Love

One Year Later

368 days ago our family, minus one, hopped on a plane for six hours and flew to what many call a paradise. Being as it wasn’t my first time as a resident of Honolulu, I landed knowing that is not always the case; paradise is a lot of things but it isn’t equally the islands of Hawaii. Maybe paradise is sitting on a sunny beach, all lathered up with sunscreen and cheersing a cold bevvie with someone you love, or it is riding bicycles with your SO, hair in a ponytail and the sun at your back as you feel the wind under your feet and around your neck. What I am saying is I think of paradise as actions or feelings, not locations.

The first few months

We arrived in Honolulu and went straight into quarantine with family for two weeks. We spent those fourteen days adjusting poorly to the warmth of Honolulu, the famished mosquitoes who loved feasting on our sweet blood, and admiring the daily dose of vitamin D we were now ingesting.

And my job search began.

Then, my job search continued. And in some rash logic, I chopped something like 10 inches off of my hair to cut out all the bad juju I was feeling, to renew myself, and to have some dramatic start-over, just like our move.

At some point, I counted 35-ish applications submitted all around the island. I edited my resume a slew of time. I began walking daily just to clear my mind and do something. And more importantly, I started taking it personal. I had invested so much time and effort into earning my degree in HR Management and earning my SHRM certification that it just baffled me that I was only phone screened twice out of all those applications. What became glaringly obvious was that Hawaii operated human resources very differently from the mainland – where time spent in a specialty was more important than my time as a generalist. Yes, that eventually ended and I landed somewhere amazing but wow did imposter syndrome rear its ugly head at me.

A house vs a home

A couple years ago, a friend messaged me privately asking how I can so openly share my life experiences in my blog without fear of hurting other people’s feelings. I said, I write from my side and I tell my truth. I still stand by that but it just hasn’t been feasible here in Hawaii. My words might affect others. That is the best explanation I can give on my one-year-blog-post-hiatus. I couldn’t bring myself to look at it. And with that said…

In January we closed on our house alongside my father-in-love; this had been the plan for some time. This house has not been the greatest experience of my life for a myriad of reasons. Suffice to say the boys love their rooms, our dog loves her yard, and we anticipate a pool in the future.

When we drove by our old home on a visit to see family and friends, I turned away, unable to look at it. In that same sense, I cannot bring myself to share the Hawaii home. And that includes inside.

Island Time with Vee

Which brings me to the many friends who have reached out about Island Time. I really am continually surprised by how so many of you grew to love that weird little cooking show with me. I thank you all so much. We initially took a pause as the citizens of our nation cried out liberty and justice for all when it was becoming so glaringly obvious that still was not the case. It felt trite to film me making food while cracking eggs and jokes while protests erupted globally with experiences being shared that could bring you to your knees. George Floyd died and not one person opposed to the BLM movement has been able to eloquently excuse it or explain it away to me. Then the election. Then my grandfather died. No moment felt right, including purchasing this home that has not found my heart yet.

I don’t want to film it. Does that mean ever? I don’t know. It means not for now. I sincerely thank each and every person who has watched even one episode and cheersed with me and laughed. It means the world.

Family

Saying goodbye to my Grandfather before we left for Hawaii unsettled me. I knew without really knowing that I would not see him on this side again. As we began settling in here, I fell into a routine of calling him at least once a week on my drive in to work to chit chat. More often than not I would ask him how he was doing and almost always he would answer, I haven’t died yet. I would scold him, Grandpa, that is so morose! I mean, we danced this dance so many times that even though I knew it was coming it would still gut-punch me every time. We knew it was coming.

One of the last things he said to me was, the end is part of the journey.

I know it is true. It still hurts the same.

He passed on the morning of the election, which I laughed about because we disagreed so much on politics. He was convinced Trump would be reelected and he didn’t live to see that outcome. I find something poetic in this. I still think of him so often and being so far away from family was hard. I couldn’t just fly back because of my new job to hug my mom who had just lost her father. I couldn’t hold her hand and tell funny stories of him and his boisterous shenanigans and in turn, my other familial support was very limited. Grieving sucks. I wish I could have been with my family. I cannot thank my friends who became my family enough for the love and reaching out. I would be lost without you all.

Some of you have been able to visit me (I LOVE YOU SO MUCH) and some of you have weekly phone calls with me, and some of you have scheduled zoom happy hours. When you love people and they love you back, distance or a pandemic does not get in the middle of that noise. And I see you.

The Meanager

Parenting an adult son has been the tits, friend. No longer can I scold his one word responses or force him to answer my texts or calls. I’m always on a cliff of worry on if he is okay, if he is drinking water, if he is missing me, if he is not speeding while driving. I want to talk to him every day but in the same breath, I am not calling my own parents. Logistically, I know he is okay. I just want to snuggle him and chat with him. I have only gotten to physically see him twice since we moved and it hasn’t been enough. There are countless books on parenting small kiddos yet where is the What to Expect When You’re Expecting an Adult? Where is that nonsense? All the jokes about empty-nesters but what about missing-pieces-of-your-hearters? Where are they? Is there a support group? I would choose teething with him again over not seeing him daily. I would choose baby-poop blowouts with no diaper bag over not having him over for dinner and laughs every night. I want him to live his life and have the greatest time and still somehow be a part of it so bad that my heart physically hurts.

Hawaii and its new beginnings are harder without a complete family. I can love moments here while simultaneously missing so much from back home. And that is all I will say about that.

COVID

The end.

And then I shaved the side of my head.

The End (part two)

…continued

I am frantic now. I want to get down the stairs and away from him. I don’t make it to them before he grabs me again. I don’t turn to him. Instead I gaze down the fourteen cement stairs, wondering where I would have gone even if I had a jump start on him.

Where are you going? To her? And you’re just going to leave your kids here? What kind of mother does that? Oh, I get it. You’re repeating history. Your mom walked out on you so you’re following in her footsteps.

He’s whisper-hissing it to me and I’m scared. He does this. He uses any memory I’ve ever shared with him against me when he wants to cut me down. He knows anything about my childhood or my children will suffice. He likes to boast that his childhood was better because his parents had money and they never divorced; he didn’t grow up in a trailer or at a restaurant booth. His mom always made him school lunch and went to his sports games. This is his go-to every time he wants to make me cry because it is easy and it is efficient.

And then the switch. The one that makes my resolve waiver. It happens suddenly and takes me by surprise.

Let’s go back inside. This got out of hand and you’re shaking. Are you cold? It’s not too cold out here but maybe you are shivering because you are always cold. Here, let me help you get inside so you can get warm. Give me your hand.

I look up, into his eyes. His pupils are relaxing, just like the lines around his eyes. None of tonight is going how I’m used to and this uncharted territory has adrenaline just pumping through my veins. I nod, because I don’t trust my voice. He guides me back inside, gingerly, like maybe I tripped and scraped my knees on accident, by not paying attention to where I was stepping. As we are nearing the front door, I hear the downstairs neighbors on their balcony, chatting quietly. Maybe they heard and they’re contemplating calling the police. I can’t decide if I like that idea or not because thoughts aren’t sticking in my mind right now. It’s unfocused and all over the place and I just want to take a nap. My eyes hurt, my head hurts, my body hurts. Something drips in my eye and I don’t know if it’s blood or sweat or tears. Lord knows I have literally put all three into this marriage. I try to be quiet because I know he is trying to be. He probably heard the neighbors, too.

This moment reminds me of this one time when we had to stay with his sister and her husband in Tijuana. They lived in this small three bedroom condo. The buildings were interesting; two condos per floor. The front doors were close to each other and one night, he and I heard the neighbor on our floor get home. He sounded loud and angry, drunk and wild. He wanted to get in to his home but his wife heard him coming, heard something that told her otherwise and she had dead-bolted her heavy metal screen door. He couldn’t get in. He pounded on it for so long, made enough racket that she finally relented and the moment he got in, he began beating her to a pulp. We could hear it. Could hear each blow landing, things falling around them, her screaming at him to stop. It was harrowing and traumatizing and I implored him to help her. When he did she ran out of there, straight into our open door. Together, her and I hid in the bathroom, where I helped clean up her face with a wet washcloth. Once the police arrived, other neighbors had come out and were standing on their balconies, unsure if they should help or not. I imagine this is my neighbors tonight. Unsure of what to do.

We get inside the apartment and he walks to the bathroom to wet a washcloth for me. A chuckle escapes my lips; now the washcloth is for me. I reach for a hoodie and sit on the couch. It isn’t very comfortable but it’s a lovely shade of eggplant. He comes out and hands me the washcloth and I just set it next to me because I don’t even know what it is for, other than to remind me that I messed up again.

I’m leaving, I croak out. I say it and instantly know this is it. This time I mean it. My voice is hoarse so I decide to repeat myself twice. I’m leaving. I’m leaving, and a large shudder goes through me; I’m uncontrollably sobbing because I’m so scared. He reaches slowly for my hand.

Can we talk about this? I didn’t do anything. Let’s not blow this out of proportion. I didn’t hit you.

You put your hands on me and pushed me with all your might down to the ground. I couldn’t breathe. That is not alright, I respond. I’m leaving. This is it. I’ve been saying enough for ten FUCKING (my voice is elevating now) years and I have to fucking mean it! I am so loud now but I can’t help it.

We sit there, for at least another hour, as he pleads to work on things and I incessantly repeat I’m done and I’m leaving. I stand up numerous times and he keeps pulling me back down and then finally he doesn’t so I head for the door. If you’re going to lord the boys over me and won’t leave yourself, then clearly it has to be me. Please tell them in the morning that I will see them soon and I love them.

He follows me out. Please let me drive you somewhere. Please don’t just walk off into the dark night. Not at this hour. Let me drive you somewhere.

Fine. I agree and he locks up the house with my three babies inside it and we drive away. I’m worried but it should only be for ten minutes. He can drop me and get back to them. There’s almost zero conversation on the drive. I ask him to take me to the Safeway closest to her house and he parks in the garage. He turns the engine off and puts his hand on my thigh.

I’m begging you to rethink this. Don’t get out of this car…, and with that he locks all the doors. I’m still crying because I never really stopped, except they’re silent tears just spilling out like a lazy fountain. Don’t do this. Nobody will ever love you like I do. Think about what you’re doing to this family.

All I do while he’s talking is shake my head and repeat that I’m leaving. I have no other words left except those.

Give me my phone back, then, he angrily says. We’ve been sitting here for half an hour and I just want him to get back to the boys because I can’t anymore. I can get to her house on foot so I slam the phone down in the console. Fine! Take the phone. Take whatever you want. I’m getting out and I’m leaving.

No, okay, you’re right. Keep the phone. Here. Please, take it back. Take it back, he exclaims because I’m saying no as my body continues to shake. You’re such a bitch, he yells at me. Take the fucking phone! I grab it and reach for the door but he starts the car in one fell move and begins reversing. He shifts into drive and begins accelerating and then I have it! I get the lock undone somehow and open the door and before I know what I’m doing, and miraculously before he can reach over and grab me, I friggin jump out of the vehicle. I take off running to the opposite side of the garage, away from him. I cut through some parked cars and across the street in front of me, fast and crouching with my footsteps matching my heartbeat. I keep running up a short hill of an apartment parking complex and duck between two cars. I have no idea if he’s behind me because I didn’t turn around once. I watched too many horror movies to know that wastes your time. I wait a few seconds and peek over the parking wall in front of me towards the store. My heart is pounding so loud; I shake my head because I can’t hear anything except that. Luckily there are no outside lights near me so I’m covered in darkness. I see him exit the parking garage as if he’s leaving and then circle the store and reenter on the opposite side. He does this two more times, driving slowly through it. When he leaves the last time, he drives down the road I had crossed. I can hear the car with its unique rattle, slowly going by and I hold my breath. I’m so scared he will find me. Why didn’t I run further?

I frantically turn my phone off so he can’t track me and just sit between two Lexus sedans, on the ground, in the dark, counting seconds in my head. Every so often I hear a vehicle driving by and I exhale with relief when I realize it isn’t the Jetta. After what feels like at least seven minutes, I peek up over the wall again.

Nothing.

The street is deserted and quiet. I wait some more time, try to relax my breathing, and then walk out from between the cars and back down the little incline toward the store. I barely feel the steps because my body is buzzing with adrenaline. I am vigilant and hyper aware of any vehicle I see but so far, so good. I decide to turn my phone on. Luckily he hasn’t texted yet but he might soon because our apartment is only 10 minutes away by car. I might have already burned that up so I dial Kulia fast. It goes to voicemail so I try again, immediately. Finally, she answers groggily; it’s already 2 am.

Can you pick me up? I ask her. Her next question is crystal clear as she asks if I’m alright. Please come pick me up, I respond, trying not to sob into the phone. My voice is desperation and she hears that. She asks where I’m at and I tell her I’ll be at the intersection by Safeway, right in front of the stop sign. Less than ten minutes later I see her pulling up and I jump in, still shaky but feeling safer. She holds my hand the whole way to her place and we collapse on her bed. I don’t say much and she doesn’t ask. She takes my phone and turns it off because the texts are starting, and we collapse on her bed. As she pulls me in she moves some hair out of my face and then maybe feels something. A knot or a bump on my head. Maybe a couple. Her hand is soft but I still wince because it hurts so bad. I fall asleep in her arms, finally calming my body down.

In the morning, when I finally turn my phone back on, I have 24 missed calls and 57 texts.

The End (part one)

I check my phone because I have a nagging worry in the back of my mind. Physically, I’m sitting in a booth next to Kulia and across from two friends, ready to sip my wine and dig in to the appetizer that was just delivered. Mentally, I’m away, back at that tiny apartment with a dingy, rented couch. I take small, quick breaths because I shouldn’t be here. I know that. Yet I am and it frightens me.

For the past three months, I have changed. I can feel it. I’ve been exhaling with force, depleting the bad oxygen from my lungs so they can take in more fresh air. I stand taller. I’ve said yes when I never would have had the gumption to in the past decade and what I have also noticed is that the ballsier I get, the scarier I’m making my situation. I now have to walk home from work because I refuse to have him pick me up. I want the movement and the time alone so I can think about my next moves. He has noticed, too, and I see him coming to grips with the inevitable. He’s been trying to be accommodating, encouraging me to go do things that he has never allowed before. A girls night dinner with friends on a Saturday evening? I can count on one hand the number of times that has happened in the past eleven years. Three times and the previous two should be history enough for me to know better about tonight. This is why I’m nervous.

I glance down at the screen of my phone and see notifications. I’m not going to look yet at what his texts are. I can already imagine and dinner hasn’t arrived yet. I just want to enjoy dinner. I feel my pulse quickening. It’ll probably be about the boys because he knows how to leverage responses from me. Last week he allowed me to go get a pedicure and then texted me the entire time during it about how selfish I was because we could barely put food on the table. My pedicure was taking food out of their mouths. You know, it is some shit to tell your person to go get a pedicure because they deserve it (really you’re just trying to gain their favor back and are grasping) and then pull the switch after they leave and call them names for doing what you told them to. I sat in that chair shaking my head, knowing I had to shit or get off the pot soon, and not knowing how to to do it safely. Can you imagine? You need to poop or you’ll die but you’ll bleed out once you do. What do you pick?

Anyway, dinner arrives while I’m playing devil and angel in my head. I’m half here for conversations but I cannot help it. I see the screen illuminate again. Another text. Things are going to get dire. It has been about five months since he drove off before I got home and had the boys tell me goodbye on the phone while he drove them to friggin ice cream. Five months of mind games and I need to leave. I know I need to leave. Three months since I told Kulia that I loved her and meant it. Two months since he pulled Samuel into the living room and told him he had to pick who he would live with, right here and right now. One month since he told me he could tell I wanted out but I was the love of his life and I looked him dead in the face and said that was laughable. I can’t be the love of your life, because you can’t love someone you beat up. You can’t love someone you would put a hand on. You can’t love someone you would say terrible things to. I told him all of that and braced myself for his response. Which surprisingly wasn’t physical. Last week I spent every lunch break with a damn phone book in my hand, calling one divorce attorney after another. Who would have thought that zero dollars in your possession would equate to zero help? Not even one piece of advice. Every single call I made felt like the noose around my neck was getting tighter and tighter.

I want to have fun at this dinner. I want to laugh and share stories; I mean, I do a little, but I can’t fully be here. In fact, I’ve been treading water and I’m probably about to drown. I’ve been pushing him to the edge and one of us is about to tumble. Why have I been so brazen? I should have stopped myself for my boys except I feel like I’ve been trying to pull a piece of my cage off and finally have a good chunk coming up and all I feel is this desire to rip with all my might and go. Two feelings, not mutually exclusive but simultaneous. Stay but go. Breathe but suffocate.

I excused myself for a bathroom break and decide to look at the screen finally. This damn phone has been busy. There’s about fourteen texts that begin pleasant.

Enjoy your dinner.

If you have leftovers, please bring them home. I would love to try what you are eating.

The boys say they miss you. They’re going to bed soon. Maybe you can take a break from your girls night and say goodnight to them.

I guess you’re too busy to call your children. I’ll tell them that. I’m sure they’ll understand.

Abraham has a fever. Where is the medicine?

Did you see my text about Abraham? There is no medicine. Do you even give a shit?

…on and on and on. There it is. The dangerous progression that I knew was coming. As I’m sitting on the toilet, holding my hands on my head, I let a few tears escape.

Back at the booth, I tell the crew I have to cut my night short. It’s the last thing I want and I absolutely wouldn’t return if my children weren’t there, but this is life and I have to live with my choices. Kulia sees my face. She doesn’t let me chip in, gets the bill paid, and never once makes me feel bad. I ask her to drive me to a pharmacy first, so I can get Tylenol for AB. She waits as I go in, and then begins the somber ride back to my place. I say goodbye as I go to get out and she tells me to call her if I need anything. I’m shaky and if she sees it, she doesn’t mention it. Just squeezes my hand and lets me know I have her.

There are fourteen concrete stairs to the apartment that I have to climb. I take them slowly just to buy myself four seconds of piece. I reach the top, turn left and take however many steps it takes to get to the front door; it’s about twenty feet long. I see him inside and know he is angry just by his stance. He’s been waiting.

I walk in to a full blown argument that he probably began with himself the moment I closed the front door behind me two and a half hours ago. To be honest, I don’t hear most of it. I’m doing my best to prepare the dose of fever reducer for Abraham, picking up things around the living room. Anything to placate him. Its like the pressure release valve on the instantpot. I will let him release his steam and then hopefully he’ll go to bed. Except, this is different. This time, the steam keeps going.

Before I can react, he has grabbed my forearm forcefully. Are you even listening to me?

Yes, I’m listening to you.

The argument goes on and on. He wants reactions. He wants me to say something to tip him over the precarious edge he’s riding so he can blow up and hit me and feel justified in doing so. I know this so I’m mostly silent because I’ve learned my lesson years ago.

He throws me against the wall. I feel a sting and try not to react but it’s hard because these walls are made of cinder blocks. He’s now three inches from my face, saying one mean thing after another. I hear a door creek and turn to see Abraham, in his fever induced delirium creep out of his room. Mama? I move to comfort him but he slams me back against the wall. His forearm is against my throat and I’m doing my best to take short, calm breaths. He has never been physical with his boys in the room. AB is trying to hug my leg and get my attention but I can’t look down with the forearm holding me back. Since my left forearm is still being death-gripped, I use my right arm to pull him closer. He is really warm still and it’s worrying me. He can see it in my face.

Oh, you’re worried now? Your mom didn’t care you were sick when she was out with her friends so don’t expect her to care now, mijo, he hisses at Abraham. I want to tell AB to go to bed but I can’t talk. I can hardly breathe. Finally, I feel him let up. He grabs Abraham and takes him back to his room, tells him to lay down and go to sleep. While he’s in the other room, I grab my purse and put it close, put my cell phone in my pocket. He sees me moving and is pissed again.

You know what, I’m fucking over this, he tells me. He grabs my arm and begins to pull me towards the door. Get the fuck out, he says, as he’s dragging me. Stop, I plead. Don’t do this. Except, he doesn’t stop. He is using all his weight, all his force, all his anger to push me out of this house. I’m grabbing everything I can to stop him. I can’t be without my babies. I want to be rid of him, but safe in a house with them. He’s so much stronger than me that no matter my efforts, I’m almost out the door. As he gives one last shove to push me out of the door frame, I turn to him without fighting. Okay, I think, I’ll surrender. I put my hands up as if to do so but before I see it coming, he pushes me with all his strength, down the long walkway. I flew over half of it, land flat on my back, and feel my head bounce on the concrete. The wind is knocked out of me and for a second I think I’m dead. This is it, I hear my inside voice say. He killed me.

I feel my lungs trying to grab air and as I struggle to fill them, I open my eyes to him leering over my face. He’s crouched down with a wild look in his eyes that terrifies me. I hate you. You’re the biggest mistake of my life. You’re the biggest piece of shit I’ve ever met and I hate the day you were born. I hate you. I hate you. You’re a piece of shit.

I hear him but I’m somewhere else. My head is throbbing and I can’t focus. He tries to push me up a few times, kicks me and then gives up. He storms back inside the house and I just lay there on the concrete floor watching stars dance around my eyes. I’m exhausted, both mentally and physically and I don’t know what to do. My fingers feel my front pocket. Okay, my phone is still safe in there. That’s the one good thing I can think of right now.

I don’t know how much time goes by but eventually he comes back out. I see the movement from my peripheral vision and I think now, get up. Don’t stay here. So I stand and turn. I head to the stairs. Oh no you don’t, I hear behind me, dangerously close.

Time to Forgive Myself

UW from the get-go

The only college I ever knew I wanted to go to was the University of Washington. From the beginning of time and without real reason it was on my list; the list of one. The idea of university made no sense to me, for whatever reason, except for UW. I made posters and cheered for them at the Rose Bowl growing up. I wore t-shirts and recited to everyone how I wanted to go there.

Adults would pat my head, in a belittling manner but without that intention. “Yes, dear,” as if to pacify a bratty child. I knew what I wanted and they didn’t care either way. My parents opened their Mexican restaurant when I was almost six years old. I grew up in it and with their regular patrons. The thing is, unexpectedly, you become the child of the town. Those who dine with you take an interest in your goals and your life. They tell you their thoughts and expect you to heed their advice because they’ve earned it. They’ve had dinner with you for the last ten years, for gawd’s sake.

For one important reason that I don’t have to share, I decided I wanted to be a neonatologist. A smaller part of this decision was that I loved helping people, including bandaging their wounds and holding their hands as they were brave. Medicine came to mind. Somewhere along the way a friend shared her college story about sociology and what that means. Okay, I thought. I’ll major in pre-med and minor in sociology. That made sense to me. Easy peasy.

I was an avid student but I didn’t force myself. In AP history in high school, I was excited to hear I had passed it and would have college credit. My teacher announced his astonishment, “You passed!” he exclaimed incredulously. I don’t think he could believe it but I could. I wasn’t surprised. I had worked for it. Kind of.

I remember the time coming to apply for colleges. I already knew my plan. I was only going to apply for the University of Washington, even though a certain classmate told me that if I got accepted, it was due to affirmative action. With a lot of hope and a little hard work, I applied. I didn’t care why, if they did say yes. I just wanted a yes.

And I was accepted. I’ve skipped over a lot of ups and downs in life because that isn’t what this is about, but don’t mistake that this was a feat. I didn’t come from privilege. This was exceptionally wonderful and I knew it. My father didn’t want me to go so far away; a spectacular scholarship from Western was part of the reason. If I stayed and attended WWU, I would have essentially zero debt at graduation. That was not the case for UW.

So, in true Vee fashion, I left. The day after graduation (my mom still reminds me of this) I packed up and moved south. I began classes in September and was ready to thrive.

Except, that was not the case. UW was hard. There were more students in some of my classes than my entire town growing up. UW slapped me back to reality fast and I was not prepared. It grabbed my confidence out of my hand and hurled it to the floor like a glass snow globe. It shattered when it hit the tile.

Fast forward to my last semester. I had moved out of my dorm to rent an apartment with a friend who then bailed because she lost a job, I had met a guy, and I was struggling to make it through my first year. Every decision I could wrongly make, I did. It was defeating me. I had practically zero visits from family, almost no friends in Seattle, my first failed class under my belt, and a full-time job. I was overwhelmed.

This isn’t a hate message to my loved ones. I made my decisions and I fostered or didn’t relationships then. I love my family, and it’s complicated. Relationships aren’t always pretty and I love my mother and father. Our relationship isn’t perfect. We managed how we could or how we knew when we needed to and so no judgement or finger-pointing. Life is what it is. I was alone. What I’m saying is I’ve consistently disappointed myself. Them, too. I learned not to expect for them to be there.

In my last class of the day, the teacher had a lackadaisical approach to school. He gave us three assignments on the first day and told us we could attend or not attend, but before a certain day the three assignments must be turned in. I thought it was wonderful. I had so much I was juggling that the idea of being in charge of my workload was exhilarating. Except, I knew shit about managing my workload. What my ears heard was that I could work an additional hour at my bank job and I could glean by imaginary osmosis whatever information I needed to complete my three assignments.

Days and then weeks went by. Little by little I chipped away at the first two assignments. Maybe that actually took months because before I knew it, two weeks were left before the end of the term and one assignment was outstanding. And I hadn’t attended class so I had absolutely zero idea on what my approach to the assignment would be. I frustratingly shared my concerns with my boyfriend at the time, who was a hop, skip, and a jump from becoming my husband.

He was living with me at this point. I had been drowning trying to pay this Seattle apartment on my own and he arrived, like a knight in shining rent assistance. I was terrified of bad credit, which is pretty fucking ironic since he singlehandedly ruined mine shortly after. I digress. I had been offered extra hours at work because I was excelling there unlike at school and he saw an opportunity. He offered to write my paper, stated he had taken a similar class and would be well equipped to get me a decent grade.

Not once had I cheated in school or in college. I argued with him for a long while, convinced I could do this paper and work the extra hours and give him the attention he demanded. He wasn’t so sure and he let me know it. Through gaslighting and manipulation, he convinced me. With pure words because he had never hit me up to now. He would write this paper and I would go to work and all would be well.

I came home and he had it. Beaming with pride he held it up, excited to show me his masterpiece. I read it in awe and with disdain. It didn’t sound like me at all, was an opinion I never would have taken. I was one day away from the due date so he proposed driving it over in that instant. I was hesitant. It didn’t feel right; it had never felt right. I knew this was wrong and yet I didn’t know what to say. I rode in silence to the university with him, walked begrudgingly to the required building. He accompanied me most of the way. I was alone in front of the mailbox and I really thought for a moment about what kind of person I wanted to be; what kind of person I already was. Somehow, cheater won and I slipped it into the professor’s mailbox.

It should come as no surprise that I was called in for an investigation into plagiarism. Absolutely the most embarrassing moment of my life, up until then. I entered the room downtrodden and listened as the student investigator told me that the paper had been copied, word by word, off the internet. I never fought or lied. I confessed right away. Other classes I had worked so hard to pass were brought into question. I was humiliated sitting in that room, trying to advocate that this had been the first time, as ridiculous as it might sound. I was placed on academic probation.

I dropped out of UW after that. Embarrassed and feeling defeated, I succumbed to working entry-level bank jobs. Even when I would be promoted I would berate myself. The damage had been done. Months later I found out I was pregnant with Samuel. It was literally the day before I married his father. I didn’t want to go through with any of this but that cemented it for me. I was stuck with this person who at this point was already physically abusive. This was my life for a decade. When I shared my pregnancy with restaurant friends, they expressed their disappointment. “But you’re so smart,” they said to me. “I can be smart and still have a family,” I had replied. I meant that. They were disappointed in me, too.

It wasn’t until a few years after Kulia and I were together that she decided to return to school to get her bachelors though an online university, WGU. During the first two years, I watched her and felt inspiration growing. Since four days after I turned 30, I had been rewriting my shitty first draft, living afraid but doing the things, regardless. It had been almost twenty years since my time at UW. I took a deep breath and applied amidst my terror. I made the decision to tackle my fear head on, panic attacks, doubt, fear and all.

Studying for WGU was a lot of work but manageable for me and I firmly believe that it was because of my audacity to prove to myself I was smart enough, and capable enough, and willing enough. All things I could have done two decades prior but wasn’t strong enough to follow through.

I kept it to myself, minus my wife and best friend knowing. Why? Because I was doing this for myself and I wanted zero outside noise. Someone once told me that they viewed themselves like an open book, just like me. Except, I’m not an open book. Not at all. Many people talk to me but few know me. I didn’t want to share this. I wanted to get through it on my almost sole belief that I could. Without complaining or excusing myself or quitting. Did I doubt myself? Hell yes. Did I question myself? Hell yes. Did I reprimand myself? Absolutely. But not once did I quit.

WGU gives each student a mentor. Aside from Kulia, my mentor, Chris, helped cheer me through this program that I successfully completed in two years. We had weekly calls where he figured out how to motivate and push me, I figured out how to sidetrack our convos into chatting about anything besides school, he would bring it back to school and I would ramble and doubt myself. He asked me during our first convo if I could handle this when things got tough.

What if someone dies that you’re close to? How will you handle school?

I think I can manage, I told him.

Yesenia. My grandmother. My uncle Bill. I did what I could while being there for them how I could. It made me want to push school aside but I didn’t.

Two years of working a full-time job, raising children, trying to workout and balance life. It was hard. It was exhausting. I had to put things on the back burner, like Island Time with Vee. And running. It made me question my sanity. Not once did I think about cheating. Not once did I think I wasn’t smart enough. The more I passed, the more I gained back the confidence I had once had. The teenager, moving to a new city on her own, didn’t give an eff who came to see her or not, doing her thang, confidence. I felt myself blooming.

And then, my last class was here before my capstone. It was information systems and was all about computers and I hated EVERY.DAMN.SECOND of it. It dragged. I half-assed it and thought that was enough and cockily asked for approval for the final exam. Then I failed it. My last damn test, slapped me right back to nineteen year old Virginia sitting in front of a student investigator admitting she wasn’t good enough for this. I beat myself up about it, I berated myself. I almost allowed it to defeat me.

Except between Kulia and my mentor, Chris, they wouldn’t let me. They said what I needed to hear, lifted my spirits when I wanted to break myself down.

This is your mile 12, Kulia reminded me. The hardest mile of my half-marathon five years ago. She was right.

You didn’t come this far to just come this far, Chris told me. Gawd, he was freakin right.

I put my head down and in the midst of a global pandemic, I passed that final class and began the last mile of the longest run I had taken. And within a couple weeks, I conquered my capstone.

And without further adieu, I present my bachelors in Human Resources Management.

Without asking anyone for permission, I learned how to fly

Degree earned the week of my birthday.

The end.

If I Were A Critic

It is no secret that I love Christmas. It should come as no surprise then, that when I began to see the recurring trailer for Last Christmas, featuring Emilia Clarke and Henry Golding, that I would do everything I could to watch it in theaters.

You know the one. It begins with Wham’s hit (do you even know how many times I googled who the other half of Wham was and still do not remember?! Ridic), sung slowly by Emilia who is forever the Mother of Dragons in my heart. You see her ice skating with Henry who is my second fave because Crazy Rich Asians (#duh). In four seconds it was the trifecta to convince me to throw money its way. It centering around some Christmas theme was extra. Literally neither here nor there. I was always going to want to see it.

I dressed up for the movie, by which I mean I donned my Christmas dress that sparked a movement (if you’re wondering what movement I mean, here it is: Christmas Dress Shenans), complete with accessories and my gingerbread house purse. It was the most justice I could do for this feature film. I was giddy excited and hardly noticed that our fellow attendees had an average age of 65 at the cinema. That is just what you get when you choose a Sunday morning matinee time. I have to add that it made for some interesting chuckles during some exciting trailers, but that’s for another day.

As the movie began, it occurred to me that I really had no idea what it was about. My best guess at the time is that it was a typical holiday RomCom that just happened to go straight to the big screen because of its clear A list of actors. Well, buckle up and let me add that no, there will be no major spoilers here. Just me listing out all the reasons why you need to go see it, even if you hate Christmas.

Here you go, without further adieu:

Ready to watch some magic!

Within five minutes of the movie starting, you realize that Catarina (played by Emilia) is a hot mess. She works at a Christmas Wonderland, which is actually now a dream for me, perpetually wearing a green elf dress. Her accessories are now legitimate wants of mine. The boot cover-ups to make them elf shoes are the best thing ever. I need a pair like I need oxygen! She is an adorable wreck. You love her instantly, even when you are cringing as she makes continuous bad choices.

She sings. This is no spoiler, as we heard that in the trailer and when she meets Tom Webster (played by Henry), he begins to help her overcome some challenges she has in nailing auditions. And, ya know, being a better human. Suffice to say that she doesn’t want to work for Santa (she is played by Michelle Yeoh, better known as the mean, unrelenting mom on Crazy Rich Asians) (and also YAY FOR WORK REUNIONS BECAUSE I LOVE THEM even though she’s a total beezy in that film) forever, either. I mean, I personally would, but to each their own.

You see, Catarina (or Cate, as she desperately wants to be called) cannot figure out how to turn her life around or who she even really is. She is a continual screw-up. Her sister is the shining star. They can’t stand each other because they both think the other gets more attention (sounds about right, right?). She has a fledgling relationship with her mother. They are a family of immigrants. I can relate with so much of it. Well, minus the singing. I mean, I do it anyway but I don’t sound angelic like she does. Maybe I should move my eyebrows more. I digress.

Tom slowly helps her regain some confidence, reminds her how to see people (but like, really see them), and to stop taking your village for granted. He refuses to be a slave to his cell phone. He asks her to eat better. He volunteers at a homeless shelter and takes her there to see it on their “second” date. There are mental health struggles, poverty, racism, lack of accountability, struggling relationships. Even when it is being cute, the film stays pretty true to a real world out there.

As Catarina begins to find her gumption and her drive, she starts to make some selfless acts. She stops being selfish and in that process, begins to find healing, both in her, and around her. She doesn’t need someone to save her or love her. She needs to do both of those things for herself, because you are the only person you can rely on one hundred percent for those things. Tom teaches her that, too.

Is there romance in this movie? Yes.

Is there comedy? Yes.

Is there almost every single George Michaels song in it? ABSOLUTELY. Get ready to sing along.

You also walk away from it with a renewed hope. Not just on Christmas, when we are most likely to reach out and help people but, in people, in general. This movie reiterates that with kindness we can break down walls, because we never really know what people are going through. We all have battles we are fighting. And the best love story is when you begin to love yourself.

And if you have a beating heart, you will love this film.

I just know it.

I don’t own the rights to this photo.

Before it was Cool

In high school, I was lucky enough to be the vice-president (or was it secretary…I legitimately cannot remember) (or Treasurer, was that a thing?) of the Honor Society at my school. A close friend of mine was the President and somehow we were tasked with the very important job of putting on a school dance towards the end of the school year. This dance was called Tolo.

Our school, and maybe only schools up in our county call it that, but really it is a dance where historically, the girl asks the guy to the dance. I have recently learned that many other schools call this concept Sadie Hawkins. Or something like that. Honestly, none of that matters. It is a school dance, more commonly known as the dance where girls would look glam-awkward and the guys would look dapper-odd. I’m clearly talking about the good ole days, where young adults hadn’t learned how to contour and do amazing makeup on YouTube and Pinterest. I mean, my grandkids are going to look so great! And they will look back at all my school dance photos and cringe like I do. ACK!

Anyway, all the other dances were put on by very reputable groups. I know you’re probably thinking that the FRIGGIN HONOR SOCIETY must be the most trustworthy group, but you would be wrong. Children that are all-knowing should be supervised. I’ll say that forever and ever, because I was that child. Anyway, I digress. The all-esteemed president and I convened, which is what I call the planning party where I convinced her we make the theme Hawaiian Luau (I KNOW) and she listened to all my crazy ideas that were very pineapple-centric. I should add that I recently took the Strenghthfinders test, where they determine your top five strengths. I think my number two was Woo. I thought that referred to my very common WOO I will yell at random occasions. No. It is my power of persuasion. Awesome. It was in full force on this senior year night.

So I got what I wanted here. A Hawaiian party where we could make a ton of decorations and not have to wear a dress and still have fun. Definitely win-win.

I asked a friend to go with me, but not as my date. I had zero interest in him and told him I would take him to McDonalds for dinner. I was that serious.

We arrived at the party and the prezzy and I went off to handle a lot of logistical, background tasks. At least, that is what I told my friend. Really, I could see he had some hopes up and I wasn’t about to encourage that. Besides, we did have some actual duties, like reminding attendees to vote for the dance royalty. I was dreading this part.

Now, yes, I recognize that our spring Sadie Hawkins dance, or whatever you want to call it, pales in comparison to football homecoming. There isn’t a float parade or special assembly for it. There is, however, still a high school hierarchy that decides the winners. You know the one I’m referring to, if you’ve ever been in high school. The pretty and cool (those are not independent of each other) kids in the fun clique all vote for whoever is next on their list. I was never in this clique so I especially saw it and the effects it had on the very large population of students who continually feel left out or unseen.

We did our announcement, reminding everyone one last time to come over and get their votes in. As we waited anxiously for the time to run out, we chatted about who our money was on to win King & Queen. I won’t lie and say it wasn’t the preppy group. I mean, they are always good looking kids! We just knew the possibilities were a small group of people. When it was finally time we grabbed the box from the rando that had been manning that table and headed back into a private room to “count them.”

Now, you’re probably wondering why that was in quotations. It is because this wasn’t the most popular dance, and even with a pretty decent number of students there, not everyone voted. The whole process could have taken us less than five minutes and we could deliver our hula girl prizes (I might not be remembering that correctly, but this was in a recent dream so let’s go with it) to the winning couples. It felt sort of exhilarating, to know the outcome before announcing the winner to a group. I can only imagine how the committee who knows Oscar, Grammy, and Tony winners first feel. We decide (it was her, the president, because she’s a math wizard) to make piles first and then count, in the event a count was needed. You know, in case that group couldn’t pick one clear winning couple.

As we started creating the piles, I got this sudden urge to rip them all up. I didn’t, but I recognized it was there. I was seeing popular after popular and realized this was probably my only chance ever to be a part of something revolutionary at this school. I mean, if you didn’t count the recent stint of suspended days I had recently served because I had “caused too much of a scene when a fellow classmate had made racist comments to a friend.” After I continued to cause said scene I also yelled for justice. How could I be suspended for defending her and he not be defended for making the racist remarks? Right? Right. End story? We both got suspended and I was 100% fine with that.

“You know,” I said to my friend, “do we really have to count these? Who would it hurt if we picked our own winners?”

She turned to me and smiled. “Did you have anyone in mind?”

I sure did. This dance was the first time, in my high school years, that I had seen a same-sex couple attend. Two ladies, looking super cute and semi-uncomfortable, had bought their tickets and shown up. There had been whisperings for the two weeks leading up to it because it was scandalous and amazing and unheard of. I was a big fan. I wanted to tip the scales and announce them Queen and Queen.

There is something to be said about growing up in farm country. You see, over and over, the normalcy of hetero relationships was prevalent. You are raised with this confusing rhetoric that you will grow up and marry a man, but not before you get some sort of post-secondary education’ you will have children but not before you buy a house, etc. Not everyone follows the rules and they suffer harsh judgement from it, however short-lived that may be. Seeing these two ladies take each other to this dance was so brave and encouraging. It also showed that our little corner of the county had more diversity than just ethnic differences.

My co-conspirator was in my corner and it made me so happy. Not that we had to help these ladies too much. If I’m being completely honest, we only “helped” them with less than ten votes. That was what helped me push my integrity aside so fast! I wasn’t the only one who wanted so desperately to see this change! My president just had one request, that I gladly accepted.

As we took the stage to announce all the winning couples, including prince and princess, my heart began to race. I was sure everyone could hear it through the microphone, that familiar boom-boom of not following a rule. The agreement had been that I would announce the two lesser royalty and she would announce the queens. And queens they were! Amidst the looks of shock were many of happiness. They came up so gracefully and danced so beautifully right after, It was amazing and we very non-discreetly high fived as we walked off the stage.

I will forever call this my greatest achievement of high school, very equivalent to fighting against racism. The thing is, nothing ever changes unless you break some rules, I suppose.

These clearly aren’t the Queens. I don’t have a pic and even if I did, I would have to find them and get permission. This works. You get the gist of it.

Grow with me

Aka – How to be a little better every day, with practice

Oh gosh. You did it. You clicked on this post to read my ideas on how to change something in your life, for whatever reason, because either you wanted to read this saying, “YOU DAMN HYPOCRITE,” and madly hit the X in whatever upper hand corner it appears in. Or because you think I deserve to give advice to anyone. Or maybe you’re just bored and it’s midnight on a Tuesday and you’re desperately crossing your fingers that this will be boring enough to put you to sleep.

Eek. No pressure.

All I’m doing is making a list of actual shit I’ve at least acknowledged as negatively affecting me and maybe that is the second step to fixing a problem. Or going to rehab. You never know!

First, put your damn phone down

Yeah, yeah. I don’t even need to explain it. You’re not continuing reading this thinking I’m going to give you some outrageous statistic that bitch-slaps you into realizing that by holding your phone, you’re holding hands with the devil. No wonder it’s called Apple.

I’m just saying, consciously recognize where your time goes. And if you’re one of those friends who thinks you don’t have a phone addiction, go ahead and pause your reading, go to screen time in your settings, and then think about whatever number of literal hours you see listed there. We can do better.

But don’t put it down yet. I’ve got more gems to share. And this is not permission to never respond to people’s texts or phone calls. FIND THE BALANCE!

Side note: my wife tells me to put my phone down a lot. Like, a lot a lot. I like to share our daily funsies but I think I’m getting better at choosing what and when and deciding when to put it away. With that said, nobody else tells me when to put my phone away and gets away with it. Not even my mother. So don’t even.

Second, listen to listen. Not to respond.

Yeah, it’s tough. I see it everyday. You ever feel like you’re talking to someone who just is not.hearing.you and you are getting frustrated? Well, brace yourself. Chances are, you have done it, too. I participated in an activity at a seminar once that I’d like to share. It’s pretty easy. Fairly eye-opening. You just need a counterpart. This helps you practice being engaged and active as a listener, which is essential for having real conversations. <– you know you’ve been a part of conversations that were really just someone else soliloquizing to you. Don’t front. Anyway, here is how it goes:

Set a timer for one minute. Yes, you can use your phone that you just promised to put away more often. Don’t be an ass. So, one minute. Literally just 60 seconds, which turns out is not really an eternity unless you’re planking or otherwise punishing your body. Sit facing whoever you dragged into this exercise, not to be confused with the plank.
Elect who will go first. I’m a big fan of the ole adage of saying, “Whoever raises their hand goes first,” as you shoot your whole arm into the air. It works like a charm and this activity has nothing to do with humility. You can go first. Someone has to.
Hit go on the timer. The elected speaker (aka you) will speak for the whole damn minute about a recent, major accomplishment. You know, that in and of itself is hard because we are told not to boast. Eff that noise right now. You get all these sixty seconds to brag on about yo’self. Finding it hard to figure out what to say about it? Explain that. Just keep your lips moving until your duck quacks or your robot does the waa-waa-waa-WAAA-waa-waa-waa-waa. Mmmkay?
While speaker #1 is talking, Silento needs to just listen. No interrupting allowed. They cannot open their hole until the duck or robot goes off. And during this time, they need to be actively NOT thinking about themselves, what to make for dinner, if there’s enough clean underwear for tomorrow, etc. JUST.LISTEN.
At the conclusion of that minute, the silent listener will write down three questions to ask later about what speaker one spoke about. THREE. It isn’t that hard because you were listening, right?! Not waiting to get a word in?
Next, set the time for one minute. Wash, rinse, and repeat. That means speaker two is up. Thundercats are go and it is their time to share.
Upon that timer meowing or whatever, speaker one will write their three questions.
Now, ask your questions. It can be alternating or all at once. Whatever feels right.
Practice. Even if you think you are already a phenomenal listener, try this every now and then. Hone those skills.
Revel in the fact you are working on listening better. You cannot control other people and how well they will listen. You can only set the example.

And if you don’t have anyone to practice with or are scared to ask because this is your first time and you get nervous, reach out to me. I’ll practice with you.

Sweep your socials

I know plenty of people who did or want to rid themselves of the social medias. Now, if you really want to, by all means. If you prefer one over the other, nobody says they’re beanie babies that you need to have a whole set of to matter. But if you’re just wanting to delete them because everything you’re seeing is negative, depressing, mean, etc, then it is time to evaluate who and what pages you are following. You are in control. I want to add that I also think it’s worthy to leave one or two sources of contention on your page so you aren’t oblivious to the stupid shit people say and do, but that’s just me. You do you.

Listen to the memes

Here is what I mean by this. I recently saw a quote (I know, they probably aren’t actually called memes. I’m just referring to the photo you can save that has inspirational ish on it, funny photos and odd captions that make you LOL, etc. I can call it what I want. You call it what you want), that said something to the effect of, I want to sit at tables that I’m not the topic of conversation of when I get up.

Dang. Can I get a HELLLLLLL YEAAAAAAH. Shitballs. That hit me like my fourth shot of tequila! I legitimately fist-pumped the air and felt instantly fired up! Who doesn’t want that? I mean, I was about to throw on my power hoops and my fave lipstick like it was a damn lava flower! You know, the one Super Mario eats? Watch out, lava balls coming your way!

Except, I also took a moment to think about the flip side, because being 37 can do that to you. Here you are aging, and also maturing! It’s the tits. When I reflected, I realized I’ve talked about people who have gotten up and left the table. Now, maybe my table is shorter and not full of directors. Yet. That doesn’t matter. I’ve still been guilty of this.

You hate excessive meetings? Don’t hold one after the initial one is over. You don’t like gossip? Don’t engage. Or better yet, say that. Literally say, “This conversation feels gossipy and I’m working on not doing that. I’m going to step away.” And I know that is awkward. I know it calls some people out. But damn it, I’m done tiptoeing around the boundaries I need to establish to make myself feel healthy. I empower you to do the same. And if you’re sitting there about to pop out of your damn chair because I’ve done this exact thing with you, just know this.I KNOW. I AM A HYPOCRITE WHO HAS DECIDED TO BE BETTER. Alright? Good.

Don’t be that person who makes everything about yourself

There’s one thing about connecting with someone, which is empathetic. There’s another thing about making everything about you. And maybe you’re feeling called out right now. Well, lace that sneaker up and get close because I mean what I am about to say. This is important. And I don’t say this maliciously. I’m bringing awareness to it because you are still reading and maybe this might help. Chew this over. Think about it. And ask yourself the following:

do I read posts and then comment about myself?
do I listen to my friend’s problem and then comment about myself?
do I interact with someone and turn what they say into something about myself?

It might sound something like this…

Person A: I feel crappy today. I haven’t pooped in a couple days. **Oh shit, no pun intended! Twice!**

Person B: I am so regular. I poop every morning.

Side note: Yes, I am always person B here. I KNOW!

Or it might sound like this…

Person A: I can’t believe Carol got that promotion over me.

Person B: I get skipped all the time because I refuse to play the politics, too.

Or like this…

Person A: I cooked some amazing fish and chips last night! I am so proud of them!

Person B: Oh, we make fish and chips all the time. They’re so easy.

See? What I’m saying is, sometimes, let up on you and be about them. Don’t be a B. I’ve practiced this a lot and let me tell you, it now stands out to me like a sore thumb (who came up with that? I’ve never really noticed anyone’s sore thumbs before), and I almost want to apologize (in fact, I think I have) on behalf of person B to person A before. It isn’t pretty.

Take note of what isn’t working

This is one piece of advice that sounds easy to me but isn’t, in fact, easy to me. I love to say yes to the fun stuff. The wifey likes to plan ahead. Turns out me wildly agreeing to shenans all the time is probably giving her high blood pressure. When you say yes to something, you are saying no to something else. That’s is what Shonda Rhimes taught me and while I still haven’t forgiven her for killing off Derrick, I see what she is saying. I AM WORKING ON IT, so you go work on it, too.

I’ll forever say this. If you know something makes you an ugly person or someone impossible to deal with, be it alcohol, video games, the political shit-show that is our country, instagramming your life, having your phone out all damn day, etc then MAKE.A.CHANGE.

Never let anything hold more power over you than you yourself hold. You’re too beautiful for that.

And last but not least…

When you can, be there. For the rallies. For those who need backup. For the hard fucking conversations. For when people are fighting for their life or saying goodbye to it. For when moms need their damn village. For when we need someone to show up and just sit uncomfortably with us without judgement. Show up for who is important to you.

And when you need someone, tell someone. <–That’s the hardest thing for me so if that sentence alone makes your throat squeeze shut tightly, I feel you. Let’s figure out how to ask for help also be willing to accept it. And let’s also figure out what isn’t working. Not for just those around us. For us, too.

Let’s do it together.

Be in a constant pursuit of what sets your soul on FIYA

What I wish I could say

Not too long ago I was perusing social media, reading everyone’s different posts quickly. One stuck out to me, where an acquaintance of mine had shared a photo of them with their ex. The caption said something about parents needing to be mature and put their differences aside for the good of the children. I could feel myself react, not because I felt it was directed at me but in a sense, the shoe sure as hell fits.

A few days later I see an article pop up on my feed on scarymommy.com. It was an almost love-letter penned by a mom to a step-mom thanking her for being her ally and maybe even her best friend. I’m going to be honest here, as I usually am. I skimmed it loosely. Not because the author’s words had no meaning to me, but because the letter didn’t apply to me. Yes, there are Bruce Willis’ and Demi Moore’s out there who can remain friends and co-parent successfully. They can do blended family dinners and respectfully shuttle the involved children back and forth like angels. I think that is beautiful and un-normal and amazing. For them.

That doesn’t work for me.

I refuse to allow people to make me feel bad for not harboring feelings of goodwill and grace for my ex-husband. Whether they do or say something that alludes to this in one way, shape, or form, I defend myself. Perhaps aggressively, perhaps coyly, but undoubtedly. In the past seven years since I left that abusive marriage, I have learned how important it is to set boundaries, remain steadfast in what I know is best for me and then best for the children (because I have to put my own oxygen mask on before I help them, just like those sweet flight attendants remind us every time we fly), and to disregard anyone’s idea of how I should behave if I know it isn’t healthy for my well-being. <–that’s my nice way of saying, Thank u, next, just like Ariana. That is okay.

I can be mature and not nice at the same time.

Lately I’ve done some leadership development at work with different groups of management and one thing I always stress is that we can say anything to our colleagues that we want, as long as we say it respectfully and with tact. I use this same advice in how I communicate with the boys’ father. I will use tact. I will be respectful. But I do not have to be nice. And if setting boundaries is a new concept to you, sometimes it can feel like you’re being mean. I don’t think so. I think it feels like you’re being clear and as my soon-to-be-bestie, Brene Brown likes to point out, “Clear is kind. Unclear is unkind.” Boom. If that goddess believes it, then this goddess believes it. We are a society very used to sugarcoating words then calling people names if they say something straightforward and to-the-point to us. Say it anyway, if it needs to be. That is okay.

I get to decide who I trust.

Kulia often calls me a Mama Bear. I do my best to make INCREDULOUS face when she says it but she’s pretty accurate in calling me that. For a whole lot of reasons, I have majority custody of my children. I think back to the letter from the mom to step-mom and how she says she trusts her wholeheartedly. That’s fantastic for them but unrealistic for so many of us. I cannot trust my counterparts and since I cannot trust them, every time we communicate or interact together, it is forced, strained, and awkward. That is okay.

Oil and water.

I spent the majority of my decade-long marriage hating the company (I don’t mean job-wise) I was with. His parents didn’t mesh with mine, his siblings didn’t jive with me, we didn’t share friendships. Every.single.aspect. of who we were together didn’t mix. It should be no surprise that apart we continue to be the same. Once Abraham asked if for his birthday he could have a dinner where we all joined together and without hesitation I let him know I couldn’t do that because I wouldn’t feel safe. When we share things with the boys, perhaps not with as many words or deep detail, I continue to tell them that I have to keep my safety at the forefront of anything I agree to. For a long time that meant I couldn’t be a part of pick-up and drop-off or even the communication to make that happen. I have to say no sometimes but I am always honest. That is okay.

Parallel Parenting is not for the weak of heart.

Washington state (and I’m sure many others) have this bananas rule that when you file for divorce, if children are involved, both parents must attend a parenting class before the custody plan will be approved. I remember walking in to it thinking there wasn’t anything they would teach me in that class that I didn’t already know. I was pleasantly surprised. In that class I learned about co-parenting and parallel parenting, what ex-couples fight the most about, and the most important things your child(ren) need to hear right now. Co-parenting means parenting together, as implied in the name. Parallel parenting means each parent decides and does what they think is best while they have the child(ren). There isn’t any collaboration. To each his own. And the minute I heard it, I wrote it down and knew that is what I would be doing from here until eternity. That is okay.

**Side note, most parents fight over clothes. And children need to hear you give them verbal permission to love the other parent.**

I suppose that mother wrote that letter because ugly breakups are expected but not the only option. Just remember, if you find yourself reading something that gets you fired up, that it doesn’t mean you aren’t a good person because you can’t emulate that same feeling or behavior. It isn’t apples to apples, no matter what some people would have you believe. Set your boundaries, live your life, and be safe, always, friends. That is okay.

I couldn’t stop gushing over how handsome Sam was for Prom

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.

bravery

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Vee's Happily Ever Laughter