failing at winning with anxiety...

If I had a dollar for every panic attack  i have had, I could afford a really good therapist and I wouldn't have to write in my blog about my life. But no one is handing out money for these things, so I guess blogging it is. 

It is 2:39 in the morning and I am waiting for my anti anxiety meds to kick in so that I can hopefully fall asleep. I feel like I can remember a time that I didn't have these lovely attacks, but I know that I didn't fully appreciate life without anxiety. These attacks started shortly after I developed my heart condition. I guess mentally I couldn't tell the difference between my heart electrocuting me and me just thinking it was. If my heart ever started to palpitate I would be scared that I was having another 'episode' and then I would panic. I can't speak to anyone else's panic attacks, so I will just try to explain mine. 

Whatever happens to set it off isn't important. It can be something as big as a belligerently drunk person trying to fight people that he cares about, or it could be that a song on the radio is playing too loudly. It matters not. If I feel as though I do not have complete control over my environment, I panic. 

I start by feeling hot. So hot. As if all of the blood inside my body just started boiling. I have learned tricks to dealing with this symptom. Those in my inner circle are very familiar with my - dribble ice water out of my mouth down my shirt - move. I'll put ice cubes in my shirt and pour ice water down my back. I also try to pour the water on my wrists, but this works better if I can use a cold rag to wrap on them. Yes, I am aware of how ridiculous I look, but those looking at me judging don't have to see where this will go if I can't stop it at this stage. 

If I can't shock my system quickly enough with the cold, the next symptom is nausea and the gut wrenching stomach pains. That jumps right into getting very dizzy and then heads on into everything turning dark and blurry. Kind of like looking through a kaleidoscope. As if my brain tells my eyes that they need to stop working. In case you were wondering, 'getting sick' when you can't see is not easy. I usually make my way outside when this happens so I don't have to worry about aim. 

If I was able to shock my system from progressing past the really hot stage, which happens often now that I learned my little ice tricks, I will still remain at a high level of anxiety until I take medicine or I take a very hot bath. Hot baths are really great after dousing yourself with ice water for hours. My muscles get very tense when I am having an attack, almost like they are spasming all over my body, so even after I stop the progression of the attack, the lingering effects of nausea and muscle cramps will stay for hours. I can push through those. I can slap a smile on my face and continue on with whatever situation I happen to be in, but if anything else happens to make me feel anxious, it starts right where it left off and usually escalates quickly. 

I read a comment on a post the other day that has me thinking about anxiety and being a woman of faith. How can I trust in God and still have anxiety? 

The commenters point was that we as Christians have nothing to really worry about with the day to day because we have already seen how the story ends. We go to Heaven. 

Ummm. No. What is the point of giving us life if  we weren't intended to live it. All of it. The good, the bad, the cancer, the fights, the miscarriages, the deaths, the lost jobs, the promotions, the weddings and the funerals. I want to LIVE in this life and not just glide through it with my head in the clouds. 

 

I am lucky enough to have a wonderful group of people to do life with that always bring me big cups of ice cold water. 

one in five...

Just in this past week I have heard of three separate cases of child molestation in people's children that I know. Not to mention the recent cases in the news. One in five, that is how many girls have been a victim of child sexual abuse. One in five.  I can't even put in to words how utterly devastating this is to me. I have previously written about what happened to me when I was younger, but was intentionally vague as to not open up my wounds, or the wounds of those involved. I was reminded that the purpose of this blog was to open up my wounds so that they could once and for all be healed. This one is by far the one that has affected me the most in my life. So I have decided to no longer keep this secret locked in my heart. It isn't healthy, but most of all, it isn't fair. This keeps happening to our children. It needs to get out of the darkness and into the light. People need to be having real conversations about child molestation. 

I find it ironic that I made the decision that my child would never have a toy doctors kit before she was even born. If you know my daughter, you know that Doc McStuffins is her obsession. It is the only show that she will watch consistently. She has just about every toy from this series with the exception of the actual doctor tools. I refuse it. My husband has tried to convince me that it isn't healthy for me to project my issues with this onto her. She should be able to have these toys without it causing me trauma. The more we talk about it, and the more I think about it, I know that he is right. I never want my pain to prevent her joy. 

It was a very popular toy in the 80's, a plastic Fischer Price doctors kit that she used. She was a teenager, I believe about 16. I do not know if she was some sick predator, or just a confused child. I don't know if it happened to her and that is why she did it to me. I have thought about her often. Did she continue to do it? Does she ever think about it? Does she know that what she did destroyed me? Was this a one time thing? I only have the one memory. The one recurring nightmare that stole my innocence.

There was another child involved. A boy. She made us do things to each other that children should never do. She did things to us with those toys that should never be done to children.  

I'm not really sure what else there is to say about it. The rest of the details seem pointless at this stage. The only reason I am sharing this is to hopefully raise awareness. These horrible acts are still happening too often. Innocent children are being taken advantage of and I am here to tell you, they will remember. There is no real way to truly protect your child from this happening. It is being done my brothers, sisters, cousins, baby sitters, grandparents, fathers, and even mothers. Pedophiles are not going to volunteer this information. There won't be a sign around their neck that warns you of what could happen if you trust them to care for your child. Have the uncomfortable conversations. Teach your children as early as they can understand that they can always tell you anything. Teach them about their private areas and how to tell you if they are ever touched inappropriately. Most importantly, take every single claim seriously and seek help in dealing with the situation. 

You are your child's voice. You are their protector. My prayer is that our children are never assaulted in this way, but please, never ignore the signs. 

forever young...

I remember the first time I met her like it was yesterday.  I was standing on a ladder painting the wall at a friend’s house and she bounced up to me, only the way she can, and reached up her hand and said, HI! I’m Jessica! She flashed that smile and I have loved her ever since.

A few months later she called me frantically and said, if anyone ever asks, you are my sister. Some girl was messing with her and she told them that her big sister was going to beat them up.  It stuck, and from that day on I was her big sister.  She introduced me to everyone as her sister and even put it on Facebook.  I began to take this title very seriously.  I gave her advice even when she didn’t want it.  I fussed her for doing stupid things.  When she would fight with her mother I would always take her mom’s side and explain to her why she needed to apologize.  She was the little sister I never had.  

She will have been gone for four years now after the sun comes up tomorrow.  She was killed in a car accident at the top of the bridge that I can see from my back yard.  She was minutes from her house. She was 18 years old.

I feel like I could write about her for hours.  I have so many stories and memories that she is the star of. Maybe that will be for another day, because tonight, all I feel is heartache. I still get lovely messages from her friends on this day.  My friends also reach out to me.  In fact, I just got a text from my sweet friend saying “I hope this day is getting easier for you … I’ve been thinking/praying for you all day. I love you.”  Now I am crying. Jessica was just one of those special people that will leave a void in my heart forever.  I still can’t really talk about her without my throat closing up. 

It is always painful to lose someone you love, but I feel like when they are young, when it is sudden, it is just so very hard to accept.  I always think about what she would be doing now.  There is a stupid country song, that I can’t even listen to, that sings about that.  Whatever it would have been, it would have been great.

I was talking to my dad the other day about how funerals are different for people who are believers than those who are not.  It is different because of one simple word, hope.  As a believer, I know that when I get to Heaven I will see her face.  It gives me hope on these dark and painful days that I will see that smile again.  I know that she will be there because I was with her when she decided to give her heart to Jesus.  We went to a play at a church one night and she had so many questions for my dad about what she saw.  A few weeks later, we prayed the prayer of salvation together at the foot of my bed.  If it was not for that sweet time with her, if I had not witnessed it with my own eyes, I would not have the peace that I have today in knowing that I will join her one day. 

I really had no intention of writing a bible story, but that is just what came out.  If I had just assumed that she was saved, we never would have said that prayer together.  Three weeks later, she went to be with Jesus. 

Not one single person is promised tomorrow.  If you died tonight, where would you go?  If your sister died tonight, where would she go?

It’s ok if this doesn’t matter to you, but it matters to me.  The salvation of the people I love is the most important thing I can think of.

 

I love you Jessica, see you soon my soul sister.

coo coo for cocoa puffs

I have tried writing the coo coo for cocoa puffs story a few times and I couldn't seem to find the right words. I am not sure of it is too painful or just too embarrassing. I went crazy. Like, actually crazy. 

It all comes down to pain for me. Chronic pain is just something that is very hard to 'live' with. Sometimes the pain gets so bad that it completely consumes me.  I have mentioned before about my suicidal depression, but this was probably the worst it had ever been. It was June of 2009 and I was waiting for my heart surgery that September. The fear of that surgery, of it's hoped success and expected failure was just too much for my fragile mind. I wasn't sleeping at all. I think I went about four days without even 10 minutes of sleep. My mind was constantly racing. 

Why was I afraid of the surgery killing me after years of wanting to die? This made no sense to me. I should have been looking forward to it. It was my -get out of life free- card. In those few days without sleep I started to lose all connection to my sanity. 

My parents were in Africa visiting my sister, so I made my plan. I would go to their house, where no one would be for days, and I would do "it"... 

I planned it out. I obsessed over it. It was finally time. I couldn't live in this much pain every single day of my life anymore. It had to end. 

Clearly, it didn't work. I had an experience that night that I don't think I'll ever be able to fully explain, but it was the last time I ever attempted to end my life. 

Then cue my psychotic break. I woke up on the floor with no clothes on, covered in pen markings, and my mind must have just checked out. My friend showed up at my parents house and found me like this. The only way I know to describe myself was straight up coo coo. 

I thought that the Marilyn Monroe poster on my wall was talking to me so I hid her under the bed. I thought my parents dog was actually Jesus and every time she barked it was because there was a demon outside trying to get in. I thought another friend of mine was actually Satan so we couldn't talk to her on the phone because she might possess one of us. I had a full conversation with an uncle that had been dead for years. I was scared of everything. I clung to random objects like they were my life source. I had two notebooks that I wrote a lot of crazy things in. I acted like a child. I couldn't do anything for myself. My friend had to care for me over the next few days like I was a toddler. 

I got two tattoos during this time period, because that is obviously a great idea when one is experiencing a nervous breakdown. I will have to write more about those later. 

She loaded me up and took me back to her house and dealt with my ridiculous behavior until my parents returned from Africa. I will always be grateful for what she had to put up with during those few days. 

When my parents got home I moved in with them and started going to therapy weekly. Slowly my mind started healing. She taught me a lot of coping techniques and helped me to get my life in order. I enrolled in school through the VA's vocational rehabilitation program and gave myself some goals. Timed goals are important for me. I need structure and schedules to maintain my sanity. 

The first goal that I set for myself was to finish one college semester. I would decide if I could handle taking another class if I was able to finish that one. I needed to create a future that I could look forward to. I needed to want to live instead of just trying to get through it. 

I finished that college class. Then I finished another one. I graduated with a 4.0 on May 2nd of 2012. I would need another goal though, another reason to get out of bed in the morning. 

May 3rd I found out I was pregnant. 

do churches carry Tylenol?

Ever since I was old enough to make the decision for myself, (out of my parents house) I never went to church. It seemed like such a waste of my day. Sundays always seem to be prettier than every other day and I had to go enjoy it. Even after I surrendered my life to Christ I felt like all I needed was my bible and some sunshine to connect with God. 

During my pregnancy is when I really started having a change of heart about it. I wanted to raise my child the same way that I was raised, in church. Dustin and I committed to finding a church we could belong to, not just attend occasionally, but really belong. We only went to two churches before deciding. I had always searched in other places for a 'feeling' and never found it. I was convinced that I wasn't ever going to feel something, I just needed to go. I felt it at this church. Whatever 'it' is that I was hoping to feel was in this building. I was in love with everything about this church. The music has always been my deciding factor on churches because no pastor could ever compare to my dad in my eyes, but the pastor of this church was what had me coming back for more. His sermons are delivered in a way that had me hanging on every word. His explanations seemed to make passages of the bible click for me in ways they never had before. He was real. I believed him. As a preacher's kid, that has been hard for me to do. If I can't see how you are at home, how can I know that you practice what you preach? I know that my dad does, he's my dad. Trusting a stranger with my faith was new to me. 

I felt like a new person after attending church religiously (see what I did there?) for a few weeks. I finally understood how people could go week after week and give up their Sunday mornings. It changed me. It was like hitting a reset button. I could start the next week mentally refreshed and renewed. 

I haven't been to church in four weeks now... Whatever the reason, sick baby, sick mom, headache, tired, homework, parades... They are just excuses. I couldn't make it again today because I am having a fibro flare up and putting clothes on is a level of pain that I just can't deal with on the first day. I remembered that my church does live streaming of the sermon so I grabbed my phone, got my baby some snacks and got ready to worship. 

While it was nice to hear all that went on, it is just not the same. I really do believe that there is power in a building when Jesus is there. I need to stop allowing excuses to invade my heart and bring my body into the Church. If I have a headache, I'll just have to have a headache at church. 

unanswered prayers.

 I pray for my child every night. While I am rocking her to sleep I sing to her and pray over her. I pray that she will never know the struggles I have faced. I pray that God shows her the one she is to give her heart to and removes all of the other distractions. I pray that she will find salvation at a young age and surrender her life to Christ. My parents prayed that same prayer for me. It clearly didn't work.  Which leads me to my biggest issue with prayer. 

When I was a little girl my cousin was diagnosed with leukemia. This was the first time I ever prayed for anything. I prayed for him every night before I went to bed. I prayed for him every morning when I woke up. I loved him. I remember very clearly where I was when my mom told me that he had gone to be with Jesus. I fell to the floor and cried. I tear up even now remembering how my little heart broke hearing that he lost his very long, very painful, battle with cancer. He was my hero. He is my hero. I still miss him. He was the strongest little boy I have ever known. 

After that, after my prayers went unanswered, I didn't pray again. I wouldn't pray again. I didn't pray for anything until just a few years ago. It took me a very long time to come to terms with what it meant to pray for something, or to pray for someone. Why didn't God answer that prayer? Why did He let other kids with cancer recover and not my cousin? Did I not pray the right way? Was I not a good enough Christian to pray for healing? I just believed that God didn't love me like He loved other people. He only answered their prayers. 

When my Dad was diagnosed with cancer all of the same childhood fears came back. God doesn't heal people with cancer. My dad is going to die just like my cousin did. I forgot all of my faith in that moment and was convinced that the worst would happen. 

I now believe that God doesn't work like that. God does not sit in heaven and randomly pick people that will recover and those that will die. I believe that what will be is just what will be. Some will live and some will die. It is the way of life. 

I believe that my relationship with God is necessary to deal with the results of life, not to change the way life happens. 

I still pray for the desires of my heart, but it is not in a way of expectation but more in a way of connection. I want to maintain an open line of communication with my Heavenly Father because it gives me a sense of peace in my daily life. I still have so much to learn about prayer, but until then I just call out to Him. I give Him my worries, my fears, my struggles, my pain, my stress, my disappointments, my successes, my thanks, my love, and my faith. 

fibromyalgia is a four letter word.

Pain... Pain is my four letter word. I have been in pain for fifteen years now. Every single day, every waking moment, pain. Some days are bearable and some days are excruciating. I even have days where I really do start to wonder how I am supposed to continue living like this. I have a disease known as Fibromyalgia. I hate this disease. It seems like it is just a name they gave to a disease for the people they couldn't find something 'real' in. I have done a lot of research on this evil disease over the past fifteen years. I have had so many unsolicited opinions from people about this disease, I have seen multiple doctors, specialists, and natural healers in regards to this disease. Yet here I am close to tears, on a heating pad, writing about the pain I am still in.

I have tried all of the drugs that the commercials talk about. I have even tried every pain killer under the sun. They do nothing. Drugs just have zero effect on my pain. I have tried the herbal supplements. What it came down to for me, is acceptance. I accept that I will be in pain tomorrow so it is no longer a surprise when I wake up that way. I accept that I can't stand for long periods of time, so I don't put myself in those situations. I accept that it feels like a hot knife going through butter when someone touches me. Yes, just touches me. It hurts. Don't do it. To me, a simple poke of a finger feels like your finger just stabbed all the way to my bone. It will feel like your finger is still lodged in my skin for at least ninety seconds after you remove your finger. If we are friends that hug, please don’t stop giving me hugs, I need those; people just need hugs sometimes, even when they hurt.

The question I always get - "well then how (or why) do you get tattooed??" Here is my answer, as masochistic as it may sound; because I choose it. The pain that I feel every day of my life is not my choice. It just happened to me. The tattoo pain is a pain that I have asked for, a pain that I can control, a pain that in some strange way makes me forget about my other pain. I needed to have those moments where I was in different pain. It kept me sane. I have since learned other ways to do this, but for a long time it was my only way to cope.

This disease was my number one reason for being suicidal for almost nine years. Pain took a severe emotional toll on me. I have to be mentally stronger than the pain so that I don't let it take over me. Knowing that I was in this much pain today, and tomorrow would only be more pain, made it very difficult for me to desire any more tomorrows.

This is just the normal every day pain. A flare up is a different story. Even now, with my beautiful child and amazing fiancé, I'd be lying if I said that suicide didn't cross my mind during a flare up. The pain is so bad during a flare up that it hurts to even have clothes touching me. Putting on jeans is completely out of the question. I wish I had the right words to accurately describe this pain, but it truly is indescribable. The pain starts in my legs and slowly works its way to the rest of my body. I will notice it is starting because my pants will start to feel like they are burning me. If there are any seams on the pants they will feel like they are burning holes into my skin. By the end of the day this burning feeling spreads to my entire body. I usually make a very hot bath, the kind that turns your skin red; because that is the only way I can find an ounce of relief. I have a lot of very soft blankets for when I can't stay in the tub any longer. I can't just use a sheet because they feel like sand paper rubbing on an open wound. Flare ups are said to be caused by stress, I have found that to be pretty accurate. Surrendering my life to Christ has been the biggest stress reliever, therefore the best treatment I have found so far for this disease.

It doesn't just affect my skin; it affects all different parts of my body and in different ways. I spent a few days in the hospital one year because my legs stopped working. They just wouldn't work. I couldn't stand. After I was evaluated by every -ologist in the hospital, it was once again dumped into the catch all pile they call fibromyalgia. I am aware that I have some bitterness about this disease, but it is just so incredibly frustrating.

I was in a support group when I lived in Florida with a few different people suffering from auto immune diseases. It was educational, but also very heart breaking. People like to compare things, like to say 'well at least you don't have -insert horrible thing here." Just my personal opinion here, but every single person's bad day is worse than your bad day because it is actually happening to them.

It is hard to not complain. I get tired of hearing myself say things like, my neck hurts, my back hurts, my legs are burning, my head hurts, my skin is crawling, don't touch me, can we sit, I need to lie down. It is my reality though. I am so thankful to have a man that loves me through the bad days. I am blessed to have the mother that I do because she has been my saving grace through this entire battle. I am also grateful that I finally came to a place in my faith where I learned to surrender.

The only treatments that have been remotely effective have been chiropractors, massage, acupuncture, and light exercise.  When I would have a flare up I would get injections into my hips but the surrounding muscle started to atrophy so we stopped doing those.

Even with all of these treatments the pain has never been gone, not even for a moment. Sometimes I day dream about what it would be like to be without pain for just one minute. Sixty seconds. Then I snap out of it and realize that life is calling, and the laundry isn't going to fold itself.

do all of these need a title?

To say I was mad at my mom for this was an understatement. I felt betrayed, abandoned, and unloved. How could she just leave me here? 

My roommate was a schizophrenic with an eating disorder. I wasn't allowed to have my shoelaces in case I wanted to try and hurt myself, or someone else. My roommate couldn't have her bed sheets for the same reason. Mine had to be picked up every morning and held in the office. I pretty much slept with one eye open, when I did sleep. 

We would go to a classroom and have school, then we had group therapy and ended the day with one on one sessions. There were all different types of teens in this place. Some had drug problems, others had mental health issues and there were a few like me, angry. 

I met a boy named Sam while I was there. He was addicted to cocaine and heroin. He was 15. We hit it off and he became my rehab boyfriend. He is the reason that this place did nothing to actually help me. It was just a joke. We made fun of everything about the process. We would sneak out of our rooms after lights out and talk for hours. He taught me how to cheek the meds they gave us and he would snort them. I was too scared to ever try that. 

I finally got to leave after a few weeks, but Sam and I stayed in touch through letters. Three months later I got a letter from his mother that he died of a heroin overdose. It is because of Sam that I never touched a single drug besides marijuana. 

After I got home things were very tense with my family. They took me out of my high school and put me in a special school in Dothan where I was one of a handful of students. My dad would drive me there and back every day. These car rides were some of the most miserable of my life. He was so incredibly disappointed in me, he could barely look at me. I was so angry at him, I could barely look at him. 

After I finished my junior year my dad took a job as a pastor in Foley, Alabama. We were moving. My senior year of high school I was being ripped away from all that I knew and sent to live with people I didn't know in order to start my new school on time. 

Angry doesn't even describe how I felt about this decision. 

we aren't going to the beach?

I was fifteen when I started drinking pretty heavily. I can't even remember how I got my hands on that much alcohol. This was also the year when I found out that the recurring nightmare from my childhood was not just a bad dream, but a reality. I can't say with certainty that two are aligned, but I can assume. I would hide multiple bottles of vodka in my closet in a cardboard box.

The day before I turned sixteen I stole my sister’s car and my friends and I went for a joyride. We got into a five car accident. It wasn't my fault, so the police let us leave (hours later) I parked my sister's car back where it was supposed to be. I remember thinking that maybe they would think it got hit where it was parked. It was at the bottom of a driveway where no cars could pass.

I remember leaving and going to my friend's house that night, I believe to celebrate my birthday, and my parents coming there to "collect" me. I was grounded for four months and I think my sister hated me for at least a year for that one.

I was 16 and a junior in high school now and still finding trouble at every turn. It was almost spring break when my life turned upside down. I had been dating (that's what we will call it) an older guy and he wanted to come pick me up. I was grounded, as per usual, but I really wanted to go, so I went. I just walked downstairs and right out the front door. He was waiting for me outside and away we went. I'm not sure how long I was gone, but I had quite a bit to drink. I walked in the door to see my mom on the couch waiting for me, my dad was out of town.

We are leaving. Get in the car.

When I woke up we were in Panama City, but it wasn't to go to the beach.
She was checking me into rehab.

because I am forgiven.

Forgiveness. If only it were as easy to do as it is to write. I have written about some of the things I have been through in my life, but none that have affected me as negatively as this one.

It is my first memory. It has been the nightmare that haunted me my entire life. It is why I cried. It is why I was angry. It is the reason I turned away from God. He didn't protect me. He didn't send an angel that day.

She is the one who took my innocence. She took it before I was even old enough to say the word.

I love music. It soothes my soul when I am hurting. It gives me a release when I sing along to the lyrics that were clearly written just for me.

I made the change to listening to only Christian music a few months ago. It has been such a positive change in my life and in my relationship with Christ. I heard a song that changed the way I would feel about her.

The song is called Forgiveness by Mathew West. It spoke to me so clearly about how important it was to forgive. So I did. I forgave her. I was only able to forgive because I am forgiven. The peace that one action has given to my heart is indescribable.

"Forgiveness"

It’s the hardest thing to give away
And the last thing on your mind today
It always goes to those that don’t deserve

It’s the opposite of how you feel
When the pain they caused is just too real
It takes everything you have just to say the word…

Forgiveness, Forgiveness

It flies in the face of all your pride
It moves away the mad inside
It’s always anger’s own worst enemy
Even when the jury and the judge
Say you gotta right to hold a grudge
It’s the whisper in your ear saying ‘Set It Free’

Forgiveness, Forgiveness

Show me how to love the unlovable
Show me how to reach the unreachable
Help me now to do the impossible

Forgiveness, Forgiveness

It’ll clear the bitterness away
It can even set a prisoner free
There is no end to what it’s power can do
So, let it go and be amazed
By what you see through eyes of grace
The prisoner that it really frees is you

I want to finally set it free
So show me how to see what Your mercy sees
Help me now to give what You gave to me

Forgiveness, Forgiveness

coincidence? I think not.

He didn't hit me every day. I think that was probably my biggest misconception about domestic violence. I also thought that they would just tell you on the first day, "hey girl, when I get mad I will punch you in the face." Clearly, that is not reality. I dated him for a while before he ever even raised his voice at me.

He had a little girl that spent a lot of time with us. I loved her. She was almost a year old when I met him. She is the reason I stayed as long as I did.

Due to all of my health problems I had very little self-worth. I saw myself as a burden to anyone around me. He fed off of these insecurities. He knew I felt that way so whenever I would try to leave, he would remind me:

-No one will ever love you.
-You are broken.
-You are worthless.
-No one wants you.

I was convinced that he was the only person that would want to take care of me. If I left him I would be alone forever. I also couldn't leave his little girl. She needed me.

It started with screaming. He would yell at me. I would yell back at him. The fights were over all kinds of things, but mostly his jealousy. If someone even smiled at me he would lose it. I am not a relationship expert, but in every single one of mine, when they are jealous, they are the ones cheating. When I found out that he was cheating on me I told him I was leaving. I would leave Florida and go to New Orleans where my parents lived. This was unacceptable to him. This was the first time he got physical.

I went into the bedroom and started packing my suitcase. He came in the room and grabbed me by my hair and dragged me into the living room, probably about fifteen feet. I was horrified. Did he really just do that? I never thought having my hair pulled would be so painful, but when it is pulling a six foot, 150 pound woman behind it, it hurts. My hair ripped out in a massive chunk. I just sat on the floor crying. I don't even remember what happened next.

The next morning we acted like it never happened. We drank our coffee together and went into work. It wasn't long before it happened again. And again. I started locking myself in the laundry room to hide from him.

One night I called my friend in Louisiana and begged for her to come get me. I couldn't live like this. She drove fourteen hours straight and picked me up while he was at work. I don't think I was gone for a week before he drove the fourteen hours to my parents’ house and got me.

There were a lot of lies I would tell myself during this time. It was my fault. If I would only love him better, he wouldn't treat me like this. He was the only person that would ever love me, so I needed to make this work.

His house was at the end of a long street that led out to the highway. I tried to leave him a few times by walking down this road. He would just get in his car and catch up to me and convince me to come back home. He needed me. He was sorry. His little girl needed me. She loved me. Don't leave her. So I went back.

As cheaters often do, he cheated again. This time was the last straw for me. I was leaving. I was in a tank top and boxer shorts. I went into the bedroom again to pack my things and change clothes. I was crying because I was just so hurt that he could betray me again like that. After all I put up with to be with him and I still wasn't enough. He begged me to talk to him. He would explain, just don't leave. He was crying too now. I went into the bathroom to splash some water on my face and he followed. He sat me down on the toilet seat and stood in front of me begging me to listen. He slapped me. I stopped crying and just looked up at him. He slapped me again. He slapped me so hard the next time that it threw me into the tub and the shower curtain and rod fell into the tub with me. I used the rod to get him off of me and I made it out into the living room. It is actually hard to see through crying eyes and swollen cheeks. I was searching for a phone and keys. I had to leave.

He made it into the living room and was angry now. He must have grabbed the gun from the bedroom while I was searching for the keys. The next thing I remember was him straddling me on the couch shoving the gun down my throat.

He was screaming that I was making him like this. I did this to him. If he couldn't have me, no one else would.

I had found the keys, they were in my hand.  I knew my only option was to fight back. I punched him in the face with the keys. I must have hit him hard enough because he fell backwards off of me. I threw the keys at him and ran out the front door.

I looked down that long road with blood dripping down my face and arms and remembered every failed attempt at making it down that street successfully. He would find me. He would bring me back. I just couldn't do it one more time. I ran into the next door neighbor’s back yard and hid in their bushes. I will never forget the painful sting of every ant that bit me under those bushes, but I wasn't moving. I watched him run out to his truck. He started driving up and down the road. This felt like an eternity, but it was probably only about twenty minutes. I texted my friend and asked her if she could come get me. She couldn't get all the way to where I was, but if I could make it closer to her, she'd pick me up. She was about a fifteen minute drive across town.

I did the only thing I could think of at the time. I called him. He started screaming at me, I could see him from where I was hiding. I told him I was sorry. This was all my fault. I'm coming home. I told him I was walking back and just to meet me at home. It was working. He pulled back into the driveway and walked into the house. I started walking.

He was asking where I was. How did I get so far? He was looking for me. Why did I make him do that to me? He just wants to love me.

A car drove up when I was about halfway down the street. He rolled his window down and asked if I needed a ride. I panicked and looked at him and put my finger to my lips pleading with him to be quiet. It was too late. He heard him through the phone. He started yelling, demanding to know who I was talking to, where was I?! I had a decision to make in that moment. I could get in the car with a stranger that might kill me, or I could go back to a man that had already threatened to. I got in the car.

I have heard stories about God sending you angels in times of need, but had never really experienced it. This man was an angel. He had made a wrong turn out of a bar and ended up on that street. He asked where I wanted to go. I just told him to drive out to the highway as fast as he could. We made it. I was free.  He just listened as I told him where to take me to meet my friend. We were at a stop light when he looked over to me and asked if we needed to go to a hospital. No. Just get me out of here. He told me that he understood. He had spent time in a battered women's shelter with his mother.  If that wasn't God, then that was the biggest coincidence ever. I chose to belive it was God. 

you'll just know.

 

 

After all of the specialists, blood tests, EKG's, pulmonary functions tests, and ultrasounds I was cleared to just enjoy my pregnancy without any added precautions. The need to inject myself with blood thinners was not going to be necessary. Aside from constant "morning sickness" I didn't have any complications. I even got to take some great maternity pictures thanks to my amazing and very creative friend, Tammy Mars Prine. (The second one was done underwater.)

 

 

 

Christmas Day, 2012, I went into labor. We loaded everyone up and drove out to the hospital. Just kidding. I wasn't really in labor. Load everyone up and drive back home.

That was probably the scariest part of the end of my pregnancy. Everything felt like it must be labor. It had to be. Every time I asked anyone what labor felt like the answer was always the same "you'll just know". This answer annoyed me. How do you know something when you don't know what it is supposed to feel like? My body had felt ways it never had before, so how was I to know the real thing?  I just wanted one person to describe it to me in detail.

I went to my next appointment as planned. Asking a man to explain labor was a pointless task. I know he has delivered countless babies, but no. The plan now was to set up an induction date. I would go in on the 2nd of January and be induced. It would take a while for the drugs to work, so I would deliver on the 3rd. I loved the thought of this. I have a thing with the number 3. I even have one tattooed on me. My miracle baby's birthday would be 1-3-13. Perfect.

December 28th at around midnight it started. -I assume there are only a few male readers, (Dustin Ockman) but you may want to skip to the next paragraph. -  I understand the response of "you'll just know" now. It was a completely different pain than any of the others. Maybe comparable to the worst cramps of my life, multiplied by twenty. I went into the bedroom and woke Dustin up. Ummm we may or may not be having a baby soon. I really don't know, but maybe start waking up just in case. I went back in the spare room and sat on the bed. Ouch. This has to be it. I head to the bathroom and my water broke. Ok. It's real life now. I'm having a baby.

DUSTIN!!! My water broke!! Let's go!!

We did call the hospital before we left though. After my false alarm over Christmas I didn't really want to be "that girl" again. I could barely speak the contractions were so painful. The nurse stopped me and said, "I can tell you are in labor sweetie, put down the phone and come on in." I had imagined having my hair fixed and maybe some makeup on for this trip. Nope.  The hospital was five minutes from our apartment. He drove carefully all the way up until the red light where you turn into the hospital. He ran that one. It was two in the morning though, so thankfully no one was around.

Due to all of my medical issues I was prepared for this to be the hard part. I could go into A-Fib again from the labor. My blood clotting issue could be a problem. I might not be able to breathe. Fibromyalgia is a painful disease, and this is one of the most painful things a human body goes through. Awesome. Here we go.

As soon as we came in the door they brought me straight up to labor and delivery. The first face I saw was my MFM specialist. I am so very thankful that she was on duty that night. She saw the fear all over my face. She came and held my hand and calmed me down. She had them put the epidural in before I even got put in a permanent room. This was done right away as to not put any undue stress on my heart. (Probably the first time in my life I was thankful for that stupid heart condition.) The pain stopped.

I was in labor for 13 hours. The nurse came to check me. Ready. Let's start pushing. About 3 pushing sequences later, I heard her. My angel.

They placed her on my chest. She cried. I cried. Dustin cried. My mom cried. It was over. She was here. She was perfect.

 

 

 

Later, as my sister and I walked the hospital hallway, I dropped to my knees and cried. I cried like I don't remember ever crying before. I could breathe again. My sister held me and we wept together in that hallway for what seemed like hours. We had all been holding our breath for nine months. God gave us our miracle. God made the impossible possible.

did a taylor swift song really just make me cry?

According to the ultrasound I was about four weeks along. My mom, how do I put this, she isn't an overly animated person or easily excitable. I am. If you have ever met me, you know this to be true. I guess I expected her response to be similar to mine, but she and I are just not the same. She was in nurse mode, calmly explaining to me all that needed to be done, what I needed to do next. God knew I needed a mother like her. Through all of my scary, life changing events, she would always ground me. (I tend to overreact.)

I went to tell my dad next. It was actually his birthday so Dustin and I bought him a card and put the ultrasound picture in it. I loved my dad's response. I'll keep that to myself, but he was very happy. My sister said "what?" and "no way" about twenty times. We drove home and told Dustin's mom and she was thrilled. -Side note, I was already pregnant when she gave me that Easter plate...

Next came the scary stuff, the doctor appointments. I would see a regular OB and I also would have to see an MFM (maternal fetal medicine) specialist because I was considered a high-risk pregnancy. I had to see a pulmonologist for my lung issues, a cardiologist to monitor my heart, and a hematologist for my blood disease, and they suggested a psychologist because of my history with depression. This was very overwhelming to go through right after hearing the best news of my life.

I was scared now. All of the reasons I was warned against ever having a child were now all I could think about. Miscarriage. That word. It tainted every thought. Would God really give me this gift just to take it away?  I have had a pretty volatile relationship with Him in the past so I really just didn't know the answer to that question.

Every day that passed and I stayed pregnant was a miracle in my eyes, but I was still too scared to truly accept my gift. I didn't want to get too attached, just in case. I was also very sick. I wasn't one of the lucky pregnant women who are sick only in the first trimester, I stayed sick. There are few things I hate more in this world than being sick to my stomach. I will refrain from the details. I did start trying to look at it in a positive light; after all, it meant I was still pregnant.

I was on Facebook one day and came across a video someone posted of a song that was performed at a cancer fundraiser. If you bought the song on iTunes, your money would be donated to cancer research. I have a special place in my heart for this so I purchased the song. I didn't even listen to it. It downloaded and I forgot about it. A few days later I was driving to work and it came on my playlist. About thirty seconds into the song I had to pull over. My eyes filled with tears so quickly I couldn't see the road. I sat there on the side of the road and played the song about five times in a row just holding my stomach. I cried and cried and just when I thought I was done, I cried a little more. Hearing that song completely changed the way I looked at my pregnancy from that day forward.

The song is sad. It is about a woman who lost her four year old son to cancer. I can't even imagine a greater pain. There was a line in the song that put everything into perspective for me.

"But what if the miracle was even getting one moment with you."

What if my miracle was just getting pregnant? What if that was all I was ever supposed to have?

In that moment the fear of miscarriage left me. The mental preparations of how angry I would be at God if He took my baby from me stopped. He already gave me the miracle. I got to have the excitement over the two lines. I got to hear the heartbeat of that perfect little life beating inside of me. I got to see her body developing and growing on the ultrasound. God had already answered my prayer. No matter what happened from this day forward, I would thank Him for every single moment with her. My baby… My miracle…

what do the two lines mean?

My mother-in-law is probably one of my favorite human beings of all time. She made me feel loved from the moment I met her. We have had some of the most amazing talks over the past two and half years. One of those conversations was about my inability to have children. She would just laugh and tell me not to speak that. God would give us a child. She actually said it so much in the first six months of our relationship that it started to hurt my feelings.

I went through a very painful acceptance process that I would never have a child. There are only so many negative pregnancy tests a woman wanting a baby can look at. I was even more convinced that this would never happen when my ex husband fathered a child. It really was me. I'm the broken one. It was shattering to finally give up, but that is just what I had to do to stop hurting.

It was Easter of 2012 when my mother in love bought me a gift that broke my heart. It was an egg platter to put colored Easter eggs on. She said she purchased it for her grand baby. I smiled and took the gift, but I cried after. Why couldn't she just let it go? Why did she keep saying that God was giving us a baby? Doesn't she know how badly that hurts me to know that I will never be able to give her or my parents grandchildren? I left it in the bag she gave it to me in and shoved it under the bed.

About two weeks later I started getting very sick. At first I thought food poisoning, but it wasn't going away so it must be a stomach virus. Dustin bought a pregnancy test after the first week of me being sick. I rolled my eyes and threw it in the cabinet. Yeah right. I'll never take another one of those.

May 3, 2012 - I woke up for work around 6:30. I open my cabinet to get a towel for my shower and I see the test. No. Don't even waste your time. Well, it can't hurt to just take it and then I don't have to see it staring at me every time I open my bathroom cabinet. I take the test and get in the shower.

By the time I got out of the shower I had already forgotten about the test and started rushing to get ready. I go into the bathroom to brush my teeth and I look down at it. Wait. What? Is that? No. It can't. Where's the box? WHAT DO THE TWO LINES MEAN?! I am shaking and crying. This can't be real. I grab my phone and call my friend. I am crying so hard by this point that she thinks someone has died. I try to compose myself but still just scream in the phone asking her what two lines meant.

I'm pregnant. Two lines mean that I am pregnant. I don't even know how to put into words what happened next. All of the emotions, all of the hurt, all of the heartbreak over knowing I would never know what that felt like just poured out of my eyes.

I called into work and said –I’m not sick, but I think I'm calling in pregnant. I need to go to the doctor.

Dustin lived about 20 minutes from me and all I could think about was getting out the door to tell him. Surprisingly, trying to decide what to wear to go tell someone that you are pregnant is harder than it sounds. I went for my favorite James Dean shirt. (I'm sure that's important to the story.) The drive to his house felt like forever. How would I tell him? How would he react? I decided on getting him a box of donuts. Nothing says I'm pregnant like a box of donuts.

He was still asleep when I arrived to his house. I walked over to his bed in the dark and handed him the box of donuts. He looked up at me very confused. Why aren't you at work? Is everything ok? Ummm so, yeah. I'm pregnant.

Silence.

He finally sat up and gave me a hug and said that he needed to take a shower. He is not a morning person.

He got out of the shower and the excitement was there now. He didn't want to get too excited yet though, and suggested I take the other test. It was positive too. I was so excited. He was so excited. Let's go to the doctor.

We drove to the VA clinic in Baton Rouge to get a blood test. We waited for what seemed like forever and after the test they said they'd call us with the results. What!? No! I need to know now! I called my mom at this point. After all, she does work at a crisis pregnancy center. I just told her that we were in town and wanted to come by for a visit. When we got to the clinic she could see it on my face. She brought me straight back to the ultrasound room and I saw her for the first time, my little tiny egg yolk. It was real. It was true.

I am having a baby.

3 years later... 

part two.

After those six months were up, I only got deeper into my depression. I wanted to die. I thought I was ready to die. I was living in Fort Myers, Florida during this time period. I was living in a house with a group of guys that were in a band. My cousin and I shared a back porch that one of them turned into a makeshift bedroom. We shared an air mattress and paid 60 dollars a month for rent. We were both in massage therapy school at the time, but I was just passing the days. I remember getting pulled over on my way to school one morning for running a stop sign. I had never stopped drinking from the night before. I somehow convinced the officer that I was just hungover (he smelled the alcohol) and tired. Instead of that being a wakeup call I just decided that it obviously meant I needed to quit school. I started working at a bar selling shots. I learned quickly that you make more money if you let them buy you shots. That was pretty conducive to my desired lifestyle. I was having a lot of panic attacks during this time. My heart condition would make me dizzy, nauseous, and my heart would race. It got to where I couldn't tell the difference between having an actual attack and just panicking. I went to the hospital a lot.

I moved out of the house and got an apartment with my cousin. We had a pretty horrible falling out soon after. I see now that I was a pretty miserable person to be around. Suicidal people often are. She moved out and two of my friends moved in. I still feel bad about how difficult it must have been to be around me. I lived in a constant pity party.  I ended up in the hospital again, but this time I had a blood clot, supposedly a blood clot that was going to be the end of me. (Here we go again) I was so scared and so alone. They took me out of my room to get a CT scan and when I returned there was my roommate, holding a pair of socks. I will love her forever for that.

Whatever medicine they gave me worked. I could go home, but I really needed to stop drinking. Ok. Sure. I just got worse. I remember calling my mom one night and begging her to tell me it was ok to kill myself. To say that I continuously broke her heart is an understatement. The fibromyalgia is the main reason I wanted to die. I was in so much pain, constant, unrelenting, excruciating pain. - If they loved me they would understand. They are the selfish ones expecting me to live like this. I'm just going to die soon anyways. - oh the lies I would tell myself to justify this thought process.

I was at work one night and I met a guy. This guy will have his own post one day, but not today. He was the one with the little girl. After we broke up (that's what I'll call it for now) I never got to see the little girl I had grown to love again. This put an ache in my heart. I wanted a child. I wanted a family. I wanted a future. Somehow, someone trying to kill me actually made me want to live. Crazy.

When I met the next man in my life it was all I could think about. I wanted a baby. We tried for a while, but no baby. We went to fertility doctors and specialists. No baby. I actually had one doctor tell me that with my health problems I was being selfish trying to bring a baby into my world. My heart condition could cause me to have serious problems with pregnancy and delivery. My fibromyalgia would make pregnancy very painful. My lung problems would make delivery dangerous. My blood clotting disease would make it nearly impossible to get pregnant and if I did, I would most likely miscarry. I didn't care, I wanted a baby. Looking back now I see that I was trying to fill a hole. I was trying to replace what was lost. I am very thankful that I never became pregnant during that time.

I had heart surgery in September of 2009. They did an atrial fibrillation ablation and froze the node that was electrocuting my heart. I have not gone into a-fib since the surgery. I started seeing a chiropractor that did wonders for my fibro. My pain levels went from a constant 10 down to a 6 or 7 if I'm not having a flare up. It was life changing. I did still have the antiphospholipid antibody syndrome, so pregnancy still seemed impossible.


When I met Dustin I made it clear to him that I couldn’t give him a child. I wanted him to know that in the beginning so he could decide if he wanted to continue with this relationship. He let me know that I was exactly who he had been praying for his entire life. He wasn't going anywhere.  His God was bigger.

challenge accepted. part one.

I am not one of those girls that grew up dreaming of Prince Charming and babies. I can't even recall having any desire to have a child until I was actually raising one. I dated a man that had a child. She had just turned one when we started dating. I loved this little girl. She is the reason that I felt like I was capable of being someone's mother. Before that, I was such a train wreck that I could barely take care of myself, much less another human being. I had pretty serious health problems, I had severe depression issues, and basically I was just a mess. I feel like this is going to require some backstory.

I was 19 when I joined the Army. I can't even recall now why I thought I needed to do that, but away I went. I loved being in the military. It gave me purpose. I felt like I was starting to thrive for the first time in my life. Then I went to Germany. When I arrived in country I had to go to the field to join my unit. I wasn't there a whole day before they sent me to KP (working in the kitchen). I didn't know anyone. The next morning I woke up to a man trying to rape me. The bay was empty and it was just us. This has happened to me before. I know what comes next. This time I was stronger though. I wasn't a helpless little girl. I fought back. I kicked, I screamed, I punched, and he stopped. He left the bay and I tried to gather my composure. I marched right into that kitchen and made a scene. Please! Someone! Help me! The woman in charge called the military police and I was taken to speak with CID. (Criminal investigative division).

The end result was that it was my word against his because there were no witnesses and there was nothing that they could do. My question, to this day, is why would someone try to rape someone if there were witnesses? Pretty sure they'd look around a bit first. Other people were questioned and stated that he told them to leave the bay but I came in late the night before so I got to sleep in that day. Another NCO told them that he talked about me to him when I first arrived. , he made reference to all that he would like to do to me. None of this mattered. Nothing happened to him. I was sent back to the unit and called for a meeting by the First Sergeant. She didn't call me in to console me, she wanted to reprimand me. She made it clear that they don't tolerate girls like me that dress like me, and carry themselves as I do. Just a reminder, she had never met me. I was in the field so the only dress I had worn were my uniforms, and I hadn't even made any friends so she had never even seen me interact with anyone. This was my fault. Within a few weeks she had me transferred out of my unit and sent me to headquarters to work in operations. This was pretty hard on me. I was very far from home excited about a new life and now I'm cast out with a scarlet letter.

That really was a blessing in disguise though because I eventually started working directly for the CSM (command sergeant major) and he was such a positive influence in my life. We are still great friends to this day. Nothing ever happened to that NCO, but that is just one of those things that God will have to handle for me. Enough of that...

I was later medically retired from the military due to some lung issues and fibromyalgia. A short while after I was discharged I was visiting a friend in North Carolina and had my first attack on my heart. I had a condition called Atrial Fibrillation and the doctors could not get my heart back in to a normal rhythm. It made me very sick. I can't recall ever being that scared. They had never seen something like this in someone so young. It only affected the elderly. I was 21. After a few hours of my heart running a marathon it finally regulated. I was discharged a few days later but instructed to find a cardiologist when I returned home.

The first cardiologist I saw was a jerk. It was a horrible experience. He basically just tried to scare me. He said that due to my lifestyle he gives me maybe six months to live with this kind of condition. The lifestyle he referred to was my drinking. Oh the drinking... I can barely drink one glass of wine without getting tipsy now. I drank a lot. The night I had my first attack I had an entire bottle of orange rum in about two hours. (I still can't even smell that stuff)

I left that office thinking my life was over. I was really going to die. I know now that isn't what he meant, but I was a dumb (dramatic) kid. I took him literally. So instead of changing my life I decided to take it as a challenge. I drank, and drank, and drank a little more. I partied. I made a lot of bad choices. Why not? I was about to die.

This went into a completely different direction. I will have to write the rest later.

nonsense post number one.

I don't really have a timeline in mind for how I want to do this project. I know that I want the stories of my life to be here and not sitting in my head. I struggle with knowing exactly how much I want to share. I have only been doing this for a week and have had such wonderful encouragement so far. I did get a message from one friend making fun of how mushy I have gotten in my old age, but Erica is a punk, so I expect that from her. (Love you E.) 

I have been writing in journals or diaries for a very long time. This is nothing like that. It is public. It is vulnerable. It is scary. I have been through some things during my thirty something years on this earth. One thing that I have learned from those experiences is that sharing them with others is not only therapeutic for me, but it also has the chance of helping someone that has also gone through a similar situation. Keeping it in my own head only makes me crazy. I even went crazy at one point. We refer to that as my "coo coo for cocoa puffs" time.. (That's another story for a different day.) 

I don't think this will be in chronological order. Maybe just whatever is on my heart on that particular day is what I will write about. I really want to get on paper (screen) the story of my sweet baby girl. My miracle. 

She gets her own post though, so I'll just publish this one and start working on her story. 

forever love.

I have a tattoo on my right forearm that says "Forever Love". I got this tattoo a few days after my divorce was finalized. I felt like I needed a reminder, a large and painful reminder that love is supposed to be forever. I don't think I plan on ever really writing any more than that about my divorce. Back to the story...

I met Dustin about 9 years ago. We were both at a party at the Danford house. I was standing in the garage and he came up to me and introduced himself. He was 18 and in the Marines. (Maybe home on leave or about to join?) That is all that was said. A few years later we were both on the same tubing trip. I don't really remember him, but that isn't saying much. I may have had a beer or 10.. I recall him being at the Danford home during Mardi Gras one year. He never spoke to me. The next time was after a wedding in June of 2011, again at the Danford's, but this time it was Angela's house. I must have noticed him for the first time this day, because I totally hit on him. His arm had an amazing tattoo scene on it and he had a beard. Done.  - I found out later that he had a crush on me since that first meeting. Apparently he doesn't talk to people he has crushes on. 

I went to a house warming party for our mutual friend Seth. I was tagging everyone at the party on Facebook, because that is what you do. Duh. I got to Dustin and realized we weren't Facebook friends so I sent him a request.

We messaged each other, and then started texting. We actually had a lot in common. I felt like a teenager, texting all day and into the night. We decided that he would come out to where I was living in Baton Rouge for a 'date'...

He arrived to my apartment and I met him outside in the parking lot. It felt like a scene from a movie. He greeted me with the best hug I have ever been given. We still talk about that hug. It was as if in that moment, in the safety of his arms, I felt home.

 

The week before this my thoughts on relationships was that they were all pointless. They just weren't for me. That 'forever love' didn't exist, and if it did, it wouldn't happen for me.  I made it clear to any one that tried to date me that it wasn't going to happen. I don't 'do' relationships.

One week in, he asked me to be his girlfriend. This was on September 12th, 2011. I told him no, but to ask me again tomorrow. He asked again the next day and I said yes. I just didn't want our anniversary to be on his birthday. (I'm just thoughtful like that.)

I think it took us about two weeks before we both blurted out that we loved each other. After a year of dating I was madly in love. On our one year anniversary he gave me an infinity ring with the words "my forever love" engraved on the inside. I told him the story of my tattoo one time, in the very beginning of the relationship and we never talked about it again. He listened. He wanted me to know that his intentions were for forever.
                                      

 

That ring has now been replaced with an engagement ring. I get to marry this wonderful man exactly three years after we started this wonderful love story.  I know that forever takes work, but he makes it seem possible. Now when I see the tattoo on my arm, I smile. He is my forever love.

 

giving it away.

      Aside from being called mom and "the tattooed girl", I now have a new title. I am a fiancé. I never expected to be as excited about this title as I am. I have not exactly had the best run at the whole relationship thing. I have dated a variety of people over the last almost 20ish years. I have dated people who were physically abusive, mentally abusive, demanding, dishonest, controlling, and unfaithful. That is not to say there weren't a few good ones along the way, but that was very rare.  The catalyst in all of these bad relationships was me. I realize that now. When you feel as though you aren't deserving of anything wonderful, you settle for whoever shows you attention, good or bad.  I can remember when I went from feeling valuable and deserving to worthless and undeserving.  I went from being sweet and loving to hateful, and angry, oh so very angry.

   The one thing that I can say changed that year is that I stopped "saving myself".  I gave it away. There was no ring or ceremony, just a dark room and a boy I didn't know well enough to be sharing anything with. I think about these things now that I have a little girl. I think about what I can say or do to make her realize how important that actually is. Once it is gone you can't get it back. Ever.

     I am in love now. With the most amazing person I have ever loved in my life. He gave me a ring, down on his knee. This is the man that God chose for me. My only regret is that I did not decide at a young age to trust that God had a plan for me, that God had a man just for me. It hurts my heart that I didn't wait for him.

     I still don't know the right way to raise a little girl to know her worth, to know her value, and her plan, but I will continue to pray for guidance so that hopefully she will not have to experience the same kind of pain and suffering that I did.

the little black sun.

     I still remember my mother's reaction when she saw my first tattoo. It was a tiny little sun on my right ankle the size of a quarter. For years I never even knew how she noticed something so small and insignificant, and then I had a child of my own. I get it now. When you bathe, lotion, change, and dress another human being every day of their life you know every single mark on that body. So, back to the story...

     She was mad, or maybe hurt is a better word. I don't even remember exactly how old I was or what stage of my life, I think 18 or 19 but my memory has a ton of holes in it. I will never forget the feeling of disappointing my mom though.  We were discussing the title of my blog last night and she reminded me of why she felt so strongly about the tattoos. She never wanted them to define me. She didn't want people to make automatic judgments about what or who I was just by seeing a tattoo.

     While I think I have never let my tattoos define me, she was right about the initial judgments from others. These judgments have come in two forms. Most of the initial responses that I get now are positive. The "oh I love your ink, your tattoos are awesome, girls with tattoos are so hot, did that hurt, what do they mean" are mostly what I get from people. I have also had negative reactions, but those are pretty random and it is mostly in Walmart. Strangers would pull their children closer to them like maybe tattoos were contagious, or I was going to try and kidnap them. Some occasional bold (rude) people will actually say that I look gross or ugly, and I even got a -you are disgusting, once.

     When I walk past a mirror I sometimes have to take a second glance. I do not see myself as tattooed. In my own view of myself all of my skin is free from ink. I don't know why that is or if any other tattooed people feel that way, but I do. They definitely do not define how I view myself physically.

     The funniest misconception to me is that people somehow think I am tough because I have them.  I am actually a pretty sensitive little cry baby. Most of my tattoos are of flowers, not skulls and crossbones. That is not to say I don't have my tough girl moments, but I was also in the Army so I'm pretty sure the tough came before the tattoos.

the beginning...

    I have had two main fears about writing a blog. The first one is because of clothes. I have a shirt in my closet that I bought a few years ago. I loved this shirt. I wore this shirt and felt so stylish. Looking back on that shirt now I think it is hideous. I see pictures of me wearing this shirt and I am mortified. This leads me to my first fear, hindsight. When you look back on things you can see them more clearly than you did at the time. This is true for relationships, clothing, hair styles, and writing. I look back at old diaries and think that there is no way that I actually wrote that nonsense. Hopefully in the next year I won't look back at this endeavor and be mortified by the nonsense documented on the web forever.

    The second fear I have is about grammar. I am one of those obnoxious people that notice grammatical errors. That has given me quite the reputation... The problem is I am actually not that great at grammar. I know the basics. I don't use to when it should be too, but aside from the main ones, I am still learning. Correct placement of commas will make my hands sweat. I sometimes just wing it and hope that it is right. I also google a lot! I will read an entire online English lesson just to make sure that I used the correct word on a Facebook post. That being said, when something is incorrect please, please, please let me know! I hate when I read over something later and notice an error. I can take correction, I promise.

     So here it is -my very first blog post. I am excited and nervous. I needed an outlet for all that is in my head. I want a place for my daughter to be able to read about the events of her life. I also want to write about my past, my experiences, my pain, my joys, and my heartbreaks.
The title comes from trying to think of a name that describes me. When I have asked for suggestions from friends it would always have something to do with my tattoos or being a mom. I can honestly say that being a mom is the absolute best thing that has ever happened to me, but I am more than just a mother. I am more than ink. I am more than diapers. I want to write about more than just those two things. I want to write about all of me.