All Is Vanity

It's just me...

2011-08-19T21:41:00.000-06:00

So, what to do with me. The real me?

These thoughts have been spinning in my head since last Summer. After writing a book about how to accept yourself as you are... I couldn’t move on from such a small event. It was frustrating at first, surely if I could write a book about it I could remember to live it.

There are a lot of things about me that I’d like to change, but I’m reaching an age where I am going to have to accept that some of them are here to stay. At forty, I don’t have a lot of growing up left to do. I’m probably stuck with a lot of my personality, like it or not.

I talk a lot. At this point, it’s just me.

I think way too much. That’s probably just me too.

I am way too cautious, yep. You got it.

I have a deep need to feel safe.

I have a deep need to love and be loved.

I’ve had to accept that I have PTSD, there is nothing else I can do. In doing so, I’ve realized that I have to stop fighting it and start learning to live with it. Loud noises will always startle me. I will never be comfortable in public places. It will always be hard for me to sit with my back exposed.

As I wondered how I was going to live with these things... I realized that I was already have. My odd life is my coping mechanism. It’s how I have learned to survive. It might not work for someone else, it might not make sense to anybody else but it works for me. As odd as it may be, it really does work for me.

So, if I have to live a bit differently than the rest of the world, I’m okay with that.

I am a strong person.

2011-08-14T10:32:00.000-06:00

At least that’s what other people think.

What would they think if they knew that what they see in public, and who I am in private are two different things.

What if they knew that a conversation I overheard a year ago has made me question everything about who I am and what I am doing. It has made me tear myself apart every single facet of my existence, everything I am, everything I do. Am I really the person that other people see?

They didn’t really like being around me they said, because I talk too much and always focus the attention on myself. They dislike being around me so much, that they don’t visit people we know.

The strong girl that everybody else sees reacted by saying “Oh, well.”

The girl I really am was crushed beyond belief. It hurt more than the people who said it would ever know, because at this point, even a year later, the thought of letting them close to me again is still terrifying. I am honestly not sure if I will ever be able to see them again.

There was more to the conversation than that of course, and none of it was meant to be hurtful. It wouldn’t have hurt anybody else. But I am the girl with a heart of glass. I wanted their love so badly, that whenever I was around them I did my best to show them what a Big Girl I’ve become. I’m not the child they once knew. The irresponsible mess of a girl. When I get nervous I talk too much, and yes... I dominate a conversation. I don’t mean to, it has always embarrassed me deeply, but I’d finally come to a point where I was comfortable with that person. I’d learned to keep it under control.

They didn’t even see it. They didn’t even see me.

My heart... is a gift. I give it to people warily. Once they break it, I am not likely to give it back again. This is the strong person that everybody else sees. It is only my shell that is strong, inside I question everything everybody says about me. My mind hears them, and just accepts that they must be true. If someone hurts me, I still to this day assume it is because I asked for it somehow.

But... lately, I’ve been wondering... what has all of this living for other people done for my life?

That I allowed a handful of people to bring me to my knees isn’t something I am proud of. That it affected my writing, my self-image, my-self worth... yeah. That’s pretty pathetic.

But something new came out of that.

Perhaps is was my friend Robert’s Facebook lectures on selfishness that got to me.

All of my life I have been taught that selfishness was bad and should be avoided at all costs. That’s why those comments got to me, that thinking of ourselves is wrong. I’ve put myself aside for others to the point of sacrificing my health, I’ve tried to be there for anybody and everybody whenever they needed me. My door is open anytime day and night for friends in crisis, my home is always open to those who need a safe place, my ear is always available... In order to make sure that everybody else's needs are met, but in order to do it I neglect my own needs.

I’m still not really clear on what my own needs really are.

Robert comes along and says that selfishness isn’t real.

So, I started thinking about my own needs more. Then I felt selfish. I started trying to live for myself... and everyone wanted to know why I wasn’t there for them anymore. The funny thing... I don’t think they realized what I was doing for them until I stopped.

I started setting more boundaries with others, and I got called a bitch. That kinda hurt... at first... but now I’m wondering if bitch really means a non-doormat-female.

The people who broke my heart? At this point as far as I know they are oblivious. They probably don’t even remember the conversation. But it changed my life. It took awhile to get there... but I was living a life on stage just for them, and they weren’t even in the audience. They already knew all they needed to know about me and that was that.

I am a survivor, reinventing myself is a specialty of mine. So what to do with the real me then?

We’ll get to that next time.

Really a struggle...

2011-08-13T09:59:00.002-06:00

It has become difficult for me to leave the house again. The doctors are convinced that it is depression. I will concede that it is escapism, but Depression and I know one another well... and this is not it. I am frustrated. Plainly and simply frustrated.

I have a brain the wants to live the life of two people, and a body that can barely live half of a life. I hide it as much as I can, but sometimes when someone criticizes me about still being in bed at 3 PM... I want to scream. You have no freaking clue how hard it is for me to just get through a normal day. For most people, their morning routine is something that they just float through without even thinking. For me, it sometimes takes all day if I get there at all.

I have an engine that is always revving, but my parking brake is stuck. But I do my best to pretend I’m just like everybody else.

Then, I hear a rumor that I am on meth. At first I laughed. I knew who had started it, and considering the source I’ve heard worse. The rumor wasn’t what bothered me, it was the fact that I have worked so damned hard to overcome a disability the state rated as the highest level... and I’ve very proudly did it as pharmaceutical free as possible. I never went on SSI. I had to give in and get some assistance, but I got by with as little as possible. Food and medical. A lot of help from friends and family. But we’ve stood on our own two feet as much as possible. We have fought our way through hell and back.

And the rumor around town was that my weight loss was meth.

That people I considered friends were unaware of a five year illness changed my perspective on friendship. I spent the last few years of my life losing my lunch. My diet has been liquids and crackers. Sometimes I could eat a normal meal, but most of the time it was I went from 185 to 125 and then I got better. I had every right to feel good about myself. I want to feel good about myself. But there is this nagging thought in the back of my head... I know it shouldn’t break my heart. But it does...

You Call me a Freak Like It's a Bad Thing

2011-07-18T02:01:00.003-06:00

I got called a freak again tonight...

Okay, I get it... I’m weird. Can we move along yet? People seem to view me a lot like sauerkraut. Some people love it. Some people hate it. But rarely are people indifferent.

I don’t really understand why some people are so bothered by the way I am, but I’ve learned to live with it. I’m not really Goth, at least not according to my Goth friends. Though some joke that I was just Goth before Goth was Goth.

I’m still an old metal head from time to time, but I couldn’t live with my husband without a little bit of him rubbing off on me. He's a bit on the dark side. I’m not really a hippie, but I have my Birkenstock days. Some of my clothes are more romantic. Some of my outfits are retro, 50’s, 60’s, 70’s, and 80’s. Some of them are just odd.

I wear them to make me happy, not to please others. But judging from the looks I get from some people... that’s one of those rules that I must have missed in “Human Rules 101.”

I know the book exists, most of my family members have a copy hidden somewhere in the dusty attic of their minds. They cite it often, but I still just don't get it. I don’t understand why the random people who give me dirty looks, but I’m guessing they must have gotten a copy too.

They seem to know exactly how to live their lives in a way that keeps others happy... but I guess since I never got my copy I missed the point of living my life so that other people will be happy.

Why do people who think that calling me a freak is actually an insult?

I tried. Believe me, I tried. It’s never really worked out so well.

Just about the time I had one set of rules figured out someone else came along with what seemed to be a completely different set of regulations. Some in my life might have needed a wagon to cart their do’s and don’t around. I’ve lived a life pinned in on all sides by rules. Don’t do this. Don’t do that. Do it better. Do it faster. Just do it.

I tried so hard to make them all happy. Sometimes I still find myself struggling with that need. Trying to be the person everybody else wants me to be. Sometimes it is so bad I can’t stand the thought of leaving the house.

Knowing that I can’t gain some peoples approval no matter how hard I try is just too much for me to bear at times. I’ve tried and I’ve tried to fit into that box they have laid out for me but it was never my box in the first place.

Living for other people didn’t make them happy. Living for other people made me miserable.

I used to dream that someday I would stumble across a lost copy of “Human Rules 101,” and upon reading it I would be magically transported to the land of normal. I would stop talking so much. I would be able to control my train of thought for more than a few seconds between de-railings. I would know which clothes were acceptable and which weren’t. I wouldn’t have a way of always saying the wrong thing.

That’s why I became a writer in the first place. Because, in my writing I have some control. If I say something I shouldn’t have I can go back and fix it. I can keep my thoughts in place. I can hide my most embarrassing traits. I can get the words out of my head and onto paper and they finally make some sort of sense. I hide behind my writing a lot. I’m aware of it, but there are a lot worse things I could be doing.

And... what artist doesn’t hide behind their art a little?

I don’t mind being a freak anymore though.

I am living my life for me now.

Many Faces

2008-11-11T22:02:00.000-07:00

Over there I see a child alone on a swing set. The other children laugh and play but not this one. This one watches her feet as they make patterns in the soft sand. Her chubby fingers grip the cold chains and she tries not to watch the other children, tries not to wish she was among them.

There was an ice cream party today, all of the kids did something well, there was a cooler full of ice cream bars. She stood in line with the other children waiting her turn, but when she got there, the teacher laughed and said there wasn’t enough for her.

She didn’t argue, she just sat on the swing and watched the other kids eat theirs. She did not tell her family or her friends. Instead it was another teacher who witnessed it that shared the story. “Why didn’t you tell us?” The questions came.

The little girl did not have answers.

Every time she was alone with a man, it seemed they had their hands on her. Touching her in ways a child should never be touched. Such a good little girl, doing as she’s told. She tried to tell the adults, but they never seemed to hear her.

She decided that this is just the way life must be. A body for touching, a little girl for making adults happy, innocence to be taken. This must just be the way things are. It wasn’t until she told the other little girls, and saw the look of shock on their faces that she understood.

This was not normal, this was just her normal.

I see another girl, a teenager, she can’t look people in the eye, she can’t look in the mirror. Everything she sees before her is bad, something is so wrong with her that she can’t stand to look at it. Sometimes she doesn’t talk at all, others she gets so nervous her mouth refuses to stop.

The boys tell her she is pretty, and she believes them. Then she can’t understand why they leave when she gives them what they want. Sometimes they are mean to her, tell her what she is. Trading her body for love and only getting a cheap imitation.

She doesn’t understand.

She does not love herself, she doesn’t particularly like herself. She accepts that she is damaged goods. Nobody will ever want her, nobody will ever love her. This again is just how life is. She doesn’t know how to fight it, so she just accepts it.

In alcohol tainted memories she recalls the feeling of flesh on flesh. This is the only form of love she has ever, or will ever know. Each morning when she awakes, she knows she is a horrible person, but each night she longs to be held again if only for awhile.

A little love is better than no love at all.

Another girl is on a first date that seems so promising. He is kind and gentle as he takes her hand and leads her into the night. He slides his hands down her pants and she begs him to stop. He can’t hear her. Even when her pleas becomes screams, he still can’t hear her.

Later when she is alone, she falls to her knees and cries. When she remembers it, even years later she remembers the look in his eyes. His hunger for her, the way he grabbed for her even as people began flooding into the room.

She was more embarrassed about the people that the rape.

Sometimes she sees him and her heart stops, most of the time she doesn’t think about him at all. If she does her stomach clenches, and sometimes she vomits until there is nothing left. Only then does she understand, he owns her and he knows it.

Then, after awhile being alone isn’t so bad. It used to hurt, but now she feels nothing. Even when he screams at her, she feels nothing. Whatever life was inside of her is gone. She is dead, a reanimated corpse going through the motions of life. Better to be dead than feel.

She envies the dead, they feel nothing.

Then I see another young woman. Thankful for the love she has. Even with her back against the wall, his hand on her throat, fingers digging into her jaw, he loves her. There will be bruises tomorrow, by now she accepts this. If she could just learn not to argue.

Sometimes he hurts her, now and then he hits her, sometimes he doesn’t talk to her at all. She hears the hushed conversations on the telephone, she smells the scent of a woman on him, she knows but she doesn’t want to know. He says she is crazy.

She knows she is crazy, she can’t help it.

She clings to him even harder, and he slips away even further. He resents her presence, and everything she means, the responsibility she represents. She prays to a god that doesn’t hear, she worships a man that doesn’t exist. She is terrified he will leave her alone.

When he is gone, she feels like someone has stolen her breath. Her chest hurts and all she can do is cry. He is her addiction, the pain is part of the pleasure, the anger part of the love. She can’t separate the two, one is just as much of the addiction as the other.

This is all love will ever be, she accepts that.

Then I came along, I found that little girl in the swing and I pulled her close to me. I whispered in her ear that life wouldn’t always be this bad. She would go on, she would have friends, she would live a full and rich life. All she had to do was see the beauty that was already there.

It’s already there, now see it.

I found the teenage girl too. I told her she wasn’t a slut or a whore. I told her that people treated her the way she thought she deserved to be treated. I helped her to her feet, and held her in my arms. This is love I told her. Can you feel it, this is what it is supposed to be.

The beginning of a new day is dawning. Go, live it.

Then there was the young woman with her nightmares. “I said no” she says “he couldn’t hear me.” “Say it now then.” I told her, and she did. “Say it again, louder this time.” She said it until she was screaming, “Can you hear yourself now?” She whispered “Yes.”

That’s all that matters, now believe it.

Then I found the bruised woman. “Love isn’t supposed to hurt.” I told her, “But it does” she replied. “It doesn’t have to.” I picked her up off the floor, and opened the front door. “It’s scary out there.” She said. “Freedom is only scary at first.”

You deserved better, understand this.

These girls mean the world to me, I wish I had found them sooner. A kind word, and gentle hug, a whisper in their ear. They had it inside of them all along, I only opened the door. To see their smiles hear their laughter, and see the life in newly opened eyes.

All of these girls are me.

Victim > Survivor > Thriver

2008-11-06T11:57:00.004-07:00

I am now a victims advocate, which is a tremendous feeling to say the least. There wasn’t one topic we covered that I couldn’t relate to at least a little bit.

I didn’t really expect to learn all the much new information in my class because I’ve researched these topics on my own for years. Trying to find a way to help others, to help myself.

I knew the statistics, I knew the effects of trauma on a survivor, I knew the different coping mechanisms. None of that was news to me.

What I didn’t realize were how many people have committed themselves to helping these victims.

I didn’t realize how truly blessed we are to live in a small community. In the city a victim gets lost in the system. Here they get to remain a person.

I didn’t realize that our victims advocates put their lives on the line every time they support a victim in court.

My advocate was my lifeline over the last 8 years, I adore her, but I never really thought about the danger she put herself in just to be there to support me.

I didn’t realize that there was a difference between helping someone and rescuing them. That when we rescue, we are just taking more power away from the victim.

I didn’t realize how important it was for me to hear the words “I believe you.” How those simple words changed my life. How saying them can change someone else's life.

I’ve spent my whole life feeling like a statistic. I was repeatedly molested as a child, raped as an adult, I’ve been through abuse both physical and emotional.

There wasn’t one topic we covered I didn’t understand first hand. I know courts, and protection orders, and revictimization by the system.

I spent my life as a victim, then this last few years I struggled to become a survivor.

Last night, I went from survivor to thriver. Second to becoming a parent, becoming an advocate is one of the best things I have ever done with my life.

Out of all we learned, one thing stands out most. When the woman who does art therapy with children came to speak with us she explained that through art these children learn to see themselves in a new light.

They go from being victims to artists, and that small change changes their whole perspective on life. I realized I’ve spent three years in therapy for that same reason.

It wasn’t the counseling that worked, it was the simple process of redefining myself.

I am a wife.
I am a mother.
I am a daughter.
I am a granddaughter.
I am a family member.
I am a friend.
I am a counselor.
I am a leader.
I am an artist.
I am a writer.
I am a thinker.
I am a helper.

I am an advocate.

I am many things in this life, but a victim is no longer one of those things. Now I get to help others find those things within themselves.

I am proud of the decisions I have made in my life. I am proud of the person I have become. I am proud to be part of the solution, however small that part is.

Happy birthday Baby

2008-10-30T20:07:00.000-06:00

My baby girl is turning fifteen today. What an incredible feeling, it’s one part pride and one part scared to death. I keep trying to prepare myself for what comes next, but it’s all so overwhelming.

When you look into the eyes of your newborn child you never really comprehend that there will be a day you will be looking into those eyes and see an adult looking back at you. A painfully short fifteen years later you see that adult peering back to you and part of you wants to beg them to go back to being little.

That future is now three years away. It’s not possible, but it is. On one side of the line I have this beautiful child, on the other an adult will appear. Dating, and driving, and college are heading at me full speed and it’s all flashing in front of my eyes.

Now more than ever, I pray that I don’t screw this up, that I have accomplished my goal. There is this huge overpowering thought that you are responsible for another human life. I am supposed to be giving them all of the tools they will need to live life as an adult, and it scares me.

Some parents focus on discipline, they run a tight ship. I realized early on that that wasn’t going to work for me. Discipline is important for a young child, but what I wanted to give them more than anything was love. Not just my love here and now, but a love for themselves and others that would carry them through their lives.

When I realized I only had 18 years to accomplish this goal, and that it was supposed to last them another 40, 60, maybe even 80 years I realized just how important my job really was. I am not raising children, I am raising adults and I only have 18 years to do it in.

The first half of their young lives I struggled to give them roots, now I’m struggling to give them wings. Encouraging them to be what they want to be, not what the world expects them to be. Trying to help them figure out what makes them happy, not allowing them to live for me or anyone else.

They have such small voices, but I want those voices to be heard. I want to be the first person to listen to them, I want to be the person they can come to not as a parent but as someone they trust. That means having difficult conversations about alcohol, drugs, sex, friends, and peer pressure, not once but every single day.

If my kids come to me with a serious problem and I over react, that damages their trust in me. Trust is the foundation of every relationship. If I lose the trust of my children, I will lose my children. They will find others to replace the relationship they crave with me, to accept them like I should have.

I want to protect them and make the right decisions for them, I have to separate myself from my own instincts and allow them to make mistakes. The worst thing I could ever do for my children is deprive them of the consequences of their own actions.

I have to step back and allow them to grow and learn, and that means watching them fall on their face sometimes. It means not rushing in to rescue them, but standing there with my life preserver and waiting to see if they can figure it out.

I still remember the exact date I formulated most of these goals. April 20, 1999. I watched the news horrified, along with the rest of the nation. I was holding my young son in my arms, awaiting the birth of my youngest. They showed photographs of the two young boys responsible for the carnage that day, and I looked into my own sons eyes.

Their parents never saw this, not even in their worst nightmares. People kept asking how could the parents not have known. I kept thinking how could they have known? I made up my mind that day that I would not screw these three kids up. I would devote my life to making sure they give to the world, not take away from it.

I think about a lot of things. Sometimes I think too much. These thoughts are with me today as my daughter celebrates her birthday halfway around the world. I’m supposed to be there and I’m not. She has the most awesome step-mom in the world, and a father who loves her with all his heart.

She is loved there, she is loved here, and many places in between. Today she turns fifteen. Tomorrow she will be eighteen. The day after that could be college, and the day after that maybe she will become a mother herself. As frightening as that is, she will always be my baby.

Tiny hands and big hearts

2008-09-30T17:27:00.006-06:00

Parenting changes so much in just a few short years. My oldest is spending a year in Germany, and I am somewhat lost without her. I miss our long conversations, just the two of us talking about serious and important stuff. I miss watching her eyes light up when she learns a new concept. I miss holding her, and telling her how amazing she really is.

Yet I've had time to grow closer to the other two. My son has decided that it is up to him to fill his sisters place in her absence. He wants to have these long, serious, important talks now. He is asking me questions about things like puberty and girls.

He has the sweetest little “girlfriend”, they don't kiss, they don't hold hands, they don't do anything but sit on the trampoline together and laugh. Sometimes they just sit and stare at the sky. He says he wants to marry her when they grow up. If he did grow up and marry someone like her I would be happy for him. They have such a natural and easy friendship. When he does get ready to get married, (hopefully after age 30), I hope he does marry someone like his childhood sweetheart. Someone you can just stare at the sky with.

Then there is my youngest, she is my only baby left and it is fading fast. She has the sweetest smile in the world. Even when the smile fades, it isn't gone for long. She's just this happy, bouncy, enthusiastic ball of giggles. I wonder what will happen to her as she grows up. Will she lose that innocence? Or will she be one of those rare people in this world who manages to hold on to it, will she still light up every room she enters?

She is the only one left that still wants to say bedtime prayers. She still wants to crawl into my lap. She still wants to be little sometimes. I see it coming though. She was offended that the doctor gave her baby medicine, she wanted pills like her brother got not the pink stuff. She was appeased when she discovers that the pink stuff tastes a lot better than a big white horse pill and that satisfied her for now, but soon very soon another step is taken into adulthood.

When they were babies, it seemed like I had forever before I had to consider these things and now my baby is half way there, my oldest already has one foot out the door and I have to figure out what I'm going to do with my life when I'm not just a mom anymore. Being just a mom is all I've ever really wanted to be, and I really don't know what comes next. Do I grow up? Become all serious about life? Do I put away all of MY toys and find something more mature to occupy my time, like say, knitting?

I look for those small remnants of the babies they once were. When my oldest takes my hand, I notice she still has the hands of a child, and it is such an amazing feeling when she puts her small hand in mine. She laces our fingers together and we just walk and talk, and I look at those small hands with their stubby childlike nails and that's all that is left of her childhood.

I'm not scared, not really. They are all wonderful kids, and are going to make wonderful adults. They make me proud each and every day. No, it isn't fear... it's sadness. It's realizing that someday they wont be here when I really need a hug, I wont be there when thy need one, that someday they aren't going to want to ask for special mommy time anymore. I've worked so hard to help them sprout those fledgling wings, and now I realize that means I'm going to have to let them go.

I hear so many moms saying they can't wait until their kids are gone. All they do is complain about their kids. Johnny is a brat and Sally is a crybaby, and some moms seem to think we should feel sorry for them. I feel sorry for their kids, but never them. I'm sad that they are so damned goal oriented that they are missing the gifts they have been given in each of their children.

Parenting is hard work. We all get tired sometimes. When you view your children not as a blessing, but a burden that burden only increases. Grab their tiny little hand, hold it in your own and just feel it for a moment. How it fits so neatly, your hand totally enveloping theirs. Look into those eyes when they ask another annoying question, do you see the innocence there? Thy don't get to keep that for very long at all, savor it now.

Don't wait until they are gone to miss them. Miss them now, every single moment of every single day. Stop and take a moment to enjoy them just as they are. It all goes by so fast...

Ayngel O
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Helping Yourself

Virginity and Serenity

2007-12-23T17:35:00.005-07:00

Suddenly the topic of interest in my house is sex. My youngest wants to know what virginity is and why it's so important, my oldest wants to know why men are such jerks when it comes to sex.

I guess the answer for both of the was pretty much the same.

Imagine waking up to a world blanketed in white. You walk outside and it almost seems like the rest of the world has ceased to exist. There isn't a footprint or mark in the snow, anywhere...

Some people are content to just look out over that field of snow and appreciate it, but there will always be some who want nothing more than to leave their mark in it.

Maybe all of that untouched beauty makes them uncomfortable, makes them feel alone in the world. Maybe they just have a need to conquer, to leave their mark behind in the world. They all have different reasons I suppose...

The end results are the same, a single foot print and that unbroken peace will never be the same. There is no way to fluff the snow back up, there isn't a way to fill the snow back in and smooth it out again. Once it's done it's done...

There's no way to avoid it, eventually someone is going to walk across that snow, and leave their mark. It's not up to me to decide who it will be, in the end it's up to them. Do they want it to be someone who can appreciate that beauty, who can be respectful of it and not do anything to take away from it?

Or do they want it to be someone who storms in, tears things up and leaves everything a muddy mess. Someone who has no respect for anything but leaving their mark?

Either way, someone will come in and leave those footprints.

I don't want my kids to never have sex with anyone, ever... it's just that I'd much rather see them look back and see a path behind them that includes two sets of footprints side by side.

I do hope none of them decides to "play in the snow" too until they're 30. If that doesn't happen, I truly hope they know It's supposed to be fun to play in the snow with the right person, it's just not always easy to know who the right person is. I also hope they know that you should always wear the right ummm... clothing.

The youngest understood it well enough, the oldest did to a point. She still doesn't understand why men are such jerks, and I really can't help her there.

After eleven months of a boy telling her she was worth waiting for... he decided to cheat on her not once, not twice, but three times. He says he was too high to remember what really happened.

Funny I've heard that one too, or a version thereof.

So what does that say to a girl, you're worth waiting for, but while I'm waiting I'm going to get some on the side?

She did the right thing, she ended it, and I was proud of her for loving herself enough to let him go. To add insult to injury he turned around and asked her best friend out. Never mind the fact he cheated on her, but seven years of friendship down the toilet because he's cute?

All I can offer is that neither of them were the people she thought they were, and now all that is left is letting both of them go.

I don't really have any answers for her, I hurt like hell for her and if I could I would take it all away. Both of these kids called me Mom too, and I feel her loss in more ways that one. They didn't just betray her, they betrayed the entire family. Teenage hormones strike again!

It was so much easier when I could just kiss her owies and magically make them go away.

Still, my baby girl did something I couldn't have done myself at her age, hell I still have a hard time doing it at 35. She respected herself enough to say "I deserved better." For that I am proud of her... For having convictions and sticking to them, for believing in herself and not blaming herself for what he did wrong.

Now he's gone, and he took (most) of the drama with him! The house has been quiet, no more oh-my-god-I-haven't-seen-him-in-12-hours-and-I-think-I'm-going-to-die moments. The house has been so blessed quiet since he left and took his issues with him.

I hope it's a long, long, long time before we have to go through that again. Wait... who is that boy knocking on the door?

Oh Bloody hell...

Ayngel O
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Inksters July 9 entry Winner

2007-11-07T17:38:00.003-07:00

Recently I came across a competitive writing guild, members are given a daily writing prompt that cover a wide range of topics.

Our only rule is that entries must be submitted before midnight, and must be under 500 words.

In July I managed to submit three entries, and was surprised to find out that I had won for two out of those three days.

I thought I would share one of those short pieces with you.

July 9, 2007: Treasured Moments

(Topic: This is the first day of our three day series on your personal treasures. What is your most treasured moment and why?)

I don't remember her first word, nor do I remember her first steps. Somewhere in this muddled mind, it's all there, but life has a way of getting in the way of life. I remember her tiny fingers, and her tiny toes, but those times seem less like a memory and more like a blur every day.

I don't remember a lot of moments in her life, but I don't think that's what matters in the end. I remember that day last summer, when I looked up and saw her walking past the window. I saw her face, and I didn't even have to ask.

I don't remember a lot of things about my childhood either, but I remember my first broken heart. I still remember his name, I still remember his face, I still remember every word he said. That look on her face, said she would remember this moment too.

Nearly as big as me now... and still my baby. I pulled her into my lap, and let her cry on my shoulder until she could catch her breath. I thought about the things they told me, that it wasn't the end of the world, other fish in the sea, just move on.

Instead I sent her room to get her pajamas on, I told her to just let herself cry until I could get the little ones in bed. That's right, in her moment of need, I left her alone.

As soon as the little ones were in bed I snuck into her room. She looked really confused when I walked in, a gallon of cookie dough ice cream in one hand, and two spoons in the other.

We sat there, just us girls, eating ice cream and talking about him. I didn't tell her that the pain would go away, I didn't tell her about the guys that would follow, I didn't even tell her that it was his loss.

It did pass, there is another guy, and now she knows without a doubt that it was his loss. He has figured it out too.

It's strange, all of those times I tried to preserve, the moments I have tried to capture, tried to arrange, even tried to control. The moments I treasure most aren't the ones I remember as being important.

It turns out that the moments I treasure most are just sharing daily life with my children.

Ayngel O
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You’ll be alright... you’re still a young ’un.

2007-08-04T20:16:00.003-06:00

When I was just out of high school I dated this guy from Colorado Springs. I still remember a story he told me about his Grandpa.

When he was about five years old, he was spending some time on his Grandfathers farm. His Grandpa was showing him one of the grain silos, and when he leaned in for a better look he fell. It was a pretty long distance to fall, and when he landed flat on his back it knocked the wind out of him.

His grandfather leaned in to survey the situation. When he saw his grandson laying there on the grain he just nodded and said "You'll be alright, you're still a young un'"

I have never forgotten that story, partially because I am a devoted grandma's girl... and Grandparents just have this simple way of handling life. I guess by the time you are 60, 70, 80 or the unimaginable 90 you just don't get too excited about most things.

I'm going to be 35 years old in just a few months. Just yesterday I was 20, young and dumb. If I am planning on living to 70 I am halfway there.

Middle aged... I'm halfway to my simple life.

I also remember it because I say it to myself quite often. I'm only halfway to old, so theoretically I can still be considered a young 'un by at least half of the population.

I'm not going to be alright, I AM alright... Things are getting better. Life is amazing that way. One day you are laying flat on your back looking up out of the pit wondering how you will ever dig yourself back out again. A short time later, you are at the top again, leaning in for a better look.

I'll be alright... I'm still a young 'un.

Ayngel O
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