Monthly Archives: April 2014

Anxiety Girl


Anxiety Girl(image owned/created by the awesome Natalie Dee circa 2009. Not my work nor my property.)
I’ve danced with anxiety all of my life.
The first time I recall having a panic attack I was 5 years old. My thoughts raced, my heart pounded, I couldn’t breathe very well. I hid in my closet, trying to hide from what I feared, not realizing the fear came from within myself. When I was 23 I was getting dressed one day and my fingers and lips started to tingle and my heart pounded and all I could think was “I’m dying. I’m dying. Oh God, I’m dying.”‘ I was convinced of it. I couldn’t tell myself WHAT was killing me, just that the impending doom was so tangible and real I could taste it.
Anxiety shapes my daily decisions. Every single time I face having to go grocery shopping I make an official announcement at some point that “I’m not going.” even if we are totally out of food and my family will starve if I DON’T go. I will still freak out in myself, probably throw something, and in a panic say “I’m just not going.” every time. It comes across as anger but it’s not anger. It’s fear. If you don’t battle with anxiety on a daily basis, you cannot even begin to fathom how seemingly simple every day tasks can create such turmoil and havoc within a soul. How much inner pep talk goes into just stepping outside of a home. How many cigarettes or pills or tokes on a joint are needed by some folks just to face public places. How long it takes to prepare to go anyplace. How scary talking on a phone can be. How a knock on the front door can make your stomache dip. How a birthday party invite can frazzle you to your core.
I go to walMart, sunglasses on my face because a friend with social anxieties of her own has told me it helps her.And it does. It dims the obnoxious bright lights that tend to elevate my panic. It makes me feel more secluded from the world around me. But then I start to become super aware of the fact I am walking around at night with sunglasses on and maybe that makes me look suspicious and maybe the people I am walking past are thinking I am weird and maybe they will ask me why I am wearing them and maybe I just said “excuse me” too loud to the lady in my way in the aisle, it sounds really loud and stupid in my own ears but she doesn’t even move so maybe I didn’t say it loud enough or maybe I didn’t say it at all and now I look crazy and awkward and weird standing still behind her not saying a thing and have I been standing here behind her for 3 seconds or has it been ages and ages of awkwardness because it FEELS like ages and ages and finally I say it again this time she moves and I flash her a totally uncomfortable fake smile and say “thank you” in a barely imperticible voice because I know society standards of manners and protocol require it and it takes 2 more aisles before the shaking stops in my hands. And THAT is why I hate shopping. This sort of thing happens every time. EVERY. TIME. I don’t believe in prescription drugs so I carry lavender oil and Rescue Remedy with me. I smoke. I do breathing techniques. I chant mantras in my head.
Meeting new people…….I imagine they are judging every small detail. The way my hair is. The clothes I am wearing. The inflection to my words. I am a tiny creature under a microscope. Their eyes burn through me. I need something to keep my hands busy. I keep my children close, start conversations with them instead so I am too busy to be approachable to others. I chew on the flesh of my fingers until it bleeds. I am too aware of my hands. what do i do with them when they are empty? Put them in my pockets? Clasp them together? Am I moving them too much? Not enough? Do I appear as awkward and stiff as I feel? Am I sweating? Are my eyes too wide? How can they NOT notice my panic when it encapsulates me so??????
I met my Man online. it was easy to talk to him. On line. the first time I called him to talk I was pretty sure I was rambling too much. Being too loud. I had to keep gasping for breath. I kept forgetting to breathe at the pauses. I was certain he would never want to talk to me again. I talked while pacing in speedy nervous circles around my yard. I probably looked like I was on meth or something. All jerky and sped up. Then again, that might all have been just sped up in my own brain. That’s anxiety.
I’m a breeze online. I run a FB page with nearly 2,000 followers. I am witty. Assured. Cool. No problem. But in person? In person I am reserved. People think I’m rude. I don’t like to make eye contact. It feels too intense. I’ve been called a bitch. People mistake my social anxiety for rudeness. It is a billion times harder to make friends in real life than online. I prefer online interaction.
I overthink. I obsess. I worry. I think about scenarios that are preposterous but I rationalize that at least I will be prepared. For anything. For everything. And still I am convinced that too much is out of my control and horrible things will happen. Daily. My anxiety triggers my OCD and I spend hours organizing the movies or the pantry shelves, bring order to some sliver of chaos to soothe the beast of anxiety that tugs at my brain.
I expect every day my man will tell me he doesn’t want me anymore. I imagine every day that one of my children will be killed or kidnapped. The house will burn down. Lucy will stop breathing in her sleep. It’s cancer.The dog will get out of the yard and get hit by a car. I’ll die. I worry about all of these things every single day.
This is what it’s like.
This is anxiety.
Anxiety is a real bitch.


Peaceful, Primal Parenting


Best advice to give any new parent:
Screw the books or websites or articles. Forget the advice from your mom, aunt or neighbor. Don’t do what your parents did just because you turned out “Ok”. Or do. Whatever. The point is, trust your gut. Go with your instincts. Follow your heart.

Raising kids isn’t a competition. It’s not a place for debate. All you should worry about when raising kids is what kind of adults you are raising them into. I write this blog simply to share with you why and how I parent.
Attachment parenting is the word for it. The official label. What this means is I wear my babies. I carry them in slings next to my heart and treat the first few months like the “fourth trimester”. I let them breast feed on demand, whenever they want, 24-7. I sleep with them beside me in my bed. I cloth diaper them. Home school them. I practice gentle discipline. What that means is I don’t hit them.
That’s right. I don’t hit them. I am raising 7 children without the aid of corporal punishment. For a large chunk of my parenting gig I was a single mom and yet I never resorted to hitting any of my kids. Not only do I know all the statistics of violence in the home being linked to violent offenders in prison later in life and the psychological damage that can occur and the simple fact it seems counterproductive from my personal viewpoint to punish a child for bullying or hitting by bullying and hitting them……but I am also a survivor of domestic violence. I know first hand what it feels like to be physically hurt by a person much stronger and bigger than myself. I don’t ever want my child to fear me in that way. I don’t want to break their spirit.
The word discipline is derived from the word disciple.
A disciple is a teacher.
Therefore, when I discipline my children, it is my way of teaching them. Teaching them not only TO respect and obey, but also WHY to respect and obey. Because I have learned that when children learn the WHY, they tend to be more willing to follow through. I allow natural consequences to occur as much as is possible. This saves me the stress and wasted energy of yelling or punishing. Refuse to wear shoes outside? Find out firsthand how hot the pavement is and you’ll remember to wear them next time. Fool around when you should be doing your reading time for school. Well, then you miss your outdoor play time and have to read while your brothers are all outside playing soccer. Don’t eat your dinner? Then you don’t get dessert. There is no need for arguing or battle of the wills. Its just a simple cause and effect thing.

I talk to my kids. I give them the respect I hope they model towards others. I am honest with them. About everything. About life and how it works. I utilize my freedom to home educate them as an opportunity to teach them the many different dimensions and dynamics of how our world really works. This means I teach them about respecting authority figures and seeking out a police officer if they are ever lost but I also talk to them about police brutality. (In fact, this week we watched “Fruitvale Ave.”, a movie based on the true story of a man who was murdered by police.) I teach them about different religious beliefs, different cultures, politics, animal cruelty, not being violent but to always step up if they see a man hurting a woman, transgender and gay and bisexual lifestyles, yoga, faith, God, eating organic local foods, veganism, etc…. I don’t make them agree with me. I teach them everything. For instance I explain the benefits of being a vegetarian and my own personal opposition to guns and harming animals but I also plan on finding someone to teach them how to hunt with a bow and arrow when they are older because they may want to or need to know how. I teach them about police brutality but I also encourage my 9 year old who wants to be a police officer someday. I teach them about being a gentleman and teaching ladies right, the old fashioned holding-doors-open and such. But if one of them tells me someday that they are actually gay, I’ll be just as thrilled because love is love. And they know where I stand with that.
So, I follow my heart. When my 5 year old is bucking up and throwing a fit I take the time to sit beside him and be very quiet and calm him with soft words and a gentle touch on his back. When the 11 year old gets all attitude-y, I back off and give him space to take a walk down the street. I give plenty of love and hugs. I take time to listen to them so that they will in turn listen to me when I need them to. I play with them. I leave the laundry basket of wet clothes sitting by the clothesline to play an impromptu game of football or take them for a walk around the block. I don’t own a cell phone because when I am at the park with my kids I want to be catching my kid at the bottom of the slide or pushing them on the swing, not texting someone. Because they are only little so long. This time is precious.
This time is precious and comes with much responsibility.
Someday they will all be grown up and my job will be done. There are no rewind buttons. No second chances. What I teach them today will mold them into the men and woman they will someday become. This is my legacy. This is crucial that I do it right. Not by the books or other peoples opinions. But that I follow my own heart so at the end of it all my kids can look back and know how loved they truly were.
This is love. Discipline with a firm stance and a whole lot of grace and empathy.

Daddy’s Girl



My daughter is inarguably a Daddys girl already. She’s been gracing this planet with her presence for a little under three weeks and she already has that man wrapped around her tiny little finger. He comes home from work and after greeting the other kids he will swoop and scoop her up, cradle her to him and croon sweet nothings about “Princess” and “Pretty Girl.” When he holds her against his chest she will instinctively curl in like a cashew and burrow her face against his chest or shoulder. It’s love at it’s finest.
The thing is, this man is not her biological father.
Nope. Her biological father signed out about 15 minutes after I showed him to positive pregnancy test. I tried to make it work for awhile but it dawn ed on me pretty quickly that his priorities were out of whack and that I had no business sticking it out with some “man” who didn’t put his child before himself. So, I kicked him out. Packed his shit up one day when he was god knows where and hadn’t come home from work the day before. Piled it out by the curb. He came and picked it up and I never saw his face again. And for a time I was okay with being alone. Eff it. I had my sons, and this blessing in my womb. I was sorrounded in love. What more did I need? The way i saw it, men were all dogs. Okay, maybe not ALL men. I had a few friends with amazing husbands/boyfriends who I was mildly jealous of. But I just figured it wasn’t in my cards to have a man like that. I would just stay single and be fine with it.
Even after I let my walls down enough to give this man a shot…I still clung stubbornly to a few loose bricks that made up the wall.

Then labor hit. And I was euphoric and focused and excited. I told him to get some sleep. He had worked all day and it was the middle of the night. I was strong. Independent. Self Assured. I needed no one.
But then transition hit. Hard. And I found myself clinging to his hand, stringing together cuss words in creative combinations, roaring out with intensity. And he sat there. Patient. Strong. Affirming me with words and touch. Keeping me afloat in the ocean of uncertainty. He became my rock. Stoic. Brave. You would have thought he had been through a million births already.
And then she was born.
And he got to announce to the whole room “It’s a girl!” and he was almost as excited as I was. He trailed after the doctors who swooped her away to the adjoining room to check on her and do her Apgar screening. Snapped a bunch of pictures. Came back to my side to tell me how much he loved me, tell me how beautiful she was, how amazing I was, how thankful he was. Took more pictures of me holding her all swaddled up for the very first time. Followed her up to the NICU as if a magnet connected his heart to hers.
I opened his closet the other day to hang a few shirts and there was a sticker from the hospital stuck to the clothes bar that said “I am Dad visiting Baby Rich.” The stickers he was required to wear on his shirt when he visited her in the NICU. He hadn’t thrown it away. It was a tangible proclamation of his initiation into Fatherhood.
The other day we went out to eat. Brought Princess Peanut along. Two different people told me she looked like Daddy. They meant the man sitting beside me. I realized they were right. And I was okay with that.
When Lucy gets older, she will be told about her biological father. She has the right to know. But I don’t think the news will impact her very heavily. After all, she already has a Daddy who dotes on her, who adores her.
She is lucky. So blessed. I never knew my dad. He wasn’t even at my birth. My mom raised me all on her own. my father met me once. When I was 2 months old. The first time he held me was in the airport when he went to pick up my mother and I. He was drunk and was carrying me, showing me off like some treasure he had discovered. My mother was scared he would drop me. That story brought me some semblance of comfort as a teenager when I thought of the fact he had not cared enough to stay, that I hadn’t mattered enough to him, hadn’t been special enough for him to stick around. I would recall that story and think “Well, he cared about me at ONE point.” I carried that feeling of not being special, not mattering much, through my life. And because of it, I spent a long time seeking affection and attention from men. Settled for men who didn’t deserve me. But I had it twisted in my brain that I didn’t deserve any better. It took me 34 years to learn better. To do better.
I am so thankful that Lucy won’t go through that same BS. She has this solid example of a man right here. Protecting her, honoring her, loving her. Any man she looks to love later in life is going to have to measure up pretty high on the “awesome-meter”. This morning she made a certain face and I caught a strong resemblance of him in her eyes and I forgot for a brief second she isn’t actually biologically his.
But what does that matter? DNA is only so much in the grand scheme of things. Love is really what matters. And love……well, I’m not sure there is a girl on earth more loved by her father than Lucy is.
She truly is daddy’s girl. ❤

Dear Lucy, (A Letter To My Daughter)


I had a strong hunch from day one of taking that pregnancy test that you were a girl. All signs pointed to it. Every single symptom/craving I had was the exact opposite of all of my other pregnancies. But after 6 pregnancies resulting in baby boys, I wouldn’t allow myself to get my hopes up.
I DID come up with your name almost right away. And every time I spoke it out loud I would get a little chill. It was meant to be. On the other hand, a half hour before I pushed you out of my womb I was still grappling with a potential boy name. (Zephyr Phoenix Paradigm….River Phoenix Honor…..???)
Man was this pregnancy a TOUGH one. Horrible morning sickness. Acne. Acid reflux. Constant Braxton hicks contractions. An aversion for all of my favorite foods. (Lord, the very SMELL of peanut butter had me running to throw up.) I craved fatty unhealthy foods. I was extra hormonal, crying at everything and anything all damn day long. I was basically a hot mess.
But then you came out of me, straight through me. A portion of my soul just slipped into this world. And that moment…..well, for the rest of my life I will have it grafted onto my heart. You were perfection from the very first moment. And me……me who had either laughed for joy when each of my kids were born or simply said “Oh my God”…well, I took one look at you as your Daddy announced you were a girl and I bawled. Just broke down like a little girl who lost her doll or something. They wrapped you up, took you into the next room so the NICU team could assess you, and brought you back to me. Placed you in my eager arms and I took one look at you and almost started to cry again. I was overwhelmed. There was no other word for it. Overwhelmed with joy and gratitude. My someday daughter was RIGHT HERE in my arms. God was good. Life was marvelous. My world was complete.


I hated our time apart. Me in my lonely room on the 6th floor. You a floor above, in the NICU. I was upstairs as much as possible. Only going back to my room to eat meals or change my pad. I would from time to time say i was going back to my room to grab a couple hours of sleep but it never happened. Every time I drifted off to sleep a nurse would wake me up to check vitals so I gave up. I basically ran on 2 non-consecutive hours of sleep per day for the entire 3 days I was in the hospital. (Keep in mind I also was in labor with you overnight so from Friday morning until Tuesday morning I got approximatly 6 hours of sleep. Total. I would sit in the NICU behind the privacy curtain to nurse you and afterwards I would unwrap you from your swaddle and undo my shirt and lay you bare skin to bare skin on my chest and lean my chair back in a recline and drift off to sleep for a few minutes. God bless the nurses who allowed it.I was able to room-in with your brothers and it killed me that I couldn’t with you. I was so grateful for those moments.
That is love, precious daughter. That is love.
Love is the fact I would nurse you in the NICU through gritted teeth and tears because you were not latching properly and the NICU workers wouldn’t listen to my adament opposition to you getting a binky. I’d cradle you close as you nursed, trying over and over to show you how to latch on. You sucked a blood blister into each of my nipples and still I kept nursing you through the pain. Because that’s love. My stay in the hospital was a fog. I was bone tired. But still I made the trek 8 times a day to your bedside. Because nothing could keep me from you. Nothing. Thats love.
I can’t let you go. It’s unbearably empty when you are not in my arms. At night I tuck you snugly into the crook of my elbow and sleep topless so you can nurse anytime you want/need. Because thats love. I watch you sleep, your eyes fluttering back and forth beneath your eyelids. i trace your body with my fingertip. Your tiny bony knees. Your chunky cheeks. The soft peach fuzz on your back. I want to devour you. Tuck you back in beneath my heartbeat. I can’t get enough of you. you are my drug. I am infatuated. Mesmerized. Addicted. That is love.
I love you with the depth and breadth and wholeness of my very being. I love you for the potential of who I shall be and for the parts of me already in you. I love your ferocious strength. I love your fragility. I love that you have the eyes of a mermaid and the smell of heaven and the sounds of ancient secrets on your tongue. I love how different you are than your brothers. I love how much like myself and your brothers you already look. I love how right at this very moment as I am typing this I look over at you lying beside me in the bed and you are smiling.
You are everything I ever was. Everything I ever hope to be. You are my princess. My warrior princess. My beauty. My power. My tangible awareness of hope and dreams and laughter and life.
I’ll tell you right now, I’m sorry in advance for every time I fail you. Because I will. I’m only human. As much as I want to always be your hero, never falling from that pedestal…..I will. i have been a mother over 13 years now. But I’m still learning. And Lord knows I’ve never raised a girl before. I have plenty of ideas and plans……but life is life and it won’t always flow the way we want it to so please try to understand that i’m just learning right alongside you. But we’ve got this, chick. You and I …we’ve got this. we’ve got the whole damn world at our fingertips. you’ve got the whole world in the palm of your hand…just be careful not to clutch it too tight that you forget to even live it.
Live everyday. Breathe in life. Experience it. Taste it. Don’t be afraid to fall down. As long as you get back up. Face your monsters. Because there will be some. Dance. Dance like a silly fool right in the middle of the grocery store or in your front yard in your pajamas or in the kitchen while dinner is cooking. laugh. A lot. And loudly. Cry. Because it’s okay to. Hug. Hug everyone. Hug hello. Hug goodbye. Never skip a chance to hug a person because you never know when the last time will be that you will hug them. Write love letters. Learn to throw a solid punch. Learn to throw a spiral with a football. Climb trees. Paint your nails. Act like a lady. Be someone the boys will respect. Dye your hair some crazy color. Read the classics. Try new foods. Say I’m sorry. Say I love you. Forgive people. Forgive yourself. Talk to God. Always be honest with Him. He knows your heart anyway.
Most of all, be YOU.
I hope I can teach you some stuff along the way. I hope some of what I cherish and believe in gets passed on to you. But I also hope that you think for yourself. that you question what you are told. That you shine brightly. Like the diamond that you are.
Shine on you crazy diamond! ❤
I love you.
Beyond Forever.
Your Mommy

Marijuana Mothering


If you ever want to start a whirlwind of controversial debate on FaceBook, bring up the subject of mothers using marijuana. Especially if that mother happens to be pregnant.
There are so many misconceptions, so much misinformation surrounding marijuana use. I am writing this blog in hopes of helping to raise awareness of the benefits and quash some of the misinformation. My intent is not to convince you to change your mind. To each his own. I only desire to educate on some level. It doesn’t mean I expect you to agree. 🙂 I am passionate about my belief that medical marijuana should be legalized as I have countless friends and family who use marijuana to treat a wide array of medical conditions and have seen firsthand the phenomenal positive results.
I personally use marijuana sparingly. Only on an as-needed basis (which is fairly infrequently) for my insomnia, (a few times a month at most.) as well as for my morning sickness when I am pregnant. When I was pregnant with my last child I dealt with SEVERE morning sickness for the first 4 months. I was MISERABLE. And still had 6 other young children to care for. I literally could do nothing most days but lay in bed feeling awful. I had no appetite at all and when I did manage to force myself to eat it would almost immediatly come right back up. I was losing weight and always felt weak.I finally relented and took two small tokes off of a joint one night. Within 15 minutes my nausea was gone and I had an appetite. I ate a huge dinner that night and felt SO much better.I didn’t smoke every day. But from time to time when I felt too sick to eat all day and was desperate to get some nutrients into my body for the sake of my unborn child. One of the most commonly prescribed medications prescribed to women for morning sickness is Reglan. The side effects of Reglan are:Drowsiness, dizziness, tiredness, trouble sleeping, agitation, headache, and diarrhea,mental/mood changes (such as anxiety, confusion, depression, thoughts of suicide), decreased sexual ability, inability to keep still/need to pace, muscle spasms/uncontrolled muscle movements (such as twisting neck, arching back), abnormal breast-milk production, enlarged/tender breasts, swelling of the hands/feet,and this drug may infrequently cause a serious (sometimes fatal) nervous system problem (neuroleptic malignant syndrome). In comparison, marijuana has almost no negative side effects aside of a possible paranoia feeling which rarely some people may experience. And none of the effects of marijuana are long term. It is not in any way a “gateway” drug. I know dozen upon dozens of people personally who have used marijuana for an array of reasons and never touched any other drug in their lives.
You may wonder though, what are the risks to the baby inutero if a mother utilizes marijuana while pregnant? Let’s delve a bit more into that:
Marijuana use in pregnancy is a topic that has been studied since the 60’s. One large study of 12,825 interviews done after delivery, did not find a statistical association between marijuana use and birth defects.However, the studies also show that marijuana is not risk free. Studies have reported associations between marijuana smoking and growth restriction and lower birth weight, particularly in women who keep smoking through delivery or late in pregnancy. An Australian study of almost 420,000 live births reported a higher risk for neonatal intensive care admission for newborns exposed prenatally to pot. Also, there are reports of abnormal responses or behaviors in the newborn period and this suggests a toxicity or withdrawal. The symptoms include exaggerated and prolonged startle reflexes (sleep cycle disturbances with high-pitched crying.) In a Brazilian study, exposed newborns were “more irritable and less responsive to calming, cried more during the examination, and exhibited more jitteriness and startles than the non-exposed neonates.” Pregnant women who smoke daily and/or through delivery, have a higher risk for complications in their pregnancy compared to women who quit in the first trimester. That being said, a dean of nursing at a medical center in Chicago did a study in Jamaica that was published in 1994. In this study she followed women throughout pregnancy and for the year following birth, two groups, one who used cannabis every day and one group who refrained from using it at all. What she found was the group of children whose mothers used it daily through out pregnancy socialized more quickly, made eye contact easier and were engaged easier. there was also no proof of lower birth weight in her study And rumors have it that other similar studies where birth weight WAS effected as well as other issues at birth, the mother was usually also using alcohol or other drugs simultaneuosly.

It is because of these tentative findings that I personally will always advocate the safety of marijuana use in the first trimester but always suggest a mother refrains from using it or uses it only sparingly throughout the second and third trimester. This is the same advice I would give a mother in regards to any and all herbal remedies, frankly. Which is exactly what I consider marijuana to be, an herbal remedy.
My strongest recommendation would be to avoid smoking it. Though that first time I used it myself I did smoke it, after that I ingested it instead. It just seemed logical that inhaling smoke was not beneficial to my unborn child. Marijuana can be cooked, made into a tea, tinctures, vaporizers, etc…. I personally prefer it in a tea. You have to know what grade of weed you are dealing with, and what you personally need in order to know how much to use in any method.
What blows my mind is the dangerous medical interventions we allow to be done to us and our unborn children in pregnancy without so much as batting an eye. But to suggest to some people to utilize a naturally growing herb into their life raises riots.This is due to ignorance. I don’t mean that in a judgy way. I mean, literally, so many folks have no IDEA on the negative side effects of many common procedures and practices in prenatal care. There is the “patients right to choose”, but how many of us actually take the time to dig in depth to research and proof and statistical data? And how many are walking around with a slew of utter misinformation when it comes to marijuana use in pregnancy?
My reason for writing this isn’t to change your mind. My intent is not to demand you agree with me. It is only to share my own personal experience and knowledge and to challenge you to take some time to delve a little deeper into the subject on your own.

Sunday Confession: Time


It’s fluid, really.
We are taught in school that it has some sort of concrete significance, that it can be stacked up, measured, confined, in proper boxes of seconds, minutes, hours, days, weeks, months……..

But as we grow older we learn that’s not true.
Time ebbs and flows through and around us, as if it is both separate from us and a tangible part of us. We become IT, and it becomes US.

Time is the fact I still sometimes catch myself feeling like that awkward, uncertain 13 year old girl, filled with curiousity and shyness and fervor for dreams. Time is the laugh that bursts from my lips as if I am 8 years old once again. Time is what happened while I was busy charging forward into life.

Time. Its’ funny how it can change absolutely everything and somehow keep things the same. It’s a great paradox.
Look back……and find yourself surprised by how much time has passed since……

19 years since I sat at my desk in school at age 15 thinking of what I would someday name my daughter. Destiny Starr. 12 years since I miscarried that daughter. 8 days since I finally got to hold my first daughter in my arms.

31 years since I proclaimed I wanted to be a Mother. 14 years ago when I took my first positive pregnancy test.

21 years since I first read a bible verse and begun to learn about God. 19 years since I got baptized. 12 years since I told God I hated him. 3 years since I found my way back to my “Daddy”. 4 hours since the last time I talked with Him.
6 years since the first time a man hit me. 1 year ago since the last time.
20 years ago since the first time I ever sang a solo in public.(accapella for a Christmas special.) 1 day since the last time I sang in my kitchen while preparing dinner for my family. (Because some dreams simply matter more.)
13 years since I exchanged vows in a church. 7 years since I’ve seen his face.
3 years since my fiance passed away.
15 years since my first pet died.
12 years since the cancer scare.
18 years since I won an award for a poem I wrote.
19 years since I made it to the Nationals level in a competition for a one-man-play I wrote, produced and performed.
6 years ago since I wrote my first on line piece that got published.
This is me.
This is Time passing.
This is who I am becoming, who I was, who I am, who I shall be….The broken parts and the whole parts, the shadows and the sunshine, the hopes and the parts that relented to reality and gave in. This is my battle and my triumph, my stumbles and my tragedies, my glories and my beauty.
Time does that. Paves out a way on the untrodden path. Carves out a design into solid rock. Whether you stand stubbornly, feet planted in the dirt, arms crossed and refuse to acknowledge it or embrace it freely, arms wide open, free and accepting….it really won’t effect the way time moves. The only thing your attitude can change is how easy this journey is.
So, let it go, let it be. The good, the bad, the wonders, the hurts….whatever will be will be.