lastmandystanding

Mother. Daughter. Sister. Friend. Blogger. Aspiring writer. Smartass. Sometimes I say funny things.

Archive for the tag “pain”

A short poem… deep in the feelings tonight.

I want so badly to hate you for what you did to me. To us.

I want to scream and throw things.

I want to curse your name.

I want to hate you.

I want to go back to the night we met and un-fall for you.

I want to go back to every time I found myself falling even more in love with you and stop myself from doing it.

I want to feel the sun on my face and not immediately think of you.

I want to go to a beach someday and not be heartbroken that your feet aren’t in the sand next to mine.

I want to see an eagle and not feel sadness for what it meant to us, which is now all but lost.

I want to cook while listening to music and not ache for the many times we did that together, stealing kisses…flirting.

I want to be cooking in the kitchen in my underwear, dancing, moving my hips to the music, sipping wine, oblivious to the fact that you’re staring at me, completely in my zone, and have that moment when I catch you, catching me, and have that moment of “hey… I see you… where have you been all my life?”

I want to go back and un-believe everything I ever believed about you.

I want to forget you, as if that would somehow make the hurt stop.

I know that it won’t.

I can’t un-remember.

I can’t un-feel.

I can’t turn off my feelings, as much as I wish I could.

I want to un-plan our future.

I want to un-dream our dreams.

I want to un-need you.

I want to un-want you.

I want to un-love you.

But I can’t.

Not today.

Advertisements

The Thing About Pain

It’s much easier to say “my arm is broken” than “my heart/spirit is broken.”  Both can be detrimental to one’s health and well-being. Speaking from my own experience, both hurt like hell.

A broken arm receives immediate attention. It is thoroughly checked over, x-rayed, set back in place and in a cast so that it heals properly. It might even require surgery – going deep inside to fix the problem so that it can heal the way it is supposed to. I fell and broke my arm once, and it was evident to everyone within earshot that it was extremely painful. It hurt so badly that all I could do was cry and cuss. (And then I apologized to the doctor and nurses for cussing.) It became top priority to make sure that broken bone was taken care of and set up for proper healing. THAT was a pain you could see.

The latter, however… it is harder to see, but it is real. It is painful. It needs to heal. But, attention? No, not usually. It’s too uncomfortable. No one wants to talk about emotional pain. But yet, we walk around in a world full of broken human beings. Broken children, who will become broken adults. Broken adults, who, as children, were not set up for proper healing. Broken adults who didn’t become broken until they were older, but still have not healed. No one wants to dig deep and fix that pain. Hell, most people don’t even want to talk about it, let alone DO something about it. So, there in the darkness, it sits. There, it festers. It infects other parts of our lives. It infects other people. Why? Because hurt people HURT PEOPLE.

There’s a saying that if we all put all of our problems out in one big pile for all to see, we’d probably gladly pick our own problems back up. Meaning, someone always has it worse than we do, and we should just keep our own problems to ourselves. But does that mean we just don’t talk about them?

There are a lot of people out there hurting, pretending that they are not. Because they feel they can’t possibly expose that raw, imperfect side of themselves to the world ruled by social media likes, follows and shares. That’s not shareable. That isn’t likeable. We don’t talk about those things. Pain is not pleasant. It is not pleasant to experience, and it is not pleasant to talk/read/hear about. By definition, pain is physical or emotional suffering. It is everywhere. It surrounds us as does the air we breathe. Yet no one wants to talk about it, or admit their own. And my friends, THAT is a problem.

Because here’s the thing about pain: It becomes comfortable.

(What did she just say?) Yes. You read that correctly. Pain becomes comfortable when you’re not even looking.

I am speaking from my own experience here, but maybe you can relate in some way. I have chronic low back pain, bursitis in both hips, disc issues, etc. I’ve had back surgery. I have had multiple steroid injections for the pain. The injections contain steroids, anti-inflammatories, and a numbing agent (similar to Novocaine at the dentist.) They are NOT pleasant to receive, in fact they hurt like an S.O.B. But there is this blissful window of a few hours afterwards, when the numbing agent is in full effect. Due to the location of the injections, it’s almost like having an epidural for a short while. It is in that absence of ANY feeling that I most realize just how much pain I have been living with. The extent of the pain numbs the true extent of the pain.

Let that last part sink in for a moment. It is only when I am completely NUMB that I can acknowledge the full extent of my constant PAIN. My pain is replaced with a new, foreign feeling: relief.

My relief forthat particular pain comes in the form of spinal and hip injections. Other people have pain (physical or emotional) that can only be numbed with alcohol…or drugs…or self-harm…or sexual promiscuity, etc.

But I have a confession. I am doing my part in starting a conversation that is uncomfortable. It is mostly for my own catharsis, but also to let you know that you are NOT alone.

I have come to realize, and now freely admit, that I am seriously lacking in the emotional pain relief department, and this is a pain that I have carried for far too long. Sure, I have band-aids for it. Emotional Tylenol, if you will. My family, my love, my friends, writing, making funny videos, photography, creating something with my hands, be it painting, cooking, baking, decorating, organizing, etc. But even when you see me at my “best” – my funniest – my most supportive of others – my happiest – my most loving … it is there. In fact, it is very possible that in those moments, it is its loudest. I realize that may not make sense to most people.

It has been there for so long, that it is actually comfortable to me now. It happened when I wasn’t even looking. It came right into my life when I was too young to stop it, and ever since, it has just attached itself to me and started calling the shots. I didn’t even notice. I always knew the pain was there, but I became a master at functioning with it. I am a master, still. But it’s getting harder to keep that title.

Going back into my youth as far as I can remember, I can’t recall a time that I WASN’T scared and anxious most of the time. About what? Everything. I experienced trauma at a very young age. Young, but old enough to remember. I’m not ready to go into that just yet, but it was legitimate, deep, life-altering trauma in every sense of the ugly word.

Now, science and medicine can tell you what trauma (and the lingering stress and anxiety) does to the mind and body over time. I can tell you that every bit of it is true. It is hell. It is exhausting.  IT. IS. PAIN.  I can honestly say that it has affected every single aspect of my life. My personal relationships, friendships, my health, the way I parent my children, the way I mentally and verbally respond to certain things, my work performance, my self-image, self-esteem, self-worth, how my body reacts to things, my social life, how I handle stress, how I treat my own body…the list could go on and on.

I know what you’re thinking – she needs counseling, she needs to give it to God. Oh, I’ve been to counseling – several counselors as an adult; nothing as a child. I’ve TALKED about it to counselors (and one pastor) ‘til I’m blue in the face. And trust me when I say that I have screamed and begged and pleaded with God to just – TAKE IT. I don’t want it anymore, and I can’t carry it anymore. And I feel like He is giving me a clear message that He indeed WILL, but I have some work to do first. I can finally let go of the pain, but I need to bring others on my journey. Maybe that’s you? Maybe it’s someone you know. (He hasn’t told me that part yet.)

And, lest you fear you’ve stumbled upon a holy-rolling religious fanatic, let me assure you – I am neither. But I am deeply spiritual. I believe in God. I believe in salvation. I pray. But I do not go to church (gasp!). I do all of this from wherever I am, because HE is wherever I am. And yes, I talk to God – not like most people probably do, but I like to think He and I have our own little way of communicating. I imagine he face-palms and shakes his head at me a majority of the time. I talk to Him more like I would talk to a person in my living room over coffee. Me to God: “I’m sorry – you want me to do WHAT now?” For instance, I recently had a very vivid dream about a girl with whom I went to high school. I think I’ve seen her exactly twice in the twenty-three years since we graduated. As clear as day, I got the message that I was supposed to reach out and tell her about the dream, because she needed to hear it. Me to God again: “Ummm, have we met? It’s like you don’t even know me. Huh uh. Wrong girl. Not doing it. Next topic, please.” So, I ignored it for about a week. Then, just the other day, I woke up and was like “OK, FINE!! WHATEVER, GOD” (in my most teenager-y, whiniest voice, arms folded, heavy on the eye-roll.) So I reached out to her. And as you can imagine, it started out like “Hi, ok so I don’t usually do this – in fact, I have never done this, but here’s what I got… Oh, and P.S. Please don’t think I’m a lunatic…” She was moved to tears, thanked me profusely for reaching out and said she needed to know she was not alone. (Wipes forehead) PHEW!! Thank God! No, literally, me to God again: “thank you, God. I was a small blessing to her today. Let me be that every day to someone. “

But I digress. Back to the discussion at hand… THE PAIN.

Counselors, check. Pastor, check. Ask for God’s help, check. And yet I hold on. Because it is comfortable to me. My biggest pain is also my comfort and my oldest friend. It knows what no one else knows. It’s been a part of me for so long, that I truly cannot grasp what it would feel like to be free of it. Who am I if I’m not hurting? Who am I if I’m not broken? Who am I if I’m not consumed by grief? Who am I if I’m not anxious and worried all the time? The answer to that is – I don’t know, but I’m going to find her. Step one in doing so is admitting my pain, my trauma, my grief, my loss. I refuse to allow another day/week/month/year/decade of my life pass by, suffering in silence, praying that one day, it will just go away.

My experience matters. My trauma matters. My pain matters. My suffering matters. I matter. I am not alone. YOU are not alone.

In order for the woman to heal, she has to bring to light, that which the girl has kept in the dark for far too long. Heal the girl, and the woman will appear and reach her full, God-given potential and purpose.

Five Thirty-One Twelve

Since I started writing this blog, I’ve written about my funny dating stories, my trust issues, relationships, my quirkiness, funny, light-hearted stuff, etc.  I’ve even written about my mom.  But I haven’t written much about the first man I ever loved – the last man on earth that I trusted completely with my heart and my life…my dad.  I had started writing a piece about him a few months ago, but could never get it “just right” – so I never posted it.  Maybe it’s because the story wasn’t finished.

 

Sadly (and inconceivably), the only thing I’ve written since my last post has been my dad’s obituary and a speech for his funeral.  In a whirlwind of events that still seem unreal to me, my entire life – my entire family – changed forever.

 

This is the series of events that runs on a constant reel in my mind…

 

I talked to my dad on the phone on a Friday. It was a good conversation, ended with “I love you.” He and my mom spent the day together on Saturday. My mom sent me a picture of him teasing and laughing at her (being himself). They went for ice cream later that Saturday evening – my dad told my mom that it was just exactly what he wanted – hit the spot perfectly – the ice cream, and I suspect just the entire day with her as a whole. The next day, on Sunday, he told my mom he was running out to get a garage door opener. He was gone too long. The kind of too long where you start to get a little worried, which my mom was. The next thing we know, the local hospital was calling. He had been in a car accident (minor, thankfully) because he had suffered another stroke. (He had one in early April – minor in comparison). He was being air-lifted to another hospital with a team of neurosurgeons, and my mom had to get there by car – almost an hour and a half away (a trip I think she made in just about one hour).

 

 I got the phone call that he had had another stroke, and we had to wait and hear more details from my mom. The first time he had a stroke, my sister and I (daddy’s girls, through and through) dropped what we were doing and made the five-hour drive to be with him and my mom.  I was upset and scared by this news.  It had only been 6 weeks since his first stroke.  What did all of this mean? Was he just going to keep having strokes? What can they do about this, etc? I was trying to go with the “no news is good news” theory, but couldn’t convince myself.

 

Then, in a blur of events that I will never forget, my oldest brother called me and asked if I was home. “Yes”, I said. “Ok, well I’m outside, I’ll be up in a second, just come to the door” – This. Was. Bad. And I knew it.  I started shaking and answered the door to him and my sister-in-law, walked them upstairs and tried to play the “so, what’s up?” card, trying to pretend this was just a surprise visit to say hello. Instead, his exact words were “…our family is f*cked. Dad is on life support, and there is nothing they can do. The brain damage is really bad, and even if they did surgery, it still wouldn’t help…so we have to go there and say our goodbyes and let him go. You’re coming with me and we’re going. Now.”

 

After collapsing into a puddle of tears and screams, I grabbed some of my things, made arrangements for my girls, and we were on our way there – an agonizingly long drive when you NEED to get there, like, yesterday.  By the very late hours of that night/wee hours of the morning, all five of us kids and most of the spouses and grandkids were there with our mom to say goodbye and let our dad go. We each had some time alone in the room with him, saying everything we wanted and needed to say – if that’s even possible.

 

Then, the team of doctors came in and were asking my dad to squeeze their hand, checking his pupils, etc. and he was responding. I don’t care how bad the prognosis is…when your loved one is responding to the doctors’ and your own requests for a hand squeeze or a thumbs up, taking them off life support is no longer an option. Period.

 

There was talk of which side of the brain was involved, etc. and we learned that because my dad was left-handed (meaning he was right-brain-dominant), there might be a little glimmer of hope.  The right side of his body was affected by the stroke (as the stroke had started in the LEFT brain – not his dominant side).  We could deal with a long road ahead of us, as long as we had him, and he had a good quality of life. But we wouldn’t know anything until the brain swelling went down. And so, the next few days were a cruel emotional roller coaster of hopes being built up and torn down over and over again. We were told he was somewhat stable and this would be a long road, so on the 4th day, I was planning to head back home so I could get my girls ready and be with them for their dance recital, which was a 3-night event.  So that morning, we headed up to the hospital to see him before I left, and the doctor met us and wanted to talk to all of us as a family. There’s that sick feeling again.  

 

In a private conference room, they told us that the swelling in my dad’s brain was getting worse and beginning to shift the entire brain. To have ANY chance of survival at all, they needed to do surgery to remove half of his skull to allow the brain to swell without damaging itself any further. And they needed an answer quickly, as in minutes. It was an extremely risky procedure on an extremely compromised person. They laid out – in no uncertain terms – what our options and likely outcomes were. And all of them SUCKED. We asked each of these doctors – off the record – this is not your patient, this is YOUR DAD – what would you do? And every one of them had the same answer. They would not put him through this surgery, under the circumstances, with the likely outcomes. They would let him go.  Despite the rapport we had developed with them over the past few days, I suddenly hated every single one of those doctors. And their options.  

 

As someone who used to be a respiratory therapist, I knew what was about to take place. I knew that he would be taken off the ventilator and made as comfortable as possible until the end. I knew that it could happen very quickly, or that he could last several hours, even days. At that point, my prayers changed. They were no longer selfish. My prayers of “please save my dad” became “please take my dad…and end his suffering…and help us all through this.” I remember laying in a reclining chair in his ICU room, staring at him, wondering if he was scared, if he could hear our last words, our cries, our pleas, our prayers. I was actually sitting there trying to telepathically get inside his head and speak to his innermost self – “daddy…can you hear me? It’s ok to go now…” I took pictures of his hand in mine, pictures of his tattoos.

 

For the next 8 hours or so, we stayed by his side until he passed away at 8:31 p.m. on May 31, 2012.  FIVE. THIRTY-ONE. TWELVE. Numbers that I will never forget.

The world lost a one-of-a-kind man. My mom lost her best friend and soul mate. My kids lost their funny, silly grandpa. My siblings and I lost the best father we could ever ask for.

 

I can count on one hand, with fingers left over, the number or days I haven’t cried since that day.  And I can tell you that, on the days that I DON’T cry, I feel guilty at the end of the day. Guilty for not crying, as if my tears are what keeps me connected to him. I know better than that. I had a very strong connection with my dad. And I know, as if I can hear him saying it out loud, that he would be furious at how upset I am, at how often I cry, scream, fall to my knees, think to myself that I just…can’t…do…this.  

 

I’ve read about the stages of grief (some sources say there are 5, some say there are 7). Either way, I’ve cycled through all of them and back again – sometimes all in the same day.

 

SHOCK & DENIAL:    Yep. I can recall every sordid detail about the hospital – the smells, the tile pattern on the floor, the way my dad’s skin felt. I can recall people who brought food to the house, or just stopped by to offer condolences – friends of my dad – grown men – crying. I remember seeing and hugging certain people at the visitation – remember how someone smelled – their perfume or aftershave, what someone was wearing, etc. I can recall everything. But there are many, many times when I have to stop what I’m doing and actually CONSCIOUSLY convince myself that it was all real. And then I tell myself “there’s just no way…”

 

PAIN & GUILT:   This is self explanatory.  The pain is nothing short of unbearable at times, and comes out of nowhere at any place, any time. God bless the WalMart check-out clerk who hurried me through with my groceries the other day as best she could because we had a moment of eye contact which must have conveyed my need to get the hell out of there ASAP because I was about to completely lose it.

Guilt over all the times I “should’ve” but didn’t.

 

ANGER & BARGAINING:    The anger part – definitely. I’m so horribly angry. I’m angry about so much…and it’s more than just losing my dad.  It’s as if it set off a domino effect, going back to some of my earliest memories, and falling down piece by piece through different events in my life. Simply put, I am pissed. I have no other way to express it. And I know others around me – those closest to me – are suffering for it. I am quick-tempered (more so than my usual feisty self). I scolded my girls for something that was really nothing more than little girls annoying their sister, and my youngest said “gee, mommy…why are you so mad?” – and I completely lost it, and told them I was mad because my dad died and there is nothing I can do about it. I’ve had to reassure them that my anger is not at them, it’s just because mommy is so sad over losing their papaw.

 

DEPRESSION/REFLECTION/LONELINESS:    YES, YES, and YES. At times, I have not answered or returned calls or text messages from friends. I have declined invitations to go do things. I think I have even seen people that I know out in public, but I walk around in such a fog most of the time that it doesn’t hit me until later (after the moment has passed) that I just saw someone I know and I didn’t speak. Anyone who knows me knows that is NOT ME.  I avoid going certain places because I just know I will run into someone and it will come up in conversation.  Oddly enough, I WANT to talk about my dad, but on MY terms, if that makes any sense. So, if you are reading this and you are one of those friends – I apologize.  I am so very sorry.  Please know it is nothing personal.  Your sentiments are felt and appreciated more than you know, but more often than not, I just find myself thinking “I just can’t…not right now…”

 

THE UPWARD TURN:   This is supposed to be when life becomes a little calmer and more organized and depression lessens a bit. *If I have been through this stage, it was for a nano-second.

 

RECONSTRUCTION & WORKING THROUGH:    This is supposed to be when your mind starts working again and you can come up with realistic solutions to life’s problems.  Currently, I find myself unable to come up with solutions to some minor issues.  Everything seems monumental to me. For instance, the transmission in my car went out this week. The car used to be my dad’s. That plus the fact that I am a single, working mom without a car right now plus everything else equals me inching closer to my breaking point. I can’t come up with a good solution. You know why? Because this is one of those times when I would pick up the phone, call my dad, and he would have a solution. And I can’t do that. And so, yes, it’s just a car…but it’s so much more. This probably doesn’t make sense to most people reading this, but it’s all I got.

 

And lastly – ACCEPTANCE & HOPE:   Accepting and dealing with the reality of what has happened.  Again, my time in this stage has been miniscule – tiny stitches in time – and usually sends me right back to the beginning of the cycle.

 

I know my life will never be the same, and neither will my family. Ever. This is the most profound loss I have ever experienced – that my family has ever experienced.  I find some comfort in a few things – wonderful memories, knowing he is no longer suffering, knowing I will see him again one day. I have some of my dad’s ashes, some of his cologne. I can close my eyes and smell it and imagine myself hugging him and smelling that.  I find comfort in seeing dragonflies after a dear friend shared a wonderful story with me about “waterbugs and dragonflies” You should google the story.  If I knew how to add links here, I would.  It comes from a book about explaining death to children, and is a wonderful story that I still can’t tell out loud without crying. Maybe I will try to post it here in the next day or two.  

 

Whether this is the first time you’ve read my blog or you’ve read them all – I hope you take something away from this.  Life is uncertain.  Say “I love you”.  Use the good dishes on a Tuesday night.  Go get some ice cream and enjoy it like a kid. *Quick funny story:  speaking of the ice cream, I spent two days in a row eating a chocolate ice cream cone – dad’s favorite – sitting in my car down by the river at lunch time, SOBBING. I mean all-out blubbering sobs. There was a guy in a truck parked next to me who must have thought I was some kind of psycho – licking the ice cream cone, tears just streaming down my face. Sad, but still funny to me. Something only I would do…TWICE.  

 

The funny, witty, sarcastic girl is very much still here.  She is just under layers and layers of grief, anger, despair, disbelief, and sadness right now.  But so much of my humor and wit came from my dad, so I feel I would be dishonoring him if I stopped writing.  He wrote a lot, too. I intend to do more of it, and I may even share something he wrote once just for me. I can’t guarantee my writing is going to be all Wheat Thins and Catman Don’t any time soon, because I have a lot of things I need/want to get out, but I still remember how to laugh and tell a story. I learned from one of the best.    

Starting Over and Stopping.

I’m going to apologize now for the (very uncharacteristic) serious tone of this particular post, and for the delay since my last post.  This one has been in the works for a couple weeks.  I promise the next one will be more like my usual comedic self. So, without further ado…

I was reminded recently by my 8 year old daughter just how simple love really is, or rather, should be.  With timing that couldn’t have been more perfect, she gave me a little handmade card that said “I love you” on the front, and on the inside, it said “I love you because…” and she put the following: “you help me get through problems, you make supper, and you love me.” Nowhere in there did it say “because you buy me cool things and take me places all the time” – just the basic needs:  kindness, food, and love.

Do you even remember when it was that simple? When it used to be as easy as “Do you like me? Check yes or no.” When people said “I love you” – and meant it, in every sense of the word.  A time long before a rampant divorce rate. Long before social media. Long before societal pressures reached a fever pitch. I’m talking about way back when…like when your grandparents fell in love, and even though they went through some really awful times, they stayed together, no matter what, until the day they died.

Somewhere between the innocence of an 8 year old and becoming an adult, we (grown-ups, collectively) have royally screwed things up when it comes to love and relationships.

When you break it down to its simplest form, the basic needs haven’t really changed. We all need a little kindness – both to have it and show it to others, and to receive it from others.  We all need “food” – as in, “to be fed” – to have every part of our being taken care of.  To be fed emotionally, physically, spiritually, socially, professionally, etc.   And we all need LOVE. Plain and simple.

So how did it get so damn complicated?  Why is it so hard for two human beings to make it work? Do we get caught up in infatuation and idealism? Do we expect too much? Do we put too much pressure on each other? Do we get strangled by envy? By selfishness? Are we consistently fooled by the proverbial “grass is greener on the other side” syndrome?  Do we just give up too easily?

I think it’s all of the above.

As a woman who’s been through a divorce with young children involved, I speak from the heart when I say there have been times in my life over the last few years when I honest-to-God thought that the heartache just might do me in.  I’ve dropped to my knees in utter despair, cried until I gagged, thrown my fists up in anger as I cried and screamed through clenched teeth, re-lived every second of my failed marriage to try and find an answer for what happened, cried to my mother/sister/best friend that I just didn’t think I could survive it. It was the worst heartache I have ever been through. And mine wasn’t just an “over and done” type of pain. It was a long, drawn-out, holding on out of desperation – kind of pain. The kind that leaves scars.

I tried to limit my heartache to when my girls weren’t with me, and keep it together when they were around, but when the waves of emotion come, sometimes you just have to ride them.  I recall one particular night when everything just got the best of me all day long, all week long, and culminated with a gallon of milk dropped on the floor only to splatter all over every square inch of my little apartment kitchen.  I was literally crying over spilled milk…and a failed marriage, and feeling sad for my girls to have to go through all this, and feeling broken and alone and exhausted in every sense of the word.  Once I got the milk cleaned up, I just collapsed in a heap of sobs and was consoled – in the very same tender, loving, motherly manner in which I do them – by my two young daughters. 

That was a sort of wake-up call for me.  I told myself then and there that I would never allow them to see me that upset ever again – at least not if I could help it. And certainly not when a man was the source of my hurt.

I know that pain and heartache is not unique to me.  It is universal.  And no matter the source of the pain and heartache, the thought of making yourself vulnerable to ever being put through the same situation again is nothing short of terrifying. Becoming serious with someone new is hard.  It’s hard not to think they are going to do the same crap to you that the one before them did.  It’s hard not to group them into the same categories that everyone before them has been grouped into.  Starting over is hard and it sucks. But it’s a necessary part of living and growing.

I certainly have said “never again” more times than I care to discuss — I’ll never let someone in my heart like that again. I’ll never trust someone like that again. I’ll never believe another man.  If this relationship fails, I’m done for good, I swear it. I will never do it again. Ever.  I say that, but I know myself too well, and know that I won’t actually give up on finding the right person for me. I like the good parts of an honest, healthy relationship far too much to say “never again” and actually mean it.

Often times, when I am at my lowest of lows as far as loneliness, it’s usually in a crowded room full of people – surrounded by people, but not that ONE who just gets me. The one who knows what makes me tick, and can read my face from across that crowded room – and either shoot me a wink and a smile that speaks volumes, or know from my expression that it is time to wrap things up so we can go home. The one that looks at me across the room and just feels content in the idea of me being his girl – whatever that means. The one who would walk across that crowded room just to give me a kiss on my forehead. The one that I can trust – trust with my heart, trust with my mind, trust to let into my life – and know that, no matter what the day brings each of us, at the end of it, I can rest assured in the fact that I’m the only woman he wants to be with, and that he cares what I do and how I feel.  And vice versa. I don’t want someone perfect.  I want someone perfect FOR ME.   

I’m not foolish enough to think that available men my age aren’t going to have some of the very same wounds I have. Most are going to be divorced, and from what I have observed in the men I’ve dated or talked to, a large number of them were cheated on.  That wasn’t an issue in my marriage, but I have experienced it in my dating life. And I absolutely hate – no, I detest – that feeling.  The feeling when you first find out about it.  And then every time you think about it afterward (and get re-pissed, re-hurt).  Even if it happens before the relationship has been clearly “defined”.  It still hurts. It takes awhile to come back from that. But WANTING to come back from that is key to being successful at it.  If you want to move past it, you will.  But it may take time.

If you’re wondering what my point is, don’t feel bad – I’m wondering the same thing.  I know what’s in my heart and my head, but sometimes, getting it all to come out of my fingertips onto this keyboard is difficult to do.

I guess what I’m getting at, is that we all just need to STOP.  Stop over-complicating everything.  Stop taking people and things for granted.  STOP passing up something or someone really great because we think it might be just a teensy bit better on the other side.  I’m not saying we need to become stagnant in life and settle or lower our standards.  I’m saying that, if you find yourself sitting back in your life or your relationship and thinking “man…this is pretty damn good.  I’m not sure what I did to deserve this, but I like it” – then just stop.  Stop there.  Stop and take it all in and just…let it be. 

Don’t run when things are going good just because “that’s what you do.”  Don’t walk away for a possible “what if?” Stay right where you are and just take it all in for a bit. And whatever it is – a relationship or something else – if it’s working, do everything in your power not to screw it up.  And if you do, then do everything in your power to fix it and make it right. Because the person you hurt may have put everything in his/her entire being on the line in letting you in in the first place. It’s not easy, but in my heart of hearts, I have to believe that in the end, it’s going to be worth it.  

I read something the other day that kind of stuck with me. I’ve already forgotten where I read it, but I can’t forget what it said: 

“Everything will be alright in the end. If it’s not alright, then it’s not the end.”

Post Navigation