Stella Samuel's Blog

Living With Gratitude In A World Of Loss

Living Inside The Vulnerable in the without and with the new

“When it was up to you, you left it up to me.” Indigo Girls

I used to have that line on my checks right above the memo line… like 30 years ago and for at least the following two decades.

It was a reminder to me to remember to hold onto my power, especially when it’s not my choice. I’ve lived with those words for years. In relationships, in my career, in parenting, in life… and this year, I’ve left it up to me. After losing everything.

This holiday, I want to stay in the space of incredible gratitude.

And doing that is also hard. It’s still an extremely difficult year facing life in the without.

Inside the fuckery, the consequences, the taking… the losing. It’s not easy by any means, but there is still gratitude. And that gratitude for me comes from taking back my power finally seeing the world again. I sat frozen for a long time. A good friend asked me recently why I keep referring to myself as broken. She told me she doesn’t see me as broken at all. She sees me as healing. Living. Loving. Laughing. And working.

This past spring, I looked at two of my children — the only ones I had left after losing my oldest’s final childhood years to mental health — and I told them to give me a year. Before I grew large expectations of myself, I needed to heal the holes of abandonment love left behind. We’d all look back after a year to see how far we’ve come. This battle for all of us to heal from several traumas all at once has been the most difficult thing I’ve carried my children through in their lifetimes. And I know I can say I’m not always carrying them — sometimes they carry me.

I lost my daughter on the same day I lost my partner. The week before, the three of us sat together on the floor as we said goodbye to the Saint Bernard I brought home more than ten years ago. Since the happening and the tsunami of emotions that followed, my basement flooded three times, ruining everything and costing me tens of thousands in damage, I had a plague of bees I tried for months to save, I lost a queen palm tree in my yard that towered over me as if waiting to tumble onto my shattered heart and finally take me and my house down, and I stumbled and tumbled and dusted myself off and got up again. And again.

Staying inside gratitude has been a most difficult task for me.

Piles of mail sat on my kitchen counter for months with a name that only made me cry. My responsibility. Not my choice. When it was up to you, you left it up to me.

A new life formed away from me while her clothes still hung in my closet and her Waterpik sat on my bathroom counter, only a memory of what was and what occurred inside the happening when it was no longer up to me. My house looked like she was away on vacation while she explored options with a woman who cuddled with her on my couch in front of me just weeks before.

One of the most difficult things outside the immense loss and the weight of the loud emptiness was realizing who cared to reach out to me. Just to see how I was doing. I can count them on about four fingers. I asked early on for no one to choose sides because there was no inciting incident. There was no true happening. There was just loss. Simply a choice… not up to me. And no one chose. Not me, at least.

I slowly realized as hard as it was to not talk about it with mutual friends, their silence was just as deafening as the lack of rhyme or reason for her choice to leave us all amid family crisis, without a single thought of the promise of forever, or the gifts love had given us for years. To have the difficult conversations. I kept thinking anyone who supports someone walking out of their family like this can fuck off… and as much as I’ve wanted to say that (as much as I just did say that), I’ve focused my time, energy, and love on me, one doing the hard work, and on building a tribe that loves me and appreciates me exactly where I am. I’ve focused my energy on gratitude. I write a lot about the fuckery… but I am grateful for many things, including my own strength, especially for the days I tried not to wake.

I’m still sitting among pickles and peppers. I’ve slowly come to realize her space was hers, and as selfish as it was to not share with me, as heartbreaking as it was to continue the facade of family while love snuggled in elsewhere, this is what trauma looks like — and it was brought into our relationship too. Time has not cleared out my life… or her from my life. I’ve had no choice but to do that alone.

When I hit eight weeks, then twelve weeks, knowing and starting to date a new woman, I told her that we’d only known the woman who cuddled with my finance on my couch in front of me for that long before my relationship was in crisis. So I wasn’t prepared to make any choice in such a short time because it only took that long for my entire world to implode.

Not my choice. This was not my choice. I am here because… well, maybe because when it was up to me, I left it up to her. But when it was up to her to choose the promise she’d made to me and to our family, she simply took a few outfits and walked. I still don’t know how to reconcile this… because the gifts of gratitude and vulnerability hadn’t been mine for far longer than I knew, which puts forgiveness and anger back on my pile of fuckery to deal with inside my personal space of self-care and discovery.

I told this new love interest a few weeks ago I’d spent months telling her I was following some unwritten rules about not being ready to date, not wanting to put her heart at risk, and I spent months reminding her just how much this wasn’t up to me. Then a few weeks ago, I told her it is up to me. And I choose to live. And I choose her. Brené Brown taught me I can still work on me and live inside the vulnerable while growing love again… starting with loving myself.

“When it was up to you, you left it up to me.”

And I choose me… especially when you didn’t.

Gratitude isn’t always the same for everyone. I hate the path that brought me here. But I am blossoming again.

And I’m doing it wet and sloppy, hard and chiseled, weak and vulnerable, strong and stable, insecure and secure, on rocky terrain, in troubled waters that calm with the ebb and flow of acceptance and assurance that the two people I choose… myself and a new love… will stand strong in all of those things, even as they change from moment to moment, even as one of us is in one place while the other elsewhere. The difficult conversations we’ve had already have strengthened a friendship that blossomed before me long before I was willing to see it.

For everyone who lifted me this year, who held me, who let me be the most vulnerable, who cherished and protected my weaknesses as I empowered my strength to return, for those who listened to the stories about my daughter, for her who held me after every kiss and each moment of unique passion as I opened old wounds and relived them again and again wrapped in new arms of strength and affirmation, as I questioned allowing my children to make their own choices… for those who left it up to me… I am forever grateful for you. And I love you.

Living Inside the Vulnerable

~Stella

I’m Still Running — Coping Ahead

PTSD & Depression Mix & Match in DBT

I was diagnosed with depression months ago. Not surprised. I’ve lost everything I’ve called home slowly and surely over the past several years. I’ve stood grounded in my power to continue despite my levels of security. I’ve had solid support, even when I felt my weakest. And I could do anything in love, with love, and because of love.

Then love failed me. Enter PTSD.

In a shattered world, I work on recovery… for me alone, for me as a mother, for my children, for my future, and for the chance for love to come again.

It’s interesting diving into therapy because I use the word trauma often enough, but I’ve been quite defensive about my recent diagnosis of PTSD. Heroes battle PTSD. And we feel awful and grateful for them at the same time because of their inner demons.

I am no hero. I am a mother who chose to upend the lives, worlds, and safety and security of my children to give them a joint love they’d not had before. A choice that took them from me — me from them. A choice that rocked their foundation to the core. But one with a promise that we’d slip onto a stronger foundation together… until we lost that too. The shame I carry for trusting love to remain secure as I whipped my children’s lives through immense change is enormous. And it’s mine to own and mine to carry.

Forgiveness is hard, and it’s hardest to grant ourselves.

As I travel this transparent journey, with the hope to uplift others along the way, I notice more and more my personal triggers, the beauty in life around me, and what sends me spiraling down. I’m learning to recenter, build again, stand up and dust myself off before jumping on again. And, trust me, that last bit is the toughest because running is damn easy.

Today, I sit in a quiet space of writing, building, and reflecting on change as I lost sleep again last night in fits of nightmares and eyes wide open. I could easily push newness away because it’s uncertain. It’s not safe; its rocky terrain more familiar than hiding under my blanket fort of misguided protection. And I ask myself to recenter.

Accept that which I cannot change… the choices taken from me.

Relish is that which I can control… to let newness in, to wrap it in insecurity and gratitude for being exactly where I am.

To forgive… well, that’s a bit much for a Monday, after all. But I hope to be there one day. For now, I recognize I’m still running from the raw pain — because trauma response is natural, but once we recognize it, we can begin to tame it.

There is a term in DBT [therapy] called Coping Ahead. This is the state of being mindful of where we are, what may come, and how to use our current coping skills to reduce harmful or trauma impacts ahead of time. I’m not there yet. I know this because I still sit in trauma response. I avoided a party this weekend, one I wanted to attend because this is my world (dammit), but I was mindful of the trauma response I’d have should I run into everything taken from me in one fell swoop. So, I guess, in a way, I did cope ahead. I made other plans, spent time with other people, and wondered if I was missed or not noticed… or how easy it was for lost love to be fully present in this new life without me. And let’s not forget how sad it is that lost love was able to move so quickly past me into the new and unknown without us while I sit back here in piles of pickles and peppers cleaning out before I can begin to think about moving on. That’s anger… and for another day. See? This is depression and trauma response mingling together, creating a full-on cocktail of anxiety and bewildering loss. Identifying the situation and the potential hurt allowed me to think ahead and make the best decision for me.

However, being mindful doesn’t always stop there. Trauma response from the insecure space of PTSD also meant all the questions, the moments awake, forgetting the skills I’ve developed to set aside the pain and move beyond.
Living Inside the Vulnerable means sitting right where we are, seeing ourselves, loving in this exact space, and not giving up the fight to get out, even with the pauses we need to recenter.

Today, I challenge:
Cope Ahead — look at potential obstacles, plan for the trauma response, and don’t run… but walk in a different direction. What feels safest? Then use skills to cope through the consequences of that new direction.

Triggers Ahead — Plan for the triggers that may pop up like a Jack-In-the-Box. Identify them and develop a plan to remove them, approach them with solid support and strength, or avoid them altogether. Most triggers are not planned, so be prepared for the unpreparable with a response not grounded in emotion and trauma but rather solidarity and power. Triggers take our power… so empower with a planned mindful response.

Until next time, be well. And never fear Living Inside The Vulnerable.
~Stella
2021

Desert El Dorado Man

No coverage, not even one bar; the battery was dead anyway. Still daytime, but with an overcast, the sky had a perfectly even dullness, so there was no way to tell what time of day it was, much less which direction was north or south or anything else for that matter. A two-lane blacktop road snaked up the desert hill in the distance and disappeared behind looming Saguaros, snaking back down before disappearing again. What sounded like a two-stroke chainsaw sounded in the distance, but it was impossible to tell how far away as the desert deceives more than the eye. Two different ways to go, with a dead battery and no bars and nobody left to blame.

Pauly should have left the cabin before the batteries on their phones died. They hadn’t planned anything well over the past three days. And not in the days before. The phones had been dead for two of the past three.

“Turn yours off while I try mine,” Kaja had said.

He didn’t listen.

“Just take one outside and try it. We’re on the same plan. You don’t need to waste the batteries. Save one, so when we do get a signal, we have a working phone.”

He didn’t listen.

He’d stopped listening after the first day. They still had a little food, and he’d left her with some water before he left her alone, probably to die in a cabin in the middle of the mountains. Deserted mountains were more like it. Nothing was out there.

And cabin? Not even close. She kept calling it a cabin. It might deserve such a warm and giving name if it saved their lives, but he was determined to give it no respect until then. It was a shack. It probably hadn’t seen human life in a hundred years or more. It was not a cabin.

One last look at the frail dusty shack left a sickness in his stomach. He didn’t love the idea of leaving her. Not in her condition. But with everything that had happened, he had to get help. When he yelled hello out to the wilderness, his voice bounced from cactus arm to cactus arm. That chainsaw could be miles away in any direction, and he’d lose precious time trying to find the helping hands behind the blade.

Pauly spun once more, his head hanging low before holding his arms out, begging the sky not to take her while he was away. Like a small child stomping in the dirt, he pounded his feet, and with his head tipped backward, Pauly twisted his ankle. Just like that, throwing a tantrum put them both, all three of them, he remembered, at risk.

Yelling again to the sky, this time with his butt in the dirt, he resigned. For the first time since realizing they might be in trouble, he resigned himself to the fact that he might not be the man she needed. He might not have the strength to save her.

The old man never wanted Pauly to save her. He wanted to be her hero himself. Pauly knew the whole thing had been a setup. Kaja’s brother set him up to fail. Pauly knew. But he’d show them. He’d survive, and he’d save her. He’d win her back and try to change himself. He had reason to now—more than ever before.

Gripping the hard ground, small rocks dug into his skin. Wondering when he would learn to stop harming himself, Pauly jumped up, balancing his weight on the good ankle, and reminded himself to walk it off. Down the mountain would be best. The road might lead up, but that didn’t mean anyone was up there. No matter how far away it was, the village was down. He had to believe in salvation despite her belief the old man drove up the mountain after leaving them to die alone.

What would he do if he found the old guy anyway? He and his El Dorado and his guns and all those drugs in the backseat were nothing but trouble.

His tendon rolled, then clicked and throbbed as he hobbled down the mountain. Going up might have been easier on the ankle. But salvation had to be down. The El Dorado, the grey-haired man, and his drugs were up. Along with his weapons. With one last look at the shack keeping them safe, he turned and hobbled again. It wasn’t a full sprain, just a twist. Maybe he’d be able to walk it off. Walk it off was what his track coach always said when he’d limp onto the grass and fall to the ground. “Don’t sit still. It just leaves a place for blood to pool and swell. A swollen ankle won’t win races. Walk it off.”

A swollen ankle won’t save his life. Or hers. Or the others.

Several steps down, his ankle numbed more than it felt better. It was swelling. The sun was also hot, and he didn’t have water. Maybe any fluid left in his body would build in his ankle, causing pain and inability to walk, solving all his problems with one fell swoop off a cliff. A small pivot on the good ankle proved the shack to be out of sight. He’d traveled far enough to forget his woes and carry on with any plan he wished. He hadn’t been master planner of his world since she came along. A moment of clarity and control might change his life forever.

A path rockier than the one he limped down the mountain could be changed if he hobbled away. From her. From their choices. From the consequences. Hobbling down this mountain was a consequence. He wasn’t willing just yet to take full blame for meeting the El Dorado man, but only because he wouldn’t have even gotten into this mess had it not been for her and her damned brother anyway. But he did agree. And they needed the money.

You got yourselves into this mess, and I can get you out of it, her brother had told them both. All they had to do was meet someone in a dark alley, exchange some goods for money, and keep a large portion of the proceeds. What could go wrong, her brother had asked. It’d be great if I’d just knocked that smirk right off his face, Pauly thought. I should have knocked him out and taken what was in his wallet. Then I’d have a few bucks and my sanity.

The chainsaw started again. It was louder than before. Maybe farther down the mountain than the shack. Maybe he could hobble to it. A chainsaw might be a crew of men working or just a lonely mountain man gathering firewood for the upcoming winter. It could also mean friends of the old El Dorado man.

The sun’s warmth grew hotter farther down. Pauly discovered an old blacktop road beneath his numb foot. Covered in dust, he may have missed it altogether, except his good foot gained stability. Pauly still hobbled. Altitude wasn’t his friend when he was high above the tree line. It was more an enemy as he descended the hillside. His ankle swelled to the point rest was necessary. He’d passed several large boulders away from the perceived safety of the road before deciding to sit. Just his luck, when he was ready for a seat, none were to be found. The ground hit hard when he plopped right down.

This was when the throbbing started. And the blood. There must have been blood before, but it had stopped before drying onto his athletic sock just at the edge of his shoe. Sitting down wasn’t the best thing to do. He knew this. But it was a better idea than taking off his shoes and socks. After yelling out to no one because no one was around, on the other side of a chainsaw or not, no one was near, he peeled his sock off his ankle. It wasn’t just twisted. And walking it off wasn’t appropriate for cuts and gashes. Gashed indeed. Not just cut. But cut through and through. Cut through his sock, cut through the skin, and cut through muscle below.

If it weren’t for the swelling, he might have made it the rest of his journey with his shoes, but after taking them off and using the good sock and lace from one shoe to tie the sock around the ankle to stop new bleeding, his twisted and mangled foot wouldn’t fit back in. He’d have to walk hot asphalt barefoot. He had no idea what could have cut his ankle. Who knew? Maybe the old El Dorado man cut it before they ran from him the first time. Maybe he’d been cut when it rolled like a twist of fate. Maybe he wasn’t meant to walk down this mountain at all. Maybe. Just maybe.

Ready to give in and give up, dehydrated, and exhausted, Pauly met the crow who came to talk. The sun sat high in the baby blue sky. He’d traveled past the tree line and into the full-blown desert. This was where the cactus stood tall and proud and dared man to a spar before passing. The crow sat on the lowest arm of the tallest cactus. The one right next to injured Pauly, ready to throw his head back and give up.

He didn’t need any assistance, thank you very much. And he tried to tell the crow so, but his mouth was dry. He’d been parched since leaving the shack. They only had a small bit of water left. She’d told him to take it because he’d be in the elements. She’d be under shelter. But she needed to stay hydrated too. Her nausea had gotten worse, not better over the past month, and water helped.

The crow sounded again as if yelling at him. Another joined, but this one was a cactus arm higher than the first. They looked at one another, the first crow looking up, the second looking down as if having a conversation about how to tackle the injured man lying on the hard earth. The second squawked, and the first responded.

He tried to tell them to go away. He didn’t need help. And he wasn’t ready to be dinner. They were of no use to him, and he of none to them. But they didn’t go away. They stayed. Each one took turns watching the horizon, probably gauging something he couldn’t see like salvation down the mountain, and watching him. Once he told them he had this, he didn’t need their help, their determination grew. Motion comparable to synchronized swimmers, the second crow moved to the lower arm of the looming cactus while the first flew to the ground.

Beady black eyes stared at his bright blue eyes. The sun was hot but high, so the burn didn’t hinder their eye contact. He told the crow just how much his ankle hurt and asked the blackbird to go away and leave him be. The crow nodded as if to acknowledge. It was a good thing, too, because the rock in the man’s hand would have hit that crow right between those beady eyes.

In unison again, both crows took flight. The rock flew through the air landing a few feet beyond the cactus. Something rattled. Pauly might be killed by a rattler and eaten by crows if he didn’t start moving soon. He yelled out again to no one. When the crows were near, he didn’t feel ridiculous speaking out loud. Without them, his voice thundered in his ears, out of place in the hot desert.

He had this and said so by yelling again. His voice echoed from one cactus to another across the mountainside. Got this…got this…got this…this…this, as if the cactus spoke back to him. He could lie there on the hot dirt and wait for the rattlers to take him. It might be easier than trying to use one leg to get back up. But he had to try.

Another few screams bounced back at him from each surrounding hillside as he put all his weight on his good ankle and used the bad ankle to balance while standing from a one-legged squat. Once he was up, he regretted not crawling around for a long stick to help him walk. His steps were slow, but each one got him closer to something farther from the shack.

He wondered how she was doing. Had she peed yet? She hadn’t last night at all nor this morning when they woke. Dehydration was her first risk. The stomach cramps that would come from dehydration would cause her more issues yet. Maybe she’d found water. She’d talked about lifting floorboards for hidden treasure. The only treasure she needed to find was a crate of water bottles. She might not have enough food, but more water would make the difference between a warm body and a cold body when he got back to her.

Her brother told them both she’d be peeing all the time when he found out the news. In the bathroom all the time, he’d said.

He wanted a high five, celebrate manhood and all, but it wasn’t good news. Pauly knew he had swimmers. He needed his swimmers to drown so he could have fun with the ladies and not worry or payout so much every month. Maybe dehydration would be a small blessing after all. He didn’t want anything to happen to her, but he wasn’t attached to the baby just yet. He wasn’t attached to any of his babies.

After a long night drinking on the patios of city bars, Pauly had a heart-to-heart with himself. His heart wanted him to be a good guy. His mind, however, couldn’t grasp exactly what that meant. He couldn’t stop the game. Gambling was just money and time. Sometimes he had the money, but mostly he had the time to hustle. Women, on the other hand, were his weakness.

She was different. Kaja, she’d told him when he asked her name. With a J, she’d said. Pauly thought on that for a bit. He couldn’t wrap his head around what she’d said. Spelling was never his thing anyway, but he could envision her legs wrapped around him. She had legs that never ended until she bent over the pool table to shoot. Four, corner pocket, she’d said. He didn’t even say anything about the eight-ball going in with her purple ball. He’d noticed exactly where her long legs ended, and he wanted in.

Maybe she was no different than all the rest. But he was different. Once he had her, and he had her good, right there on the green felt, something changed inside him. He wanted to be a better man. He wanted to do right by her.

It was her brother. He was the problem. Frank. He was in the way. And then he tried to help them, but Pauly knew it was a setup. When they got to the alley to exchange the goods for the cash, El Dorado man revved his engine from behind. He’d been hiding around the corner. He tried to run Pauly over, but Pauly was quick. He grabbed the driver’s door and popped it open, sliding in the speeding car, then stopping it before it got to where Kaja was hiding in the shadows.

What he hadn’t expected was the butt of a gun over his head. When Pauly woke, they were tied together in the shack in the Arizona desert. From the floor of the shack, before the grey-haired El Dorado man left, Kaja told Pauly about a village they’d passed on the way up the mountain. She didn’t say anything else until the old man left them. It took that whole day to untie the knots bound around their wrists and feet.

Pauly had known her brother for the past few years, so he’d known Pauly’s bad side. Pauly was the bad guy. He was the thug. Kaja deserved better. Pauly knew it. Kaja’s brother knew it too. Kaja didn’t like their arguing. She’d told her brother how much she loved Pauly, but Frank argued she only loved Pauly’s attention. Her brother was right. But that was until the baby.

Kaja’s baby wasn’t Pauly’s first. But the others he didn’t know. He’d just seen his face, his eyes, his father’s ears, or his mother’s nose on the children of the women he knew. But those women were all married to other men and never came asking for anything from Pauly. He’d always been a free good time—one with no strings.

Focus. Pauly tried to concentrate. Thinking back to what was and what might have been was fruitless unless he could save himself and Kaja. He must have walked another mile since his last rest. The chainsaw hadn’t made its brattle in quite some time, but the crows did come back. He had no plans for dying out there. Pauly yelled at the crows again. One squawked before both flew away.

The sun started its path from the high noon arc down toward dinnertime. Pauly didn’t wear a watch. He’d always had his cell phone in his pocket, but he knew the sun wouldn’t hang in the sky much longer. No matter where in the sky the sun sat, Pauly had been walking toward it for hours. Once it was down, he wouldn’t be able to navigate direction.

Sailors used the stars, Pauly’s grandfather used to say. Pauly didn’t know enough about the stars. He could identify the big dipper and maybe the warrior’s belt, but he’d never know which stars to follow to the village below the mountain tops. Maybe there was no village after all. Maybe he’d been going in circles on his swollen ankle in bare feet for nothing because nothing was at the bottom of this hell hole.

The more the sun went down, the more he wondered if he was heading down or across the mountainside. Rocky terrain slowed him more than the washing numb and the waves of pain in his ankle. The third time the crows visited, one flew over his head as if tracking him. The second, Pauly wasn’t unaware of until the squawk from behind caused him to jump then fall on an ankle too swollen for shoes and too bloody for the sock he’d wrapped to stay in place. His worsening injuries didn’t go unnoticed to the crows.

As night fell across the desert, the sun’s rays hit the vast western skies far away as stars popped from the night sky above. The moon hid behind the clouds, but Pauly had hoped it might light up the desert floor enough for him to keep moving. He couldn’t think of the last time he’d bothered to look up at the moon, so the bright clouds covering what looked like a nearly full moon was a welcome surprise. Maybe they’d clear.

Pauly carried on through the darkness and the desert chill. As the moon traversed the sky, Pauly’s body shook with fever. He didn’t stop. He didn’t talk anymore. His mind didn’t think. He continued as if his body were asleep as his legs took him farther down the mountain, one step at a time.

Pauly overlooked the crows following. He didn’t feel the pain from his ankle. He didn’t notice the morning sun’s rays behind him light the white flowers of the highest cactus. He kept moving because he was trained to survive. He’d made some bad choices in his life, but he’d make it different from here on out. He’d have this baby with Kaja and treat her like a queen. Kaja. Pauly wondered if she was still alive. If she’d found water. He wondered if he’d see her again.

God, if you are listening to me, give me a chance. I’ll show her. I’ll show them all. I can be good. Pauly’s voice disappeared with hydration. It spoke to no one.

He fell right there on the desert floor. One crow stayed with him while the other traveled west, following the sun’s rays over one last ridge to the crowd waiting below. If Pauly had been conscious, he might have heard the search party getting ready to break from their morning meeting in various directions to find him. He would have also heard the old man El Dorado calling Pauly various names. Names Pauly deserved, but no one wanted to hear.

If Pauly’s legs had been able to walk another fifty yards, he might have laid his eyes on Kaja, her hands on her belly as if hugging it in place. He’d know she was safe. His breathing labored, and his eyes fluttered. His mind recognized morning. He stared at the crow standing on the ground near him. He’d made it to morning. The crow squawked and took flight calling his partner back to Pauly.

A returned squawk from the crow heading toward the crowd got the El Dorado man’s attention. He’d trained his crows well. They’d stayed with Pauly all day and night, and when Pauly had given up, just as the old man knew he would, his crows announced Pauly’s location. The old man pointed beyond the ridge and spoke to the crowd just on the other side of the ridge. That’s where Pauly was. The crow above Pauly circled in the air, viewing the ground from his vantage point.

Another forty minutes passed before the old man and his crew reached Pauly. Kaja stayed behind with the crowd who’d gathered around. It was the fifth day, and the number of people who’d shown to help had dwindled. When Kaja and Pauly first disappeared, the sheriff arranged search parties to find the missing couple. It took the old El Dorado man the first two days to convince the sheriff he’d taken over any search for his daughter and the man who’d raped then kidnapped her, or so Frank had tried to convince him. Sheriff and the old man went back years when the old man drove his El Dorado with the same tall hat and same badge on his chest.

Frank stood next to the woman he’d known as his sister most of his life and all of hers. He knew that baby she was holding on to wasn’t Pauly’s just as much as she knew it. Just as much as the packages of wrapped cellophane sitting in the back of the El Dorado were simply compounded and milled flour. Kaja’s brother also knew his father, the man who took him in when he was dropped at the old sheriff’s house at the age of three when the sheriff and his wife were expecting their first baby, a daughter they’d name Kaja, wouldn’t have left Pauly to die out under the desert sun. He’d had his crows trained on the drifter through the entire sting.

With Pauly’s survival, Frank lost. He’d agreed to let Kaja continue to think of him as her brother and to never lay a hand on her again as long as Pauly survived. The old Sheriff agreed to let off Frank seducing his daughter and knocking her up if Frank walked away. Frank tried hard to get Pauly out of the picture. Setting up a drug sting that involved the old Sheriff and bags of flour cocaine was smart indeed.

Frank had depended on Pauly not surviving. When he sent the old man up the mountain to search for Kaja and found Pauly in a shack full of drugs, the Sheriff had no choice but to beat Pauly down. He couldn’t allow drugs in his family. He couldn’t let his daughter get wrapped up in illegal trafficking. When Frank met Pauly and Kaja in the alley selling the bags of cocaine, he expected to knock him out and keep him out, but Pauly hit back. Frank drove to the shack with Pauly in the trunk before calling his foster father to let him know where to find that bastard, Pauly. The old man, knowing the law as he did, decided to hide the drugs in the mountains himself. Treasure hunters had been searching for gold in these hills for a hundred years with no luck, so some hidden bags of cocaine would surely find their way to the wind.

Pauly! Her voice angelic brought Pauly back from a brink he feared he’d crossed. She handed him his cell phone, telling him she’d charged it overnight after her father came back to the shack to pick them up.

Your father? Pauly, dehydrated and confused, had no idea who Kaja’s father was nor what he had to do with the shack.

Her father, she’d explain to Pauly, had taken the drugs and hidden them in a cave at the top of the hill, then came back to get them both. The old Sheriff, old man El Dorado, as Pauly had come to think of him, knew Frank had figured a setup, but Frank hadn’t thought it through when he tied both Pauly and Kaja up inside the shack.

The old man and a guy much younger and stronger held Pauly upright. Water. Pauly heard the word, could almost feel wet on his tongue but had no idea who’d spoken. Someone said something about needing water over here, but for Pauly, it was a voice in the wind. He hobbled on his good leg while dragging the other swollen and mangled carnage of a foot on his other half through the dry dirt. He wouldn’t be moving at all if it weren’t for the old man he’d feared for the past several days.

Frank, or the guy Pauly had known from the bar, stood in the back of the crowd next to an old Indian motorcycle. Old man El Dorado looked across the people waiting to see the man they’d been searching for and yelled out at Frank. His words sifted through the breeze, and all Pauly heard were words about a son no more. The old Indian started with a catch and a hum before shifting the sand beneath the tires and squealing off the blacktop. The crows, who’d circled above Pauly the last several yards of the hike over the ridge, swooped down and circled above the old man. He threw a couple of live crickets into the air and watched as each bird caught their treats.

They made their way through the crowd and back to the El Dorado. And as they approached it, a crow flew directly over their heads and landed on the hood and then looked at them. They stood some distance away and watched the crow watching them. Another crow flew directly overhead and landed beside it. The first crow squawked, and then both flew away. They watched the crows disappear, looked at each other, and then got in the El Dorado. Only one way to go this time, with five bars and a full battery.

~Stella Samuel ©2018 & ©2021

Shattered

When all is said and done

No more bullets in the gun

No words to say

At the end of the day

I’m sorry you ever felt anything but love.

Shattered moments

Solitude

Serenity

Overarching aches and pains

Felt through the winds of time

And with every drop of rain

I’m sorry you ever felt anything but love.

Serenity prayers to say good night

Keep going one mere step at a time

Without a hint or a clue

Of the pain I’m storing

Because of what you left behind.

Creeping up

Before popping out

In front of everything and everyone

Leaving me in panic

Shouts of a Jack in the Box tune.

I’m sorry you ever felt anything but love.

A small warning for the disappearance of life

Moved on without me

Without the family we built

My heart only carrying guilt and shame

For what they sacrificed — for you

Yet…

I’m sorry you ever felt anything but love.

A wish…

An easy way out for you

A sense of belonging for me

Because everything you took,

Walking away without a final look,

Left my world crumbled and broken

I’m sorry you ever felt anything but love.

Never prepared to do this alone

After a promise broken

I reap what you have sown

A world where time is split

Because of your words went unspoken

…But only to me,

For she set you free

In the dark hours of the night

When you took her gift of light

I’m sorry… In your home…

You ever felt anything but love.

I carry the results

Insecurity and consequence

Because you voiced your needs

To someone other than me.

You see, This, It, and That

Do not define objection.

But from where you sat,

Your voice never heard

I’m sorry you ever felt anything but love.

When love takes its pain to another’s couch

And trust walks away with set boundaries

Love’s heart is left filled with doubt

Just like the one before me

Lying on the bathroom floor

Waiting for the beeping

Of our front door

And for you to walk inside

To simply talk.

No more a happenstance,

You left without a glance

And replaced everything we had

With new faces filled with grace

I’m still sorry you ever felt anything but love.

Eight months, shattered as you move on

Quickly

Numbing the pain with every puff and sip

Wishing

I could call anyone home

Except you

I begged no one to save me,

But save me, they did.

Unearthing the rubble

Shattered from my soul,

While you live in moments of strife

And words never said,

I stay in moments of life

Laughter

Love

Pure

Simple

Comfort

Home

Where you belong

I’m sorry you ever felt anything but love.

And angry you threw us away

Without a glance back

An apology

Validation that we deserve better

For the one who promised

Love

Dreams

Life

To live together

Through it all.

I’m sorry you ever felt anything but love.

In the spaces of the pain

You refused to share

And the trauma of a childhood misspent

Trust wasn’t a gift willing

To sit in my space

Presented to another

Whose broken promise

Shattered a world you took over.

I’m sad… you ever felt anything but love.

For it was love that lived here.

It was always love…

And you closed the door,

Dropping it

To shatter in broken pieces.

Shattered.

I’m sorry you ever felt anything but love.

~Stella Samuel ©2021

National Coming Out Day

1987

The year the power of Michael Stipe’s voice took its hold on me, helping to mold me into the woman I’d become. Two years before I stood before him and a woman I’d follow for all of my days beyond, Amy Ray, who taught me to be unapologetically exactly who I am and to stand tall for those who cannot. The 1987 March on Washington was not far from my home where I was a young teen in a small town void of diversity. Those were days before cell phones, social media, texting, and even 24-hour news, in its first decade, was reserved for war until a white Bronco left a California estate several years later creating the all too familiar yearn for access to what’s happening around the clock.

We heard about the 1987 march where we were. Rumors of what was happening in Washington cycled around real estate offices and grocery store aisles. “Those people” tossed out into the air from the mouths of ‘those other people’ — the ones who wouldn’t understand no matter how hard I tried to explain. It would be another six years before I came out, except my mother was the first to tell me she knew long before. 1987, the height of the massive loss as the result of the AIDS crisis and pleas for help and acknowledgement, was a time when our community united to be heard. Almost twenty years after Stonewall, we were still fighting to be seen, acknowledged, helped, loved… and of course, allowed to love.

It’s been an amazing journey for this community. Today, because of this Great March on Washington in 1987, is National Coming Out Day. It’s not only a day we reserve for people to step out and speak up in safe spaces; it’s also a day we acknowledge our own coming out journeys.

So, celebrate love today. Relish in the rich threads of our history that allow this day to be acknowledged and accepted. And come on out or share your personal coming out story.

Mine can be read in a short memoir I wrote years ago, titled Father, Mine and Someone’s.

Be well (and unapologetically you)
~Stella

The Edge Of Darkness

Sitting in awakening,
Shadows call.

Pulling myself back into the comfort
Of the edge of darkness…
Keeping company with everything once called home
— and going back to it time and again
Ignoring the beauty of brighter days before me.

Daylight calls and says,
“Stay here until the sun sets instead of chasing the moon.
As daylight falls below the horizon,
We’ll slip into night together.”

Prepare, feet, to run
My mind says.
Yet, planted they stay.
Firm on a ground of worthy
Self-discovered space.

Sometimes it’s hard to forget
The value others see
When gravity’s force
Pulls the loss that used to be the moon,
Sitting on the edge of darkness
Screams safety in resolute
Absolution that alone was
The only promise ever made.

~Stella

The Unicorn

In the heartache of deception
And the reality of rejection…
Beneath the layers of concrete
Poured, hardened, and cured,
A seed awaits.

Hope renews
Life proceeds
At speeds and vibrations
Spinning out of control.
Floods of salty tears
Seek air and wait
For the seed to grow
Beneath the sorrow and sadness.

Laughter rings.
Smiles form.
The universe shudders.
Control
Support
And the love of collective energy
Empowers and uplifts.

A unicorn walks
Across the meadow alone.
Strong in her ability to stand tall
Wherever she may roam.
Drawn to the sea
Yet pulled to the slab of concrete
To unearth the buried.

Hope for love
An innate connection
Want and yearning.
Life, simple
And fragile
And frail
Yet strong…
With its gentle touch.

A search for water’s aid
Her salty tears
Form a rainbow’s arc.
The unicorn’s hoofs crack
The concrete open
Allowing light
Onto the path
Of becoming
Everything she was meant to be.

One tiny moment,
A culmination of
A lifetime of hope
A fell swoop of loss
The seed erupts.

With the support of 1000 hooves,
She grows.
Not yet a blossom.
Not yet a bloom.
Only a spark
Ignited by the sun’s light.

Patience
Grace
And song
Will be her food;
Support
Laughter
And longing
Will be her hope.

As she becomes.

Thanks to the unicorn
Who refused to seek the sea
But… stayed to
Unearth the forgotten.

Lesson number one, young Jedi -never give away your power!

The text that lifted me again.

Cycling down over and over again is exhausting. It’s taken months for me to see my patterns, what drives me down, and what keeps me there. It’s taken me less time to truly understand what lifts me back up again — not giving away my power — and how to get back to that emotionally safe space.

Trauma is an ugly beast that rears its head in moments of solace and solitude. No matter how well we deal with or cope through our trauma, the sisters to trauma — shame, guilt, depression, anger, disbelief and shock, and even self-doubt — sit quietly in the shadows waiting for trauma to release so they can take hold.

I’ve spent the last four weeks or so building a new tribe filled with loving, kind, gracious, accepting women who challenge me and uplift me at the same time. One of these friends sent me a text this week that simply said, “Lesson number one, young Jedi — never give away your power!”

She, of course, having only known me for about two days, has no idea just how many times I’ve given away my power, too much information in the name of trust to those I thought would hold me inside the same safety and security I’d come to expect, and allowed myself to cycle down again and again because of my own choices to give away what I should treasure most.

My trauma is massive. It’s layered in lies, broken promises, distrust, deception, personality disorders, mental health, boundaries crossed, disrespect… this list could go on.. I’m a fucking onion. I’ve discovered that giving away my power is exactly what I do when I begin to spiral down. It starts with not eating. I stop exercising. I don’t reply to texts or answer phone calls. I write less. I work more. And with each piece of myself I give away to trauma itself or to its horrible sisters, I offer up the power to heal myself again — and cycle again.
Rinse.
Repeat.
Here we go around the fucking mulberry bush.
Again.

It’s a process of changing mindset and resetting my goals to reach the safe space where I need to be mindful and present — with ME.

As I peel back these layers, I learn what to trust, how to feel in safe spaces (which is not always safe, by the way), and when to let out anger. I’m in the anger stage now, and that changes quite often. Anger and sadness ebb and flow, mixed with disbelief and the worst motherfuckingest moments of ineffable clarity, never truly clear, but rather clouded with the trust I no longer carry in my pocket like the blind faith that comes from pure love and trust. Those are gone. I hope not for good, but for now… gone.

I don’t understand much of what happened. I talk to friends who went through similar experiences, and none of us can figure out how to connect the dots. But I’m learning they were never mine to connect. I was merely walking the path from dot to dot until I was no longer welcome. The more I try to figure it out and reconnect the paths we once took to find the break in the map, the space where our hands stopped holding and the space between grew inside the vast hole it is now, the more questions I have, the more anger surfaces, the more selfish I feel because I made a promise I planned to keep and thought I’d been gifted the same, especially with such change and unstable ground. The more conversations I relive where promises were gifted time and again piled upon deception and rejection… Oh god… it’s all so much. So many layers of believing I am the dumbest person alive. These cycles are becoming pointless. They unravel more than they resolve. And sometimes, they are necessary. But… they also give away my power each time I invite them inside my head. Each time I open my heart to hurt a little more why I reconcile the pickles and peppers, I fill my head with someone who stopped loving me long before she told me, stopped loving me inside the safety and security of us, and left me to fend for myself and our family alone. And that full head is powerless to thrive inside of forced change.

My trauma is no more than anyone else’s… and in many ways, it’s far less traumatic than some. But playing that dangerous game of comparison is unhealthy. Treading water while knowing someone else is drowning doesn’t make us any stronger in the long run. Sure, we might be able to muster more strength to help, hold on, or grab hold of someone less capable, but without a boat, we’ll all be drowning at some point.

Don’t give away your power is something I’ve said for months. On my morning runs with Donna Summer singing On The Radio. Don’t give away your power is something I’ve heard for months. The text from a new friend reminding me to live again was what I needed to take it back. It’s funny how life takes its hold on us, stopping us in our tracks, holding us back simply by what we leave behind in the world. I used to tell my children, especially my oldest daughter, who had been horribly bullied for most of her childhood, to focus on not letting others rent space in her head without paying for it — with kindness and love.

Recently, I was given a gift. Generous, yes? Of course. Gifts are inherently generous. This gift has haunted me since I accepted it. It was never communicated to me that it was given with terms. It was given to my son, but he was unable to receive it… and it was still granted to me. Once I was in position to receive it with someone I barely knew in place of my son, I realized it wouldn’t work to accept the gift. And there was no time to make adjustments. In fact, as gracious as it was, it was done with little time before the time to use it. Had my son been available, all would have worked out joyfully, of course.

So, I tried to do the right thing and regift this gracious gift to someone I knew well, someone I thought my gifter had known as well, someone who had just lost her mother. Now one person in the couple that gave me this gift had lost her entire family, so she knew what it was like to say goodbye to a loved one in this particular way. From that moment, I communicated my plans to ask this woman who shares this same space with us and received a rash of belittling shit via text message. Ruined the entire evening for me reading message after message about my responsibility with their gift, how much it costs (by the way, it was an upgrade from what I originally had, and mine cost money too, so throwing its full value in my face without recognition of what I had already paid and was happy using was pointless and only for the purpose of shaming me.) I spent an evening with my purchase and a slightly upgraded gift of the same purchase and a barrage of shaming text messages, bullying me into taking the gift, then complete silence.

Since this silence, I’ve tried to reach out in text with one in the couple and in-person to both in the couple. In friendship, to thank them, explain why I had to change my mind suddenly and not accept the gift, and clear any stagnant air between us. Shamed again!

Good god… why is shaming people such a common go to?
But get this — in my hurt and anger, and yearning to just be heard even if not accepted, I did it too. Called up three things I could that I knew might pull a similar sting. I’d been hurt. So my reply was to hurt back.

I gave away my power again.

Now… let me say this. Their constant barrage of shaming, communication for the purpose of projecting guilt, and insistent intolerance over my choice to make independent decisions was in place to cause me hurt. And it worked. It’s been more than two weeks, and I’m still noodling it.
I’ve even had people (many they know) tell me they are not worth my time. Regardless of their character, I cared what they thought of me.

Gave away my power.

It’s a vicious cycle. To own our power and don’t hand it over to people stuff. It’s serious business too.

Recognizing it takes mindful intent. I will have one more thing to say about this incident, but after that, I fully take back my power. It’s gone. Done. Not my problem. I could have sold this gift on the street for face value. I did not. I could have ignored it altogether. I did not. I could have done a lot of things. Faced with a gift of generosity without terms until I choose independently and a circumstance out of my control, all I attempted was to do the right thing.

Sometimes doing the right thing turns out the be the most motherfuckingest two weeks ever.

Lesson number one, young Jedi -never give away your power!

Don’t give away your power!

Be well.

~Stella

Living Inside the Vulnerable: Rejection & Deception

I’ve written so much about vulnerability over the years, I was almost surprised to see how far I could dig into what authentic vulnerability truly looks and feels like in these past several months of trauma— and dive deep, I did! (And still am, coming up with air-filled lungs where the inhale produces sobs and the exhale sighs in disbelief.)

It goes to show no matter how transparent we are, no matter how much we love, how much we give, we are still only as vulnerable as we allow others to see. My challenge is to be authentic inside my vulnerability, and I challenge you to do the same. Watch how much we give others from this safe space and how much we get in return.

Vulnerability is a gift we give, not a weakness we feel.

At the end of a relationship, it’s not just the rejection that hurts. It’s not just that one of the two of you doesn’t believe your relationship is worth the work necessary to stay alive and bright together… though that all hurts quite a bit.

Rejection is painful.
And it doesn’t matter in what capacity we face rejection; it simply hurts. We all feel rejected at one point or another. Maybe we didn’t make the baseball team…. didn’t get that part in the fifth-grade play… friends decided they didn’t want to hang out with us… passed up for a promotion at work … rejection certainly makes us feel not good enough.

Diving deeper into rejection can send us into a downward spiral of resentment, green with envy for those chosen over us. Anger rises to the surface. Sadness takes over. A myriad of emotions overtake the process of figuring it out in the beginning stages of healing and can halt any progress. Be aware, and maybe even weary, of when those emotions surface and the control they take. Each new emotion competes with the story behind the happenings, and the process to justify feelings with walls of protection builds a fort around jack-in-the-box surprises popping up with every question.

Embracing this range of emotions and separating the feelings behind the emotions from the happening is the only way to deal with rejection.

Frankly, rejection is another personal hill we must climb. It does not define us — not who we are, not our core values, not how we should feel about ourselves. It only defines what someone else thinks of us.

Read that again.

Rejection only defines what someone else thinks of us.
Someone else may not have rejected us.

It’s time to let go of what others think… that doesn’t mean stop working for positive change. It just means rejection is not about us… it’s about not being a good fit. Now… that doesn’t make it less sad. But it does give each of us the permission to let go and focus on building ourselves outside of the ways others assume we are.

We do not always get feedback to try again and make it next time. It’s something we have to work through… do the work necessary to accept the happening and change the things we want to change, should we want something different from ourselves. Ultimately, when rejected, we have to make decisions, a process that needs to occur outside of the emotion of rejection.

Worse than the rejection we all face from time to time is deception. It’s the fear of deception that keeps our walls up and our visible vulnerabilities low, at least with those we love and trust most. Ironic, isn’t it? We keep these darkest things away from those we love most.

Deception in a relationship often goes hand in hand with rejection. In the other scenarios, not so much, though lack of coaching, failure to communicate, deficiencies in training, etc., could all lead to the feeling of being duped outside of a relationship.

But more than any other place, an intimate, loving relationship can see deception and rejection hand in hand at the same time. They can feel the same at first, but there are inherent differences.

Rejection is something we can own ourselves. We can choose to do the work: I wasn’t good enough for this person or situation. I need to work on these things to become a better version of myself. I lost.
Or we can choose to accept we were not a good fit: I can move on to the next thing. Maybe I’ll be a better fit next time. Or even better: Maybe I’ll find a better fit for me next time.

Most of us choose a mix of the two, and it’s always a good idea to take the opportunity rejection offers for personal growth.

Deception, on the other hand, is communicating without love, respect, or even words that we are not good enough. It’s rejection without respect.

See the difference?
Ironic, isn’t it?

Deception is ambiguous. It’s purposeful. It’s communication presented in vague statements. It’s telling half-truths, withholding information. Stonewalling. It’s also the blatantly obvious action, but more than the obvious, unseen deception like gaslighting can do damage for a long time before it comes to light. Gaslighting can resemble many things, including stories changing, blame and shame, and accusations without founding.

Now which one makes us more vulnerable?
Does it matter?
…maybe in healing; maybe in separating the emotions from the happening; maybe in seeking understanding. It’s different for everyone and possibly every situation.

When we are not worthy enough to continue to work on a relationship in a safe space together, we are rejected. It’s horribly sad. But rejection is ours to overcome and ours alone.

I’ve said several times in the past few months I cannot begin to separate the emotion from the happening. Almost six months later, I can see the thread unwinding from the tight hold emotions held over the happening. However, it’s still difficult to view love and loss, partnership and best friends with sudden loss and rejection… and deception from inside the guise of safety, security, and promise. Blinding and sudden, without reason, without remorse, left alone to pick up the pieces and pack up the peppers and pickles… that’s where I’ve lived for six months now. My gift was a seven-minute conversation. The happening. The aftermath? …pickles and peppers.

Talk about rejection. Ouch. Yeah… that still hurts.
My vulnerabilities are transparent. My apologies to any future partner I may have… I am still in this space of immense loss, and this is my truest vulnerability.

But wait… there’s more…

Rejection is far easier to emotionally process than deception… Deception quickly turns to mockery. Isn’t it ironic when the pieces begin to fall together? When we gift our vulnerabilities to someone outside of those we trust and love most, we create an unhealthy distance between ourselves and those we love.
Going back to the other situations from earlier… the baseball player, the promotion at work, the friends going out… insert the willingness to express vulnerabilities here, and suddenly, opportunities open.

A coach (doesn’t need to feel it necessary to be vulnerable with a player, but in coaching, it could be a good thing, right?) could tell the player how great they are but what the team really lacks is a position or a skill from a place on the field the player doesn’t have. Showing that vulnerability (our team lacks) presents rejection to the player as not being a good fit rather than the deception of simply not making the team without further communication. The same could apply to the other situations. No, we don’t owe it to those trying out for our team an explanation as to why we didn’t choose them… but add some layers to this relationship between coach and player and see where it could go.
What if they’d worked together since the player was a young kid, and now they are trying out for the varsity team in their freshman or sophomore year. Now we’re looking at a relationship spanning years. Does it deserve more vulnerability than the kid who showed up for try-outs without knowing anyone on the coaching staff or team? The lack of communication is a mockery of the years of friendship built before… deception turns to mockery.

Mockery. Deception. Rejection.

Oh… there is so much deception veiled as rejection… vulnerabilities shattered before us as another fills a void we don’t see because voids are black holes of vulnerability.
Deception runs deep… only some deception is visible. A relationship, unhappy and impatient, without the willingness to give vulnerability, ceases communications, which spirals into confusion, mixed messages, stonewalling, risk, and, in the end, deception.

The silence of deception is loud. And it speaks volumes.
You see, it’s not the rejection that cuts so deeply.
It’s the deception.

Rejection, we can begin to own as our responsibility.
Deception is veiled as ours but is not at all ours to own, making it impossible to cope through.
It’s simply something we must let go without reason.

Now… separating the emotion from the happening is one thing. Separating the rejection from the deception… this is what falls beneath the layers.
It’s this separation that is the start of splitting the emotion from the happening.
And it’s fucking hard to do. This is the hard work we must do to recover.

My emotions for the rejection of me and what I built do not belong to anyone who rejected me. Not my lover who was my ride or die, my best friend… not the friend who fills shoes I once wore… not those who have killed me slowly.
Those emotions… are solely mine.

When we are rejected, we often feel we could make a change. From the earlier analogies… we could practice and become a better player, work harder, learn more, even in relationships, we can be the change our partner needs… behavioral changes, not core changes, of course.

But deception is a different beast altogether, and it’s often not as visible as an outright lie or an affair. It’s often hidden in the darkest corners of the spaces we feel the safest.

Rejection hidden deep inside deception is different.

When we are deceived, it’s not always where it appears to have started.

No… deception often starts with vulnerability — gone

More importantly, vulnerability once gifted, then quickly (or even slowly and even more unnoticeable), taken away.

Vulnerability is the purest form of love…

…but… wait… watch how we use it even with people we don’t know well… when we stop trusting love with our vulnerabilities and start to trust others instead, it is deception.

What’s interesting is we don’t often fear vulnerability when we first begin to trust someone, a new relationship, a new co-worker… we tell all. We trust, we feel, we honeymoon. Then it stops…

What makes a couple stop talking? Stop communicating? Stop trusting? What makes someone not want to tell the person they’ve loved and trusted for so long exactly how they feel, and when it comes to deception, what makes a new connection so easy to fill that void?

There are no true answers to those questions because each situation differs. But of this, I am certain…

Deception occurs before rejection.Deception occurs with a lack of trust to be vulnerable.

Rejection comes after, as a byproduct.

Vulnerability is pure love, and when we stop giving it to those who love us and start with a new connection, the spark of something new (new love, lust, or merely newness) feels like the love we stopped working on… vulnerability at this point also becomes self-love as we nurture all the things we stopped trusting our partner to foster with us.

I’ve been through a lot over these past few months. I’ve literally lost my dogs, a friend to suicide, and stood by as my tribe was rocked to its core with her loss; I’ve lost my daughter; I’ve lost a friend who chose my partner as her own, and I’ve lost my partner. It took me months to admit in all of that, I lost my best friend too. I’ve lost safety and security. I’ve lost a parenting partner, and my children have lost their bonus mom, the woman I used to say was sometimes a better mother to my children than I could be. The loss here is immense.

My pain is raw. And I know I am not alone. In my journey of transparency, I will share more of my commitment to live inside my personal vulnerable space, loving myself, speaking my truth, healing, and uplifting others when I can.

These are lessons in healing.
Separating the emotions from the happening.
The raw from the unclear.

This is how it feels when the clarity of the deception leads to the rejection, and the emotions begin to unravel from the happening. It’s a process.

Here’s what I do know and where I have to toss blind faith into the wind and hope it comes back to me:
~ We can do hard things well.
~ We can live inside the vulnerable and make it our strength.
~ We can offer gratitude every day and still work on ourselves.
~ Opposites can be true in the same space at the same time.

No matter the space, the emotion, the feelings, the fear, the anxiety…
Start…
Living Inside The Vulnerable

Be Well
~Stella

    

Before

Before you stopped trusting me
with your emotions
and your time…

Before you took your
vulnerabilities
to her couch…

Before you ran away
from the space of fight
or flight…

Before stonewalling
became the norm
unable to accept our flaws…

Before personal growth
was allowed in safe spaces
never together, only apart…

Love lived here.
Before.

Love lived…

With a promise to choose over and over
The will to keep going
Together
Because family
Never ends.
Only sins break
Full release
As love flees,
Lost in nonverbal communication.
Things left unsaid
Words never heard
Validated by another
Deception under the guise of safety
Decisions made alone in
A space of together
A world forever changed.

Because a difficult conversation
Refused to surface
In a time when
Choice disappeared.

Love lived here.
Before.

Before
Laughter filled the air
Sentences finished, thoughts shared
Beneath smirks
Respect
Compliments
Tenderness
Silliness to no end.

Before…

Best friends lived here.
Under a net of love.
Inside the warmth of laughter.
Wrapped in a blanket of together
Forever.

Before love disappeared
taking the friendship along
on a wild disappearing act
Shattering worlds and memories,
Best friends lived here.

Love and laughter
united between the
sheets of unbridled passion
and on the mouths of
respectful union.

Loved lived here.
Best friends loved here.
Partners committed with the promise of forever
Shattered without conversation
Friendship dissipated in one fell swoop
Deceit and denial
Disrespect and damnation.

The after deserves a welcoming
like no other
from a space of without
into a space from within

Before.