“Your wound is probably not your fault. But your healing is your responsibility.” — Anonymous
For as long as I can remember, I’ve always been a people-pleaser.
It probably has something to do with my childhood, but I don’t want to pull at that thread today. My codependency tendencies fully developed after I became a stay-at-home mom. Fast-forward into motherhood twelve years later and one year deep into divorcing my ex-husband — and here we are.
In the last year and a half, I’ve spent over two hundred dollars on a few new pairs of shoes for my kids. Because…
It’s an eye-opening experience to listen to other women vent about their divorce story and hear how it all went down. After twenty-four years of marriage (and two days after dropping their youngest son off at college), my friend’s Was-band declared,
“I don’t want to do this anymore. I want to be able to come and go as I please without having to answer to anyone (*ahem* you, my wife). I want my freedom. And I want a divorce.”
Unfortunately, her story is what inspired me to zoom out on my situation and quietly think to myself, at least…
I can’t think of a better way to introduce myself than to tell you what I’m wearing, the last ten songs I listened to on Spotify, what I had for dinner tonight, and what I did right before I ate that delectable dinner.
The weight of the world is heavy on me these days. Spoiler alert: it isn’t getting any lighter.
So, I must get stronger.
I am a far cry from an elite athlete, and in no way, shape, or form am I certified to coach anyone on Olympic lifts. However, my ten years of experience in the world of CrossFit has been good to me, and, as always, I would like to share that knowledge and positivity with you.
It’s my birthday today — a whopping thirty-nine years and counting. If I’m honest, my days are so riddled with the whirlwinds of life that I forgot my birthday was coming up. However, this year, my birthday day approached a lot faster. Maybe because last year was sluggish and traumatic; I was two months into moving my kids and me into my parent's house. My life and future were in shambles.
This year, the dust has settled.
Turning thirty-nine feels a whole lot better than turning thirty-eight. As soon as I changed my depressed outlook on turning a year older…
I am becoming fluent in self-care these days. (Post-divorce rage will do that to you, you know?) I was soaking in a steaming-hot bath last night (with a cup of post-workout lavender Epsom salt), thinking, it must be challenging for guys in the medical field to remain professional and not get an erection throughout their workday. Or to hide it if they do become aroused.
This thought led me to my next one — I am so glad I have a vagina and not a penis.
Alright, I understand; maybe not everyone would agree with this one. But to me…
I got wind of my ex-husband’s girlfriend spending time with my kids already.
Yep, that same woman who was messaging him at 2 am while he was trying to have sex with his wife two years ago. Ah, c’est la vie.
I’ll admit, I naively assumed the ink on our divorce papers would be dry before we nonchalantly introduced significant others to our already traumatized kids. But, sadly, none of those papers are even close to being complete, and we all know what happens when I assume things. That’s right; I make an ass-out-of-you-and-me.
So, after much contemplation, I realized…
June 23, 2019
I slept on the couch again last night —ninety percent because Mr. Grey was snoring and ten percent because he had been texting his “friend” all. day. long.
I was irritated.
Why is she the first person he talks to when he wakes up, the person he’s DM-ing all day, and the last person he messages before we go to bed?
Wtf? It’s making me crazy and, yes, jealous.
Every time I hear his phone vibrate, I assume it’s his new “friend.” I’m not wrong — he even told me so! At least he’s honest with me…
I’m not sure how Lucy Dan 蛋小姐 (she/her/她)does it, but she always seems to hit the writing prompt nail on its head! Just last week, I was chatting with my schoolmate about her vine and flower tattoo — a tat that started on her left deltoid, traveled up her neck, and stopped behind her left ear. While she was drawing my blood, she told me the story of how her tattoo came to be. Longer story short, it symbolized the bond between her and her dad. He had a similar but more rugged vine tattoo.
Sorry guys, a quick spoiler…
All I want to do is write.
I want to sip my coffee, check on my kids — leave my kisses all over their faces, and frantically tap away on my keyboard in my sweatpants and no bra.
I want to feel the sweet rush of oxytocin while I hit that green “publish” button all. day. long.
But alas, I started a new (extensive but rewarding) adventure in my Healthcare journey — Phlebotomy.
Fuck my life.
Anyone else out there who has made it through a venipuncture program (and shares the ‘fml’ sentiment), please tell me that I’m not going…