HastyWords's Blog, page 51

#BeREALationships -How I Am Turning a Failing Marriage to the Blessing it was Supposed to Be

Please welcome Michelle Grewe to #BeREALationships.  This post was originally written for the 30 Day Blessings Challenge. A challenge asking you to focus on how a relationship has blessed you.  If you would like to participate in the challenge you can find her original post here where you can find a link up to participate.

A lot of people think marriage is about trust, but I always said it’s about forgiveness and sacrifice. I am learning through my marriage how right I was with that, at least for me.

I have many things I could complain about my husband worthy of walking out that door:

He proposed to an ex girl friend
He almost cheated on me
When the kids were babies and toddlers, he didn’t help out at all, not even when I was dying from sleep deprivation and malnutrition (migraines plus vomiting) trying to keep up.
He wouldn’t let me sleep for about 7 years
One time he cooked dinner for the family and wouldn’t let me have any (story told in Clash of the Couples)
My sister-in-law punched me in the face for no good reason, and he didn’t care
He lies a lot
He spends money behind my back

But he, too, could make a list just the same.

I am now officially crazy in ways that would qualify my marriage for an annulment
The house is always a mess now.
I don’t cook anymore, not like I used to.
I spend more money not cooking, so he works hard to be broke all the time.
He’s not getting laid anymore
I talk down to him
I rarely let him buy anything (we just can’t always afford it)

All of those things are much longer stories than I gave. If I tell you my story of what I have sacrificed and the pain I endured, I would be a pretty big victim. I was in a Facebook group for many years that was my safe haven to complain about personal things, and it was so bad, some of my friends left our group because I was always complaining but not planning to leave him. He, on the other hand, took to friends to talk about me where he was truly a huge victim, and they too told him to leave me.

The main thing is how we view each other now as a result:

I view my husband as another child I have to take care of. He does not love me, and he doesn’t care when I’m in pain. I need help with responsibilities, and he feels entitled to avoid responsibility like a child. I have to nag him for it like a mother.

My husband views me as the woman who ruined his life. When I met him, he was 19 years old, and I’m the reason he got married and had kids without living his 20’s. He wants freedom from responsibility.

Despite all these things in our past we need to forgive, and despite all these things haunting us just as hard as the negative energy that surrounds us, we are still together. The main reason we haven’t left each other is simply that we cannot afford it. We can barely handle one place of living, if we go to 2 places, we’d all make sacrifices like food.

After years of making long-term plans to separate, I am now afraid of it. My diagnosis is one that renders most people in long-term care facilities or homeless. Here I am, the matriarch of my family, raising 3 kids and still being the go-to person when family needs help. The only reason I’m not homeless, and the only reason I still have my kids with me, is my husband. I couldn’t ask any other man to take on my burdens with support and care simply because the only people responsible for the mess I am in is myself, and my husband as father to the children. While I feel like I’m facing this alone, I cannot face it alone.

We still talk about possible separation. My last conversation about the future was, “If this comes through and we don’t divorce, we can probably buy a house within 5 years.” All of our future plans entail a plan for if we divorce and a plan on if we stay together. The if-we-stay-together plans are all much more exciting and comfortable than the if-we-divorce plans, which has me leaning toward making this work because I want to give my kids that future.

I had asked my husband what he would do if we divorced. He said he would get an apartment, work, play video games, and take the kids when he could. I asked if there was another woman at all, and he swears there isn’t. I don’t care if there is. I can understand it. But, the point I made was that his life wouldn’t change at all in the slightest if we divorced. I don’t care if he cheats, but the only reason for us to divorce at this point would be if one of us found someone else and wanted to create a life with that person instead.

The only place one can find happiness is within. He won’t find it leaving me, and I won’t find it leaving him. Our problems will still haunt us everywhere we go, alone or together, until we deal with them.

During that conversation, my husband and I decided to give our marriage another try, yet again.

He is doing better with that time than I am. My problems are problems that if I could solve them, I would have already. His problems are problems that could be solved simply by deciding to treat me like a wife instead of the b-word ruining his life. He may not have been there for me all those years I needed someone really badly, but he is trying to be here for me now.

On top of it all, he has been taking care of my nephew who is without a father, which has been a big help to both me and my mother who have taken on responsibility for him. On top of it all, my husband rubs my feet almost every night. On top of it all, my husband actually helps clean a little despite being raised to believe that is not his responsibility at all.

We are slowly recovering from our bad marriage. We are slowly finding our happiness together instead of facing that search apart. That’s been the game changer. We decided to do this together. For 10 years we said, “This is your problem, deal with it,” but now we have accepted each other’s problems as OUR problem.

The solution is really forgiveness. We both have different memories of what happened and who is to blame for our problems. I really want him to see what all he has done. I don’t really want him to feel guilty, but I do on a deeper level as if his guilt and admittance will give me justice, but I know in the forefront of my brain where logic prevails that a confession will not give me justice. The only true justice in this world is forgiveness. I will never feel that closure until I forgive him and until I forgive myself. At some point, you just have to stop focusing on the problem and, instead, focus on the solution. Eyes facing forward, my husband and I need to let go of what was so that we can embrace what could be.

I know it sounds crazy after explaining a failed marriage that I feel blessed, but I do. I feel blessed that I am on a path to overcoming things nobody else overcomes, and I am blessed my husband is helping me. I am blessed he’s trying to find the patience to wait on me to figure this out.

In our attempt to stay together, we finally decided to be together.

Humor and Spiritual Writer and Graphic Artist, Michelle Grewe is Air Force Veteran, mother, and a human jungle gym. Published in 7 Books, Michelle’s art is featured in her coloring book designed for spirituality and mental health, From Dust to Essence. Websites who have featured her work include Popsugar Moms, Mamalode, and Blunt Moms. Her nonsense actually does make sense if you drink enough vodka and pray. Find her on michellegrewe.com.

Tagged: #BeReal, #BeREALationships, Blessing, Divorce, Forgiveness, Marriage, relationships, Sacrifice, separation, Trust

#BeREALationships – QUALITY TIME WITH MY REAL DAD

Please welcome Renee DeMont to #BeREALationships

Tell me one thing you are super proud of yourself for this week. I want you to brag about yourself. None of this being humble crap. Give it to me. I want to be proud of you too. #bereal

When I read HastyWord’s post I didn’t hesitate to comment:

Flew my handicapped father to the east coast and made his dream of sitting on the Atlantic and eating lobster come true. He’s 78. Said, “It was the trip of a lifetime!”

Hasty’s response, “OMG. That is amazing. I love this. You should write a post for me. I would love to share that story for you.”

I smiled to myself and wrote, I’d be honored…

He’s my dad.

Hasn’t always been. Didn’t even meet him until I was twelve—after my biological parents realized they had somewhere else to be, something else to do, this man wholeheartedly volunteered for the job.

Can you imagine? I was a teenager he barely knew. Put his arm around me, gave my shoulder a little squeeze and assured me, “You are special. You wanna know why? Because you are hand picked.” I was now his daughter.

Adopted me and my brother after fostering over two dozen kids in the system. Was an orphan himself as a child. In the end, they adopted four of us legally. Many still call him dad.

Stepped up to the plate when I turned thirteen and stood by my side ever since. I am now fifty.

Selfless devotion.

He’s caring.

He’s devoted.

He’s funny.

He’s honest and kind.

He’s hungry-like, all the time!

He’s cantankerous and opinionated and elderly too.

He’s my dad.

I treasure our time together.

This past year I’ve noticed he’s been slowing down. Had his knees replaced but he still cannot walk more than fifty yards without his walker. Had a stroke after mom died…had to be real with myself and acknowledge our quality time together would be taking on a whole new definition in the short years to come.

One night the writer in me began to ask my father questions: Why did your mother die when you were only one? What was it like for you living in the Catholic orphanage? Why were you married to that Playboy Bunny for only three weeks (seriously) ? How did you and mom meet (great story btw!)… and finally, did you do everything in life you wanted to do?

“You know what? I did, except there is just one more thing on my bucket list: I’d like to go to Maine, sit on the Atlantic coast and eat lobster.”

Dumbfounded, I asked, “Really? Maine?! You want to FLY to the other side of country? With your knees? Dad, that won’t be an easy trip.”

“Yep. That’s what I’d like to do.”

So I booked the trip. Why? Because he’s my dad. And a pretty rockin’ one at that.

You know what I learned?

 

1 – No matter how daunting the challenge of traveling with a loved one who will need extra consideration appears to be, it is important to go. Just do it. I am not naive; knew it wouldn’t be stress free, nor incident free, but I understood going in if I planned well and rolled with the punches, in the end, I would be proud of myself.

2 – Our countrymen treat our handicapped in a way that left me in awe: Everywhere where we went folks stepped aside, let dad pre-board the plane, had a wheelchair waiting in Boston as we exited, pushed him down to baggage claim for me too. Hotels provided courtesy wheelchairs when needed, the Ben & Jerry’s tour guide met us at the end of the ramp and insisted on pushing his heavy chair all the way up the ramp all the while chatting happily— tours in general went at a slower pace for us. Tourists, waiters, locals made allowances for my father’s disability over and over—with an almost reverent joyfulness that continually surprised me. Couldn’t help but notice folks took our slower pace as an invitation to stop and chat. Lovely. My father felt seen, heard, appreciated throughout our adventure. He was the star of the show. Wonderful to witness the world through his eyes.

3 – Caring for the elderly is physically and mentally challenging. Even more so when it is someone you love. Only in  retrospect, did I realize how important my father’s overall experience had been to me. The daily logistics alone were no easy feat.  Had to plan ahead, and when I ran out of gas along the highway in New Hampshire, I had to think on my feet; the senior and the teenager were depending on me. Solved our problem—in fact, I pulled it off for nine days straight (amazing, I know). Exhaustion set in on the flight home. Slept for two days after my head finally hit my own pillow. It was a peaceful satisfied kinda sleep knowing what I had done was nothing compared to what that man had done for me all those years ago.

4 – Spending nine days 24/7 with her grandfather is a memory my daughter will cherish. When you put yourself in a situation that requires everyone to think and work together it will either lead to cat fights or concern. Concern leads to bonding. Bonding leads to dancing in the souvenir store with your grandfather and giggling (knee braces and all).  Then coming home and sharing your stories with your friends—and more giggling.

5 – Dad realized his dream. He checked off that last item on his bucket list. Feels fantastic to know I had a  little something to do with that.

 

Wanna know why?

Because he chose to be my father when no one else wanted to.

Because he’s my dad. ♥

Renee DeMont is a SURVIVOR. She was born into poverty; spent much of her childhood homeless, living on the streets of Los Angeles, and in foster care. Renee learned early on: life is about adapting to adversity. The greatest gift she ever received? No one expected anything from her. By 18, she was ready to experience life on her own terms. First one in her family to attend college. After college, her focus and determination earned her a spot working at Paramount Studios, on the #1 show in television, “Cheers”.

At 29, Renee gave entrepreneurship a go and began a Biomedical engineering business out of her garage. Twenty years later, that risky venture grew into 8,000 square feet of success. She broke the cycle of poverty that plagued her family for generations. Recently, Renee turned fifty, filed for divorce (he declared WAR), and trudged through a debilitating nervous breakdown.

Through therapy and writing, she reclaimed her sanity. Sold her half of the business to the ex, and now she has clarity and choices. Renee is personally and financially independent. With her new found freedom, she chooses to write in a sincere effort to reconcile her past with her present. Hopefully, through this cathartic process, the second half of her life will be led by her soul’s desire, rather than by the fears and doubts of her first half.

Currently, she lives in South Orange County with her teenage son and daughter, and her high maintenance yet lovable dog, Joe. Soon to be an empty nester, she plans to downsize the big house in the OC bubble, for a bigger life in the real world. Her days are spent gently launching her almost grown children into adulthood, and passionately penning her memoir.

In the mean time, you can find her essays on pain, positivity, and empowerment at: One Drop Of Grace and the Feminine Collective

my Facebook link is Renee DeMont

my instagram: reneedemont

my twitter: renee_demont

my email: reneedemont50@gmail.com

Tagged: #BeReal, #BeREALationships, Beautiful, Compassion, Daughter, Family, Father, love, relationships, Respect

#BeREAL : BlogHer and GoDaddy

I had the chance recently to go to BlogHer.

I got an email stating I had won one of the Voice of the Year Awards.  I almost trashed it thinking it was spam but I when I saw the link they included was my #BeREAL piece I paused.  I read it.  I looked up BlogHer and immediately wondered who had submitted my name.

Lizzi Lewis.

She has had so much faith in my abilities she took it into her own hands to submit my piece for the SOCIAL IMPACT category.  And by the wonderment I still have I won.

I decided to go to BlogHer because the event was free, there would be some awesome people and opportunities and maybe it was meant to be.  I don’t take opportunities that come my way lightly.  After all, I had a chance to represent all the people who have taken the time to share their stories with me.

The conference was awesome as was my roommate and all the wonderful bloggers I finally got to meet IRL.  I had a blast.  And considering it was the weekend of my divorce being finalized it was the best distraction to be with some amazingly beautifully kind-hearted women.  I had found my tribe and they were all loving and powerfully brave.

On the last day of the conference I was so tired.  I got up slowly and made my way to the conference well after lunch time.  I decided to check out the sponsor area and got to see what all the hub-bub was about.  People kept asking me what my blog was about.

Well… it’s evolved and changed over the years.  It isn’t the same place as when I started.  How do I possibly encompass everything that this place is about?

One of the booths was being presented by GoDaddy.  It was a #PitchBooth.  They were handing out awesome tote bags that I thought my daughter would love so…

Without makeup and what looks like a full grown mustache under the harsh light of the pitch booth I stepped in and gave it my 30 seconds.  I didn’t think I had a chance in hell of being picked in the top 20.  BUT really your voices matter.  It is your voices I focused on and your voices that I sold.

How do I explain my blog???

Watch me here to find out… and then if you support my vision OUR VISION then vote for me :)  You also get something out of it too.

By voting, you enter for a chance to win a $200 gift card from SheKnows Media. The pitcher in the winning video will receive $500 in services from our sponsor, GoDaddy, as well as an all-expense paid trip to New York City for a VIP Winner’s Dinner, which will be attended by top executives and potential investors. ~SheKnowsMedia

Even if you don’t vote for me I hope you vote because there are a lot of good women here looking to make a difference in the world.

VOTE FOR A CHANCE TO WIN $200 AND SUPPORT FEMALE ENTREPRENEURIALISM

 

 

Tagged: blogHer, Challenge, Contest, GoDaddy, Help, Promotion, sponsor, Vision, Vote, win

#BeREALationships – WHEN YOUR HEART BEATS FOR THE FIRST TIME

Please welcome Cee Streetlights to #BeREALationships.

              I had been in labor since May when my water finally broke in July. Avoiding a premature birth had been our primary goal since my first ultrasound at seven weeks when I watched my baby – smaller than the size of a jelly bean – bouncing around the womb like a ping pong ball.

              I protected my growing belly and its wild pixie like a dragon protects its treasure. I was still mourning the loss of one baby, losing another would be the end of yet another world for me. I knew I would not be able to bear it. The loneliness of bed rest is a small sacrifice when I thought about the life growing below my heart, as if it knew how hollow that space had been for so long.

              There are mysteries about a woman’s body when she is pregnant that are both beautiful and bizarre. Nobody prepares a woman adequately for what it feels like when her water breaks. There’s the mucus plug, for example, is not only bizarre but is something that should be written about in science fiction novels. The butterfly kisses of the feeling your baby moving the first time, almost if you can feel tiny fingertips reaching out for your hand. Stretch marks that seem to magically appear overnight like roads crawling over foreign lands. And then, of course, there is no preparation for the sensation of your water breaking.

              In the time between getting my husband’s attention and driving to the hospital, I began to feel contractions. I was also beginning to feel light-headed and have heart palpitations, but didn’t think anything of it. It was extremely warm that day and I remember thinking that perhaps I hadn’t had enough water. I wanted my son to be taken care of, however. He needed to have lunch and have somewhere to spend the night. 

              My son’s birth ended with an emergency c-section, and because of the realities of his birth, this birth would be a c-section. But because my baby was coming early and after my water broke, everything was happening very quickly.  

              If you were ever able to be in a position to observe a labor and delivery team in an emergency, you would find them to be incredibly gifted. Chances are you would never be able to tell there is an emergency at all because they work with such precision and every member of the team is calm, knowing the role each is supposed to be serve. They do this for obvious reasons, of course. They don’t want to alarm the patient or any family members who might be present.

              My son and husband never knew I was dying in front of them.

              Once the IV’s and epidural were put in, and the heart monitors were hooked up, we waited for my brother to pick up my son. My heart beat erratically and I watched the nurses look at each other and then watch the monitors. They walked from one part of the room and then to the other, adjusting this or that. Nurses would roll me onto one side, and then they’d continue to watch the electronic peaks and valleys on the screen.

The nurses maintained cheerful conversation with my husband and joked with my son, never breaking their professional and skilled demeanors or the practiced movements between one another. Yet I recognized the quick glances one flickered to the other, the subtle frown or fleeting concern that displays when a brow wrinkles. I knew the look they exchanged with each other, and they moved the monitor so I couldn’t see it.

              My brother arrived and my son left with him.

              And it was time. Time for me to be rolled this way and that way, “Hold onto the bedrail,” the nurses said. And I held on.

              They attached even more things to me that would monitor even more heartbeats; endless sticky pads with wires attached were suddenly entangled all up and down my body as if I were ensnared on a spider’s web. I could still hear the monitor’s beeping from somewhere, my baby’s and mine. One strong steady heartbeat beeping, and one that was slowly erratic, out of rhythm.

              I couldn’t breathe anymore. My chest tightened and the room darkened, but what I remember most was watching my hands turn unnaturally white. The noise in the room muted into a loud silence and I knew I was dying. I stared at my white hands growing whiter. My body was tired. I was tired. The last few years had destroyed me.

              Through the heavy silent ringing in my ears I could hear the baby’s heartbeat, its steady rhythm on the monitor.  My white hands terrified me.

              I whispered, “Is this normal?” I barely moved my hand towards a nurse was nearby, adjusting IV lines her and repeated, “Is this normal?” She looked at me. I remember watching her eyes widening as mine closed. I could hear them moving my husband back and people yelling for different things, but it didn’t matter because I finally had my eyes closed and I could count the baby’s heartbeat.

              Until I felt a horrific burning in my chest and a burst of air forced its way through my lungs, my heart came alive with a ferociousness I have not felt since that moment. It might have been epinephrine that brought me back, it was the sound of my baby’s heart that gave me the will to hold on long enough.

              My baby girl arrived soon after and I waited to hear her lusty cry but it never came. When the doctor held her up for me to see, her wide eyes looked around the room expecting something, her pallor a devastating blue, she smiled when our eyes met.

              She was quickly taken away from me, the doctor explaining that her right lung was filled with fluid. I sent my husband to be with our daughter, to give her a blessing – something that we have faith in – and to stay with her. I remained in the operating room, crying for our little girl, feeling helpless. A nurse came to hold my hand when the Code Blue was called, and other nurses came to shield me from watching the NICU team rush in to save my baby.

              The first night in the hospital was the loneliest night of motherhood. My sweet baby remained in the NICU, connected to tubes and wires in what we called her baby condo. I couldn’t hold her. The only contact I could have was by touching her hand. Her right lung wasn’t fully developed and she had a tube that extended through her mouth, down her throat and into her lung. My heart ached to hold my baby. What if all the books, blog posts, Facebook mothers, and What to Expect people were right and we wouldn’t ever bond because I didn’t hold her right after birth?

              The prognosis for the baby didn’t match up with what my baby wanted, however. We had anticipated for her to be in her condo for over a week and in the NICU for a month. Yet, her nurse called me in the middle of the night and asked if I wanted to hold somebody. The baby was ready to be released for good behavior just three days after being born – not the full week as anticipated.

              It turns out I didn’t need to worry about my child not bonding with me. The moment she was placed in my arms and under my gown (kangaroo care in NICU language) the magic that occurs between mother and baby happens. Suddenly, the worries from bed rest disappear and the fear of seeing her blueberry blue vanishes. The harshest of realities – that death can be only white hands away – seems to become the stuff only life insurance salesmen talk about.

              At that moment, finally holding my baby girl, all what mattered was feeling her heart beat against mine.

After writing and illustrating her first bestseller in second grade, “The Lovely Unicorn”, C. Streetlights took twenty years to decide if she wanted to continue writing. In the time known as growing up she became a teacher, a wife, and mother. Retired from teaching, C. Streetlights now lives with her family in the mountains along with their dog that eats Kleenex. Her memoir, Tea and Madness, won honorable mention for memoir in the Los Angeles Book Fair (2016) and is available for purchase on Amazon.

C. Streetlights is represented by Lisa Hagan Books and published by Shadow Teams NYC. For all press interviews and other inquiries, please contact Ms. Hagan directly.

You can connect with C. Streetlights on Twitter, Facebook, Instagram, Pinterest, Amazon Author Central, LinkedIn, and Goodreads.

 

Tagged: #BeReal, #BeREALationships, baby, birth, Death, delivery, Family, life, love, Parenthood, Pregnancy, pregnant, relationships

#BeREALationships: MY FIRST

Please welcome Christin Nicole Crider to #BeREALationships.

Let me preface this by saying this is part of my life has never really been talked about. I put it on a shelf many years ago. I let it sit there, collecting dust over the last 18 years. But for some reason today, I feel the need to pull it down, dust it off, like an old photo album stuck in the attic over time. I will somehow, someway open up this old photo album and page by page I will do my best to recollect the painful memories that have been locked away. I will show you pages in my album that no one has ever seen or heard before. Here goes.

I was 18 years old and had just graduated high school. For the last year and a half I had been “dating” Matt. I lived in Washington, he lived in California. I had met him in a chat room on the internet (which was the cool thing back in the late 90’s) via my best friend, Stephanie. She had been talking to Matt’s best friend, Richie for a while and somehow both Stephanie and Richie mutually decided to introduce Matt and me.  From the first words we spoke to each other, I knew he was the one for me. I had never really had a boyfriend before or even had a boy that was interested in me. So going from that to having someone genuinely care about me, felt amazing. We began writing letters to each other. Every day after school I would rush home and check the mailbox to see if I got a letter from him. We spent countless hours on the phone talking about our day, life in general and plans for the future.

Our relationship grew overtime. Matt was in college and I was finishing up my senior year in high school. He treated me very well, always sending flowers or cards. I was in love. At least at that time I thought I was.

Over the span of a year and half, he flew up to Washington 3 times and I flew down to California 2 times. My family adored him. He was so charismatic and friendly. Matt and my grandma had a special bond which was important to me because I was extremely close to her.

My first time visiting him in California was amazing. We did all the sightseeing there was in the Bay area. I felt like a kid in a candy store seeing the Golden Gate Bridge, Alcatraz, and Fisherman’s wharf.

In early 1999, I boarded the plane in Seattle and headed to San Jose with my 2 very full suitcases. After 2 hours, I had landed. The first thing I saw was his perfect, handsome, smiling face. Like a scene in a corny romantic movie, I ran into his arms.

The first few days were perfect. I unpacked my clothes, rearranged our room to accommodate my “stuff”. He was happy and so was I.

I was due to start my job, which I had transferred to from Washington. I was excited and scared my first day. Would people know that I’m not from here? Do I look different? These insecurities were flooding my mind. I just wanted to fit in. My first day was a little… no, it was very scary. New people, new city, new state—it was just me by myself. But I made it through. I found out I was going to be working overnights. I didn’t mind, less customers to deal with. It was quiet and I needed that with all of the changes that were happening.

The first red flag.

I came home one morning from work about 8am. I was exhausted as working nights was beginning to take a toll on me. I was tired, I just wanted to crawl in bed and sleep. As I walked in the door and went to the bedroom, he was waking up.

“I’m going to bed—I’m so tired” I said while yawning. I was starting to see double—I was so tired.

“No you’re not—you sleep too much”

“What?”

“You sleep all day” he said, scolding me like I was a child. This is the first time I ever heard anger in his voice.

By this time, my eyes just wanted to close. I laid down on the bed anyways, hoping he would just get over it and let me sleep.

That didn’t happen.

Matt then decided to put a pillow over my head. I thought he was just playing at first until it really scared me. I screamed, struggling to get the pillow off my head to breathe. I finally got it off my face and ran to the bathroom where I locked the door. He began banging on the door to let him in. I didn’t and he finally left to go to school. I cried myself to sleep in the bathtub that day.

We never brought up the incident again. I justified the incident to myself by thinking maybe he just had a bad day or maybe he was stressed out from school.

The second red flag.

Things went on as normal, until one night we were going out with his friends, I threw on some shorts and t-shirt with some sandals and was grabbing my purse when out of nowhere he grabbed my arm. He told me I needed to change. I asked him why while looking down at what I had on. He said I need to dress up, look nice and do something with myself. I didn’t want to fight, so I put something a little nicer, put my hair up and put some make-up on. Maybe he was right—maybe I did need to look better—he was good looking guy who wanted to his girlfriend to look nice too. Right? I didn’t want to embarrass him in front of his friends. I wanted them to like me. The people pleaser in me was in full effect.

As the weeks went on the red-flags just kept coming. I felt trapped. There was no way I was going to move back home and admit defeat. I wanted to prove to everyone I could make it on my own. But I was all alone in the big city. I knew exactly 1 person. And that 1 person was abusing me. How much would I be able to take before I broke?

The answer was coming, but not soon enough.

Matt made sure I knew how he felt about my: weight, appearance, housekeeping inabilities, being too friendly with guys at work…pretty much everything I was and did wasn’t good enough for him. The sad part is, I began to believe him.

Maybe if I wasn’t so lazy…stupid…dumb…friendly…fat…ugly…

He would love me again. Like he used to.

I began trying to become the person he wanted me to be. I began jogging every day. I began eating less. I began to become the best housekeeper/girlfriend/person I could be.

I still wasn’t good enough.

After a few weeks of being there, I began to make new friends. Another thing Matt didn’t like, but at this point, I didn’t care.

One day while working, I was talking to a male co-worker/friend in my department. Just as we were finishing up the conversation, Matt walked around the corner.  I saw the look on his face and I knew I was in trouble.

I clocked out for lunch and we walked to the car. As soon as I shut the door, he grabbed my arm and began yelling at me. “Who the fuck is that!?” “Did you see the way he was looking at you?!” “I told you not to talk to other guys—what the fuck is wrong with you?”

I didn’t say anything. The more I would talk, the angrier he would get. So I just sat there. Silent.

I justified everything by telling myself:

At least he doesn’t hit me
He stressed out from work/school
Maybe he’s right
He’s never left bruises on me
He loves me

Until the night he did hit me and left a bruise.

His brother came over to visit. I really can’t remember how an argument ensued between Matt and I, but there was some yelling going on. His brother tried to intervene, however Matt was too strong. I ran to the bedroom and shut the door. Unfortunately there was no lock. I went to the bed and laid down, hoping he would just leave with his brother.

That didn’t happen.

The next thing I remember is the door opening and something hard hitting me in the head.

I blacked out for just a moment.

When I came to, I looked over. He had thrown a big black steel toed boot and it had hit me in my head. My head was bleeding and I had a nice little goose egg on my forehead.

I felt so beaten down. Defeated. I just laid there crying, never feeling so low, battered, and pained as I did right in this moment. I just wanted to die.

Things just got worse. The verbal abuse escalated. The physical abuse was beginning to be more frequent and harsh.

About 3 months in I decided I needed to get out.

Step 1: I went out a bought my own car. (We had been sharing a car up until then)

Step 2: I needed to get my own place, but rent was outrageous in the bay area.

I had befriended one of Matt’s friends ex-girlfriend– Allison.

Allison was looking for a roommate and I needed to get the hell out of where I was.

I went to Allison’s job one afternoon and talked to her about becoming roommates. To my relief she was all for it. Now the hard part came—I had to tell Matt.

I prepared myself for the worst. Was he going to flip out and hit me? Would he make my life a living hell? Would he even let me leave?

The good thing was none of those things happened. He was in agreement in me moving out. I was so relieved.

Soon after, I moved out and Matt never hurt me again.

Matt and I have remained in contact over the last 18 years. He did apologize for what happened during the short time we were together. I accepted his apology and eventually I forgave him.

That was so many years ago, but somehow those things always stay with you. The hurt, the pain, the fear of that relationship never really left me. But for now I am going to put that old photo album back on the shelf and perhaps someday I will take it back down again to share with my own daughter so she will never have to find herself in the same type of relationship.

Being real for me is accepting the past and moving forward. I couldn’t let what happened in my early adulthood define the rest of my life. Although I haven’t talked about it before, in my own mind, I have been able to forgive but I will never forget. Forgetting dilutes the lessons that were taught to me at such a young age. Those lessons, although painful and frightening have allowed me to remember that I am worth so much more than what that relationship made me feel like. It allowed me to put boundaries up early on, never allowing myself to be treated like that again.

 

 

Bio

Christin Nicole Crider is a mom of two very busy, opinionated tweens and two lazy cats. She is currently pursuing a degree in law studies at Olympic College. In her spare time, she doesn’t enjoy being an unpaid taxi for her kids but finds happiness in sleeping in on occasion and eating chocolate. Christin also enjoys co-writing with her good friend, Jennifer Ortolano. If you want to check out their very real and unadulterated blog, go to http://www.vodkacalling.com.

Tagged: #BeReal, #BeREALationships, Abuse, Dating, domestic abuse, live, love, Narcissism, relationships

#BeREALationships – THE MEASURE OF A LIFE

 

Humor me for a brief moment. Close your eyes (well, not literally, considering I need you to continue reading). Imagine you are minding your business, grocery shopping and you notice an over-zealous store clerk shadowing your every move, ensuring you have not “slipped something in your pocket.”

Perhaps, that was too specific. Let’s try again.

Imagine politely opening the door for a middle-aged (or elderly) Caucasian woman only to be met with visible fear or a firm clutch of their purse.

Still too specific. Third time is a charm.

Imagine being pressed to find positive images (e.g. film, music, news coverage, etc.) that represents the people, the culture, or the world you came from, being told that there is a difference between NIGGERS and BLACK PEOPLE, or being told you are WHITE or NON-THREATENING because of your college education, articulate manner of speaking, or your appreciation for Country/Rock music.

Still can’t relate? Consider it a privilege.

My name is Laron Chapman, and this is my reality.

There is common misconception that PRIVILEGE takes the form of something that you GAIN (like a lifetime supply of Haagan Daas. Yes, please!) On the contrary, privilege takes the form of a LACK of injustices you ENDURE.

If you have turned on the news in last month, chances are you have witnessed some pretty horrific images, inflammatory rhetoric, and some pretty divisive opinions. If you were one of the millions to witness the viral videos capturing the deaths in Louisiana (Alton Sterling) or Minnesota (Philando Castile) at the hands of law enforcement officers earlier this month and you slept comfortably without pondering to yourself, “that could have been me,” you just experienced the stealthy power of privilege in its most glowing form.

Now, to be fair, I cannot reasonably expect everyone to understand the daily nuances, prejudices, hate speech, racial profiling , and preconceived notions I experience (present tense).   I’m simply asking for people “to try.” Try and imagine the damaging affect a lifetime of internalizing the aforementioned experiences can have on an individual’s self-esteem, self-worth, and value.

Hence, the initiation of the newly-minted, controversial activist movement BLACK LIVES MATTER (BLM). A movement that did not emerge out of a need or desire for a community to matter MORE than any other, but rather a need or desire for a community to matter, PERIOD.

Now, before you misquote, misunderstand, or mischaracterize me, understand that I believe the rioting, vandalism, anti-white, anti-cop rhetoric is despicable and abhorrent. The five law enforcement officers slain in Dallas during a BLM protest is as much a tragedy as the ones that inspired its existence. However, I also know how dangerous and morally irresponsible it is to judge and condemn an ENTIRE group by the acts of a FEW (with their own exclusive, insidious agendas).

Saying you are against police brutality does not mean you don’t value, respect, or need police officers (trust me, I can barely discard of a spider in my kitchen without assistance). By comparison, declaring that you support black lives does not mean that all other lives can kick rocks. It takes wisdom, experience, compassion, and an eagerness to learn to know (and see) the difference.

Following the events in Louisiana, Minnesota, and Dallas, I attended a BLM rally in my hometown of Oklahoma. I participated with a healthy amount of anxiety, apprehension, and uneasiness about what could transpire. However, I was fueled by a desire to create and be a part of change (beyond the comfort and anonymity of a message board). What proceeded was one of the most powerful, moving, inspiring, and enlightening experiences of my life.

There was no in-citation of violence, no rioting, no hate speech, and no discernible dis-accord. Instead, I witnessed police officers shaking hands and exchanging hugs with minorities. I witnessed representatives of every race and gender holding hands and marching in solidarity. I witnessed activists, poets, and musicians voice their concerns with dignity, poise, grace, and respect for everyone involved. I witnessed a community put aside their differences and unify through a common humanity and hunger for peace and justice.

It was the kind of trans-formative experience that simply has no presence or air time in the media because they are too preoccupied (whether intentional or not) finding ways to divide us.

When an injustice happens to someone (black, white, LGBT, women, Muslim, Hispanic, disabled, police officer, etc.) it is ALL of our responsibility to band together and stand up for what is right.

This is not simply a race issue.

This a human issue.

Laron Chapman is a passionate film and music enthusiast with a background in film and television production, journalism, and screenwriting. He graduated from The University of Oklahoma with a Bachelor’s Degree in Film and Media Studies. He works as a freelance Film/TV production assistant and screenwriter in Oklahoma City and has worked on projects ranging from the Oscar-nominated film “August: Osage County,” American Idol, Food Network, and Discovery Channel, among others.   laron.m.chapman@gmail.com

 

 

Tagged: #BeReal, #BeREALationships, Black Lives Matter, BLM, Community, Compassion, Humanity, profiling, RACISM, relationships

#BeREALationships- THE COMEBACK KID

 

I used to think that all my problems stemmed from my childhood. I blamed bullies, bitches, and boys for my mood swings. They were such inconsiderate jerks.

I used to think all of the men I dated were emotionally stunted. Why else would they be ignorant enough to hurt my feelings, take me for granted, and have the audacity to breathe after we broke ties? I mean, come on, I was paralytic after those idiotic lust fests.

I used to think that women shared more DNA with cats than the human race.

4 Types of Women that Are Terrible Friends

Two-faced, conniving, and vindictive, I never found my tribe. I did let my guard down, too many times to mention. Nothing hurts quite like the sting of slash marks left by a supposed best friend forever.  A glutton for punishment I keep my heart open, even to this day waiting to find a tribe of awesome, loving, and supportive girlfriends. Other women seem to have them, but never me. I always get the shaft, jealousy disguised in a warm embrace. Commonalities used as a ruse for one-upmanship (make that one-upwomanship).

I used to think that parenting was not for me. I have kids (too late now to reconsider), but I know that I have done everything wrong. Poor babies stuck with a mother who has swallowed her tongue most of her life and has a tendency to lash out with barbs quicker than you can flip a switch.

They are trying to kill me. Each one of my little darlings holds my heart as ransom. On a daily basis, I am presented with a rainbow of emotions, problems and quirks, gifts from my offspring. I love them, and they make me proud, but I wonder why I have to deal with a lion’s share of child-rearing drama. In fact, if I think about it, I have been “responsible” for young ones since I was nine years old. That is when I began my indentured servant stage. No kidding, my little brothers were my “job” every day until my parents came home from work. Rain or shine.  Why I decided to launch into parenthood while in my teens, I will never know.

I used to think that I had shit taste in men.

5 Signs You’re Dating The Wrong Person

I married a handful;

One for 48 hours, he was a French hairdresser with a sexy accent, I was eighteen. We were high on mushrooms, high on life, and high on denial while a whirlwind holiday in Vegas. Poor guy, his head is still spinning. We are friends, though, chalking the experience up to the folly of rebels without a cause.

One for a year and a half. What can I say? I was nineteen, still wild, and very pregnant. My religious beliefs and innocent heart never considered alternatives, so I married that narcissistic asshole.  He was twenty-seven at the time. I was the first teen/woman who he blatantly used for a “lifestyle” upgrade.  It took about two years to shake him off; I never denied him access to his child. On the contrary, I supported their relationship. What a mistake that was. In fact, I will say this for the record, because of his continued earthly existence I question karma.

Now I am headed for my twentieth anniversary with the last of the Mohicans, the one who has stuck by my side. It has been thick rather than thin. I don’t think death will see us part, but it has been a rough ride. Not enough laughter, in my opinion, to balance out the tears. But he is my man, through and through. He knows me better than most; he is always at the ready with a helping hand. The adventures we have had would blow your mind. A perfect union? Nope. But at this point, we are too tired to fight. Instead, we have called a truce. We have no other choice really; the darn kids are always standing right in the way with a calamity for us to sort out. ASAP. Maybe one day we will be able to have a vacation. Just the two of us. What would we even have to talk about, without the kids peppering our conversations with endless interruptions?  I wonder.

I used to think like a victim.

Why me? Why did I make all of those stupid mistakes? Why did I pick the long winding rocky, straight uphill path in life?

I always blamed the other parties. I had too. It never occurred to me to think otherwise. I am innocent. I swear.

This past year I have had yet again a devastating turn with depression.

Phoenix Rising: Thriving With Depression

Diagnosed with PTSD and OCD, my sad little soul now is classified as a Major Depressive Disordered mess.   The Brilliance of Mental Illness

It is all their fault.

Or is it?

Through intensive, blistering sessions with my therapist and with the help of a psychologist, I now realize that my relationship woes start and end with me.

I have never loved myself.

I have never exercised my voice.

Lost in Translation: How Embracing My Vulnerability Saved Me

I passively let others take control. I willingly rolled over and begged. I have taken risks because I am a junkie for thrills.  Live fast, live hard and die young.

Running with Scissors

Just like in the movies. Crap, I am almost in my fifties. Guess that plan did not work out.

My highs are heaven. My lows are hell

My opinion of self has always relied on the judgment of others.

I have heard the following in regards to my personality countless times: uneducated, intense, misinformed, erratic, flamboyant and flippant.

Therefore my perceptions are always in the wrong.

VICTIM In capital letters.

Self-loathing and negative chatter drive me. They do. They did. Sometimes both.

Sometimes?

All the time.

Why wouldn’t they? If you hear the same song over and over you start to sing the tune, don’t you?

Relationships are hard. They hurt. They can be destructive. They can be a wellspring of misery. They can also be profoundly stunning.

My relationship with myself is my biggest hurdle. I am working on being kind and gentle. I am working on being encouraging and loving. I am working on setting boundaries, for myself and for  others.

I have come to the conclusion that I no longer care, one way or another about other people’s opinions regarding who I am as a person. I know who I am. I am a damaged, yet dynamic individual, who struggles every day to stay here, in the present, instead of giving up and calling it a day.

I told you before that I am a thrill seeking junkie.

Hang on a minute, you need to know that I have changed my paradigm.

Now I get off shaking up the status quo.

Loving and nurturing myself is my top priority. There is no other option for me. In fact, there is a new decisive voice that has taken up residence in my mind.

It says: “You can do anything you want to Julie. Anything at all. You are brave. You are confident. You are worthy. You are the Come Back Kid.”

FEARLESSLY VULNERABLE

Julie Anderson is the Creator and Publisher of Feminine Collective. Julie was inspired to create a safe place for women to share their secrets, desires, triumphs and pain as the antithesis of what mass media offers women today. Entrepreneur, writer, photographer, mother and wife, Julie’s creative’s vision has yet to be satiated. Visit her website JulieAndersonOfficial to learn more about her past, present and future.

 

 

Tagged: #BeReal, #BeREALationships, Depression, Family, Friendship, life, love, relationships

#BeREALationships -WHAT HAPPENS WHEN YOU WALK THROUGH THE FIRE

What Happens When You Walk Through The Fire

By Rachel Thompson

From the upcoming book, Broken People

Copyright ShadowTeams Publishing, 2016

When I finally decided it was time to tell my (now-ex) husband I wanted him to move out, I wanted a divorce, the truth is, I wasn’t ready to walk through the fire. Skipping around the burning coals for years, dancing past the cinders, dropping hints through smoke so thick it choked my ability to be honest with him, and to be honest, with myself.

Burying myself inside ramshackle, thorny pillars of daily survival – walking through each day without resentment eating away at my growing scorn became a sort of merciless victory.

Drifting further into myself, the cloud of silence growing, the fire building.

When silence didn’t work, we had conversations about what needed to change, what we both needed to work on. I loved him. It wasn’t that. It’s still not that. He’s a good man, a good father. I’ve known him almost half my life. My god, how is that possible?

My feet continued to burn.

I blurted it out one day, “You need to leave!” in a rush before I lost my nerve, my soles on fire. I couldn’t breathe with his booming voice, his anxiety vibrating, snapping at the very air of his slamming door, slamming drawer, clutter-filled presence.  I needed peace. I wanted counter space. To breathe in my own clear air.

My soul burning.

So he left. Not without some protest, a mountain of bills, and the upheaval of our now suitcase-carrying, back and forth children who think I’m being selfish. That’s okay, I see their point. They are too young to understand that breathing isn’t selfish.

It’s more important we do this thing together, focusing on co-parenting them, and we do, in the tepid froth left after the boil. He still calls me “Hon,” after twenty-two years together, which is sweet and only slightly strange, as when a child calls you by your first name.

It’s been easier, and harder, to go through than around. There is no detour when it comes to ending a marriage. “You will have to walk through the fire,” my therapist tells me, and she’s right. Nobody does this for you. It’s a grown-up thing, this divorce business.

You dig through the ashes for answers, and realize that you are just as imperfect as you fear, that all those clichés about change are excruciatingly true. I don’t blame him. I don’t blame me. I don’t even blame change. Maybe I’m fooling myself, but adapting a Zen approach to it all helps immensely, particularly when the best I can do is breathe.

I watch my former resentments as they pass me by. While I don’t shake their hand, I don’t wave goodbye to them either. I’m not there yet. I want to be that evolved, and maybe one day I will be. There is frustration and anger that lie below any relationship; we are not special.

The single, burning stack is falling as the pieces scrabble for new places to land.

I realize control is an illusion. We can’t shape a tattered love that’s no longer there, yet I can choose to cherish memories, and be thankful for happy times and amazing kids; that we’ve salvaged enough of this shredded relationship to still care about each other because of our children makes me if not happy, at least grateful for this solo walk.

I’m damaged. I’m healing. I’m tending my scars.

The way it is with any kind of burn.

 

Rachel Thompson is represented by literary agent Lisa Hagan, and is published by ShadowTeamsNYC.

She is the author of the award-winning, bestselling Broken Places (one of IndieReader’s “Best of 2015” top books and 2015 Honorable Mention Winner in both the Los Angeles and the San Francisco Book Festivals), and the bestselling, multi award-winning Broken Pieces (as well as two additional humor books, A Walk In The Snark and Mancode: Exposed).

Rachel’s work is also featured in several anthologies (see Books for details).

She owns BadRedhead Media, creating effective social media and book marketing campaigns for authors. Her articles appear regularly in The Huffington Post, The San Francisco Book Review (BadRedhead Says…), Feminine Collective, IndieReader.com, 12Most.com, bitrebels.com, BookPromotion.com, and Self-Publishers Monthly,

Not just an advocate for sexual abuse survivors, Rachel is the creator and founder of the hashtag phenomenon #MondayBlogs and the live weekly Twitter chats, #SexAbuseChat, co-hosted with certified therapist/survivor, Bobbi Parish (Tuesdays, 6pm PST/9pm EST), and #BookMarketingChat, co-hosted with author assistant Melissa Flickinger (Wednesdays, 6pm PST/9pm EST).

She hates walks in the rain, running out of coffee, and coconut. She lives in California with her family.

Author Site: rachelintheoc.com

BadRedhead Media Site: badredheadmedia.com

Twitter: @RachelintheOC

Twitter (Business): @BadRedheadMedia

SexAbuseChat: @SexAbuseChat

BookMarketingChat: @BkMarketingChat

MondayBlogs: @MondayBlogs 

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/AuthorRachelThompson

Facebook (Business): https://www.facebook.com/BadRedheadMedia

Google : https://plus.google.com/ RachelThompson/

Pinterest: http://www.pinterest.com/rachelintheoc/

Instagram: https://instagram.com/rachelintheoc/

LinkedIn: http://www.linkedin.com/pub/rachel-thompson/24/784/b95

Goodreads: http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/4619475.Rachel_Thompson

Author Newsletter: http://eepurl.com/j9oaH

BadRedhead Media Newsletter: http://eepurl.com/koN8r

Full-size Author Photo Link: http://i119.photobucket.com/albums/o158/Froze8/RachelThompson_

 

Tagged: #BeReal, #BeREALationships, Divorce, emotions, Healing, Inspiration, Living, Marriage, Motivation, relationships, Strength

#BeREALationships – SHE TAUGHT ME HOW TO LOVE

I am so pleased to have Lizzi Lewis here to help me kick off my new #BeReal series.  Relationships are hard but so far my relationship with Lizzi has been the easiest and most rewarding friendship I have ever had.  She is my sunrise and I am her sunset.  My life is better with her in it.

You will find a surprise we have been working on together at the end of this post.

Please give her some beautiful love for this amazing piece.  It is close and dear to my heart and I cry tears of gratitude every time I read it through.  I love you Lizzi.  It is you who taught me how to love better.

 

I grew up believing love was something unpleasant you were forced to do when you were bound by blood and obligation to someone you didn’t like. I grew up hearing “it’s my privilege” but experiencing “you’re a burden.” I grew up on the understanding that ‘love’ covered all manner of sins, including systemic emotional abuse. Because LOVE rendered it acceptable. Somehow.

I grew up believing I was too stupid to understand the ‘Somehow’, and only knew love meant pain and vulnerability. I developed the ability to hide my preferences – my weaknesses – knowing they would be used against me. I turned into a person determined to never show anything less than flint and cold steel, otherwise I would be open once more to the pain and rejection I felt when seven year-old girl-me had her Daddy stolen by depression, and found him replaced with a vicious, baiting monster, who ruled the household as a tyrant, who delighted in her tears.

It worked in my favour, in a way. I was eventually able to withstand daily bullying from home and school, existing as a lone entity. I allowed hatred and anger to turn my heart to stone; gradually callusing the weaker, softer bits of it with hurt. I was impervious – impenetrable and utterly isolated.

As an adult, I got married. I thought I could love, but the mind plays tricks and convinces the heart, when desperately lonely, that it is in charge and knows all. The scales eventually fell from my eyes. I realised how very lost and alone I was, and reached out into what seemed to be a safe space – an online writing community.

In that cozy World Between the Wires, where I could be truly myself without the assumptions of childhood or the expectations of role and ritual, I discovered there were people whose souls I began to see beyond their words; whose characters I appreciated, and who I began to care about.

The closer I got to these people, the more concerned I felt. I didn’t feel equipped to navigate the territory of friendship even in person, much less without all the physical cues and signposts which were usually extant. I was worried because these people whom I had begun to cherish, were responding with warmth to my overtures, and I couldn’t see that I had anything to offer them, nor any good reason for them to care in return. Yet they persisted in caring.

I spent a long time anxious and astonished, terrified that one day I would do or say something to expose myself as the repugnant creature I really was. Scared they would all leave. I loved them, yet was too insecure to let them know. Instead I repeatedly pushed their boundaries and had to apologise for my behaviour.

In spite of my efforts at self-sabotage, these people reassured me of their care. For the first time in my life, I felt as though I belonged in a group; as though I was wanted. And that was a huge and very marvelous thing. But I still couldn’t tell them.

Then SHE came into my life.

Introduced by a mutual acquaintance, I was immediately drawn to her – this individual with sunset-red hair atop an exquisitely beautiful face. When I read her poetry, I knew I was in the presence of someone far more accomplished than I at transcribing the depths of the soul.

I asked her for a favour – a poem for a blog I was running – and she obliged within the hour, with a piece so sparkling, I felt completely star-struck by her talent and generosity. I did the only thing I could, and started stalking her blog, liking and commenting on every new poem (and they were numerous, and beautifully composed). Gradually I came to understand the reason I was so drawn to her – she was writing from a place so similar to the turmoil and darkness of my own soul, that I felt I knew her.

There was one vast and incredible difference though: how very much she LOVED.

She seemed to think nothing of telling people she loved them. I was awestruck by her courage and generosity of heart. Rather than ridicule and reject her, people basked in and flourished under her attentions. I was entranced.

Her warm responses to my initial reachings-out were sufficiently encouraging to keep me coming back. We gradually moved beyond the business of writing, and became friends. The depth and decadence of her love for others absolutely captivated me. I wanted to experience it, because I was still so incapable of doing the whole ‘love’ thing in a way which felt acceptable.

I had written several times, by this point, about how tangled I was about love and saying that ‘L-word’ to people. My friends were understanding, and told me they accepted me as I was, but I knew I wanted more. I wanted to be able to achieve, express, and indulge in, what this Sunset poet had – the beauty and wonder of loving with abundance, abandonment, and even (maybe) wastefully.

The closer we became, the more I understood her, and some of the behind-the-scenes explanations began to fill in pieces of the puzzle. She chose to love in spite of a keen fear of rejection, because it was so much a part of her history that she knew what it was to cry out for love and not receive it, or to be rebuffed. She acted lovingly, giving people the benefit of the doubt, because it was better for her heart not to be snared by anger or disappointment. She loved daringly, in the face of a deep-seated fear she could never be good enough for any of the people she loved.

It was like listening to a more evolved version of the other half of my own heart.

We ‘sealed the deal’ on our friendship one afternoon three summers ago, when I had vehicle trouble and spent a frustrated couple of hours awaiting rescue. She was online and we chatted back and forth for the entire time – about the ‘Something’s and ‘Nothing’s, and everything in between. That day she transitioned from an ‘internet computer friend’ to a functional part of my life, and we have spoken every day ever since.

She brought me into her world; the one she showed through poetry, allusively, playing out her anxieties and terrors in public. She had the same method I did – writing prettily about the darkness to somehow redeem it a little with beauty and light. And oh, her light!

Her care and attention (and yes, I can say it now – her love) was like oxygen to my suffocated heart. The power of it was able to melt through all my defenses and shine into the epicentre of my darkness, chasing shadows away and making it feel as though somehow, some day, I could be as courageous as her. She accepted me absolutely as I was, and I flourished under her attention, though I still skirted around expressing the word I knew I could use, if I dared.

Eventually I felt secure enough in our relationship to bite the bullet. I found a small, red-leather-bound book, and in it I began to write about love. Poems, songs, doodles, explanations, prose…all focused on one concept: love. And how much of it I had for her – she, who had shown me it was within me to release.

Finally finished and heart in mouth, I packaged the book and sent it. Anxious butterflies remained trapped in my stomach; dormant, but fluttering back into life each time I wondered whether she’d received it yet. Whether she had it and had chosen to ignore it. Whether it had been lost and all my efforts had been in vain. Whether it would matter.

Whether I would matter.

I think when it arrived, even the stars knew how much she delighted in it, and cherished it.

That day, something in me began to release. Something deep and dark and locked-tight-for-survival, broke open. Wonder and happiness crept out, basking in her love and growing stronger every day. I practiced my new found freedom with childlike glee, repeatedly telling her I loved her, and delighting in her mirrored response.

Slowly but surely she built me up with the affirmation that by learning to love, I was doing the right thing. She accepted my failings and anxieties, and was patient with how slow I was to begin acting on my new-found capability. She waited (smiling, I fancy) as I stumblingly began to emulate her by telling others I loved them.

When I panicked and ran back to her with woe-filled tales of getting it all wrong, she comforted me and helped me to find a way forward. When I succeeded, and told her of the ways I had made meaningful connections even stronger – had been vulnerable and caring in a way which elicited a positive response – she celebrated with me.

Never before had I experienced friendship so deep, so comfortable, and so freeing. As I flourished, I felt as though new neural pathways were embossing themselves into my brain, all sparkled with the light she had brought into my world.

I had no idea that an ‘internet computer person’ could be so utterly vital to my personal growth, my psyche, or my soul. No idea she could become my best friend. Although my heart was firmly hardwired, I finally made us ‘real’ by flying to America to meet her for the first time.

When we hugged, it was a pinnacle moment. We both cried for sheer delight at how right it felt to be together in person at last. As per my nickname for her, she will always be my ‘1000Mile Heart.’

Each time I was acknowledged, affirmed and accepted by her, I felt more human – more rightly myself. I was rediscovering something long-lost and intrinsic: the pieces of me which had been so badly damaged were coming back together, Kintsugi-gilded by her care.

No matter the distance between us, I know that now and for always, she feels like home. Like love.

 

Lizzi is a Deep Thinker, Truth-Teller and seeker of Good Things, committed to living life in Silver Linings. She’s also silly, irreverent and tries to write as beautifully as possible.  She sends glitterbombs and gathers people around her – building community wherever possible. She’s absolutely certain that #LoveWins.

A founder member 1000Speak, she hosts the Ten Things of Thankful blog hop each weekend and tries to #BeReal as often as possible.

Find Lizzi on Facebook  *  Twitter  *  Google+  *  Pintrest

 

Now on Amazon “Let Me Love You, Anyway” written by Lizzi Lewis and Hastywords.  A poetic duet has been turned into a Journal.  A journal we hope you will dedicate to someone you love and fill with all the treasures of your heart.

People so often say “Everything happens for a reason”, and whilst there are usually trails of cause-and-effect, quite often the ‘reason’ which can be drawn from a situation depends on what you put into it. Occasionally, though, it’s pure serendipity and life can spin on the dime of chance, altering its trajectory through happenstance. Both things were true for us – we ‘met’ online and somehow (perhaps it’s a poet thing, or a writer thing, or just a people-who-are-right-for-each-other thing) we clicked, fell utterly in Friends, and have become keystones in each other’s lives.

We have both been blessed by the unconditional flow of adoration, compassion, encouragement, understanding, and acceptance that transcends the miles between us, and is strengthened each time we meet. This poem was written from our hearts, one to the other, in support, solidarity, and love, which remains bright and shining between us, even on our darkest days. If friendship is the pinnacle of love, then may we ever enjoy this apex.

We believe the sentiments our poem definitely go further than the two of us. We hope you fill this journal with heartfelt words and then… give it to someone you love.

Tagged: #BeReal, #BeREALationships, Emotion, Expression, freedom, frienship, Joy, love, relationships

#BeReal – MAC DICKSON MCCANNELL

Please welcome Mac Dickson McCannell to #BeReal.

Be real…

Two simple words that mean so much. When I was asked to explain what “Be Real” means to me, I was at first confused and yet, excited. It has taken me weeks to figure out what angle I wanted to approach.

I think why I was confused, was because I knew it would take some introspective thought on my part. Something, I do not take enough time doing.

I talk with thousands of people everyday on the radio, and very often talk in front of hundreds at a time in public. That’s when I am the most comfortable. Put me in a one-on-one situation and I get nervous. I am a social introvert. I am very comfortable making new friends through social media. On the other hand, in “real” life, I have very few, if any, close friends.

This is my reality.

I have always been this way. Great with a group of friends. Good friends with many, best friends with none. I have always been jealous of those that have a close, personal relationship with a friend.

Be happy if you have a close friendship with someone you can share your feelings. I have never been able to open up, in fear that my intimate thoughts would be ignore or rejected.

This is my reality.

I am me. I speak my mind. It can sometimes get me in trouble, however, it helps me sleep at night, knowing that I am always true to myself. I trust my gut. It always tells me the truth.

I learned very early in my career that I have to always do what I think is right. That doesn’t mean I am always right, but if I do not speak my opinion on a subject that effects me, than I have no right to complain later.

This is my reality.

I am a Dad. I never feel I have done enough for my children. It does not matter how much they have grown or how much success they have achieved, I feel like I should have done more and continue to do more. Parenthood: The never ending job that you can not retire from and that you can not leave.

This is my reality.

Mac Dickson McCannell is living his dream as the morning co-host on one of the legendary radio stations in Maine, 92 Moose. He lives in the most beautiful state in the USA with his family and way too many pets.

 

Tagged: #BeReal, Father, host, interviews, introvert, Personality, radio, Reality, relationships, Social Media