I was catching up with a good friend of mine. It had been a while since we’d had a real conversation. During our talk, I had this crazy revelation. He said to me, “You have a beautiful home filled with so much love. You haven’t moved in a while. You spent all that time moving around, when all you needed was to move on.” I don’t even know why I hadn’t even put two and two together. I am coming up on three years in my home, which for my history, is basically a lifetime. Maybe subconsciously I knew my relationship with Ryan wasn’t it. My heart and spirit knew before my mind did, but I am stubborn woman. (I get that from my mother.) At some point, my mind, heart, body, and spirit all lined up and I took the first step on a different path. My friend told me in order to open the door to something new, you have to close the door on something else. Look at me now. One fucking scary first step and look what emerged: love, independence, strength, communication. Fucking fabulous.
That’s Not Enough Anymore
her: when we fight, why do you always want to run and hide?
him: i don’t like dealing with it.
her: the problem doesn’t go away.
him: i know.
her: it’s gets even bigger when you come back.
—2002
I have been writing since I was a teenager. It’s the only way I ever really knew how to get my feelings and my thoughts out. Looking at this poem makes me a little sad though. How did I put up with communication like that for nearly two decades? I am way too patient for my own good.
Mother Dearest
Sometimes, when I take selfies, I see my mom, and it kills me a little bit. It’s no secret that my relationship with my mother is very strained. The last time I saw or spoke to her was in June. She makes no real attempt to communicate with me or the boys. Yet, she has time to go on cross-country trips with her boyfriend and his grandson. I made a joke to Nick that she was on a vacation with her replacement grandkid. It just makes me mad and sad. I am grateful that my boys have a real grandma on their other side. I will always be thankful for that and for her. It really is too bad that my mom can’t get over her ego and narcissism. Whatever—her loss, not ours.
a girl who writes 