Yesterday was bad.

In fact, I have been living day after day of bad.

For a really long time.

And I’m wearing down.

I am so horribly tired.

Yet sleep rarely comes because I am too stressed.

Or in those seconds before sleep comes, I find myself choking on tears that I was drowning in unnoticed.

And I jerk myself awake, seeking air and breath only to find myself too agitated to sleep.

I have been holding on to a tiny little thread, so worn it is almost invisible to the naked eye, that has been slowly leading me to the pinpoint of light I can almost see at the end of the tunnel.

For nearly 24 months I have been talking myself into a place of positivity, and I guess for nearly 24 months, I have been at least somewhat successful.

And today the string snapped and I am fighting to find a whisper of hope, unable to find that intentional place of positivity.

It isn’t working.

My ability to talk myself off the cliff is gone.

Today I am fighting ardently to not fall back into old patterns.

I have been working consciously, every single day, to build an internal foundation of trust.

I have been fighting to learn trust.

I have been fighting to practice trust.

And it has been harder than I can pretend to have the words to explain.

There are a small handful of people who have been able to break into my realm of trust.  A small circle of three.  But, a powerful circle.

And today the bomb was dropped.

And all I want to do it grab bricks and start to build myself back into a place of protected solidarity.  In frenzied urgency, all I want to do is layer brick upon brick and build a fortress without windows, doors or ladders and save myself from the risks that are inherent to relationships built on little more than trust.

I want to turn my back.

I want to tighten up my circle.

I want to be alone.

Although alone, in this case, is excruciatingly painful.

Alone in this case burns my lungs with each inhale and asphyxiates me with each exhale.

So, this is my battle.

Shut the door.

Run.

Hide.

Escape.

Trust only ends in pain.

But.

I REFUSE to fall into old patterns.

I refuse.

And my refusal is a battle.

A war.

A war I can’t face with my eyes open.

A war I am blindly fighting with an open heart.

And instead of losing myself at the bottom of another bottle mourning yet another lost relationship, I find myself cuddled up to the same bottle as a way to strengthen myself against my demons and face reality.

You know that alcohol-induced sensation of indestructibility?

I’m trusting my booze will bring me my cape and offer me the bravery to move forward.

Today with a conversation that lasted less than 30 seconds, my world dropped out from under me and a boulder somehow nudged itself into my gut.

My heart stopped.

I didn’t understand.

And I cried.

I sat on the couch in a catatonic state…unable to move.

Until my sweetest little Chicken came up to me, hugged me, looked me in the eye and reached her little arm out in front of her.

“Raise your hand like mine, mommy.  Put your hand on top of mine.”

So, I did, not really conscious of the tears rolling down my face.

“You’re Tinkerbell and I’m the Winter Fairy friend” she told me solemnly.

“It goes like this…say it with me”

Again, holding my gaze, she slightly lowered her hand down and then shot it into the air shouting “TRUST…and FAIRY DUST!”

“You always have to trust first. That is what Tinkerbell always says.”

And she is right.

My Chicken and Tinkerbell.

And although I think that whole saying is, “Faith, Trust and Pixie Dust” my little princess was on to something.

And she knew I needed to hear it.

You always have to trust first.

I slowly came out of my stupor.

And started to think.

Rationally.

The world didn’t end.

And although I’m not sure where the world will be tomorrow.

Or the next day.

The important thing is that today I don’t break a promised trust.

And not just any trust.

A trust that has been openly discussed.  Outlined.  Critiqued. Defined.

And a trust that has been lived.

A trust that has been the foundation of something that maybe never should have been.

But, blossomed into being because it was meant to be.

In this moment, burying myself and falling back into my world without trust is the easy choice.

But, I don’t want to go back there.

Ever.

I am fighting to believe in trust.

And it is a horribly scary place.

A place of vulnerability and unknown.

But, it is all I have.

I have no physical being.  I have no phone number. I have no address.

I have nothing left.

I have nothing, except, trust.

I only have trust that is based on an unforgiving and unconventional fidelity that maybe never should have existed.

But it did.

And I can only trust that it will continue.

Because somehow, even the rock in my guts can’t hide the intuitive spirits telling me that giving up trust, and giving up hope, is giving up everything.

And really.

I don’t have much.

And I don’t want to lose any more of what I have.

So, I am reminding myself that things will continue to get worse before they get better.

And since February, things have been on a consistent down hill slope.

So, I’ll fall.

And it isn’t graceful.

And it isn’t fun.

And I am bruised and hurt.

But, I trust.

And I will continue to trust

that it will be OK.

I just have to move forward and carry the tiny grains of trust I need to plant and sow gently in my hand.

And as I struggle to find rest tonight, I will not forget that this may indeed be my final exam on my lessons in Trust.

Trust in the moment.

Trust in the person.

Trust in the future.

Trust.

Trust and Pixie Dust.

I will be OK.

It will be OK.

I have to believe it will work.

I trust it will work.

I believe in trust.

(she said bravely)

Although I knew I HAD to go spend a month there if I wanted to ever finish my degree, it was a hard decision to make.

After a nightmare of a year created by a broken family and the chaos that dominates all that is and all that just might be with such a rupture, the last thing I wanted to do was leave my three Chickens behind for a month while I chased a dream.

Up until I actually got on the plane and stepped off in the middle of Lincoln, Nebraska, I struggled.

I struggled packing.

I struggling boarding the plane and sitting patiently as it jetted across the country.

The first morning I woke up, it was Mother’s Day.  I missed the Baby Chicken’s First Mother’s Day.

I went for a long run and slept in.  I probably did what most mom’s would have liked to do on a day celebrating motherhood:  do next to nothing and spend the day dibbling and dabbling in whatever struck my fancy.

But.

I missed my kids.

And then I moved into a dorm.

And it was horrible.

It was smelly and dank and lacked air.

It wasn’t pretty.

And then classes finally started.

And I came to appreciate the ease of education without the constraints of family obligations.

And along with classes and school work and networking, Nebraska was an essential time in my life for several reasons.

The first one I wrote about here.

I had forgotten about this post.

And I am glad I re-read it today.

Part of the power of last year was truly being challenged by people who knew I could, theoretically, overcome the chaos of my life.

And not only knew I could overcome the challenge, they expected me to.

No questions asked.

People set high expectations of me.

People who didn’t know me expected more of me than I could have possibly imagined.

People reminded me that, perhaps, if I took the time to open my eyes and focus on something more than living one breath at a time, I had more than a fighting chance of succeeding.

I came home from Nebraska energized.  And focused.  And determined.

And perhaps with a new sense of self and a new sense of confidence.

I think that I regained some of my trust in myself and my purpose.

The other side of Nebraska was the people.

I met some very important people, there.

I met faculty who have pushed me to work harder and better than I thought I could.

They challenged my ideas, they challenged my writing, they challenged my goals.

One specifically has pushed me to just be a better person.  To think harder, write more and with more passion, and not lose focus on becoming a fulfilled person so I can be a better parent.  He has become a mentor, a support, a critique and someone who has given me a shoulder to cry on and has pushed me out of his door with my arms poised and ready to take on whatever fight showed up next.

Another key person on my Nebraskan adventure turned out to be one of the best friends anyone could ever hope to encounter in life.

So key, in fact, that today we texted like teenage girls celebrating our one-year ‘Friend-aversay.”

What started out as his attempt to give me a “pity party” birthday dinner turned into a friendship that is undefinable in its reaches and its power.  As my faculty and peers were busy creating an esteem in my in terms of my ability to finish my degree and make something of myself, he was busy teaching me how to live again.

When I think of Nebraska, I think of countless hours in classrooms and sitting in front of a computer.

And I think of random laughing fits, adventures in the outskirts of Lincoln, story-telling, late night snacks, thunder storms, tears, promises and a dear, unexpected friendship.

The powers-that-be always talk about the idea of people coming into our lives at exactly the moment we need them.

Nebraska is my living example of this.

I needed faculty mentors to remind me that I was more than just a mom and more than just a struggling wanna-be academic.

And I needed a friend that reminded me I was human.  That it was OK to laugh and cry and struggle and fight and smile.

Although I think back and I know I missed my kids terribly when I was gone, Nebraska was when my life got “jump-started” into action again.

I needed the people who surrounded me.

I needed them to remind me that I was more than just a broken shell of a girl.

And although that session of study was a gift, I know that it was hard.

There were lots of tears and feelings of guilt and failure.

It was hard knowing that I wasn’t living up to the expectations people held for me.

And it was hard knowing that I wasn’t living up to the potential everyone seemed to see in me except myself.

It was also hard building a friendship.

I remember one day we were driving to dinner and he asked how my “chat” had gone with one of the professors.

The chat was based on one of those honest, yet raw truths that burns your soul as your digest it.

And I started crying before I could even say what the conversation went like.

(and in all honesty, that conversation was a HARD converation to have, but one that radically altered my world view.  It just might have been the hardest, yet most powerful conversation anyone has ever had with me…and although I think that she knew was she was doing, I am not quite sure she understood the depths her “pull your shit together” talk had on me)

He literally pulled the car over and looked me in the eye and said we would sit there until we figured it out.

It was odd.

It has been so long since anyone had taken that much interest in making sure I was OK.

It was an attention I didn’t quite know what to do with.

He said, “well, anyone would do it” – yet, the thing is, very seldom does someone care so much about your well being they drop everything they are doing to just give you a shoulder to lean on.

I think the power of that friendship is that he is my optimism when everything I am holding on to seems to be dipped in a slip layer of pessimism and disgust.

He reminds me to laugh and smile while I power through life.  He reminds that I am stronger than the problems I am facing.  He reminds me it is OK to struggle and that regardless, it will be OK in the end.

I consider myself very lucky for Nebraska.

Once upon a time, I was accepted to several other doctoral programs.  All programs I didn’t enroll it so I could focus on my family.

(i.e. my ex-husband didn’t support me, and I accepted his word as rule)

I enrolled in my current program due to the strange maze of life I wandered in when I was married.

But, I can say that enrolling in this program was the smartest thing I could have done.

Right in the moment in life I needed something to remind me of myself, I went to Nebraska and I was surrounded by people who ignited my passion for education and reminded me of who I am….

Who I am as a whole, living, breathing, loving person.

I’m not sure I would have gotten that anywhere else.

Nebraska was my saving grace.

And it continues to be.

The last few months have been admitted struggles for me.

And as I was sinking to a place of confusion, Nebraska came into my view again.

A group of my professors and student cohorts were in town for a conference.

And being surrounded by them was exactly what I needed.

My research partner was possibly the highlight.  We laughed and talked shop and solved the world’s problems.

He also kept me focused.

And made me feel protected.

And took me under his wing.

He was the big brother I needed…and handed me a napkin when tears started to roll down my face and plop into our presentation notes freely and promised me nobody noticed me crying.

I met with faculty who were just as intent on me getting through this program with as much success as quickly as humanly possible.

And we laughed and shared stories.

We talked politics after having too much wine with dinner and I somehow convinced the department head to give me a job teaching yoga as part of a wellness program in the department.

And it felt good to be part of something.

The last year has been an adventure for me.

It has been hard.

But, so much has been so good.

And I thank Nebraska for helping create my path and helping me succeed.

And I thank my Nebraska partner in crime for helping me keep my head above water these last 12 months.  We text, like I mentioned before, like teenage girls, but, we are each other’s support systems and probably number one fans.   He is the definition of a true friend and I am grateful and thankful for every little text I get.

And it sounds silly, but in a moment of practicing gratitude, I am so thankful for the people, faculty and student cohorts alike, who have helped me regain a sense of self and a sense of purpose.  Earning a PhD is a pretty amazing thing.  But, in truth, the PhD is just a silly piece of paper with a title I am going to (eventually) walk away with. The power of the degree is embedded in the people.

And for them, I am thankful.

So, cheers to Nebraska.

And thank you.

I couldn’t have made it this far without you.

Pinky Swear.

Well.

Kinda.

It’s my birthday.

I remember being a kid and LOVING my birthday.  I see that with my kids.  They look forward to their birthdays like they do Christmas morning.  And really, why wouldn’t they? Presents, cake, and being the center of attention.

A day when you world stops and people celebrate you…for the pure and simple fact you are you and you exist.

Good stuff.

I think that I stopped caring about my birthday years ago.

Which is somewhat sad, in retrospect, because it means I stopped thinking that I was worth celebrating for the pure and simple fact I existed.

Which eased fluidly into my belief that disappearing, or living as invisibly as possible, was the right way to live.

The easy way.

The appropriate way.

The necessary way.

Last year on my birthday, one of my best friends in the whole wide world took me to dinner at a beautiful restaurant during an impressive thunder and lightening storm and insisted we order chocolate cake for dessert, in honor of my birthday.

Perhaps it was a turning point birthday, or perhaps it was just the person, but it was the first time I had had a birthday in years when someone went out of their way to just dedicate time and intention to me, and me alone, on my birthday.

It was the first time that someone pushed aside life and said, “Let’s go.  Cancel everything else.  This is time to celebrate you.”

So, this year I’m trying to take some of the birthday wisdom from my kids and the special intentions from a special friend and make my birthday special.

That means a morning of yoga with my favorite yogis and an afternoon at my favorite cupcake bakery with my kids.

A time to celebrate me and a time to celebrate my kids.

Nothing extraordinarily special or ostentatious.   Just enough to bring a smile to my face and a smile to the face of my kids.

So – what is next.

I guess in the last 12 months since my last birthday, I have done a lot of growing up.  I have changed fairly significantly.  I am more focused and a bit more determined than before.  I am closer to wrapping up some important projects.  And I was able to do things I never quite thought I would actually do.   I have deepened some powerful relationships. I have made new ones.  I have slowly let dying relationships burn out.  I have slowly started to learn trust again and have started to be more astute and sometimes more generous in the people I share my trust with.  I’ve faced physical and emotional exhaustion and survived.  I have fought battles and come to understand losing from a whole new light.  In my losses I have learned the value of picking my battles.  I think I also might have learned the power of loss and slowly am accepting the consequences of loss as part of the cycle of life.

In the world of numerology, a complete “life cycle” consists of a nine year rotation.  Although I am officially in a “9 year” – I can say that unofficially, it makes sense that the last year has been a struggle and a period of tying things up and exploring new life options as it was a “9 year” in terms of my married self.  The last year has been hard.  It has worn me down past the point of anger and bitter, into a land of easy resignation and in many cases, apathy.

But, it is just part of the cycle.

Today is the start of a new year for me.

And like I mentioned before, I’m starting it from a point of celebration with yoga, a short run and cake…probably lots of cake.

In the big book of life, I’m still wavering dangerously close to the land of failure.  I am still tired and disheartened.  But, I’m embracing hope and respecting the ebb and flow of time to bring back some of the illusions to life I have misplaced.

That means I am going to trust myself, regardless of how challenging, uncomfortable, or hopeless something seems, I will hang on for another day.

It means I am going to push myself to finish projects that once seemed daunting and impossible.  Like finishing my Ph.D.

I am going to bravely face goals that I have continually turned my head away from over the last 12 months of out fear of failure, such as finishing one of the many manuscripts I have started, one specifically promised to my Fairy Blog Mother at Redmund Productions many many many months ago.

I am going to start to practice more patience, something I tell my son to do about a million times a day.   I need to start taking my own advice.  Magic doesn’t happen immediately. It takes time.  I need to embrace the passing of time, even when it is painful or frustrating,  and accept it for what it brings with it.  I guess this means that I am accepting the saying “Good things come to those who wait” in a way that suggests to power on, move forward, trust and work  and when the right time has come, it will have been worth it.  This is admittedly a hard lesson for me.  Incredibly hard.

Yet, it is probably one of the lessons in life I need to work on the most.

Practicing patience.

And this practice means trusting that what I am working toward, or waiting on, is the right thing to do.

Even when it is hard.

Especially when it is a struggle.

And obviously when its seems impossible.

I survived the last year.

A year that started with spending time with a loved one and cake.

I’ll survive the next one, too.

And will start it with loved ones and cake.

The lesson in this?

Add loved one and cake, and everything will be OK.

Happy Birthday in the Candy Jar.

Half naked people painted in iridescent swirls of body lacquer twirled together on the dance floor.  Colored lasers slicing through the black abyss of dancers articulated the chaos of the scene and the frenzied energy of the party.

It was, by no doubt, a visual buffet for the virgin eye of a first time raver.

Flash in the Pan is brought to you by the amazing Red of M3 fame

This week’s word is Buffet. The word limit is 150 words. This one comes in at 112.

Hashtags: #flashfiction #getpublished

I mean, you know that the lie is a lie.

Other people know that the lie is a lie.

The liar knows the lie is a lie.

But, the liar keeps lying, unwilling to rescind the lie.

How long do you wait before you just wash your hands of the deceit and accept that regardless of what is, the liar will never actually come clean with the truth?

And your world will just continue to pass by, you knowing that the person you once held confidence in, is indeed a liar.

And I’m not talking about the little white lies you tell.

But, the big lies.

Lies with a capital L.

The lies that make the world change in ways that are unimaginable and sometimes horrifying.

How long do you wait?

I mean, the rational side of me says, “Why the fuck wait?!  You know he’s a liar. Let go of it”

The emotional side of me won’t let go of the idea that I at least deserve the truth. Or perhaps not even the true story, but the admittance, that “Yes, yes I lied.”

Which then invites the question, “Do I deserve the truth?” Or, perhaps, is the truth reserved for more “special” people?

I’d say I (as in anyone) is  deserving of the truth mainly because I am a human who should be treated with a grounding respect that all humans deserve.

Especially when the lies are directly relevant to me.

They are, in fact, somehow, my lies.

They are mine because they impact my reality and the way I can manipulate my reality.

On the other hand.

I know, I can’t control – or even pretend to influence, someone else and the manner they choose to live.

So.

Here lies the question.

When do you wash your hands?

And is washing your hands of the lie the same as washing your hands of the person?

In this case, I think that it does.

I may not be able to wash my hands cleanly of the individual (that makes me think mafia movies, garbage dumps, ports at dusk and heavy garbage bags), I think that it means washing my hands cleanly of the history I share with this person that I have been barely hanging on to these past few years.

Maybe I’m not ready to disregard this person of the only good I have left in his name.

But, rationally.

I need to be ready to do this.

I need to let go of a false remembrance of a life once lived to be able to move on to living another life.

And letting go of that last iota of respect is hard.

But, letting go of respect for him also means I am opening the door of self-respect.

And I need a bit more of that.

In fact, I deserve more of that.

But, that doesn’t make releasing a past, a meaningful past, go easy.

The angry side of me wants to hold on to the past so I can be resentful of what I lost.

The loving side of me wants to let go of the past and the emotions that it brings with me to the present and wash my hands.  This cleansing will allow me to forgive.  Forgive him for the lies.  Forgive myself for accepting the lies. Forgive myself for reacting to the lies the way that I have.

The bittersweet side of me is afraid to let it go, thinking that if I do, I’m erasing a part of my life I have a severe love-hate relationship with.

And maybe letting it go and erasing it will do more harm than good.

That being said, obviously, forgiveness is the right answer.

Forgiveness where I can take the good from the bad and accept the bad as part of the journey and then suck the good out of the bitter that was left over.

But, we also know that the “right” thing isn’t necessarily the “easy” thing to do either.

I am not sure that I am ready to be done being hurt.

Mainly because I KNOW that the hurt still impacts how I am living my life now.

The hurt protects me.

And putting down the Shield of Hurt puts me in a very delicate place of vulnerability.

And who wants to be vulnerable when you can be safe and feel protected from harm?

This makes me think of a conversation I had with one of my bestest friends the other day.

Not to spill his beans, but we were talking about how for him to be able to love someone again after being heart-shattered, he needed to throw the dice and give love a try again.

I said something about, “take a risk” and all that jive.

Advice I wholeheartedly agree with.

The basic premise is that to overcome a fear of something, you have to face it again…and face it recognizing and accepting the inherent risks it involves.

In his case, that means facing his fear of another bout of heart-shattering, actually date someone with the mental space for falling in love, and realize that it just might not work out again and his heart might once again be smashed into a million different pieces.

And I guess, somehow, that needs to be my own advice.

Wash my hands of the past.

Wash my hands of the lies.

Let go of what was.

Move on.

Knowing.

Fearfully, yet bravely knowing, that it could happen again.

Yet, until I wash my hands of the residue of the pain and the hurt and the responsibility of what went wrong, I can’t move forward.

I have to wash my hands.

I have to rinse away the past and the person.

Scrub the stains.

Accept the scars.

And release him of the responsibility of sharing his truth with me.

Because, in the end, even though his truth created severe consequences and implications in my world, it is still not my truth.

It is his.

And I have no right to it.

And never will.

Washing my hands will allow me to finally disconnect.

Perhaps give me a breath of peace.

I’ll never know the truth.

And I think I’m OK with that now.

I can only wash my hands.

Not his.

Creating this safe space of distance between us is a powerful idea.

It means that I can pick and choose pieces of him and our life together that write the story I want to pass on to my kids.

I can leave the rest behind.

I am no longer responsible for it.

And it is no longer is caked on my hands, like the clay buried deep within the earth.

And it is no longer staining my finger nails and drying my skin.

His truth is my deception.

I can’t deal with the truth.

But, I am accepting the deception.

And I’m OK.

I’m more than OK actually.

I’m good.

So, as far as when do you wash you hands?

I think I answered my own question.

Hopeful faces stepped gingerly onto the deck of the extravagant boat and were directed down a narrow set of steps, single-file, into the dark innards of the ship, leaving the idyllic ocean weather behind.

They twisted through the dank hallways of the floating palace, seeing nothing that resembled the life of folly they were expecting.

The adventure began where the extravagance ended: clanking pots, steaming grills, chopping knives and chefs mumbling in the overheated galley.

Maybe this touted “summer dream job” wasn’t quite as dreamy as the advertisement made it seem

Flash in the Pan is brought to you by the amazing Red of M3 fame

This week’s word is Galley. The word limit is 150 words. This one comes in at 141.

Hashtags: #flashfiction #getpublished

See the pretty picture linked to this post?

Yep.

The big blue book.

It is a REAL BOOK!  With pages and paper and a cover, spine and numerated pages.

Flash in the Pan: Wave of Emotion

(It is also available on Kindle, PDF, and ePub)

And look closely at the cover, my dear readers.

One of those beautiful names decorating the cover of this beautiful piece of work is MY NAME!

Yep.

Thanks to the Wonders That Be at the M3 blog, Redmund Productions and 15 other amazingly creative and inspiring authors, a book has been published, and is available for purchase, that contains the Spring 2013 Flash Fiction entries all wrapped up into one lovely book.

The best part is…you may have followed Flash Fiction on my blog, or that of some of my peers, but Red at Redmund Productions has also included several surprises, including Flashes that have not been previously published (yep!  I have quite a few of those little surprises hidden away in the depths of this book)

Flash Fiction is a very  entertaining and very challenging genre of writing.  It is also fun to read.  Each story consists of a very tiny word limit (somewhere between 50-150) and a key word.  The talented authors in this amazing book take you on jumps and dives and an emotional roller coaster as your speed through the different interpretations of words.

I am especially proud of this book for several reasons.

First, it makes me published!  It is my first cover credit in a book.  VERY cool!

Second, it was a CHALLENGE for me.  My writing genre is “academic” and definitely not creative.  So, reaching outside of my comfort zone exploring this genre and having the opportunity to be recognized for it is pretty awesome.

Third, it made me think.  I am not a concise person by any stretch of the imagination.  Having the limited word count made me challenge myself to think in powerful words to create powerful pictures using a very limited space.  I really liked it and I think that as you see my flashes develop in the book, they seem (at least to me) to get better. Practice makes perfect, right?

So – thank you SO MUCH Fairy Blog Mother for introducing this style of writing to me and sending me pounds and loads of support and love…giving me a little bit of happy to work toward when I needed it. You also gave me a boost of confidence when I lacked it.

And attempting to come to an end of a shameless plug for a book I am exceedingly proud of, be sure to pick your copy up.  It is enjoyable reading and will keep you entertained and your imagination running.

And there is little doubt my Flashing Addiction will subside.

Stay Tuned

(and share the book with your friends!)

Remember that saying?

Or are at least familiar with something close to it?

This is an idea that has been haunting me for months.

And within the span of months, days have turned into centuries, hours into decades, minutes into years and even the mere seconds ticking away on the wall clock come far and few between.

Decisions are a struggle for me.

Even deciding what to eat at a restaurant or what drink to order at the local coffee house takes me too long.

Weighing my options.

Thinking of consequences.

Wondering about the outcome.

Will it taste good.

Is it fresh?

Is it healthy?

Would I feed it to my kids?  If not, why should I eat it?

Does it taste good?

Will it makes me sick?

Will it smell funny?

Will I have leftovers?

What if I don’t like it?

Will I throw it away?

Will I waste it?

Will I waste money on it?

What if?

And really.

Who cares.

It is a mere decision that will impact one tiny corner of my life for an insignificant period of time.

It isn’t a bridge.

I’m not jumping to save myself.

I’m not jumping to die.

I’m ordering a sandwich.

Now imagine how convoluted my brain gets when I’m attempting to make a big decision.

One that involves real consequences.

A decision that entails people and feelings and emotions and long term implications, that truly, are irreversible.

I smother myself in fear of the unknown.

And that is what it comes down to.

Am I brave enough to make a choice that leads me into a rabbit hole decorated in the “what ifs” and “unknowns” that make me shudder?

Or not?

And sometimes it isn’t about bravery.

Decisions, especially the ones that come with the struggles burning deeply into our core, are based on value.

Does the value of what we are looking for bear more weight than the struggle of maintaining it.

Basic cost-loss analysis, right?

Staying, and fighting for the relationship is worth the struggle that comes with it.

Staying in the relationship will bring me greater benefit, even if staying means current struggle, pain, or fear – then walking away now.

Staying might mean that the NOW is hard and walking might mean that NOW is better.

But -

big picture?

Is the struggle of now going to bring a better future?

Is it worth the fight?

Such a good question.

Dealing with the unknown is hard.

Once upon a time, if you had asked me what my greatest fear was, I think that I might have said something along the lines of having a physical incapability.

Now?

The unknown.

The unknown scares the shit out of me because after having lived in such a state of unknown for so long, an unknown that seems to not have a light at the end of the tunnel, I know how physically, emotionally, and mentally debilitating the unknown is.

So – walk away from pain and struggle of today into a perceived land of better – yet, a land of better means walking into the unknown.

Or, sticking with something that is bad.  And bad in a way that might vary…but, a constant struggle you can expect and prepare for.  And perhaps a bad that won’t get any better.  Or perhaps it will (hello, Unknown).  But, at least sticking around will give you consistency, even if it is a negative consistency.

It is hard.

And the answer lies in yourself

(go figure)

The answer lies in making a decision about self worth.

How much are you willing to negotiate to appease someone else?

How much are you willing to negotiate for an unknown future?

How much can you bend and still forgive yourself.

If you are in a relationship where there is too much compromise in areas that are important to you and change isn’t evident, you have to ask yourself the question, “How much do I really need this relationship”

And then you draws some lines.

And sometimes drawing lines takes years.

For example, I was best friends with a certain girl for at least 15 years.

The relationship was valuable.

And in the midst of my life unraveling, she called and left a voice mail saying I was a horrible friend and a horrible person.

I had just left an appointment with a therapist and was feeling strong in my ability to make good decisions.

So, I deleted her message.

I deleted her contact information.

I blocked her on FB and…

And I never heard from her again.

And I have not bothered to rekindle the friendship.

I decided to walk away.

That decision has come with some serious consequences.

She was truly a dear friend for many years.  She was a thread woven through my high school years, college, and even throughout my marriage.

And now I no longer have her. For laughs and cries and adventures and advice and all that comes with friendship.

And there are days when I am admittedly lonely.

But, I also do not have to be accursed of being a horrible person.  I decided that being called a horrible person at the lowest point of my emotional life wasn’t something I needed or could deal with.

There are days when I miss her.

But, I do not regret walking away and I probably will never work to rekindle that relationship.

But there are others.

More recent.

Relationships which have asked me to call into question who I am, what I want, what I need, and what I am willing to negotiate in terms of maintaining a seemingly difficult relationship.

Perhaps because so much is so new in my life, making a decision is so much harder than the broken relationship I just explained.

So, I struggle with it.

And it is hard.

And every moment I come to a place of “walk away, Candy” I stop myself, reassess, re-evaluate, re-think and even recover.

And I stay.

Because I still haven’t confidently decided that my life would be better without that relationship.

But that doesn’t take away the struggle of the relationship.

Or the headaches, stress,  and fear that come with it.

It leaves me with a small reminder of my humanity that I constantly think is gone.

It leaves me with a shadow of hope.

Hope that the fight of keeping it together, working through the struggle and patiently waiting and proactively creating are going to be worth it in the long run.

It also leaves me with a breath of faith that sometimes, waiting for what can’t be yours immediately has great pay-offs in the end.

It is teaching me patience.

And it is teaching me self preservation.

And it is reminding me to trust.

Trust in people. In circumstances. In self.

But, it doesn’t make it any easier.

But, easy doesn’t always mean better, either.

It means that sometimes we take risks and work towards things that we think are valuable.

Recognizing that life is gamble.

And that sometimes we throw away 15 year relationships in the face of saving self.

And sometimes we throw fear into the wind and believe that the person standing on the other side of struggle is worth it.

And sometimes we win.

Other times we don’t.

But, we do it consciously.

With an open heart.

Trusting ourselves to be true to ourselves…even when True hurts and doesn’t always work out.

So, is there an answer to the riddle “choosing to stay or choosing to walk away?”

Probably not a cut-and-dried one.

More like having an honest conversation with yourself. Where you lay out the benefits and the consequences, and openly admit to your fears and your desires and trusting yourself with your decision and sticking with it, accepting the good with the bad.

And being forgiving.

We will make bad choices along with the good.

But, as long as you can stand next to them – head in the air, I’d say you made the right choice.

Long story short?

Make a choice you can stand behind.

If you can’t stand behind it, you probably didn’t make the right one.

As for me?

Well, people have been gently removed from my life. Some have noticed and we’ve figured it out.  Others haven’t seemed to care, or haven’t noticed.  And a few special others are works in motion; figuring themselves out in the way they are supposed to be.

Think close to your heart.  Stand strong or walk with determination.

You’ve got this.

I think that just maybe, I do, too.

Nobody was who they seemed.

Corruption cloaked in small town perfection; secrets uncovered by the local busboy at the ripe age of 16.

Flash in the Pan is brought to you by the amazing Red of M3 fame…also warmly referred to as my Fairy Blog Mother

This week’s word is Busboy. The word limit is 75 words. This one comes in precisely at 75.

Hashtags: #flashfiction #getpublished

But, there was also a glimmer of amazing.

My divorce finalized approximately one month ago today.

And a day after the “official-ness” of my single-ness came into reality, I had a friend who insisted on a party.

And although I wanted to just call it a marriage and move on, she insisted we celebrate.

She is also the friend that says, “You are going to be SO MUCH FUN when you graduate” since her repeated efforts at getting me to do anything besides school work, writing and studying have been only semi-successful.

So, knowing I wouldn’t ever actually GO with her to celebrate, we went to a night of Hot Yoga.

And we sweated out the toxins in our bodies while laughing as the sweat from out legs dripped into out eyes in inverted poses.

And then she said, “We’re eating Indian.  To get in touch with our yoga-selves”

And since my Chickens were spending the night with their dad, I had no excuse as to why I couldn’t go.

So, we went.

And randomly, we met two of my other favorite yogis in the world.

And oddly, these people all represent the Past, Present, and Future of my life.

My past is the yogi who I attended high school with.  We rocked the marching band together, and although he grew up to be a legitimately cool person making waves in the music world, I have long left my musical roots and maintained my status as a nerd.

The present is represented by the woman who introduced me to yoga.  I met her before the divorce happened, and have practiced with her ever since.  She is the true Karma Yogi and has put me through some of the most emotionally laden practices I could have imagined.

The future is represented by another yoga practitioner. I met her at my first yoga class. Little did I know when I met her,  she would become such a powerful friend.  A person who I met in passing would quite literally hold my hand through all the nightmare that I didn’t realize was waiting for me.

The night of my “End of Marriage” celebration, myself with my Past, Present and Future all came together eating Tika Chicken and drinking bloody Mary’s in an Indian restaurant, stuffed into a strip mall about a mile away from my house.

And it was the PERFECT night.

In all our yogic glory, we celebrated how each person came into my life and we celebrated my life.

We celebrated all our lives and how they have all become intertwined.

They helped me appreciate the past, embrace the present, and plan for the future.

There were a lot of tears.

but, there was a lot of laughter.

And planning.

Lots of planning.

And maybe that was another highlight.

And a lesson.

Your past, present and future always will merge.

And they will merge at a time that you need to feel whole again

and you need to recognize the importance of your past, present and future.

It was a powerful night.

It was my life somehow flashing before my eyes.

And it was beautiful because at a time when I needed to remember I was actually an important person, people from all aspects of my life convened to remind me.

And oddly, if you had asked me, who would have been my “people” after my life once again seemed to shatter on the floor of a court room, I never would have named any of them.

But.

That “wrap” party wouldn’t have worked with anyone else.

That whole idea of the right people showing up at the right time at the right place to make the right things happen couldn’t have been more true that night.

I needed these people.

To remind me who I was.

To forgive me for not being who I should have been.

And to help me remember who I am going to be.

It was a very needed night.

And it allowed me to come to peace with my life…and where my life is…and where it is going.

It allowed me to embrace the unknown with confidence.

And it gave me the confidence to accept the unknown.

And somehow, the party made being divorced OK.

I woke up, with a slight headache I might add,

(and by slight I mean a headache the size of Indian Bloody Marys)

ready to move on.

The night of yoga and spicy vodka goodness was my “pass” card to the future.

It closed out what was done without ignoring the power of the past and I felt like it was OK to move on.

Even now, looking back on that messy day in the court room, I am OK.

Everyone said I would be.

And I kinda believed them.

But, I am.

I am sad over the loss of a marriage that maybe never should have been.

I am sad my kids won’t know what it is like to have their parents in a loving, committed relationship.

I am sad that my “once upon a time” dreams of marriage and white picket fences and American dreams was just a farce, with me, perhaps, being the brunt of the joke.

I am sad.

But.

I am OK.

Moving on.

I’m not even bothering to sift though any of the bullshit that I left behind on the court room floor or kick away the flaming bags of shit someone constantly is leaving by my feet.

I’m just leaving it behind.

Letting it collect dust.

Gingerly stepping around the fires and hoping the embers will die out by themselves.

Hopefully to decompose.

Or not.

After a night with three pivotal people, creating a tripod of support I didn’t realize I needed, I made peace with myself and my life.

Even though my peace was made in a vodka induced fog while in a headstand on a cork floor in the middle of the suburbs, it was peace.

And it is good.

Life is hard.

And it is complicated.

And the last month has been an emotional challenge.

But.

I am at peace with this reality.

No longer a Mrs.

No longer Separated.

No longer Divorcing.

Just me.

Single.

Wonderful.

Me.

So, I’m making the call.

My marriage is officially a wrap.