I have been struggling to write this post to a long time. I picture this blog being something. I picture myself being something. And then I just run circles around myself never really getting anywhere. I am thirty one years old. I am a mother, twice. I have a husband. Actually, I have a great husband, like one of those old fashion Red Forman types. He seriously loves me unconditionally and that’s not something you see every day. We own a beautiful house that we built when we were just twenty six years old which was honestly the most stressful, scary, amazing, beautiful experience of my life. Kind of like motherhood. It was the birth of this incredible structure that wasn’t there before, that we created. Definitely top three biggest accomplishment of my life. But here we are in this very sticky place and here I am.
This blog is the beginning of my life. If you are reading this right now, that probably doesn’t make any sense. So let me back up.
I met my husband when we were eleven. Yes, you read that right. Eleven. Let that sink in a minute. Think about your life when you were eleven. You were just starting middle school, the sixth grade. You are a nervous, shy bookworm. And when I say bookworm I mean, you read books while walking down the hallway at school so you could avoid awkwardly trying to walk with someone else to class. When I say shy I mean, one time you were at the grocery story with your mom and she asked you to return the shopping cart forgetting the milk underneath. As your walking back to the car a man starts calling to you, “little girl, little girl you forgot your milk” and you run to the car so fast you can’t breath, you don’t hear what he is saying because you are terrified and crying. Yeah, that shy.
So you have this Math class that someone someway is filled with a bunch of kids who all get along and become this little click of friends. And in this click of friends is you and your husband. He thinks your cute so one day he passes you a note folded in the shape of a football that says, “will you go out with me?” and it gives you butterflies because a boy likes you but, you have a crush on a different boy so you say no, lets be friends. And friends you would be, for four years you become the best of friends. Your hiding your corded phone under your pillow whispering until the wee hours of the morning, your calling his girlfriend because she has call waiting to get through to his phone, your giving each other these hugs that last so long your own homeroom teacher is like, just have sex already. Jk, but honestly she did tease me that I looooooved him and I was all like eh no we’re just friends.
And your boyfriend is the worst. He’s mean and calls you names. He cheats on you and everyone knows but you. You are the butt of every joke. You get hazed and harassed by your once best friends. Your teased and bullied relentlessly. You cry and don’t want to go to school. You try private school. You try new friends. Your parents are getting divorced. You breakdown. Your silent. Your still, only twelve. You gain weight. You listen to your mom lying in bed every night crying for hours wondering if she will end her own life. You try to feed her because she is not eating, you try to shelter your brother because he is even younger than you. You dad is there and then he is gone, there and then he is gone again.
I lost my virginity at fourteen, to my boyfriend that I had been dating since I was twelve. When my parents found out they screamed at me and called me a pig. I remember curling up on my best shielding my face from them and crying so hard that I wanted to die. Here I am thirty one years old and I have only had three partners. It would crush me if I ever found out that one of my children had sex so young. But, that was not the right way to handle it.
Your boyfriends step-dad dies. There is no one else. Your mom decides he is moving in with us, foster money. We can’t date anymore. Mark has his own issues. He’s rebellious and wild. Extremely social, so different from me. The complete opposite of me. His girlfriend breaks his heart, he drinks too much and almost died. His parents put him in rehab. I call every day. I lie to our friends. He tells me he loves me. I say, I do too. He was intoxicatingly sweet and so in love with me. It scared me. How could we only be fifteen and this boy loves me so much. It was almost too much. All the while, I am living with this other boy who I truly believed I loved for the past three years of my life. As a child. A child in love. He made me feel like I was a worthless human being and no one else would ever love me. I cheated on Mark with him. I couldn’t live with the guilt or the feeling that our relationship was a lie. I confessed and we broke up. I was honest that I loved him and would wait for him.
One month later his dad told him he was a mess and needed to get me back. He doesn’t trust me. We got back together and I got pregnant. We were sixteen. I thought I knew everything. My parents were irrelevant. Mark stood by me with the maturity of a grown adult. He was proud, he got a job and spent every single day with me. He loved me unconditionally. I lost the baby early on. My mother drove me to the doctor and then dropped me off at my grandparents house. She never brought my medicine. She never called to see if I was ok. She just left me. I knew in that moment that I was alone in this. This life was mine now and my parents were no longer in charge.
I lived with my grandparents for a few months and then somehow my parents convinced me to go on a trip with them to Disney and my dad helped me finance a car. I moved back home and literally did whatever the hell I wanted, at sixteen-seventeen years old. I had a job, I paid for my own things, my own gas, my own car payments. I came and went as I pleased. We took full advantage. We partied, drank and smoked. We experimented with drugs. We stayed out until the sun came up. We camped, we beached, we hiked, we picnicked. We had friends, lots of friends. We always had a place to go, people to see and things to do. My parents bought a big house going into senior year and we moved. I got a tiny dog and took over the basement. I basically had my own apartment, in their house. I did what I wanted, when I wanted and no one was ever around. I avoided the house because people were screaming or drunk or my ex was there constantly making my life hell.
We have this group of friends. I decide they are what I needed. I meet this cute older guy, and I need him too. I tell Mark I am confused and need space. I go out with the other guy a few times, nothing serious. I go back to Mark. He doesn’t trust me. I decide again to date my ex, I go back to Mark. He doesn’t trust me. I start college for nursing. I end up finding out this guy at work I’d had my eye on for years has feelings for me. We date for a few months. I think that I might love him. He was my third. He breaks my heart. I quit school. I go back to Mark. He doesn’t trust me. We’re eighteen.
I slept at Mark’s mostly or he slept at my house until our parents got together and said no more. I packed up my trunk full of clothes and lived out of my car. We spent the entire summer after senior year sleeping in a tent every night in Mark’s backyard. We got an apartment just before turning nineteen. The two of us and our little dog Roxy. Alone in a terrible section of a city close to home. Toxic. My life was toxic. We both worked full time and somehow collected animals. We took in a companion dog for Roxy, my parents neglected dog Jack, a kitten I found on the street outside our apartment and another kitten I got from a co-worker, Nollie. My parents finally got divorced. I stopped talking to them completely. My depression got to be the worst it had ever been. I drank and smoked a lot, I began over exercising and starving myself. I start blogging about it. I reached out to my best friend who I hadn’t talked to in four years. We rekindled our relationship. Mark became obsessed with buying a house, he believed it was the solution to everything. I felt like an empty shell searching for houses. Finally we find one. At twenty years old we buy our first house.
We move in and things get better. I get better. I stop starving myself, I get back to a healthy weight, I stop over-exercising. I start to smile again. We get married. I start college, again. This time I am serious. I pursue art because my mom is no longer allowed to tell me it’s a waste of time. I do well but have trouble focusing. At twenty four we get pregnant with our daughter, Summer. I decide art is impractical and switch back to nursing. I continue school at a snails pace for nine years. Nine years and I still don’t have my associates. One class a semester while working full time. I was the most stressed out, rushed, unorganized person you ever wanted to meet. My house was always a wreck and I was and still am never on time for anything. I overspent, over indulged and overdid everything. I wanted to do it all for my daughter, cramming every second with classes and crafts no one ever had time for and ignoring the important things like baby books and special memories.
At twenty six we tear down our tiny house and build a giant one in it’s place. I get into another earth shattering fight with my best friend over something that seems so monotonous now. We haven’t talked since despite how hard I’ve tried. We moved back in the week of my twenty seventh birthday. I have one year, the core nursing classes left and that is it. My son is born, we are thirty, my boss was a giant A-Hole and I get screwed over for my job. The business is going down the tubes and he gave my hours to someone else while I was on maternity leave. I could have sewed but I couldn’t stomach it. I find myself a thirty something stay at home mom. I was supposed to return to school but, I don’t want to be a nurse. I spend the past year of my life alone in my house with children talking to myself. I stay up all night making jewelry. I make videos for YouTube that I never post. I listen to music every second of the day. I do a shitty job trying to fix the house, organize, paint, clean out the cluttered basement, mom. I am unorganized and forgetful.
Our finances are in a very dark place. Our home needs a lot of small fixes everywhere and finishes that were never done. It causes a lot of low level anxiety walking around every day feeling like I will never get to a place where I can call this home and feel proud. I don’t know what I am doing with my life. My best friend is getting married now. I feel so left out. I miss her every day. This may just be rock bottom. The only way out has to be up. I am starting to pick up the pieces. I re-enrolled in school and am applying for a home childcare license as a back up plan. I am finally going to pursue my passion, the reason why I started taking college art classes in the first place but got derailed by my husband’s opinions about my graphic design talents. I am going back to the beginning. I am finishing what I never started. I am following my dream for the first time ever and it is full speed ahead. Amazingly somehow someway in all the thoughts that pass through my head while I can’t sleep in my bed I wondered how many classes I would need to graduate if I went back to the school that was at the heart of my education and switched majors. Turns out, I only need to take 6 classes and I will get to graduate next summer with my special honor society tassel on my cap. I’ve been told a few times that I am pretty smart, nbd. Honesty, I think sometimes being so smart makes life harder. I am an over thinker, over analyzer. It isn’t great.
So here I am. At the beginning of my new life. At the beginning of my new blog. The one where I tell the truth. Because you know what I realized? In the twelve years that I have been blogging the only time I was honest and raw about my life I hid it from the world. And then I pumped out fluff pieces here or there wondering why I had no passion for it. It’s because that isn’t real life, this is. This is real. This is the realest it gets. My life has been a lot of shit until now. A mess. I am a mess. I feel like an adult who never grew up. I need to find myself. And I am hoping that school, and cleaning out my house, and fixing all the things, and learning to wake up early and be on time that all of these things will finally bring me to a place where I can say that I am a real person. An adult who commands respect who has her shit together who is like yes I am amazing my life is the shit. Who jumps out of bed in the morning. Who makes money. Who grabs her husbands attention and makes him proud. Who makes her children proud. I want to be one of those people. The kind who make you feel like geez maybe I need to step up my game a little bit because now I kind of feel like I need to try harder. That kind of person.
And that is what this blog is about. This blog is my diary. This blog is my outlet, my scrapbook, my record keeper. This blog is my feelings, my honestly, the raw inner workings of my brain. This blog is me becoming free. Free to be the person I am meant to be. Free to escape the depression and the insecurities. Free to grow, to become and to prosper. I want to look back and see myself being reborn through my words, watch myself accomplish all the things that have held me down for all these years, I want to break the chains and watch as they fall, here in this blog. So if you are reading this, thank you. Thank you for taking the time out of your day to read all these words I put before you. And hopefully, you come back to see what’s in store next.
I can’t believe I am going to post this without proof-reading but I have been sitting here too long and need to get back to house-wifing.
Until next time…
From my heart to yours,