Surviving

missingbeauty

I am almost 37 years old.

I am still at a point where the majority of my adult years were spent in fight, flight or freeze.

I have a lot of nightmares. Even when I am doing well and not getting bombarded with ugly memories, I will wake up drenched in sweat from trying to run away from him.

Ku and I watch movies or shows sometimes where there is a character in an abusive relationship. I’m usually shaking my head as it happens, both as a reminder that I am not that character and that I am okay, and also because I don’t get it. I lived that life for over a decade and I still can’t comprehend WHY. I’m not just saying why it happens. I’ve read plenty of articles and attended events where phrases like toxic masculinity and gender norms and rape culture are explained. They make sense and I can see where the change needs to happen. I always leave thinking YES, we can FIX THIS, TEACH THE BOYS! Except, it is deeper than that, right?

Why me, though?

Not to say it should have happened to someone else, anyone else, as long as I was spared. No. Not at all. I’m saying why did I allow it happen? Why didn’t I know better? Why didn’t I walk away? I can’t think of any situation where domestic violence makes sense. I also cannot think of one where it made sense that I would fall victim. You see, I graduated with a 3.8 GPA, honor roll, Honor Society, accepted to my first university of choice. I guess when I think about circumstances that people find themselves in, I think that education and book smarts should help play a role in how they handle themselves.

My book smarts didn’t save me.

My Dad taught me when I was young that I had to walk on the inside of the sidewalk and him on the outside because if it was reversed than guys would think I was for sale. This seems to be a pretty universal understanding, judging from popular culture. We have been taught to buy in to this belief that boys will be boys and consent isn’t always clear, and boys who are mean to you on the playground like you. That locker room talk is just that, and should be excused. Yet somehow, guys have a basic, universal understanding that if I’m closest to the curb than I am open for business.

Early on I learned that if a man behaves inappropriately to me than it is my fault. If I’m standing on a beach in Puerto Vallarta when I’m thirteen in a one-piece swimsuit and some male walks by and ogles me, I share the blame between myself and puberty. If I’m standing in a bar, chatting with the people I walked in with, and a guy walks up to me and inappropriately puts his hand on my shoulder to say things that I don’t want him telling me, I can’t make a scene because it would be rude. What I learned when I was growing up was that if a grown man did anything disgusting to me, such as rub his erect penis against my leg even when I was fifteen, it was my fault and that if I said something, I would be blamed. That easily translated to me being responsible if I was hit by my other half. We have been taught, as young girls, to be meek, quiet, accepting and to not embarrass our parents.

Before I got pregnant with Abraham, my ex and I were living in my hometown. It was a calm, beautiful summer day and my friend Yesenia had stopped by to make flour tortillas with me. My meanager, Sammy, was only two or three years old and playing in the living room. Everything was great that day, because it wasn’t always terrible. Except, my ex-husband didn’t like Yesenia and I hadn’t told him she stopped by. Of course his mom did, though and he came home from work so angry. I don’t remember the argument but I remember I got in my car and left. I drove to Yesenia’s house because I needed space. I couldn’t stay there one more second and I didn’t feel safe. I could always tell when he was going to get physical.

When I drove up to her house, I thought briefly about how he would probably guess where I was but I knocked anyway. I remember the wind blowing gently through my hair as she answered the door with a worried look and I distinctly recall sitting on her couch feeling calmer. What I can’t conjure no matter how hard I try is what he said when he called her house and made her reluctantly hand me the phone, my drive back because he threatened banging on her door until I left if I didn’t, or walking in to my house. And somewhere between the door shutting and me turning towards both him and his mom, he hit me. Hard.

She came in to the bedroom a short while later, and as I cried in to my pillow, she told me I should never have driven away, that I should never have gone to Yesenia’s, and that I should have stopped arguing before he got to that point.

I was blamed. And I spent many years thinking it was all my fault.

I’m still so hesitant to share my story. I would be lying if I said it was because I don’t want to be blamed. I didn’t deserve it then, when someone who witnessed it firsthand was quick to place it on me or by anyone who would continue to do it today.

We become a mean type of human when we use stories of survivors’ trauma to apply irrational justification. I hear a lot (usually as a joke lobbed at trying to ease the discomfort of a terrible truth that was just shared) of comments about how embarrassed my ex must be to have lost me to a woman. What I wouldn’t give for this to not be someone’s first response when we talk about something very painful for me, still.

In reality, his manhood was gone the second he hit me. The moment he dismissed my love and loyalty to manipulate me into staying. When he decided to use my feelings to make himself feel bigger. <–That is what is really embarrassing.

Bravery is an action that is hard to muster up.

I was a great student. I graduated in the top 10% of my class with a set determination to make something of myself. What took me a long time to realize was that even though I stepped back and chose to start a family over my education, I was still smart. Even though I fell into an abusive relationship, I was still strong. And when I got away, in those first few steps of freedom, I found the road lonely. I lost friendships. I fought with family. I was scared yet I was without quit in me. I was judged, sometimes to my face, even. I sat in my car and cried because I couldn’t immediately fix everything.

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I rebuilt, brick by brick, my insides. Somewhere in all the mess I had made, I began to see the beauty again. One of the best discoveries was that I could use my scared, shaking voice to recount my stories, share them publicly, and discover that I was encouraging women to stand up and leave. I don’t blog as often as I initially meant to about surviving domestic violence, but every single post brings at least ONE woman forward, who chooses to disclose to me a trauma she is currently or has gone through.

That fuels my fire. Telling someone your deepest secret is a big kind of scary. To each of you who has found the strength to break your silence to me, thank you from the bottom of my heart.

And know I don’t judge you.

 

With one dress

Kulia turns to me, lightly touches my forearm just so to grab my attention. Touch is my love language. Wait, is touch one of the languages?

I digress.

She looks me square in the eyes and affirms to me, “Christmas is your favorite holiday.”

It isn’t true but I smile. See, I do this with things I love. I don’t give them as much credit as I should. Nightmare Before Christmas is my favorite movie and yet I have a bajillion Little Mermaid items. Almost no NBC things. Doesn’t mean it isn’t my favorite.

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I have always loved Christmas. Almost as much as I love Halloween.

Perhaps it’s because I think of music when I think of my absolute favorite any thing as opposed to my second or third favorites because even though Kulia says you can only have one favorite “whatever”, I DO NOT LIVE BY THAT RULE. When you hear a song on the radio that catches your ear, you proceed to play it to death over the course of the next month or so until you absolutely cannot hear one chord of it for the next few years. I’m like this with everything. I beat all my second loves to a pulp. Christmas is no different. I make it Navi-dead. Not quite the same with Halloween.

We were walking through JC Penney two Christmas seasons ago when a dress stopped me in my tracks. I turned to her and loudly exclaimed that I had to have it. This dress made my heart so happy, complete with adorable little Santas all over it. Unsubtle in an artful way, much how I think I can be, but maybe that’s ridiculous.

Yes. The dress was ridiculous.

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The First Obnoxious Christmas Dress

Her look of incredulity surprised me. “No. You do not need that dress,” she replied. And with seven words she effectively brought forth the stubborn Vee, of which she has had the pleasure of dealing with so many other times.

Look. I don’t re-wear dresses. It isn’t my thing. When we get fancy I love to go all out and then that is it for that outfit. We always take a ton of photos and I don’t like to see myself in the same things. She reminded me of this in the aisle of the store.

“You are not buying a $20 Christmas dress that you will wear one friggin time and then never again. Let’s go home.”

Well, that became a double-dog dare if you ask me so I promptly promised her that I would not only wear it more than once, but I would wear it for a week straight. And it was game on. Every day I would wear it but with a twist to keep things interesting. It took my boss until day four to realize I hadn’t really changed. Friends on my social media pages were anxiously anticipating my new look each day and we were all laughing.

What started as a joke and an “I’ll show you,” became a fun week full of holiday spirit in 2017. What I realized was that it couldn’t stop with just that one year. Naturally, as Christmas got closer this year, faster than usual and with more gusto than expected, I had to find a new dress. Except, instead of wearing it for one week, this time I was going for two. And I announced it early enough and presumably with enough excitement that many of my friends decided to join us. Hawaii. Washington. Texas. Florida. All-over-friends.

Joined me.

It was incredible. Some for the two weeks straight. Others just during work days. A couple of us did not stop and went for the whole month. The whole month. It was  awesome.

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But more importantly, and the reason I began this blog post, is the power behind the dress.

It never ceases to amaze me when I receive messages from people I know and love about how fun seeing my Christmas dress posts are but what really floored me this year were the ones from people I have never met. What began as a silly challenge, really to myself more than anybody, became an inspiration and source of cheer for others. You see, up until recently, I was working really hard on some goals and then one day I woke up and I had lost my motivation. I know results take time, no matter what they are in regards to, but sometimes they move slower than a turtle in peanut butter and I lose my momentum. I have been told I can be encouraging to others but I struggle the most with doing it for myself.

When Kulia told me I wouldn’t wear the dress more than once, I made a pact as a WE WILL SEE ABOUT THAT to her, but really it was to me. The friends following along that resulted from me trying to prove myself wrong was uplifting and reminded me that I can do more than I give myself credit for, as silly as it seems. You see, sometimes you need to reset your thinking with something that seems ridiculous so you can keep tricking yourself for the harder things. We can do the hard things. We just have to remember to sprinkle in some fun ones, too, while we are at. It lessens the load on our heart, I think.

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Flash forward to the dress challenge in 2018, and it was back to a fun goal. Wear a dress for two weeks that makes you smile and every day find a way to change one little thing about it to keep everyone else smiling. As people reached out and became a part of it, I felt my heart swelling. I know it seems small. And it was. But it was something.

During the past month, as I shopped for Christmas gifts or ate lunch with friends, laughed with others in a board meeting or met with colleagues at work, the dress initiated beautiful conversations. Some of them merely to ask, “WHY?” <–to which I just shrugged my shoulders and said, “Why not?” Strangers were smiling at me and sharing sweet words about how my Christmas cheer brought them joy. Co-workers hugged me and wished me Merry Christmas for the entire month and that warmed me in ways I never could have anticipated. Little kiddos’ faces brightened up at me just for smiling at them. My love in humanity was restored day by day. And the messages. “I had a rough 2018. I was dreading Christmas. This dress challenge helped kick me out of that funk. (girl, SAME)” “I cannot believe how much joy I brought to strangers when I was out and about and how many came up to talk to me because of this dress! (YASSS)” “You and your dress are wonderful and every time I see your posts, I am happier.(DITTO)” “I told my husband I’m joining you next year and I cannot wait.(NOW TO CONVINCE MY WIFEY)” On and on and on. All the best words that kept my mind spinning with how to keep spreading that joy in 2019 but not just at Christmas-time.

I don’t know what that is yet, but I’ll let you know as soon as it happens. And don’t ask me why, because that isn’t even really a question in my book.

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My Running Journey

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Yesenia and I, training for my halfsie

We are sitting in the living room, watching shows. Two glasses of red wine sit in front of us, half full. She is mine. I am hers. That’s what the glasses say, gifts we received at our wedding. Her heart is heavy from loss, just like mine. Not alone in our pain but each of us deep in our thoughts, I’m surprised when she breaks the comfortable silence.

“I am so proud of you.”

It’s a compliment. Of course, it is. Except my grief has veiled my eyes and I see it as pain. Why can’t I let her be proud of me? I respond that I walked most of it, would have quit. Almost quit. She doesn’t care that I want to tear myself down. She knows how hard it was for me. Physically, yes, but also mentally. Emotionally. She understands why I do that so she doesn’t allow it in a way that means more than I could tell her.

“You didn’t train. We had so much going on. I didn’t want you to do it and yet you had made a commitment. You are so stubborn with your goals and I just love that about you.”

She knows I need to hear it.

I nod in agreement. To everything. It’s such a problem of mine because I want to do all the things and I want to be there for all my tribe. When my younger sister asked me to run a half marathon with her a few months ago, yes came out so easy. I had four months which was plenty of time to train my body to get my mileage back up. I thought the running and our busy calendar would be great distractions for my soul, because grieving for my friend has been so exhausting and unpredictable. One minute I would be okay, head above water. Driving to work or to pick up my boys or to a meeting. The next, I would feel tears run silently down my cheeks or I would be uncontrollably sobbing and I couldn’t deal, drowning under waves of sorrow and raw again.

Loss isn’t new to me so don’t go thinking losing Yesenia hurt me more than others who have moved to the Land of the Remembered. What has changed is how I’m processing and feeling it. Kulia helped un-numb me, if you will. Gradually and with a tender care, she has helped my self feel again. For the longest time I was just making it through my days, hiding behind a smile and portraying that I was okay. Going through the motions of life and being in constant survival mode dulled all my senses. I could say meeting Ku woke that all up. I mean, she did, or rather, we did together. It’s just been such a process. Not overnight. Not immediate. Little by little over the past six years. And then one day they were there. Feelings I had forgotten about. A sister of mine, who remembers the tough-as-nails me asked if I thought these feelings would stick around and gosh, I hope so. She does, too. I would rather feel than be in that dull place again.

Ku said it was running. That somehow, that empowering runner’s high made me human again. Maybe she was right but not entirely. I think it was a lot of little things with her at the center. Either way, running was exhilarating. I felt so strong crossing finish lines, improving my mile times, hearing people’s surprise at my endurance. And it all began so innocently enough. Yesenia got me out and walking. For like a month we would walk this road by her house that down and back was exactly one mile. One day she casually started to jog. I followed suit because that is who I am as a person. And as intermittenly as my feelings were coming back we got ourselves to one mile of straight running.

That first mile was such a major milestone for us and we celebrated it enthusiastically. We did it together. When I decided to train for my first halfsie, Yesenia said she would train some with me. When she couldn’t, I would leash up Cali and off we would go. Running with Cali was perfect because I could just yell all the words of encouragement that I needed her way. And she would just prance by my side, happy for the attention and the outside company. We did it together. One of them was always by my side.

As I painfully ran a 15k in March this year, I thought about my gumption and commitments. I wanted to finish the run I had paid for but I kept thinking about how I would never run next to them again. Except, when I was asked about the halfsie, I said yes one more time. I thought maybe I could do it and things would change. But they didn’t because you can’t force yourself to get over anything, no matter how hard you try. And Cali was on her decline so her joining me was out of the picture. I realized, right after she peacefully crossed that dreaded Rainbow Bridge, that I just didn’t want to run anymore. I had registered and paid for this last one (well, Ku had on my behalf because she understands that about me) so I wasn’t going to back out of it but I knew I would say goodbye to each mile marker, water stop, treat break and photo op.

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TFlinn kept me going during my last run

Luckily a great friend was doing this halfsie also and promised to walk/jog with me so the first eight miles sucked in a better way. As runners would pass us I would comment about how they were crushing it and doing fantastic and she kept gently reminding me that so were we. Gawd, I needed that. Somewhere around mile nine she was ready to go and finish and I tried to keep up but just couldn’t. I was hitting a wall, not just physically, but emotionally. I missed my running buddies in a way she was but wasn’t. I have found you can be two things at once in this grief process. I have perpetually been happy but sad, whole with holes, surrounded by love but missing theirs. That was this run. Complete with running buddies but missing THE running buddies. The day we said goodbye to Rue I turned to Ku and said I couldn’t do any more runs. I meant it.

Feeling the grief of losing two amazing souls this year has changed me. As I learn to navigate the journey of having feelings that are not mutually exclusive of each other, I find that I recede a bit into my mind. When people ask me how I’m doing, which we are so inclined to do even if we don’t care about the answer, I am honest. When I am feeling grief I share that, which has taken many by surprise. I don’t mean to. I just can’t fake anything in my life, anymore, least of all my sadness. Where running used to help me focus more at work, grief has stolen that from me and I find myself chasing ways to stay in the now, in the here, rather than regress to past days, where we chatted about nonsense and the intricacies of life, Yesenia and I. Or how Kulia and I would come home and happy dance with Cali and call her dumb names in baby talk because her wagging her tail was such a happy picture.

A friend shared that grief was like standing on the edge of the ocean, with waves of sadness hitting you sometimes. I think mine has a different form. It’s much more hurricane-esque with gail force winds trying to knock me over unexpectedly.

So, with all of that, I remind myself that I have 754 miles under my belt and while I may pick it back up one day, I am thankful for saying farewell to running in my own way and on my terms.

And know that as I work through these storms of sadness, I am loving my friends and family harder. I’m just doing it in walking form now.

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Our Sad Farewell

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A boy and his dog

3.9 years ago, our household made the major, life-changing decision to find a dog to complete us. It was one we didn’t make lightly, because Kulia and I know that animals are a responsibility that would mainly fall on us. Dogs especially, can be fun and ever-loving, but holy Moses do they need attention, care, and patience. Aside from all that, the connection you build with your dog is unparalleled to most you have with humans. Dogs are pretty much four-legged angels.

Kulia and I are almost always walking hand-in-hand in our relationship, both facing the same direction. It isn’t often we are standing across from each other, on opposite sides of the river, as I like to call it. Yet, with dogs, we tend to. Unable to find a bridge to cross and meet half-ways because even in love, we are headstrong and stubborn. I, the ever strict authoritarian, full of rules and boundaries. I believe that a dog needs structure, rules, shouldn’t kiss my face (I cannot with drool and saliva), and can be safe in a kennel. Kulia wants all the smooches from the pooches, she wants them on the bed, she does baby talk to them, finds them all cute, hates kennels, and she is incapable of scolding one, least of all Cali. We are yin and yang in it’s greatest form.

When we saw Cali I sincerely believe she chose us. She seemed to take to us almost immediately, leaning all her muscle-y weight against us, receiving the butt scratches with joy. We got her for a week-long trial to see how she would do in our home with our boys and the first full day she was with us, she joined me to drop Moose and Abraham off at school. She watched them walk away from the car window, whimpering for them to come back. I knew right then she was really ours.

But Cali came to us with some baggage, much as we came to her with ours. She didn’t trust other dogs, hated being locked up in small rooms, only had about four teeth, and needed a lot of attention. The first year with her was a lot of adjusting, trial and error (mostly error) and frustrations. All of them on my behalf. Kulia had this uncanny ability to just accept her in a way I struggled with. I wanted to love her unconditionally but shitballs, it was so hard. She was potty-trained but pooped in the house a few times. She was a total sweetheart but scared the crap out of anyone delivering a package or knocking on our door. She listened when she wanted to and ignored when she could. Cali and I were on rocky terrain for a good, long time.

One day, that first summer, I got a call from a neighbor because of course she had dug herself out of the yard again. I worked less than a mile away and had a lot of flexibility so for the umpteenth time in the last month, I drove to try to find her. After some searching, I did and put her in the car. I was so fed up. I was over it. We had spent so much time and sacrificing to buy our home and Cali had no regard for any of it. I yelled at her the entire two-minute drive back to our place, telling her we might need to find her a new home with someone who could put up with her. And she just looked away, unable to meet my eye, because she knew I was angry. I decided to stay home and made myself a drink and we both went out and sat on the pallet couch we had made that she just loved. The boys were at their Dad’s house, which was hard for me because I wasn’t used to not having them with me. I was mad at the custody plan making me share and I was mad at the dog for being such an a-hole and I was mad that I couldn’t get over any of it. So, we sat on that couch and got tipsy (well, I did) and she just soaked up the sun and my quietness. And then I turned to her and apologized. I told her we couldn’t get rid of her; I didn’t really mean it. She was freaking family, even if she drove me nuts. And I think she forgave me for scolding her, because all she ever wanted was our company.

Sometime in the spring this year, after we said goodbye to Yesenia, Cali started to get sick. We speculate that she had a brain tumor that we initially thought was doggy vertigo. Whatever it was has been a process of rapid declination. Since April she hasn’t been herself. Little by little but all at once. I struggled to deal with any of it, just like I have a hard time with so many other things, because I am still grieving the loss of my friend, she was a constant drool bucket all of a sudden (I cannot with drool and saliva), and I couldn’t add losing her to my plate. Except you can’t put off the inevitable. Before long, we realized our baby girl, Cali Rue, was not like she used to be. She had lost her zest for life, as Ku put it. So we made the hard decision to say goodbye.

Before the vet even pulled up to our house, I was an ugly-crying mess. Cali was just laying in her spot on the couch, hardly moving and the vet reassured us that she was most definitely not feeling well. It validated to us that we had made the right choice. She calmly explained to us how the process would go, mixed her up a dose of something to calm her and take away her pain. It was all beautiful and exactly how it should be. Once she got the first shot she hopped off the couch and wagged her tail for us one last time before she laid down and fell asleep, finally at peace. I’m so grateful we could give her that since she gave us the last four years of her life.

I’m going to miss the who’s there game, knocking on the wall to rile her up, cheering extra loud during football games to wake her, snuggling on the couch, watching her hang her face out the car window with joy, and being annoyed at how loud she chewed her food. But really, I’m going to miss her sweet face hoping we would drop some food for her and her obnoxious tail that was practically a weapon. I’m going to miss her sleeping in Sam’s room and the boys giving her hugs and goodnight kisses every evening. I’m going to miss Ku being angry with me at telling her to go lay down and her finally obliging, and how she would wait outside our door if it was closed because she just wanted to come in and make sure we were still there.  And I’ll miss dressing her up whenever we wanted and her putting up with it because it made us happy. I’m going to miss her so much.

Goodbye, Cali.

Forever would not have been enough; it never could be. I imagine you with Yesenia now, maybe on a run. Thank you for loving your boys. And us. You were loyalty at its greatest.

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Cali girl on her last adventure wearing her flower collar, made by our dear friend, Natalie

To my oldest, with all my heart

Sixteen years and one week ago, I was ridiculously round with angst and excitement, thinking I was about to push you out into this world. Even though you were a few weeks from your due date I was sure it was time. Except, you weren’t as ready as I thought I was so you held fast and stayed cozy.

FOR A WHOLE ‘NOTHER WEEK.

And this is what our relationship has grown into, love. Us waiting eternally for you because you’ve literally marched to the beat of your own trombone or baritone or whatever instrument you correct me on. A beat that we call Sam Sloth Speed.

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I look at you with awe in the way I imagine most mothers do. Unbelieving that I once housed your heart in my body, that we shared thoughts and nutrients and laughs. I remember telling myself I would never forget the feeling of you kicking, or what it was like to hold you for the first time or kiss your cheek, but the thing is that I can’t believe I have. I sometimes stare at you and wish I had had you in improved circumstances or later on in life, you know, when I could have done it right and when I was ready. But life doesn’t work that way, does it? Here you are and who would you be if things had been different?

I know it hasn’t always been easy for you and can feel like I am unfair. I like to say that I am a cliche, having made all my mistakes with you. Except one-week-shy-of-sixteen continues to be the longest I’ve been a mother. Every day I parent you is the highest number of days I have been one so the mistakes keep coming. Thank you, Sam, for always having infinite patience in my motherhood journey. It hasn’t been lost on me that you’ve had to see my growing pains and yet you love me anyway. No matter where life has taken us, it continues to be us, you and me, making our way through it.

There were a lot of ugly days that we worked through. I know it was hard for you going into kindergarten only speaking Spanish and I wish I could take that back. All those days and nights that I tried to get you up to par in English so you could understand the six hours of class you were sitting in, trying to teach you how to rhyme words, and then breaking down and ugly crying, which probably scared you, when it finally clicked, so many months later. And then when I called Aunty Amber and we cried about it together because every day was work and every day was a challenge for more reasons than language.

And I know you want to drive. I remember that draw to be even more independent and grown-up when I was your age. I know I’m being tough about it but the thing is, I don’t know how not to be and we are working through that so bear with me and do your part and things might fall into place like you want them to. Or maybe they won’t because sometimes I’m ridiculous, in which case you are a pro at handling. I’m trying, love.

We spent the better part of a morning, recently, googling and discussing your future. Somehow you will be graduating in two years and neither one of us is ready. That’s the truth. I could tell you were overwhelmed and I get it but I also think you are so capable. Just remember that, Sam. After all, you are at least half of me and you’ve seen me do some seemingly impossible things. I know it can seem that you have to have your mind made up about what you want to be and where you want to go but you don’t. You can figure it out as you go and it’s okay.

You are so resilient and kind, Sam. Even when I’m upset with you I think of how lucky we are that you were born first. You shared your words about domestic violence which couldn’t have been easy, you sit and talk to us about things that are important to you, even if we disagree, you ask our opinions and listen intently. You walked me down the aisle, you took the job so seriously, intent on not making me fall even though you were nervous. Just as disappointed as I was with your grandfather but still trying to understand him and give him love, regardless. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve stared at you and wondered how I have gotten so much of it right. I know I can be a hard-ass and I know you think better. You might be right but only time will tell. Thank you for being my first-born, one of the bigger chunks of my heart, and for reminding me to slow down like only you can. I would say it’s an honor to be your Mother but the reality is that it’s so much bigger than that.

Sam

Photo credit: Shannon Sasaki Photography

You will always be my favorite meanager.

 

The Mountain I’m Scaling

Arriba!

Everybody loves a chubby little but that love goes away at some point

I couldn’t sleep last night so my mind started writing. I’ve gotten into this habit where I can just begin, like I’m at my computer typing and it’s fantastic. There’s zero writer’s block and things are flowing and I try to repeat key sentences to myself so I can re-type them in the morning because they are that good. And then I’ll wake up in the morning, refreshed and bright-eyed but with no recollection. It’s okay. I’ll find them again, I’m sure.

Except, this morning I woke up and they were still there. So, here you are.

I have been scaling this mountain for as long as I can remember. Bright and bubbly and round-with-baby-fat seven year old me, at least. Seven year Vee was a mega-fan of rice and beans. I would greet the customers because it’s nice to be nice and they would smile at my chubby face. Most people are really well versed in saying the things that cut you to your core in a sweet voice with a smile that drips honey because they only ever would mean well, right? I figured this out early on.

Ten year old Vee is in the gym for recess and tries to play foursquare with some “friends.” Well, I wanted to be a friend of the Regina and Gretchen of my school who bounced the ball really aggressively at me in a way I could never catch because I wasn’t a runner then, and yelled “fat girls stink,” at me. Some of them weren’t trying to catch flies all that hard.

Thirteen and I was back from living in Mexico for a couple years. They are more forthcoming with their insults down south. Like Regina and Gretchen. It was hot there so I dropped some ellbees but either way I was plump still. I decided I would try Slimfast because don’t all teenage girls resort to a powder drink at some point? Start early so you are ahead of the game, I guess. We see our moms and our aunts and all other female influences around us focusing on their bodies or we see the complete opposite and you think, “Not me. I’m turning this around.” No matter how you slice this, we aren’t winning this battle.

Someone really instrumental to my upbringing and childhood and life in general told fifteen year old Vee in a very spiteful tone one day, which meant extra passion if you ask me, “nobody wants to love a fat girl.” And I believed it because it made sense to. And up until recently I had only picked crummy people to be with because they said they loved me. Because I’m fat. For so long the word fat has had a power over me and if I’m not careful, that would be the boggart coming out of the cupboard, hurling itself to demolish everything that is inside my thick soul.

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Sixteen year old Vee wearing a pair of jeans, size 16.

You see, my mountain has yet to show it’s peak to me. I’ve been continuing up this incline for at least twenty-eight years and it has minimal plateaus or flat parts. I have somehow become Sisyphus pushing a mound of fat up a rocky terrain and it hasn’t mattered what size I was or how many rolls I could count. There hasn’t been a number on the scale that has made me feel like I’ve conquered my mountain. And if I never do, will I be able to accept that? If I’m always a size 16 will I feel alright with that?

I’m encouraged by recent articles and hashtag movements of women sticking their middle fingers up at so-called “beauty standards.” In a technological age where even nine year old kiddos have a world of information at their fingertips, I am optimistic that they will see these lady warriors and listen to their messages so that they can choose partners who really love them even if they jiggle. Or that will be their biggest cheerleaders yelling positive things at them from the sidelines when they decide they want to work to jiggle less, because that is okay, too. Because, for me, that’s the thing. It has to be okay to want to work towards something and not feel bad about it or like you’re letting females down globally, just like it’ll be okay if you are okay with thick thighs and a midsection. You can be strong and thick and you can be skinny and sick. And I firmly believe that some people weren’t meant to be thin.

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Even at my most active, still a size 16

What I’m saying, friends, is that if you are working out and want to post about it all over your social media, I will be a fan. And if you want to wear a romper or a bikini and feel saucy AF in it, I’ll send love your way. I’m a firm believer that daughters (and sons) are always listening, because I always was. And I’m even more convinced that we can be beautiful regardless of size. <– that is what I’m going to keep repeating to myself, as I scale my mountain from here to eternity.

And if your mountain doesn’t have a peak either, I’m walking with you.loveyourbody

What is happening?

You might wonder why I took a hiatus from writing. No, that’s not quite true. See, I don’t think much about what exactly I’m going to write and rather I let the words come to me. Many a posts were written lately, all in my head, where most of them begin. They just never made it on my blog, because they were either too much of one thing or another. I wanted to write about love on Valentine’s Day but then there was a school shooting and I was heartbroken, unable to find words that would do any of the seventeen lost souls justice, except there were many, all strung together in my head in a jumble of sadness and anger. I read so many calls to action, so beautifully written yet I felt paralyzed because I don’t know what to do or how.

And then there were the conversations about the shooting, with friends and family and our boys. How could I share some of the most raw, irritating, frustrating conversations with all of you, who are out there having your own? And then when fun things happened, how do you share that, when our nation (well, most of us) is mourning all the children who didn’t come home after school because of other children who took a weapon into their own hands and made a safe place a nightmare?

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The #meanager, who we remind daily that he has much to learn

Alex, a trombonist, who could have been my Sam. Sam, who didn’t participate in any of the walkouts for reasons I can’t understand. Sam, who spouted second amendment words to me that made me want to scream. He has been so mature of late and then we disagree on this, on the issue of gun control and I wonder if we picked the right town to live in. Except, whose town is really safe? Are any?

I read this book years back by Ishmael Beah, A Long Way Gone, which is a memoir of this poor boy’s time as a child soldier in Sierra Leone. Little babes stolen from their families and told horrible things to make them angry, given drugs and forced to shoot their friends to see who is toughest. They are handed rifles and in my mind they are AK-15s because that makes sense to me. He doesn’t want to kill. He knows it’s wrong. Yet his is a story of survival in a country going through civil war, where adults are using every resource they have, which is an abundance of children.

I read an interview by Suzanne Collins on where her inspiration came from for The Hunger Games and she spoke of not being able to sleep one night and flipping through the channels and landing on a documentary  about child soldiers. I imagined she was learning of Ishmael and the horrors he went through. The effects of war on children is where THG began. Young boys and girls, forced to do unspeakable things. Forced.

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Moose, who we remind daily to be kind and show love to people

My mind flashes back to a regular morning with Moose. I’m driving him to school and it’s the morning after the Parkland shooting. I ask him what he does if there’s an active shooter at his school and he answers me so casually. It was as if I’m asking him if he enjoys math over science.

“I would hide. We learned to hide,” my son replies in all his nine years of age. “Where would you hide?” I have to ask this. I have to make sure it makes sense. He spouts out different places, mostly supply closets. That doesn’t feel safe enough to me, but you know what? Neither does school, in general, now. I question him about where he would hide if he’s on the playground, expecting him to have to think about it for a minute or two. He doesn’t, though. They’ve gone over this, too. I don’t find that comforting, friends. Except, I do in a way. A guilty way.

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Abraham, who is so brave and learning to do him, regardless

A heartfelt conversation with Abraham, the 11 year old, wise beyond his years. He is a lover, more emotional than we knew how to handle for a while there, who participated in the sit-downs (they weren’t allowed to walkout in middle school, but were allowed to go to the gym). “What made you want to join in?” we asked him, because we didn’t expect it. “I want to be safe in school and I feel bad for the students who went through that. I don’t want to be bullied or afraid.” Me, too, boo. I don’t want any of those things for you, either. We applauded him. Gave him some high-fives. I’m not saying I was more proud of him than Sam, because they are equal but not the same. Abraham identifies with some of these concepts, as he has been bullied and made fun of. He beats his drum to a different beat, regardless, but it hasn’t always been easy for him. Sam is challenging us and forcing us to think harder and longer about our words and our expectations.

What are we expecting of our children? What are we teaching them with our words and our actions? How are we raising our boys, who see violence glorified in so many ways, with so many avenues? The #meanager mentioned he didn’t feel the need to walkout and demand gun control because it didn’t apply to him. “That won’t happen in Ferndale,” he has the gall to tell me. Except, a few short weeks later an email from his school district was sent to the parents to explain that a student had been arrested two days prior (which has me all kinds of fired up in a totally different way), because that student had brought a firearm to school and waived it around at another student as school was being released. That won’t happen here, MY ASS. I would be naïve, we all would be, to think any of us are safe.

DVSAS had it’s annual Victory Over Violence luncheon last month, where an informative, engaging conversation was had about gender norms, roles, and expectations. Many times, without meaning to, any one of us is perpetuating it. Ever since that lunch I have been thinking about my words and how I speak to my boys, because talking about it and being aware is how change happens. And you know what I think the most? That no one has to agree with me. But we can all listen, regardless. Just in case we learn something.

This is how I feel about where we are right now. Even if we don’t agree. Even if you have the strongest opinions about guns and your amendments, which ironically, includes the first. I mean, I’ll listen, too. And work on little things, like not telling your boys that dolls or the color pink are only for girls. Or gifting play kitchen-stuff to the little ladies in your life, because they are more than soon-to-be housewives. All I’m saying is think about your ideas of gender roles and consciously make an effort to disrupt that thinking and begin spreading that change. Show your mini-men love and kindness, show their boy pals the same, because we don’t know what happens behind any closed doors and you might be the catalyst for them to grow up better.

We can do this, friends. We owe it to our littles.