Weddings are Weird, Part 2: The Debrief

Two weeks ago, I got to marry my best friend. The one person I could easily, without question, imagine spending the rest of my days with… and, in fact, couldn’t imagine my days without. The wedding went off without a hitch (other than, you know, US getting hitched) and I think it went really well. For anyone interested in the ceremony, the readings, the order of events, etc., I’ve put everything (other than our vows, for the time being) here: https://carterandpaigearehome.com/2017/09/17/the-big-day-recap/

I had people tell me to try and stay in the moment, to appreciate it all as best I could or else I’d forget everything, and I think I did that (stay in the moment, I mean). But I also think that when you’re in a whirlwind of activity, when you’re under the stress of standing in front of 75 people being vulnerable, when you’re a born project manager and want to be sure you’ve remembered to manage every last detail, and then when you only have three hours to visit with those 75 people you invited, it’s all going to fly by and get fuzzy no matter how present you are. That’s what photos and video are for! And all the stories people tell  you afterward! It’s a collective memory-making event, and we are really and truly grateful for everyone who was able to attend, who could then share their memories with us afterward.

Part of me really wishes we could have invited twice as many people. There are so many others I wish could have been there, and that’s one of the things about this whole event that was somewhat vexing. When we decided to hold the event at Sinema, we were automatically limited to 80 guests. 100, if we’d crammed people in, but 80 would fit comfortably. Our family made up ~30 of that, which left 50 people we could invite. We could have easily doubled or tripled that with friends we love and care about, and you know what? That’s a wonderful “problem” to have, but it means you just have to get okay with not having everyone there. Yes, it was a financial decision, but it was also a logistical decision, and we (I) finally just had to make peace with trusting that anyone not invited would hopefully understand and, if not, it wasn’t an emotional burden we could – or should – carry. But it’s a weird thing to navigate, and I’m grateful to not have to do it again. Ever. 🙂

Other items of note:

  • The day after Carter proposed was when people started asking when the big day was. As soon as we landed on a date, people wanted to know where we’d be getting married, if I had a dress, etc. As soon as I found someone to make my dress, people kept asking if it was ready, how the fittings were going, if I loved it yet, if I was nervous it wasn’t done… I finally got to the point where I was tired of talking about the wedding; the details were stressing me out so having people ask me about it was just reminding me of the stress, and I was over it. I might have told a few people that we’d called it off, just so they’d stop asking me about it.
  • I’m not a nice person.
  • The big question now seems to be whether or not I’m going to change my last name; the answer is, “No.” Whether or not I take Carter’s name has absolutely no impact on how “married” I feel or how connected we are, and he (thankfully) cares even less about it than I do. It’s not even that it’s an antiquated practice that would mark me as his property or the loss of my own identity; it’s just a logistical pain in the ass, and also, I like my name, I like my signature, and there’s really no reason to change it.
  • The nice thing is, I can change my mind down the road and there’s no time limit on making that decision. Maybe one day it’ll make sense, but right now? Nah.
  • I didn’t get full feeling back in my toes until 3 days after the big day, but I think those shoes were worth it
  • I wish I’d danced more – and that other people had danced. I’m not a dancer, but our DJ played some really wonderful music that was great to shake your booty to
  • No matter how hard I tried, I barely got to eat anything and that makes me sad because their food is SO GOOD
  • Our friends and family filled the void of not having a wedding planner/day of contact, and they all just managed things without being asked, and made sure everything was coordinated and collected at the end of the night; totally invaluable
  • My one nephew, Ryan, escaped without having a “job” in the wedding and I’m not sure if he cared or if he was relieved, but having all the (other) kids participate was one of my very favorite things
  • It doesn’t matter how long or short your first dance song is, anything over 30 seconds feels like an eternity with people watching, which is why I (of course) felt compelled to grab Carter’s butt – for comedic relief, for my sake as much as anyone else’s
  • I wish I’d given the champagne toast to everyone there, because they’ve all played a part in getting us here. But hindsight is 20/20, which leads me to…
  • All the things that didn’t go EXACTLY as planned or hoped don’t matter, because we’re married, and that’s the point of the whole thing!

It took a village to get us there and to get us through, but we are now, officially, husband and wife, and it’s the weirdest, most wonderful thing in the world.

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Deciding what matters, and then choosing it.

Anyone who knows me hopefully also knows that I will fight to the death when it comes to body- or appearance-shaming as a means of character assassination. So, like, judging a person based on what they do? Totally fine. Open season. But judging a person based on how they look? Totally NOT OKAY. Especially equating being overweight to a character flaw or moral judgement. It’s lazy, it’s flawed logic, and it’s unkind… for starters. It’s not even necessary. Chances are, if you’re feeling the need to slam a person using physical traits,  there’s likely something else you could be using instead (example: Chris Christie is a turd, and there’s a whole host of reasons why, but NONE of them have to do with how he looks). A person’s appearance has nothing to do with who they are as human beings, and is not a reflection of character, mind, or heart. It IS, however, a reflection on us as a society, that we use those things to condemn other people.

So, it’s interesting for me to note that I have been beating myself THE HELL UP for not losing weight before the wedding. Like, suddenly I am a failure, a horrible human being, I’m going to hate seeing photos for years to come because it will remind me I suck, and everyone who has ever wished me harm will revel in seeing me be overweight on the most important day of my life… every time I look in the mirror, every time I’m putting on clothes, I’m these saying mean things to myself, I’m flailing on the inside wondering what I can do to lose weight and get in shape in 6… make that 5… and now 4 weeks.

But this post isn’t so much about that, because here’s what I know: C loves me for who I am, not how I look; in 4 weeks, we will be married to each other, just as in love (if not more so) and happy together as we are right now. We’ll be surrounded by loved ones, eating wonderful food and drinking delicious cocktails, and we’ll get to share this most important event with each other and our friends and family. None of that has anything to do with my physical appearance, and EVERYTHING to do with my mind, my spirit, and my heart.

I recognize that a lot of this self-deprecation comes from external programming. Growing up surrounded by messages that enforce the focus on appearance as a measure of worth, it’s hard to overcome that sort of thing, and just as I said about other people judging – that it’s easy, it’s lazy, and it’s unkind – that’s the default setting for my own brain directed toward myself when I’m looking for something to stress about, some sort of outlet for the pent-up stress and frustration I’ve got going on.

I am stressed OUT. About a lot of things. And apparently the first easy target is me, and how I look, because hey… I’m right here, right? So instead of dealing with stress in a healthy way, it just shows up as my own worst critic.

But this isn’t really about that, either. I mean, it’s good insight, and I’m glad to have it, because it’s keeping me from losing my mind and bursting into tears as I head to my next dress fitting.

What I want to know is… how do priorities form? How do you decide what’s important to you? Is it something you’re born with, or do you learn these things because of the world around you? How do some people decide that fitness is important to them, while others decide they’re just not interested?

And, more specifically, how can you be totally overcome with thoughts of, “Oh goodness, I’m getting married in 6 weeks (or a year or three months or whatever), and I would really love to lose about 5 lbs and get my arms in shape before the wedding!” and then not do anything about it? Like, how can you say and feel with every ounce of your being that this is a priority and it’s important to you, but then not actually do anything about it? And not only that, but do things that are diametrically opposed? Eating ice cream and pizza and drinking wine and doing all the things that you enjoy but you know fly directly in the face of what you’ve stated is your desired end result?

How do make a decision on what’s really important, say it out loud over and over, and then actually flip the switch so you’re working toward that goal? Or is it just that my brain is so determined to have an easy enemy that it’s intentionally sabotaging whatever efforts I might have made? Is it that I have so much other stuff going on that I only have so many spoons of discipline, and they’re all used up before I can get around to the food and exercise regimen I know would get me where I want to be?

And in the face of all of this… how do I just be okay with the apparent reality that losing weight and getting in shape just wasn’t really a priority after all? And then be okay with the outcome?

Driving it home.

One of my co-workers died of an overdose this past week.

I’m finding that I don’t really know the “right” way or the best way or the most respectful or honoring or correct way to talk about this, or if I should even talk about it at all. But as is often the case in death, we evaluate how we, the living, are impacted. In working for an agency that provides addiction recovery services for women, and in being a woman who battled my own addictions years ago, who spent a lot of time in the rooms with a lot of other fellow battlers, a lot of my own personal connections were made with her loss. A lot of tender spots were troubled.

She was a former client who’d gone through one of our programs and then came to work with/for us. I remember meeting with her on her first day of work, and there were times over her tenure that I helped her with various IT-related things. The last time I saw her was in the lobby of our building; she noticed my back tattoo and came over to pull my shirt back and take a look. She loved it, and said so, and it was a sweet moment quickly interrupted by the usual chaos of the reception desk.

We had an all-staff meeting to talk about her loss, to open up the discussion to everyone struggling, honoring the different ways we all grieve. Grace was asked for and given. It was absolutely the best way to address something like this, considering our line of work, our relationships with her and each other, and knowing how many would be impacted. Having counselors on staff who could address the important parts, and calling in a therapist from our EAP to be available for anyone in need, helped.

But the most touching and important part was when someone relayed a story of the last time she’d seen her. She (the storyteller, who I’ll call G) was at a desk, head down, doing some work. Our co-worker called G’s name, and G acknowledged it without looking up. She called G’s name again, this time prompting her to look up and see tears running down our co-worker’s face. She was struggling, and sad, and asked G for a hug. G took the time to remind her of how loved and important she is, how much she matters to so many people. Our co-worker said something to the effect of, “I wish I could believe it.”

I remember saying, thinking, and feeling that exact same thing the day I walked out of treatment the first time. I’d made up my mind that I wasn’t done yet, that I wasn’t worthy of sobriety, that I wasn’t ready and wasn’t loved and wasn’t meant for anything other than the drugs that were waiting for me on the other side. After a few days with nothing in my system, I was panicking at everything I was thinking and feeling, but at the same time, it was like nothing could penetrate the walls I’d erected. Some of the staff and clients tried to talk me out of leaving, telling me they loved me and wanted me to stay. I remember crying tears of resolution and defeat as I said, “I hear what you’re saying – I just can’t FEEL it.”

I am fortunate to have survived after going back out; not everyone does.

When I learned of her passing this week, I was immediately transported back to the time when I was sober, going to meetings, working the steps, trudging the road to happy destiny with so many other strugglers and survivors. I remember learning that someone from my home group had relapsed; he went out drinking, passed out outside, and he froze to death. I thought of my friend Paul who I met in the 3/4 house I lived in for 15 months after treatment. He was close to a cherished ex back then, and I’d been grateful to reconnect; I was supposed to visit him in NY about five years ago, but when I went to reach out on Facebook to talk about plans, I learned that he’d died two nights earlier. And then all of our conversations prior to that made a lot more sense; the struggle I’d detected underneath the bravado and humor he’d done his best to maintain.

Somewhere along the way, I got used to learning of people dying from their addictions, and I think that’s what hit me the hardest of all. I don’t want to get used to this. I don’t want to be numbed to the fact that this shit is hard, and scary, and real. It may just be one of my own defense mechanisms, to protect me from re-living just how close I’m sure I came to meeting my own demise. And when I think about that time in my life and compare it to the beautiful life I have now… well, I breathe an enormous, anxious, guilty sigh of relief that I’ve managed to overcome.

Not everyone gets there.

Addiction is different for everyone who goes through it. What gets you there, what keeps you there, and what gets you out of it – if you get out of it alive or at all – is unique to every single person who experiences it. I’ve been asked what I think it is that got me through it; I can attribute some of it to having a solid, loving family; some of it to doing all the hard work I’ve done (and continue to do) emotionally and spiritually; some of it to the people I met and loved along the way who showed me how to live; and some of it to pure, dumb-ass luck.

But because it’s unique, there’s no one cause, no one simple fix. And it is horribly unfair, unrealistic, and simplistic to make sweeping generalizations about addiction, or the people who live it. I am able to drink wine these days without fear of falling back into using heroin or cocaine or methamphetamines, but that doesn’t mean I get to rest on my laurels with the emotional work I’m doing, and it doesn’t mean I’m “cured” or that anyone else could or would have my same experience. And because of that, I will absolutely spend my life correcting those faulty assumptions people make about addiction, because those assumptions can be damaging – even deadly.

All of this to say… I could have been her. And to me, the heartbreaking part is she could have been me. It took a really long time, and a lot of devoted, loving friends, family, and now, Carter, to hold presence and remind me how loved and lovable I am. It took years of undoing all the self-loathing and insecurity and fears I’d amassed. There are still moments where I can’t feel it, can’t believe it, and need to be reminded, but those moments are few and far between, and I have the confidence, wisdom, and trust that they’ll pass. They always do. And I think that’s the golden spot we all strive to reach; not perfect confidence that never waivers, but unearthing and amplifying that little voice that tells you to just hold on until the hard parts pass.

Consider the Source.

For the majority of my life, I’ve taken people, places, and things at face value. Taken what was told to me as truth, until shown otherwise. And sometimes even then, it took a LOT of evidence to the contrary to come around and admit to myself what I thought I knew (or what I wanted to believe) was wrong; what I thought was true was false; who I thought I could trust or believe was, in fact, not trustworthy at all. Once you believe something, it can be really damn hard to change your mind, to be open to the idea of being wrong. Or, at the very least, open to the possibility of a different way of thinking/seeing something.

I started reading “A People’s History of the United States” by Howard Zinn, and something in the first pages stuck out:

Thus, in that inevitable taking of sides which comes from selection and emphasis in history, I prefer to try to tell the story of the discovery of America from the viewpoint of the Arawaks, of the Constitution from the standpoint of the slaves, of Andrew Jackson as seen by the Cherokees, of the Civil War as seen by the New York Irish, of the Mexican war as seen by the deserting soldiers of the Scott’s army, […] And so on, to the limited extent that any one person, however he or she strains, can “see” history from the standpoint of others.

We are pretty much always given/fed/taught information in a way that benefits someone. Think about our history books, all told from the white majority’s perspective, and spinning a narrative of conquest, of superiority; it certainly enables us to continue thinking and believing we are on the right side of history and have no cause for regret or concern over how others have been impacted, or that we might need to work hard to correct what’s wrong. We’d have to admit something is wrong first. Right? I mean, as just one example: we might be regaled with humanizing stories of slave owners, but I guarantee the stories from the slaves’ perspectives are going to be a whole lot different. Where are those in the history books?

And I’m not just talking history, either.  For example, the pathological liar/cheater/gas-lighter I dated a few years back: every word that came out of his mouth was designed specifically to benefit himself and the life he wanted to lead, with no regard for the truth or the people around him. I still occasionally marvel over the depths of his depravity, how manipulative everything was, and how it served to further his agenda. Everything he said about the other people in his life, the reasons he gave for breaking up with past girlfriends, the stories he told about himself; it all had little glimmers of truth but a whole lot of twist, all to give a totally different impression of what was actually going on and what actually happened.

But that’s a pretty extreme example, thankfully; most people are not that mental or messy. They are, however, impacted by what’s taught and told to them, what aligns with the values instilled growing up, affected by their culture, their teachers, their families… we are all the sum of our experiences. And whether or not we choose to challenge that, to question what we’ve been taught… that’s where critical thought comes in.

Side note: It’s telling that we have to TEACH critical thought in school… and I’d imagine not everyone gets that lesson, whether due to substandard education, or the school system’s decision to not include it as a class or subject – and THEN you have to question why they don’t value critical thought, right? Who benefits from people not thinking critically? (Hint: It’s likely those who prefer the status quo.) But really, if we’re not innately programmed to question, to be skeptical, to consider the various sides, to take others into account instead of simply charging forward with whatever it is we have chosen to believe and accept as the best truth as human beings, then it becomes apparent there is some work that needs to be done. Some effort needs to be expended in order to open up to the perspectives of others. We are, as a general rule, selfish and self-centered beings. Why wouldn’t we want to challenge that?

Do you ever ponder how a person (or a book, or a corporation, or a news station, or an elected official) might benefit from the information they’re presenting to you? Do you ever think about how everything in their lives might have led up to them being who and where they are, and so what they’re telling you is directly influenced by that? When you’re reading historical accounts, do you ever stop to consider the perspective of the teller? Nothing happens in a vacuum. Nothing in our past – as a country, as a planet, as the human race, as individuals – happens without something or someone else being affected. Right? Or, very little, anyway. We can engage in mental, emotional, or physical self-harm that appears injurious to only ourselves. But even then, if you have someone else in your life bearing witness to these injuries, they’re going to be affected, and they’re going to have their own perspective on the situation.

It reminds me of that old adage: There are three sides to every story – yours, mine, and the truth.

I write all of this to say, I’ve started questioning more of what I hear, what I read, what gets posted on the internet or is reported… I’ve tried to expand my circle to include the perspectives of others, those whose lives and experiences are different than mine, so I can learn, so I can take other perspectives into account. It’s necessary, but it can be exhausting, too; at some point you have to determine which appear to be the most straightforward, the least slanted, the most inclusive. And not because it’s what we WANT to believe, although I suppose that’s always an option. Really, I just want to be sure I’m not falling into the trap of taking things at face value and not challenging myself.

On a personal and less political note, not a day goes by when I don’t feel a sense of gratitude and relief that I’m in a relationship with someone I trust. Someone I don’t feel the need to question motives, question the words, question anything, unless it’s apparent there’s something going on that warrants further discussion. And I think that’s any relationship, right? When you can tell something’s going on so you ask questions to get to the bottom of it because you care. He does that for me, too; we challenge each other to get real, get honest, and we offer up a mutually respectful, safe, and loving environment in which to do just that. It’s huge.

Now, if we could all just do that for each other.

Gratitude and giving thanks, by way of a life’s perspective.

2016… man. I don’t think anyone I know would disagree that this has been a really hard year, for a lot of people, and a lot of reasons. I’m tempted to use much stronger language and get real specific, but I think John Oliver and his team pretty well covered it. And it’s not over yet. I had another post in the works as a continuation of that last one about trust and truth, but I realized this morning that I needed to interrupt the cycle of fear and despair about the state of our nation and humanity, and instead just take a moment to find some gratitude. Shine a positive light on things, even for just a moment, so as not to get completely lost in the morass.

This time last year, I left a job that, for many reasons, was not a good fit and was wearing me down and out. My first day at my current job was the week of Thanksgiving, and there isn’t a day that goes by where I’m not reminded of what it used to be like, and how fortunate I feel to work where I do. To have made that change, to brave the unknown for a chance at real fulfillment. There are hard days, certainly, but the level of support and encouragement and challenge I feel there is really special.

This time last year, I’d severed all ties to the pathological liar I’d dated, and had settled into something of a peaceful surrender to the very real possibility I might never find a real partner to spend life with. I was busy with school, had started a new job, and my life was full enough that it didn’t scare or sadden me that much; it seemed like a logical conclusion, based on past experience… and then, on February 9th of this year, everything changed when C. showed up for our first date. I think I knew, that night, but certainly after having four dates in three days, it became readily apparent there was something special to – and with – him. And now, to finally be living what I always thought love looked like but never really knew… my heart is full to overflowing, every day. He makes partnership easy; I never feel unheard, unseen, or unloved, never doubt my place in his life, and never feel like the “work” of being in a relationship is anything other than easy and worth it, because it means we’ll be closer because of it.

This time 18 years ago, I was sleeping in the parks and on the streets of San Francisco: strung out, full of shame, and tired. I remember one morning, waking up to the sound of a father and daughter walking through Buena Vista park where I’d been sleeping. I heard the daughter ask her dad why there were people sleeping in the park, and the father making some disparaging remark about us being losers and needing to get jobs, and that maybe they should bring us some coffee or something so we’d have the motivation to get up and work. They laughed and kept walking, leaving their lack of empathy and laughter at my expense behind for me to pile on top of my own already suffocating self-loathing.

A few days later, on Thanksgiving day that year, I knew my sister, her (now) husband, and several family friends were just across the Bay having dinner, and there was a place at the table for me if I wanted it. I was too ashamed, though, and felt like I didn’t deserve to be there. In all honesty, I don’t know that I was completely done with drugs, either, and going to their house would have meant giving everything up. “Everything” = no home, no money, no job, no self worth… but the escape from feeling that drugs provided was enough to convince me it was better, somehow.

So that day, instead of humbling myself to be with family, my junkie pride took me to the Panhandle of Golden Gate Park. There was a Mexican family there, serving Thanksgiving dinner to the homeless. They made the food themselves, and made enough of it to serve maybe 50 to 100 people. They didn’t speak English, but they didn’t need to; their kind faces and their actions told the story of their hearts. I remember sitting there, eating in the rain, and something about that day finally drove home the point that I could – and should – do better. That there was so much more to life, and there was a whole lot more I wanted for mine. And that it might actually be possible.

I can’t help but equate the kindness shown by that family to the light that finally started to flicker in my own heart, shining just bright enough to light the way out. And, in comparison, the denigration shown by that father and daughter serving only to drive me further into the hole I was already in. The former was in keeping with who and where I wanted to be, and it’s a torch I’ve carried with me ever since. So, every year at Thanksgiving, I’m reminded of where I’ve been, and what a gift it is to be where I am now. Especially today.

I’ve been given the gift of home, which is what I’d been looking for all along.

The privilege of mourning twice.

I’ve wanted kids – to be a mom – for as long as I can remember. I love babies and children more than most adults, and I think a lot of that comes from their straight-up innocence. The clean slate of humanity, the capacity for love and greatness ever-present. No walls, no shields, no hatred, no bigotry… nothing but the real. I identify with that a whole lot stronger than I do with most of the stuff grown people carry around; it’s beautiful, and I have always had the compulsion to protect it, to love and appreciate it, to nurture and encourage it, even as I stand by and watch the whole world seemingly conspire to squash it.

As I navigated my way through addiction in my 20’s, recovery and growth in my 30’s, and a return to my roots before 40, that desire to have kids – to be a mom – stayed strong. But I wanted it to be the “right” time, with the “right” person. Occasionally I’d entertain the notion of being a single mother and figuring things out, handling it all myself, and that was usually at the tail end of another failed relationship. Since I couldn’t seem to get things right when it came to love, maybe I should just give that part up and have the kid anyway. With so much love to give, why not?

But something always held me back. Circumstances, the desire for a partner, fiscal responsibility… I was convinced that things had to be a whole lot more secure and perfect and right than they were, if I wanted to shoulder the so very big and important responsibility of having and raising another human being. It’s such a decision of whimsy for some, not even a second thought for others, I often wondered if I were the only one who thought so much about what a huge commitment it was that I managed to think my way out of it.

As I entered my 40’s, the driving force and desire to have a baby began to dissipate. I realized one day that it just wasn’t there like it used to be; the emotional, the physical, all of it seemed to have faded, with only the occasional cropping up of desire, coupled with a small dose of regret. And maybe not regret so much as a realization that the time had passed, the opportunity was lost, and one of the things I’d wanted to experience most in life was likely not going to happen.

And so I mourned the loss while I worked to let go of that particular dream. With that came a slow acceptance, an understanding that it was just how life worked out for me.

Still, I held onto the idea that 45 was the age at which I would give up entirely, that if it hadn’t happened by then, I would move along. For some reason, 45 seemed like the appropriate age at which a woman would no longer consider giving birth; I’m not sure where the arbitrary number came from, but in my head, the years leading up to 45 seemed viable, and really, JUST as viable as any year before it. So even though I’d mostly let the dream and desire go, there were still the last vestiges of hope attached to every day leading up to my 45th birthday – which, by the way, still has yet to pass.

2016 has, so far, been the year of the universe conspiring to shower me with blessings. I have a job that I enjoy and am challenged by, working alongside people I admire and appreciate. I met my person, the one to whom I am so perfectly matched, I am blown away most every day by the magic; to finally know what it’s like to be loved, and to love this way in return. Ours is the stuff of history, of poetry, of novels and artwork and music; every day, my heart expands to accommodate our love, and my gratitude. We bought a home together – my very first. We have two of the sweetest kittens who are currently curled up on either side of me, keeping me warm and holding presence while my love is away on tour.

And so, having found that perfect person and our perfect home, the idea of having a child (and the desire to do so) was reignited. To create another human together: a perfect combination of him and of me; a tiny little creature who has my eyes and his nose and ears and a heart as big as both of ours; to raise a person knowing only love and support and compassion and happy – both inside the home and out.

But I am 44 years old.

And that means my eggs are 44 years old, too. What I never really considered or researched but now know is that, at age 40, your fertility hits a sharp and rapid decline. The potential for chromosomal abnormalities (aneuploidy – Down Syndrome, etc.) due to deterioration of egg quality hits a sharp and rapid incline. Miscarriage is a lot more likely. And even if you wanted to pursue IVF, if you use your own eggs, the chance of a live birth after the age of 43 is less than 4%.

All of that science to say… I’m getting to mourn it again.

I say “getting” because it is, indeed, a privilege to find myself in this place. The place where I am so well loved, and so in love in return, that it would have even been a consideration to have that baby together. To realize that I am finally in that perfect place, with the perfect person.

Don’t get me wrong: I am sad as hell. But in paying attention to the sadness, I think back to when I learned about primary and secondary reactions. The primary emotion or is the true and real response to something; the secondary reactive emotions are the ones that crop up as a defense mechanism. You usually have to sort through the secondary reactive stuff in order to get to the heart and the meat of the matter.

So, like, there’s a part of me that would love to sit here and beat myself up for making such “interesting” dating decisions for the last 20 years. I’d love to beat myself up for waiting so long and not just doing it myself. There’s a part of me that wishes I were the type of person who believed “everything happens for a reason!” because then I could spend my time looking for what possible reasons there might be for us to have come this far, to finally find each other, only to be denied this thing we both want so much. There’s a small part of me, too, that wishes I believed in God so I’d have someone or something to blame, to be angry with, to question the timing of all of this and the legitimacy of His choices. A place to deflect the blame, as well as a spiritual shoulder to carry the hurt.

But I am not that person.

There is no need to blame myself for the past; it does no good. There is no need to regret anything; that does no good, either. I don’t need to shake my fist at the sky and demand answers for how things are; this is, in fact, just how it all worked out.

Acceptance.

Anger has no place here. Life happened in its own time, in its own way, and to find myself now in the love and company of that perfect-for-me person, someone with whom to share the disappointment and move forward in grace and love, is really, truly, enough. I can sit with being sad and disappointed without having to cover it up in blame or anger or regret, and that, to me, is huge.

There are, of course, other options if we decide to pursue parenthood together. I know that. But I think it’s important to take each situation on its own merit and its own unique circumstances instead of trying to make the hurt of one situation go away with the potential promise of another that may or may not be an option, or realistic.

So for now, with this one piece, I am simply mourning the loss (again). The beauty is that I no longer have to mourn it – or anything else – alone.

Errant thought repository post.

It has been entirely too long since I’ve written here (or journaled regularly, for that matter). Initially, I engaged in the age-old self-deprecation for letting the writing go, you know, finding some way to beat myself up for not doing a thing that I claimed to love and need so much. But it crossed my mind, and Noelle TWT confirmed, that maybe I just don’t have as much processing to do these days because I’m HAPPY. And that sounds right to me.

That said, there are still plenty of things rolling around in my head, and those are the thoughts I’m going to leave here for the time being. Maybe expound on them at a later date. I have a separate piece I’m working on where I compare Donald Trump to an ex in an examination of why I experience visceral anxiety and fear at the thought of a Trump presidency, but that warrants its own space, I think.

  1. I’ve spent a lot of time finding ways to relate to people who are different in their belief systems. For instance, I work for a faith-based organization, and the majority of people who work there ascribe to that particular faith, and it’s ever-present in the culture. I am one of the few who don’t. And then, there are people in my life who fall firmly in the right-wing camp; I absolutely don’t. But it is important to me to try and find ways to connect and relate to and understand these folks, and what I’ve realized is that, if you view people as coming from a different culture, it’s a whole lot easier to accept the differences, if not overlook them completely.
  2. At work, I filter out the words that don’t apply, and at the bottom of it all, the gratitude we share is the same. They direct theirs to God; mine just… is. They pray, and I send my good thoughts out into the universe. We are all driven by the same desire to help and be of service; where it comes from, or to where/whom it’s attributed, doesn’t matter.
  3. The political thing is much more difficult, though. I can understand the desire for something different than what we’ve had. I get that people are tired of “career politicians” or “politics as usual.” What I cannot fathom is why anyone would think Donald Trump, in all of his horrible, abusive, misogynistic, bigoted, small-minded glory, would be the best choice. When I hear people say they’re tired of being “PC”, what that tells me is, you’re tired of being held accountable and expected to act right towards other people. When I hear that you like Trump’s plain, unfiltered talk, what that tells me is that you want a champion for your own ugly thoughts and beliefs. Even if you support him because you think he’s going to protect your gun rights, or your money, or something else, the bigger picture is not being taken into account, and it’s a selfish move. “I don’t care how his presidency impacts anyone else but me and my stuff.”
  4. And that leads me to something else… people in this country sure do seem to care more about a song, or a flag, or an idea, or their STUFF (guns, property, institutions, etc.) than they do other human beings. Why is that? Why is it more important for a business to have the right to refuse service to someone than it is to protect the rights of ALL people to be treated equally? Why is it more important for one provider to have the right to refuse mental health treatment to multiple patients based on his/her lifestyle or sexual preference? Why isn’t the greater good more important to more people?
  5. Government doesn’t always get it right, but it certainly does force us humans to act right. If there weren’t laws in place requiring equal treatment under the law, I guarantee – very sadly – there would be a whole lot more overt racism, bigotry, and divisive practices happening than already are.
  6. And then… why is it so hard for people to grasp the concept of Black Lives Matter? Why do people default to thinking in absolutes, where if you say “Black Lives Matter,” you must mean that no one else’s does? Why does it mean, when you want to hold the police accountable, that suddenly you hate ALL police? Why does criticism equate to wholesale condemnation? Why are some people so incapable of taking the historical perspective into account, as well as the far-reaching implications, in order to form a more well-rounded opinion? Is it that we’re incapable, or just unwilling? Is it part of the human condition that, when confronted with something ugly in our own society, we’d rather hunker down in denial than rise to the occasion for change?
  7. This morning, I thought more about that “politics as usual” argument that seems to be so prevalent these days. I mean, it comes up every election season, but this year it’s especially loud. There’s a part of me that thinks people are still stinging from having a black president for 8 years so the thought of having a woman in office is too much and they’re disguising their preference for an old white man in the role as a desire for deviation from “career politicians.” But, you know, good luck proving that. Anyway. It occurred to me that it doesn’t have to be this way. At all. None of it. Like, if we are all so tired of our government, of how things are run, of who is allowed in office, of the stalemates and the blocking of progress and the lies and the finger-pointing and the lack of viable candidates… why don’t we change it? Why do we have to keep any of it the way it is? I mean, who says we have to keep the Constitution, or the government, or the statehood, or a democracy, or any of it? Have we forgotten that we have the power to change and do something different? Have we lost our ability to think so much bigger than we have been? Is it a fear of change, or an inability to dream? Why don’t we just nuke it from orbit and start all the way over? (These are rhetorical, BTW.)
  8. On a completely different note… I switched doctors a month ago and, as a result of the blood tests they ran, it turns out that I tested positive for arthritis. I haven’t met with a specialist yet, so I don’t even know what KIND of arthritis, but at least I have an answer for the joint pain and other issues I’ve been having this year.
  9. The arthritis is just one more reason I want to get in better shape, and get back into the swing of healthy eating. I am carrying about 25 extra pounds of fat that I would like to convert to muscle, at the very least, if not get rid of completely. What I’m lacking, though, is the motivation and discipline to do anything about it. And that’s my question: where does motivation come from? How do you acquire discipline? How do you conjure that magic moment of willingness that converts into sustainable action? I have never been able to figure out what motivates me, other than finally feeling like I’ve had enough of a certain thing/situation/etc., and then defiantly moving in another direction. So, when will enough be enough in this case? What will it take to get me to change? If it’s not the current state of discomfort, or the memory of good health past, or the fear of a more painful future… then what? If it’s not the desire to feel pretty on my wedding day, or the preference for a healthy vessel for human life, then what? And how much of this desire to change is based on an actual medical need vs. me just not being okay with the way I look thanks to societal implications of what’s attractive? Am I being harder on myself than I should be – knowing I have a tendency to do just that? And then, how do you sustain the change once you start it? Is it a moral failing or character flaw if you can’t stick with something, or is that just the normal, human way?

Deep thoughts for a Saturday morning. I think maybe it’s time to put on some Jason Isbell and Amanda Shires, play with the kittens, and get started on some of this unpacking. In our new house. You know, the one with windows that open, doors that close, and room for all of the love. ❤