Words are hard.

Writing used to be so much easier for me.

I’ll rephrase that: inspiration used to come much more easily to me.

When I was in high school, I toted notebooks – yes, plural – around with me. Always. I was never without a pen, blank, lined pages, and the next story brewing in my head.

People who sat next to me in class throughout those angsty years, when we thought the problems we had were THE ULTIMATE in problems, and that, like, NOBODY understood us, can tell you that when the rest of the class was (or at least was supposed to be) taking notes, I was scratching away at my next short story, my next free verse poem, my next novel idea.

There was a book I wanted to turn into a screenplay (and still plan to).

My first (and very unhealthy, abusive) relationship was going to become my first novel.

I had a wild idea about running away with two of my best friends across the country, and that was going to become a short story.

Almost every angst-filled feeling I had, I could turn into a free verse poem, a vignette, a metaphorical or allegorical story with a quick twist to a one-two punch in the feels at the end. Writing was my passion. It was who I was, it was the way I filled every second of my spare time, it was what I wanted to spend my life doing.

Real Life™ caught up with me, eventually, as it is apt to do, and I became distracted. At sixteen, I realized the medical field was the place for me, and I began to pursue it wholeheartedly. I chronicled a lot of my feelings regarding nursing school and where I really wanted my career to head right here, and I can tell you, now that I have graduated and have been working in my field for a total of 7 1/2 years (two years of which have been as a registered nurse), I absolutely made the right decision. In fact, I’m currently even toying with the idea of going to medical school in a few years, but that’s a post in and of itself, for another day.

My passion for writing and my desire to publish never wavered, but the amount of time I had available to write grew shorter and shorter, and my sources of angsty inspiration waned, as I grew up a little more and realized life really doesn’t have to be that dramatic.

Shocker, right?

My first marriage was a train wreck. We yelled. We called each other names. We hid things from each other. We never agreed. We resented each other. Our parenting styles did not go together. Most importantly, though, we were not friends. And a marriage that has no basis in friendship, where you just plain don’t enjoy spending time together, and where, most of the time, you just honestly don’t like each other, is one built on a proverbial foundation of quicksand. That’s the way ours was, at least.

After we split, I felt like a huge weight had lifted off of me. I could breathe. I could move. I could think.

And then I realized how long it had been since I had truly been inspired to write. I realized it had been years since I had written out of passion, out of the sheer need to put pen to paper and get the thoughts, the scenes, the feelings out of my head.

I made a few attempts at short stories based on experiences through nursing school (and the end of my marriage), but when it really came down to revisiting scenes and feelings that I wasn’t quite ready to yet, I blanked. Choked. Whatever you want to call it. I just couldn’t keep going. Maybe one day I’ll go back and try to finish them. I’m pretty sure they’re on a notepad somewhere around here.

I can’t talk about diving back into writing again without the mention of one man, though.

To make a very long, deep, emotionally charged story (which I hope to someday turn into a novel) a bit shorter, I’ll say this: we were an unlikely pair. I was newly single and flexing my muscles, as it were, trying to get his attention. It was meant to be a fling at first, but we connected in a way neither of us anticipated, and we fell for each other. It was the first time I can say I felt something in years.

That feeling all of a sudden, after realizing I had been numb my entire adult life to date, sparked the drive to write that I thought I had just outgrown. In our six-ish months in whatever semblance of a relationship we had, I hemorrhaged, onto paper, every feeling I had at him or about him. Letters, short stories, musings. It all totaled a little over fifty pages when it was all said and done, if I remember correctly. I couldn’t stop myself, just like I couldn’t in high school. It was like waking up. It was amazing.

I couldn’t believe I went six and a half years without inspiration. Without that kind of introspection, without the stories running through my head, without creating these vignettes, without putting pen to paper just because I had to get a scene out of my mind and into the world.

After all of that was over, I met my best friend, and we got married six months ago. We recently (re)watched my favorite show in the entire history of television – Californication. It was my third time watching the entire series beginning to end, and it’s my favorite show because Hank Moody is my spirit animal.

If you’ve never seen the show, David Duchovny plays a cynical, sarcastic, reckless writer who is the author of a novel, which gets turned into a candy-coated Hollywood blockbuster (which he hates), shenanigans ensue, dark comedy all around, I’m in heaven.

Every episode reminded me how much I miss writing. Just putting words on paper was what I was meant to do, and I hadn’t done it in ages.

And don’t laugh, because Scrubs (the TV show) was what inspired me to go into medicine, and here I am, eleven years later, in the field I love. Because of a show.

I missed writing, and I told Justin (Husband) that, and he wholeheartedly encouraged me to get back into it. Even if I only take five minutes a day to journal how my day went, or one thing that pissed me off, or made me happy.

I’ve put off going back to writing over and over, because I feel like I can’t sort out my brain enough to even know how to start. Even now, as I write this, I feel awkward and clumsy. My sentence structures are far less than perfect, my content is completely boring, and my verbiage is not even a little impressive.

But at least I’m writing again. At least I’m doing the thing that I love to do more than anything.

As I said in the paragraphs above, I have no idea what I’m going to do as I get back into this. But I know, for my mind and my soul, I need to.

I miss making the words do the things.

 

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Gut Reaction and Chosen Action

I cried last night as it became clear where our country’s collective values lie. I cried this morning as I got ready for work. I’ve been crying on and off at my desk all morning.
 
How do I raise my FOUR boys to respect authority and the law, to respect themselves and their values and the women in their lives enough to keep their hands to themselves unless invited, when the face of authority in this country has openly bragged about doing just the opposite of both those things? How can I tell them to respect the authority of a man who shrugged and laughed off the label of Sexual Predator, who sexualized ten-year-olds as a forty-something-year-old man, who has regularly made it clear he views his own daughter sexually?
 
I can’t.
 
As I’ve laid in bed at night the last few months, trying to fall asleep, drowning in the anxiety of whatever America we were going to wake up facing this specific morning, I finally turned to praying for wisdom for these candidates, when my base instinct has been repulsion. Knee-jerk hatred. But hatred was the platform on which he built his entire campaign, and look at what happened. Look at the division and animosity it brought to and between the people of this country. As strong as my urge may be to spew hatred and outrage over the results of this election, I have to suppress that instinct, because hatred never bred progress, never fixed a broken relationship, much less a broken government and country.
 
The hatred has to stop. I choose not to tell any of my boys the rage and internal “WHAT THE FUCK” this man brings to the core of my very being. And that is – and will be – a constant, conscious, and very, VERY difficult decision. I choose not to teach my sons to hate.
 
Rather, I will – WE will – choose to hold this man up as the example of how not to treat those different from us. How not to conduct themselves in public or in private. He will be held up as an example of what can happen when we, as a country, let fear and hate rule us, and thus divide us. He will be held up, to future generations, as the cautionary tale as to what happens when greed, hate, power, and money come together with a one-track mind toward a goal this big. It can happen here. It can happen to us. It can happen if we don’t communicate, don’t love one another, don’t work together.
 
It can happen if we choose hate.
 
I will continue to struggle with this, I know. If you know me, you know that I am absolutely not passive-aggressive. I am aggressive-aggressive. And it’s very hard to shut me up when I’m passionate about something (just ask my husband).
 
This is not me quietly conceding that “the better party won.” This is not me accepting Donald Trump as my President, nor is it me accepting anything he has made it abundantly clear he stands for on a personal level. This is me saying that I understand the reality of what we’re getting in ten or so weeks, and me preparing to arm myself to fight against the vitriol that this man stands on. To arm myself against his downplaying of outrageous crimes he and others have and, I’m sure, will perpetrate against any and all minority groups. This is me preparing to spend the next four years fighting – ACTING, not just talking – for what I believe in and teaching the mini humans in my care to do the exact same.
 
So please…STAND. UP. for what’s right. Stand up for those who are marginalized and discriminated against, and will clearly continue to be for the next four years. Stop the hate, because that’s just what he wants to perpetuate.
 
Hate will not fix or unite our nation.
 
It never has.
 
It never will.
 
I have no conclusions right now. Just a confusing, frustrating mix of heartache, fear, apprehension, and, I’ll be honest, deep hatred.
 
God help our country right now.
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This is how you get grabbed by the p—y

I thought about not writing this. Thinking about my story being out there, where anyone could read it, scared me. But given the events of the last few days, given my background, and given what little platform I may have here, I think I need to share.

At first, I was going to simply re-share this article I wrote in 2012, about a guy I dated in high school who was mentally, verbally, emotionally, physically, and sexually abusive to me. At the time, I was so scared of the potential repercussions of having my name on it that I wrote it anonymously. Not to mention the fact that in that article, I downplayed the sexual assault (rape) to a major degree.

Since then, I have realized that my staying anonymous did nothing but contribute to the overwhelming culture of victim-blaming and -shaming, and I can’t in good conscience do that anymore. If recent events have shown me anything regarding survivors of sexual assault, it’s that staying silent does nothing toward fixing the problem. And now, a little shaky, a little sick to my stomach, and a lot nervous, it’s my turn to speak up.

What I didn’t tell you in that article was that…

I said no.

I screamed in pain.

I cried.

He held my head down to his lap and wouldn’t let me up.

He threatened to break my wrist if I used my cell phone.

He drove around to several locations, after dark, in a snow storm, to keep me disoriented as to where I was.

He wouldn’t even take me to a McDonald’s or a 7-11 bathroom when I had to go. He made me get out of the truck, in two inches of snow, and squat behind a shrub. And he watched me.

When blood ran down my legs, he said, “Don’t get that on the seat, okay?”

He did this twice in one night. One of the times was in a church parking lot.

Then, when it was all said and done, he mind-f*cked me into believing:

  1. I wanted it.
  2. We didn’t actually “do anything.”
  3. That if I told anyone what happened, his dad (who was a lawyer) would make sure my reputation was ruined.

He left me with the zipper of my jeans broken and three buttons missing from my blouse. But, as is common with the cycle of abuse, and in controlling relationships, I still believed I loved him. I still believed he meant the best for me. I believed we were still going to be together forever. That we had just messed up together.

Now that you’re caught up on what actually happened that night, let’s get to why I’m writing this.

A few days ago, Donald Trump once again proved to everyone that he is a vile, repulsive human being, and an actual sexual predator.

“Lewd” is not the correct descriptive term for this sub-human’s ravings. He is describing himself committing a sex crime and expressly crediting his station and celebrity for allowing him to do so.

Let’s make this incredibly clear, because some people out there are still telling women to “grow up” and calling this “typical locker room talk” (a phrase that has been widely denounced by quite a few professional athletes, most of whom say this talk would get Trump swiftly ejected from any locker room they’d ever occupied): the word “p—y” is NOT the problem.

“I don’t even ask” is the problem.

“Grab” is the problem.

“You can do anything” is the problem.

“I just start kissing them…I don’t even wait” is the problem.

Those words aren’t disturbing because they’re lewd.

THEY ARE DISTURBING BECAUSE THEY DESCRIBE A SEX CRIME. 

Whip out your thesaurus. Replace any word you find “lewd” in his gag-reflex-inducing exchange with a more socially-acceptable word, and you will find that this man is talking about GRABBING WOMEN BETWEEN THEIR LEGS WITHOUT THEIR CONSENT BECAUSE HE IS RICH AND HE HAPPENS TO FIND THEM ATTRACTIVE.

When this audio surfaced over social media, I was equal parts outraged (but not at all shocked) by his words, relieved to see prominent Republicans denounce his comments and some pull endorsements, and…confused…because “grab them by the p—y”? Really? How does one manage that?

So, as is to be expected on The Interwebs, the jokes began. Faux “motivational posters” using his quote surfaced. Pictures of cats pretending they weren’t cats (so as to not get grabbed) showed up in my news feed. “Nov. 8 the P—y Grabs Back” began trending. It became almost a joke, because, if The Donald thinks he can just “grab her by the p—y,” he clearly lacks understanding regarding the female reproductive system.

Except yesterday, I remembered three instances in my lifetime that I was grabbed by the sex organ, by a man I knew…absolutely without my consent.

The first time was when I was thirteen years old. I was in New York City for two weeks for a ballet intensive. An older (about to turn 17) Italian boy from Florida, who happened to be in my class, showed interest in me. I developed early, so he found it somehow okay to say to me during class one day, “Your boobs poke out of the sides of your leotard when your arms are over your head.”

Fast forward through smooth talking (him) and low self esteem (me) for a few days, and there we were…on a break between classes, in a secluded hallway in the hotel, making out. I wore a skirt and t-shirt over my leotard and tights, but just the same, he began pushing his hand under my waist band, grabbing me between the legs. I remember trying to elbow his arm back out of my skirt three distinct times. He did not relent. He then smashed me up against the wall, made an excuse of some sort, and walked away.

The next morning, before classes began, he called me a whore.

The second time, I was 15, and still completely mixed up over the guy from the article I wrote four years ago. This instance occurred about six months after the sexual assault that ended our relationship.

He had begun dating the woman who is now his wife in the summer of 2005, and this was in fall of the same year. One night, we planned to meet up to talk. I’m not sure what I expected then, but looking back now, and having the perspective of time, along with a couple other similarly unhealthy relationships in my past, his manipulation was clear, and to be expected from a narcissist and an abuser like him.

He wanted me, but he didn’t.

He was going to marry his girlfriend, but “I haven’t bought the ring yet, have I?”

“Why did I ever let you go?”

“We were so good together.”

Eventually his words confused and angered and hurt me enough, and I tried to get out of his truck, where we’d been talking. As I scooted toward the passenger’s side door, he pulled me backward by my shoulders so I laid across the seat, with my head in his lap. He held me there and said, “That’s not the Kristen I know.” He then shoved his hand down my pants and grabbed me by the p—y.” I shrieked. I squirmed and tried to get away. As he listened to my protests, arm across my shoulders, he said, right next to my ear, “That’s the Kristen I know.”

The third time happened when I was 24 (and married). After exams one evening, I went out with several classmates of mine to get celebratory drinks. A little tipsy, we all went to a nearby pizza place, and, when I was alone with a male classmate, he began hissing in my ear things he wanted me to do to him. I tried to laugh it off and began to walk away, and then he forcefully grabbed me between the legs from behind. I jumped, hit his hand away, and ran back to my female classmates.

He ignored me or looked at me with disgust every time he saw me for the rest of the year.

As a bonus, very soon after leaving my now-ex-husband, a “man” I barely knew forced himself on me twice in twelve hours, despite my very clear pleas of “no” and “stop.”

The thought that so many people accept the words of Donald Trump as “just how guys talk” not only completely fills my mind with WTF, but also terrifies me as the mother of two boys of my own and the stepmother of two more. It terrifies me that anyone accepts his BOASTING of committing an outright sex crime – because let’s CALL IT WHAT IT ACTUALLY IS, YOU GUYS – as ANY type of normal speech.

Lusting after someone is one thing. It stays in your mind, or in a private conversation. It is thoughts and words.

Putting your hands on another individual’s genitals without their express consent is a sex crime. It is sexual assault. It is a thought that turns into an action that turns you into a criminal, even if you have your own TV show and your net worth is over one billion dollars.

It’s been said before, but I’ll say it again: normalizing the words (and thereby actions) of Donald Trump is what leads to cases like Brock Turner. It’s what perpetuates the idea that women are lesser, that they exist to be objects of pleasure for men, for men to feel powerful and in control.

At first, when I saw the words from that video over and over and over, popping up in my news feed, I was annoyed. They were ugly words, they lit embers of absolute hatred inside me. They bring nothing to mind but sleaze and entitlement and the times I have been touched without my consent by males who believe they have some sort of right to my body because it’s visually pleasing to them. I hated seeing them, in bold above his face, every thirty seconds. But then I realized maybe that’s exactly what needs to happen.

Please…please…read those words. Read them until they make you sick. Read them until you can’t look at his face without thinking of these words.

Now think about him saying them to you. About you. Think about him saying them to your daughter, your sister, your best friend, your mother. Think of him doing this to any woman in your life. Because if he finds them attractive, he believes doing this to them is his right. He believes nobody will stop him. This is the man he is. This is his character.

If the thought of a celebrity actually committing a SEX CRIME against you or anyone you know or love is too far-fetched for you, read my words, my story, over and over, until it makes you sick. I am an average girl, who came from a Christian home, a Christian school, a healthy, intact family, and a normal upbringing. And it happened to me three times in the same eleven years since Trump uttered these despicable words.

This is the culture his temperament, his words, and his views on women would foster. This perpetuates rape culture. This perpetuates the trend of victim-blaming, and keeps us quiet for years. 

This is not the America I want to live in. To raise my young men in.

I cannot live in the America that Donald Trump would give us.

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Waves.

The sand gave way silently, effortlessly underneath her, one footstep at a time. Over the endless water, where the earth bent to meet the sky, storm clouds were building. Little by little, the dull, slate gray thunderheads blocked out the vivid, crystal blue sky she had always known.

“Poor kid,” she swore she heard his voice say, as she saw the first bolt of lightning dance from cloud to cloud. Seconds later, the thunder followed, shaking her very bones. She pulled her long, time-worn sweater tighter around her middle with one hand, shifting her grip on the glass of ninety-proof amnesia in the other.

You don’t scare me, she thought, letting her mouth fill with bitter gold, and swallowing with a grimace. The foam of the ocean played around her feet, cold and startling. She looked down at her short, pale legs, now covered in goosebumps. The sea receded in front of her toes, pulling away, as if begging her to chase it. She brought the glass again to her lips. The burn down her throat, into her stomach, had become familiar…almost comforting.

The wind began to whip her hair into her eyes, around her ears, and she raked the sea-sprayed, curled mess out of her way, again fixing her gaze solidly on the darkening horizon. Lost in her own thoughts, the next wave caught her off guard, hitting her shins and knocking her off balance. She stumbled momentarily, the now-retreating ocean current having its way, if only for one heartbeat, one breath, bringing her four, five steps toward the vast expanse of water and clouds that were now virtually the same color.

When the next bolt of lightning and crash of thunder happened simultaneously, she shook just enough to spill poison out of her glass, over her fingers. In the static afterward, with her ears still ringing, she heard his laugh.

“Poor, poor kid…”

By the time she’d fully righted herself, the next wave hit her at the waist, strong and unforgiving, and suddenly she was in the sand, disoriented, the tiny white grains of the shore digging into the skin around the bottoms of her frayed cut-offs. She realized her glass had been knocked from her now-trembling fingers. Scrambling to her feet, she shoved her wet, tangled hair once again out of her eyes. Her voice was swallowed by the roar of the thunder and the waves, but still she screamed, feet sinking into the soft beach sand.

“You don’t scare me!”

She furiously swiped salt water – tears or ocean, at this point she couldn’t tell the difference, nor did she care – off of her face. She turned her back to the storm and the sea, and began walking up the shore, toward the last sliver of blue she could see on the opposite horizon. The clouds charged ominously across the sky at a startling pace, choking out almost all of the sunlight that, only hours before, she had been enjoying full on her face, her hand in his. She heard the rumble of the next wave, the next clap of thunder, building behind her. She stopped walking.

This time, she decided, she was going to be ready. She would not run. She would not be taken down, taken by surprise. She would stand.

Turning on her heel, she squared herself to the shoreline and planted both of her feet firmly in the earth. She took a deep breath, and with her lungs filled with damp, salty air, she felt herself focus. It was as if time slowed, and she watched as, foot by dark, powerful foot, the swell driving at the shore built itself to easily twice her height. The crashing of the unrelenting storm and sea fell away, and a slow, eerie calm began to creep through her body.

As the coming wave crested, falling forward on itself and toward the girl who refused to move, she heard the words, barely above a whisper, escape her lips again. This time, though, she truly believed them. The corners of her mouth twitched upward, her eyes dead set, straight forward, her arms held firmly at her sides, palms facing – welcoming – the tempest headed right for her.
You don’t fucking scare me.

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This should be awesome. I think. I hope.

I don’t even know where to start.

My project, which I’m SO EXCITED about, launched about a week ago. So I’ll explain it, and then you’ll go and Like me on Facebook and follow me on Twitter. Right? Of course you will.

Between Logan’s birth and Lucas’, I had basically zero self-confidence. I gave up on my health; I ate junk, I didn’t care what I looked like, and I never exercised. I didn’t like what I saw in the mirror at all, and I was at the point of getting COMPLETELY winded by just chasing Logan down our twenty-foot halfway.

When I got pregnant with Lucas, I knew I wanted better for myself, and wanted to be a better example for my kids. I decided that once Lucas was born, I was going to take my health seriously again. Like I mentioned last time, I got hooked on the healthy eating, fit lifestyle that have come with committing to Insanity.

In the long term, I have goals for myself that don’t involve a scale at all. It’s about HEALTH and CONFIDENCE, not a number. I’ll get there. It’s a lifestyle change, not a fad diet or exercise program.

When my way of thinking about my body, and the food with which I fuel it, changed, I wanted to find a community of like-minded, busy moms (and others) on a budget, who shared my passion, but my searches came up empty. What I found were “mommy pages” and “fitness pages,” but the subjects seemed mutually exclusive. Fitness pages are absolutely not catered to the budget and time constraints of the average parent (or college student, or working person…or, really, any “normal” person). When I shared my passion on parenting pages, I was met with skepticism; lots of moms telling me that it was all well and good for me, but they didn’t have the time to work out like I did, and they didn’t have the money to eat healthy.

Instead of giving up, I decided to create that community.

Introducing Fit Body & Mind! That link is your cue to go “Like” the page on Facebook, by the way.

What’s it all about, you ask? I introduced the page about like this:

My vision is to provide a community for real people, who want to live real healthy and fit lives.

So what do I mean by “real people”? Anyone and everyone! Whether you’re a stay-at-home mom (or dad!) of four, busy with a demanding career, or in the throes of college finals, I want to show you that you CAN find the time to get your fitness on, and no matter your budget, it IS possible to eat healthy!

I want to help inspire, encourage, and challenge you and yours to live the healthy, fit, and happy life that you deserve. I’m not a fitness expert (not yet, at least!), but I love doing intense, thorough research into the subjects that are important to me.

I look forward to launching a blog, along with Instagram, Pinterest, and Twitter accounts in the coming days, as well. I can’t wait to begin sharing my journey to wellness, and hearing about yours, too! I’d love to take any questions you have; if I don’t know the answer, I will investigate until I find it.

I’ve already been featured on the blog, “The Evolution of Mom,” in a post called, “You can work out at home – really!” which is all about how to get it right, get it tight, even with ankle biters after you every. second. of. every. day.

I want to build this into a wonderful, supportive community. Who knows where this will take me? All I know is that I’m THRILLED to be starting this new chapter!

In the not-too-distant future, I’d love to add an administrator or two on Facebook, and occasional contributors on the blog. Wink, hint, fitness peeps.

So, if you didn’t catch it, Twitter is @FitBodNMind, and Facebook is HERE! Also, go “Like” my foxy friends at The Evolution of Mom on Facebook. You won’t be sorry.

Yay, future!

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Times Are A-Changin’

How many identity crises is the average twenty-three-year-old allowed per year? Because it’s only July, and I’m sure I’ve already hit my quota.

But I’m getting there, guys. I’m liking who I’m becoming a little more, every single day.

I’m a wife, who is growing in love and admiration and friendship and respect for her husband. I’m a mother, who is learning patience a little more every day, and who is absolutely in awe of her children. And now I’m trying to figure out who I am as…me.

When I got pregnant with Logan, I was undecided between two majors: Nursing and Sport and Exercise Science. I was declared for nursing, and I could get my associate’s in just a few semesters at the community college near the house I grew up in. It was the quickest way to the most financial stability. And maybe I would have stayed with nursing if I hadn’t gotten pregnant with Logan, but since I basically had to get my ASN, I started feeling trapped. When I worked at the hospital, I felt even more trapped. Then, about two months ago, Andy and I started Insanity, and I realized how much passion I had for fitness and nutrition. I don’t want to go too in depth, because it’s CRAZY late, and I’m losing steam for the night, but I’ll just say…my whole future is starting to look like something I can’t wait to get into.

Also, for a little teaser, I’m working on something that I hope…I hope will turn into a real success. And there’s a little taste of it coming out tomorrow (okay, technically later today). And I’m just…holding my breath and crossing my fingers and praying that I can make this something wonderful, and something that will reach and affect a lot of people.

I’m so excited for the new version of my family’s future I see on the horizon. I want to be a success. I’m ready for what comes next.

Posted in Being a Grown-Up, blogging, family, I Can't Sleep, Life, My career or lack thereof | Tagged , , , , , , , | 2 Comments

This is what happens when I clean.

I think I’m nesting.

I know, I know…it’s like, a month late. But there was so much going on in my life a month ago. I was commuting for school, so I was at my parents’ house five days a week, and I couldn’t nest there; you know, it not being my home and all. And when I was at my own home, I was so exhausted that I slept, rather than cleaned. Plus, I knew we were moving at the end of the semester, so I rationalized that there was no reason to clean, because we were leaving anyway.

So now that we’re at our new place, I’ve decided I’m going to be Martha Stewart, Claire Dunphy, and Jillian Michaels all rolled into one. Impeccable housekeeper, amazing cook, crafty. Hilarious, crazy, yet wonderful mother. Super driven and fitness-oriented, and in incredible shape. 

I make that promise to myself every time we move (which, thus far in Andy’s and my relationship, has been four times), and I always fail to keep it. But I figure if I get just a little further on that promise every time, I’ll eventually make it.

ANYWAY. My point: I was cleaning today, and I found a plastic storage container that held about 70 pages of stuff I wrote during my junior and senior years of high school.

Not even close to even being half the stuff I wrote during that time, but it’s a start. I’ve been looking for this stuff for about three years.

So I’ve decided to share some of it with all of you. Keep in mind, I was a painfully angsty sixteen- or seventeen-year-old when I wrote these. Actually, I found some stuff I wrote when I was a very morbid thirteen-year-old. Stuff that I refined for years and may eventually share.

Okay, I’ll stop rambling and get to the first story I’ve decided to share.

 

Facing you like this isn’t easy. I’ve been out all night. You never once checked on me. You trusted my judgment and my loyalty.

But you shouldn’t have.

 

I stand before you, shaking, sweating eighty-proof bullets, and telling you lies. I prattle on, rationalizing, for some reason, that if I talk more, you’ll believe more. Bright lights around the room set me ill at ease as I tell you I had fun with my friends. That perhaps I had a little too much to drink, but I came home slowly and carefully, using roads less traveled. Less patrolled.

Do you believe a word I’m telling you?

 

Claiming alcohol-induced fatigue, I opt to sit down, and you sit close to me. I try to steady my breathing and smile, brushing your hair out of your eyes. Those eyes still take my breath away.

My pulse quickens.

 

Don’t I reek of guilt?

Can’t you feel lies in my touch?

Doesn’t infidelity echo in my laugh?

 

How in the world could I do something like this to someone so precious to me?

 

I lay my head back and my stomach churns. Chalking up my nausea to the booze is useless. You speak sweetly and I wonder how you’re not reading it all in my eyes. Eventually your touch hurts my heart too much.

I smell like bad bar food, I tell you, and I need to go shower. Go ahead to bed, sweetheart.

I’ll be there soon.

 

The hot water isn’t enough to melt my frigid heart. My wedding ring remains on my finger. Seeing it makes me furious, and I pound my fist on the wall of the shower, and I immediately regret it, sure I’ve woken you. The tears rolling down my cheeks are hotter than the water I’m trying to boil myself in. They burn thin trails through my skin. The soap doesn’t do the trick the first time around, so I wash myself again, scrubbing until my skin stings.

But you can’t wash a filthy conscience clean in the shower.

 

By the time I come to bed, your breaths are coming slowly and evenly. Your serene face captures my gaze for long moments.

I love you so much.

 

Softly I kiss your warm, tired lips. You don’t even stir.

I cry myself to sleep wondering how I, the demon with the rancid heart, could still be loved by such a beautiful, perfect angel.

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