Wednesday, June 19, 2019
Last weekend we had surprise visitor from my former step-son. I say "former" not because I stopped considering my step-sons from my first marriage family when we divorced, but to specify that I am not talking of Zach. It is odd that I have been rather a permanent step parent since I was 18. My first marriage (I only have two, don't panic) I was step-mom to two boys, full time, as their Dad had custody. It was a very unpleasant situation. The parents did not get along; in fact they actively fought and it was miserable. I really do not feel like dredging all of it up but it involved courts both civil and criminal. Looking back now I think that their mother was treated badly and even though she had made mistakes she was never allowed to move forward from those.
My former step-sons, TA and TJ were 6 and 8 when we married, and 25 and 27 when we divorced. They stopped speaking to me. Just flat stopped. Didn't bother to check and see if I was ok. Didn't call. Didn't text. I heard from their respective wives and others things they said about me, but never to me. They had both been present when their dad cheated on me. Visiting his mistress with their Dad, while we were married, and never telling me, but telling others. They made me the subject of gossip but didn't give me the concern or courtesy to tell me what was going on.
TA, the oldest had reached out to me. He was very honest and very clear in his apology and his wish to make amends. TJ has not.
TJ showed up unannounced. While the visit went nicely I am not comfortable with it as TJ is much like his father and for that I do not trust him. I want to trust him. I think of him as a 6 year old who couldn't say his "r". But I remember also the pain he caused me. The disrespect. The meanness with which he treated me and his active role in the gaslighting and abuse that his father used against me. I remember TJ shutting the door in my face when I was scolding him. I remember the insults.
I do not know the path forward. I want to forgive but I also do not want to be hurt again. That is the risk isn't it in forgiving; if there isn't a change in behavior there isn't safety or trust.
Wednesday, February 27, 2019
While I can say that I am happy I did it, I can also say I am happy it is done. My college education has always been done while working full time. The majority of my schooling has been funded by employer provided educational assistance. While that is a gift I am grateful for, it did not pay for all and it required me to work full time and school 3/4 time.
Working and going to school was much easier in the 20's than now in my 40's. All of a sudden I feel my age creeping into my life like mold. I know it is partly because while pursuing this most recent educational goal I also had major knee surgery, leaving me in a wheel chair for six weeks. I felt the consequences of my age in fatigue from working and studying but also in the comparison between recovering from a hysterectomy in my 30's quite quickly and recovering from holes drilled into my Tibia in my 40's.
I notice that pushing through pain or fatigue is much more difficult. Don't misunderstand me I have never been an elite or gifted athlete. But for my performance level I have noticed the difference. In short I am a middle aged woman and that reality has snuck up on me.
All of a sudden I am afraid. Afraid of a bad mammogram. Afraid of not keeping my mobility if I wreck on my bike. Afraid that I will not be able to keep doing all of the things that I love doing.
The fear is palpable. I think it has a root of being older than my Mom ever lived to be and also knowing that my biological mother is a mess. You may not know I am adopted. Adopted at birth. I chose to meet my birth mother when I was 21.
Meeting her was a mistake. I do not feel like a good human for typing that but it has not provided me with anything other than heartbreak. I guess that is a different story for a different day.
middle aged scaredy cat bad ass
Monday, May 29, 2017
Sunday, January 15, 2017
Growing up my Dad had his collection of Reader's Digest stored in the bathroom, along with the collection of coupon toilet paper that was purchased by pimping me out to go buy the limited 2 rolls with the coupon.
Before my first kindle ( I have 4, don't judge) I kept a book on the tank at all times. I also carried a book in my purse, car or gym bag. It's a sickness, I know.
I love the weight and smell of a real printed book. I love the portability of an e-book. Having a Kindle has not ended my purchasing of printed material.
In fact I was humiliated by my own cheapness at the Wilsonville Goodwill. I'd buy a book at Goodwill, than return it in a week, and so on and so forth. Until they changed their policy that books are not returnable. I was notified by a very kind woman who did a very good job of not giggling when she gave me a knowing yet sympathetic look.
G-Mama, Mama, aka Mother in law sent me the book "Fervent"
Monday, May 23, 2016
I feel good. I'm not in the same shape I was at 35, time seems to give less results for the same output. But I can still do everything I want to.
For my birthday this year I am giving myself a gift.
I'm giving myself permission.
Permission to have people in my life that I trust
Permission to remove people from my life that hurt me, mistreat me, ignore my feelings or in any way directly make me feel less than who I am.
Fortunately for me, there aren't very many people that fall into the category, I can think of 4 right now.
Permission to laugh as loud as I want.
Permission to wear what I want, even if I don't like my upper arms. (don't panic I'm not talking hot pants and crop tops )
Permission to live my life, with Riddick, as we see fit. No one else really needs to like it.
Tuesday, April 19, 2016
Friday, September 11, 2015
I wrote this 7 years ago. It seems so long ago. Before I met Robbie and learned what marriage and life can be. So grateful. This day is about remembering those fallen and sacrifices. This is just my little story.
9-11-01 is a date that none of us could forget, nor should we. It was like a wake up call in the most horrific painful way, for the whole country. For me it was a wake up call on a completely different level. I didn’t know it was a wake up call for another 8 years, and those 8 years will be something that I can never regain.
On September 11, 2001 my husband was spending a long weekend with another woman. His mistress. His first mistress, that I know about. Her name was Dora. Dora Elise Perez to be exact.
I just said that out loud as I typed it. Because for years and years I was afraid to say it out loud, to think it even. Because if I thought it, than I would be accusing the man I love of something horrible.
Dora was just the first, or at least he said she was the first, but that’s a different story for a different page. Dora was from Honduras. He flew her up here for a visit.
He said he was going fishing. Fishing at Billy Chinook. I even bought him a new anchor and float. He took his boat, but forgot the anchor. I felt something was up, something wasn’t right. So I did what any sane, hard working, healthy 29 year old would do…I tore everything out of my bedroom and painted the walls. Of course I picked a color, Columbine Pink, which was so close to the original you never would have known. I didn’t want to upset him after all.
I had painted all night long, into the early morning hours. I had taken the day off of work just to finish it. When I woke from my paint fume induced nap at 9 AM, the world was different. I watched the playback of that huge jet and all the destruction and I immediately called Tim. Wanting him to know we were ok. I left a message, upbeat that we were all fine and he didn’t need to worry.
He came home on September 14. Quiet, I thought it was because of what had happened in NYC. I even reassured him that I wasn’t hurt that he didn’t cut his fishing trip short, and believed in him.
I don’t know why I never left him. I can think of several very good reasons to leave him long before I ever suspected he was cheating. But I didn’t want to admit a failure. To broadcast to the world that I had chosen wrong. That a 20 year age difference might matter. That if he was cheater on his first wife, and than again on his second, that I being his third had no reason to be surprised that he was still…a cheater. All those reasons seem like the right ones. But there are more. I didn’t want to leave his kids, kids I loved, kids I would miss. I didn’t want to not be a wife. To be alone out in the world that scares me still. And who would want me? I was chubby, freckled and prone to crying jags. I can see now that the crying and the chubby were directly influenced by my misery, I can’t blame him for freckles, God gets that one.
But most stories of marriages that end in heartbreak don’t start out bad, and neither did ours. I can’t claim he was a bad husband all the time, he wasn’t. When he was good he protected me and cherished me until that moment in our marriage when he gave up but didn’t want to tell me. I know that moment too. I felt it. I didn’t know what it was, but it was like a change in the weather, everything got a little cooler. I wonder if I drove him to that point. If I was and just am too much of a person for one man to handle. He said once that he could always see this bright shining light in me, a light that was good, and pure, completely hokey. It’s what attracted him, this idea of someone being pure and loving and wanting to be with him. It made him want to be a better man, a better father, just better. But I think it burned him. That trying to be something he wasn’t because of an idea of what he thought I was, it’s too much for any of us to handle.
I’m not that person. I don’t have that light in me. That’s a burden that isn’t right to put on another. What he saw in me, what is in me, is an ability to love. An ability to feel. It’s a blessing and a curse in one. A gift that hurts me as much as it comforts others.