Maybe not forever, but even so...

I decided to take part in Five Minute Friday this morning. The theme is on Friends.

START. 

Every summer camp camp fire ended in the same sweet and lulling song, Friends are friends forever... 

But they aren't. 

Despite the pledges and lifelong plans made at the age of sixteen. 

Despite the thousands of notes signed BFF. 

Despite the shared heart necklaces. 

And it's a little sad. 

It is sad, to me, that something as natural as friendship- something we NEED even- has to be so hard. And as we get older, things don't seem to get any easier. 

Few of us have good, true friends. Those of us who do could literally count those friends on one hand. 

I am fortunate enough to be one of those people. Someone with a handful of good friends. Ironically they aren't really friends with each other. We don't travel together, in a pack. There are no weekend retreats, the lot of us. We, the handful of us, are spread out across the country. 

Sometimes I want to feel sorry for myself about this. 

Sometimes I actually do. 

But the truth is, I am so lucky to have them. 

My life is better and far more meaningful. My sadnesses are far less dark and ugly. 

And I suspect that i too am better because of them. 

Friends may not be friends forever. Some friendships may time out or expire but it's the having the true, authentic love of a good friend at all that matters anyhow.

END.

if it isn't one thing...

Ugh! 

Seriously... I just want to scream. 

I know, I know... I come back from this month long blog challenge and my first post is this. I know. I'm sorry. I just, I have no idea what to do. 

When the idea of homeschooling literally fell into my lap, it was two fold in reasons. 1.} Genny seemed to absorb more from the worst influences possible and execute her newfound abilities onto anyone in her way. things got ugly. 2.} The public school system here was admittedly lacking and it was not a good fit for her. We were already on the waiting list for her current school and so homeschooling until they called seemed like a good answer. 

It just so happened that would be almost four years. And eventually, despite my reluctance, we came to such an amazing place homeschooling wise. Through lots of bumps and bruises we found a rhythm that worked for us- and we ALL thrived. But, like most homeschool moms, as Genny approached middle school I began to question if I could do it. Was I enough? And then, magically, her name was drawn from the waiting list and the problems were solved. 

Except they aren't... 

School, day one found Genny worried about whether or not kids would like her. I know it's dumb, but lots of 12 year olds wear make-up (I'm not for that, personally) and I compromised that it might help her feel better about herself SO we allowed colored lip gloss and eye shadow. She was abundantly grateful. 

In a months time she has had detention, been caught in hundreds of lies (both at school and home), has been in multiple fights, has been responsible for the injury of a child, has gotten multiple F's due to refusing to do an assignment... She has decided that shit is an appropriate word to be integrated into her vocabulary and that f*ck should be considered as well. She has gotten a boyfriend, lost a boyfriend, gotten another boyfriend and come home to tell us of a 13 year old student who is pregnant. Today we find out she is wearing thick make up at school and washing it off before she's picked up. 

Maybe it's just that it's like going from 0-60 in a micro second, but I just fear the path ahead. If she were 15 I'd feel like some of this is age appropriate, but she isn't. She is 12. An emotionally immature 12, at that. When we talked to her tonight she made it clear that she will do what she wants, when she wants, and we can't do anything about it. 

I am so at a loss. 

It all comes down to trust. Whenever she isn't supervised she will do whatever the other kids are doing. {did I mention the girl who is pregnant?} She lacks good judgement. She wants to impress the other kids. 

I have no idea where to go from here- what to do. 

I seem to have misplace my parenting manual... 

Help?!?!?!? 

Full circle...

We used to share everything. 

Every joyful moment, every fear. 

I am sad that it isn't always like that. I am sad that it can't be...

But... 

I can't tell you things, like I used to. 

I can not allow myself to open up and reveal to you because you are pretty much not there to listen. At the same token, I feel less and less available to you, too. 

More and more i hear the same contrived apologies and excuses. 

More and more i hear empty promises about moving on from here. 

but really, more and more only the same old thing occurs. 

I never imagined that it would be like this, between us. 

i never thought our circle would come to a close and stop, I always imagined us journeying together forever. 

and in ways, I am sure we will. 

Our lives are interwoven. 

But for quite awhile now you are all about you, and that is something that simply hasn't gotten any easier to face. I don't exist beyond your needs. 

And when I really, truly need you- you vanish. 

Over the past few months I have really, truly needed you and you have been absent. 

To tell the truth, I am beyond hurt. 

We've had this talk before. 

I won't say it all again. 

I am sad. 

The constant rejection though, it isn't really worth it. I'd rather just not have you, than have the empty promise of you. 

I wish we could rewind and go back to when I could tell you everything, but let's face it- you wouldn't even hear me tell you this... 

"bad" books, and why we need them...

Dear V.C. Andrews/Andrew Neiderman, 

Oh... But once a girl, was I, who cringed at the idea of reading a book for fun. Then, one day, a well intentioned adult decided to share one of your novels with me. 

I was ten... 

While, at thirty five, I still fancy myself an occasional "easy read" of one of your stories- I am sure most would agree that ten was a bit young.

That being said, I am glad she shared them... 

Reflectively I have to admit that this very deed, of opening my eyes to the world of such books may have been the key thing that saved my life. Before V.C. Andrews books, (most of which is ghost written by Andrew Neiderman) it had never occurred to me that step fathers should not have sex, french kiss, or other similar things with their step children. This was my life, it was simply something that happened. I hated it, it terrified me, but what could I do about it? As far as I knew, every family's closed doors hid this truth. I had no idea that adults could be complicated, and their odd actions could come off as jealous or abusive because they were simply hurting humans who had no idea how to deal. Before I dove into the your fictional world, I had no idea that there was anything good inside of me or that I could simply change my life and/or circumstances and yield completely different and safe results... 

During the time, in my life, when these dawnings and realizations were rising in me- Heaven Casteel was my best friend. I lost myself in a series of books in such a way that I finally understood the possibility of seeing books as an escape. They were my escape. 

My lifeline... 

In more ways than one, your books changed my life. (another way being that i now adore books and love to read.) Once, many years ago, I was asked "why does such trash have to be written?" 

I did take it a little personal... 

When people stop making stupid decisions, like abusing or molesting their children- and when parents stop projecting their bitterness and disappointment on their growing children, therefore stunting them- maybe the world can settle down and read books about sunshine, sugar and poetry. In the meantime, i wish that people would stop insulting the possibility that someone might need a tragically twisted story about a young girl. 

God knows that I did... 

It happened in Vegas...

Dear Airport girl, 

What has it been, nineteen years, almost? Wow, time really passes. There you were, all sophisticated in your ripe old age of nineteen- and there I was, in my completely naive sixteen years of life. We met in Vegas, I believe. It seems like we had already been there for close to a day though. 

That stupid snow storm kept us grounded forever. 

Not to mention the incredibly affordable airline, which really only sucked incredibly... 

I don't think that I thank you, then, for hanging out with me for those three days stranded between Vegas and Salt Lake. As two total strangers, from completely different lives, we had some really great talks and a lot of laughs. It was sort of like one long, unpredictable sleepover. 

Come to think of it, it would have made a great John Hughes film... 

Anyway, this letter was supposed to be to someone I only knew for one day, and technically speaking I guess I knew you for two or three, but it doesn't matter. Nearly two decades later I still think about it, even though most of the details of disappeared, and think of it (and you) fondly. 

Thanks for the mini-friendship, your kindness, and for the adventure... 

pinky swear...

Dear husband, 

thanks for supporting me. 

thanks for being married to me, even though I'm a writer. I know it sucks to have a wife who "works" so hard, with the goal of SOMEDAY contributing more than pennies to our income. You are patient and you balance our lives as though your wife works full time- without much benefit. 

You believe in me. 

I love you... 

I meant my pinky promise... 

Things won't always look like this, and when they look better than this- we'll look back and see how worth it was. 

I love you, and i love now. i don't want to miss this part of the journey either... 

At a loss...

My dear friend, 

You are so beautiful and gracefilled... 

This pain, this loss that you are going through brakes my heart. I know this loss and I know how it has a way of staying with us, always. We heal some, it's true- but this wound scars and we never forget. 

That ache does not really go away. 

I love you and i HATE that you have to walk this path. 

a favorite memory...

Dear Ms. Thompson, 

I know some may view it as a little sad that one of my all time favorite movies involves a celebrity whom I don't really know, and not one single friend or family member. I feel like I should apologize for that, but not really... I have millions of frozen moments with them, but this moment (hour) with you is completely set apart. 

First and foremost, please allow me to say that I think you are amazing. 

When I met you, back in January of 2006, I was still still fairly moon eyed over the whole celebrity interview thing. It had been a horrible trip out to LA though, and I was emotionally exhausted and at a loss in pretty much every area. I had sat down to interview Colin first and all composure, no matter how hard I'd tried to maintain it, had flown right out the window when he walked in the room. I mean, and please excuse the side note for a moment but what girl wouldn't grow a little faint and speechless when Colin Firth walks in to a room to talk to you, and it occurs to you that you are actually sitting in the Regent Beverly Wiltshire- ala' Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman. (though of course you are not a prostitute!) First you are sipping coffee, ranting about LAX security and how the Beverly Hills police department deals with things, when suddenly he walks in- tremendously taller that expected and clad in tremendously expensive jeans, a leather jacket that smelled of heaven... I mean, it was all a tad on the surreal and overwhelming side, you have to admit. Well maybe you wouldn't, which reminds me- how do you do it? 

Anyway, moving back towards the point of this letter: you... 

By the time you sauntered in to the interview, I was done for. Tired, stressed, and greatly thrown off my game. Truthfully, I was ready to simply call a cab and go nurse my impending migraine in a stiff chair at the airport, waiting for my flight. 

And you, Emma, were exactly what I needed. Over the years I've met several people of celebrity status and I have never met anyone like you. You are easily one of the most comfortable people, celebrity or not, that I've been around. Twenty minutes into our interview, (where you chose to sit on the floor, mind you) I felt like I had known you forever. The passion for your work, combined with the way you spoke of motherhood and your family inspired me in countless ways that I can not even put into words... Thank you for that. Thank you for taking a moment that was the polar opposite of great and comfortable- and making it my absolute favorite memory... 

I hope, someday, to get the opportunity again. If not, though, I am happy to have had the beautiful brunch and talk that we did... 

Goodnight...

Chw, 

There is something so healing about kissing you good night. No matter what the day proceeding the kiss has held, everything- in that moment- is as is it should be. 

Thank you for that. For being part compass, part anchor and yet flexibly loving me in the way in which you're willing to raise port and sail in whichever direction the wind dreams to take us. 

I love you... 

Here's your extra chance, and a garbage bin...

I try and try, offering you undeserved faith and second chances. 

third chances...

fourth chances...

ten million chances... 

why it matters to me, I don't know. some form of self torture perhaps. 

i say, repetitively, I'm done- yet i am not and we both know it... 

to the moon and the stars...

Dearest Genny,

   My first impression of you is tiny red nose and palms flat against glass. Your nutmeg hair in pig tales, your big saucer blue eyes full of emotions I didn't even have the courage to name...

   Your first words to me asked if I was your new mommy... I loved you. I wanted to hold you and reassure you. I wanted to not touch you and prove I would not push you into loving me. I wanted to take you home and keep you safe from the world which had hurt you...
I wanted to turn around and leave.
You scared me...
You were so small and full of life. Just below your surface there was an entitled rage that only confronted my internal knowledge that I was not the woman for this job. I knew I did not have what it would take, to be your new mommy.
You only mommy.
Forever.
I couldn't do it.
I couldn't not do it.

  Later, as you played on the indoor playground, and you giggled- you challenged me. There, in your wildflower eyes you dared me to stick around. You dared me to love you, no matter what.
You broke my heart, right then and there.
A four year old baby should never know those sorts of sadnesses...

  Even later yet, while putting your few clothes into your new dresser, you followed behind me re-packing your things. When I asked why you would do that you said "it's too hard to pack when this family is over and I have to move." When the clothes managed to stay in the dresser and your ugly suitcase was moved to storage, you cried. True, fat, salty tears tainted every ache that had lingered in your girlhood eyes, unspoken.
Only hours had passed, since we had met you and yet I felt as though lifetimes had mounted upon my shoulders and nestled in.
I knew that, whether I was up to it or not I had to be your mommy.
My heart begged, in a stabbingly violent and  secure way to be your mommy.
For the first time ever, I held you in my arms. Your chubby hands were hitting, and reaching with all your arms could give, behind me- PLEASE, PLEASE," your tiny voice wailed, throat already swollen and ragging from crying, "I need my suitcase, please let me have my suitcase. PLEASE, i have to have it for when I get a new mommy and daddy."

Do you remember what I told you, as you glared up at me?
Sweet, beautiful girl, five years from now you will look back and remember this moment and you will know that I told you the truth when I say we are the last mommy and daddy you will ever have. No more families. This is yours, and you belong here, forever.

Today is eight years, exactly, since my promise. Sure, I have been frustrated- but I've never wished that wasn't true.

I love you, baby girl. Happy family anniversary! I love you to the moon and stars and then a whole lot further... 

to you, who broke my heart...

Dear Uterus, 

You sucked. Seriously... 

You were given how many jobs? Menstrual cycle, babies... Isn't that kind of it? 

I mean, i completely get messing up sometimes. What's a missed period here, or some extra troublesome cramps there? I totally could have worked with that... None of us are perfect... 

But what you did to me, for no reason, goes beyond the bounds of uterine decency. 

Were you special needs? Were you born sociopathic? I just don't get what I ever did to deserve your incessant bullying. I did the math once and in the 11 years where our job was to work together- you failed me 132 times. That is ONE HUNDRED and THIRTY TWO TIMES... So, in a nutshell: EVERY FREAKING MONTH. And you couldn't regularly screw up either.

No. 

I mean, what did you do? Were you Sybil of the organ world? Multiple personalities galore? One month you would become "skip a cycle, but here have hellishly bed-riddening cramps", and then three months later be "here's your period!" (ala's JN from The Shining) 

And while we're on the subject- about those "periods"... yeah. You knew you weren't God, right? Sending down a rush of blood in the way Noah dealt with rain was a little unrealistic. 

I could have forgiven you for the completely uncalulatable, a bazillin-knives-in-the-gut cramped out, and completely embarrassing trail-of-blood memories but it was the next part that you took to far. 

One miscarriage, as heartbroken as I felt, would have been bearable. Even the doctors assured me that was normal. But why the second, with the perfect baby-boy ultra sound and the joyful husband met by crushing blows of suffocation and heartache? Why the third, fourth or fifth/sixth for that matter? Why take me (us, really) through all of that only to accept our fertility drugs and feign three months of pregnancy only to psych us with what was actually a nerf football sized tumor... 

Enough was never enough with you. You took and took, literally... Blood, babies, life, tears and then you tried to go for the kill and take my heart too. 

Your last deal- pre-cancerous cells... 

With your poker face you dared me to make a move. 

I saw your puny cancer threat and raised you a hysterectomy, bitch... 

Take that... 

Someone that pesters your mind - good or bad

While some people are pretty lucky to have an inner devil/inner angel to tease their conscience about every day decisions like what to say, what not to say, etc. I've known since you hit the late night talk show interview circuit and started appearing in films that I was more lucky though- because i had my very own Adam Brody living in my head. 

No, I am not crazy. 

Just sarcastic. 

And funny. 

And love great indie music, but I digress... 

I was late to learn of Seth Cohen, your other self who might just be more like you than not... 

And it confirmed it. 

You live in my head. You weigh in, sarcastically, on every thought or decision... 

Thanks for that, because to tell you the truth- you make life pretty freaking awesome. 

And hilarious... 

To the girl i wish i could be...

to the girl who never lets fear get in her way. 

to the girl who bows down to nothing, never folding on her integrity or confidence- this letter is to you. To the callused finger tips, so fluent in cello that sometimes words feel like a foreign language on your tongue. To the book deal where money truly is irrelevant because this dream was never about the dollar sign as much as it was about the love and the passion, the drive to write words that could touch people. 

to the words written that will touch people... 

to the never burning dinner, patient and loving wife who incidentally also ribbons in as mom-of-the-year- this letter is yours. 

You knit your own glorious caps and sweaters, you roam about town in designer boots and jeans. Your handbags scream stylish bits about your personality. Every friend you know is a tried and true one. 

You never argue with your husband. 

You never yell at your kids. 

You pay your bills on time. 

You have a house keeper. 

You love people, every day. Your love, of people and for God, seeps from every project you take on. 

You live wrinkle and grey hair free, in my dreams. 

You are a much smaller, happier size with perkier places with an even tempered peace and reassurance about you. 

When you smile, there is no nagging "but..." behind those eyes. Authentic, genuine happiness is your way. 

You are the standard I wake up to, every morning... the screamer of the short comings I add up to, ever night. 

You aren't real, which makes the daily quest an impossibility... 

But oh, I wish I were you...

Someone from your childhood...

This letter is for a J name that I can actually stand behind, because J, you know how much I love... 

In fact, I don't even know what to say to you, there is just so much. 

You, you are excitement... 

You are adventure... Glamour and glitter, fashion and fame. 

You, my dear, are truly, truly, truly outrageous.

Thanks for being the rockin'est element of my youthful years...

Joy...

I am taking part in this weeks Five Minute friday, even though I wasn't planning on it due to the letters. Reading  Gypsy Mama's post this morning really tugged at my heart strings... 

So here goes... 

Start. 

The giggle of a toe headed, ringlet crowned girl reminds me of something I often ignore. It isn't ever that i forget because I am way too smart for that. 

No, i grab hold of a reason to feel another thing- be it resentment or sadness, self pity or exhaustion, and I simply pretend like joy isn't mine to have. 

Joy. 

Joy during the dark storm clouds. During the fat droplets of umbrella-less rain. 

Joy when sleep stubbornly refuses to come my way. 

Joy when my pot boils over, because is it not a blessing to have the bubbling water, source of cooking and pasta anyhow? 

It's so easy to think of. Easy to convict myself of all of the reasons to find joy in every second of every moment, in every moment of every day. Easy. 

And yet. 

Yet, i flee from it for something more comfortable- something ugly. 

Something I believe to be more me. 

Seeing truth in this joylessness, seeing the honesty in my reason might not be enough to remember to grasp for the option less chosen. But it also might be the motivation I need. 

Today. Now. At 8:20 in the morning I've embraced joy and I'm not letting go... 

End. 

i blame germany...

I miss you. 

A lot. 

I miss the way you laugh, and the talks we have. I miss the life that you bring home, just when you walk through the door. 

I miss that good, secure, mom feeling when the door is locked and night and I know that you are there, under our roof, sleeping. 

I miss you being big-brother-mean to Genny. 

I miss goodnight hugs. See you later hugs. 

I miss movie chats, and watching them. 

Chw misses you too. Projects and dreaming of projects... 

I miss that too... 

I miss how happy we all are when you are here, because we feel more whole. Complete. 

The basketball hoop misses you. 

It gets, pretty much ignored, when you aren't here. 

Against our knowledge a rather large family of wasps moved into it, over the summer. I suspect they are illegals. I am allergic, you know. The last time I was stung, i was hospitalized. It was ugly. I was stung by a German hornet. Now suddenly we have a family of illegals living in our hoop. Germans? Maybe... Anything is possible. 

Germany, and eventually somewhere much uglier, hotter and more dangerous, is way too far away. I know it's not your fault, and I know you'd come home today if you could. I also feel it's only fair to warn you that I'm not kidding at all when I say that once you come home- you won't leave. i won't let you. i know I've said it before, but this experience has taught me that drastic measures are needed... 

At any rate, if I ever get all emotional on skype and try telling you about the wasps and how much they make me think of you- now you'll know what I mean. 

They only serve to remind me of this blindingly horrible thing that i couldn't forget even if I wanted to... 

I miss you. 

A lot. 

You should totally see her, she's a doll...

No wonder I always fail themed blog months. Apparently I have a very short attention span... While it's been a cathartic journey/experience- I need a break. 

anyway, I had to interrupt the letters to let you know a few things... 

Like the fact that I am still sick. It is ridiculous, actually. Like, REALLY ridiculous. I am feeling better, (as of yesterday) which helps. Especially since I managed to find enough energy to go to the orchard and purchase a load of canning tomatoes, apples and peaches. My problem has been that every night when I would sip my codeine laced cough syrup- i would tell myself that tomorrow would be the day when i was better. 

I have been sick for 15 days, ya'll. Really, really sick. 

anyway, facing the overwhelming reality of piles of produce- i had no choice. 

So, I dried apples, (seemed easier), canned tomatoes and canned peaches and peach butter... 

I feel accomplished. 

and exhausted. 

But I digress... 

We got a dog. that's really the most important thing. A puppy, actually. A real, life, puppy. It's only been three weeks since we had to put Makaila down, and while we miss her and were certain we'd have months in between her passing and a puppy commitment- things changed. 

Mostly Paisley. Every day, since Makaila has been gone, she's grown more and more depressed. Nothing we could do would shake her funk. Then, we stumbled upon someone needing to get rid of puppies and they were a breed we could handle. All in all, the timing and everything aligned so we took the plunge. 

Or rather, Chw did. 

Makaila was his dog, and he made it clear a puppy was a FAR OFF possibility- if a possibility at all. 

But he met and fell head over heals in love with Emma. 

He adores her. 

And that makes me happy... 

We all love her, the little stinker- except Paisley. Go figure. It's actually pretty annoying. 

Without further ado- meet Emma... 

{yes, she dumps her food out and carries the dish... stinker. And look at her sweet pink dotted nose. LOVE}

Who I miss the most...

i thought long and hard, on this. I miss so many people. People gone, people still living; long distance family members and friends... long since distanced friendships... But who did I miss the most?

There has only ever been one person who I would instantly need to call when the world fell apart. Only one person who held my number 1 place on speed dial when parenting issues arose, health issues scared me or life drama burned itself into me.

As if there were any question who I missed the most. Of course it's you... Within in the library of my brain there are more volumes stored complete with memories, moments and hearty conversations with you than any other. Like the bell of a cathedral, your laugh still rings through my thoughts every day. I am unable to see such things as sunflowers, butterflies or tiny framed mothers without a pierce through my soul.

I miss you most, when I don't feel well.
I miss you most when motherhood moments leave me scared, frustrated or confused.
I miss you most when my husband and I argue.
I miss you most when I need a recipe.
Or any form of advice.
Or any conversation at all.
I miss you the most...

I am constantly criticized for my dislike of talking on the phone and I just realized- the day you died, I hated to pick up the line.

I love you, Mom.

set a drift...

I miss you... 

The resurfacing of you brought a lot of relief and love to the forefront. The tragic loss of a friendship lost because damaged people, (and we both fit the bill there) have a really difficult time in healthy relationships. 

You were my BEST friend. 

The only person with whom I could lay a secret, fear or dream to rest and know that it was safe. 

When damaged personas (ours) reared their ugly heads and an ocean of garbage was suddenly between us, I broke in half. Half of me drifted off, elsewhere. 

As melodramatically as I can muster- it killed the me I could have been.

Would have been.

Should have been. 

When suddenly, a lifetime later and you were back in my life- i felt whole again. 

It was just a moment, reunited, but in that moment I learned a lot. 

As crappy as everything since then has been, i would do it again and again and again if I was able to know that you were ok. 

And happy... 

In an alternate world somewhere, our kids are friends and our families are close. like sitcom families always seem to be... In this world, we had our moments and i am grateful for them. 

I miss you. 

But we can not go back... 

a twenty year old lie...

I am not sure if this letter, which none of you will ever see, is intended for you, your sister or your mother... 

I am stupid. I was stupid. 

I don't know what happened. honestly I don't. 

Words were said, images were painted and circumstances were manipulated. I can say, wholeheartedly that I have no responsibility in that part of it. 

I do bear all of the responsibility in the original lie though. 

The very beginning of a snowball I couldn't have predicted and wouldn't have believed if some divine being had attempted to warn me. 

No matter what though, I'm sorry. 

I have been achingly, painfully sorry since that day. 

I am so sorry. 

I am so sorry for the pain your family endured. For your dad. 

I wish you could forgive me... I've never forgiven me... 

don't stop believing...

Dear Me, 

When prompted to pen a letter to the person(s) I hate the most, or the person(s) who brought me the most pain, I uncomfortably had to admit that was you. Amidst any childhood traumas or abuses that occurred; amidst bad boyfriends and broken hearts or miscarriages and injustices- the tally of self inflicted hell piles higher and higher than all the rest. 

Arguably I contemplated that perhaps the cutting and the intentional scarring wouldn't have happened without the cruelty and pain caused by another. While this is probably true, I kept coming back to the mantra of my thirties... 

Choice. There is always a choice. 

When someone else turned their feeling for me into hatred, it was up to me whether I chose to love myself in spite of them, or follow their lead. 

I chose. 

Every self destructive lie, wrong kiss, or self targeted arrow never bettered anything. No microsecond of numbness could ever have made a dent in the pain you gave me. 

The pain I gave you. 

Old habits die hard. I've been able to dull or destroy most of them. Still though, that lingering fear of failure- which might be the instrument with which you beat me senseless, repetitively for as long as I can remember- refuses to leave. It points to the scars that no one else is to blame for, and mocks me. 

I've learned to love me more than I loathe me, though. It feels like a good step. 

I have learned I deserve peace and warmth, light and good things. That is definitely a good step. 

Step by step, I'll get there. It may take my entire life to redeem the damage you have inflicted, but I will get there for this is a journey worth taking... 

the grandest of loves...

I wish I had known, even that morning, how grey the world would be without you there to pick up the other end of my phone call. i wish i had known, that Sunday afternoon, that my proclamation of love for you would have been my last.
That horrible Tuesday I saw how a mile long list of good intentions and excuses can instantly turn to twelve miles of sorry regret. I imagine the chance to see you one last time, to flood the apologies for never saying enough, doing enough or being enough.
It took death for me to see that it wasn't ever that i couldn't be enough for you as much as the truth that your eyes and your love believed more for me.
Maybe both of us struggled, with one another, when it came to intention and self expression...

At any rate, when that gift of another face to face one day comes- I hope I don't crowd it with unnecessary apologies. You loved me. i hope to, instead, just rekindle my girl child heart with the flame of light in your eyes and take your hand in mine. For five long years you've been back with your husband and loving on my babies. Some days I can not wait to come join the party...

Save me a seat. thanks for loving me, always. I love you too, grandma...

We don't get to talk often...

Dearest Joy and Jennie, 

I am sorry that we don't get to talk as often as I would like for us to. This adulthood gig is often a bit harder than I had once thought. It's amazing how the early morning can dawn a brand new day with a fresh clean slate, and after three blinks and a whole lot of rushing- it's past time for bed. 

How does that time warp happen? 

Despite not talking as often as I would like. Despite not seeing each other as often as I'd like- which, for the record, I'd like more than talking... I want you both to know I love you. 

I love you and I am always there for you. 

I love your kids... Your beautiful families. 

You are both beautiful mothers. I know this, even if I don't talk to you as often as I'd like... Even if I barely get to see you. Your babies are so blessed to have your love... 

I love that my childhood is entwined with yours. For twelve years, before I was led to your doorstep, I begged God for a sister. Even then, as those childhood tears hit my pillow- God knew I would someday have three. While it is a horribly tragic thing that the world has to have children's homes and foster care- there aren't words to tell you how grateful I am, that my sad path led me to you. 

Thank you for sharing your amazing parents. 

Thank you for playing in the Holly Hobby kitchen, for remembering last lines in books (that I don't even remember), for sharing a passion for 90's flicks, and for being such beautiful, strong and amazing girls-turned-women. Thank you for opening your hearts to me still, beyond the CCR days. Thank you for loving my family and from the deepest depths of my soul thank you for keeping me in the loop and including me in the intimate and agonizing time surrounding the loss of mom. 

I am so proud of you both. 

Proud to know you. 

Proud to love you. 

Proud to call you my sisters...  

Oh babies...

I have thought of you, dreamed of you and imagined you more than I've given collective thought to any other person. I've imagined your tiny fingers and your sweet toes. 

I have dreamed of what your sweet skin would have smelled like. 

I have ached to know more than the imagination of what your wiggly, warm little body would have felt like in my arms. 

Less and less I am kept awake, in the darkness of the night, by thoughts of you. 

More and more the aching subsides, to know you. 

I wish that I could have met you... That things would have been different for you... 

For us. 

Never more than a tear away, my soul reaches for you often. 

And someday, on the other side of this life time, I will finally know what your eyes look like and how the curl of your lashes lay, or the perfection of your smiles. The decade-long burning question of what your favorite color would have been, will be no more. Surely there are favorite colors in heaven...

You were mine, safely nestled inside of me, but for a moment. Now I imagine you all golden curled ringlets, rosy cheeks and little boy tough. I imagine you happy and spirit whole, playing with other precious children who never knew the cold hardness of life. I hope you remember to gift hugs to your grandma Julie, great grandma and grandpa Dugan as they surely aren't too far away from you. 

Wait for us. 

Your daddy and I are coming, it just isn't quite time yet. 

I wish I could have touched you, heard you, held you. 

I ache to meet you... 

I breathe easier knowing that someday I will. 

Maggie...

Dear Maggie, 

Oh this letter is all a swirl of things to say... It's funny because I write to you all of the time, this should not be any different right? Well, except for the fact that it will be shared with the entire internet... 

When I took on this 30 days of letters challenge, I had no idea whom I would fill said 30 days with. None. When it came to today's "internet friend" category, I was even more lost. Though I know it's completely acceptable these days to go around making friends online- i don't do it. I don't really connect with others in forums or anything like that. Honestly, I wouldn't even typically lump you under the internet friend umbrella. You are simply my friend Maggie. My husband and kids know you as my friend Maggie. Friendship really should be that simple. But, for arguments sake, I guess you are technically my internet friend. 99% of our friendship is woven over the internet. Plus, bonus: I get to write to/about you on my blog and let the whole world know how amazing you are. 

Because, you are pretty fantastically amazing, Maggie... 

How we even became friends, I don't remember. Something to do with Myspace and writing...???... 

Anyway, whatever those details were- I am so incredibly grateful. 

Truly. 

I can not even tell you how many times your name has been scripted in my gratitude journal. I can't. I can tell you though, that it's a bunch. 

I love you, my friend. It has been such an honor to grow to call you my friend. Not my internet friend, but my actual friend... You have been such an honest support to me and words could NEVER convey what that has meant to me. We have shared sadness and frustrations and fears in a way that many couldn't understand... and then on the brink of all of that- your amazingly beautiful little Evie came to be... And everything about her (and you, of course) just spews hope in my world. 

Not hope for the same things, (that would be impossible!) or baby things even- but simply hope for good things. Goodness. Your story- Evie's story- is goodness... Goodness and beauty and light and love all bundled up in your gorgeous little girl. 

Thanks for sharing your journey with me. Thanks for sharing your life and your honesty with this girl who is just another girl on the internet. 

i love you,

Slow Love...

  The current BlogHer Book Club selection is a memoir by Dominique Browning entitled Slow Love. As the economy crumbled more and more, Dominique writes of her journey from the editor in chief of now dead House & Garden magazine to finding a way to embrace and enjoy the moments of her life…

  I love relatable memoirs. I love a beautifully penned glimpse into another person’s hurts and triumphs. As great as a good novel can be, knowing that there is something real resting between the lines of a memoir is comforting. Even though I have never been part of a greedy, backstabbing corporate world, as Dominique has, I felt as though it didn’t matter. So much of the way she reminisced about lovers, and the youth of her boys reached me. In the ways that she struggled with, at first simply getting out of bed and later getting through a day, I saw myself there in her words. In the way that most of us women struggle with change, she is a voice that some of us long to listen to.

  Dominique has a lovely way with words, weaving them authentically and still somehow poetic. Slow Love goes beyond what other memoirs, such as Eat Pray Love, try to do because she arrives to her realizations and life’s wisdom without lavish trips or unattainable measure.

  Slow Love reads like a cup of tea with an old friend, and yet it packs a convicting soul punch as well. 

J...

Dear J, 

The list of people who know about you, about how unkind the years have been to you, and about the completely blatant wreckage you left in me- is very small. When you told me that any semblance of the good and honorable guy you'd had ownership in once was gone- I should have heeded your warning. 

I always accepted responsibility for that. 

Though the ability to create amazingly beautiful things still courses wildly through your veins, that is where the end of any goodness is. 

You toy with the lives of people who love you, just to see what damage you can do. You delight in the power you wield to hurt people who care about you. You are an alcoholic, of choice, and the most shallow person I know. You masquerade through your days pretending that your opinion is superior by comparison, and that the world is full of spineless ignorance- save you, of course. 

It just isn't true, J. 

You are a coward. 

You are so unbelievably scared of everything, like a mouse. You fear being hurt- so you make sure that you wound instead- and those wounds run deep. Trust me, I know. 

You are stingy with your words and commitments, like a weasel. 

You are arrogant, and yet that ego is unfounded by anything that really exists. 

It's in your head that you live in a realm where you are the brilliant and abyssimal king, (to borrow your word) to the hoards of us ignorant  roaches and maggots who beg for your garbage. 

In reality, Jeremy Stephen Wagner- you are the cockroach while the rest of the world simply embraces life and works everyday to achieve happiness and reality.  

Looks like you are the ignorant one after all. 

And the one truly alone. 

And fairly pathetic, too. 

And i would say it's a shame except that it really isn't because, and to quote- "that guy you knew, he's gone."

Paint your heart out, J- because by my calculations you don't have much heart left. 

Karma's coming, 

P.S. You were right about one other thing... the day did come where I don't miss you- or think you're worth my time. Thanks, for that... 

I'm afraid to say it...

I literally spent the weekend, on the couch unbelievably sick, watch Season 1 of the OC. I totally want to say I am not proud, but I love this show so completely much that it makes me a little proud.
And a little sad that I missed it when it was airing.
But really, I LOVE it. Great writing. Great story. NOTHING like those traditional sex fest teen soaps...

Anyway, on that note (and the fact that I'm still feeling completely horrible), i will simply follow this with today's letter...



This letter could be for you...


For every person that I never mustered up the courage to talk to, though I deeply wanted to, due to my insecurities and all round ridiculously inhibited self... I tell myself, every time that I will regret my decision to stay quiet.
I do regret it, every time...


I ask myself, what if they're hurting? What if they need a friend? But who am I kidding, really? It is really out of my own completely selfish desire for friends that I want to say hello, and also why I don't.
Fear.
Fear of eventual rejection.
Fear of heart break.
Fear of loneliness.
I guess that is why people say that fear is crippling. It paralyzes those it chooses...


The thing is, dear stranger, that I want to know you. I want to know of the things that trouble you. I want to know of the things that delight you. I want you to know that, should you truly need someone, I would faithfully be there for you.


Ironically though, how would you know that since I couldn't even say hello?


At least I've thought about it, right?


M

Dream Weaver...

Dear Dreams, 

It seems a cruel act of fate that I haven't started to place true value in your possibilities until I am in my mid-thirties, therefore making it far more difficult to achieve you now. 

Please forgive me for being a low learner. 

Please be persistent in supporting me to not give up on you. 

Please don't give up on me... 

Tip the scales in my favor, a little bit, will you? I promise not to complain. 

Hugs and Kisses, 

Two halves...

Sher, 

You have cried to me, on more than one occasion, about how I refuse to call you my best friend. Try and try as I might, I can't get you to grasp the fact that our sisterhood is so much bigger and deeper than any friendship could be. The lifetimes and volumes of interwoven history that we have is among the dearest treasures, in my life. Every laugh, every tear contains a spiritual DNA which bonds us together in a way that no one, or thing, could ever penetrate. 

Even my closest of friends have held but moments, while you were keeping my heart and secrets safe long before those moments were even dreamed into existence. 

I love you. 

I love your heart, I love your kindness, I love your sensitivity. 

I love YOU, sister... 

dear parents

Dear Parents,

I address this letter generically because, without ever really meaning to, you made my family what it is today. The lessons that I have learned from you have kept my life raft afloat when so many others would have simply sank.

You taught me, father, that the term fatherhood is irrelevant in comparison to things like cowardice and self centered behavior. You denied me, for years, only to draw me in and later shove me out... I learned, from you, what a father should be like and you {regardless of what your loved children feel} are not it. For ages I felt rejection and inadequacy. Then one day it dawned on me- a TRULY good father wouldn't even abandon one child.
No. A TRULY good father is a genuinely good man... He would man up.

Mom, best or worst of intentions aside- you taught me to fight for the things {and the people} I love. The way I felt, all of those years, when you looked the other way and chose not to fight for me was as close to unbearable as anything has ever been. To even consider someone I love feeling a fraction of that kills me.

As for my stepdad, Charlie, I owe you some form of twisted gratitude as well. Your years of childhood violation and sexual abuse gave me the ability to have an empathy and understanding for my daughter and the abuses she endured before becoming a part of my family. Though, for years, I hated you and what you had done to me- I love the bond that I have with her. You are a monster. You live near a school. These are two things that stay present, at the forefront of my thoughts, every single day... But my silver lining is that I can love my daughter through her healing.

To my dad, the man who invested in me when my father jumped ship and hid- thank you. Everything good I learned from you. The ways a man should treat his wife. The way a father should love his child. The way a man should laugh and be. Because of you I learned that the overwhelming and all consuming love that a parent should feel for a child has NOTHING to do with blood, or DNA, or anything else like that.

Because of the four of you, and your very different efforts I have the perfect family. I have children, not of my womb, whom I love more than my heart knew possible.
I am not a perfect parent... Some days I am probably more bad than good. Irrefutably though, I ALWAYS love my kids.
I ALWAYS fight for my kids.
I would never abandon them. Ever.

So whole heartedly, thank you...

XOXO...

Dear James,

You don't mind if I call you that, do you? For the vein of such a letter, something like Mr. McAvoy seems a tad formal... Unless I were to revert to some inner Jane Austin voice, which truthfully only pitter patters my heart a bit faster.
Then, of course, you would be Mister McAvoy...
*swoon*
...
...
Is it warm in here? My it's a warm day, for September...
I feel faint...
You would have been the perfect man.
Er, for Jane, i mean.
I happen to adore my husband. He is my number one man.
If you ever, by chance, found yourself in Boise though, we could grab a drink and talk.
Or you could talk because, between you and I, I sort of just want to sit and listen to you for pretty much ever.
And see your smile...

Eventually, I would have to bring you home to meet my youngest daughter because you are Mr. Tumnis AND Penelope's love. She wouldn't stand for missing the chance to grill you for hours and hit you up for any acting contacts you might have for her...

My husband would meet you, as well. I hope that wouldn't be too awkward, for you. You probably wouldn't have to hide the love for me that you'd reciprocate. He's pretty understanding. {He's a pretty cool guy, my husband.}

Maybe we could just meet up somewhere on location...
That would be your location, of course. I am a writer... and not some cool travel journalist or anything, either. I am the sit at home, in pajamas type.
I promise not to wear pajamas on location. That's just a home thing... I wear real clothes in public.
Or we could not go out in public. Whatever...

I am sure you are very busy so if you maybe just wanted to call me later, or skype me- skype is better- that would work. If you are feeling tired and drained you could just read to me. I'd love that too... Makes my intent to only listen seem a bit less awkward...

At any rate, today was a letter-to-my-crush day, and that- Mister McAvoy- is undoubtedly you...

XOXO,

four thousand, two hundred and ninety seven...

Dearest Best Friend of mine,

Split between Boise and West Virginia we have boxes containing the volumes of our friendship. With post marks stamped in eight different states, you and I have documented actual lifetimes. I had no idea, those years ago, that we would journey together, the way that we have.

Over the course of eleven years, two hundred and seventy nine days- we really have grown up together, it seems.

In my darkest, emptiest and most broken of days- you came in and forged a friendship with me like none I had ever had before. Over those 4297 days of friendship, (!!!!) I have learned so much from you. You have walked beside me through my hardest journeys.
Through literal life and death scares,
infertility,
divorce,
heart break,
facing my step father,
cancer scares,
my hysterectomy,
the affects of adultery,
blake,
reconciling my marriage,
the loss of my grandmother,
the loss of my mom Julie,
countless jobs,
moving out of state (seven times)
getting to know my real father,
the broken hearted rejection of my real father,
falling in love with my kids,
RAD hell,
dealing with difficult family,
broken friendships and accompanying heartbreak,
James,
the journey of writing my first novel
the never ending journey of finding myself and so, so much more...
We've shared movies, music, books, memories, vacation, countless phonecalls, obsessions...

I am so grateful, Deb, for the beautiful, brave and admirable woman you are. You've advised gently and then stood by holding my hand whether I followed your direction or not. You are the only person who has ever seen all of me, and not chosen to walk away or pass judgement. You truly are the only person to never leave me and I can not even tell you how unbelievably grateful I am for that.

One day, hopefully really far from now, someone will come across our friendship on paper. I hope my gratitude and love for you shows in my words. I pray, as our daughters continue to grow more and more into themselves, that they find a friendship like ours some day. A truly safe place that will last forever...

Thank you, Debbie, for being my safe haven. Thank you for being my sounding board. Thank you for making fun of things with me. Thank you for our brief stint in detective work and email hacking. Thanks for covering for me, when I needed it- {and covering me when I needed that too.} Thank you for loving my kids, even without knowing them personally, from the very beginning.
Thank you for never judging me, for never forgetting me, for loving me even though I love Dave Matthews, Edward Cullen and don't have a kindle.
Thank you for being that friend that I can share all of my secrets with, cry to, laugh hysterically with, be one hundred percent me with and revert to jr. high mentality with...

From the bottom of my heart, always... 

POST SCRIPT~ Congratulations to Katie's Calamaties and Lisa of Two Bears Farm for winning copies of Alice Bliss... :)