I listened to everyone who told me I should be famous. I made CDs of my original music, took professional photographs and made a M*Sp*ce music page. I was happenin’ and stuff. I was a worship leader at my church and had so many compliments it was difficult to keep my feet on the ground. But I did. Why? Because I never made it past 2nd place. Even here in a local competition a few years ago I got 2nd. Again.

I played in a band (or 2), wrote lots of music and played my guitar until my fingers bled, to quote Bryan Adams. If you’re curious, here you can find my music, albeit very rudimentary and amateur. *NOTE: the server is a home computer so it might take more than one shot to get to the files. I promise you’ll be rewarded with complete mediocrity.

My point is that the desire to make music as that thing I do has always burned hot inside of me. So much so that watching CMT or award shows was painful because I was so certain I should be and COULD be doing that if only the stars aligned properly. But they never did. That aching? It still remains. Uselessly and irritatingly eating at my heart like some ridiculous child’s dream never to come true. I tried to make it into a passion for worship music and throw myself into that, thinking not only would it satisfy this longing but also possibly make me into the kind of person who could save her marriage.

Only it didn’t.

Once those things imploded, I was held to a higher standard and told I brought a bad spirit into the church by my behavior. I went from being a woman in trouble to a woman lost forever. Goodbye church support. Goodbye people who loved me for the worship I brought. It was really just a bad spirit, after all, now that they knew what I was really doing behind closed doors. I got heavy and old, useless to marketing reps and no longer of value to the Christian community for the purpose of worship music. I was heartbroken to not only lose my marriage but my entire belief system.

It’s been months since I really picked up a guitar or put any heart into singing. There used to be no separating me and music, and I don’t know what happened. Did I give up? Did I ever really think I’d be famous? No, not really. But I always believed that it might amount to something important in my life, and that the fire was placed there for a reason.

I just don’t know if I believe that anymore.

It’s been surprisingly easy not to drink. That is, until something happens and I feel like a drunk trying to dry out. Sunday was one of those days. Things happened, information got to me that, while it really shouldn’t have, rocked me to the core. This after an amazing weekend with L and a noted increase in intimacy and commitment for both of us. But Sunday morning, I wanted a drink. So I cried. For 2 hours. Because people should be who you know them to be. People can’t be so different than who you’ve known for so long. It just can’t be. Instead of drinking, I used my “emotional health” skills and just looked around me, identifying how I felt. This place I’m in? It really IS all kinds of awesome. Some examples:

*I’m headed to school (pre reqs for nursing) in the Fall
*I’m sober!
*Did I mention I’m sober?
*I know what I want to do with my life and I’ ALL over it!

There are good things in the land of 30something and I am rockin’ the changes.

Mostly.

See, I got the bright idea to change my relationship status on Facebook. I know, I know. I live with someone. We are in a relationship. It made sense. I know it was the right time to do it, too. I just didn’t foresee the way it would speed up the end of my life before all this.

The soon to be ex Mr. has been out and about, seeing several gals and trying to figure himself out. I applaud him for being so outgoing and want him to be so. very. happy. The way I felt about a date he had this last weekend just made me…let go a little more and turn toward a new life I’m building on my own.

It seems the Mr. was inspired as well, and quickly made an appointment to draw up papers. We both knew this was the probable outcome, I suppose I thought it would be several months or a year before we actually followed through. But the Mr. is a very take care of business kind of guy and really needed some closure. I don’t blame him for a second. But it hurt like hell.

I went with him, sat through a brief and simple session with the legal gal and left her office with my heart in my shoes and a thousand panicked questions.

Should we be doing this so soon?

What will the kids think?

Should I tell L?

Ohmygod. Please stop. Please just stop this. I don’t want this. This is NOT the way it was supposed to be!

I want a drink…

I spent the bulk of the day with the Mr. talking about plans, visitation, financial things and trying to make all of this as easy as possible. Then we started to talk about how it felt. What went wrong. How we got to this horrible, gut-wrenching place. Neither of us could keep the tears from forming, but both kept them barely at bay. We agreed this is how it should be. Hell, if the world turned upside down and we ended up back together, we could always get married again, right? Right?

As the day wore on and we covered more painful subjects, the searing agony in my body due to lack of pain management combined with my emotional state to slowly but surely wear me down. By the time the Mr. left, I was sobbing. The majority of my family is either not supportive or feels I have lost my way, leaving only a few options for people to turn to when the world has closed in on me. Since I often will close up, it’s probably best that way.

I cried until L got home, and then I cried more. And he held me and listened to me spill my doubts and fears, things that I know were painful for him to hear, but he held me and promised I would be ok. We would be ok. And he was going nowhere. As he drifted to sleep I felt him waking every few minutes to rub my shoulder and helplessly try to dry my eyes again. The light in the window faded to dark and I was alone except for his steady breath.

I closed my eyes and once again I was in Gold Hill at Sammy’s Gato Gordo. The man onstage was very clean cut and conservative looking. When he opened his mouth and began to sing I raised an eyebrow and took another look. We sang, played shuffleboard and pool, he juggled billiard balls and laughed. We fell in love. We married in the perfect little church in a beautiful ceremony on the first day of spring. We had a family. We lived and we loved and we hurt, and now it’s over. In August we would have been together 14 years. I was 23 when we met. The memories bring searing hot tears down my cheeks and an ache in my chest deeper than anything I think I’ve ever felt. I know the reasons. I know they are valid. I know they aren’t going to change and this is for the best. But he was everything to me. And somehow I think letting go isn’t going to be as simple as signing a piece of paper.

And I still really want a drink.

I survey him like he is new to me, though he is not. Each mark, each scar to be examined and cataloged. He is a strong man. He is a good man. And he loves me fiercely.

Still, as I scan across his skin I can’t help but think of those who have done so before I came along. It’s a resonating battle inside of me, and I find myself entrenched once again, firing shots toward a faceless enemy. I duck and I pop up again and fire until I begin to see their faces. The women I know he’s had relationships with. And I feel as if I am overtaken by them. I feel as if my weapons are malfunctioning and my armor is full of holes. As the enemy converges I catch my breath and the tear before it falls on his chest. And he stirs.

Why do I do this? Because I’m afraid. On some level I am afraid that I won’t compare to the women before me. And as usual, I follow this train of thought until it weaves through my landscape of the land of insecurity. I’ve built a home there on the unfriendly rock formations amongst the thorns and beasts where I am destined to return again and again. It is the land of the “Not Good Enough”.

In the last few months I’ve been gathering supplies in an effort to build a new home in a more forgiving land. During this self construction project I’m beginning to see some new truths, and they are making the job of condemning that old house and tearing it down just a little easier.

I don’t have to fight that battle. I’m no longer entrenched. I have some affirmations to strengthen me and they serve also as realizations. An epiphany, of sorts.

No matter how angry I am at their behavior, I can still love someone who hates me. I acknowledge my part in their feelings toward me, and I feel a deep sense of regret. I see their pain and I long for the days when my embrace was welcomed. When we shared those pains with one another. I can ache deeply that it simply isn’t possible now, and hold on to knowledge that my love for them remains, hoping beyond hope that what they now face can be just a little less devastating.

I am a balanced and loving mother who makes mistakes like every other mother has. I can hear my children and listen to their feelings. I can understand their pain, and stand strong as the adult when how they feel cannot affect the situation. I can hold them and still hold them responsible for their behavior. And I can tell them every day how much I love them. I know without doubt that I am a Good Mother. Above all, I can promise them and myself that under no circumstances will I ever give up on them.

I can give grace to someone who is hell bent on destroying me. Even in the midst of harassing phone calls, txts, threats of violence (however unlikely) and venomous slander, I can see the lost child inside. I can take into consideration someone who was abandoned and hurt, knowing they are really just looking for attention. ANY attention. I can know that they may be doing and saying vicious things, but only to keep busy enough to not feel the loneliness. And while I give grace, I don’t excuse the actions. I stand tall and defend myself and those I love.

I receive judgment without returning it. I know that those (both in my family and outside of it) who are convinced I am every kind of hopeless sinner in need of the Lord have their own demons to battle, and I can be at peace knowing in my innermost being that my relationship with God is personal and not only not their business but not for them to judge. I can understand that they don’t realize what they’re really doing is leaving me completely alone in the time of my greatest need. And I can forgive them for it, keeping enough distance to protect myself at the same time.

Then, I can turn back to my sleeping warrior and be content with where we are right now. Without holding on to the past. Without forcing a future. I can be blissfully in the moment, and drift into a sound and peaceful sleep.

I was 18 when I had him. 36 when he graduated from high school last year. I have watched him grow and learn and become his own version of a man based on what he has seen modeled for him, for which I am both thankful and saddened. My son will be a strong family man. He will hold a work ethic higher than those of his peers and will reach for success beyond all other things. He didn’t choose to join the Marines because he had no other options. He did so because it’s been his dream for many years. It was the only branch ‘tough enough’ for him. The only challenge he wasn’t certain he could meet, and therefore he had to set his sights on conquering.

As I imagine his tiny face laughing at me as he was cutting his first teeth…as I remember the videos of his 2nd birthday party…as I can picture each stage of his development and treasure it like a precious gift, his middle sister sleeps with his necklace tightly in her hand. His youngest sister looks for his teasing yet loving comments on her choices, but finds only silence. His Dad was looking forward to a last visit before boot camp, but friends and family a few hours south were given the gift of his last few hours of freedom. I’m incredibly jealous.

I don’t blame him for running that way when the Mr. and I separated. I don’t blame him for being angry enough to not speak a single word to me since it happened. I knew everything when I was 18, too.

And then I became a mother. And went back to knowing nothing. And questioning everything.

I’ll love you forever, I’ll like you for always. As long as I’m living, my baby you’ll be.

Come home soon. Come home healthy. Just come home. Please.

If you leave comments here and don’t see them for a while, that’s totally my fault. They’re here…I just haven’t approved them yet.

Thanks for your support!

But….I’m frozen.

See, I’m stuck in the deciding of who will and won’t have access to the new blog. I know I don’t want my kids reading it. I would like to be able to have some level of anonymity and really be myself. The REAL me, good, bad and ugly included. But because of the content and especially what I am currently in the middle of, I wanted it to be more of a journal. A personal journal. Which means I didn’t want my husband to read it.

There are two camps about this. One says “what do you have to hide?”. I say nothing, but preserving his feelings when I want to say “he’s an ass!” a million ways does matter to me. I want to talk about what I’m really feeling, and I know he can’t always handle that. We’ve been through a VERY difficult time this last year and I have much to say about parts of that. He may not want to revisit it. We are not a perfectly happy couple who shares everything. That couple might read each others’ blogs. I’m not trying to hide anything, I just want to protect him. He’s not seeing that right now and it makes the decision nearly impossible. The other side to the argument says “of course you want privacy! It’s a journal!” to which my husband adds, “yes, one that is read by the entire internet. So why can’t I read it?”. Deep sigh.

So I ponder and I fret, and I wonder what the right choice is. I start to drift to the thought that many who have read this blog hold the opinion that I act in my own interest without regard to others at all, and this wringing of the hands over hurting someone’s feelings is bollux. Then starts the internal stoning of my character. By my own hand, of course. The character judgments, the ‘nobody will read it anyway so who cares’ quips, the doubts that what I feel needs to be expressed at all. But by sheer force of will I put that to a grinding halt and look clearly once again at the issue at hand.

I don’t want him to read it. And it’s not just him, either. There are a few people I don’t want to have the location. I would censor myself. And I really REALLY need to not be censored. And the truth is, if I’m going to censor, I might as well just stay here. This is supposed to be like free therapy and you all are my shrinks. Except I don’t pay you. And you don’t have a cool couch. Well, maybe you do, but I can’t see it through the computer. You should send me pictures.

Aaaand I did it again. Back to the subject!

So what say you? Is it ‘hiding something’ to not want my husband and a few others to read the new blog? Should I just give him the url and write about recipes and my dogs? Should I become a food stylist, move to the East Coast and learn an accent like Marisa Tomei? Or maybe just go fishing?

Hmmm?

I cleaned the room, washed the sheets and vacuumed, including the nooks & crannies under and behind the bed and headboard. Less dust means less allergies. I semi-organized my cosmetic/jewelry drawer and sit here now, watching the fresh breeze blow the curtains and the beautiful, warm sunlight touch each corner of my clean room. This is usually when I feel most at peace. Where I feel God. And while He is here now, the most prominent thing I feel is the stirring. Again with the stirring in my spirit. It’s not peace. It’s not pain. It’s something else. There is something wrong.

Can’t I just enjoy a clean room? Clearly not.

I want my sick husband to come home and curl up in this clean bed with me, cry and hug and watch sci-fi teevee. Then again, I kind of don’t. There’s a part of me that says it’s not his company I want. I’m also still feeling hurt over something a friend said yesterday that caught be my surprise and made me cry. I’m feeling out of sorts and off track and I just can’t put my finger on why, already! I could name several things possibly producing the ill-at-ease feeling. I’ve gained 20 lb since the “thing” happened. I’m drinking far too much, far too often. I’m working too many hours for not enough money. Rather, for no paycheck at all. The Mr. is very stressed at work and I’m cooking like a maniac, which means lots of rich, comfort food and most of his at-home time spent on the computer in his cave. I’m serving his dinner at the computer again. And that, as we all know, is a very bad sign. I’m questioning my choices. My decisions. I’m feeling pangs of anger and guilt, am worried about my children and pretty much anything else that merits worry. And some things that don’t.

And I can’t feel God.

Even worse, I know it’s me. Because He didn’t move.

I’ve been here countless times. I know what it takes to get back to a place where I feel Him again. It takes sacrifice. It takes making choices to remove things and people from my life that distract me from my purpose. And while I’ve done it before and am pretty sure I would do it again, if necessary, I’m just not convinced it’s the right thing to do at this point.

I don’t know if everything I know about faith and life is even true right now. And so, three hours, 2 drinks and 4 loads of laundry later, we have the real problem. I don’t know what’s true. I know God exists. I know He loves me. That’s about it.

So I lay in my fresh, clean bed and wonder: Can that just be enough for right now? Please, God, can that just be enough?

_________________

A side note:

Many of you know that this blog has not really been a safe place for me to write how I feel, how I really feel, for a while now. Most of what I post ends up in a public forum somewhere, where I am belittled and laughed at by people who don’t know anything about me and whose opinion does not matter. What does matter is the integrity of the concept of blogging and the fact that I can no longer participate in the spirit in which I choose.

Because of this I have opened a new blog elsewhere and will be offering the location to those who are not in the aforementioned category. I will keep this one open for a while. I might post, I might not. This one is my public blog. I might toss out some recipes, though you can still find those at tsmcooks.com. Who knows? I might just post about the Fantasy Nascar I hope to be involved in shortly.

Anyway, if you read because you care, please ask for the new info. I would love to take you with me. It’s because of you I didn’t quit altogether.

Many hugs and happy thoughts,

TSM

The emotion stayed with me long after I finished the show, leaving an echo of that sentiment all day which I couldn’t fully shake. In order to let it go, I had to take a hard look at exactly what it was that was causing me to feel this way.

Redemption. It’s an inspiring thought. An honorable intention. I understood by the expressions of his family that he had achieved redemption. And at that same moment, I realized that it would be much more elusive for me.

I don’t think I’m really wanting to delve into the philosophical as much as just understand the emotional aspect of the whole thing. Whatever the ‘whole thing’ actually IS.

I’ve learned that letting people into your heart means showing them not only your pretty, but your ugly as well. There was a time I felt that those who knew me understood my heart and who I am at my core. That they saw the ‘ugly’ and made peace with it. I felt that the love I hold for all people simmply because their hearts beat somehow was a symbol to others thath I was a good person. A compassionate person. Maybe I had hoped that in spite of how incredibly inadequate I have always felt, deep inside there really was someone worthy of the love her Creator had bestowed upon her. Then I made choices that let the Ugly out. And, as expected, my life divided into two groups. Those who love me no matter what, and those who never did. It has been an incredibly painful experience and I’m not really looking to place nametags on folks. I just want to express that it’s affected how I write, how I think and inevitably how I am willing to express those feelings here.

Exploring my relationships (if you can even call them that) with those people in my life has been very painful. Some I have simply walked away from. Others I have closed myself off to, not allowing them access to the deeper parts of me to do any more damage. Still others I have dug in my heels and turned to face, expressing in no uncertain terms that I am not afraid, not backing down, and not stooping to their level. In many ways it is those people I have drawn the most strength from during all of this. And I keep that little piece of victory to strengthen me in those moments when I’m not feeling quite so strong.

Circling back to the idea of redemption, I think about those people I felt close to who were almost brutal in their dealings with me when this all began. Some have come around and while we haven’t spoken of the specifics, we have made a semblance of peace. And every little bit helps.

But as I think about the bits of peace here and there, I am reminded that my redemption will never be complete. Family, friends or even strangers will always be there to remind me what I’ve done. It’s not the neat-and-tidy storybook ending. I have love and family, but I also have pain and unforgiveness.

It’s figuring out what to do with the messy parts that serves to remind me just how far away from storybook we all are. Because although there are those who would love to point at me and my shortcomings and claim to be superior, the truth is we all have areas that, if dissected, would paint us as horrific human beings. It’s the people who can know that and love you anyway who are worth the little time we really have here.

And so, my friends, here’s to you, for you are worth it.

I don’t know what his problem is. Maybe being 18 is his problem. Moments like this I try really hard to remember what I was like at 18. Married. Pregnant with him. It could be worse, no? Still, as he sits behind me tap-tap-tapping away at his computer (because we told him no more Xbox) I’m still fuming at the last little shredding comment he sent my way.

The copier is asking for service. Well, a part that I used to be able to install myself, but now requires a service call. I was whining (to myself, but he was in the room) and he asked why it was an issue.

“Because. I don’t like that copier guy. He makes me uncomfortable.” I answered.
“What do you mean?” he asked.
“Well, he talks to me like I’m stupid. I don’t like it.” I answered, frowning at my computer screen.
“I don’t know, mom…” he said, “that seems like a problem you have.”

My fingers froze above the keyboard.

“Excuse me…?” I raised an eyebrow in his general direction. Choose your next words carefully, for they may be your last…

“It’s just that you say that alot. I think it’s just you.”

Oh. No. He. Di’int.

But…alas, he did. And he’s been doing it alot lately. About a great many things. Undermining me. Chopping me off at the knee. Dissin’ me. And I’ve really had enough.

I don’t know what I’m going to do about it, but…well, just rest assured it will be…severe.

It’s The Most Wonderful Time of the Year
I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus
O Holy Night (Me)
Santa Baby
Mary Did You Know
I’ll Be Home for Christmas
Let It Snow
Rockin’ Around the Christmas Tree
Silent Night
Jingle Bell Rock

And two of my favs,

Winter Wonderland (Mike when his voice was changing)
Grandma Got Run Over By A Reindeer (our entire family)

Many blessings to all of you, and yes, things are going very well. Thank you for your prayers!