eunice ann

tales of a girl trying to make sense of it all.

honoring a child’s instinct.

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Image by Knight Light Photography

The gut instinct–it’s something we are born with. I’ve been told that the reason our gut is so connected to our heart and brain is because these are the first three organs that form when a new human is developing. Our gut has literally been our safe-keeper, not only nourishing the body with the nutrients we feed it, but alerting us to potential danger so that our limbic system can jump into action and protect us.

Our gut has saved our lives for hundreds of generations. So why do we struggle with listening to it?

Because we’re taught as children to ignore it.

When kids are put into social situations, it is quite common for the grownups to expect the kids to interact with adults in a respectful manner. We are taught how to politely introduce ourselves (make eye contact, offer a hand to shake) and any hesitation to do so is generally greeted with an apology to the adult and a forceful urging to the child not to be rude.

Have we ever stopped to think that children are not being shy or rude, but rather, that their gut is telling them that this stranger in front of them is making them feel like something isn’t right? As adults, it is our responsibility not to shame our children into feeling okay with someone that makes them uncomfortable.

The earliest memory I have of feeling my gut telling me something wasn’t right was when my dad allowed one of his employees to park his fifth wheel trailer on the side of our house and take up residence. My mom drew a clear boundary that Phil would not be allowed in the house when my dad wasn’t home, and that he absolutely was not permitted to shower in our home under any circumstance. I was twelve or thirteen and I’m certain that my mom was feeling a need to protect her two daughters from whatever wayward thoughts had entered this man’s mind.

Phil always made me uneasy, but as a child who didn’t yet understand what a gut instinct was, I couldn’t put a finger on it. He was someone that I was always very cautious around and I made sure to keep a pulse on how things were going between him and my dad. I had watched enough America’s Most Wanted by that time in my life to know that a bad day could end up with all of us massacred. That was what my gut was telling me about this guy.

My dad advocated for Phil, saying he was a family man and a good worker who just needed to get a leg up in the world. Phil was a recovering alcoholic and was committed to bettering his life and my dad decided that Phil was a project worthy of taking on. When Phil spoke of his own daughter, I often wondered why it was that he didn’t see her, even though it was clear that he had a desire to. Was he not allowed? Did something happen? No matter what uncomfortable jokes we made at Phil’s expense, my dad always came to Phil’s defense. The gut feelings that my mom and I clearly had were called bogus. Phil was a “decent guy” and we were overreacting.

Fortunately, nothing ever happened with Phil. He worked for my dad for several months, living in a trailer in our side yard. I steered clear of him as much as possible, but was always aware of what he was doing. He disappeared one night and we never saw him again. The relief my mom sighed was a collective one. In hindsight, my dad was able to recognize that something wasn’t right with the guy and he recently apologized for putting us through that.

—

My daughter was sexually assaulted at the age of seven. By a classmate. When I first heard the news, I was taken aback. Her assailant was a child that was the resident bully. According to her, this kid made “everyone, even the teachers, feel nervous.” This insight was shared with me when she was in kindergarten and I didn’t even think to say anything to my child about what her gut was telling her about him.

Story after story piled up about how he was bullying the other boys at school, all of which were relatively violent. One boy was angrily shoved off the monkey bars and broke his arm pretty badly. No one wanted to play with him any more, and that only made him more aggressive as he fought to be included. His mom always defended him, giving excuses about him struggling at home for his acting out. The principal tended to fall into classic patterns of victim shaming, reminding the students that if they were uncomfortable with this kid, they should simply avoid him.

When my daughter came home from school one and let me know that she had spent the day with the school counselor because this boy had put his hand in her pants. I was really confused as to what she meant and as she described what happened to me, I started to get angry.

A few hours later, the school counselor called me and by the time she did, I was livid that I hadn’t gotten a call from the school first and ripped into her before she could tell me what happened.

At an unknown point in the recent past, there was an incident in the classroom where this boy had maneuvered himself so that he could intentionally put his hand down the back of my child’s pants and squeeze her bottom. Several students witnessed it, but no one said anything when it happened. The school only found out about it because a teacher overheard some kids teasing my daughter about it during early morning care one day.

The school immediately investigated the situation and, after interviewing all involved, both the principal and the mom brushed the incident off as no big deal. Irate, I reminded them that touching a person in their private area without their consent is sexual assault and while these kids were only seven, it was clearly a very intentional act. I was told that I was overreacting and got asked if I really believed that a seven-year-old had any idea of what he was doing (I did).

I remember thinking what on earth had happened to this kid that he was assaulting others in such a predatory manner.

I escalated the situation to the school district and filed a formal complaint against the principal. The principal was reprimanded and the kid disappeared for a couple of years (we had believed he’d been expelled, but he was just sent to live with his dad for a bit). The school counselor quickly responded by booking a seminar with KidPower, a curriculum designed to teach children personal safety from a place of empowerment, not fear. It was amazing.

The moderators took the kids through fun exercises where they were always the focal point, not the “grownups you came with.” They taught the kids that a stranger is someone you haven’t met yet and then they launched into something completely unexpected: teaching the kids about gut instinct.

They talked about the feeling you get in your tummy that makes you feel a little weird. They explained to the kids that sometimes, they will get that feeling in their tummy when they meet some strangers, but not all strangers. And most importantly, they taught the kids to heed that feeling and what to do if they are around a stranger that makes them feel uncomfortable.

Their message was fairly simple: sometimes you will meet people that don’t make you feel right. It’s okay to feel that way, and if you do, speak up and be safe.

As we left that night, I kept thinking about all the ways we enable the idea in our kids that they need to suppress their gut feelings. When kids do find the courage to speak up, it is often met with a dismissal or a defense of the person in question. My dad rewarded our courage by defending the guy. When a small child hides his or her face against their grownups body, they are prodded to turn and “be polite.” When a child brushes off a hug and says, “don’t touch me!” in frustration, we respond by insisting that they accept.

What inevitably happens is that they grow up not understanding that “no means no” and that it’s okay to make someone else uncomfortable if you really want something. They also learn that there is shame in feeling uncomfortable and they learn not to speak up. This is the dangerous gateway to rape culture.

It’s how they learn not to be their own advocate and use empowering phrases such as “I want…”, “I need…” and “I expect…” when asking for something. It’s where feelings of shame and doubt creep in and they grow into adults that cannot function in the harsh reality of the real world.

What would it look like instead, if we taught our kids to listen to their gut and then supported them when they did? Would they become adults that are riddled with shame, or would they become adults that are confident in their skin and willing to speak up when something isn’t right?

In order for us to teach our children to respect the instinct their gut is giving them, we must learn to respect their instincts too.

This post was inspired by a prompt or theme from illuminate. This monthly membership was created by the editors of Holl and Lane Magazine to encourage more people to share their stories.

threadbare.

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Photo by Trym Nilsen on Unsplash

My favorite pajama pants are nearing the end of their life. I discovered a series of small holes along the seam of the crotch and it made me a bit sad. I’ve had these sweats for several years and I’m not quite ready to part ways with them yet.

When I first bought them, they were so soft. The fleece lining was fuzzy and felt like it was wrapping my legs in a hug. The hem was just the right length for my long legs, something that is an elusive requirement for any pair of pajama bottoms I buy. For the first few washes, I worried that they would shrink just enough for me to hate them and have them relegated to the reject pile.

They didn’t.

They became my go-to comfort clothing. Something that I put on after returning home from a long day at work. Something that I slipped into when I was staying the night at my boyfriend’s house and we were snuggling on the couch. Something that I wore to the grocery store, not caring if someone I knew would see my slovenly appearance. Something that I would wear all weekend long, slipping them off only for a shower, just to pull them back on again when I was finished. 

They traveled with me on my many trips for work. They became that portable item that allowed me to bring my routine from home to practice while I was away. No matter what hotel I was sleeping in that week, I had the amenity of my favorite comfort with me. When I slipped into them before I made my morning coffee, they were the familiar thing when I was surrounded by strange. 

On laundry day, they are always in the last load so that I don’t have to go too long without them. The feeling of slipping them on again, right out of the dryer is incredible. The warmth of the fabric delights my whole body and brings an indescribable pleasure to me.

As the years have worn on, so have my pants. The soft lining has pilled, but the tiny balls of matted fuzz are no less cozy than they were in their prime. They no longer provide the physical warmth they once did, but the emotional warmth continues to grow. The fabric has gotten thinner, as Alissa pointed out to me the other day when she noted she could see my underwear through them.

I guess my pants are no longer suitable to wear in public.

This isn’t the first pair of pajama pants I’ve worn until they literally fell apart. I had a pair in college that lasted me long after I turned in the key card to my dorm room. I even tried to salvage parts of them to sew into a quilt I was working on.

I guess I have a hard time letting go when I’m attached.

There’s a sense of beauty that comes with loving an item of clothing so intimately. It becomes a part of you in a way that’s unexplainable. The familiarity and comfort that something so simple can bring is simply amazing to me.

I’m not yet ready to part with my pajama pants. I have a feeling that they will be ready to part with me before that happens anyway.

This post was inspired by a prompt or theme from illuminate. This monthly membership was created by the editors of Holl and Lane Magazine to encourage more people to share their stories.

on death and loss.

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I have to admit that I used to believe that I didn’t have a lot of experience with death. I’ve had family members pass away in my lifetime, sure. I attended both my maternal grandmother (I was 9) and great-grandmother’s (I was 27) funerals. A maternal cousin passed away early this year at age 35. My paternal grandmother passed away when I was 28 or 29, we’re not exactly sure because the family wasn’t notified when it happened. All of these events were sad for me, but none of them were life-changing. 

I had a harder reaction to the loss of two of my dear high school friends within months of each other (melanoma and a car accident). Both of those deaths took the wind out of me and I cried for days. It has been almost 7 years since Christina passed and I am still upset that I wasn’t able to make it home in time for her funeral because I was in the middle of moving and I couldn’t afford to delay the move by a few days. 

We had a series of deaths the fall of my senior year of high school. I was a peer counselor and we hadn’t quite finished our training on grief counseling when Pat, a friend and classmate, committed suicide by shooting himself in the head a week before Halloween. I couldn’t bring myself to go to his wake, but I was haunted by the images my classmates painted for me of what they saw. The following week, his girlfriend, Kara stepped in front of an oncoming train. The week after that, another classmate was accidentally killed after being hit by a car at a party. Later that year, one of my good friends from elementary school died in a similar accident. 

As peer counselors, we were among the first to be notified when these things happened so that we could be prepared to talk with others when we arrived at school. That weekend, I told my mom I wasn’t answering the phone on Sunday night ever again. I couldn’t handle all of this death. 

I remember feeling that if the pain of losing all of these classmates, most of whom fell into the “acquaintance” category, was so challenging, how would I feel when I lost someone that mattered to me?

A few years ago, I found out that my ex-father-in-law passed away from MDS, a rare form of leukemia. Steve’s passing was definitely the death that hit the most close to home. Even though I hadn’t seen or spoken to him or their family in 10 years, this one was the hardest news to hear. I sent my condolences to both my ex-husband and ex-mother-in-law, and never got a response. I was sad and angry that I wasn’t able to properly say goodbye to someone I had loved so much. I realized that it didn’t matter if I got to say goodbye in a formal manner. I could still send him my love. 

I kept remembering back to when Steve’s father passed away and the beautiful remembrance of life we did as a family. A commercial fisherman his entire life, we spread Tom’s ashes into the ocean off the Oregon coast. That night, the most beautiful sunset I had ever seen graced us as we ate dinner and shared stories about him. We knew that Tom was responsible for that. The loss of both of these men hit me harder than my own family members that had passed on.

In the past week, I have learned of two deaths of people that I knew. One was a former colleague and one of the most incredible human beings I’ve ever met. Todd was always funny and sarcastic and his son was no doubt his greatest accomplishment. The other was a friend I met at church and haven’t seen or talked to in nearly a decade. Adam was an inspiration to everyone around him and was on a mission to save the world. Both of these men are gone far too soon and will be greatly missed. 

Their deaths made me realize that I have been far more in touch with death than I previously believed. It always causes me to pause and think about both the inevitability of death and how the ability to accept it is easier when someone has lived a full life. I notice that when someone is gone in our measure of “too soon,” it seems to hurt far more and far longer. I suppose our time on Earth is what it is, but it makes it so much easier to accept when they’ve hit the average life expectancy. 

The lesson to be learned when anyone dies though, is that you never know when your last day will come. We need to remember to live our lives with love and hope for the future. 

lingering.

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onion on chopping block

As I was in the midst of my bi-weekly refrigerator purge and pantry clean-out, I discovered a couple of moldy onions hanging out in the middle of a bag, threatening to spoil the whole bunch. I always thought that it was a bad apple that was notorious for this task, but I digress.

After tossing the offenders, I decided that I would heroically save the rest by chopping them up immediately and freezing them. My hasty decision left our entire apartment reeking of onions for hours. 

I made the mistake of putting a couple of them in a container in the fridge, expecting that I would be using them within the next day or so. Despite my best efforts to rid the house of onion odor, every time I open the refrigerator, I am knocked over by the smell of raw onions again.

Onions are weird. In their raw form, they are pretty offensive. They smell bad, they make you cry, and they come wrapped in a skin that is simultaneously paper thin and impossible to remove. 

The experience of breaking an onion down into something useable is so miserable that there is an entire industry dedicated to mitigating the pain of doing so. Rather than deciding that we cannot deal with onions, we’ve simply managed to find a better way to be around them. Side note: onion goggles are legit the best thing ever invented.

onion goggles at Rivers and Roads
I am no rookie when it comes to cutting onions by the bushel. Rivers and Roads Coffee.

But once they are peeled, chopped and cooked, they add a unique dynamic to any dish. Leave the onion out of something and the difference is noticeable. The flavor just isn’t quite complete. These awful little buggers have managed to worm their way into necessity. 

They are also no stranger to being turned into life metaphors either. From their many layers to the way they survive such a thin skin, it seems that onions are constantly being compared to something in life. 

As the faint odor of onions permeates my home, I think about pain and the way it lingers long after the offense has been committed. There are some pains that still hurt me as much as they did when they first happened, like breaking up with my boyfriend earlier this year, or the way my mom treated me as a teenager. In their memories, those moments are likely all but forgotten, but I can remember the sting of their words as though it just happened. Tears prick my eyes the same way an onion does the moment my body realizes what is happening. 

I think about how hurt and betrayed I have been by Alissa’s father and his family and all of the abuse we have endured the past two years. It is bitter in the same way an onion tastes when you bite into it raw. Like the onion, they have no idea how distasteful their behavior has been to me. 

As much as that lingering pain still reminds me of the hurt I’ve endured, it also serves to remind me that something better is coming. 

When you cook an onion down, the smell begins to change. The fumes stop hurting, but they are still there. Although the lingering scent of cooked onion isn’t much better, the way the onion has changed makes a difference. It adds flavor and texture. It gives character to the foods that you make. So many of my favorite meals begin with sautéing an onion. It’s no wonder that I am able to draw this parallel with life.

I think back on the most painful times in my life and wonder if I would change them. I almost always come to the conclusion that I would not. If we remove the pain from our pasts, we become flavorless and flat. The experiences we have, both good and bad, are what build our character.

This post was inspired by a prompt or theme from illuminate. This monthly membership was created by the editors of Holl and Lane Magazine to encourage more people to share their stories.

forgotten, or maybe just ignored.

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One of my favorite things about being a member of the H & L Writes group is that each Wednesday, the editors ask us to share what we’ve written in the past week. One of my fellow writers posted about disappointment during the holidays and it really resonated with me. Or maybe the better term is that it triggered me. 

When Alissa’s dad first decided to be involved in her life, he really struggled with a lot of the parenting things that seemed to come naturally to me. Granted, he didn’t get the five year head start I had on him, but some of his parenting missteps really threw me for a loop because they seemed like common sense.

She started kindergarten that fall and I was struggling to save money so we could move out of our friend’s basement. One thing I had been looking forward to, however, was taking Alissa for her very first back to school shopping experience. It was a tradition that my mother and I had when I was little with (mostly) good memories. (There was one year in high school where there were not a pair of jeans in a hundred mile radius that I liked. There may have been screaming and pouting.)

He agreed to join us and offered to buy the clothes that we picked out. It was a win-win. I could have the shopping experience with my daughter and I didn’t have to stress about how to pay for it. He would have the opportunity to bond a little with the child he had only come to know in the past two months. 

When he canceled on me once, then a second time, I got really frustrated. We needed to get this done because school was starting in just a few days. When could he realistically meet us? A big fight ensued and later that evening, he dropped by a huge bag of new clothes that he and his friend had picked up at Kohl’s. 

I was livid and he didn’t understand why. He had taken the one thing out of that experience that meant the most to me: taking her shopping to pick out her own outfit. It hadn’t even dawned on him that how I felt mattered.

When Christmas came a few months later, I took Alissa shopping so she could pick out gifts for her dad. I assumed he would do the same. He and I exchanged texts, coordinating what we were getting her so that we didn’t overlap and so we could agree on an appropriate “Santa” gift. I was really excited for Christmas. 

He came over to our house early in the morning and tucked the gifts under the tree. When she woke up, we enjoyed breakfast together and began opening gifts. One by one, the gift paper was torn open and I sat and watched, waiting for there to be one for me. 

There wasn’t. 

I chalked it up to the fact that he was a new dad and probably wasn’t thinking. He had never had to take a kid shopping for presents before, so it just must not have occurred to him. 

The next year, we went to his house. She opened present after present. Nothing for me. Although this year was even more awkward because I didn’t have the buffer of the gifts from my family to lessen the blow. As we drove home that afternoon, I cried. I wasn’t sure if I was more upset or frustrated that I didn’t matter enough to shop for. 

The following year, it was the same. Although he did give me an envelope with $50 shoved inside. That was even more upsetting than not opening a gift from my daughter. It wasn’t about not getting presents, it was about not being important enough to even consider when he was doing his shopping. Don’t get me wrong – I never expected him to get me a gift, even though I always got one for him. It was that I expected him to teach our daughter about the spirit of giving and to think about someone other than herself. 

I never said anything to him about it. I didn’t want to pick a fight because I knew he wouldn’t understand anyway. I just sulked and tried to figure out if there was a way that I could teach Alissa how to think of everyone special to her when planning her Christmas shopping. 

A year later, my dad took up the slack after I told my parents about it. While it was nice not to sit empty-handed, that was also the year that Alissa’s dad joined me and my family for the festivities. My parents both got him gifts, and miraculously, he bought me a new coat, which I desperately needed. And I didn’t hate it, which was a friggin’ miracle. But he didn’t help Alissa shop for me and that dashed my short-lived hope that things had finally changed. The coat was just a bonus.

There was one more Christmas that he celebrated with Alissa before he lost his rights to see her. I wasn’t there. I didn’t want to be and I was fine with it. He still didn’t take her shopping for me and I finally stopped caring. I had learned that I just wasn’t important enough to him to consider teaching his child how to give. 

showing compassion.

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compassion is kind

Six summers ago, I was coming home from picking Alissa up from summer camp when we got into a car accident. As the insurance statistics tell the story, we were just a few blocks from home, stopped at a stoplight. The light turned green, we all started to go when a car a few ahead of me suddenly slammed on its brakes. 

In turn, we all slammed on our brakes. Except for me. My flip flop got caught on the gas pedal and I slammed on the gas, ramming my car into the car in front of me. We pulled our cars into a nearby parking lot and my heart raced. 

I had been out of work for two months and I was quite impatiently waiting on a job offer from a company I had been interviewing with for a month. I was late on rent, my car payment, and everything else. My car insurance had lapsed and I had just gotten a traffic ticket four days before. The last thing I needed at that moment was a car accident.

“I can’t afford this. I can’t afford this. I can’t afford this.” These words were racing through my mind on repeat when the driver of the other car got out to inspect the damage. Her bumper had a few scratches on it, but was otherwise fine. My car was leaking antifreeze everywhere and was definitely not fine. I burst into uncontrollable sobs and all of my frustrations and stresses came tumbling out with them.

We exchanged information and she told me that she didn’t think we needed to call the police or file an insurance claim, but that she did want to get her bumper fixed. I didn’t tell her that my insurance was lapsed, but I breathed a sigh of relief.  She said she would get an estimate and let me know. 

I got the job, but the damage to the car was far more than I could afford. I ended up “selling” the car to the repair shop in lieu of payment and the bank took the rest. The woman I hit called me back a few days later to give me the information about getting the bumper fixed, but after that, I never heard from her again. 

I went four years without a car after that day. I relied heavily on public transit to get to and from work and to get Alissa where she needed to be. It was horribly inconvenient most days, but it was what we had to do.

There were days between paychecks when I was scraping together change to have enough bus fare for us to get to school and work. There were other days when I had enough to get to work, but not enough to get home. I would surreptitiously check the trash cans around the bus stop or train station, hoping to find a transfer pass that was still valid. I hated that I was doing it, but it was better than calling in sick for work because I could barely afford the $2.25 to make it there and couldn’t afford to make it home.

There were times that I even tried to pass off an expired transfer slip, hoping that the bus driver either wouldn’t notice or wouldn’t care. I always had grave anxiety, wondering what I would do if the driver wouldn’t let me on the bus.

One day, I was $1 short and had no idea how I was going to pull off a ride home. I was feeling particularly desperate and I boldly asked the stranger waiting with me if she could spare the difference. She couldn’t, she answered, but she handed me one of her prepaid passes instead.

Overwhelmed with gratitude, I thanked her and silently vowed that the next time I saw her, I would return the favor. I never saw her again.

This morning, I took the train downtown for a meeting. Since I have had the luxury of owning a car again, riding the train seems to be more convenient than driving. I jumped off the train and got a cup of coffee across the street from the station, and as I was doubling back to head toward my meeting, I noticed a woman rummaging through a trash can. The bag was mostly empty; it looked like it had been changed recently. I walked past her and out of the periphery of my eye, I saw her walk to another trash can.

I stopped and watched as she dug through that mostly empty can and moved to the next. I recognized that look of sheer desperation and defeat. I was never as brazen as to dig so obviously, but I knew what she was looking for – a discarded ticket that she could still use. 

I dug around in my purse for every spare bit of money I had and walked up to her. 

“Excuse me, do you need a bus fare?” I asked.

“Yes,” she answered. 

I handed her all the money I had, not sure if it was quite enough and said, “I hope this helps.” 

She thanked me and said, “God Bless You” as I walked away. 

The idea of compassion had been weighing heavily on me all day today as I thought about how we’ve gotten to a place where we can show so little compassion for our fellow humans. I think to the many “debates” I’ve had on Facebook about immigration, welfare, and transgender rights and wonder at what point we stopped looking at each other as people and started looking at each other as liabilities. Is it really that hard to show a little compassion, even if you don’t understand what the other person might be going through? 

The compassion of a woman who was entitled to file an insurance claim and sue me for damages, allowed me to deal with a car accident for no money out of pocket. 

The compassion of a stranger enabled me to pick up my child from school on time in a moment that I had no idea how I was going to get to her (or home) at all.

Because of my choosing to show compassion today, someone else got what they needed. It didn’t take much effort on my part, it just took recognizing someone in need and helping them as best I could. It took stepping out of my comfort zone just a little bit to spread some love. My day went on fairly unchanged, but for all I know, my small act of compassion changed someone else’s life.

This post was inspired by a prompt or theme from illuminate. This monthly membership was created by the editors of Holl and Lane Magazine to encourage more people to share their stories.

a writer’s challenge.

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Well, it’s safe to say that I completely failed at Write 31 Days for a second year in a row. Although to be fair and a little less negative, I did complete one more day this year than I did last year. So that’s a win.

I ended up drafting a few ideas and failed to be organized enough to see it through. I also realized that my idea was far more emotionally challenging than I expected. 

As much as I love to write, I’m finding it to be more of a challenge to commit to a writing schedule. It’s hard finding time when I run a business for the majority of my week and also work two other part time jobs on the weekends. Plus I have a middle school aged child and book club and, and, and….

It’s so easy to find excuses not to make the time to write. 

About a week before the end of October, as I was lamenting my inability to uphold a commitment to myself, yet again, I decided that I was going to do something about my writing. I took on an even bigger challenge than Write 31 Days: I committed to NaNoWriMo. 

I’m pretty sure that makes me crazy. 

Thanks to an amazing coach and support from one of the writers I met in H&L Writes, Sandra Hults, I got excited about NaNo, despite thinking about maybe doing it back when I first started this blog in 2005. I had no idea what in the hell I was going to write about, even up to the moment I sat down to write the first words (in NaNo speak, that makes me a Pantser) of this novel I had committed to writing in a month. 

The first few days, thanks to Sandra’s amazing coaching skills and the cheerleaders from some fellow H&L Writers who had joined, were really easy. I was blowing through my daily quota with ease and I was thinking, “Yeah, yeah, I got this.” 

That excitement lasted for about a week. 

Then I had a day that was incredibly busy and as I crashed into bed at 11:00 pm, I realized I had not written a thing. I contemplated getting up and spending some time writing, but my body just didn’t want to cooperate. The next two days were equally busy and I didn’t write. 

Before I knew it, 5 days had gone by and I hadn’t written a word. And it was easy for me to just stop writing because I still wasn’t sure what the hell I was writing and that it just didn’t matter anyway. 

But the guilt of missing all of Write 31 days got to me and I sat down and put some more words on the page. And then I didn’t write for another 8 days. 

I could have just as easily given up a second time, but I was determined to get it done, no matter how shitty my first draft ended up being. I committed to hitting my 50,000 word goal before the month was out. Having missed almost half the month, I now had to write upwards of 3400 words a day to finish on time. 

Some days were a real struggle and others came with just as much ease as the first week did. I had a couple of marathon writing nights, but I did it. I won NaNoWriMo 2018. 

I still can’t believe that I did it. I’m not sure if what I put on paper will actually become anything, although in my late-night delirium a few nights ago, I came up with a whole twist that I really loved and think I could run with. So we’ll see. I’m going to put it on the shelf for a couple of months and then come back to it. 

Now that I’m not busy with that, it’s my hope that a much more regular writing practice is in the cards for the future. 

current mood: surviving.

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The past couple of weeks have been incredibly challenging for me. I was already on edge because the anniversary of finally getting a conviction in my daughter’s child abuse case is coming up at the end of the week. As fall sets in, while I’ve never been officially diagnosed with Seasonal Affective Disorder, I wouldn’t be surprised if some day I am. The moment the chill in the air set in, my desire to hide under my blankets kicked in. Watching the testimony of Dr. Christine Blasey Ford was triggering for me. I knew better than to watch it, but I felt I needed to be there in solidarity with her. I understand her pain. 

I’ve literally spent the past week in my cocoon, hiding out and simultaneously trying to have a voice in all of this kerfuffle. 

I honestly can’t tell you if there will be a theme in my Write 31 Days challenge. For now, I’d like to start my survivor’s memoir and share the stories on how I’ve survived the past several years of ongoing trauma. I have many stories to share–maybe not quite 31–but my goal will be to get these stories out.

I will warn you that some of my stories may be triggering for you as well. I have stories of physical abuse, emotional abuse and sexual assault to share. If you do feel triggered, please know that I understand, I support you, and I want you to do what you feel is best for you. 

This post was written as part of the Write 31 Days Challenge. While I will do my best to keep to the theme of “Survival,” what comes out each day may vary. The goal is just to keep writing.

boundaries.

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posted-rules

I have always sucked at making boundaries. I know that it stems from a deep-seated need to be loved and accepted and so I tend to put up with a lot of crap from people for far longer than I should. Thankfully, therapy is curing me of that, but I know I’m not alone.

Perhaps it’s a female thing that has been bred into us by society that we must be yielding and not disrespectful. Yet, by not being willing to set boundaries, we’re disrespecting ourselves. In the end, who is more important to show respect to, yourself or someone else?

It is easier to set boundaries than it is to change them, but many women (myself included) struggle to put them in place to begin with. However, when we do find the courage to set boundaries, we are often quick to justify them, even before the other party has had an opportunity to react.

Thinking about why it is so hard to set boundaries and why we justify the ones that we do set, I had an epiphany. Boundaries are really just a set of rules. If you want to interact with me, these are my rules. Outside of a court opinion, when do you really see rules accompanied by a full justification of the rules?

You don’t see a “No Smoking” sign posted and question it. There isn’t a secondary sign that says, “We don’t allow smoking because this is a public area and the Attorney General has issued warnings about second hand smoke and we are doing our part to mitigate the risk to those that find smoking offensive.”

So why on earth do we feel the need to justify our personal set of rules? 

I recently divorced my mom primarily because of her lack of ability to respect the boundaries I set in order for us to have some semblance of a healthy relationship. It was my last ditch effort at salvaging something from the wreckage of years of emotional abuse. She could not honor those boundaries and I chose to walk away.

I struggle a lot with putting up boundaries in my business. In the world of marketing, scope creep is a common project management nightmare. But every single time I need to speak up and remind a client that the task they are asking of me is out of scope and I will need to charge more money, I get this overwhelming anxiety and fear that the person on the other end is going to get mad or that they will take their business somewhere else. But the fact of the matter is, if they respond in either of those ways, they aren’t someone I want to be doing business with anyway. 

It does not matter why you have a certain boundary. If it makes you feel safe and whole, that is all that should matter. It is not your responsibility to help someone understand the reasons behind your boundaries. It is your responsibility to ask them to be respected. 

Photo by Raphael Mittendorfer on Unsplash

This post was inspired by a prompt or theme from illuminate. This monthly membership was created by the editors of Holl and Lane Magazine to encourage more people to share their stories.

waiting.

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Writer’s Note: This is a stream-of-conscious journal entry I wrote on May 9, 2017, where I spent close to four hours waiting in a small conference room for the first Pre-Trial Conference hearing in my daughter’s child abuse case. Although the case was settled by plea agreement five months later, our civil case is still pending. Some of the semantics I used I now understand are inaccurate. Some of the statements I made appear to support the arguments that have been made against me about my motives in pursuing charges against my daughter’s father and can potentially be used against me in the future. Even so, I am choosing to publish the raw, unedited journal entry because when I ran across it the other day, I was amazed at the power it still has to show the gamut of emotions that ran through me that day. As I begin the emotional journey of preparing to tell our story, this seemed like a good place to start.

I’m incredibly anxious right now–I have no idea how this is going to go today. I’m waiting in a room next to the courtroom so I don’t think that I will have to face Dale today. It’s sort of unfortunate, actually. I was hoping to be able to look him in the eye and let him know that I am here for her.

woman writing in journal

The attorney just came in and it doesn’t look like we will be able to bump the charges to a felony because of the severity of the injuries. I do hope that we can still seek some jail time for him. It isn’t right for him not to spend some time alone in jail. 

Now, more than ever, I want to take Alissa away from here–to someplace where we can enjoy the freedom of not having to consider him any longer. 

I am disappointed that things turned out this way. After all the work I had done to add him to her life–after all the grace I extended him–after being so understanding and forgiving–for him to hurt us so much is just devastating. 

And to think, just two years ago, my life–our lives–were on the border of perfect. 

Funny how quickly life can change. 

It amazes me how many people show up to court in jeans and t-shirts. Where is the respect for our country and the due process of law? Unbelievable! Then again, it just goes to show the general lack of respect that is happening in this world. When did everyone stop being so kind? Or have we always been horrible people, but we were just better at hiding it? 

I think about the masks we used to wear as a society–the front of the house, so prim & proper while the back was overtaken with weeds–the inside was unkept. I think in some way, social media has become that mask–we put only our best forward, save for the odd argument that the nosy neighbor overhears. 

But I’m not sure if it’s better to show our brokenness so casually. 

The think about Brit’s program that is so amazing is that so many strangers can come together and be so supportive of one another. But is that a good thing, that we can trust strangers with our deepest fears & flaws, but we cannot trust those we are closest to with the same? 

I wonder why that is.

I am resisting the temptation to bide the time with my phone. It’s crazy how tethered we are to those things. Had I known I would be waiting so long, I would have brought my book in. 

There are so many things I wish I could say to Dale, but I simply don’t believe he has the capacity to understand. I genuinely believe that he has no moral compass and no concept of how he’s hurt Alissa.

I still feel unbelievably idiotic that I was duped by him. I would not give Alissa back for the world, but if I could make him anyone else in the world, I sure would. 

I hate him so much. 

I do appreciate the lesson in resilience I am being taught. Three years ago, I thought that the stuff with my parents was going to break me. But it didn’t. I just don’t understand why my child had to be hurt for me to be taught this lesson. 

Maybe it isn’t about resilience, but forgiveness. I know that I will get to a point of being able to forgive my mom for all she has wronged me. But how am I supposed to forgive Dale for hurting his own flesh & blood? First, by denying her, then by strangling her to the point that I have to wonder if she will ever be the same.

I often wonder how this trauma will affect her relationships as an adult. I know right now, she’s starting to like boys, but will she ever be able to develop the deep, intimate bonds of love & trust with someone? Will she turn to other means of coping–drugs, alcohol, reckless sex–with the pain she’s been caused inside?

How will I fare? I already know that I have no desire to open myself to someone else. Todd was it. He’s probably the last man I will ever give my heart to. 

Please God, send Dale to jail. Do not pass go. Do not collect $200. 

The DA just came in–they are asking for a continuance–RRR! Have you not had enough time to prepare for this? Why are you fighting? Do you need time to concoct more lies? To find enough people to testify that you aren’t a total piece of shit?

I just want to be done with this so we can start to move on. I needed resolution today. I needed to know that he is going to be punished. I need him to not be free to do as he pleases. Fuck. 

This cannot be happening. How is he getting away with this? You choked my daughter and have been so unbelievably detached–you only care about yourself. You care nothing of what this is doing to her. 

Alissa is going to be devastated. 

How do I make him disappear? I hate that little fucker. I need him to be punished for what he has done to us.

They are going to ask for a continuance for “new discovery.” Bullshit. What the fucking hell new could have possibly come up? What a fucking dirt bag piece of shit. He’s fighting this because he does not care one bit about how this has affected anyone but himself. Fucking hell.

I’ve been waiting an hour now, hoping to be called up soon. I’m ready. I am going to advocate for Alissa. She deserves justice. It’s not my fault that the defense has not had time to prepare. 

The DA said that we could consider dropping the charges to get a plea, but I’m not willing to do that. We will go to trial if we have to, so that Dale’s shit baggery can become public record. 

Fucking bastard.

The courtroom is quite busy today. So many people are coming in and out. I’m just waiting my turn–anxiously. Journaling is helping to keep me calm, so that is good. Lord, please protect Alissa.

I don’t know how I am going to handle breaking the news to her. The good thing is, she’s on to him. She totally knows what a selfish piece of shit he is. You want to show the world your true character? Let’s go. 

My daughter deserves better. 

I am so grateful for my tribe. They have all been unbelievably supportive of us. It is a true testament to what living a good life will do for you. 

I am starting to feel nervous. 

I can do this. 

You are amazing. You have the power, wit, and wisdom to protect your daughter. You are strong and confident. You can and will advocate well for her. You have an amazing support group that is going to provide you collective strength. 

You’ve got this!

Today, when all of this is done, you will go home and be the best mom you can be. You will love your daughter and show her that you are here to protect her. You will get through this with strength and dignity.

I am so amazed at my ability not to lash out and say things that could be used against me. 

I am not a perfect mother, but I do put my child’s best interest in front of my own.