“Choose your love. Love your choice.”
― Thomas S. Monson
It's almost comical how some of us who are creative souls try and suppress who we are in order to live under society's rules. It happens slowly and then all of a sudden we are hitting every edge of the room that has closed in on us.
So I'm starting a new writing project, one that will take a while, my original due date might have to be tweaked and arranged to be a little more logical. Upon doing some research yesterday for said new project a few things ended up happening. Of course a smidgen of self discovery reared her head again. No surprise there!
I shared that hilarious Starbuck's meme that ended up actually sparking an impromptu coffee date with some friends that we haven't been able to connect with in a while. And it was fantastic! Thank you Jesus! (I could add Jesus-haters, which of course might describe Starbuck's, however I didn't seem to think they were Jesus-haters when we were slurping our coffee down last night, entertaining though, in the least. HUGE, LONG run on sentence there, judge me...
side note-I had a disgusting turkey and stuffing sandwich, but no Jesus haters were present. )
Okay, back to the topic. SQUIRREL! Yes, I am very aware, can you imagine how poor M feels?
Anyway, I'm doing research, right? Combing through the blog, searching for the moment. THAT MOMENT when I could see changes coming. Did I write about it? Was it there? How could I have publicly written about that particular moment?
I start at the beginning. The very first blog post.
It was terrible. My writing was terrible. The subjects were terrible.
Now, in my defense, this blog was originally called "The Wright's Adventure" and was only started to be shared with a handful of individuals to follow our years away from Missouri, while serving in the Army. Call that what you will, I served, we as military wives served. We all "serve" and or "served" as spouses. It's fucking hard. It's fucking stressful, and believe me, WE SERVE.
Moving along, I am at the very beginning. It's fake. It is sugar-coated. It isn't me at all. It isn't indicative of what I was feeling. It is missing the grave pain and fear that I had to travel 7,000 miles and have to leave my boys here for 8 1/2 months. I don't speak of the misery of only having one choice to keep my family together. Nothing. It's missing who I was. It was missing what I was feeling, IT WAS MISSING ANY FEELING AT ALL. Unless I was writing about the kids, or my siblings. There were a few tiny sentences that had power behind them. But really, nothing. It was empty and vapid. A fake look in to the life of a fake family that was fake happy. Both of us were miserable. We just couldn't openly admit it yet.
Sure, it all LOOKED way good. I mean, perfect family, all nice smiles. The choices were all mine, I am aware of that. I chose to write how I was writing. I thought maybe when I opened up those first few posts I might feel something, and I did. But oh man, not what I expected to feel. I felt nothing other than a sigh of relief. I love where I am now. I don't mean a little bit. I mean that I LOVE this family, and M, my friends and my life now. I am CONTENT. I don't have any "ragrets". I don't "miss" anything that happened, or people who have come and gone. And I guess that is because I've kept all of those who were important in my life, right here in my life. Even when aggravated or when I get frustrated with them, and vice versa (I'm no peach).
I was unhappy for a while. And it reflects for me in my writing. There were peaks, as I coped with where my situation was. And then when I felt like I had to just really try and salvage my marriage, I stopped writing. I truly put myself in my life and attempted to make it work. I can't say that about the boys father, but that was a very long time ago. But then,with the littles dad, I tried. I tried my hardest to make it work, even through misery and tears. It wasn't healthy for any of us in the long run.
The writing all but disappeared. I grew cold and hateful. I was sensitive and yet, hid it. I was bitchy and hanging on to what little bit of family I had left by the bloody remnant of my fingernails. It's moments like these that you realize the line between love and hatred is very, very thin.
When you go back over you can watch the crescendos and decrescendos in the writing. It spikes and then slows, a pattern that repeats itself until the shit hit the fan.
Until this entry.
That was the title. The writing is atrocious. The grammar even worse. But in this entry is where the emotion had hit its boiling point. I remember what was going on in my life, it was right after writing Taurean & Leo. That project made me realize how much of a romantic I truly was and that it was okay to live with a bleeding heart. It shook me awake inside. I was at my breaking point.
And the next year and a half, (BB, close your ears) holy fuck, did I write about it.
I wrote about EVERYTHING. It came pouring out like some kind of pipe that had burst. As that time progressed the writing got stronger, and more abrasive and yet even more soft at the same time, I held less and less in and allowed feelings to emerge. Then it became this beautiful monster that several hundred divorcees followed and contacted me over. It peaked and then slowed again. B moved in to my life, it peaked, he moved out. Then jobs and summer took over and here came M.
The thing is, I didn't go back to who I was. Not once. Boy did I consider it, because facing who I was and learning to be okay with it was hard. You truly have to look inside yourself, and especially as a female. We live in a society where being a real life girl is pretty difficult.
For the first time in my life, I had NO EARTHLY IDEA where I was headed, who was on the other side and what was going to happen. I literally just buttoned up and bucked down and rode out one of the worst storms in my entire life. I dealt with death and divorce and drama. I wrote about it. I talked about it. I rebelled a bit, all while straightening the crooked halo that I had put on the top of my head...MYSELF. Then I got sick of it. The halo went out the window. And I embraced the wild eyed gypsy that I truly was. And I wrote about that. Some of my family hated it. My lawyer told me to shut up, and yet, I still needed to write.
I softened against the hard edges. I softened up for myself. I opened up and allowed myself to be vulnerable, publicly. And boy did I take some shit for that. Anyone who dabbles in the arts and dares to draw, write, paint or sing their way through a hell storm gets accused of being a drama queen or worse, a narcissist. (All by people running from their own amounts of narcissism.) I didn't add God to the equation, although he was there. I didn't rely on the approval of others. I emerged as this strong and capable woman, instead of the thirty something, terribly afraid, girl I had been living as.
The poetry and stories poured out of my heart and soul. I literally penned everything. (Typed, evs.)
I ended up with several books, The Wooden Girl From Nevada which was my saga with B who shook my world up, 2 more in the witch series, and started another novel. I lost The Heart Of A Soldier to a hard drive disaster, and moved past that, one person will see the irony in that. I sent poem after poem to Paul and Adriana for the authors bios for The Hive Publications. I wrote song lyrics, and I wrote quotes. There was all of this "work". That is, EXACTLY WHAT IT WAS. It was hard work. It was grueling and terrifying at the same time. Because during the wave of words and feelings that I was forcing out of my body at the time, I was morphing and growing into who I had always been and suppressed. I had chosen not to suppress it anymore.
Back to last night, after all of the Jesus hating Starbuck's humor, we ended up at the coffee house with these friends, right?
When we were driving in to town, I was telling him about Kess' and I, the conversation we had the night before, small yet profound. To be vulnerable with M isn't easy. He isn't just my lover, he has become my friend. One of my best friend's. The type that gets to see every single fucking broken piece of you, and you're standing there totally spiritually naked waiting to see if they still love you.
Right before we went in I poured a little bit of my feelings out to M in the car. I can see him looking at me now. The wind was terrible, the lights from the parking lot were shining on his handsome face. Sometimes he probably gets tired of my ridiculous rambling. I said out loud that I realized I had started to lose a little bit of that woman I fought so hard to find over the last 8-ish months or so. And that I missed her. Not for any other reason than I was starting to forget. That's all. Just pushing through the day to day life and putting myself on the back burner, causes me to forget. Going back to the beginning, and re-reading it, helped me remember.
And THAT my fellow spiritual gypsy's is why we are who we are. We don't want to change it, we don't want to give it back. Living in a state of gratitude isn't easy, but it sure does help you see what you have right in front of your eyes. More importantly, it helps you recognize just how important the journey is.
“Would you tell me, please, which way I ought to go from here?'
'That depends a good deal on where you want to get to,' said the Cat.
'I don't much care where -' said Alice.
'Then it doesn't matter which way you go,' said the Cat.
'- so long as I get SOMEWHERE,' Alice added as an explanation.
'Oh, you're sure to do that,' said the Cat, 'if you only walk long enough.”
― Lewis Carroll,
The Hive Publications