On Being Restored

I have lots of posts about having a positive outlook during trials in your life or keeping a good attitude when people are ugly to you or maintaining hope when life seems to be giving you its worst.  My perspective has been about what to do in the midst of all of these experiences because that is what my story was doing. It was being in the midst of all of that. Things have begun to change, though. In a big way.

What many people may not know is that my first marriage actually ended legally twice. There was the final divorce that began in March of 2013 and then dragged on into May of 2014.  That's the one most people in my life know about, and that is the one I have referenced most in this blog. There was another one though.

There was 2009.

On July 14, 2009, my heart decided that it was time to go.  There were things that will never be revealed here that I needed to be different that were definitely not going to change, so I packed some things and called my big brother.  With a bag over each shoulder and a baby on each hip, I walked out of my home to go stay with my older brother.  I was with him and his family for a number of weeks and then moved in with my mom.

My world had been rocked.  I had expected my marriage to last forever.  When things got super rocky, I thought meeting the request to start a family would smooth them over. When they got rocky again, I thought I should get pregnant again...so I did. It was not entirely deliberate, but I digress. Baby number 2 did not become a catalyst for unity.  My whole world fell apart.  I was absolutely devastated by feeling like I had to move out, and then I was served with divorce papers.  I felt like I was going to spontaneously combust. At one point I was losing a pound a day because I couldn't make myself eat most days. If I managed to eat, I couldn't keep anything down. It was awful. It was truly awful.

By Christmas time I had worked for several months at a small Christian school where my mom also worked. I managed after school care for the students there. I did not particularly enjoy it, but it paid money. I had agreed to be mostly stay at home during my then 5 year long marriage so my ability to earn income was measly. I really did not have much at all to do Christmas for my two little people and had grown accustomed to not really having Christmas for myself anyway. My mother, however, had not.

A DSW had opened in the mall area, and my sister and I had made an event of going to their grand opening. I lusted after a pair of boots that retailed for like $250 and were priced at $100 at DSW. I stared at them every time I went there knowing full well that they were so far outside my pricerange, it was like talking about the day I would buy a Maserati. It was for fun. It was like my tangible vision board.

Imagine my shock on Christmas morning when my mother (who had been suddenly widowed herself 2 years before) gave me and my little sister envelopes with $150 in them. I am tearing up right now because I do not have any idea where that money came from or what she potentially had to sacrifice to give us that along with the other small things she had given us. "You girls have to go shopping with that...Sarah...you have to go buy your boots because that's my money and I said so".  I didn't even know if they still had my size since they'd had those boots on display for a month already.

They had my size, and I bought the nicest pair of shoes I'd ever had.  They felt so perfect on my funny shaped feet right away. I didn't even feel like I had to break them in.

I wore them and wore them and wore them.

That winter passed into spring. I put the boots into the back of my closet and decided to ill-advisedly rush back into the relationship that was equally toxic as it had ever been.  I busied myself that next winter and wore my boots whenever I could until that winter turned into spring and then summer. My kids' dad and I had been back together for about a year by then, and I'd convinced him that we should have another baby.  I soon discovered that I was pregnant again.

We moved just a few months later away from my home and my family.  I have regretted that decision more than any of my life because our arrival in our new home served an inappropriately easy time for old problems to bubble back to the surface. I didn't wear my boots that many times that year. What proved to be a very difficult pregnancy landed me at home most of the time. The baby that was born got so sick when she was small that we spent nearly her entire second month at the hospital. That was an incredibly lonely time for me.  There were so, so many ways that I was alone.  I wore comfortable flats that could go with easy to care for clothes for my soft and still swollen post partum body. My focus was not on finding ways to wear my boots - even after we came home. I stayed at home guarding my little woman. I just wanted to insulate her to keep her alive.

Eventually the baby got strong again and that winter did like all the others that have come before and turned into spring. Open toed things and shiny heels adorned my feet in the heat of a coastal summer. Those months became...so difficult. I found out more news that completely broke my heart to a point of no return, and then I had two kidney surgeries.

The summer passed into fall, and I was ready to pull my beloved boots out of the back of the closet, but something terrible happened. At a dance class at the gym, I side-stepped and tore my knee completely in half rivaling injuries of NFL players. I wouldn't need my boots for 2 months...I couldn't even walk. This turn of events seemed to open up a Pandora's box for all the inadequacies of what I had used to build my life. It was all a front. I'd been lying to myself, and the pieces of my lies to my own heart started to crumble apart. I wore the boots a lot that winter. They made me feel like I was readying myself to tread ground I couldn't yet see. My vulnerable shins and unsteady knee were made stronger by the well crafted leather. I wore away the soles of the boots as life beat against my soul. We were both weakening, but we had to keep going.

As the spring started to warm everything with cold nights still something to consider and after I had once again relegated my boots to their place in the back of the closet, life spun me around again, and I actually had to leave the boots and most everything else that I owned. Once again, like the previous year, I forgot about the boots. They weren't important at all. Just my kids. My marriage had ended again, and this time I knew it was absolutely for good. I went again back to my family to where I knew my heart was safe in a time that was more painful than I can articulate. Again I got served with papers that cemented what I already knew. My knee was still not steady. I actually still walked with a limp that was more pronounced on days that it was cold but also there when the road should have been easier to travel. I needed my boots, and they made their way back to me.

Finding myself to be a single gal with bills to pay, I got myself a job.  This particular job required that I wear a uniform. Sensible navy heels or flats were the order of footwear.  I pulled out the boots just a few times that winter, but they mostly stayed put away just waiting for when they were needed. There came to be a scratch on one toe, and occasionally I would slather some inexpensive polish over them to keep them from cracking. I got an offer for a job that, although it promised to be better, became a disaster that included some horrible betrayals, in fact. I did, however, get to pull out my boots. I wore them a lot. Even though it was summer and then a hot fall, the styling of the store merchandise featured a lot of knee height boots. By this time, the boots and I had been together for years so we knew each other quite well. My tired feet would find their way into well worn spots inside each one, and we'd stomp around together all day doing all I could to conquer my corner of the world. It just wasn't enough.

I was once again at the end of my rope. Despite working 45 to 50 hours a week on a 40 hour a week salary, I could not make ends meet and was about to be homeless...again. The boots were starting to break down too. One day at work, I heard a weird hollow clack where I used to hear the sound of a solid thud of rubber on the cement floor. I'd worn a hole all the way through the heel. I actually had to keep wearing them because they were all I had by then. The hole became even bigger to the point that the heel was peeling away. They were done, and so was I. My life fell apart, and I had to leave my children that I'd worked so hard to provide for. I was gone from them for 7 months. I got to visit them once. Incidentally, the boots went with me, but they couldn't be worn. I was never able to secure employment while I was living in my new home, and my then boyfriend (now husband) couldn't afford such superficial things as repairing a pair of boots. Looking at them was a cruel reminder that they were broken and ragged and worn away...like me.

The boots and I made it through that winter and made our way back to my babies with my new husband and a new little secret that I didn't learn until we were back here...another baby. That pregnancy was awful and left me, again, very sick - in and out of the emergency or hospital actually - and unable to work. We were so limited in what we could do with our money. The boots remained delapidated and dusty.  I would pull them out and rub my hand over the leather to keep them from ruining or molding.  I felt so regretful every time of how hopeless their condition seemed. It felt so reflective of my heart. I could not bear to part with them.

I noticed that the pack and ship store behind our tiny house advertised shoe repair. I felt like it was another cruel reminder of what I wanted but could never have, but this year, after the baby was born and my body began to heal a little, after the winter thawed into spring, I decided it was time to breath life back into the boots.

This year has been so strange to me, but there has been something that I cannot deny. This entire post has illustrated through my words how I spent years and years encountering loss, but this year, God has started to give it all back. I have spent more time with my children this year than any since my marriage ended. My husband and I have gotten to catch up on things that were so far behind. I have seen my family more this year than I have for 4 years. I had had to go more than a year without seeing my parents and my little brother or my little sister. My kids hadn't seen their grandparents or aunt and uncle and none of us had seen my older brother and his wife and their boys for the entire four years. This year, we've all gotten to see all of them multiple times. I got to go to the place where I was born and kiss the post built by the grandfather I never met of the home where my mom grew up and see cousins and friends and family I hadn't seen in 20 years...20 years. God has given me back things that have been missing from my life for 20 years.

Last week, I decided it was time. I pulled out the boots for the Instagram shoot that I did for the previous post with the thrift store clothes and decided that it was time. On Wednesday of last week, I put the boots into the basket of the baby's stroller, and we walked over the the Pack and Ship. I filled out a little manila card with instructions, but I realized I didn't quite know what I wanted. I also wanted to be careful about how much cost I was committing to because we've tried to begin doing Christmas shopping and because of how my husband the public school teacher gets paid, we cover all our bills at the beginning of the month. Either way, my service would require a phone call from the cobbler.

The following night as we all sat at Taco Bell to quickly nourish 2 gymnasts, 1 baseball player and 1 school teacher, my phone rang. A very pleasant voice on the other end introduced himself as the shoe repairman, and he began to ask for clarification on the repair. The sole and heel were his first questions. Initially the heel was my concern, but I realized and then he confirmed - the sole was going to need a redo. The sole needed attention too. He then asked about the finish of the leather. He explained that it was a bit malnourished and dry but he took note that the look of wear might be something I wanted to keep. "I can put a polish on it in the same color that it was originally stained, but I didn't know if you wanted that. Or I could just seal it and keep the look that it has - and that will keep it from cracking and falling apart." I tried to think quickly and went with my gut "Yeah, if you could just seal it. I kind of like if for them to look like they'd just walked across a farm not like...a store or something". And that was that.

I got a call this morning that they were ready. My husband and I have had the discussion of being very mindful with our spending because of the circumstances above, so I checked with him to make sure paying for my boots wasn't going to throw off what he'd been working on. He assured me that it was fine, so I excitedly put the baby back into her stroller and traversed the hot, newly laid black top of the alley behind the strip mall that houses the Pack and Ship.

There was a little line, so I opened my wallet to retrieve my claim ticket, and then I saw it - the check from my friend. I did her makeup for her family photo shoot last weekend and she paid me - something I didn't expect from her. It was another reinforcement that these boots...this was supposed to happen. My turn came to turn in my claim ticket, and the clerk took it from my hand to head to the back. "Did you get a call that they were ready?" she asked from her position through the stock room door. "Uh huh" I replied trying to hide the disappointment in my voice. "BOOTS!" and she made her way into the light of the store again. "Why am I always looking for shoes? It's BOOTS season!"

Indeed.

She laid the clear plastic bag on the counter, and I felt my eyes get wide. Then the tears started to come as it all fell into place in my mind - what these boots mean and what it means to have them repaired. I shared some of my story and she shared some of hers - they were more similar than different. We talked about having to walk away from something not so good into somewhere - into the unknown. "It's been 5 years for me...how about you? How long's it been for you?" "4" I said holding up 4 fingers in case my voice caught in my throat.

She sent me away with encouraging words, and my eyes welled up again as I pushed open the glass door and made my way back through the hot alley way.

And now here I sit - 7 years later - me and my boots. I can put them on tomorrow (and probably will). They have been given a once-over by an artful eye and a knowing hand. They have been given the ability once again to tread ground however rocky  or treacherous. It won't matter. They can withstand the elements. They can repel and protect against things that could cause damage. Each portion of what the boots are and what they are supposed to do has been given attention. It has been given restoration. They have not been refinished. They have not been made to look as though they have never traveled a step. They've just been sealed so they're ready for more. Whenever someone looks at them, they will know that they are not new or without scar or flaw. But those silly little boots that my mother bought me during a time she knew I'd be learning how to stand have been restored. They're ready.

And so am I.

On Never Forgetting Her

*First of all, I have to apologize for the abrupt and sad end of my 30 days of self care. It has turned into 6 weeks of sinus infections for my entire family instead. We will address later the importance of "good being best". For now.....

As Dan and I rode back yesterday from something disappointing, we decided to do some thrifting. We chatted back and forth to sort of press "reset" on the afternoon so it would be time enjoyed together instead of just crying like my heart sort of wanted to.  

"I saw *Carrie the other day", Dan said interrupting the silence. "You did?! Good.", I replied as I sat in the comfy, stiff foam seat of the Mazda 5 Dan just bought for our family to replace the 1993 Buick Roadmaster Wagon Estate that we'd been driving for a year and a half. I became very mindful of some contrasts that were happening in that moment.

"That was such a weird time in my life", I said. I looked out the window feeling tears pool on my lower lids. I was glad to hear Carrie was still alive. I was glad the time in my life that caused our introduction was over now. It was over. "I hope I never forget that girl" I said, breaking the silence again. I wasn't talking about Carrie. 

Carrie and I met in the battered women's shelter where I stayed for 10 weeks when I was at a point in my life where some starting over was definitely in order. I went from being a stay at home mother of three (and I'm sorry if you've already read past posts that explain this) to a woman alone in a homeless shelter with a car that held a bunch of my personal belongings that ultimately got hidden from me after I blew a tire on the interstate and had to leave it there. I was at the bottom. I was in a house that served as quite a great equalizer because, despite the details of our stories differing, our hearts - the stuff that made us who we were, were all so similar. The recipes (see blog name) were all different, but the dish that got served up from all our lives was ...we were all on level ground.  It was nice in some ways. 

I have written in the past about how we all sort of rallied around each other at times and how there was a sort of code in "the house". One of the things that was always accepted was if you shared a resource. I had a car (until I didn't) so I tried to share that resource. Everyone had something, but honestly, there were some who truly had less than others. Carrie was one of those. At one point, she had been an art student with gifts that still yielded truly beautiful pictures scribbled with crayons on cast off napkins or discarded notebook paper. She had even begun college. Standing quite tall for the average height of a woman, I could still see the remnants of a strong smile and a presence that could have been unmistakable when she walked into a room.

and then something changed for her.

Sometime during college, Carrie's medication for schitzophrenia either got too expensive or dosed incorrectly.  Her life spiraled out of control.  When I met her in the shelter, she was actually there under false pretenses, but efforts to go back to her very obviously abusive elderly mother was impossible as this woman called the police every time Carrie knocked at the door...or crawled through a window. 

Gone was the statuesque artist with the strong jawline and commanding smile. Instead, we all met a woman hunched over - not from issues with her bone health or muscle strength - but from retisence to stand tall and be noticed. She could often be found carrying on full converstions with herself. Instead of sustaining what I felt sure must have been beauty at one point, her chin jutted out under stretched skin as thick lensed glasses obscured the flecks of white in her blue eyes. Her hair held soft curls that, while they must have cascaded over her shoulders at one time, served now only to create a crown of jagged fuzz. She rode her bike (and please note - any bike she saw that she liked then became "hers") everywhere she went so she kept any extra weight off. She was skinny and, after wardrobing herself with durable clothing items that fit her long frame, the used military camouflage often gave her an appearance of androgeny. This conglomeration of very distinctive characteristics made her very hard for a lot of people to successfully disect and understand. 

Every once in a while, though, some of the sweet would shine through.  

Everyone in the house drank coffee.  A warm cup of sweet coffee, if you closed your eyes tight enough and gripped the mug just right, could make you feel like you weren't in something akin to a prison. You could just sip away and pretend that the other ladies in the house weren't fellow survivors of terrible things. You could pretend that it was your own back porch, and that you'd just invited all of your neighbors over before you all fell to your housework. For those of us that weren't doing drugs, it was our escape. So with all of us drinking coffee, we would sometimes find ourselves in short supply or we found ourselves out of coffee altogether. Well somehow, Carrie had scored a large cannister of Folgers classic roast. There were various ways that Carrie procured things, and, honestly, that was her business. Carrie would never hurt a soul. She was also willing to bike herself all the way across town to the staffing agency every single morning and work jobs that nobody else wanted picking up rubble from construction sites or similar very sweaty activities. She earned more money than some of the lazier characters that landed in our four dysfunctioned walls, so we all actually just felt sort of proud for her. After a day or two, one of the ladies that I'd grown closer to pointed out something to me. I immediately took a picture. The image is one that I treasure.

Carrie had found a permanent marker and scrawled across the bright red cannister "Carrie Shares". She had been mostly mistreated by her housemates, but she extended the olive branch of the coveted grounds for anyone who wanted....to share. 

A number of weeks went by, and I was able to get an apartment.  The night we moved my stuff out of the house into MY house, Carrie was there to help. 

As we stood in the living room of my 600 square foot apartment, all of our eyes welled up with tears and I felt so absolutely, undeservingly lucky. This was my dwelling. I had a reliable job that was going to pay for all my bills there, and my name would be on every envelope that got delivered. Just me. No roommates except for the weekends my kids came home. They were all doing just as much as me, and I was able to jump ahead so it hit me.

"This door..." I walked over to it, I think "...this door is ALWAYS open for any of you. I don't care what time of day or night. You know how to get here now. If you need somewhere to go, come to this door." We all stood in a huddle and hugged. We were going to make it. We were going to all make it past the trials of this awful life we'd survived, right? I wanted us to, and I wanted my little space to help us all. 

I think it was a matter of a couple of months went by, and I came home one day to find a note scrawled on my carport floor in sidewalk chalk. Fear gripped me. I could not immediately bring myself to read what it said. I decided after a few seconds to face whatever message was waiting for me and read the words. The sentance was jumbled and didn't totally make sense, but it was from Carrie. There was another time where there was a scrap of paper with a note similar to this one. Either way, I got ahold of Carrie and she found a hot shower and clean towels, food for her belly and a couch to sleep on...at my house. Over the next few weeks, Carrie would sort of come in and out always trying to be respectful of when my kids came home. She was there one day when Sally was with me. Carrie seemed so uncomfortable like she was intruding or almost afraid that Sally would be afraid of her. She wasn't. Sally was not afraid of Carrie.

Then Carrie would disappear.

I tried to keep tabs on her because, despite being in Florida, our winters get pretty cold. That ocean breeze can slice against your skin when it's hovering in the 30's and 40's. We actually got snow that year. Anyway, Carrie had told me about several of her "spots" where she and her fellow homeless friends would bed down.  After not hearing from her for too many days in a row, I had this really strong need to go find her. Something in my soul just kept saying "You are supposed to go get her tonight", so, in my orthopoedic loafers and Estee Lauder uniform, I drove to the park she'd mentioned to me and got out of my car. There was a birthday party finishing under one end of the pavilion while a very obviously homeless man sat at the other eating a sandwich as if he was sitting in his own living room. It made my heart have a little giggle because he was making "home" wherever he could. I asked him if he'd seen Carrie. He pointed through the tall cattails to the gazebo they obscured from sight. I walked the sidewalk path that led straight up to the steps. There were 3 or 4 other people laid out on sleeping bags and pallets, and there was Carrie. I remember having this sense as I approached that I was walking up the steps of the porch to a proper home, and I could see in because they'd pulled back their curtains. I felt the need to make sure to show my respect, so I said hello to Carrie and said hello to her...roommates. They all introduced themselves to me except for the girl who couldn't wake up. Carrie even shook her head about that girl, but we both shrugged because we all have "stuff" just the same as that girl. I told Carrie that she was coming to my house tonight. She tried to hide excitement as she gathered up her things. This was not because of any pridefulness. She just didn't want to become an imposition. 

Over the next month, she drifted in and out of my house. Sometimes she would leave me a note scrawled in sidewalk chalk graciously thanking me, and sometimes she would leave without a trace. Eventually she left for the last time, and I never saw her again. I never knew where she went...until yesterday when Dan told me about having seen her. 

I know this took forever to read but this whole story played through my mind in the short time it took for Dan to tell me that he'd seen her to me remembering the "me" of then - the "me" that didn't feel like I was helping the less fortunate. I was helping "me" in another body. I got lucky, and I know that to this day, and I do NOT EVER want to waste that. 

So Dan and I drove down the street.  We went to a couple stores where I found some books for Natalie, and then we came home. Audrey was so clingy, so I asked Dan if he minded if I went alone to the thrift store in back of our house (our neighborhood is a strange mix of residences and businesses). Of course he said yes. 

Normally I never look at the clothes, but yesterday I thought "You know what? What if there's some good treasure in there?" So, as I talked on the phone to my sweet friend, I slid shirts down the rack until I found 6 that were worth it to me to try on. They all fit, but I remembered that this store has sales every Sunday, so I hid my shirts all together so I could find them and then asked the cashier about the sale. She confirmed for me that some items would be reduced the following day so I went back home.

This afternoon, too lazy to change out of my ill-fitting, paint spattered laundry day best, I told Dan I wanted to go back for my things. I quickly found the place on the rack where I'd hung them up yesterday, but only 3 of them were there today.  Again, despite my normal disregard for looking throught crowded racks of used clothing smelling heavily of mothballs, I decided I'd continue my search for some replacements. I tried them on and felt satisfied that I'd happened upon more wearable clothing than I'd found at a thrift store in months, so I took them to the register. I double checked with the cashier to make sure the items I'd found were on sale because my whole personal purpose in the orginal exercise was to see how cheap I could get these things. It was a game for me, sort of. He admitted to me that only one of the items of my 6 was a sale item so I was like "Well...do this and this then. It's okay." He was very apologetic, but I go peruse there all the time, so I really did not want him to feel bad at all. He was like "Okay, well do you want me to take these other things off?" I replied "Yeah, just take those off" and then an older woman with a rounder figure and a dark pixi haircut interrupted and said "No...no" as she looked at the cashier "No. You ring up everything and I'll pay for the difference of whatever she was going to put back". I was awestruck. My brow furrowed, and I asked her "Are you serious? Thank you!" but I felt so conflicted. I felt worried that I had defrauded her in some way. What if she thought I was "as poor as I looked"? I mean, I was just too lazy to change out of my ugly clothes, but what if she thought that was all I had? What if she thought buying everything was beyond my resources instead of just being beyond the reach of the rules of the little game I played while thrift shopping? I felt an impulse to say something to her, but this rapid fire exchange of thoughts shot through my brain until I heard a voice in my head say "No, Sarah. Do not tell her no. You both need this. You should not tell her no. Be gracious. Accept this. You need this and she needs this." As the casheir rang things up, the woman then changed her mind and decided to buy the $7 worth of things that I was originally going to buy. I looked again at her and just hugged her. She just kept talking about how God tells us to take care of each other and we just make it because of how He loves us. I kept nodding my head as she talked. I wondered "Does she know that I know God? That I have felt the grip of His hand hoist me up out of the angry, stormy water of life? Am I showing God as much as she is right now? I WANT TO! I hope that I am!"

I stood and talked with her a few minutes, and then we parted ways. She spent $25 on me - a total stranger on things that she didn't even inspect to make sure they were worth her money. Just willingly handed it to my heart. I felt so humbled - not humiated - humbled just like you always feel when something wonderful is bestowed to you through no merit of yourself. You just get given something really beautiful that you don't necessarily deserve but for the love that is offered to you by the heart of another.

I walked out of the store, and then it hit me. I literally audibly said "Ohhhhhkay" to God because in that moment as I stood at the register refusing the things I'd picked out, I HAD looked like "her". I was....still....her. I am.....still....her. 

The circumstances of my life are different now. I'm no longer homeless. I am no longer in hiding. I'm married again to a very obviously wonderful man, and, though there have been more moments of truly abject poverty after the time I spent at the shelter, I'm not there now. 

But I don't want to forget "her"! I don't ever want to not be the girl who opened her door to any person who needs my four walls. I don't want to ever not be the ears that would always listen and the heart that would always love. I don't ever want to not be the woman who didn't wince at the soul who's body had a lot of dirt on it because I knew what it was like to be a soul like that too.  I will always be her, but I don't want to forget that. I shudder at the thought of ever feeling too comforted by the trapping of fine things that my ears grow deaf or my eyes grow blind to the other "me"s walking around out there and now I have a sweater and some shirts and a pair of jeans that, every time I put them on will surround me with the warmth of someone who saw "her" and saw beauty and had beauty within themselves that just spilled out the top of their own souls. 

So now, though, I've got this bank of $25, right? I didn't necessarily need these things, so now my eyes are on the hunt. I'm looking for someone...I'm looking for me...and I'm looking....at you.

On taking care....for real

Motherhood is hard.  I’m sure fatherhood is hard too, in its own way, but I’ve never been a father – just a mother, so I’ll speak about that. I can safely say, though, that it is hard.
Here’s the life of an American girl in most families:
Little girl: play, develop an imagination, pretend to be a princess, get dirty sometimes, play also with cars and watch super hero shows, pretend to be a ballerina, learn that lipstick is a thing, decide that shiny things are something everyone should want, decide that shiny things are DEFINITELY something YOU want
Older girl: master reading, learn to enjoy the imagination you developed as a vehicle to transport you through the world of reading, continue to enjoy shiny things, come to realize that being “pretty” gets you things, come to realize that you want to be pretty, begin to have doubts about unconventional things about you that might not be deemed “pretty”, start to think for longer periods of time about future jobs, realize that you will have to choose one at a time, start to give your list of possible career choices with “or” between profession names and mother instead of the word “and” without realizing why, maintain desire to be a princess
Young teen: box up toys, keep out a few with the disclaimer that you keep them out for memories while still snuggling the same doll every night, realize that even the gross boys can be cute and the cute boys are adorable, start asking for makeup, start sneaking makeup, start changing your list of aspirations based on your audience, start changing that conversation altogether based on the level of approval of your audience, maintain your deep seated desire to just be a princess
Older teen: put toys in the attic or garage to be stored “for my kids later”, start looking at colleges, continue looking at boys, increase the desire to gain the approval of one that does not repulse you, continue to enjoy shiny things, increase your awareness of things about you that other people may not find attractive, begin (or continue) to have insecurity with the physical vehicle that houses your soul, decide on the pursuit of an education for an area of study that seems amenable, possibly begin dating (I did not), maintain your deep seated desire to be a princess
College age: begin college OR join workforce, gain sensation of how large the world is and how small you are within it, begin to feel pressure of bills and/or deadlines for school courses or professional projects, increase the standard of appearance you have for yourself, hope that your increased standard gains you overall approval from your peers, hope that your increased standard gains you specific approval from another human, begin to pursue relationships, cycle through the inception and then ultimate demise of several relationships – romantic and platonic, experience failure with all its confusing complexities, maintain deep seated desire to be a princess
Mid 20’s: (Here we are going to make my timeline very specific to a woman who gets married to a man at this age since the point of this entry and this project is to view it from this widely practiced but very specific perspective) PHEW! Okay. Find an acceptable husband, feel at least temporarily that you have “won” at life because marriage is a lifelong commitment, continue studies or professional pursuits, continue enjoying shiny things, buy shiny things to surround you and your male human in your home, realize that not all male humans like shiny things like you do, start to feel like you’re aging quickly, start to notice your face skin is weirdly dry, begin to feel sure that your biological clock is ticking (cue clip from My Cousin Vinny of the effervescent Marisa Tomei stomping her foot on the porch of a cabin in Yazoo, Mississippi), broach subject of procreation with male human counterpart, decide to start “trying”, maintain deep seated desire to just be a princess, realize that now you’d have to settle for the title of queen, feel internal conflict over that
Late 20’s – early 30’s: begin navigating world of fertility, realize that a lot of your self worth is connected to the level of function of your uterus and ovaries, (here again my journey has to become specific to myself because I became pregnant relatively quickly. I am also among the blessed few that has never traversed the mean, angry waters of in utero infant loss or infertility), become pregnant, realize that you feel like poop, reach point in your pregnancy at which you no longer recognize yourself, decide that there are parts you hate about this new you, decide there are parts you LOVE about this new you, realize you are changing on every level, begin to worry if changes are bad or good, begin to worry if the bad changes are permanent, begin to lose ability to juggle everything that you could juggle successfully pre-pregnancy, hop aboard the roller coaster that is hormone fluxuation and mood swings, give birth to small human, decide that they are the reason that you were ever born, feel elation, begin to feel yourself understanding true exhaustion, decide that you now have a grasp on what would be effective torture techniques, type out a letter to the U.S. government to offer suggestions, exercise better judgment realizing that the purpose of your letter could be grossly misconstrued, begin to at least occasionally resent your male human counterpart turned coparent for his ability to always look SO STINKING RESTED!!, realize that you haven’t taken a shower in two days, realize that the “chocolate or poop test” yielded the result of…not chocolate, spend 8 months doing all of this, realize that you only own stretchy clothing now, realize that you don’t care, feel conflict (because you remember cute….she was a nice girl….really nothing wrong with her…she was nice), feel self loathing, look at baby and feel sure again that they are your entire purpose for being born, begin to lose whole sight of the fact that the reason you were born is to be none other than…..YOU!, come to agreement with male counterpart that it is no longer realistic or advantageous to pay for daycare, make the decision to be stay at home parent (specific to me, remember) realize that you have a limited amount of time to accomplish anything within the day, decide that all time would be best spent on the tiny human, look in the mirror and have no way to recognize who that person is, sigh and find a task to complete, maintain your deep seated desire to be a princess but realize you’re too old for princess and admit sadness that you feel there’s absolutely no way you could ever achieve queen
Mid 30’s to late 30’s: (these “phases” are on a sliding scale and are given based on my own life experience. Substitute or shift wherever you find it necessary) do everything in above phase 3 additional times, pass mirror, realize you look old but could look young if you wanted, go to cosmetic store and buy eye cream, entertain thoughts of being an adult student because “35 isn’t really as old as I used to think it was”, look around at piles of laundry for what is now a group of 4 – 7 people instead of 2 or 3, feel conflicted because you are so overwhelmed by housework and “wiping things” that you could scream but you also wouldn’t trade a second of the times that resulted in this mess if someone offered you the whole world, let out a sigh of resolution because even though the times are happy you do still have the mess and there is still poop involved, feel sort of resentful that you never get any awards or paychecks, start to really miss “cute”, settle on orthopedic sandals and tell yourself that “they look almost just like Birkenstocks!” even though they don’t but you can catch up with a 4 year old really fast if you have them on, begin to laugh at the idea of heels, decide it’s your daughter’s turn for “all of that”, maintain your deep seated desire to be a princess but realize now that queen is your only option, feel helpless and depleted and hopeless because queens don’t wear poop, look in the mirror and wonder if your male human counterpart actually thinks you’re “pretty” anymore, feel actual pity for him that he’s “stuck” with you, feel guilt….lots of guilt, feel failure
Does this resonate with anyone?  Sheesh! That was long, but does that basic framework not fit a lot of us? I mean, switch out a thing or two and it might not be THAT far off. Does anything jump out to you?  Something jumps out to me…
Loss of identity.
We are created to be an individual unique from every single other individual on planet earth at any point in human history past, present or future. So why is it that, especially in motherhood, one of the first things to go is…us?  Why do we immediately default to not just the needs, but the mere desires of the people around us? STOP DOING THIS!!!
Okay, let me make a little disclaimer here. We have all met women who were self absorbed.  These are the women who show up to things looking absolutely immaculate who also show up to show off.  This group of women is NOT something to which we should strive to belong.  These ones can be described as shallow and selfish.
Do you realize it’s a spectrum though? Do you realize that there is an equally disgusting extreme to that? You’ve met her too. “She” is constantly self deprecating, doesn’t ever try to dress up, actually tries to get attention by looking bedraggled and almost complains about not being able to be part of society at all because her children need her.
We need to have balance. We are vessels. We do not want a vessel that is overflowing with resources and comfort because the spillover is just that – wasted.  I don’t feel like it’s healthy or productive to hoard resources or attention. But trust me, if you’re sitting there wondering if you fall into this group and feel some dread over that possibility, I can unequivocally assure you that you don’t. This group of women is actually very proud of their near narcissistic way of life. We also don’t want to be an empty, cracked, chipped up vessel though….because that’s actually wasteful too.  In fact, that’s some of the most frustrating kind of waste too, because with the overflowing vessel, you can see it happening. With the cracked vessel, it’s almost a worse betrayal because the leaking is slow. The one putting the resource into the vessel doesn’t even realize until its too late that the vessel isn’t doing what it presented that it would do. On the same token, an empty vessel with nothing to offer at all does not help a single person or thing.
So what is the balance? This is where I want to make the distinction of self care versus self indulgence or self deprecation.  To be honest, I find that myself and most of my constituents find ourselves more on the self deprecation end of the spectrum and just a few of my acquaintances on the poles.  So let’s speak to our group.
Number one, why?  Why do we find it more acceptable to lay ourselves down to have our souls and identities beheaded on the altar of “serving our families”? I don’t feel like we actually have a good understanding of what that even means! We have got to stop this, girls! Even the Bible says “Love your neighbor as yourself” but if we treated someone the way we treat ourselves, we wouldn’t HAVE friends!!! Are you missing that? Did you catch that? Could we please do better?
I have to be honest. This is hard for me. I have a lot of what I call “old ghosts”.  Isn’t criticism a weird thing? It’s so vicious.
There was a time in my life when my children were younger that I received PUBLIC criticism from someone who claimed to have my best interest at heart. She sat on her podium of self deprecation and told an actual audience of other people that I was “overwhelmed by motherhood” as if it were unusual or an indicator of failure.  I will never forget that moment for as long as I live. The criticism was on top of other undue criticism that I’d received that she had even, at one point, discredited.  I have learned that this very same woman, during her own experience as a young mother found herself so “overwhelmed by motherhood” that she sat in her bedroom alone in a nearly catatonic state on the edge of her bed….ripping phone books in half.  I also have good reason to believe that she now has an at least psychological dependency on prescription pain killers….keep in perspective who your critics are because doing this work after giving too much credence to people like this is grueling on its best days.
Do you have stories like that too? Probably. Do you want to be the most wonderful version of yourself? Also probably.
…..do you wanna be a queen?
YES! YES! YES!
Okay. I’m going to tell you how I’m going to try to achieve that healthy level of royalness, but, in order to do that, I’m going to have to tell you how I ended up here.
Catch up with me tomorrow, and I’ll explain to you the most recent parts of what has made this journey positive and what it looks like starting today. Today was my day 1 of self care.
Are you ready???

Why I rode my bike to work

I spent my morning getting ready for the day just like so many other women. I fixed my hair into perfect soft curls. My lipstick was a happy, striking red. I had put on an adorably current striped jersey dress. I was ready for this new chapter of my life. This was an important day for me. I got in my little red car, opened the sunroof and made the hour long drive to my new home. I got out of the car, squared my shoulders and planted my feet on the front stoop - though I could feel my legs and ankles shaking over my strappy wedges. I pressed the buzzer next to the door. "Can I help you?" a voice asked through the small intercom box. "Yes...um...I'm (and then I gave my name). I called earlier." I fixed a polite smile on my face and waited for the door to open for me to the building -- a homeless shelter for battered women.

I had spent a couple days envisioning what it would be like at a shelter. I pictured things being very simple and there being an air of quietness and healing. Lots of pink and soft things -- reminders of what "home" is supposed to be. What I saw when the shelter worker opened the door was so very different. First of all, it was very dark. The furniture was all extremely old, and the people all looked incredibly sad. I felt every set of eyes on me. I suddenly felt very out of place "I'm not like THESE people......I don't look right....I shouldn't have dressed up." This monologue played through my brain as I was directed to the office to fill out my intake paperwork. I answered the appropriate questions and then was invited to follow the worker from the front door to see my room.

She was nice. This girl. She offered some small talk on the way to their supply closet. She told me a few of the rules and showed me through the kitchen and "family room". She continued this chatter as she gathered things from the shelves of the closet. "Uh," she paused. "I don't see a pillow here. There should be one on your bed, but here are your sheets." She loaded my arms with the things she'd collected -- a set of mismatched sheets and what looked like an old motel comforter. We reached my room, and she rattled off the protocol for entering and leaving my room and then showed me the bed I'd been assigned and the dressers where I was allowed to put my clothes. "This room is for four adults, so you are allowed to use three drawers -- .right over here," she gestured to the pieces of furniture against the wall. She kept talking while I tried to absorb my surroundings. I was sharing the room with two other women - one of whom had a baby. The room was already very full.

I laid the sheets on my twin sized top bunk and walked over to the dresser to see which drawers could be mine. Upon quick inspection, I noticed that two of the three available drawers had bottoms that were broken out.  I let out a sigh and began making my bed. I spread the sheets and comforter across the mattress and then picked up the pillow case. I looked around the bed. There was no pillow -- anywhere. I closed my eyes and let out another sigh, and then it happened. I felt my throat catch. It hit me.

I was here.

The events of the preceding six weeks all caught up with me at once. I had no choice but to admit to myself that it had all been real, and I was now a person that had nowhere to go. To a lot of people, I was a throwaway. I had been thrown away. Life had happened, and I had to accept the fact that I was now homeless and living in a shelter.

I fought the tears for the time it took me to get my computer out and turn on a movie. I stuck in my earbuds and bent my arm to make up for the pillow that wasn't there. I laid down and let the tears stream down across my nose and down my cheek until I fell asleep still in my pretty dress, still with my soft curls, and still wearing the makeup I'd so carefully applied earlier that day. None of that mattered. None of that was real. This was real. I was here. This was my new real.

My first few days there were a bit of a blur that included a lot of sleeping and some talking on the phone to a friend who lived states away from me. I felt a bit numb, but one morning I finally felt like leaving my room and meeting people.

The other ladies were friendly. I was the newby that they initially had thought was a new employee of the shelter because of the way I was dressed on the day I showed up, but they were kind to me. I began to feel a little camaraderie with these other victims.

As I sat at the table, everyone began to story share. Some of the behaviors were more extreme and some surroundings for the stories were different, but that was all. The words our abusers used - even entire phrases - were identical. I began to feel something that I hadn't felt amongst my group of peers in my old social circle. Normal. I began to feel normal. I also felt something else. Acceptance. No one suspected me of lying or exaggerating. They ALL believed MY story, and then something changed in me. I listened to the woman tell about how her girlfriend had tried to kill her. The teller happened to be a drug user and sometimes trafficker. I listened to another woman tell about the physical damage her abuser inflicted on her while their unborn baby grew in her womb. She happened to be a call girl. I watched the schizophrenic that talked to herself most of the time pick up a crayon and draw on cast-off napkins some of the most beautiful artwork I'd ever seen. I listened to so many stories of women that were so very like me. The parts of our stories that included different details stopped mattering, and one singular fact shot to the front of my brain. We...were...all...people, and at one point or another, we had all been thrown away. Being thrown away had driven us to make certain decisions for our lives. Some of these decisions might have seemed foolish and some even viewed as criminal, but life had happened in a way that had driven each one of us to these decisions - things that were outside of our control. So we had all ended up in this house.

Because the inclusion into the group felt like an evolution for me, I can't tell you at what specific place it began, but I found myself doing things for my sisters in the house and they for me. We began to feel comfortable with one another and establish friendships and to defend each other against the more nefarious ones that cycled in and out of "the house". I was careful to protect the privacy of my sisters. This was, after all a place of hiding for us, but I loved getting to tell a faraway friend about the new friends I found there.

There was something sad though. There were ladies that would come in covered in bruises and blood who would spend their first couple of days holed up in their rooms - just like I had. Then they would emerge like an animal finished with hibernation as it blinks in its first beams of spring sunlight, and they would tell their stories. We would spend hours talking about how we were DONE with the world of being mistreated and talk about how strong we were for having survived that world well enough to get out. We would rally around each other, and then we would watch some of them go right back to their abusers. This was the single most heartbreaking thing for me. "WHY??? WHY would she go back to her abuser? She KNOWS that she's just going to get hurt again!" Sometimes this would be another internal dialogue, and sometimes two or three of us would have a conversation together.

So I began to study why it was that a person would return to something that they could feel sure would just cause them more damage. In fact, why had I myself done that for years? Here's the answer: Hope.

Hope is a funny thing. The presence of it can be the most empowering thing in our human experience. The absence of it can lead us to completely fruitless situations or even criminal activity. "My therapist told me today that most abused women leave 9 times before they actually leave their abuser for good. Then the 9th time they stay gone," one of my sisters said as we all sat like captives of the motion sensor and multiple locks on the door of the humid back porch. "Well, THIS is your 9th time. We are strong. We can do this! We can move on!" So "the 9th time" became sort of a catch phrase for us. I myself had left 5. I knew what it meant to leave with every intention of scrapping together every resource and all your resolve to stay gone and rebuild a life only to lose all your strength or to be given enough rejection from a resource that you desperately needed and feel forced go right back. Sadly, even though this heart that spoke those words had actually walked away from her abuser 9 times, she went back to him. It wasn't her "9th time". She had gotten a job to provide for herself and her girls, and her boss turned out to be a man with intentions to cross lines with her that she didn't want to cross. He fired her. She lost her hope. "You tell us if you need anything, okay?" we each told her as we stared into her beautiful eyes through the tears in our own. "Okay. I will, but seriously guys. This time is different," she told us knowing full well we didn't believe her. She didn't even believe her, but she drove away.

I was different though. I was lucky, and I very quickly realized that I was an extreme exception. I was broke and jobless and abused just like every other woman in that house. I had gone from being a stay at home spouse to living in THIS house in 7 weeks time, but I had something different. For reasons that I do not know, I was given Hope. I had people that believed in me.

One of these benefactors of Hope was a friend of mine. We had lost touch for years and then found each other again just weeks before. Even though the amount of time we had spent reconnecting had been rather small, he had this unwavering belief in me. That belief in me sparked something in my soul that had been forced to lie dormant for nearly a decade - hope. He spent many hours reminding me of what I was actually worth and what I could actually do to impact my world. At first I didn't believe anything he was saying, but after a while, I couldn't help but see tiny pieces of what he was saying to be true.

After I had been living in the shelter for about 3 weeks of my allotted 8, I realized that I needed to become very proactive about finding a job. I had spent years being told that I was not hireable by anyone and that I didn't have a work ethic to work a job let alone keep one. Broaching the subject of getting a job was nothing short of terrifying to me. I had, however, developed a skill and love for makeup artistry. "Why don't you just SEE if there are any makeup artist jobs?" my friend asked me one day after having made the suggestion a number of times already. "NObody is going to hire me. I've only done a little bit of free lance stuff since school. I am NOT the type of person they're looking for". I threw the suggestion in the waste bin of my heart another time and began instead to explore the option of exotic dancing. It would be quick money, and I had made a connection in the house with a former dancer. My friend expressed worry about me entering this line of work. He told me about how dangerous it could be and how it could damage my ability to wage the legal wars that I was going through. I found ways to justify the choice of exploring dancing and hung up on him mid phone call.

The truth was, I just felt like that all I was good enough to do was expose my already damaged self to people who weren't viewing it with any intention of investing anything in it. While I realize that is not the motivation of every woman entering that industry, I can't deny that it was mine. I tossed the idea around for another week, but my friend's gentle reminders of the skill that I knew I possessed eventually sent me to my computer to search for makeup artist jobs.

I found an opening. Hope.

I felt like this opportunity was a long shot, but something in me made my fingers press down the keys enough times to write a resume and then finish the application. Several days later, I got a call back for an interview. My lovely 14 year old Mazda had bit the dust during my stay at the shelter so, by the time I got the interview, I had no car.  I appealed to friends on Facebook to see if someone local could give me a ride to the interview. There was a lady that I'd gone to church with in my "old life" that answered the request. She had only been a casual friend before, but she kept stepping to the front of the line every single time I asked for help. Hope.

 During that interview, the cosmetic department manager told me "Well, we have a process for all this stuff, so I have to call our corporate HR and set up a phone interview with the company that we use, but if I could, I'd hire you right now." More Hope. I went through my phone interview 4 days later, and then I got another call with a job offer. I was the newest member of the Estee Lauder empire. I danced through the house and made phone calls to my small list of people who I thought cared and prepared myself for my first day of work.

This job was 12.5 miles away from the house, so I found out what I needed to do to ride the bus. I started on a Wednesday and had an amazing day. Thursday was my day off, and then Friday morning I got back on the bus. I overheard another passenger say something that made me feel completely frantic. I leaned forward to talk to the driver "Um, so the bus doesn't run on the weekends?" "No," he said as he cocked his head to the side to avoid the summer morning sun. "No. Doesn't run on the weekends." I was scheduled to work the following morning. My mind began to race. I spent that day's lunch break begging more people on Facebook to give me a ride to work the next day.

I secured a ride for the days for that weekend, but I knew I had to make a better plan for the next weekend that I was scheduled to work. I also learned that the last bus ran at 7:30 in the evening, so if I closed the store, I would be without a ride. My answer: I called my mom.  We spent the next day and a half figuring out how she could order a bike for me and let me pick it up.  This proved to be way more difficult than expected since she, the purchaser, wasn't the picker-upper.  We ended up being able to order it from Wal-mart and my mom gifted me with the most adorable yellow bike with bright cartooney flowers on it. The flowers reminded me of the signature roses used for the logo for Betsey Johnson's wares, so I bestowed that name to my trusty steed. She was henceforth known to everyone as "Betsey".

My first ride on Betsey was a hot one. I sweated my entire way to work, but I figured it would be nothing to just grab a drink at Panera and then change in the bathroom. I wanted to be sure to actually buy something so I didn't reveal myself as the homeless person that I actually was. I took my place in line at the counter and ordered my drink with sweat dripping off my brow. I opened my wallet. "It's okay. I got this," the man behind the counter said. I stood there slack jawed. "Are you sure?" I asked. I felt like I'd just been given a million dollars. "Yeah," he said with a smile while he shooed me away. Guess what that cup of soda represented to me? Yep. Just a little cup of Hope.

I had told my coworkers that I had bought a bike to ride to work, but I had NOT told them how far the ride was. This person shared with that person enough details about things I'd said, though, so they figured me out. Not only was I riding my bike 12.5 miles in blazing sun or pouring rain when the bus wasn't running, I was also traversing the stretch of road nicknamed "bloody 98" because of all the biker and traffic fatalities there. My coworkers were horrified. They sat me down on the stool at the Clinique counter and told firmly but so lovingly that I was not allowed to EVER ride that bike to work again. Everyone in my department had agreed that they'd be taking care of my ride situation until I was able to get a car. More Hope. I didn't ask for it. I didn't actually do anything to deserve it, but people that decided to dare about me had given it to me.

Just a few weeks later, one of my chums from high school told me she was going to start helping me look for a car. She asked me how much I could spend. I told her the truth. I had nothing. What happened next was beyond my scope of understanding, but that same girl asked me if I would be able to get a ride or even a bus ticket to a town about an hour and half from mine. They had BOUGHT me a car. More hope. I felt like the QUEEN of the world. I cried the whole way back to the shelter. I gripped the steering wheel and scooted my booty around the seats just to make sure it was really real.

Just a few days later, I was hit with a giant blow. The director of the shelter knocked on my door just before my alarm was set to go off. She called my name and then entered the room.

"What are you going to do today?" she asked.

Very confused, I answered, "Um...I'm going to work. I have to be there at noon. Why?"

"Well, this is your last day," she explained.

"My last day for what?" I was even more confused.

"Your last day here!" she said, and then she giggled with a weird gratification in her laugh.

"I have to LEAVE? Can I get an extension?" I asked as I shot out of bed hoping that they'd bend the rules for me since I'd had the distraction of starting my new job. I had seen this exception made for others so her reply surprised me.

"No. It's too late for that. You should have done that last week." She pulled the door closed with that same gratified smirk on her face.

I sat back on my bed and held my head in my hands and cried, but then Hope took over. I was determined now. I had tasted enough success that I was going to find a way. I was getting out of that place and not by way of my stuff being thrown to the curb in black trash bags while I was at work (as I had seen done to others during my stay there).

I gathered my wits and briskly walked through the living room to sign my name to the clipboard outside the office door to be seen by the director. After a few minutes, she came out of the office and stood in front of me. "Is there nothing that can be done?" I asked through tears. "No," she said coldly and then held up a small scrap of paper. "Here," she said. "Call THESE people. Maybe one of THEM will listen to your sob story." She barely gave me enough time to grip the scrap before she let go of it.

I felt so hurt. My stay there had not been without problems. The kitchen was stocked on a regular basis, but there was a problem of women in the house hoarding food in their rooms. So by the time I got home, there was not much left but canned goods. I cannot count the number of days that I came home from work to my usual dinner of a can of corn and an uncooked package of Ramen noodles. The reason they were uncooked was because, while dishes would get washed, they weren't always washed well. There was also a pest problem. Also, because I was a single person in the house, I was very movable. On a number of occasions, I would come home from work to find that I'd been moved to a different room from the one I'd left. Sometimes they would move my belongings for me, and sometimes they'd just leave my things in the afore mentioned trash bags in the front room for me to move myself, but every time things got moved, something would be missing. I was also approached very aggressively by another woman in the house. She made a number of unwanted advances towards me. I never complained about any of these things, and I never upset any of the balance of the house, so the coldness to me by the director was startling and confusing and immensely hurtful. I also realized this meant that I might lose the job I'd worked so hard to get and keep.

I took the paper and walked to my room and immediately got on the phone to call into work. Through more tears, I explained to the manager of the store what had just happened . He assured me that they were going to help and to just calm down and that this did not jeopardize my job. A couple hours later, the director reentered my room and sort of sheepishly admitted to me that I didn't have to leave that day. I would be given the weekend, and then I would have to leave but I could stay until the weekend was over. Apparently she had received a few phone calls on my behalf.

One of my managers from work found several listings for small apartments that I could afford. She took her day off to drive me around town until we found the one that would work with my budget. She spent time in our conversation with my prospective landlords vouching for why I was a good candidate to rent from them. I was approved despite the fact that I had no credit and only half of the deposit. More Hope.

I sat in a booth at McDonalds with my new landlords and signed my lease paperwork. After we shook hands, they excused themselves and left. I sat in that booth and stared at the keys in my hand. Just two little hunks of metal, but, to me, they represented something so huge - something that had evaded most of my sisters in the house. Hope.  They weren't just keys to my house, and they weren't just keys to my future. They were keys OUT of my past.

I walked up to the counter to order some food, and the tears started to well up again. Feeling the need to explain, I looked at the boy working behind the counter, and I asked, "Do you know what you just watched happen there?" and I pointed to the booth where I'd been sitting. He shook his head with a curious smile. "You just watched me become not homeless anymore." Our eyes locked, and then his welled up with tears too. Another worker slid the tray of my food onto the counter so I opened my wallet. "I got it," my listening boy said. I looked back up at him and could just mouth the words, "Thank you." He had no idea. He thought he was just comping my dinner. He thought he was just doing something really nice for someone, but no. He was doing more........he was giving me more of what I needed. He was giving me Hope.

On our first big fight...and becoming a stripper

I'm sitting in my living room chair in 2016 thinking about why exactly I'm writing again about me in 2013, and I'm not entirely sure of my purpose.  I just know that, when I feel so compelled to write that the refusal to do it nauseates me, I open up my laptop and start hitting the keys.

I just finished reading a blog article of a "church lady" that went with several of her "church lady" friends...to a strip club.  Their mission was to restore the sense of humanity to these ladies.  They truly ministered to them in the truest sense of the concept - no judgments and no agenda except to make these dancers feel loved.  The church ladies were struck that, while they went in with no ill judgments, they did have some preconceived ideas about the character or at least personalities of these ladies - that they were all just really mostly similar except for their jobs.  They all ended up having a sort of unifying and transcendent and healing experience from it.  It was a nice story - so nice.  It caused a lump to form in my throat because it didn't just trigger emotions for me...

It triggered my memory.

In 2013 I found myself to be one of those "without a place to go".  I was homeless. Six weeks prior I had been an 8 year veteran of the SAHM world, but life played out as it always does and I ended up being a short term resident of a shelter for battered women. Go read my very first post to read about my first night there.

I decided very quickly that, because you are only allowed to stay for 8 weeks, I was going to do whatever it took to build a whole brand new life.  Let me tell you - 3 years post homelessness and I'm STILL trying to recover from what was only a 2 1/2 month stint as a person with no home.  I knew I wanted something good and solid, and I knew I needed something fast.  The problem was that I found myself having almost no work experience for the previous 8 years and I was living in a VERY political small town and was on the wrong end of the politics.  My options seemed REEEEAAAL limited.

One day in the office, I was talking with one of the girls about jobs.  Most of us were looking for one, and I purposed in my heart that I was going to be at the front of the line.  I'd spent a good week in bed crying and then I recovered myself to get to work.  This girl with whom I was sharing information mentioned dancing.  She told me about the club where she had worked and about the connections that she still had with that club and another one.  She proceeded to tell me that I could be a good candidate for getting a job and that she could help me...

to become a stripper.

So this all flew in the face of "before" me who, for all intents and purposes, was a virgin when I got married to my older kids' dad, but I'm going to tell you this: when you have nothing with a prospect of more nothing, you don't stay snobby.  You do what you gotta do.  You don't turn up your nose at something that you know could pay your bills because the electric company and water company don't take good morals for payment.  You don't get to leave the store with your groceries because you're "a really nice girl that just doesn't do those things".  You need money.  If you're stuck and you don't want to stay that way, you think "outside the box".

I played these justifications through my mind and decided to broach the idea (really just give notification) to my old boyfriend turned new boyfriend (again, you gotta read my old posts for THAT story).  I explained the whole story to my feministic, philosopher boyfriend wanting him to support me during this really desperate, unconventional period of my life and to protest because I was "his" all at the same time.  I didn't know what I wanted, but I knew what I needed.  I needed money.

I had three sets of eyes looking to me - COUNTING on me to rebuild my life.  This was an absolute necessity that I accomplish this, so I told Dan about my plan.

"I just don't think this is a good idea for you in any area." "I will support you as a person if you do this, but I do not support this idea." were the things he told me.  I became completely furious, and thus began our first fight. I felt like he was being snobby and elitest when all I wanted was a way out!!! He wouldn't seem to understand!

I was desperate. I could make 3 phone calls and have a couple of interviews and have a job in a town where I was an outcast.  I felt frantic and so, so frustrated.  This was something that I needed to do.  I didn't care how humiliated I felt sure I would feel.  I didn't care about other people's opinions of me.  I didn't care that I would work weird hours.  I didn't care about the ugly things people might say to me through the course of my shift or the dangers that could befall me after it was over.

I was just a mom whose life got ripped out of my hands who needed money to survive, and this was my ticket.

Are you my friend?

Have you been my friend for a long time?

Did you just become my friend?

Did you know this story?  (Actually I think even my mom didn't know this story...sorry, Mom!) Does your opinion of me change?  Does your opinion of "them" change?

I AM them.  They ARE me.

I never danced a single turn.  The stars aligned (it was God) and I got a job working as a makeup artist for Estee Lauder...while I was living at the shelter.  I was shocked that I got the job in the first place.  I used my ex sister in law's address (one of THE most tremendous women on the planet) on my employment paperwork so that no one would know that I was actually homeless. My car ended up getting totaled so there was a 12.5 mile gulf between work and my temporary residence, so I bought a bike.  Once my coworkers found out that I was riding that distance in the dark on a road peppered with monuments to cyclists who had been struck and killed by cars, they started giving me rides.

One day, a sassy, stylish lady of privilege sat down in my chair for me to do her makeup.  We chatted about her coloring and the products she had used from our line, and then we made small talk about her life. "I like to get the gift (with purchase) and if it's not something I'll use, I like to donate it to (insert name of shelter that I'm not legally allowed to type because I signed a waiver) so that the ladies there can have something nice".  The blood drained from my hands midway through applying her blush.

Another memory:

Two weeks prior the administrator (I don't remember her actual title, but she ran the place for the owner) came into the common room and tossed a shoe box onto the oversized 1970's dining room table. The contents popped out of the box and down again after her tossing it our direction.  It drew us like bugs to a porch light - it was makeup!  The other girls sifted through it, but, because they had all seen the makeup that I'd managed to keep safe through all of my logistical loss and because a couple of them had even found their way to the right end of my shears and makeup brushes, they started picking things out for me.  "Ooh! Sarah, look at this! Is this a nice one?" "THIS is a pretty color!" "Do you have anything like this already?"  My heart wanted to hoard ALL of it on this day that felt like Christmas, but I decided on just a few thing - one of them being a lipstick in a dark blue tube from non other than...Estee Lauder.

That tube of lipstick was actually in my makeup bag behind the counter as I spoke to the client who very likely could have donated it. "I just feel like everybody deserves to have something nice, and if I'm not going to use it, I want someone to enjoy it.  I've never gotten to meet any of those ladies...(her voice trailed off a little bit as I turned her face different angles to finish her service)...but I wish I could. I just hope that little things like that help."

"I HAVE TO TELL HER I HAVE TO TELL HER!!!...but I can't. That's not professional...I can't tell her that is the exact place where I'm actually currently living...but I have to tell her that she DID make a difference!" Despite the disorganization of the shelter employees and the fact that a LOT of the nice things people donate never even make it to the people in need, I knew I had to say something.

We finished her appointment.  She picked out almost $100 worth of merchandise and did indeed get the gift with purchase for the promotion we were running.  I saw my chance.  I bagged up her things and walked out from behind the counter and said "I have something to tell you...(she looked up at me with furrowed, confused brows) you HAVE met one of the ladies."  The eyes of this "fancy" lady welled up with tears "You?" she mouthed while she choked away the brokenness in her voice.  I nodded and smiled. "Oh I'm so GLAD that place helped you and you have a life now and this wonderful job!" We hugged. I'd been working there for like a week.  I didn't even know if I was allowed to hug customers or if I was going to lose my job for telling her what I did.  What she also didn't know is, when I left my "wonderful job" (and it really was) for the day, I was going home to the shelter to eat a can of corn and a package of uncooked ramen noodles so I could get back on the bus or in someone else's car or on my bike to come to work the next day.  I didn't tell her.  She really had made an impact of giving humanity back to me during a time when I felt pretty stripped of dignity. That's all I wanted her to know.  I didn't need for her to know about how during my days pre-job, I walked around town with vouchers begging people for things their businesses claimed to give people in need.  I didn't need for her to know about the corn or the ramen or that I didn't get to see my kids overnight for those months because they wouldn't have been allowed a place to sleep. I didn't want her to know that I would ride to work on my bike for more than 12 miles and go into Panera Bread soaking with sweat and then redress myself and dry my hair and put on that lipstick in the blue tube.  I just wanted her to know about the lipstick - and that it had made a difference.

Weeks passed and I saved up enough money to get myself an apartment.  A friend actually bought me a car.  A new friend from work organized a pounding for me and a drive for household items.  I will never forget my first night in my apartment sleeping on an air mattress I'd retrieved from the house I shared with my ex husband. Other than a little wicker bench, that was all my furniture. I felt like a queen.

Today I'm sitting on a comfy oversized chair with my feet on a cushy ottoman.  My 4 month old baby is laying beside me in a state of satisfied milk drunkenness.  I just got off the phone with my friend, and I'm waiting for my husband to get home from work.  I ate a full meal earlier and put gas in my car, and I have enough money to buy the diapers my baby needs and even food for my daughter's chubby guinea pig.

I look like one of "you" and all of you.  I'm just a mom of four kids who writes a blog sometimes and has an all but unwatched Youtube channel.  I drive around town. I go to church. I throw back my head and laugh when I think something is funny.  My life, though as I said is still very challenging, looks completely normal and this story is something about which most of you only know the ending.  I'm just "that girl Sarah", "Dan's wife", "the Stevens kids' mom"....I'm just a mom.

....but I was almost a stripper.

On being woven

Where do I even begin?  I feel like I should catch up our readers on what has been happening in my life, but there are details too sensitive to include.  Beginning that way would just leave too many confusing voids.

There are some hard things happening.  There are some beautiful things happening.  I have all four of my beautiful children asleep in their beds.  Everyone is healthy.  Everyone is learning, and I have gotten to tell each of them very recently that I love them.  That is a treasure to me.

But it is four o' clock in the morning, and I haven't slept a wink.  That's from all those hard parts that are happening.

Gosh they leave me so confused.  They just have a way of smacking me in the fat of the cheek every single time.

By this time of my sleepless night, I have read over some of my old posts and felt a little rejuvenation at the strength I found in earlier days in my life, but I'm just not kidding that the hard parts are wearing on me.  They're starting to make me age.  I looked in the mirror the other day and realized just how much my face has aged over the last few years.  I don't even look like the same person to myself.

I'm tired.

There's no rest from the challenges I face.  I will carry them in my satchel of daily experiences for the rest of my life.  That promise (or threat) was even given to me recently - "for the rest of your natural life" this heart said to me.  Thank you for making your intentions clear, heart that spoke to me.  At least the heart was honest, right?  Now at least I know what to expect.  More hard things.  More heart ache.  More challenges that will cause other people to describe me as "strong" but will leave me feeling, once again, just depleted.

Even my joints hurt.  Honestly, I'm preparing my life to speak to a doctor about it.

This life hurts, doesn't it?  The really annoying thing is that the human experience contains a lot of injustice, so some lives include more pain than others.  It's just true.  There are people who live their entire lives so insulated that they are altogether unscathed compared to the battered scraped up souls that live right alongside them.

Does that make the lives of the bruised and used up ones less beautiful?  Nay.  Not at all.  I'm not a fan of the volume of painful experiences that are included in my story, but I don't dare trade a single one of them.  They have woven into something that has become me.  They have twisted me and pulled me and stretched me into something that provides comfort for some and cover for others.  They have melted away the frivolous parts of me.  There's no fake left.  I don't have the energy for it.  What you see is what I really am.

And it isn't something not wonderful.  My. life. is. wonderful.  It makes me think of the analogy to which I alluded above - the one of a tapestry.  So full of tangles and knots on one side.  Chaos and disorder and confusion.  The other side, however, reveals something so intentional...so beautiful...so perfect that it leaves the jaws of it's admirers hanging open.

I'm not something different or better than someone else.  Please forgive me if that's what I seemed to say.  I am one of many.  You are too.  Maybe you feel the way that I feel - that you don't happen to be one of those unscathed ones.  Maybe you have hurt more hurts than what you see from those around you or maybe you just wonder if your life is a big fat waste - like it's being sabotaged somehow.

It's not.  You're a tapestry...a big, tall, thick tapestry.  Wait for your moment because, when it comes, you will be so glad that you have been woven as thick as what you are.  The time will come when you see that all the painful kniving moments that passed through your being over and over made something that shows nothing but beauty.  Try so hard, sweet hearts, to remember that in those weaving moments.  You're so beautiful.  The tapestry of your life is so beautiful because the one weaving it does it with intention.  It may look like chaos to you, but it is all with a specific order.  Look for the threads - the moments in your life that make your heart swell and give the muscles of your soul a break.  They are there.  Don't get lost in the side of the weaving that you can see.  Know there's something bigger.  Don't forget that your picture is like no one else's this is YOUR story.  No one can replicate the intricacies woven through who you are.  It is yours and yours alone.  Look for the threads.  Look for the beauty.

Know that, within every single day and within every part of your heart, there are many threads of beautiful. And I promise that one day you'll be able to see the picture they've created. Then, sweet hurting heart, you'll know just what it was all for.

On years...all those years

Dear Dan,

We ate at a Greek place today.  As I dangled my fork over the plate of baklava, you said "You know, with this being near an anniversary of something, it's reminding me of another time we ate Greek food", and then you smiled and waited for it to register with me.  It did.  I smiled, and then I felt the need to do the math.  "14 years!" I said, and then I sat back as it really sank in. "I've known you for 14 years."  You nodded in response.  My mind rewinded back to the first time we ate Greek.

It was our first date.

I was 20.  You were 23.  I was a young 20, and you were a 23 that had already lived a whole lifetime in some ways.  You terrified my parents, but your invitation to take me on a date was something for which I had been waiting and mentally begging you for weeks.  "This place is one of Chattanooga's only 4 star restaurants", you bragged.  You were so excited to show me the world of this amazing food, and I decided I was excited to feel like your arm candy.  I was determined that 2002 was going to look good on me, and so far, at least you had decided that I'd been successful.

The whole evening was magic.  I don't think either of us wanted it to end so I just kept thinking up places for us to go.  I think we drove back and forth across town like three times.  You never seemed to be worried about the gas we were using up or the time it was taking to drive all over town in loops.
One of our stops was the bridge.  Everyone goes to the bridge.  In fact, I saw some friends there and, in my nervousness, I actually left you to go talk to them.  One of my friends commented on your eyes.  There has always been something captivating about those eyes of yours.

That walk on the bridge ended up having an impact on you, though I wouldn't know for a decade just how much.

"I love you", I told you as I got ready to walk into my house after a date on a night several weeks later.  "I love you too....that's what makes this so hard" you said in response...though it almost seemed like you were saying it as much to yourself as to me.  Immediately my brow furrowed and my brain silently asked "Makes what so hard?...what does that mean?".  Several days later, I found out.

You dumped me.  My heart was broken, but I knew yours was too.  Our efforts at staying friends were valiant ones but who were we kidding, right?  Neither one of us could stand just being friends so I sent you a condescending email and made it all your fault.

Nothing made sense after that.  After that day there were things in my life that made me smile, but there was a lot that made me cry.  After years had passed and I'd cried enough tears that I decided I was done crying them, I thought of you...and so I found you.  I felt like I was getting a chance to come up for air when I saw you.  You were not interested.   Life was heading in a very decided direction for you and I guess mine was too so we parted ways again.

More years passed...and then came the day that my heart wanted to find you again.  Everything was all jumbled up, and a lot of everything just felt completely broken.  My head was spinning.  I was so absolutely confused, and once my spirit finally crumpled into a heap, I thought of you again. "Dan will tell me the truth...Dan will be able to see it...Dan..." You were my North, and I knew it.  I needed to reach for you again and see if you would be my North again.

You would.  Reticent at first, though you were, you very quickly embraced me with every part of who you are.  For the first time, in some ways, since the day we stood on my front stoop giving each other our last embrace, I felt safe.  I felt loved.  I felt...like things could make sense.

I'll never forget telling my sister "I'm gonna marry him".  "Oh Saruhhhhh!" she said with an exhausted growl at the end of my name.  It wasn't me staking my claim, though.  I remember being very struck at that moment at the feeling that I had just been given some sort of premonition, and I was just verbalizing what I'd seen.

Our relationship began to grow after that day.  We spent so many hours talking and learning about the new versions of each other.  11 years had gone by since we'd really explored the heart of the other...11 years.  We'd each become completely different people and yet...I immediately began to feel just like I had 11 years before - that we fit.   "We" worked.  "We" made sense...so much sense.  I felt again that sensation that I was shooting up out of the depths and being allowed to let out a huge gasp to fill my lungs with good clean air.  I felt it over and over and over and so often in those first few months.

And then more time passed.

We started hearing a lot of questions about when we were going to get married.  This annoyed me to no end.  Married on paper was something that I'd already been and not something that I felt that I really ever needed to be ever again.  I knew I wanted to spend the rest of my life with you.  I knew I was committed to you and that you were committed to me.  We had talked about this commitment and that it existed in a very real way without there having been a contract that we signed.  I felt it was very unnecessary...and yet...there was a beautiful foggy night in January.  You took my hand and walked me across the same bridge we walked across all those years before.  When you got down on your knee, I had that sensation again - that feeling of my soul being filled with the most wonderful oxygen.  You asked me if I would be your wife and I could not stop myself from saying "YES!".  I WANTED it! I wanted nothing more than to be your wife.  I had wanted it for so so long, and now it was going to be.

My fairy tale...

The real life versions of fairy tales are different from storybooks because they aren't perfect.  They include all the flaws, but they're certainly real and they are definitely beautiful.  That's what I was thinking about one year ago today.

At one time, I was the girl who decried getting married.  It was so superfluous.  We didn't need it, but one year ago today...I knew... I wanted it.  I wanted you, and you wanted me and we wanted everybody to know it.  Right in the midst of a bunch of bitterly cold days including snow 2 days after, we had an amazing spring-like day.  You left the house and as I finished getting ready, I shook away tears that came every time I thought about...time.  I had spent so much time apart from you since the time we'd first fallen in love, and now I'd get to be with you forever.  On that day I do recall telling you "until the last breath in my lungs and until the last beat of my heart...I am yours".

I didn't know on that day what the upcoming year would be like.  I had no idea.  Neither of us could have predicted the crazy ride encompassed in the past 365 days.  I mean....WE HAD A BABY!!!!  There have been days of lots of laughing but there have been a lot of days of hurting - physical and otherwise.  So many confusing days.  We have asked so many questions of life and of God.  We still don't have answers to many of them, but we have this.

We have love.

We have each other.

We have our fairy tale.

So I promise to you again this thing, Dan...my love...

Until the last breath in my lungs and until the last beat of my heart, I am yours.

Happy anniversary.