How many times do I need to be called a f**king selfish b*tch before it doesn’t matter? To be honest the first several times hurt like hell…then the next many times, you become numb to the cruel words. Name calling is done when an individual doesn’t have the tools to provide a better argument. Does that make it hurt less? No. Does that make it mean so little? No. Abuse is abuse in any form. How many times does it take before it hurts again. Hurt, numbness, hurt…that’s the pattern. I can let it go and numb myself to the words, knowing it is his own insecurity that allows him to be mean, but once an awhile it cuts to my core. When things have been good, it hurts more…it matters more. So how many times do I have to hear it before I don’t care anymore? I wish I knew…time will tell!
Leave it at the door…
This is something my dance teacher always told us…then later my boss…leave it at the door. Pretty straight forward to me. Whatever it was that happened in our day, we were to leave it at the door when we entered the dance studio. If we had a tough day emotionally, it was to be eliminated from our thoughts, our mood, our behavior, and our performance for the few hours we had to dance. It was to be left at the door…not to affect our well being while we danced. Then if we decided to pick it back up on our way out then that was our choice. We could take it back with us or leave the emotional baggage of the day at the door at the studio. Most chose to leave it behind. Smartly so…
This is the current state of my marriage.
Ignorance is bless but knowledge is power. Unfortunately I am not ignorant, yet very knowledgeable. How do I achieve bliss, how do I release some power. With power comes responsibility, with ignorance comes regret. As much as I would love to be ignorant, my past has given me too much power, too much knowledge. Trust comes from where, the ignorance of what could, would, or did happen. Or does trust come from the knowledge that you can trust honestly even with the knowledge of the past. I choose knowledge over ignorance. Trust through knowledge not through ignorance.
Not having any more than two sexual partners in my entire life, I may be old-fashioned. I have only slept with my first husband and then my second husband. Because of this, I can’t begin to fathom the intimate act of infidelity. I have only slept with someone I loved. I did not wait on marriage for sex but I did wait on love. Is this a rare occasion? Am I to take sex lightly simply because the man I love slept with another woman? How do I tell my heart that it meant nothing to him? How do I tell my mind that it’s more normal than not. The connection through the intimacy is something to be cherished and nurtured. I have been intimate with my husband after his affair but it took many years to not cry after, alone in the bathroom, wondering how and why he would connect with another on that level. Now I no longer cry but I hold back my heart. It hurts to do both. I only exchanged one vice for another.
Once at home…lucky to be alive and trying to recover, all I kept thinking while laying in bed, resting, bored, making milk and making blood…what would they have done with all my shoes? I am a shoe girl. With a hundred or so pairs of shoes, if I had not come home from the birth, what would they have done with all my shoes? Give them to my girls, donate them, sell them, throw them out, keep them? Why is it that something so silly, so unimportant was my thought? Maybe I was trying to minimize, normalize, or was just lost in random thoughts while recouping. My thought now is that life is too short to not wear the shoes and put on the lip gloss, everyday! Live!
I have never been in the hospital to go under or have surgery done for anything, until this moment. I was bleeding out…after childbirth. Last thing I remember was the doctor saying they would perform a DNC to get the extra pieces of the placenta that are still in the uterus in order to stop all the excess bleeding. Assuming this is a routine procedure, I glanced over at my husband, my newborn son and back at the doctor. “Will it hurt?” was my only question. After giving birth, and delivering my son, the last thing I wanted was more pain. After my question escaped my lips, I blacked out and remember nothing for hours, even days. Nine hours of surgery, six blood transfusions, I was given a fifty/fifty chance to live.
I have been here before…many years ago. A marriage quietly slipping away, a desperate plea, an extended hand. I felt myself needing the confirmation, the affirmation, the love in order to let me know that I am not the only one fighting for us, for this marriage, for me. I knew I was reaching, knew I was asking, knew I was needing…clues were ignored, requests not responded to, my hand not grabbed. I need you to say something, I need you to do something, I need you to push me back off the ledge of leaving. Walking the fine line between leaving or not can be swayed easily by the grab of a hand. Grab my hand…tell me I am worth it, show me I am needed. Grab my hand….please
Don’t let me walk away. I know the path all too well. The last man didn’t recognize the pleas, ignored the clues, disregarded the requests. Please grab the hand that he did not. Don’t let this end us, don’t let me walk away. Please grab my hand…
I love love love kids! I started my family with four…then I had a stepson. This was not something I sign on for right off the bat. When I met my husband, he did not have kids, only I did. Then after a year of infidelity, I suddenly had a stepson. With bumps and bruises along the way, my new marriage had some hurdles, but they all seemed manageable. Staying through the infidelity, the new stepson and now court battle, tested my strength as a woman, as a mother, as a wife. I made it through, what I considered, the hard part, the birth. Watching my husband have a son, born to the woman he cheated on me with was hard. No other word but hard. Now came the work. Loving my husband every time he loved, cuddled, nurtured his newborn son. This was difficult, to say the least. I had envisioned this time with him, watching him with his first born (thinking it would be with me), letting it fill my heart. Now there are so many mixed emotions. I decided to stay, this was now my challenge to get through emotionally. This was hard.
I can name all the number of times my closest friends or even family members have seen me cry…including my first husband. This number can be counted literally on one hand. It’s not because I am afraid to cry or bottle up my emotions…I am just not a cryer. One of the few times I began to cry in front of my best friend, she simply looked at me and said, “What are you doing?”….as if it was completely foreign to her and to my behavior. My emotions are worn on my sleeve and crying isn’t a necessity…until I met my husband. In the past, my mother was truly the only one who really made me cry. Hurt prevailed and tears fell. My first husband was not a cruel man, he was tender and kind. Although we fought like any married couple, it was healthy fighting, no below the belt blows. Then I met my current husband. Never have I cried more in my life. I had to make the change to waterproof mascara simply because of him. It could be for any given reason on any given day that the tears came freely. He thinks of me as a crier, which is ironic. I am weaker because of him…time to find myself again and switch back to regular mascara!
Most say WWJD (what would Jesus do)…but what if you asked, “What would YOU do?”. What would the “old” you do? The YOU before you were hurt, the YOU before you were lied to, the YOU before you resented, the “old” YOU, the core YOU, the unbroken YOU. How would that you react, how would that you love, how would that you respond? The you who loved without hesitation, without anger, without hurt. Would it be refreshing? Would it be uplifting? Would it be carefree? Bring me happiness…bring me myself again.