to heart

I used to fight tears. I would pinch my arms until I could compartmentalize. Let pain distract from pain until they canceled each other out. I’m not proud of this. It was one of my ways of coping as a child, then as a teenager, and as a young adult I included other harmful methods of coping until I broke through. I found my feelings, or rather, my feelings found me.

As a child I was told I was too sensitive. The words that I remember were, “you take everything to heart.” It was a warning. Guard yourself or you’ll get hurt. And I did. I got hurt. I hurt a lot, but armed with that warning I began to hurt less. Only, I didn’t hurt less. I just held it down twisting its arm to keep quiet.

I’m not sure why I’m writing about this. I’ve been thinking about how we’re so busy, so rushed and how our mental health needs tending to. We forget to look after ourselves and wonder why we’re crying as we’re watching the Amazing Race (okay, that’s probably just me. It’s all that bungee jumping and fighting that they do. I don’t believe I have ever cried at people jumping off ledges, but my tears flowed freely.) Our feelings demand attention. They don’t like to be shelved and ignored. They like to be dusted off now and then.

You can bottle them up. You can hold them back, but feelings will discover the tiniest crack, the smallest chink in your armor and seep out until you buckle under the pressure.

That’s what happened to me. It wasn’t a pleasant experience going from I’m fine to I’m in hell. But it was the best possible hell. The kind of hell you have to go through in order to get to the other side. I’m a better person for it. A person that works through her stuff.

It doesn’t take much for my eyes to well up now. I welcome a cleansing in the privacy of my home cry where my tears stain my face, where my eyes are swollen and my nose is red. Where there is no shame in caring deeply. Where it doesn’t matter if I’m too sensitive. Where I can let go and not be judged…by me.







In Charlotte's Web
I’m reading it chapter by chapter to Annie. I don’t know if she’s too young for it, but we’re taking it slow. Really slow. We’re only at chapter five and I started the book two months ago. I love this book. It takes me back to my childhood and reminds me of how and why I fell in love with reading.

Slow Down

I had all intentions of writing a proper post, but for today it will be an update. A quick one. My leg infection has returned. I’m walking, if you want to call it that, like a little old lady of 90. When your doctor and your leg guy (my prosthetician) tell you it is possible for this infection to travel into your bone or bloodstream you pause. When you get sent in for blood work and the next possible steps are x-rays and ultrasounds you take a breath.

We’re nearing the end of our renovations. It’s coming along and beginning to feel like home. Tomorrow the bedroom and bathroom are being painted.

I’ve been to my daughter’s school. I’ve talked to parents. We've had a few talks of sticking up for oneself and when to walk away.

February is full, but March has fewer scribbles, less musts...more clean, open spaces....more nothing. I want to try to keep it that way.

I am tired, people. I'm alright. Just tired.

Sometimes life has a way of telling you to slow down. Sometimes it’s a gentle nudge in that direction or it’s a loud yell or a red flag. All signs, for me, point to slow down. So, I am waving my white flag and surrendering to something I’m not very good at but I have to…need to...do. Rest.







In Violence UnSilenced
One of my favorite bloggers/writers, Maggie, from Okay.Fine.Dammit has started a blog on domestic violence – a space where survivors of domestic violence share their stories. It is empowering, inspiring, and about time that something like this is here. Thank you, Maggie, for doing this and to the countless courageous others that are sharing their stories. Please check out ViolenceUnSilenced.

little girl world

Girls. What is it about girls?

I took Annie to Kindergarten this morning. She had her feelings hurt, her little girl world crushed, and was given a long talk by me all before the bell rang and then I kissed her goodbye and wished her a good day.

This past week she’s dipped a toe into the kind of drama I was so happy to walk away from after high school.

I get home schooling. On days like today I understand home schooling. I don’t want to shelter my kids from life. I want them to have social skills and learn how to work things out. I want them to experience school and have peers. I couldn’t home school. It’s too much. I couldn’t subject my kids to that kind of torture. But, when they’re five and being excluded and told they aren’t liked I want to take her home.

I was liked. I had friends. But I remember being initiated into that girl world of teasing, whispers, and freezing out. It equips me, I suppose, to get her through this now. She is liked. She has friends, but girls can be fickle. It’s her turn to be initiated and I’m wondering does it have to be this way and isn't this too soon?

Parenting has snuck up on me. I’m surprised to find myself in the position of teacher. I shouldn’t be surprised, but I am. We smile at our babies coaxing smiles out of them. We urge them to put one foot in front of the other as toddlers. They are suddenly made very aware of others when we coach them to share. Now I’m navigating these land mines called feelings. And we model. For better or worse we model. We teach them.

Annie is confident. She knows who she is and if I can help it I won’t let anyone chip away at that. I’m trying. I make mistakes. I don’t always get it right, but I am for her. Always for her. I want her world to be a little girl’s world for as long as it can be. Not because I never want her to grow up, but because I don’t want her to grow up too fast.






In Annie
That’s my girl sandwiched between her two best friends, Indiana and Wes.

Photo taken by Anastasia Chomlack.

written

We live our lives with scars. Everyone has them. Whether they’re hidden, tucked away, or on display they are there guiding and shaping us sealing us with life’s unique fingerprint.

I like my scars.

Dark and red they tell a story. It's a map of survival. Winding paths of perseverance and longing. Knots of desperation and a long fight. Narrow roads of hope and a future. They tell me where I’ve come from and where I’m going.

I am not my scars. They wrap around me but I am not wrapped up in them. They’re not there to teach me a lesson, but I learn from them. They snake across my body and they are written across my heart. They do not serve as a painful reminder, but as a guide.

I used to wish them away. Pray that they would disappear worried that it was all I would be.

I have allowed them to be a gift to me.

Don’t be afraid. Believe. Hang on. There has to be more. Love deeply. Live. Whispers from a story told urging me to keep going.

I live my life with scars seen and unseen. They weave in and out. They are my battle wounds. And for that I honor them.







In Slumdog Millionaire
If you haven’t seen this movie go see it. Now. Go! Scott and I saw it over the weekend and fell in love with it. My friend Jenn says it is as heartbreaking as it is heartwarming and she’s right. It is a beautiful inspirational movie – one of survival and hope and destiny.

High Maintenance

I am not breezy…all tra la la. I don’t let things just roll off my back and follow the ebb and flow that is life.

I am more of a swim upstream kind of girl. I hang on. I control. I like things just so. There is always something to do. Something to plan. I like plans. Something to put away. Something to finish.

I used to think it was a problem. My Achilles Heel. It should be something that should be weeded out or sent away like pesky kids that a soon to be stepmother from the movies wants to get rid of. As soon as she gets married to the father those kids are going to boarding school….in Switzerland.

There was a turn – an epiphany of sorts – when I turned 30. I began to embrace that person that likes things just so. I get things done. Plans and lists can be helpful. I function better in order and what’s so bad about that anyway? Scott couldn’t find anything if it wasn’t for me.

I get that there has to be balance. I can’t let the high maintenance get the better of me unless I want leg infections, go to IV therapy, and not be able to move without vomiting for 24 hours. (That was me a few days ago. Fun.) I need to let people in and ask for help. Sometimes I just have to let go.

(I have fun by the way. I’m not a total neurotic geeked out loser.)

Breezy or high maintenance we’re all equal. We have something to contribute and a place in this world. And my place right now is filled with plans, lists, renovations, clothes in my living room, paint colors, boxes to trip over and reminders that the chaos will settle, that all of this work will be worth it and it’s going to be alright.

Okay, so maybe I need a little breezy in my life.







In Walking
The kids and I took our first walk from our house to the village. We had ice cream at the diner and went to the toy store. I loved that we could do that.