As long as we're talking about it...

There's a lot in the news right now about domestic violence. I'm not going to comment on the details, but it's safe to say that what is being brought to light is all too common.

I'm not going to spout statistics.

I'm not going to talk about the perpetrators.

But I am going to talk about what I know.

This is an uncomfortable post to write. Not because I am uncomfortable to write it, but because I know you'll be uncomfortable to read it. But it may offer a glimpse into why.

All the why's you are asking have an unfortunate answer.

I stayed, at 21, because I was alone. And terrified. I was isolated from my family and all of my friends. And I know you want to know - because they always want to know - how does one become isolated?

Systematically.

One by one, my ties to the world outside of my apartment were checked off of a list. And I was slowly and all-at-once alone. Tethered to my tiny, 700 square foot world. I talked to no one. Isolation and shame work that way. They are constant reminders that you aren't doing right by yourself. I was incredibly ashamed of what I had allowed to happen, and what I had become.

And the days ran together. The fear ran together. The threats of death became monotonous.

Isn't that scary? When even the threat of your life being thrown off of a cliff, careening down a ravine in a car, becomes old news?

Isn't it terrible that the name calling becomes so routine, that the words don't matter anymore?

The control was all I knew. What to wear. How to do my hair. How to do my makeup. Where to walk. Where to look.

I stayed like this, terror-filled and numb all the same, for over a year.

And then the fear of being killed took second priority over survival. It was the last battle. I had my arm slammed in a door, and my wrist twisted up and inside, behind my back... and even in all the blinding pain, and fear that my shoulder would tear out of the socket, I knew I had to fight for myself. More immediately, that I had to get to the phone before he ripped it out of the wall. And that's how I fought my way out. Scraping and scrambling, hair being torn out and forcing myself back up from being body-slammed, all guts and raging life to get. to. the. phone.

And I did.

So that's why.

It's never easy. And there is always more to every story.

(Not the movie)

Her.

I have a few 'hers' in my life, but none more important than a handful of all-stars. And in that handful, these two:

Now that's a perfectly ironic word to use, isn't it? Handful. Ha.

I am simultaneously spilling over with love and adjectives for these two, while not being able to come up with any that do either of them justice.

But I'll tell you what I do know.

I know that these two love me.

Like, really love the really-real me. Which is sometimes hard to believe. Because sometimes, I don't feel whole and deserving. But when these two wildfires-in-a-can are swirling about, I can't help but feel normal. And maybe we're all just a little to the left of normal, but that's what makes it feel right. Right?

The night that this picture was taken was like jumping in an ice bath after a sauna. I felt baptized. And complete. Like my soul got a battery recharge and I was ready to face the world again.

I used to think that one was a tree, strong and steady. And other was a bird, flight and fancy. And they are both those things, but mostly, they are rocks. Strong, sturdy, everlasting...all rough edges and smooth slopes, skipping on life's ocean.

I can't say enough about her. Or her.

But that's it for now.

Sometimes

Sometimes, when you write, nothing comes out the way you want it to and somewhere your voice gets lost. It gets stuck in the muck and muddle of all the words and thoughts and digging it out is damn near impossible.

And sometimes you can't quit obsessing over a grammatical error. A really simple one that really just niggles and irks you and takes up rest in your brain.

And sometimes you just don't think it's good enough. Getting it out wasn't enough because it isn't accurate and doesn't sound like you or what you intended on saying.

And sometimes it's really hard, but the difficult stuff is the good stuff and the stuff that people need to read and relate to and that's all that keeps you typing away. Even when you don't like what you read because it's too raw and real and it doesn't feel quite right traveling from your brain to your fingertips, like you're telling a secret on yourself.

Sometimes it doesn't feel like enough. And it also feels like too much.

And that's when I look at pictures of my husband. And Meg. Because dogs are cool. And my husband is the whole world.

Family Tree

I've been talking a lot about family lately.

What does family mean to you?

Now that we're all adults, having survived adolescence and the hurdles of young-adulthood (whatever that brand of chaos happened to be), I think it's fair to assume that most, if not all of you know who your family is. And, I think it is equally fair to say that you know what I mean by family. Because, you see, there's family...and then there's family.

Mine has found me piece by piece, and formed itself above, below and around me, beyond my control. All these wonderful people, buzzing about, forming patterns and hives around my head, have all landed squarely in front of me and claimed me as their own.

And I'm so stupidly lucky.

A long(ish) time ago, I wrote something about family trees. And I said that if a family were a tree, then I had always felt like a lone little leaf, floating on the wind, swinging back and forth toward the ground; only briefly a part of the tree, yet not fully landed either.

Well.

As it turns out, life gives you abundant trees if you know where to look. And it's hard not to look in the right places when trees are springing out of the ground practically underneath you as you walk.

And sometimes, a really big tree will show up on the horizon. And it'll have a deep and strong root system. And a beautiful canopy of leaves and shade and love and twirling wind. And it'll catch you, the lone leaf on the breeze, and set you down on one of the branches. And there you'll be.

This is M2.


















She's my mother-in-law, but I hate that term because to me, it's a verbal eye-roll... 'She's my mother IN LAW. Like, we're not REALLY related..' So, I've named her Mom 2. Or, M2 for short.

She's my tree.

























And she has the best laugh in the entire world. I'd bet on it.

Home Town

I always said I'd never move back to my home town.

I was so against everything that was familiar. I rejected the notion that I was a part of a place and time (and town) for a period of time and that would factor into who I became.

But. Home, dear friends, can be therapy.

My natural instinct is to shy away from anything public or open-forum when I'm hurting. I recall events and emotions very well after time has passed. Usually years. But fresh pain is sacred territory. And I don't feel right about sharing anything painful while it's happening because it's too much. Kind of like the first day or so after you've burned yourself. You can't jump in the shower without that familiar and unwanted sting.

I ignored this blog for a few weeks because of some things that went on that I couldn't control and/or have the clarity to write about. And that is silly. Because I'm human and you're human and it's all about the human experience, right? I feel what you feel. Even if one or both of us refuses to acknowledge it.

So let's talk about boundaries.

What is it about a proverbial line in the sand that raises hackles? Those that have been around the longest have an unspoken need and self-fulfilled right to anything going on in their loved one's lives. Thoughts, feelings and physical goings-on are all fodder for debate and discussion.

But, really: they aren't.

So when I draw an appropriate line to someone whom I respect and admire, and they balk, I'm left with a basket of messy emotions that I didn't choose to confront. I think I am guilty of expecting too much from some, and not enough from others. And when expectations aren't met, I am heartbroken.

Nonetheless, I deal with heartbreak exponentially better as an adult than I did as an adolescent.

I get out.

I breathe.

I look.

I document.

I smile.

I speak to strangers.

I take pictures.

And I write.

Thank God for Puyallup. My home town.

Writing

"Writing isn't about making money, getting famous, getting dates, getting laid, or making friends. In the end, it's about enriching the lives of those who will read your work, and enriching your own life, as well. It's about getting up, getting well, and getting over. Getting happy, okay? Getting happy." (Stephen King, On Writing)


Back in November, I wrote an essay about failure (re: here) I threw caution to the wind, sent it off to a contact at a website and she published it. One of my nearest and dearest friends, the same friend I had been lamenting to regarding the lack of creativity in my life and my deep and dire need to start 'doing what I love, ' (whatever that was), sent me a text after reading the article. And the text went something like this: "WTF? I didn't know you could write! Holy sh*t girl, you need to be writing!" Clearly, I'm paraphrasing. She'll vouch though.

About a month ago, I was assisting a friend with a photoshoot. Mind you, this girl is crazy talented. Naturally good behind a camera, and so patient with all my brain-picking and question-asking. During post photoshoot beers (and post God-awful downpour) she looks at me and says something like this: "You need to be writing." Again: paraphrasing.

Two weeks later, I'm waiting for a plane to California. An older lady and I are splitting a table, and against my introversion instinct, we're chatting about life. And the conversation went like this:

Her: So what do you do?
Me: I'm in investments.
Her: ...(silence).... Hmph.
Me: Not what you thought, huh?
Her: I woulda' pegged you for a writer.
Me: I've heard that before... What about you?
Her: I'm a retired English professor.

This time, I'm not paraphrasing. That conversation is etched into my brain.

So, this post isn't about affirmations regarding me writing or what I write or when I should write or any of that. I guess it's a way of throwing it out into the universe that I get it.

I get it.

Now what?

Dearest

You are everything I could ever hope to be. And I wish I would have could have told you that. There was something so deep and dark and scary going on for those years and I was so afraid. Whatever tie I had to you was so easily drawn away and life was so intensely complicated. I felt like I was living my life incorrectly and that if you knew who I was, you would be disappointed. Now that I’m older, I know that isn’t true. And I know that you tried. But the heaviness of that life lingers. And some days, it’s too much.
 
It is an anchor in my heart.

I took on the burden of everyone. You and us and them. Everyone that left and everyone that never reached out. I took it as my own and held it and tried to keep it quiet. I was deeply and wildly lonely for you.

In my brightest and happiest dreams, I think that you can see me and that I make you proud. I hope that I shine like a jewel in your eye and all is right and well. Every time my hands create something out of nothing, I think that I’m honoring you. That’s why I keep a picture of you in my kitchen.  I look at that image of us and I think, ‘This is what she would have done.’

And I know it’s true because it always works. Just like you always worked. Never sitting, always fretting. The smell of the kitchen and clean laundry and starch and your soap. I can picture your hands, slightly knotted, feverishly working away to feed your family. This is what love looks like to me.

There is a piece of you that I hold that very few know. All those nights spent, feeling the safest and most content I have ever felt. Those moments settle in my heart and slow my world down for those few minutes before I fall asleep. And sometimes, I feel you there.

You are my deepest love.

My greatest hope.

And my dearest memory.