Everyone knows everyone. Everyone parties with everyone. Everyone knows who bangs who.
Or didn’t.
They never knew. It had been a week. We stopped talking. It was as if neither existed. Then I’d hear him slip past my dorm room door with a different girl almost every night. My how the mighty virgin had fallen. They don’t know.
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It was lunchtime when I learned he supposedly lost his virginity differently than how I’d lost mine. There was a party at a larger campus and after years of waiting for the right girl, he chose a random chick to hook up with. The story was out. It was news. It wasn’t me.
But it was.
Denial.
Twenty months later I “lost” mine on Christmas Eve to a random guy I graduated high school with. It was over. No more falsely holding the title Virgin. No more being asked why I hadn’t yet or what I was waiting for. Over. The story was wrong, the time was wrong, but it was over.
Twenty months were spent in nightmares, wondering. Piecing together a night of clips. Until one night when it became too overwhelming to deny. I ran from his house, puked along his driveway. Lost the battle to tears on the drive home. I couldn’t get home fast enough.
Because, what if I just ran this truck into a tree instead?
I made it home, only because I wasn’t sure if crashing would work.
The following years would be spent hopping beds in drunken stupors.
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Stranger Danger. That’s what we’re taught in schools. We don’t learn how sometimes it’s the closest ones we allow in who we have to fear. How that guy you’re dating could be a monster. How even if his friends know you’re dating you might still want to keep him at an arm’s length. How you can’t trust the guy to just cuddle you in bed. How you can’t trust the guy for an untampered beverage. How you can’t trust the guy for just some Advil.
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My 25th birthday was rung in fighting off my boyfriend and then sleeping with the palm of my hand cupped around my own private after throwing up—not because of the alcohol—and a shower to wash him off me. 3:30 am on my birthday and I’m standing in the shower scrubbing him off me furiously—why won’t he just wash off me?! I was stone cold sober. He couldn’t get it through his drunk skull that I didn’t want sex. He thought he was being irresistibly cute. I, however, wasn’t drunk enough to forget a fucking detail. This time, I didn’t have enough in my system to forget and two and a half months later, I didn’t have the mind to deny it any longer.
He doesn’t remember a thing. Doesn’t understand why that was the last night I let him touch me until I finally broke it off over two months later. How I was short fused and found the presence of him annoying, ugly. How I would find every excuse in the book not to be alone with him.
How two weeks later I locked him outside of his own damn house.
We had gone to a friends’ wedding. I played I had migraine when friends asked me what was wrong—they noticed I would flinch at his touch, my forced smile, my aggravated voice, my judgmental tone, and disgusted stare—he couldn’t do a damn thing right. I didn’t allow him to go out with the after party—I encouraged him. I went home to his house—I was in town visiting—and ignored his calls and texts when he got home. I had locked him out of his own house. But that fucking banging—he wouldn’t stop pounding on that goddamn front door for me to open up.
He tried again. This time when I forcibly said No, he heard me—though not without calling me a tease first.
I was his fucking girlfriend.
I was revolted.
I wanted him gone.
I still do.
I want nothing more than that night to be erased and the man who did it, as well.
Do you have any idea how it feels to be the type of person who wastes every single birthday, shooting star, 11:11 wish on the disappearance of someone? Not just someone but the father of your child. I’ve done it so many times I’ve lost count. Seven years of wishes wasted on a sickness.
Do I think he was intentional? No. He had no clue what was going on. He’s a compulsive liar and the most selfish person I’ve met. Do I think he knows what he did? I’ve watched him spin so many lies over the years, he could never comprehend. If you told him the story as it involved two other people, would he recognize the wrong? Absolutely, he’s not that stupid.
He thought it was a game. He thought he was being sexy—he said so. And it had been so long. Seriously, that’s what he said: “But baby it’s been so long,” “But baby, doesn’t it feel so good?” No, it didn’t. In fact, it hurt. I felt raw. I was dry. It was like sandpaper. And I told him such when I begged him to stop but he didn’t believe me because to him, it felt “amazing” (gag me). “But baby, I can’t believe you’re doing this to me.” No, baby, what YOU are doing to me; I can’t even fucking fathom.
Apparently, that’s common after giving birth. Not being able to get wet enough for sex or feeling overly tight. But it was six weeks to the night post birth, and it had been so long for him.
One-in-four women are sexually assaulted by the time they’re 25. I read that statistic once and it’s never left my head. I was lucky enough to be assaulted twice. Correction: Raped.
I wonder what the statistic is for that.
I hear admitting the actual term is great for healing and moving past a tragedy.
Catch me later on it, maybe it will have worked by then. No promises.
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Full confession: I hate the #MeToo movement with a passion. It capitalizes on this idea that men in power assault women who want to rise up. It negates the fact that majority of these cases actually happen between relationships, in the home or with a boyfriend or close friend. It’s not men in power. It’s everyday men who we give the world to and abuse that power, that trust.
Newsflash: marriage doesn’t give one ownership of a body. The only one who owns my body is me.
Consensual sex: agreeing to have sex the entire time for which the event of sex occurs.
This means that as soon as one person wants out or says no or becomes unconscious to where they can no longer say yes, it is over. Done. Pull out. Get off.
I was in a college classroom—Sex Ed for my health education minor—when our teacher reiterated this again and again. As I sat in that seat and couldn’t stop shaking. I was the last to leave the classroom. The reality, the last little straw of denial that I had tried to hang desperately on to had simply evaporated. Funny how they don’t reiterate it when it matters—when we’re kids. Twenty-six years old, I was just then hearing the firm definition of consensual sex. Funny how my teachers never went into the details or exercises of what consensual sex means when it counted—before the rape, when I was innocent and ignorant of sex. Maybe then girls wouldn’t be blamed for the guy’s abuse of power. Maybe then society wouldn’t assume guys were the only gender who could commit such a crime. Maybe then victims wouldn’t feel like the justice system was rigged when it came to rape cases.
Not just rigged, assaulting.
Who am I kidding? I still wouldn’t have had the mental capacity to come forth and fight for the truth.
And who am I kidding? He still wouldn’t have pulled out when I had told him to.
That didn’t happen. Instead, I had to wedge my knee in there and force him out and off of me. Me, 118lbs. pushing a 190lb. male off me. Because it had been too long and I couldn’t possibly be saying No to him. I was. He just didn’t want to hear it.
One good thing about not having enough to drink that night: I could overpower a clumsy drunk ogre.
I didn’t sleep that night. Instead I thought of all the ways of how this could’ve been my life. How this could’ve happened twice. How my baby’s daddy could do this to her mother. This couldn’t be real life.
But this was my life. And I had made it through it once before.
Though, before I hadn’t been capable of accepting the truth and working through it. Instead, I blindly found guys to replace the memory, to put as much distance (sex) between that first rape and the present—a futile effort that never succeeded. I chased sex to erase that first time as if it was the only way. Instead, I learned how many guys listened when I did say no. Some may have been assholes about it.
But they stopped when told.
Somehow, that knowledge and recognition was healing.
I don’t think every walking male is a rapist and I can be in a room alone with a man I don’t know. That’s the stereotype, that’s why we don’t speak up: we aren’t all victims, we don’t all let it ruin our lives, we don’t all allow it to blur the lens when we look at the rest of the male population. Just because one guy hurts us doesn’t mean we believe all men will.
It’s the victim mentality that keeps us quiet. That and the truth. We suddenly know the worst part of someone, we’ve been held captive (literally) by their evil, but that is not always who they let the public see. Then, there’s the little girls who cry wolf—they are the ones who shut us up. They are the ones who make us believe we won’t be heard because too many have lied before—yet we don’t dare call them liars because who are we to judge and assume? We can’t know which ones are lying, we just know some are. Or we question their tale because we knew the man or because their story is never consistent or because whenever something doesn’t go their way they’re quick to claim sexual harassment. Or we question their tale because we had been there and it’s not a laughing matter. It’s not the butt end of a joke. It’s not for fucking talk radio.
It’s fucking hell. It’s suffocating. It’s drowning. It’s clawing at my throat to breathe. It’s my god why can’t I just crawl out of this fucking life and be done.
Speaking up isn’t hard because of the fear of not being believed, it’s because we first had to fight someone off and then we are forced to fight the world in telling them who someone really is; when really, we just want to forget. We want to move on. We don’t want to live in the nightmares and we don’t want your pity. We don’t want to retell the same story we relive every night when we fall to sleep. We don’t want to be put in the same room with the one person who makes us dizzy, whose voice makes our skin crawl, whose proximity makes us fight to not lose consciousness.
We don’t want to fight to prove we were raped—we want to fight to forget the entire event and the person exists. We don’t want to recount our story over and over again for someone to find fault—someone who wasn’t even there, who couldn’t feel the warmth of our tears on our cheeks or taste the saltiness when they reached our mouths; who couldn’t understand the inner turmoil of “this is really happening” and “this can’t be fucking happening”; who isn’t sent back to that fucking nightmare with just one word from one voice and then we’re fighting to be out of that room even though we’re already miles and years away.
No, fighting for justice is another form of rape.
We aren’t survivors. We are living.
sur · vi · vor
noun
the remainder of a group of people or things.
a person who copes well with difficulties in their life.
I hate that fucking term. It assumes the odds are against me. The odds were never stacked against me. I decide my odds.
Let me be clear when I state the only thing that died that night was my respect for this guy and our relationship. I am very much alive. It didn’t kill a part of me. It was a tragedy, it was by all means a “difficulty” to “cope” with—still is, I refuse to be put in the same room with him, I avoid all his phone calls—but I refuse to let it define me. I refuse to let this one night, and the other night, determine the woman I have become and am still becoming. I didn’t “learn to cope”. I was already strong. This didn’t make me stronger. It just taught me evil exists in the world and sometimes, it’s close to home, closer than we can ever imagine. I refuse to give him or this event credit for who I am today.
He does not get that.
I can love my body, feel good in my body, feel secure in my body, and show some skin without it being an open invitation to my body. I am the only owner of my body.
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I didn’t realize how much that first one affected me until I realized I had stopped singing in the shower. I was always singing in the shower. When we had to be quiet in the house and my mother would tell me to keep the music down in the shower, I would get an attitude. It was habit. I don’t remember many times during my childhood when I didn’t sing in the shower. But that changed when I came home my first summer of college.
I started singing in the shower again last year. I had met a guy who made me feel unbelievably safe. I was never one who fell asleep easily but somehow, with him, or his one dog that always slept on the bed with us, I could pass out quickly and sleep through the entire night.
I’d give just about anything to feel that safety again. It has been the hardest part of our recent breakup—not being able to sleep well or through the night—for me to give up and get over. He wasn’t perfect but for the first time in twelve years, I had felt safe behind closed eyelids.
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My rapists don’t get to define me. They don’t get to have a piece of me, not even the broken pieces.
Here’s a reality: I love sex.
That feels so damn good to say.
After everything.
The fact that I get to say this makes me feel so incredibly good about myself and how far I have come. What they couldn’t keep from me. What I have been able to put behind me because I know. I know the beauty of intimacy; I know how good it can feel. I know that it is not the clothes I wear or how I act that determines my choice to give someone my body. It is me saying yes, for the entire time we have sex. And it is someone accepting and also saying yes for the entire time.
They don’t own the broken pieces of me because I didn’t break. I may have wanted to end my life at one point, I may still collapse at the slightest appearance of his name, sound of his voice, or sight of him…
But I’m still here.
I bended. I chose to move on. I have said the words that no one should ever have to say, and I kept going.
I still choose to date. I still open myself up to love. I’m still standing. I still choose to believe there are good guys. I still choose to trust.
More importantly, I choose to live. Every day. Not walk around in a daze, not succumb to the fear or the nightmares. I choose to fall asleep at night. I choose to close my eyes. I own my life and my body and I make sure I know this.
These days, I put myself to sleep at night and I wake up wanting and ready for a new day.
I’ve been through hell, and I visit it on occasion, but I refuse to become a resident there.
Why do I so firmly believe in pushing forward? It’s the only way to move. I’ve been held down, I’ve been stripped, I’ve been taken. There is power in knowing we can overcome.
We can. I am.
What happened to me will never be okay. It will never be okay that our system is rigged. It will never be okay that I will never feel safe to talk about this shit. It will never be okay with me that my daughter’s father is a disgusting human. It will never be okay that even though I have confronted him about this once, I will likely never hear an apology from him. It will never be okay that I can’t seem to simply forget, forgive, and move on—I would love to forget, maybe forgive. It will never be okay with me that people could talk behind my back but could never ask me, “Why can’t you be in the same room with him?” It will never be okay that as soon as this is posted…if I post it…people will look at me differently. It will never be okay that some people will have the nerve to talk about this even though it doesn’t consume them, it doesn’t involve them, they are not part of the nightmare.
It will never be okay.
But I am okay. Not every day, but most days. And I will be okay. And I am more than okay with that. You don’t need to be—this doesn’t involve you. But I need to be.
And for anyone who thinks they have been in my shoes, you haven’t. And if you have had to spoke those words or are still trying to admit those words and give them a voice, I haven’t been in your shoes. Because your nightmare didn’t involve me, it’s yours to work through and overcome and I will not talk as if I know your nightmare. I don’t.
I thought I had hit rock bottom almost 13 years ago. This past week proved me wrong if you went at all by the liters of tears shed. I was broken and lost. I got everything so wrong.
Thirteen years ago I had to pick myself up off the kitchen floor. I was broken down by the nightmares, the replays, every time I closed my eyes, every time I got close to a guy. I couldn’t see through the madness. I was living in denial until the darkness suffocated me. I thought the only way to get through was getting out; drinking myself into a state where I couldn’t think nor remember wasn’t working.
I grabbed the sharpest knife I could find in the kitchen; and I kept wondering how much cutting I’d have to do to get the job done, how much blood would there have to be, how red all these damn fucking white cabinets and tile would be, and if they could even get the stains out. I really wanted to know how long the pain would last. How deep I’d have to cut—if I’d be able to cut deep enough—for it to be quick.
Knife in one hand, phone in the other, I don’t remember getting up. I don’t remember hanging up the phone. I don’t remember dropping the knife—did I put it down on the counter?
I only remember flipping the switch and turning off the lights.
I am beyond stubborn. It’s one of the reasons why I’m likely hard to date—at least I know it, though, right?
The stubbornness got me through. Helped me see to the other side. I couldn’t let him win.
I don’t like my birthday. It’s a shitty reminder of the first guy I really dated—he shares my birthday—and what he took from me.
Why don’t people of sexual assault and rape speak up? We have to fight with ourselves to get through it, and then we have to fight others for our stories to be heard, and then there’s the nonbelievers picking us apart. It’s the one crime guaranteed to rip us apart twice. It’s never just the incident, it’s the after effects.
I was a virgin.
And then I wasn’t.
The first time I openly spoke about it was in a college nonfiction writing course. The paper was assigned around the time of my birthday, and it consumed me—the nightmares, the fear, never really leaves. It had been over three years but I was back in that bedroom, under him, like not a minute had passed. By the time the paper was due it was too late for me to change the topic and write something new.
I have since wrote and deleted the story countless times. Every anniversary, every birthday. How do you talk about an event that cripples your tongue, that you don’t want to answer questions to, but that you physically need to release from your shoulders? That you need to let out into the world. That you need to let go of. A weight you can’t and shouldn’t have to carry.
Sometimes I’ve wondered if it weren’t for Evelynn how much strength would I have?
The first time it happened was long before she came along in my life.
The second time? Almost seven years ago, only weeks after her birth and on my birthday.
That fucking birthday of mine.
No, that second time wasn’t the same guy. Yes, both were guys I dated.
I have intimacy issues. I don’t need a therapist to outline or draw up a map to find the root problem. I’ve faced it in the bedroom multiple times—the difference is all the other guys stop when I say. They don’t force me as soon as I say “No” or turn away.
My stubbornness pushed me forward. Forced me to focus on tomorrow. Stop living in the past. I swam my damn self to shore. I breathed for air when I thought I would drown. I walked on.
The road was unpaved with no mile markers or street signs, but I walked it headstrong and alone.
I have high standards—I won’t date less than my worth again. And I’m too damn old to teach a guy how to treat me…again. My standards are my shield. I’m real quick to leave any relationship that no longer fulfills me, that no longer gives me happiness.
I create my own happiness, but I’ll be damned if another relationship brings me down.
There was nothing normal about our relationship. We didn’t get to date—we met during quarantine. He met my daughter on the first “date”, which was going on a walk. I quickly gave him allowance to co-parent. We fully moved in together within only a few months. We’ve had to navigate each of us starting new jobs within the first year together during a pandemic.
I thought this time was it. For the first time, I felt safe. I thought I was loved. I forgot about the past. I was so certain. Everything felt so incredibly natural. Even when it was hard and we were navigating something new together, I felt assured. For the first time in my life I fell full on in love, and I did so without fear. It felt beautiful.
I had never really loved before, never allowed myself to. When I spoke it, it was a lie due to the guy’s expectations.
This one was different. It was refreshing.
I have a knack for getting it wrong, though.
Here’s the thing. I don’t need someone to pull me out of the deep end, out of my worst self, out of my nightmares. I don’t need someone to take care of me.
I pulled myself out twice before. I’ll do it again. I do it every single time.
If I can survive the conviction that suicide could have been the answer, I can survive anything. I have two lungs that breathe, legs that not only walk but can run. I have a daughter—albeit as stubborn as I—who grounds me. I have people in my corner. I have everything I need.
I don’t need someone in my life who doesn’t even know if they want me in theirs.
Read that again.
I
do not
need
someone
in my life
who doesn’t even know
if they want me
in theirs.
One week ago, Andy said he wanted a break. Scratch that, “we are definitely on a break.”
First, what the fuck is even a break in a relationship besides a Friends show fantasy?
Second, if you haven’t learned, I don’t do breaks. I’m absolutely terrible at hitting pause. My brain goes static and my body convulses at the idea. I like movement. And I’m not sure what good it does waiting around for someone who claims to be unhappy about so many things in their life but is solely blaming me and our relationship for it all. He’s not hitting pause on anything else, just us. (Thanks Bill, for my sign.)
I’m not okay with that. I’ve spent more time in the last week crying than not crying—I’m not someone who cries.
It hasn’t been a perfect relationship—I don’t think any relationship is perfect. However, I do fully believe they are a reflection of how two people work through problems and respect each other.
I can’t be the only one wanting to fix things or wanting to try. It’s that simple.
Some people believe distance can make the heart grow fonder—apparently, he thinks space will provide the answer if he misses me or not, misses what he had or not—but we’re still living in the same house. There is no room for “space” in this house.
And there is the root of all my pain this past week.
I don’t even get a clean break up. I’m just getting a break, a maybe, an “I’m not kicking you and Evelynn out.” Seriously, bless his heart for that kindness, not many men would be so willing. But limbo is purgatory for me. I walk through this house struggling—failing—to keep it together while he hums and goes about his day as if nothing has changed. How could I mean so little to someone who meant so God damn much to me?
When I made the decision to move out—not easy in this housing market, by the way, and as a real estate agent, I know—it broke me even more. Especially because it’s not immediate. I’m still here—this fucking holiday weekend. And it means I’ll be throwing money away at rent, not even an investment—cue another bullet hole.
But I’m not the girl who sits around and waits for a man to decide if he even wants me. I’m not second best. I’m not a second thought. You don’t get to give me up like I’m a light switch to be flicked on and off.
Saturday, I spent the entire day searching for rentals and housing options. It took a toll on me. By nightfall I packed up a suitcase and drove across the state to my parents for the night. I needed out. It’s hard watching someone so easily throw away something that was so good without hesitation. You doubt yourself and everything you thought you knew in the relationship.
I gave this man everything, easily. I would have given him more if he’d asked. Right now, he also took my ability to trust. I’m not sure he realizes that even if he chose me again, that I could choose him without fear that he would do this again. He cleanly chipped off a piece of my heart. It’s not about how much I love him or want him, it’s about a relationship where two people want each other and will work through things together. Not with a wall up between them. It’s about a partnership not two ships sailing in the night.
Sometimes, the very thing that hurts the most—my god does it hurt—is the very thing we need to do, to respect and protect ourselves. I don’t want to walk away but am I even really the one walking away if he already has a foot out the door?
Yesterday I was told, “Well, if there’s one thing I know it’s that you’ll get through this. You always do. You’re stubborn enough to make anything work once you’ve made the decision. You’ve done it with every new job and Evelynn. You always make it work.”
My dad ain’t wrong. I do and I will.
Every time.
I might be broken and the future feels very unknown but this still stands: I’ve picked up those broken pieces before and put myself back together; and I sure as hell am no stranger to traveling the unknown road. I may have taken the wrong turn somewhere, but I’ll end up where I need to be.
Health and self-love are not 100 percent co-dependent. I loved me when I was deemed slightly overweight, I loved me when I was most definitely underweight. I love me as I am now. Recently, I shared a post on Instagram regarding obesity and health and I still stand by it. If it’s offensive to someone I’m going to assume they need the wake-up call. This is tough love.
“Obesity = Unhealthy.”
Notice nowhere in there does it mention beautiful, wrong, less than, unworthy, ugly, strong, weak, etc. There’s only two words—count them, ONE TWO, two words—obesity and unhealthy.
Now let’s move on.
I don’t know of a single case when a person who is obese (note: I’m saying obese, not overweight) would be given a clean bill of health. I don’t. Obesity is not healthy. Plain as day. I am not okay with magazines highlighting it with bold words of “THIS IS HEALTHY” splayed across the page. It is not something I want my daughter believing. Reality check: Someone who is obese is at higher risk for heart disease, asthma, cancers and tumors, sickness and illness, poor mental health, diabetes, and more.
THIS DOES NOT MEAN THAT SOMEONE WHO IS NOT OBESE IS AUTOMATICALLY HEALTHY.
Read that again.
This also doesn’t mean the goal is to be skinny.
If you don’t know already though, as far as I’m concerned, “skinny” and “fat” are derogatory terms. They mean nothing. The correct terms would be underweight, overweight, obese, or healthy.
When I was slightly overweight (I toed the line basically), no I wasn’t living a healthy lifestyle. I was active but I also drank almost every night—that’s not healthy. I suffered from migraines often because I was undiagnosed with celiac disease and had no idea I needed to give up the gluten. I ate a lot of fatty foods and rationalized it because I played soccer 4 times a week, had a gym membership, and loved to eat my veggies too. Clear as day, though: I overate and drank. I was always sick and heavily fatigued. When I became pregnant, I couldn’t gain weight. Even when I was told to eat ice cream and steak daily (something my doctor made sure to note was unhealthy but in this case I needed to gain weight and it called for desperate measures), I could not gain weight. The placenta levels were so low I was first induced 3 weeks early.
After birth I immediately lost weight and went to the other side of the spectrum.
When I was underweight, I pursued a healthy lifestyle but was still unhealthy. I did all the things: yoga multiple times, worked out semi-regularly, played soccer, eat 90/10 clean. But I was throwing up daily—not intentionally—I had migraines every single week, and I suffered from severe back pain.
I was not healthy in either of these situations.
That does not mean I didn’t love myself. That does not mean I broke myself down.
It means I could be honest with myself and my health. That recognition allowed me to keep going.
Chances are if someone is doing the healthy things but underweight, overweight, or obese, there is something missing or they’re just on their journey. That is okay! There’s age (natural), drinking, eating portions, food ingredients and what they’re eating, and sleep. Then there’s medical reasons.
People simply aren’t born healthy and it’s done, finite, no more work is needed, journey is over. No, one has to live healthy.
It’s my mindset that pushes me to be healthy. And I am the healthiest I’ve ever been for every reason except my size.
I am healthy because I eat a mostly clean well-proportioned diet—I pay a lot of attention to ingredients. I workout regularly. I hardly ever drink. I don’t smoke or take drugs. I am not on antibiotics—gut health wreckers! I don’t drink my calories and I stay away from most artificials (coloring, flavors, additives, sugars—I’m very choosey). I make sure to get 6-8 hours of sleep no matter how hard I’m trying to hustle. I brush my teeth twice a day sometimes three. I keep my coffee to only a 4-cup pot (equivalent to about 20oz.) a day and half the time it goes unfinished. I drink my gallon of water 6 days of the week. When I see myself in the mirror, I avoid picking out my flaws and instead appreciate what makes me look like me—what makes me identifiable in a room full of strangers. I refuse to eat gluten and dairy because my body does not allow for it. I gave up peppers, onions, and nightshades like tomatoes because it makes me break out in acne and makes me uncomfortably bloated. When our bodies have adverse reactions to food, like bloat or acne, it’s our gut or body telling us “hey, maybe we shouldn’t make that a regular thing.” Doesn’t mean we can’t do it, more like it should not be a daily habit.
I would eat donuts every day of my life but the flour and sugar bloat me when it’s in abundance. The longer I go without them, the more severe the bloat because my body isn’t used to that level. Same with popcorn and puppy chow and other baked goods. Freaking love them. Can even make healthier versions—still not going to be a daily occurrence in my life. If I were to eat them daily, I’d gain weight and it wouldn’t be bloat and I can promise you, that would be unhealthy. Other than fueling a good lifting session and making me happy in the moment because I love the taste of them, there is no benefit. None.
Size means nothing when it comes to health but yes it can most definitely be a factor.
One can work out daily and be right in their target weight range, yet unhealthy because of the foods they eat. Or don’t eat. Or because of alcoholism. Or due to smoking. Have you heard of bodybuilders on steroids?
Those fitness competitions? Not everyone does it natural. And that’s a nationally recognized sport based on body composition, size, and looks.
There’s a reason bodybuilders have an average life expectancy of 47 years old: stress on the body and a high animal protein diet. For some, it also includes the use of steroids and the stress on the body when getting off of steroids. Anything that messes with your hormones, is going to wreak havoc on your body. (Note: this is NOT every bodybuilder, though.)
As I said, size means nothing but can be a factor.
My grandmother was obese. Couldn’t fit through a camper door. Couldn’t walk up or down stairs without help of a smaller step and others to aide her along. She retained a lot of water and wouldn’t give up the salt. She had a scooter. She was particular about temperatures because her body couldn’t regulate body heat well. She had scabs in her rolls. She got diabetes. I loved her but there was nothing healthy about that state in life. As she got older it became increasingly difficult to lose weight, a factor of age that’s natural, but she also never really tried. She would complain about her ailments on end, and even gossip about others being overweight or going through weight changes, and then never take any action regarding her own weight or health. She didn’t want to hear the doctors when they told her to drink less water or use no salt. The salt argument was quite a common occurrence—she would never admit being told repeatedly; it was always, “Well that’s the first time I’m hearing that.” When I was pregnant, she had to be told that I was upset with her because we had no idea if she would be around long enough to meet her great granddaughter when it was within her power to choose healthier habits. She was still loved very much by many—my daughter talks about her almost every day, wishing she was still around.
That being said, I stand by obesity equals unhealthy. That’s not insensitive, it’s a truth bomb. If this bothers you it might just be time to reevaluate your health.
If you are obese and don’t mind it, then damn, more power to you. I can’t handle not feeling like I’m living to my full capability—I already said I get annoyed with bloat because I find it incredibly uncomfortable. I fell in love so much with this feeling of not being sick, less migraines, ability to move easily and not get winded on stairs or keeping up with my kid, strength to lift heavy things without pulling a muscle when I was living on my own, and more mentally present that I can’t give that up for anything.
So when I shared this post/quote of “Obesity = unhealthy”. I got a negative message about it and I noticed other friends pulling the passive aggressive defensive move of posting something in retaliation. It was annoying because they completely missed the point—many of these women either don’t choose to strive to be healthy on a continual basis or they keep starting over with long gaps in between. And others do pursue a healthy life they’re just mid-journey. But I was appalled how much people will take the simplest concept completely out of context, starting with the fact that obese and overweight are not the same, one is the severity of the other.
It takes discipline to go after your health. F*ck motivation and your why—discipline gets you there when your motivation doesn’t show up or is nonexistent. It takes strength to say, “Under no circumstance will I give up on myself.” It takes courage to admit, “I am not healthy.” It takes awareness to say, “I am not as healthy as I could be because I keep giving into these vices.” It takes heart to say, “I am not healthy but I love you for who you are and what you can do in this moment but I want more; and I will love you where you want to go, let’s go there.”
Here’s the thing though. When I went back and read through a lot of the comments on the original post/quote, it was by obese or formerly obese people agreeing with it—and they had all chosen to make a change and pursue a healthier lifestyle. Obesity is selfish. People worry about your health. Just like if someone is not eating and underweight, it’s noticed and worried over. Unhealthiness comes in many forms and sizes. (As I said, my daughter misses her great grandmother and wanted more time with her.)
Sometimes—hell, often times—it does feel beyond our control. Take Taylor for instance, he’s about half of what he should likely weigh due to his severe disability, but we never give up on him. He still eats healthy, even if it’s through a g-tube. My mom still fights for answers for him, still does ample research and looks for new studies regarding what she can control: food. Taylor might not be able to workout because of his predicament, but he can eat healthy. He doesn’t have preservatives and my mom packs him with healthy fats for him to hit his calorie count.
I’m not offended if you say Taylor is unhealthy—he’s like 5’4” and 68lbs. with a novel long list of health issues, of course he’s not healthy. I’d be upset if someone connected his personality and beauty to his health status. I’d be upset if someone tried telling me he’s healthy and we can’t control his situation, that we should give up on his eating habits aka what we can control.
Beauty is your heart. Strength is your perseverance and mind. Health is the innerworkings of your bodily systems.
You can be obese and love yourself—damnit you freaking should!—and be loved—you are!—but there’s a line when it comes to this sensitive bs. Unhealthy is unhealthy, let’s not undermine, manipulate, or blatantly deny it—that’s just cause for more unhealth.
Loving your rolls (or bones) doesn’t mean you have to accept being unhealthy or the state you’re in. Choosing to be healthy doesn’t mean you don’t or can’t accept yourself in all your stages of size. You can promote loving yourself while also encouraging others to make healthy choices. It’s simultaneously a very easy concept, a perfect blend of black and white—yet it’s grey.
I’ve always done it alone. And I was fine with that. Though, I couldn’t tell you how as I never remember much other than the puking. The constant puking and pain. Everything else is black.
Until this time when I had someone by my side.
Migraines are my invisible enemy & Wednesday I came down hard with one. I was out for 36 hours, dead to the world. My boyfriend claims to have spoken to me throughout the day but I don’t remember it. He took Evelynn the entire day and then planned on having to do so again yesterday (he skipped going to football practice) because he didn’t know what to expect. If I’d feel better or if I’d still feel like death. Yesterday, I still wasn’t 100% with a lingering headache that I had to work to manage.
My brain was in a meat pulverizer. It was like a construction crew was having a jackhammer party in my head. I couldn’t keep down anything, not even water. My body would overheat and then get hit hard with chills. I couldn’t stand up, I was dizzy, I was seeing spots. It’s wondering if death is a good enough answer just to end the pain—it’s not. But that’s the troubling thing with migraines: you want it to end as fast as possible by any means possible. There is nothing I can do except sleep. Looking at a screen makes it worse. Trying to keep hydrated just makes for more trips to the bathroom to puke. I go dark.
While I spent the entire day in bed, Andy took care of Evelynn. They washed both his truck and my car. They took the dogs for a walk and she rode her bike. She got dirty and played with mud. They did a bonfire and danced. She ate all her meals and earned herself some ice cream. He kept her happy and entertained.
I’ve had to skip major events for migraines. I’ve lost great friends from migraines. I’ve been verbally abused by past boyfriends due to my migraines cancelling their plans. I’ve had grades slip in college due to migraines and my attendance record alone. I’ve slept through days on vacation due to migraines. I’ve missed soccer games growing up due to migraines. I’ve left bachelorette parties early due to migraines. I’ve almost lost jobs due to migraines—my work ethic and communication helped me keep them, helped my employers trust me. I gave up going for my teacher certificate because I couldn’t sub more than 3 days in a row without getting a migraine. I once chopped my hair because I heard that could help. I once gave up lentils (yes that means peanut butter, too) because I heard that could reduce headaches. I once went on a migraine med and ended up pregnant because it interacted with my birth control despite original assurances it wouldn’t—8 months after giving birth there was a “new finding” that the med I had taken was reportedly making birth control pills ineffective.
Since finding out I’m celiac and going gluten free, I’ve had far fewer debilitating migraines. Where I used to have them for 2-5 days 2-3 times a month, I now only get the excruciating crushing ones a few times a year. Most people don’t know how to react. They can’t see it. They can’t feel it. It’s invisible. Some think I must be faking it. It’s extremely difficult for anyone who doesn’t experience such crushing and debilitating migraines to not be annoyed with me for disrupting their day. Reality: it’s my hell. I not only have to battle the migraine but then I will have to also defend myself.
Today with the migraine gone and the post lingering headache gone, I’m feeling unbelievably blessed to have a man who took it upon himself to watch Evelynn for a day without complaints. Thank you babe.
Last Saturday morning I had to have the hard conversation with Evelynn regarding what breaking up with a guy means. I was expecting tears, I was expecting some No’s, I was expecting a little resistance to the idea of him no longer being around. The last time I dated someone for a few months, she was still asking about him 10 months later and didn’t take the breakup well.
Instead, the conversation surprised me.
“Evelynn, E. isn’t going to be coming around anymore.”
“Why not? I want him to.”
“Well, remember when we talked about how first I date someone to find out if I can love them and want to be with them forever?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, honey, I just can’t love E. I can’t marry him so I had to break it off.”
“But I want you to marry him.”
“I know, I’m sorry. But he’s not the one for me.”
“But who you going to marry then?”
“I don’t know kid, that’s why I date. To find someone.”
“Well, you can marry my boyfriend.”
And that was that. We were back to her imaginary boyfriend Dugon. No tears. No asking for E. When he came to get his stuff less than an hour later, she asked to give him a hug and a kiss goodbye, told him she hoped to see him again, and it was over.
Like I said, I don’t give her nearly enough credit. Kids are resilient.
That was 36 hours after I had done the deed and broke it off with the guy. I was terrified to have the conversation, but she fell asleep early both nights and I wasn’t able to do it sooner. She had been crazy over him, accidentally calling him daddy, asking him to always stay over or if he’s going to move in. It was too fast for her. I hadn’t expected it. Breaking her heart was the one thing I feared most.
But I’ll never settle. I refuse to settle in love or a lifetime partnership. I don’t want her to think it’s okay to compromise because in the long run, I know I wouldn’t be happy. And I know my happiness (or lack of) can affect her. She is such an empathetic kid. I don’t want to spend the rest of my life with someone I don’t love.
And here’s the one thing during the breakup that got to me: when he said, “I wasn’t expecting you to fall in love at all with me.”
Say what now?
It’s so unfair to let someone love you and not love them back, I can’t do it. I won’t do it. And it saddens me to know that he was okay with letting that be.
But I have wondered if I’m capable of loving someone. I know I’m picky, and I know I don’t let people in easy. I can count on one hand the number of really close friends I have, and I don’t even think I can use all five fingers. I’ve never needed someone to know who I am. I’ve never needed someone to care for me. I’ve never needed to rely on others to be happy or get through hard times.
Yes, you could say I’m introvert to the very end.
I can socialize and love a good night’s out. And when 90’s night comes, I’m the girl dancing and singing along to every song without a single care of who might be looking on—I know people notice, I just don’t care.
I’m the introvert with strong self-esteem.
And I don’t want to fix a guy. I don’t believe in “fixing” someone. It’s about accepting them.
In the process of breaking up, turns out he was paranoid I was cheating on him. Despite the fact that I had never given him a reason to doubt me. Soon after the breakup, I was also asked out by someone and I turned the guy down…again. I simply wasn’t interested, in dating or in him at the moment. His response: “I’m never the one for anyone.” It’s not the first time I’ve heard someone say it in response—from him or from another guy when I turn them down. It’s a response that will guarantee a no when asked again in the future, though.
You have to learn you’re good enough for yourself before you can believe you’re good enough for others; before you can chase love. Otherwise there will come a time when you distrust others & how they view you, or you will become so reliant on their view of you. Or, you may just falsely accuse them of cheating or being disloyal. How others see you should not impact how you see yourself. As long as you’re doing good in the world, you’re golden. You have to learn to love yourself first, though.
I hate saying it but I won’t date a man with low self-esteem. I just won’t. I don’t want to be the girl to fix them. I don’t want to fix anyone. I don’t mind helping someone realize their value, but I won’t be the reason for them to see it. And I don’t want to deal with the constant thought of them thinking they’re not good enough for me, that I won’t stick around, or that I’ll cheat on them. At that point, they are placing their fears on me instead of respecting who I am. At that point, they allow their negative self-talk and low self-esteem blind them. At that point, intentional or not, their view of me isn’t healthy or kind.
I won’t be brought down by someone else’s insecurities. I won’t allow it into a relationship. I won’t allow it into a relationship my daughter will inevitably witness. I’ve witnessed friends live in toxic relationships because of low self-esteem. I don’t mind helping someone see their true value, I don’t mind providing someone with the tools and teach them how to have a positive mindset when talking about or viewing themselves, but I won’t date them through it.
Through the process of breaking up with the latest guy, I found out how paranoid he was believing I was cheating on him or talking to other guys. He even had the audacity to ask my daughter if I was bringing other boyfriends home. He played it like he was joking—that’s not a joke I take lightly.
I’ve never understood how one can think so highly of someone & yet be so occupied with the belief or fear that the person is cheating on or leaving them. If I thought someone was cheating on me, I’m confronting them and then very likely kicking their ass to the curb. There are no second chances. There are no games. There are no second guessing. Because at that point, I’ve lost trust. Either in the relationship or with them. And I won’t date someone if I can’t trust them or if I can’t believe in what we have. I won’t date them if I can’t feel secure in our relationship or what we have.
Currently, I’m not sure if I’m open to dating. I’m picky. And the dating pool simply hasn’t been enticing with the games…and did I mention I’m picky? I’m not sure how soon I want to bring my kid into another relationship. Simply put, I’m not sure if I have it in me.
So Evelynn, I guess it’s just you and me, kid. And honestly, I can’t complain about that.
“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.
It is so terribly hard to be single in a society that wants you to be with someone, especially as a single mom. Everyone wants me to end up with someone. Everyone wants me to have a guy to “take care” of me and my daughter. Everyone wants me to have someone to share my life with and build a life with. The truth: yes, I would love that too, but not so bad that I’m willing to settle for it.
My boss and I at least once a month seem to catch up on my dating life. He likes to make sure I keep a stable head and not jumping into relationships with guys who aren’t worth my time. These chats typically happen after he’s been gone a week on a golf trip or after I blog and he’s like “What the fuck, Tiffany? What were you thinking talking to that guy?” I know, folks think it’s weird my boss and I can have such conversations openly and candidly but honestly, I need that dose of reality and from someone I respect. It’s a nice change from everyone else trying to set me up with guys that I’m not at all interested in. Which leads me to my latest dating tip from my boss because he actually nailed the one thing that’s holding me back from dating a lot of guys: ambition.
There are a few traits that I often find attractive in guys that are a total weakness to me: trimmed beards, athletic, willingness to help others, outgoing, respectful, great with kids, drives a truck, tattoos, not a scrub, enjoys the country, blah blah blah. But until that conversation, I didn’t even know why I had this feeling in my bones that kept holding me back from giving guys a try the last few months.
Very rarely do I meet men who are as ambitious as me (I know, my ego is unreal). It seems people are so easily okay with just settling in life and I’m not. People so badly want a 9-5 job and leave it at that. I don’t. I’ve never worked just 40 hours a week in my life, I think. And I can never just “leave my work” at the office. I get bored. I get antsy. My mind is always going. I need to work 50 hours at the minimum to even remotely feel like I’m going somewhere with my career…and that’s the kicker, I always want to be going somewhere. I’m not thrilled with the idea of dating a guy who doesn’t have goals outside of fitness and travel. “Travel the world” doesn’t mean a lot to me unless there’s a reason behind it—write a book, learn and embrace new culture, participating in charity. And when it comes to fitness….I can’t really get behind the “I just want to be bigger” mentality.
Give me a guy who wants to do something with his life.
I also can’t get behind the whole Netflix marathon shit and sleeping the weekend away. I dated a guy last fall where Saturdays were spent in bed—get your mind out of the gutter, he slept the day away typically and I either worked or read or left for a few to just get out. Being stagnant isn’t something I’m good at. I don’t have it in me. I don’t mind a Netflix marathon for a night or a day but not every weekend. Most nights I don’t get to bed until after 11pm and I’m up by 5am the next day—that’s being conservative, too—and then I’m go go go all day. Weekends might be a tad slower but I’m always making moves. I have no plans to slow down, I want someone to move with me….and not have to hold their hand.
And here we have the first lie of the bunch: ambitious people who don’t make moves. Talk about an oxymoron. Folks who have these goals and talk about going places and where they want to be but don’t take action. I’m a firm believer in will power and mind over matter. You just get up and do. You can talk all day about your goals and how you’re going to get there but until you work for them, you’re not going anywhere.
How do I find motivation? I force myself. “No” isn’t an option. Not succeeding isn’t an option. Not getting shit done, isn’t an option. I don’t want to hear about how you’re going to be a sales leader or own your own company one day but then constantly complain about working or turning down opportunities left and right to actually go somewhere. Please keep the negativity and laziness outside of my bubble.
Mostly, I’m waiting for the guy who wants to motivate me. Support is one thing, respect is another thing, but motivating goes a long way. It’s empowering. Help me get up at 5am so I can workout before work. I don’t want the guy who wants me to come back to bed or wants me to come out to the bar every night. Push me to be better. Call me out on shit that isn’t benefiting me. Hell, a guy who calls himself out on shit, that’s hot.
Have high standards.
I’ve been called shallow because I won’t date guys who don’t care about their health. High standards, health is important to me. I’m big into fitness and eating healthy and having a positive mind because I want to be around for a while for my kid. I show up.
I show up everyday for myself and for my kid. Everyday. Whether she’s with me or not. No matter how tired I am I get up out of bed. No matter how late it is I will get my workout in before the day is over. I will squeeze in the run to the grocery store so Evelynn has her berries and cheese and peanut butter, even if it means carrying her with one arm throughout the store as she naps. At times, I run myself thin to get shit done but I don’t regret it. I haven’t yet because I know one day it will all pay off.
I told myself I was going to be strong and lead by example. I told myself I was going to be selfish with my life and time because if Evelynn ever grew up and found herself in my situation, a single mom, I want her to do the same. I don’t want her to give up on her goals. I don’t want her to get lost on the couch and give up because life got hard and it can be lonely. Hell no. I would want her to chase her dreams and go after life. I would want her to have goals. I would never want her to settle for a man because society told her she needs to “end up with someone.”
I would want her to show up and be somebody, not coast through life. And I’m not willing to take time away from her or away from my goals to give guys who aren’t ambitious a try.
I think I’ll keep my high standards even if it means I’m “missing out” on love in my twenties and growing old with someone.
I’ve always thought lying was the rudest form of disrespect. I think it’s why I don’t handle rejection well or why it hurts when stood up: there was never any intention to show, it was all a game. I’m not disappointed over the guy—four out of five times I’m just like “oh well, who’s next?”—I’m upset I wasted my time, I’m upset they didn’t respect me enough to be upfront about their intentions, I’m annoyed I became a pawn in their need for attention when I genuinely wanted to get to know them and see where things went…preferably not to the playing field.
A couple months ago I posted a poll on social, wondering if dating was even worth weeding through all the fuckboys, the games & lies: hate love or love love? It was crazy some of the responses I received but those that stood out the most: a number of guys felt the need to advise me on dating guys who were “uglier” than me. They told me how repeatedly dating good looking guys will never lead to a satisfying relationship, I’ll never be more than arm candy and I’ll never be respected or treated like a princess. I’ll continue to be cheated on, lied to, and played.
Well one, I’m a fucking queen. And I once read that historically speaking, queens are much more powerful and successful without a king—I’m at a point of agreeing with this sentiment.
Two, didn’t know I was that shallow. To my knowledge, I’ve never dated or even been with a guy based on looks. Their looks may have attracted me to them, but it was the following conversations and their ability to make me laugh that made anything go farther than a “hello.” If I wasn’t excited to talk to them or see them, I wasn’t interested. Looks be damned.
Three, what does this say about me? They’re either calling me 1) ugly because beautiful people apparently can’t be honest or a good partner, or 2) a cheater because if I’m the better looking one, I can’t respect my partner. Fucking absurd.
I’ve never equated looks with attitude and morals.
And for the record, I’ve never cheated. I know how it feels to be cheated on, I don’t wish that disrespect and rejection on anyone.
It’s repulsive how people can assume someone’s behavior based on looks. Judge much?
I don’t know how many times over the years I’ve heard people tell me they thought I would be a bimbo or a dancer (you know the kind) simply based on my name. Recently, I had someone tell me their favorite picture of me was one of me being a goof because it proved I can be freehearted when my “beauty” would typically make me a stuck-up bitch. It had nothing to do with the resting bitch face I suffer from but specifically his belief that gorgeous women were crazy bitches (he later stood me up, so who’s really the asshole here?). I was like 1) I’m not that pretty, and 2) I can be a total bitch if you piss me off right. Just ask the exes I refuse to acknowledge.
Regarding that poll, I haven’t fully decided if it’s worth it. I know it’s not worth any toxic relationship or being with someone who blatantly disrespects me. I know it’s not worth subjecting my daughter to. Maybe, sometime, I’ll find out why it’s worth it. Until then, I’ll let these guys just bite the dust.
I got stood up again this past weekend. Well, to be accurate, the guy just flaked out on me but I consider the two to be the same thing. And yes, it’s that same guy who stood me up back in February. Apparently, I’ve lost my backbone at some point in the last year. That’s depressing and intolerable.
That same weekend I also got my hair chopped and colored for the first time in my life. Whenever I end it with a guy or need to make a change, it seems I have to change my hair. It’s a statement. It’s an “I’m sorry I can’t talk to you anymore, I had a different hair style then.” Is that acceptable? Yes. Is that childish? Likely. Blame it on the estrogen. Girls need a physical change to represent an attitude or emotional change. Makes the mindset more permanent. A reminder.
And my bullshit meter just maxed out.
Online dating is the norm. There’s no bush to beat. People say they don’t want to meet someone in a bar. What do you think the norm was 20 years ago? The bar. The restaurant. The beach. The coffee shop. A mutual friend. Anything that wasn’t the internet.
Last summer I got asked out by a stranger at Reed’s Lake. The guy was kind of a creep about it; told me I was absolutely stunning and that he couldn’t help but stare, and would I mind if he took me out to dinner right then. I turned him down. I’m a hypocrite—this was the day after I asked a friend, “whatever happened to getting asked out at the bar?” Yes, I would prefer the bar over the internet. Turns out, guys are even creepier online. And more flakey.
Enter last weekend and my attitude adjustment. Or should I say return?
I’ve been known among my girlfriends as the one who doesn’t put up with shit from guys. Who doesn’t tolerate disrespect or guys thinking they’re going to control me. Who doesn’t give second chances. I have this firm belief that by mid-twenties, people are 98% set in their ways, character and habit wise.
I’ve always been someone who knows who I am.
Hell, whenever my boss asks me, “How’d you know to do that?” or “That’s actually pretty smart, where’d that come from?” It’s almost a guarantee I respond with, “Because I’m fucking awesome.”
So where did that badass chick go? Because I haven’t been her in months. I have questioned my worth multiple times, asked myself what is wrong with me? Why I’m not enough. Ugh. Again, so depressing and intolerable.
I’ve given this dude countless chances, let him flake out on me multiple times. I’m to the point where I’m more disappointed in and upset with myself than him.
Whatever happened to the assertive man? The guy who knows what he wants (and it’s more than just sex) and knows how to ask a girl out and make plans. But like I said I’m a hypocrite. I’ve knack of going for the wrong guy. I keep meeting and talking with boys and it’s just pushing me more and more in the direction of wanting to be a career woman who buys sperm and makes it as a single mom. (Yes, I am in fact fully aware of how crazy this makes me sound.) I can live with not finding a guy to have by my side but I can’t give up on wanting more kids. I don’t have it in me.
I hate when people ask me why I’m still single. It’s a choice. And I’ve still got it.
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