Our Precious Tapestry

I have friends who say, “I can’t believe you enjoy scrap-booking. I hate it. You’re a better mom than I am!”

I hate it, too. I mean, what a waste of time. Who is really ever even going to look at them?

I let the pictures build up on my phone, and then on my computer, and then in the back of my closet. The task sort of hangs over me – it is something I am never caught up on – I am always behind – an ever present cloud. I wish sometimes I had never started. There are so many times I have thought of stopping – I mean, all the pictures are on an external hard drive. Isn’t that enough? Won’t Edith treasure the hard drive? Or FaceBook? Or Instagram?

This time, I’d almost convinced myself to stop. Surely 8 years of scrap-booking is enough! But last night I was reading a completely fictional novel, and they told how a police officer could tell this boy had been so loved – there was a scrap book for every year up to when he was 13. I thought, we are not so far from 13. I can do this.

Today I dug out the photographs and the glue, the paper cutter, the colorful papers and the fun wavy scalloped scissors I’ve used for now this my 9^th scrapbook. I cut and I pasted, and my heart went through an intense work out, trying to keep up with my aching shoulder blades.

Just this week Edith’s daddy sent me a video of her playing Rock Band, and I was able to go immediately to 2008 and find pictures of my baby child sitting on her daddy’s lap playing that same game. Later, Edith found the album open and started flipping through it, laughing in delight. “Look, mom! Look how silly I was!” Her face is mashed up against the playpen mesh with her tongue sticking out. It's hilarious. I can still feel now how hard it made us laugh then. I remember the smell of the rain and the comradery. 

I remember that was when I had a new friendship in my life. I remember just a few months later when Tom admitted to me that he was emotionally in love with that friend. The hard, mean look in his eye waiting for me to challenge it - and my cowardice eyes looking away. I can still feel the air being sucked out of my chest.

It's funny to me, the things that no one else can see between all those pages. Things no one but me will ever see, but every time I look, I see them.

I’ve lost friends this year – I was able to go back and open up old scrap books and photo albums and find them twisted inside the pages. I put my fingertips lightly on my now gone friend’s lips, and whisper to him, “There you are. Right there.” And I can hear him through his eyes, laughing back at me from the page, I hum again, “Come Monday.” He leaps out at me from the pages, very much alive. I found another friend and memories I’d all but forgotten – and again, in his eyes, now in this lifetime faded, I saw such joy and laughter. What was once just a random picture is now priceless beyond measure.

Today, I reminisced 2016. I saw my daughter blow out her 8^th birthday candle, with her face painted like a bandit. I saw her baptism again – my pastor and her with their heads bent in serious conversation – I can see the love pouring out of his eyes. I am so grateful for his unswerving devotion in our lives. I can remember things that are not even on the pages – him telling me that day, like a father, that he was concerned about the choices I was making. I can still feel my hurt feelings, but also that beautiful ache of knowing that he was right and that he loved me enough to tell me. And me making those poor choices anyway.

There are pictures at the beach in July. Everyone is laughing – playing poker. Beautiful night pictures of my nephew and my kindred friend and I, walking along the beach in the moonlight. It was a moment in time where I felt like my entire world was crashing down around me – these are the people that stood alongside of me in my darkest hour. My heart ached with rejection and fear of the unknown. I had a panic attack the morning we left. But all those details, you cannot see them – only I can see them.

I flip through the holidays and see so many efforts being made toward reconciliation of broken relationships. I can mourn the friendships, see that efforts were made, and know the relationships are still unmended. I see my niece and nephew, coming alongside me, even when it was not easy. The pictures are full of laughter and joy, but the stitches of the quilt are sometimes sewn in sorrow.

I looked at Halloween pictures – two beautiful girls I thought would be mine, but are not. My heart still swells with love when I see these laughing faces. And I also cry inside, because they cannot be friends anymore. I feel I cost my daughter a friendship. I feel guilty about it. I wish I could unwind time.

Thanksgiving Day, I see pictures of my dad and I shooting at the gun range. I see my father’s hands – I love taking pictures of his hands. In this picture it’s next to a case of shiny brass bullets. It reminds me of another picture I took the year before of his hands when he was helping Edith make her pinewood derby car on the drill press. And that reminds me of when I was seven and his hands brought forth a stuffed Sylvester cat from under the covers on my birthday.

What you don’t see is the person who took the picture – I see the sadness in my eyes in the pictures. We were coming unwoven that day. I can still hear the hurtful words ricocheting in the wind – still feel the pain – the confusion – the realization. Even though I cut him out of most of the pictures, I still see him in almost every single one.

I see my parent’s laughing so hard they are crying. It makes my heart sing. Ironically, on that very same day.

I see more pictures of my niece and my nephew. They are five years apart, like my brother and I. I see the adoration in her eyes - and his. I hope he never breaks her heart. I think if he breaks her heart, I’ll tell him to stop it. He probably wouldn’t listen. I never listen and we are a lot alike. But I do remember.

I see my daughter and my father toasting with whiskey and milk in wine glasses as they work at cracking open geodes. It reminds me of a story from before I can remember of when my middle brother went and got my dad and his friends a beer while they were working, then came out later with his own cup of water and sat with them on their break. Even though that brother is nowhere in this 2016 chapter, he’s still there, ever present even when not present, breathing out of other stories.

I force myself to paste in other pictures that I’d rather throw away, because this book is really not for me – it’s for Edith. I try to put in all the pictures of her family that I can - ALL the pictures of her family that I can. Time is time, the quilt is the quilt, and this is not the end of the story. It will weave into many more stories and times – changes in relationships and emotions.

There are still piles of pictures on the kitchen table, the task is not yet done. My shoulders ache and tears run down my cheeks.

Yeah, I hate it.

Freedom: Getting Off My Own Hook

I have a perception of who I am. Everyone does. I have a perception of how I was originally designed and then a perception of who I would like to become, and I fall somewhere in the middle. I don’t want to be who my original self-perception was.  Sometimes I turn my own selfie camera around and look at who I am, and I’m amazed. I am NOT who I was.

I was shy. I was introverted. I was weak. I was unwilling to stand up or to speak out. I was afraid. I was plain. I was untalented and clumsy and awkward. I was a minion, a follower. A victim. Someone to be trampled over.

Today, I was telling my daughter stories and it all crashed over me in a tsunami effect that my self-perception is completely false. It actually could not be more false.

In sixth grade we switched from tiny private Bible school to public school. It was a very tough transition for me in many ways. I broke my mom’s heart as I sobbed in her arms to send me back to private school, but it was no longer an option. In 7^th grade I joined band because my BFF was God’s Gift to Music and All Other Things I Ever Aspired To Be. I was awful – no rhythm, no talent, no beat - no nothing. All the public school kids had started in 5^th grade and actually had some smidgeon of talent. Even my band directors shook their head and thought I should give it up. I can’t even tell you how it feels to have the director stop mid-song, repeatedly, to let you know you are ruining it, and have everyone start all over.

I could have quit. I should have quit. I had no business there. Every week you had to pass so many “exercises” to get an A, B or C. I was at an F level, but I did double what it took to get an A. My band teacher, Mr. B., was blown away by my tenacity. He would fail me on one, I would come back the next day ready to present four more. He would fail me on three, I was ready the next day with six.

By the time I got to high school, I earned 2^nd and 3^rd chair, out of about 15-20 flutists.

The problem now was, my high school band director, Mr. E., was the biggest jerk on the face of the planet. I knew it, and I was not about to let it slide by. We butted heads for four long years. You think ha, ha, ha that’s cute, they butted heads – but this was on a whole other level. This was not cute! This was the school should have hired an interventionist or attorney, but no one ever did.

He called all the girls “Toots” and refused to call them by name. So during marching band practice, I knew he was yelling at me, but I refused to answer to “Toots” and just kept on doing what I was doing. And he, at the same time, refused to call me by my name. It was a continual destructive dance. I was obstinate, and so was he. I refused to memorize my music, I refused to even carry my flute (I took it apart and put it in my overall pockets), I refused to wear shoes. I refused to stop when he said stop. I refused to go when he said go. And he refused to call me by my name. Neither one of us ever gave in. Ever!

He would see me sitting in my 2^nd or 3^rd chair and say, “You! Move!” And he would knock me down to 6^th or 8^th chair. To move back up, you had to challenge the next person and the next person and the next person, with my old band director (Mr. B. who was now promoted to high school) deciding who won the challenge. I’d creep back up to 2^nd or 3^rd chair and Mr. E would look out and see me and say “You! Toots! Move! 8^th chair!” And I’d do it all over again.

He was huge – 6’8” tall or so. A giant. Bigger than my brothers, even. But I was not afraid. I remember I skipped band for about two weeks straight on purpose because he was so mean to me anyway, and he threw me out of the performance. If you missed the performance, no matter what else, you failed band. So I came anyway, and hid in a bathroom in the gymnasium below the auditorium and jumped in line at the last minute. He tried to grab me before I got on stage but I dodged him (literally, side swiped my torso section). Once I was on stage, what was he to do in front of 200 parents? We performed. I got my A.

At one point we were hanging out in the band room before class, and I made him extremely agitated somehow. He grabbed me by my long blonde hair. There was no side-stepping this time. He bent me over frontwards, and hit me on my back. I don’t remember how, but I am 100% certain I antagonized him. I felt I had it coming, but at the same time, it scared me to death.

In reality I was a child. (That is a huge statement for me).

In reality, I was a child. I was a child. I was a child.

I skipped the next class hour and went down to the gym and hid under the bleachers and cried and cried and cried and wondered what to do. At the end of that hour I went to the principal’s office and told him what happened, and Mr. E. got suspended for 3 days with no pay. I think he got a vasectomy in that time.

Waste not want not!

Mr. E. and I must have landed in the principal’s office at least three times in my high school career, and the principal always supported me. In fact, he openly laughed at my audacity.

I refused to follow Mr. E.’s system. Little 16 year old Ami Feller versus the Best Marching Band Director in the Entire State of Iowa. I ran into him last year in the Dominican Republic and we hugged and acted like best friends. Edith said, why did you hug him? I told her at some point, you just have to let things go. It was 20 years ago. Let the past be the past. She said it seemed like he did, but that I didn’t.

That might be true.

Maybe I never let myself off my own hook. My self-perception of my 11 and 16 year old self are complete crap. I was never weak or complying or worn down. I was willing to face a 6’8” giant twice my age with a title and a position, and I was not afraid. I had my middle finger up to this guy, and I won.

I was really David facing Goliath. And for a very good reason.

Crap Self Perception.

There is no need to be in awe of who I am.

I am who I was always meant to be. And who I always was.

What We Won't Do For A Goat, And Other Matters

So this was the funniest Edith conversation ever, and I probably should not share because my parenting skills will likely get grossly criticized, but it's just too funny, and I can't help myself. So I'm throwing myself under the bus.

Warning: Rated R.

Many of you in my life know that we are reading Genesis at Edith's request. I have never ever considered the Bible to be spicy or naughty, but I swear, it's way better than any Harlequin romance. Ever. Maybe it's exceedingly boring if you read it to yourself - but try reading it to an 8 year old and everything changes.

Also of note is that I answer all of Edith's questions as best I can, in an honest fashion. I want her to see me as THE source of information. She asks a lot of questions - thus, she knows more than your average bear. I have told her if she shares any of this knowledge with any of her friends, her information source will dry up. And amazingly, she's held up her end of the bargain.

Now, back to Genesis. We are somewhere in the middle of the cute story of Joseph and the Coat of Many Colors and his trip to Egypt. There is a chapter referring to his family back home before they move into Joseph's Egyptian adventures. In said chapter I've always blown over, some guy has like 8 or 12 sons. And his first born son marries this chick named Tamar. But the son "did evil in the eyes of the Lord" and God smited him dead. Just like that. Tamar was left a widow, which was not okay in their culture, so the dad goes to his second born and says hey, you are going to have to marry this chick. The second son doesn't want to but he does, and unfortunately he also did evil in the eyes of the Lord. When he lay with her, he purposely spilled his semen on the ground so she would not get pregnant.

Edith: What's semen?

Me: Well..... It's the part of the guy that actually gets the girl pregnant.

Edith: [Silent]

Edith: [Gears turning] 

Me: [I can see it]

Edith: So, it was like a powder back then?

I didn't quite know what to say, I was just trying so hard not to laugh! This child! Back then? As opposed to now? What? A powder?

I stumbled blindly on after mumbling something about liquids and then and now. 

God smited Son Number Two dead too (I know, you're shocked).

So wise old dad sees a trend happening. Instead of marrying her to the third son, he puts Tamar away in some little town, and tells her when the third son comes of age he'll make things right. But he doesn't, and Tamar knows she's been put aside. The dad goes to her little town on a business trip, and Tamar dresses herself up as a prostitute and sits outside of the temple.

Edith: A prostitute is someone who sells sex, right, Mom?

Me: Yes. You are very smart. Now shush.

(She knows this from Les Miserables. Second parent fail).

So the dad falls for the prostitute trick. But he can't pay her because he forgot his wallet or something lame like that. He tells her that he will pay her with a goat (equally lame, in my opinion), but he does not have the goat, and asks her what she would like as collateral. She opts for his insignia ring and staff and he gives it to her. When he gets back home, true to his word, he sends one of his servants back to the town with the goat. The servant looks and looks but can't find the Temple Prostitute. He asks around and the townspeople all say, What Temple Prostitute? We ain't got no Temple Prostitute! So he goes back home with the goat and it's a mystery.

Well, luck of the draw, Tamar got pregnant. When the babies are born (twins, don't you know), the people want to have her killed for being a prostitute. But tricky girl, she holds up the ring and the staff, and says, look what he did to me. He sees how wrong he was and what he made her resort to, and he marries her.

Kind of gross if you ask me. And Edith totally agrees.

Card Carrying Hypocrite

In the past 30 days I’ve had three separate people throw my Christianity in my face, one multiple times. What do I mean by throw it in my face? Kind of like saying you did this and this and this or you will do this and this followed up by, “And you call yourself a Christian!” All three of my accusers also identify as Christians, I think. It wasn’t those exact words or anything, but definitely along those lines. It bothers me, and I can’t fully put my finger on why, so you know me, it’s been rolling around in my noggin when I have spare time to stew about things.

This morning, on my second trip to church (I accidentally went an hour early on my first trip), I was carrying coffee from the lobby to our Sunday school class, and my noggin was going. I got to thinking how many people say they don’t go to church because it’s full of hypocrites. I’ve always thought that was a just an easy rather lame way out of going – many people who say that have never even really tried church, so it’s a second hand excuse that sounds good more often than not.

But today I realized that if people believe that being a Christian means you’re morally perfect, then yes, church would be full of hypocrites. In fact, it would be 100% full of hypocrites, if perfection was the measuring stick. I profess that I am a Christian – when I say that what I mean is I believe Jesus Christ died on the cross for my sins and rose again and ascended into heaven. I put my faith in Him for my eternal life.

It does not mean I think I’m better than anyone else – it does not mean I’m morally superior to anyone else on the planet.

It does means I admit I am a sinner. Still. Today. I am a sinner. I am by no means perfect.

Just ask my pastor, he’ll tell you I curse like a sailor. Sometimes I think I should lay off of it, but then out flies another one almost in the next breath. And sometimes it makes me giggle. I drink – and sometimes I get drunk. I am also a single woman: I crave companionship – my biggest prayer to God is for a mate, but as of yet, He has not brought it. Do you know what that means? It means I’m lonely and I’m 41 years old, and my hormones are screaming bloody murder. I have lust for the flesh, and sometimes that causes me to make poor choices. I make mistakes. Know what else? Every time one of my friends posts a picture of their brand new squishy baby on Facebook, I burn with envy and jealousy. It feels like my soul is being ripped apart. I sweetly type something nice and congratulatory, but inside I’m dying. I suffer from depression – I don’t always lay all my cares on Him; I carry them around in this big suitcase I have. I lose my temper sometimes, and I say things I wish I had not said. I harbor malice and hate toward others sometimes, and Jesus said that that’s the same as murder.

Yes, I go to church – it’s my favorite place to be – surrounded by others who are seeking God’s grace. And I pray. And I praise the God I try so hard to serve. I trust in His love and His grace. I trust that His grace is sufficient for me. Does that make me a hypocrite? If it does, I’m guilty as charged. Give me my hypocrite card, please.

Sacred Ground

Today has left me feeling amazing and overwhelmed and grateful and humble all in one great big stroke of genius somehow. I have hesitated to put words to it, because it seems bigger than what words can convey. But I have to try. Because I'm a words person - and the words help me process.

Edith got baptized today. She's had the desire to be baptized for about a year, so it's been a bit in coming. Generally in our church the dad's do the baptizing because they are the spiritual head of the family, but in our case, I am. So about a year ago I asked our pastor if that meant I could baptize her - I fully expected a "no." I told him I'd acquiesce to him if it was not okay. He said he saw no issue with it, but he'd have to run it up the totem pole - and a few months later the verdict came back down: it was a go. My heart soared.

I've had moments since then where I wonder if I'm worthy of the honor- sometimes I feel like I have a huge amount of flex in my spiritual walk. But for the most part, we've both been looking forward to it. We had to skip over the June baptism because she was up in Iowa visiting family (trust me, I strongly considered canceling the trip but decided Corn Country is also good for her soul).

Finally the day came - complete with the pre-service meeting about what was going to happen. And then in the middle of the meeting we got the word that the City closed the river due to all the rain. Baptism postponed. We were both pretty disappointed.

The river flooding wasn't the only hitch in the giddy up - in fact if was probably fairly minor in the grand scheme of things. There's been some intense family differences of opinion going on. Also her best friend's father and I have had a huge disagreement. All this was hanging in the air weeks before - who would come and who would not come? With the closing of the river, everything that was already stressful hovered and lingered. I know a baptism is not all about who comes and who doesn't come, so it would have been amazing no matter what. I get that.

She's old enough - she gets it, too - she understands what broken relationships are. It hurts her heart, but she gets it, even though she didn't cause it or want it.

So today when her Papa and Granny, her Daddy and her Ashley, Ashley's mom her Omi, her Queen Stacie and her Uncle Scott, her three nieces with their own three stories, her best friend and her dad, and her godmother who had been at the coast for her own birthday all managed to make it to her baptism, she got it. She saw it. She recognized it.

The pastor asked, "Before we get to the baptism, did anyone want to say anything else?" Edith raised her little 8 year old hand. I sucked in my breath and held it - oh, dear sweet God, what was she going to say?

She simply said, "I just wanted to thank everyone in my family for coming to my baptism. It really means a lot to me." Most people in the audience probably thought that was just so sweet and standard and maybe even trite, but I knew the truth behind it. She was grateful for reconciliation - for people loving her in the face of adversity - loving her despite divorce, break ups, bitter arguments, and business problems. She was grateful for people laying themselves down. While no one broke bread together, she recognized that she had a real live miracle in front of her - for her.

It made her heart full.

When we got in the water she was nervous and I told her to just forget about all those people and relax. And she did. Baptizing that sweet child was about the most amazing moment I have ever had - it was humbling. I cannot explain it - it was like nothing else existed except us and Them. Time held still - sacred is my very best word.

All of that that happened today was on sacred ground.

I'm just super glad we were both barefooted!

Human Crossroads

I’ve often struggled with faith in

The Creator of All Space and Time

But here, today,

               I find myself more struggling with faith in

               His most precious creation – Mankind

Maybe my heart is somehow defunct

Maybe I seek my own worth through

               Other’s validation

Maybe I’m needy or lonely

Maybe I’m just a Broken Creation

Maybe I’m mis-focused or say the wrong things

Maybe I try just way too hard to be seen

Maybe I come across as entirely too tough

Maybe I’m too honest or too kind

or then again, maybe I’m not kind enough

                              [I don’t know]

I do know that I’m disappointed

I see that through love and kindness and grace

               We could all of us be absolutely amazing

We could show this world His Amazing Face.

I’m not talking about buying an overpriced $6 caramel latte for the next affluent stranger in line

I’m talking about making a difference, an impact,

               I’m talking about loving to the point of Divine.

But instead we choose ridiculous choices

               We choose to be hateful and full of spite

               We choose to not see the other side of a story

               We choose to not extend grace, we’d rather be right.

               And we choose not to accept grace when it is extended

               Because it would grossly alter our pride.

               We choose not to enrich our relationships

We choose to walk away and set them aside

rather than engage in a Very Worthy Battle

In the past 168 hours,

I’ll admit my world has been thoroughly rattled.

I don’t understand why we choose our choices we choose

But I see that in the end, I do see we lose.

We choose brokenness

               Time after time after time.

               And then we go

   And we choose it AGAIN.

I can’t even exclude myself from my own rhyme.

In my life there have been moments I came to a crossroads

Where I realized I’d been burned, betrayed and despised -

I had to choose right then between giving or stopping.

I could see (to my surprise) that my demise might well be the Great Booby Prize.

I had to choose between trusting and believing,

Or being suspicious, selfish and self-serving.

I have always chosen to be naïve.

I’ve always chosen to decide to believe that it must be worth the effort,

But oh, Lord, right now I could use a reprieve.

A Brief Visit with My 21 Year Old Self

I have an admission to make. My mind drifts during church. Badly. So yesterday during Sunday school, my brain is just boinging along, as it generally does, interweaving occasionally with the lesson and then boinging about again. And a tendril wrapped around something I wrote just almost exactly 20 years ago. Today I went diving in the Grand Disorganization of All My Writings I’ve Ever Written (Almost) Pile and came up triumphantly holding the old beat up purple spiral I journaled in when my marriage fell apart way back then. Yes, gasp away, I've been married twice.

I’m going to publish what I wrote. Apparently, I had a special place in my heart for the F word back then, so I apologize in advance. I probably still have a special place in my heart for the F word, now that I think about it. It’s just a more secret, private place now than it used to be. My 21 year old self didn’t care - about that, anyway. She had plenty of other things to worry about at the time.

I will also warn you, it was a very dark time in my life. I found myself doing something I swore I would never EVER do – getting divorced - and I hated myself for doing it. I wanted to die at the time. I had even tried to, unsuccessfully (obviously). I was cutting myself. Burning myself. I was questioning what had always been my core belief system, and I was in the process of rejecting it. But in this exact moment in time, I captured myself deciding to stand up and fight instead of letting it crush me. I can’t help but picture the first time I watched Edith pull herself up into the standing position on the living room window sill. It was a moment of triumph in the middle of a very dark world.

So I will share, and maybe later, I’ll tell you more of why I was thinking about this. And maybe I won’t.

June 28, 1996

I exist

               “and why” i ask

               as i hold a knife down to my arm

i watch the blood flow to the floor –

               i don’t know why i do this anymore

i rinse myself in the dirty sink

               And curse

                              And cry

                                             And sink onto my knees

“Pray, God, let me go

               i can’t do this anymore”

And i can’t do this anymore.

WAIT. Have I become a victim of this life? If I am, it was my CHOICE. Who is in control of how I feel? Am I not? And if I’m not, then I have lost, or at least am losing, this game. I don’t have to sink – I don’t have to let Her (Fate) have her way. What’s been in my mind? Why have I allowed myself to sink this far? I am in control. *I* left. I made that decision, for I didn’t know what else to do. Desperacy – you can’t repent of that. I left. I left. I left. And that’s all there is to it – if I was wrong, I’ve repented. Why do I insist on torturing myself when I’ve already been through hell? Was that not enough? It’s been ENOUGH. I now must turn to analyze my heart and soul – that’s all I can do. That’s all that’s left. Matthew was right – come to understand my actions and my feelings. But I needn’t purposely punish myself for these things I don’t understand – I must learn what they are and try to hold them in my hands. I am in control. If it hurts, let it hurt – I shouldn’t try to ignore it or intensify it. Just let it hurt – can I allow myself to do that? Not to tamper with natural feelings? So honestly, how do I feel without any lies?

I feel angry. I feel guilty. I feel repentant. I feel free. I feel lonely. I feel confused. I feel sad. I feel ugly (inside). I feel stupid (for my arm). I’ve felt pitiful. I feel distracted. I feel frustrated at times. I feel awake. NO more beer. No more knives. No more blind nights.

And it’s okay to feel these things. It is all right. BUT it is okay to feel happy, too, sometimes. It is okay to fly and it’s okay to crash. These things are part of Life’s recipe. If you leave them out – well, then, where’s the spice? Life will fall flat in the oven.

Wake up, Ami. Fucking wake up. I will not play the victim. I’ve made choices – I’ve walked down paths. And here I stand as I am and I cannot regret that. HERE I AM – THIS IS ME – FUCK YOU ALL – I AM ME. I won’t apologize anymore for who I am. I stand alone in my own right – maybe that’s what I lost in marriage. I leaned too far and forgot how to stand up. You shouldn’t do that – you should grow tall together.

I stand alone and feel the wind blow through my hair. I hug my arms about myself and close my eyes. I feel beautiful and strong. I am going to the top of the mountain, where the wind blows the hardest and where I am the highest. That is my right – that is my desire – that is my choice.

To live, and to live better for my experiences. To live above them – to know all about them – not to let them sit as a strange dark mass that crushes my being. I am alive. And free. And there is NOTHING wrong with that – there is no need to feel guilty for that

I’m done apologizing for who I am – to Mike, to my friends, to myself, even to my family. There’s no need to – no one wants to hear it. No one else is sorry that I’m me. Well, at least no one who matters. They all chose me – chose to love me – it’s not an obligation. And love me for all of me – they have to – it’s not just my ambition, or my jokes, or certainly not my money. People aren’t as stupid as I think. They sense me – my heart and soul. They enjoy me and if they don’t, OH WELL, others will. I will. I will enjoy myself. I can do that – I can despite everything. I know myself best and there is plenty to love.

So……

HERE I STAND.

i exist in my own right.

i need no one else to make me feel

strong, adequate, beautiful, happy or alive.

i can feel these things alone, within myself.

I thought Mike could make me feel these things and that I could make him feel these things. But we should have felt these things on our own and then shared them with each other.

***

Editor’s note: I didn’t capitalize the word “I” back then, and I feel like I should make all the “I’s” into “i’s” for the sake of posterity, but the struggle with autocorrect is very real and is far greater than my current abilities or desire. And yes, I have indeed heard of search and replace functions. Thank you.

Not sure I necessarily agree with all of that anymore, but it’s rich to think about, now, isn’t it?