It all started with a halfhearted promise.  “I’ll make things better,” he said while kneeling in the muddy field.  He loved me I told myself.  He got a ring, he promised things would be better once we were married, so surely he loved me.  Over the next eight months I inquired about wedding details, “I don’t care about that stuff” he would mumble before rushing off the phone.  On my 18th birthday, I moved in with him.  This was the beginning of the rest of my life I told myself.  A life full of fantastic adventures with my best friend, or so I believed.









Our first attempt to get married a few days later was deterred by the incorrect birth certificate on my part, because there is a big difference in a certificate of live birth and a birth certificate, apparently.  I slunk home depressed in my pretty floral spring dress.  He looked relieved and eager to get out of the khakis I had requested he wear because “It’s our wedding day we should look nice”.  “It's a waste of time”, the words lingered in the knots of my hair I had spent an hour fighting with.  He thought it looked a mess.  But, I knew he loved me, so I simply needed to try harder next time.  

When the proper certificate arrived in the mail a couple of weeks later I was thrilled, he was annoyed.  “When do you want to go get married”, the words danced from my heart and oozed through my lips.  “I don’t know”, he replied.  I shook off his indifference.  Another couple of weeks passed before we had a discussion about expectations. I had no desire to shack up for an undisclosed period of time and needed to know if he really wanted the same thing I did.  Blame my Catholic conservative Christian upbringing.  Blame personal standards.  But after a month, you’re either buying the cow or getting your milk elsewhere because I refuse to play house.  After some grumbling, he lamented that he did want to get married and we agreed on a Friday afternoon.  He didn’t want to wear anything nice or take pictures.  I granted his wish with the hope that we’d have a nice wedding one day.  I spent that Friday on edge. My heart and stomach jumped, jived, and wailed with each tick of the clock.  I had to remind myself to breath as the hours turned into minutes and those minutes into the moments that would define the rest of my life.  

The judge who married us was buried in a sea of child support filings and petty crimes when we walked in.  The defeat of his day shone on his face as I slid the marriage certificate onto his desk.  Immediately, he became animated and leaped from his seat with the joy that only the creation of marriage and new life can illicit in humanity.  He retrieved his crisp black robes from the nearby closet and announced our impending nuptials to the collection of depressed bodies that were waiting their turn to plead their various cases.  Then the judge reached for his phone and attempted to contact a buddy of his who worked at the local paper.  He had no luck.  My groom squirmed in his seat at the thought of having someone from the newspaper present at our nuptials.  Even a small wedding announcement had been out of the question.  After hanging up the phone the judge asked if he could read a bible passage during our ceremony.  Still being some version of Christian I had no problem with this but, I turned to my groom to ensure it was ok.  He nodded in that dismissive way only someone who is indifferent can and the judge smiled as he opened his bible.  Clearing his throat he asked us to rise, I jumped from my seat attempting to catch my heart as it leaped with excitement and turned to my groom.  He was still seated.   



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​My mind always slows this moment down.  I’m sure it was less than a minute, but in my mind, it becomes an eternity.  An eternity of chances to run.  An eternity to dance through the reel of what actually became a 12-year marriage plagued with abuse, infidelity, and loneliness.  An eternity to live again. 

An eternity to see every player clearly.  The judge with his confused and apprehensive glare.  The groom’s parents exchange of knowing looks for they kept his secrets better than he did.  The groom’s disdain as he willed himself from the seat and my wide-eyed naiveté.  As the reel plays in my mind, I always freeze this moment and stare at the child giving away her youth to someone who didn’t want to stand next to her.  I look through the eyes of a woman at the life of a girl who simply wanted to know she was loved, and I know she never was.  The woman knows that which the girl can not.   She knows of the lonely nights ahead of the girl, whose tears will stain every pillow she would ever own.  She knows the pain of her husband’s hands pressing against her pregnant belly.  She knows the way his words will hang heavy in her heart for a lifetime.  She knows the way laughter sounds when she’s in pain.  The woman can never save the girl.  
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No matter how many times I play this reel over in my mind, no matter how many times I reach for that young girl, no matter how many empty bottles I attempt to watch it through; I can never save the girl.  She always stands there eagerly awaiting her groom.  She always takes his hand.  She always says her vows with sincerity and passion as her brown eyes bore into his hollow blue eyes seeking confirmation that his heart beats as fiercely for her and her’s does for him.  She always signs her name.  She always stays after he pushes in her stomach and gleefully declares that hopefully he killed their unborn child.  She always runs interference and handles everything as to not upset him.  She always fixes the holes and stops asking about the stories that don’t mesh up.  She always makes sure the children believe they're loved by their father.  She always makes excuses for his noninvolvement, for her tears, for the sadness that hides behind her brown eyes.  She always stays.  Until she becomes the woman who doesn’t. The woman with the movie reel in her mind and scars upon her heart.  

​Since it's a new year, for shits and giggles, I'm going to take some time to share 10 simple truths about myself.  So buckle up, readers!     

1. I love the word fuck.  I use it every fucking chance I get.  It’s a beautiful word.  It’s linguistic magic.  
​Even my Facebook statuses reflect this love: 







           








Yes… fucking and people were my top two words in 2015…

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2.  Fucking people annoy me.  The results of this annoyance are either well-crafted blog posts or rants on my personal Facebook page *hence those being my most used words*.  If you are hip to that whole Myers-Briggs thing, then it makes sense based on my personality.  I’m inclined to think it has more to do with the level of stupidity in the world than my actual personality but, hey it’s kind of fun to know which Doctor Who character you are.  

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3. Of all the fucking people that annoy me, I annoy myself the most.  

4. My inner circle is full of people whose mere existence brings me so much joy that I don’t even care they’re humans. 

5. A debate over Prop 8 is what finally knocked me off my fence of doubt and into the field of godlessness.  Even though I’ve been an out and proud heathen for 7 years I still listen to K-Love on occasion.  NEEDTOBREATHE’s song Brother was one of my favorite songs from 2015.  Seriously, Google it! It’s fucking fantastic! Better yet, enjoy: 

6.  I was offered a scholarship to Mars Hill College to study Youth Leadership (youth ministry).  I had lofty ideas about what young people should learn about love and acceptance.   I still have those ideas, minus the Christianity. 
 
7. Losing my religion was one of the most painful experiences of my life.  Losing the top spot to a 2009 pregnancy lose and the ending of my marriage last year.   

8. I never planned to homeschool my kids.  We’ve been at it, officially, for eight years.  
 
9. When it comes to parenting I have no fucking idea what I’m doing. 

10.  I’m fairly certain my children are aware of this fact. ​​

What are some of your truths?  Do you have the adulting parenting thing figured out or faking it until you make it?  Are you still dancing in tube socks to Bruce Springsteen?  Tell me more, tell me more, right down there in the comments. 

When it came to religion, I could easily examine the inconsistencies and toss the breaks in logic into the wastebasket where they belonged.  Eventually, leaving nothing but godlessness and unabashed skepticism.  With love, oh love, it hasn’t been that easy.  If there was a disconnect between words and actions, then I clearly wasn’t seeing it correctly.  A belief supported by my spouse.  I simply needed to look at everything differently.  To be patient.  To hold on.  Give him time and trust.  Always more time and trust.  I could do this.  To give superficial change, that quickly faded, more weight than years of peer-reviewed data.  Maya Angelou said, “When someone shows you who they are, believe them; the first time.”  We rarely do, though.  Why do we do this?  Why do we allow our hearts to cloud our logic?  How can we observe years of behavior, and at the mere notion of change, throw all our chips in and declare this time around it will be better?

This isn’t a post with answers. Because, frankly, I don't have any damn answers.  So, if you’re waiting for that you’re going to be shit out of luck.  I’m still tracing the rim of a Styrofoam cup attempting to make sense of this one life we’re given and fighting with the cognitive dissonance emotional attachments create.     


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When the playwriting stopped, I turned to a spiral notebook.  I kept it hidden under a pile stuff in my dresser drawer.  It contained sections of my life.  Moments of pain, joy, and fear.  It flowed from me and brought me peace.  It also hid my fantasy world largely concocted around crushes I had.  Romantic comedies were my forte in the mid-90s.  While my writing has changed as I’ve aged and become a bit darker, working in a variety of heavy themes, I still enjoy reliving my hormonally charged youth every once in awhile. 

  








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​In middle school, my notebooks and diaries were taken because my father didn’t agree with the subject matter and fearing further retribution I stopped writing unless required to for school.  Unfortunately, or fortunately depending on how you look at it, the best laid plans often go awry. My 8th-grade poetry landed me a one-on-one session with my teacher.  She was concerned.  It was clear to her that I was struggling with depression and my orientation.  What was the purpose to life?  Was there really more beyond my current existence? Would I ever know love?  And could I love boys and girls?  And what if I only loved girls, then what?  She assured me there was nothing wrong with me and she was available if I wanted to talk.  I chose to write.  It felt safe to write again and not the fluff, but the nitty gritty of who I was and who I wanted to be.  I don’t know what she did with my writings, judging by the fact that my father never left a parent-teacher conference in a rage it’s safe to say she didn’t show them to him.  

A year later I had the teacher who would make me a better writer.  So, naturally, I hated her class.  I understand now why she was so hard on us, I really do.  But Ms. Eagles, if you’re reading this, I still believe there is absolutely nothing wrong with doodling during class.  I still do it. In meetings, at conferences, and at the doctor’s office.  You can’t stop the doodling, but you can make the doodlers better writers.  Which you did, so thank you. 

For the next four years, my writing life was a blur of research papers, essays, and an occasional creative writing piece that brought me freedom from the world I lived in.  Then, one brisk afternoon, a friend sat me down at his computer and introduced me to LiveJournal.  He said it was just what I needed, and it was.  I longed for a safe space to bear my soul and LiveJournal offered that.  Over the next ten years, I posted there, on various social media platforms as they came into existence, and eventually on blogger.