Giving and accepting the gift of perspective…

October is leaving me a bit raw. The 26th is my mother’s birthday; she would be 52 years old this year. That number is sad and terrifying to me all at once. It is too young and not enough. It makes me ache and bores a hole in my heart…and my mortality. It is also election season and so many topics are being discussed that are so sensitive and critical and valuable; opinions and views are being shared that hurt. I’m taking it all very personally, whether I should or not.

I’ve been told 3 times in the last two weeks “I can’t believe you turned out the way you did” in response to this or that; nothing in particular, just experiences or perspectives I’ve shared that reflect me and my past and my present self. It is said with respect and admiration and appreciation, I know it is, and I take it as such. Hell, I’ve thought it myself a time or two. How in the hell did I get here, after I’ve been through and done all that shit?! But then…I have a moment of defensiveness in their words and my own. Because I turned out the way I did as a result of all these things, the good, the bad, the difficult and ugly, the blessings and the beautiful, things out of my control and the things I actively chose. I can believe it…because without those things I may lack a whole lot of the perspective and heart and gratitude.

I battle daily with guilt over how I comprehend and view my own upbringing. Daily. When I go to Target I’m torn between indulging in things I don’t need and remembering all the times I needed and went without. Do I spend frivolously now that I can at times (the dollar bin is my kryptonite) or do I recognize I don’t need that shit and save the money for more important things? When I talk about my mother, do I agonize over how frustrated I still find myself with all of her mistakes, all the pain she caused me in making them, in all her flaws and shortcomings and selfish decisions…or do I have empathy for all the shit she endured; in losing her father as a little girl to suicide, in being raped while hitch hiking in her teens, in loving men who abused her because she just wanted to love and be loved, in falling prey to addiction and depression because of it all? Since I met my husband, I have been in a constant state of mental and emotional limbo over seeing things from his perspective and my own. Two very different worlds and experiences colliding…but bringing two people together to learn from one another, to listen to one another, to share and grow and love. My life now and my life then are so completely different…again, guilt in wondering if I’m still honoring it all or taking it for granted…am I bitter towards certain things or empathetic toward the lack of knowledge or experience…a limbo of the heart and soul.

These are the same things I feel when I read friends’ political and world views; friends I know to be kind, good, fun people who know me and my past and my heart…who share views that seemingly attack that me of the past, that little girl…my mother and all we went through. It’s very heavy and hard and confusing. I know it’s intent isn’t personal or mean spirited, I know that, but the blissful ignorance and flippancy of it all still hurts.

I always hope that by sharing my experiences and that of my mother and family, I will somehow alter others perspectives, in even the smallest of ways. I hope I will soften them a bit to ideas or impressions they once had, and make them a little more compassionate; make them think a little harder, a little deeper, a little broader. I hope, but I can’t force that or guarantee it. Just as they can’t control the way they are received, neither can I. There’s that “intention” again; intention is everything. The hardest part though is feeling like my sharing that, my giving that part of myself to them…was a gift, and they didn’t value or respect it. If I share that with you and you express compassion and appreciation and even admiration for it…I hope you “pay it forward” and give others the same compassion, the same validation or courtesy of kindness and care. But that is not always how it works, and that makes me very sad; it makes me feel like my sharing was in vain, like my gift had no meaning…like it was wasted words and feelings.

Just because I recognize I wouldn’t be who I am today if I hadn’t experienced the hardships I had, doesn’t mean I want others to have to go through or suffer them as well. I know the shame I felt in standing at the checkout with my mother while she flipped through her foodstamp book or while we had to wait in line to receive utility vouchers to pay our bills. I remember how hard it was to endure the scrutiny and bullying of my peers because I wore hand me downs or clothes that didn’t have brand names on them because we couldn’t afford them…to be called “high water Heinkel” because my legs grew too quickly and we couldn’t afford new pants. I know how sad my mothers eyes were when she knew she was letting me down, when she knew she wasn’t able to be what she needed to be for me…or even for herself. Her depression, her addiction, the abuse she suffered and…dished out; all a part of who she was, and her constant cycle of trying to heal whilst self destructing. And that is what makes me defend her and us and our lives. That is what makes me advocate for government assistance and mental health care and Planned Parenthood and addiction counseling/services…for people who are struggling in one way or another, that I wish they didn’t have to. Whatever reason people are needing help…they need it. Whether it’s money or food or clothing or a job or counseling or medication or even someone to say “I’m sorry you are going through this”…or “I care”. Judgement is why all of these issues are stigmatized and trivialized and why all these people feel so unworthy of help or love. Because to need help is to be weak or to lack value or worth or pride…or so, that is what we are taught, and that is what we preach. I don’t agree. The more we shame people for needing help, the less likely they are to ask for it, and the harder it will be for everyone. The more we empower people by encouraging they take that initiative to say “Hey, I’m fucking struggling here. I need help. Somethings not right”, the more apt they are to seek out that help, to improve their situations, and to get on the right track…mentally, physically, financially.

My husband has said a lot lately that he feels education is the root of so many of our issues in the world today, and while I agree a zillion times over…I also think compassion and empathy are large factors as well. We are greatly lacking humility and care for humanity…for one another, for our brothers and sisters of the world…for little Nicole “High water Heinkel”s. We want so desperately to separate ourselves from the disease of hardship and needing help that we fail to realize…there is no separating ourselves from it, because it is lurking around every corner; no one is immune to it. We could be diagnosed with some life threatening disease or illness tomorrow that would throw our entire lives into a tailspin. A tornado or flood or other natural disaster could rear it’s ugly head and wipe out our entire community leaving us all in need. Our spouse could get ill or we could lose them in an unexpected accident leaving us to fend and provide for ourselves. A fire could take out our house and all our possessions. And this doesn’t even begin to touch on the mental and physical toll these things could take on a person; the chance of falling into a depression or eating disorder or addiction of some kind. We are human, we are flawed…we are vulnerable, we are mortal, we can break. We are imperfect and no one..no one is immune to hardship of any shape or form.

“I can’t believe you turned out the way you did”. I can believe it…because I chose to let it affect me, I chose to open myself up to the pain and joy of it all, to others and their experiences…I chose to let it broaden my perspective and ambitions. We all have that choice. I also chose to ask for and accept help, as hard and embarrassing as that was to me sometimes. I had kind, compassionate, caring, loving people who saw me for more than empty, outstretched hands…for more then the daughter of an addict, for more than a child on welfare, for more than a broken, sad, angry little girl…and some of those same people saw my mother for more than her problems and hardships as well. They saw us as human beings…thank goodness for them. We all have experiences and people who touch our lives that we can allow to affect us or…not. Which will you choose? Will you accept that gift graciously or will you miss out on the opportunity to grow?

This month, my mother would have been 52. I miss her. I love her. I am grateful for all she was and all she ever will be…in her legacy of strength and love and being human. I am grateful for who I am today because of all she was yesterday ❤

Breaking the cycle…

I haven’t seen my father in around 6 months. The last time we saw each other was on his terms, in a bar, just 5 minutes away from my home…he called me, out of nowhere, wanting to talk. I offered for him to come over for dinner with my husband and daughter but instead he wanted to have a drink just the two of us. It turned into an hour or two of him wanting to apologize for some things, commend me on some things, and seemingly make me feel badly enough to apologize for some things…which I didn’t, because I don’t owe him an apology for what he wanted one for. I went in hopeful, left just happy to have seen him, and within 24 hours was smacked with the harsh reality that once again our little visit wasn’t at all about me or for me…but about him…and for his own peace of mind. We had shook on a deal that night that we would meet every Friday for a drink over lunch; he’d treat one week, I’d treat the other. But he never showed up or returned my calls. I decided, once again, that I was sick of this bullshit and stopped calling him or trying. Months went by, as well as several holidays. Finally a few weeks ago I broke down and gave him a call; no answer. Another week or so later I’m getting ready for work and see a missed call from him on my phone. I call him back, again, hopeful as ever that daddy was thinking of me and missed me and called to say hi. Instead, he answered sounding confused and when told I had a missed call from him he said “Oh, that must have been by accident, I was trying to call so-and-so”. There’s a number of curse words and names I want to write here but I won’t, because it really won’t do any good or change anything…this is nothing new, I should just be used to it by now…but I’m not. I’m not used to it, really I shouldn’t be used to it, and frankly I think it’s horseshit. But I guess that’s life, and I’ve got my big girl britches on. So that’s that.

This past weekend was the annual Father Daughter Dance for our school district. I looked on as my best friend of almost 17 years told a little girl, our little girl, how pretty she looked in her special dress for the dance. He carefully slipped on and buckled her little shoes (glass slippers as we called them), he gently put her corsage on her tiny little wrist, and he gave her kisses and hugs as I snapped pictures through watery eyes. The look on our little girls face, the way her eyes twinkled, and the little skip in her step as they walked out that door for their “date night”…it’s hard to describe how that felt to me. I was struck with love and awe and “hubba hubba” as well as a strong reminder of why I love this man. I was proud because WE made her, and I chose him. And it seemed to somehow make up for this 32 years of empty and achey that not having something like that for myself left. It was one of my favorite moments ever. It’s hard to type through blurry eyes as I read that back…because really, it’s just so special…

Look at that little face…that is the face of a girl who is loved and feels special and pretty and sparkly. Sigh ❤ ❤ ❤

It’s times like these that I feel the strongest…because I somehow broke the cycle and I somehow ended up with a pretty damn good life. I went through some really unfortunate shit, I saw some pretty dark times, I’ve put up with and been hurt and let down by some potentially influential people…but I didn’t let them influence me, at least not in a way that made too much of a negative impact. I wanted better for myself. I married my best friend; he works hard, he provides for our family, he is fun and smart and driven. He makes me laugh, hard, and brings me Ben and Jerry’s. He eats ice cream sandwiches in bed and takes long showers with me. He calls me out on my bullshit and tells me he loves me, every single day, more than once. He makes promises…and he keeps them. He loves us. That’s a powerful thing when a majority of what you saw growing up were men who got drunk and violent and handsy or…who didn’t show up, period. It also forces me to see that regardless of what I think or feel some times, regardless of what others actions have made me think or feel, I am capable of being loved and cared for…I am good enough……that’s so hard to see and hard to grasp sometimes for me, but it’s there and it’s powerful and I need it. I’m really thankful for my husbands patience with this, because it can be work…I can be work, but he sticks around and gets his hands dirty…because I’m worth it, WE are worth it. Ugh. Seriously. POWERFUL!!

So anyway. That’s what the Father Daughter Dance of 2015 meant to this girl. It meant a lot more than just pretty dresses and sparkle ribbon. It was THIS little girls childhood being re-written with a fairytale-esque ending 😉 And for the record: my night ended with two tubs of Ben and Jerry’s on the couch with my best friend while our little princess slept peacefully upstairs after a night of dancing and giggling…and feeling loved and pretty and special. Really, it doesn’t get much better than that.

The company we keep and memory lane…

Sunday afternoon, while grocery shopping with my daughter, I ran into an old friend I hadn’t seen in almost 15 years. She was someone I connected with late in high school, around my Junior year; we shared similar personal family life struggles and social issues as a result of that, we had the same “I may be small but I’m mighty” attitude that often got us into tight spots and made us think we were some kind of street brigade set out to defend others against social injustice. We were, at times, mouthy and loud. We pushed limits and got into trouble. She understood why typical conversations about the mall and boys didn’t always suit me, why I was sometimes sad or angry or flaky, and she brought out a tougher, “I don’t give a shit” side of me that I appreciated, being that I’ve always been one to give a lot of shits about everything 😉 We often got mistaken for sisters because we sported the same angled blonde bob and black stretch pants with block soled sandals. We just sorta clicked and I think we both really relished in that: having someone that was safe but also a little dangerous all at once because together you were a force to be reckoned with, together you felt invincible, together the hard stuff wasn’t so hard. We lost touch after graduation because it was just such a crazy time for me (and I think she as well) and I always wondered what had happened to her. I’ve looked her up on Facebook a number of times throughout the years, asked around the few mutual friends I still keep in touch with, and just never had any luck. Then…BAM! There she is at Wal-Mart and I’m nearly running into her with my shopping cart! I cautiously say her name and begin to get excited because I’m sure it’s her…then I’m sadly met a confused face and meek “Yeeeahhh?”. I introduce myself and remind her of where we know each other from. It’s a little awkward because I don’t think we are on the same page as to whom the other person is and this isn’t the huggy, tear-filled reunion I had always imagined. Instead, she seems distracted and after asking what seems like an obligatory “how are you” delves into crazy stories about herself and overloads me with personal information I wasn’t quite ready to take in. The more we talk the less I feel I really even knew her at all, and then I realize: no, this IS her, this is the SAME girl who helped land you your first (and only) trip to juvenile hall, the same girl who always helped start the fire but seemed to disappear the second it got too hot, and the same girl who always had some great drama happening but seemed to CREATE it herself more than it seemed to happen TO her. We didn’t exchange phone numbers. We didn’t make promises to keep in touch. We never even hugged. We just said “It was nice seeing you” and went our separate ways. I finished my shopping a little confused and wondering why I felt so unfulfilled by finally getting to see this friend after so many years. And it wasn’t until I got home that it really began to sink in: there was a reason we hadn’t kept in touch, that we didn’t make any attempt for us to do so in the future, and that we were only friends for a fleeting moment during one of the most challenging times in my life: because we were very different people who didn’t really mix and had taken different paths for a reason.

During high school there was a time when I found myself drawn to people because there was something about them that I wished I had in myself, something I thought I lacked. With Sam, it was her pretty face but “I don’t give a fuck” attitude, her small size but big demeanor that I admired and latched onto. My sophomore year it was Tara, a girl I had developed a “crush” on in my drama class: she wore purple lipstick, her hair was always a mess, she said what she thought without any fear, she would walk through the hallways holding hands with her girlfriend and kissing at their lockers not giving a shit what anyone said or thought. She was confident and fearless and sexual and tough and no one messed with her. I liked her. She was a badass. I would sit by her everyday in drama. I would laugh at all her jokes and listen to every crazy messed up story about stripping and online dating she would tell. One day, in the middle of class, she kissed me and acted like it was no big deal. To me it was huge. I had just kissed a GIRL and it felt good and was exciting and exhilarating and scary. People called me a “lezzy” and a few friends stopped talking to me…I kinda liked that too, it felt liberating and powerful. So, I started skipping study hall once in a while to hangout with her across from our school at Pete’s Pizzeria where she would make phone calls and smoke cigarettes, and I’d stop by her work at B-Bops with friends hoping she would kiss me again, and once or twice she did, and it was just as exciting as the first time. Then one night, after going to a play at the DSM Playhouse with a few others from Drama class for extra credit she called some guy to come pick us up, rather than her parents who were supposed to do it and then drop me right off at home; he was someone she had met off a dating site that had paged her a couple of times and wanted to meet up. Suddenly her wild side was all too real; I wasn’t just listening to crazy stories, I was about to be a part of one and I didn’t like it. I got this feeling in the pit of my stomach, I felt sick, I just wanted to be home; even if home was crazy itself, it was a “safe” crazy that I knew and understood. She gave me a bit of a hard time, trying to talk me into going but I wanted to be as far away from her and that situation as possible, I think I even started to cry a little I was so freaked out by the idea of what could possibly happen with some creepy old dude at his place with two high school girls. I don’t remember who I ended up calling or who ultimately picked me up, I think it was my mom’s boyfriend, but I know I didn’t go with her that night and I don’t think we saw or spoke to each other much after that. It was one of those defining moments where I realized I just wasn’t cut out for some stuff. I liked pushing boundaries, but had limits, and we had reached one. I remember being embarrassed and worrying that she hated me; she didn’t, but I think we had both realized we were very different, and even if it was fun while it lasted, we weren’t meant to be besties or girlfriends or whatever it was we were to each other during that whole experience.

I learned a lot about myself from both of these brief friendships/adventures and still look back on them fondly because regardless of how it all turned out, each of these girls helped me in one way or another become who I am today. Each one tested the definition of “good” or “bad” influence. With Sam, I had romanticized her image and all the “fun” we had had in my head all these years, seeing her as some cool chick who helped me come into my own…when really she wasn’t a good influence at all, she stirred up drama wherever she went, and had in fact intentionally tried on numerous occasions to get me into trouble just so she could watch it all go down. She wasn’t a friend so much as she was a lonely conspirator…and I guess I was too in a way   Maybe we used each other and both cut the ties when we no longer found the other useful, who knows. But I am still a little disappointed in our mini-reunion, because after all…it was fun while it lasted, and she had meant something to me; we had been through some shit together. Tara on the other hand was more complicated; she never directly put me in danger or got me into trouble, she just offered it up to me and then stepped back when I didn’t take it. I thought I had it rough?! This girl had it more rough. Her world was a bit darker, more raw and real, a little more dangerous…which to me I guess made her even more tough because there was no bullshit…that was her and her life, and she managed it well for what it was. And on top of it all: she didn’t judge me for saying I didn’t want it, she just knew to let me go my own way. I really admired and respected her for that. Tara also taught me a lot about love and lust and the rules, or non-rules of attraction. There I was, 16 years old, boy crazy, and totally smitten by some foul-mouthed, tattooed, drama chick. I was not confused about it then, and I’m not confused about it now: I don’t think love/attraction has a formula, it simply is what it is, period. I’m really grateful to her for that. I still consider that one of the best kisses/crushes/experiences of my life, she was just such a badass 😉

During some of the darkest parts of my family life at home I remember feeling really weak and powerless; like I had no control over anything, and no matter how hard I tried to do the right thing, or break the cycle…I wasn’t going to get anywhere, life was still going to crap on me. That was the storm cloud I put over myself for most of my high school years, I was pessimistic and emotional and unpredictable. In some ways, I lived a bit of a double life. At home I was vulnerable and weak and a wreck because what mom was feeling or doing controlled every aspect of our world, but everywhere else outside our little apartment I was strong and driven and wanted everyone to believe I was the one driving, I had the wheel. I could control everything, I could be whoever I wanted to be and do whatever I wanted to do once I was outside those four walls…and sometimes I got a little drunk on that power; a power I wasn’t mature enough, regardless of how old and wise I felt, to know what to do with. So I floated from group to group, never settling into any particular clique, making friends from every corner and end of the rain-bowed spectrum, collecting traits and sparkle and darkness as I went. Thankfully, wiser more mature Nicole was in there somewhere, because I managed to connect with and hang on to a few, even then, that would stick with me and guide me to where I am today, like my husband/bestfriend/teammate/cohort 🙂 That brief reunion in Wal-Mart this weekend that didn’t live up to what I had envisioned, or even the relationship which inspired it that fell short upon further inspection, was a great reminder of my own journey; of who I am, of where I’ve been and how far I’ve come, and of everyone who has touched/impacted my life along the way. It reminded me that, even if someone doesn’t live up to what you wanted them to, or hurts or disappoints you, or even if they are just too much for you to handle…they leave some kind of mark and make some kind of impression. And most importantly that, good or bad, those impressions help make you who you are…they’ve made me who I am, and I’m grateful.

So, whether Sam realized it or appreciated it or not…her friendship meant something to me. It had it’s fun and reckless moments that were harmless, but it also had ones that provided a bit of a wake-up call. And whether Tara knows it or not…her friendship and kiss meant something to me. She taught me so much about being strong in who you are, whether that means being bold and saying yes to things you normally wouldn’t because they feel good to you, or being brave/strong and saying NO to things you normally wouldn’t because they sound bad and terrifying…either way, you shouldn’t be ashamed or uncomfortable or embarrassed to be who you are and you have to make that decision for yourself. I actively made all of these choices myself, including to allow these girls to make an impact on my life by choosing to make them a part of it.

Now, as an adult, I’m a little wiser about who I allow to influence me. That’s not to say all my friends are perfect, because they aren’t. I wouldn’t want them to be. Hell, I’m not! I may even be the one who provided a lesson to someone else along the way! I am a very complex, flawed, hypocritical (at times) person. I wonder how “sea”gulls find themselves in Wal-Mart parking lots in Altoona, Iowa far away from any sea and also, what is hay made out of?! I struggle at times to practice what I preach, especially when it comes to not being self-deprecating or critical and also when it comes to farting in the kitchen or putting my dirty socks in the correct laundry basket. I still tend to get loud and mouthy, I am just a little more choosy in what I get loud and mouthy about and I don’t go throwing fists around for the hell of it like I have something to prove. I speed a little (like 5-9 over) when I’m in a hurry on my way to work but hate when OTHER people do it while I’m driving with my daughter, don’t they know I have a 6 year old in the car for crying out loud?!?! See? I’m a little cray cray. But…I am calmer. I am stronger. I am more confident and comfortable in my skin and finally don’t need approval or acceptance. I can say “No”, for the most part. I am also no longer someone seeking out trouble in some one else to full fill some secret desire for trouble in myself. If I sense trouble or drama or awkward, I slowly back away and fade into the sunset like a mythical creature of yesterday! Where’d she go?! I seek qualities that make me better, brighter, stronger. I seek humor and laughter and love. I seek real and raw and genuine. I’m also a little more apt to try and be a better friend myself…rather than being the company to your misery and going down with you, how can I help US come back up?! What can I do to help you? That’s a friend. That’s constructive. That is something that will inspire growth and change and good. My husband is really good at that. Even if sometimes it hurts, and even if we don’t always get it right…we usually end up pointed back in the right direction and stronger for it. That’s all I need.

So here’s to awkward run-ins at Wal-Mart and realizing you’re all growed up and also making notes for when your daughter is 15…and having a sense of humor and being loving through it all. Cause that stuff is important.

This feels good, I missed this. Always forward.

Our own monsters…

A friend shared this blog post this morning:

The Bully Too Close to Home

I cried at my desk at work and had to blame it on my cold.

Since I found out I was pregnant I was filled with this sense of purpose, not only to be the best mother I could be (ie: better than mine was for me) but also to raise the most healthy and perfect little person I possibly could (better than I was and am). That is a lot of pressure, on myself and my little girl.

I’ve gone over and over and over in my head all the things my mother and father have ever done and the impact those things have had on me as a person. I’ve compared them to the upbringing of my husband, his stories and the impact they’ve had on him. I judge, critique, and analyze other parents to the point of driving myself crazy…because I don’t want to get it wrong, I want to get it all “just right”…perfect. That is a lot of pressure to put on not only myself but everyone else. In the end, we all suffer.

I can’t really even begin to describe my childhood or upbringing. It’s such a fucked up combination of love and anger and imbalance I wouldn’t know where to start. I even have a hard time computing it all myself most of the time. One moment I recall a loving, fun, bubbly mother letting me do her hair and makeup, letting me crawl into bed with her because it’s “just us, best buddies” against the world…and the next I remember a drunk, drugged up crazed woman dragging me out of bed by my hair screaming about cigarettes or hitting me in the face calling me a “snotty bitch” and asking who I think I am. With my father it’s either bike rides to the park, falling asleep on his chest on the couch or visiting him in prison, waiting for him to never show up for birthdays or catching him doing drugs in a friends bedroom. I’m not sharing this for pity or sympathy or using it as an excuse. I know I have a choice on how I deal with that. I know I’m an adult now and am responsible for how I use that. But I also can’t deny that it doesn’t effect me, that it isn’t hard, and that I do allow it to mess with my head and my heart. I am weak. I’m not perfect. There are times this shit comes crashing through my sunshiny positivity bubble and I’m left a wreck. I let it do that, me. And that again feeds the beast that is my confidence, my motivation, my happiness…the love I have for myself…the love I have left for everyone else.

I have alllllways been a people pleaser. Always. I want everyone to like me, everyone to be happy with me, everyone to approve of me, etc etc etc. I set these impossible standards for myself that just can’t be met. I have such great expectations of how I or others or things should be that when they don’t measure up…I’m crushed. And this compulsion to be perfect causes me to in turn want to raise a perfect little girl. If my daughter isn’t polite or behaving well, what will others think of ME? If my daughter isn’t smart, healthy and kind what kind of parent am I?! Everything is a reflection on me as a mother or as a person. Everything. How my husband or daughters treat me or see me. How my friends treat me or see me. It feels like it’s all a measure of me, of my worth, of my character. Sigh. And my daughter…that poor girl hasn’t stood a chance from the moment she was born…the shoes she is trying to fill continue to grow at an impossible rate that she can’t keep up with. The same goes for me…and probably everyone else I know.

Reading that blog post this morning felt like someone stripped me down, shoved me out in the middle of the world and shined a big bright spotlight on me. I’ve been there. Right there in that situation where my daughter is needing compassion and love and attention and I’m too busy or distracted to give it so she is left defeated and confused and hurt. Isn’t that so sadly ironic?! That in my constant battle to achieve perfection and create the perfect little person, I’m being the exact opposite of what I want and would expect me to be?!

Last night my daughter, husband and I all piled into her bed to read the last assigned chapter of “The Borrower’s” for her schools reading program. It had been a long day. I was stressed about a laundry list of things and frustrated with others not going my way or how I wanted them to so was already cranky. My daughter, being 5 and having just had a few pieces of candy as a reward for something or other was understandably antsy and distracted and not paying attention to what I was reading. We had gone through this the night before, where mid chapter she couldn’t tell me what had happened in the story or answer any questions I had asked. So tonight I got upset, closed the book and said we weren’t going to read if she wasn’t going to be respectful and listen. She begged me to keep going and I said no, kissed her goodnight, and left her crying. She opened her door a few minutes later all teary eyed, poked her little head out, and sheepishly said “I’m sorry”. I snapped “Go to bed Cadence” and this led to the door being shut as she sobbed uncontrollably. My husband got upset and told me that was uncalled for, that she was trying to say she was sorry; he went to console her. I immediately knew I had made a mistake but instead of saying that I got angry at him for “making me feel like a terrible mother”, cursed, and spent the rest of the night alone with a glass of wine. There are so many things wrong with what I did, I can’t even begin to start to pick it apart. I’m ashamed of it. Tears fill my eyes just typing this. But the bully in me snaps “Stop feeling sorry for yourself. You’re the one who did this. Cadence is who you should be feeling sorry for.” And I do. I feel sorry that my little girl, who has inherited my people pleasing and sensitive little heart, felt like she wasn’t good enough, like she had disappointed me, or like she had done a terrible thing simply because she is 5 and wasn’t paying attention. What broke my heart even more was the big puffy red eyes that greeted me when I finally went in to comfort her and make sure she knew it wasn’t that big of a deal, that I loved her, that I understood…that I was sorry…

The thing that confused me most about my relationship with my own mother was how she could fly off the handle one minute in a fit of rage and hit me, call me names, etc then come in crying 5 minutes later, sobbing through apologizes and begging me to forgive her. She always apologized but by the time I was 15 those apologies didn’t mean anything because I knew within the hour or the day or the week she would do it all over again and we would replay the horrible cycle of lashing out, feeling guilty, and taking it back. It broke my spirit, it drained my faith and trust in others, and I have a feeling it altered my own perception and ability to understand the true meaning of an apology, of learning from my mistakes and owning up to them, of what a normal healthy relationship is like. Now, looking back on that, I realize how I am falling into that pattern with my own daughter (as well as others)…the very thing I’ve always fought so hard to NOT do…and it hurts. I know it’s not as extreme as my mother, but my mother didn’t start out that way either…it gradually got worse over time…and I want to catch it, and stop it before it reaches that point. Again, I don’t want to raise another “me”…I don’t want Cadence looking back and fighting those same demons. And I want my apologies to mean something.

So within the last 24 hours my little bubble has been burst. I’m re-reading that blog post, going over all this in my little head, and feeling pretty heavy and deflated. It’s easy to see the negative in it all, to look back and dwell on the hurt and the faults and the “shoulda coulda woulda”s. What’s hard is using all that to learn, to improve, and to move forward without putting so much pressure on myself that I crumble beneath it. As my husband said “No one is perfect. We can’t expect it from ourselves or each other or Cadence.” Sigh.

So I guess my mission is to work on loving and accepting myself, cutting myself a little slack, and finding a healthy balance between self-evaluation and self-deprecation, analyzing my past and using it to grow or allowing it to prevent me from growing, and also understanding the difference between pillars of character to build from and impossible expectations to come crashing down from trying to reach. I am always always open to learning…I need to do so more graciously, gracefully, and peacefully…for myself and those I love.

I am not perfect. I never will be. No one is. No one should be. I shouldn’t strive to be better than someone else or my past, I should strive to be the best I can be…the happiest, the most loving, the healthiest inside and out…for me and for my family. I need to fill my own love cup before I can try to pour into that of others.

I want my daughter to feel good about herself, to love herself, to be happy…I shouldn’t care what others think of how we achieve that or how we get there. This whole mentality of “keeping up with the Jones'” isn’t just monetary anymore…it’s about an image, and that’s ridiculous and impossible…and it goes against everything I believe, everything I preach, everything raw and real and true…

Humbly bare. Always forward ❤

Started from the bottom, now we’re here…

I remember telling someone when I was 15 and going through tough times at home that I would never want to live in a “cookie cutter” house in one of those newer neighborhoods. They were snobs, they all thought they were better than everyone, I didn’t need a fancy house, I had said. We had bounced around between 3 different two bedroom apartments on the south side of Des Moines for several years. I had accepted we would probably never live in a nice home and I’m sure I had gone into defensive survival mode by forcing myself and others to believe I didn’t need it anyway, that I was somehow better than some fancy house and that it didn’t define me. Many of the kids I went to school with lived in those homes. They were the ones that made fun of me in middle school for my mom being on welfare, for wearing hand-me-downs, or for just being awkward. I let them set a poor example for anyone else that may have had it better than me and got bitter and held grudges. But secretly, deep down, I dreamed of someday having my own nice house, one with a window seat to read books in and lookout the window on rainy or snowy days and a big walk in closet with all my shoes lined up neatly in a row. Remember The Client? “All I ever wanted was a white house with a walk-in closet.” I loved that line, I understood it. I just didn’t want anyone to know I wanted that, I felt like then somehow they could use it against me, or worse, take it away. This was part of what fueled my drive to keep a steady job from the time I turned 14 on…I knew if I wanted better for myself, like it or not, I needed money and I was going to earn it myself; I was going to get that walk-in closet.

When I first met my husband I was 15 and going through this stubborn phase. It seemed we couldn’t have come from more opposite spans of the universe. His family lived in a big, beautiful house they had built while he was in middle school, both his parents were still together and working full time, and they were very much involved in his life. We lived in a dinky apartment on the south side, my parents divorced, mom on welfare and wrapped up in whatever boyfriend she was dating at the time and going out to bars to do karaoke in the evenings. My guard was up. I immediately had preconceived notions about what kind of kid Caleb was and what his family must be like and I’m sure they were a little skeptical of me as well with my baggage and heavy eyeliner, and this all made things a little complicated. It also didn’t help that girls are naturally more mature than boys, but being that I had been 30 since I was 8 made it worse. I struggled to relate to common teenage issues and even more so to those of what I considered the “more fortunate” or “spoiled” kids like when Caleb had to wait to get his jet ski…my mother had just driven our car into the back of her boyfriends car, on purpose, leaving us with no vehicle. It irked me he didn’t see how petty his problem was compared to me having to figure out how I was going to get to/from school or work. But I often had to remind myself that it wasn’t his fault he hadn’t ever had to deal with these things and didn’t know how to. Our worlds were so different, I was so complicated, and it was painful at times.

Much like I had in the beginning, all my family saw was money, even after getting to know Caleb and his family more. They saw people with nicer things: bigger houses, newer cars, and nicer clothes. It also didn’t help that I had started spending more and more time with Caleb’s family because it felt good to be around them. We ate dinner every Sunday at their house, spent holiday’s at his grandparents in their big family room surrounded by aunts and uncles and cousins, we went to movies and out to dinner with his parents, his mom and I went shopping together. My family didn’t realize what I really loved and needed was the laughter, structure, commitment, and love. There were no drugs, no screaming matches, no hitting, no hair pulling, no name calling, no stealing. I had never had experiences or relationships like these; I didn’t realize they were possible or that I really even deserved them. I didn’t realize people “like them” could like or love someone “like me”. And yes, it was also nice to see people work hard for a living, that had fridges full of food and a house that smelled and looked like every season when you walked in. I was leading two different lives and I think my mother not only felt threatened but a little abandoned. I was called a snob and told I thought I was better than everyone. She and others made comments about the gifts I was given and vacations we took, implying I was in it for other reasons and that I had forgotten where I “came from”. It just caused more problems in our already messed up household. I have a lot of guilt about that and often wonder if it’s what lead my mother further down her dark path: feeling like her daughter found a “better” family, and like she was no longer good enough. But it’s also what helped me keep my head on straight, what kept me out of trouble and what kept me sane when everything seemed so crazy. While she was in treatment for her crack addiction I had their home to go to for a meal, their light family banter to listen to and feel calmed by…their normalcy to cling to. I think this is still part of the issue with my brother and father. It’s why I feel blood doesn’t define “family”; being present and supportive and loving and encouraging does. Not money, not time, not genetics. Calling someone to ask how their day was or remind them that you love them, being there period…that is family.

No matter how misunderstood I or my relationship with Caleb or his family was (or is today), I knew in my heart who we were and why we were a “family”. Caleb and I went through more than I suspect other young couples did, we learned a lot from one another, and I learned a lot about myself and my perspective of the world. It softened me a little after having hardened myself for so long. It taught me honesty, responsibility, determination and commitment…to people, to ourselves, and to our goals. It also strengthened me and made me believe in myself…it made me want more for myself…it made me believe I deserved more.

Now at 30, after 16 years together of tough times, various jobs, and different living situations (one was living for two years in the top part of his parents barn), we are trying to look for the home our daughter will grow up in…and all this comes flickering back. As we browse pictures of homes online or walk through them with our realtor I just can’t believe I’m going to be able to live in one of these houses. I can’t help but resort back to that 15 year old who sees those “rich” people in their nice houses and feeling like I don’t belong, like this is all a dream, like it’s too good to be true.

I realize “money doesn’t buy happiness” but it buys things that allow us to enjoy life and feel secure enough to be happy. It is going to buy us a newer home in a nicer neighborhood with a good school district. It’s going to allow us to have our friends over, to have our daughters friends over, without worrying about having room or having the parents worry about dropping her off with crazy people across the street. She and our dog will have a nice yard to play in. I didn’t live in nice houses. I didn’t have many friends over; in fact some of my friends weren’t allowed to come over because their parents knew about the drugs and the domestic abuse and the cops being called. We had a yard to play in until the flood took away and then it was apartments from there on out. School district wasn’t a choice, it was where you landed, and my choice of friends or where I played wasn’t much of a concern at our house. A new house means so much more to me than it just being nicer or newer or bigger. It means more to me as a mother, as a daughter of someone who struggled, and as a little girl who had secret dreams of something better for herself. It means opportunity, security, and comfort. It means that 15 and 16 year old that didn’t have a clue what they were doing or what they were getting into made it…they endured, they overcame, and they survived against all odds…even some we put against ourselves. It means we aren’t the product of our environment or our genetics or our past…we define and create ourselves and our own paths.

I have said many times to Caleb that had I not met him or his family I could have easily ended up somewhere, and someone, much different. I could have chosen a darker path, I know I was heading down it. But something pulled us together and linked us. Something opened our hearts and minds up to one another and our differences and made us look past them to allow us to love, accept, grow, and be gracious for it all. And now here we are…looking at houses that make me feel like a princess…that make me feel like I’m providing for my little princess…that mean so much more than they are worth.

Each day something reminds me of where I’ve come from and where I’ve been, and each day I am grateful, I am humbled, and I am pushed to keep going. I also continue to try to see my struggles and those of my mother as stepping stones or building blocks…whether I liked them or agreed with them or hurt from them, there is nothing I can do about it besides use it to better myself. And that doesn’t mean I think I’m better than anyone, it doesn’t mean I’ve forgotten who I am or where I’ve come from; it means I’m not letting that define me or hold me back or make me feel like I don’t deserve happiness. It also means I’m forgiving, healing, and moving on.

Thank you to my mother for her love. I know she fought her own demons, I know that despite a good heart her head and the shadows in it got in the way. But no matter what was said or done or what we went through…I’m finally able to let the good outshine the bad. I see all the magic she passed on to me through it all and I am grateful. I will use it. I will make something of it, mama.

Thank you to those few family members and friends who have anchored themselves to me, regardless of distance or availability, through all these years. For being persistent when I have pulled away or withdrawn, for understanding it, and for still loving me. Mostly to my step mother Kaye who loved me as her own and has continued to love me even after she and my father parted ways, through all the bullshit (hers, our families, and my own), and who encouraged my father to meet the little girl in that picture in his wallet…who knows if he would have ever looked back had it not been for her. She is a good woman with more kindness and love than anyone deserves, including myself, and thank you isn’t really enough.

Thank you to my in-laws for everything….really, everything. They have guided us, supported us, loved us, and given us just enough slack to hang ourselves only to yank us back up again. They have been examples of what true commitment and relationships are, what true hard work and dedication is, but mostly of what true family and unconditional love is. They have been my family, my inspiration, my rocks and my home-base for nearly 16 years…they have been patient, tough, forgiving, and compassionate through it all. I count my blessings every day for them and their families for welcoming me into them, baggage and all. They helped me out of dark times with much needed love and laughter, just by being themselves…it means more than they know.

Mostly, thank you to my honey. Thank you for being my best friend, even when you knew you weren’t ready for it, and hanging in there through it all. Thank you for helping me see who I can be, what I deserve, and who I am…even when I don’t like it or want to hear it. Thank you for being my team mate and for putting up with my “Hey Girl” posters and beard lust. Thank you for saving your best and wanting to be your best for me and our little girl. Thank you for all this time and all it’s given me, good and bad. And thank you for making my dreams of a walk-in closet come true 😉

We accepted the offer on our house and close with the buyer the week of Christmas. We are now in the process of finding a new home…the home of this little girls dreams. It may not seem like much to someone else, but to me it’s a castle 🙂 I can’t wait to enjoy a glass of wine while watching my little girl and dog play in the back yard…it’s the little things. Thank you to every single person who was there for us along the way and was a part of us getting to this exciting time…always forward, but never forgetting where we came from.

My mama, how I remember her. Thanks for the faces and sillies ❤

 

Knock knock. Who’s there? Booze. Booze and food….

Hello friends! Yes, I’m still alive, surprisingly. After about 4-5 days of reckless abandon, I’m back and recovering 😉 This past weekend was not only the 4th of July but also our cities annual music festival, the Justin Bieber concert (for my daughters birthday), and my works annual company Adventureland Park outing…so it’s safe to say I had a little toooo much fun and am feeling it.

There was lots of this:

Which lead to epic water retention and a major case of the kankles:

And ultimately left me feeling like this:

Talk about beauty sleep, I must have gotten A LOT of it because DAYUM am I gorgeous 😉 hahahahahaha I’m completely kidding, if you don’t know that by now. But I doooo love this…my hair is just too much awesome…

Seriously though, while “off” or “bulk” season is a time to indulge and have fun, it’s hard not to go overboard when I allow myself to since I’ve been strict for so long during training, and even more difficult not to beat myself up about it. Finding a healthy balance, mentally and physically in this training has always been a large part of the challenge, and why I stick with it because I know it’s something I need to face and find a way to manage better. I really struggle with wanting desperately to see results, push myself, and change my way of looking at food and nutrition but I also don’t want to feel like I’m constantly focused on that or stressing myself out about what I ‘can’ or ‘can’t’ have. I want to enjoy this, I want to make it a lifestyle and not just a phase, but most of all I want to be a healthier, happier version of myself…not just look good on the outside.

I remember last year when I dropped my trainer about mid summer and thought “I can do this myself” I had looked back at my view on food and nutrition and felt the whole process was similar to that of an eating disorder. I know that sounds terrible, and I’m in no way making light of those who have suffered from these, I at one point did myself and would say I still do in some ways, but it’s true for me…I become so concerned about what I’m eating and what I’m not eating, and so focused on the reward and guilt of these things that it really kind of effs up my mind. I don’t like that part of this and it’s what I really need to work on. See how I do that?! Over-analyze?! I need to work on working on not working on working on…can you imagine a day in this head?! For rillllz….

I love food. I love the tastes, textures, smells, colors, how it looks when I cut into it or pull it apart, how it makes my mouth or tummy feel…I love food. But I also know that I struggle between “need” and “want” and that I have often times turned to food for emotional nourishment rather than my physical nourishment. I also know that a HUGE part of this training is reliant upon good, clean, quality nutrition and that if I really wanted reach my goals, I would have to buckle down. How do I find that happy medium? How do I continue to enjoy food, but in a reasonable way, and still maintain a clean base?

I think if anything, the off or bulk season adventure is the most interesting and most challenging because it feels like it can make or break you. I’m not saying it does, it just feels like it…especially right now, today, after more bad eating and drinking in one weekend than I probably did my entire training season hahahaha

So I’m kind of excited and nervous and anxious to see how these next few months will go. I’ve still got an entire summer ahead of me, filled with lots of fun things planned…and I know I will probably feel like this again at some point, but I hope I grow and learn better ways to handle it. That’s all part of the process 🙂

I have had a week of REALLY great workouts…I’m pushing myself and feeling it in places I wasn’t prior to switching some things up and I’m happy about that, it’s encouraging. So as always, I’m going to continue to push forward, stay focused on my goals, but also remember that it’s not all about the strict training…there is time to have fun, let go, and cut myself some slack…within reason 😉

So here’s to keeping it real, keeping it sane and healthy and light, and to the adventure that is learning, growing, and improving. Always forward ❤