2 Chronicles

"If my people, who are called by my name, will humble themselves and pray, and seek my face, and turn from their wicked ways, then I will hear from heaven, and I will forgive their sin and will heal their land."
2 Chronicles 4:17

I've heard this scripture quoted quite a bit over the past few days. I've heard it quoted by men ranting on Facebook about "THOSE WOMEN". I've heard it in the same post as another person saying, "Well, I guess there's a lot of husbands cooking their own dinner tonight," meaning - Saturday, the day of the March.

I've read it and then watched comment after comment appear with people saying, "I don't support these women," and "If you don't like it, you can get out," as well as, "Idiots", "Stupid", "Feminists", "God-haters", "liberals", and "THIS is what's wrong with our country."
I've watched women, christian women, back away and go quiet.
I've wanted to call out, "where are you?"

Oh, I was angry. And I wanted to fight back. The words clambered over each other to free themselves from my mouth.

But then I clicked it off. I am learning this kind of anger doesn't get us anywhere. I have to feel it and submit it. Submit it and channel it.

God's TRUTH is greater than my feelings.
I cried in the truck as Jeff and I drove home from LA. I prayed. I ripped off all my fingernails. I tried to breathe as anxiety and frustration built and clawed and threatened to choke out my breath.

And I thought to myself, "God? I am a christian. I love you. I believe in you. I do my best to follow you. And I can't get behind those comments. I can't."

I wondered if there was something wrong with me. Maybe I don't know God at all. Maybe I'm just a bad egg.

Here's the thing, folks. God is the same. For everyone. Across the board. He does not contradict. He does not show favoritism. We are all fearfully and wonderfully made.
So if there is apprehension and confusion going on, that's on ME. That's on YOU. Hard questions need to be asked. Hard answers need to be found.

And this is tough because guess what? Christians are lazy. We take what we hear, or we read one scripture, and we don't dig or question or read more. We take the easy way.

Jesus never took the easy way.

Loving is always harder than judging.

The woman at the well? He listened.
The woman thrown down in front of him after she was caught in adultery? He listened and he protected. (Let's not even get going on where the other half of the adultery act was. Or, you know, LET's. Interesting how the man wasn't brought out and thrown down, isn't it? Interesting how she was caught in the act because these men, these religious leaders, were obviously watching her, yes? Interesting the double standard that was shown here and even MORE interesting is how Jesus reacted. With love and mercy and all the men backed away.
He. is. my. hero.)
The demon possessed man who ran up to him? He talked to him and freed him.
The woman who was sick for years and banished from society because she was a bloody mess and pushed her way through to touch his robe? He healed her. And you know what? That woman? She was a marcher before her time.
The teenage girl who was pregnant and unwed and gossiped about? Yeah, that was his mother.


I have said, and will always say, God is not afraid of our hard questions.
We are. I am. I get afraid and I'm going to tell you why.
I get afraid because what if I ask God a question and the answer I get is something that causes me to doubt WHO HE IS and if HE IS REALLY GOOD?

I can ask the hard question or I can take the easy way.
The easy way though, doesn't help anyone. Not the maligned. Not the mistreated. Not the sinner. And certainly not the saint.

I started asking questions. I started writing them down. And a thought would come, and then another. And soon I was writing those down. Then, more questions. And I paid attention as my life flashed before me and all the things I have been asked to live and all the decisions and the day I walked into a small church in El Cajon dressed in boxer shorts and anger with eyes that said, "Stay. Away. From. Me.", and I was hugged. I was hand-held. I was looked in the eye. I was loved.

That's why I kept going back. I was loved.
No one asked me first how many drugs I had done or if I had stolen or how many people I'd made sex with or if I hated men or hated God or smoked or cursed on the regular. No one asked me later either.
I was loved.
Foul-God-hurting-MAN-hating-mouth-cursing-middle-fingers-up and all.

And as Jeff and I drove home and I thought of all my yesterdays, I got a word. And that word was freedom.

Someone did awful things to me when I was a child because he had the freedom to make that choice and do so.
Someone was able to choose him and not me because they had the freedom to do so.
Someone can live gay or live straight because they have the freedom to do so.
Someone can hit a crack pipe or hit the gym because they have the freedom to do so.
Someone can go to church and sing with their mouth and hate everyone there in their heart because they have the freedom to do so.
Someone can love others and love God and serve serve serve quietly all their life because they have the freedom to do so.
Someone can love God and be mouthy and go against the church current because they have the freedom to do so.
Someone can grow up in a house that loves God and decide for themselves they don't want to and they have the freedom to do so.

And do you know where this freedom comes from? God himself.
He died for us all. And He allows us all to make a choice.

And yet here we sit, day after day, telling everyone else they can't have one, because we are elevating ourselves to the place of God.

if my people,

I have a confession to make.

who are called by my name,

A number of years ago

will humble themselves

same-sex marriage was on the ballot,

and pray

Proposition 8,

and seek my face

and I did not listen to the hard question nagging at my skull

and turn from their wicked ways,

and I did not ask for a hard answer,

then I will hear from heaven,

and I took the easy way, with the rest of the crowd,

and I will forgive their sin,

and I was wrong.

and will heal their land."

This is the Lord speaking in this verse, speaking to Solomon. And do you know who he's talking about?

US.

Christian. Christian.

If WE will humble ourselves,
If WE will pray,
If WE will seek his face,
If WE will turn from OUR wicked ways,
THEN
He will forgive US and heal our land.

When we don't listen; we are not humble.
When we call people stupid and idiots and say the words "THESE WOMEN" in a tone of disgust and rage; we are not humble.
When we don't stop to ask ourselves WHY ARE THEY HURTING?; we are not praying.
When we don't feel bothered by injustice; we are not seeking his face.
When we condone or remain silent or cheer for someone who promotes treating others as less than himself, ourselves ; we are not turning from our wicked ways.


We don't have to agree. We are ALL still learning, how to love God, how to love people, how to love ourselves, better. But we can't begin to do that if we have PRIDE.

Ego.
The need to be right.
The last word.

I hope these words shake you. I hope you dig and search and seek and look for yourself. I hope if you are angry, you ask yourself why and then ask God to reveal it to you.

You can stand for what you believe in - it's very easy. Make sure you don't do it. That's it.

I wonder what would happen if we stopped focusing on what others are doing and saying and living, and we began to be more like Jesus? He did not pass laws. He spoke to people. He did not put them on blast. He loved them.

In fact, the only time I see Jesus getting mad and throwing tables and calling people a "brood of vipers", is when he spoke to the religious. Chew on that one for a bit.

"They" are not the problem. "These WOMEN" are not the problem.
We are.

God help us.

XO

Everyday People

"I don't have any friends."
She said it drunk. She said it after she laughed so hard she just might pee. She said it after we bonded over pickle juice and whiskey. She said it perched on a stool with laughter coming out of her mouth and sadness making her eyes bright.
They say a drunk never lies.

I knew she meant every single word.

I don't have any friends.

What do you mean, I asked her? Your friends are here.

No. No, these are people I used to know. I don't have any friends now.
I have no one. I'm all alone.

She looked at me, eyes glazed with Christmas red and eyeliner that had given up hours earlier, and asked the same question I have begun to ask myself, "How did this happen?"

And long after we had moved on in conversation, long after I had puked up the trendiest line of shots I've ever done while sitting cross-legged on a bathroom floor, long after we were dropped off at our hotel and I realized I forgot my new beanie in their car, long after more ounces of iced coffee a person should consume in one sitting was drunk in tired desperation, and long after I arrived back home to wash party clothes still clinging to last nights smokes, her words haunted me.

I had no idea a drunken conversation at a Christmas party would stick with me like a shadow. Always at the peripheral, showing itself just enough to let me know, I'm right behind you.

I am almost 40 and I have close to zero friends.

I'm not talking about the life friends that you call if you lose your job, or your husband has an affair, if your mom is dying of cancer, or your kid came home to tell you they are pregnant. We all have these friends, right? When something major starts throwing down on your life, they will suddenly show up,
and shoulder you up.
They will let you cry, and be afraid, and wait for you to settle enough to get in your face with harsh realities and "pull-up-your-big-girl panties-you're-stronger-than-this-shit" lectures, just in time for you to get brave again. Yes.
I have these friends, the Rally-ers. The Charge-ers. The Cheer-ers.
I am grateful for them because guess what folks? These times are coming. They come to all of us.

No. I'm talking about the everyday friend. The one who is there for the ins and the outs of the mundane and the frustrating. The one who meets you for a coffee and a beer.
Preferably at the same time.
The one who calls on a Wednesday to see if you want to get together Friday. The one who doesn't bother to clean their house when you come over because that's just how real it is now. Piles of laundry and dog hair in tufts on the floor be damned. The one you can text while you're at Target to say, "Which doormat? The one with flowers or the bike and flowers?"
The one who sends you a quick text to say, "hey!!! thinking about you. Let's kick some ass today!" The one you can complain to about not getting laid in over a week. The one you can say, "I just don't feel enough today - do you think Jesus is giving up on me?" The one who reminds you Jesus never gives up on you, and hey, neither will I.

Everyday friends are important. Necessary. Breath.

I know. Life has different stretches for all of us. And there's a time and a place for different people as we walk down our roads.
I know. This is true. We grow. We change. I know.

But I also know this is bullshit.
We invite the people we want to walk with us,
and we leave the rest behind.

Have you ever been in the "leave the rest behind" group? (insert hand raised emoji here.)
It sucks ass doesn't it? ( and insert poop emoji here.)

I am so guilty. So guilty of saying, hey! Let's get together soon! And having absolutely no intention of hanging out. In six months. Or maybe even ever.
I'm just being polite. Everyone knows how to play the polite game.

I'm not talking about polite. I'm not talking about acquaintance pleasantries.
I'm talking about people who were your people and now they are not. Or you aren't sure.
Which is almost worse.

And our culture right now makes it so hard to say that, doesn't it?
So hard to say,
I miss you.
Why don't we talk anymore?
What happened?
You're my friend and I need you.

We can't say that. It makes us needy. It makes us high-maintenance. It makes us jealous.

When really, we aren't any of those things. Maybe all we are is sad.

These things can get messy and I'm not trying to get messy. Six months ago, a year ago, it would have been real messy. I'm talking fat-tears and snot-river messy. I'm talking emotions stretched and frazzled and waving white flags with middle fingers while screaming and crying "I'm sorry! I'm sorry! Why is this happening? I"M SORRY!!!" And you have no idea what you are apologizing for but you just want to make it better and also go away.

Messy.

I'm not messy right now. I am observant. A little bewildered. A lot reflective.

And I am sure I am not the only one.

Here's what I am learning.

I'm doing ok by myself.
Now, we aren't built to be on our own f o r e v e r by any means. Humans are designed for relationship.
But it's good to be alone and work your thoughts and see what you are capable of,
and what you are not.
We all need to know this.

Also, I'm walking in a new way with Jesus. Rather than talking to my everyday friend and then going to Jesus, I am now going to Jesus (or Jeff. I'm not perfect here) and then,
that's it.
There's no everyday friends to bounce it back off of. To clarify. To affirm.
It's Jesus and me. And that can be brutal and beautiful all at once. You know what I mean if you've had to do this. There's a realness in my talk with God. It's so real in fact that sometimes I wonder if I am slipping backwards.
When pretense and "supposed to's" are waved out of the way, when walls are walked around and you're just standing there, all raw and exposed and blinking, it's unsettling. Wobbly.

And in nervousness or conviction or repentance or need,
You get down with the Lord. You let it all hang out because well, there aren't any closets, or any hat racks for that matter. There are only your hands and your heart and you figure what else can you do but open it real wide and just let him see it all?
He's going to keep on loving you or he's a liar.

And also , it's ok to be me.
It's ok to say, "I need this." And it's ok when someone else says, "I can't give that to you."
It's ok to know what makes me feel special and how I like to connect. It's ok when other people are not capable of making that connection.
We all have our own stretch of road.
My fear,
my fear,
my fear though,
is that we will give up too quickly and realize too late,
it was something worth digging for, worth suffering for, worth doing more,
for.

But we'll have told ourselves,
I'm too busy
I'm too hurt
We're too different.

And we'll all become people we used to know.

Food-Pushers Unite

My kids call me The Food Pusher. It's true. It's like a drug pusher except without the drugs.
But we say the same things, in hopes of the same goal; they are going to take me up on it and they are going to like it.

"Come on, just try it."
"It's so good. You don't know what you are missing."
"This. This right here? It's a little piece of heaven."
And in desperation only the mom at her wits end of a picky eater knows, the classic, "You'll be cool. I'll think you are the coolest if you just try
one. little. bite."

It makes no difference how old they are either. My kids at home are twenty and sixteen, plenty old enough to fend for themselves if the onset of starvation happens while I am at work.

But I offer anyway. I practically get on my knees and beg them to eat.
Just like I did when they were three.

Oh you only like Circle K rotisserie hot dogs? Let's go!
Frozen burritos that basically look like bandaged diarrhea? SURE!
Frozen pizzas that taste like lost frisbees drizzled in expired tomato sauce? No problem.
Quesadillas at morning, noon. or night? It's on like donkey kong. Or Taco Bell.

Just let me see you eat.

And let's be honest. If you judge me based on the three things my son eats most,and the go-to for my daughter; I sound either sloppy and terrible or the coolest mom ever; depending on who you are asking.

And we really DO want to ask someone, sometimes, don't we?
Grab another Mom's arm like a life preserver and sputter out our need for validation and an "atta girl." Buoy me up for another day please.


I think I am a pretty good mom. On the "will-they-go-to-therapy-scale?" I'd give myself a two. Maybe a four?
I mean, I've got three of them, my oldest and second oldest (NOT middle! AVOID SAYING MIDDLE FOR THE LOVE OF PEACE AND QUIET) are in their early twenties and so far, not any visible damage. Of course, my son is still home for another year and there's still time to screw with his head pretty good but I would say most mistakes were made in the early years.

Hopefully early enough that they have forgotten. Or those memories have been replaced.
Upgraded.
Mommy version VI.

Of course there are a few that get brought up constantly. Like, "Mom remember when you used to set the timer and you told us if we didn't eat our dinner before it went off you would beat us?"
Yes. Yes I do. I'm SO glad you remember too since it is one of my BEST mommy moments.

On the upside, my grocery bill was low.

Or brought up even more recently,
"Hey MOM. Remember that time Bre did somethingsomethinsomething and you took down her Justin Timberlake poster and hung it up in YOUR room."
Um, Yes. I wish I could remember what it was she did exactly, but maybe I just had a hankering to see JT on my wall?
Possible. Plausible. Whatever.

These, of course, are small examples.
The bigger ones are so much harder to write.
Because secretly we are all hoping we do so much better than our own parents, right?
I mean, I would NEVER .... and then I do.
And everything I value and hold close and wave the white hat of I AM A BETTER MOMMY THAN YOU falls around me in prickly pieces of judgmental glass.

Like the time I called my son an asshole and watched the wound spread slowly across his face like a darkening cloud before a cold rain.
Then I burst into tears.

I started my period two days later. Obviously I was under duress from the emotional hijackers that live inside my body before they give up on anything tangible happening and bleed out.
But that's besides the point.
(ps-I recently purchased a "girl business" zippy pouch that says "oh my bloody hell". I think everyone in the house identifies with the sentiment)

What is the point?
Parenting is hard. And inconvenient.
And scary.
We are all going to make a lot of mistakes.

About fifteen years ago I fell down the stairs outside my apartment. As I skidded down the concrete steps on my knees and landed on all bloody fours, all I could think was,"Oh My GOD. Did anyone SEE that?!"
Not, maybe someone will help me.
Not, someone is going to ask if I'm ok.
But only, did anyone see me practically face plant and make a complete jackass of myself?
That's parenting.
All the time.


We're going to fall asleep on the couch with our baby in the crook of our arm and only wake up because we hear them thunk to the floor.
We're going to be so tired from the complete lack of sleep that we barricade our toddler in the living room with us and "A Whole New World" lulls us to genie land, on the cheerio sprinkled floor.
We're going to wake up late and get our kids to school with nothing more substantial than a pop-tart for breakfast. On test day.
We're going to get lost in the happy zone at Target and then hear our name reverberating over the store intercom. Hi there, mum-of-the-year. You lost your child.
Nice one.

We're going to have our kids give us a fun pop-quiz with super hard questions like, "when's my birthday?" And then watch them look at us in disappointment and horror when it takes longer than five seconds for us to remember which one is theirs.

We're going to buy store-bought cookies and brownies for the bake sale.
Enough said.

We might call our kids a bad name.
We might even enjoy it for just a teeny tiny split of a second when we do because let's face it -
we hold that shit in all the time.

We're still regular people.
We just have other people looking to us for love and acceptance all the time.

No pressure.

We're going to have other parents shake their heads and cluck their tongues and we're going to try really hard to remember we are a contributing member of society and not throat-punch them.
We're going to have strangers yank out their binky in the middle of the mall and coo "oh you sweet little puh puh puh. You don't need that thing stuck in your mouth do you?"
And you're going to remind yourself it isn't ok to push down grandmas.
We're going to overhear someone we trust, someone who's supposed to be in our tribe, talk about us and our lack of parental skills and it's going to sting. We might cry. Just for a second.
And then we might get really pissed and think of all the awful ways THEY parent instead. It's not "nice" but it will make you feel better. Better enough to not claw their eyes out.

We're going to wish for a pedicure by ourselves, for a glass of water that doesn't have floaties in it, for sex that isn't muffled in a pillow, for toilet time with our favorite magazine, for a bra that doesn't smell like breast milk. Or vomit.
We're going to try and learn common core math and feel like the biggest idiot on the planet when we don't get it and realize we can't help our second grader do their homework.
We're going to try not to hate their teacher for sending this crap home.
We're going to breathe deep and not freak out over their room that has exploded with clothes (Are they dirty? Are they clean?)and empty mountain dew cans and a floor littered with pink squiggly wrappers from their maxi-pads.
We are going to give them "space."
And then a week later we're going to say, "Screw this effing space crap!" and yell at them to clean their room before we throw away everything in it except their bed and underwear.
We are going to do our best to not seem psychotic.
We are going to tell ourselves this is normal.
We are going to hope that's true.

Moms. Mothers. Mums. Ma's. Mommy's.
It is true.
You are doing the best you can.

And if it makes you feel like you're excelling at the mom-job to offer them a mom-made sandwich, an apple and peanut butter, a slice of chocolate cake you just frosted; then go ahead and do it.
Food pushers unite.

XO



-

Shake a-what?

I have a secret.
A diet food secret.
I'm going to tell it, not because I feel comfortable or safe or because I have hit Angel status in a bathing suit.
I'm going to tell because the struggle is real and yet I feel amazing.
Strong.
Tight.
Energized.
I feel like a better human.
I signed up for Beachbody 21 days ago. Shakeology. Shakeo.
Yep. I'm one of those people.

I didn't tell anyone really. Jeff. My bestie. My kids.
Mostly out of gut-twisting fear. Fear of being judged for what I look like.
Or more accurate - what I don't.
Fear of failing. Fear of not being good enough. Fear of not having enough will-power to walk away from the chips. Fear of not being able to say, “NO”, to the sweet caffeinated heaven of Starbucks. Fear of being too tired or too lazy to do the workouts.

Every. Single. Day.

The night I sat outside with Jeff and told him I wanted to sign up; that was hard too.
Suddenly I was doing more than lamenting the fat, I was committing to doing something about it.
Out loud.

If just acknowledging we are too big with our mouths meant we are being proactive, I'd be equivalent to the Energizer Bunny.
If the spilling of our words burned calories, I would be hot.
Like, super hot.
I can burn words like nobody’s business.

Burning actual fat is a whole other piece of pie.

I can tell myself, “Hey you have THREE kids.” (And I have)
But guess what? I actually gave birth to the baby almost 16 years ago.
So ….. ???
I can tell myself, “It doesn’t really matter. Life’s too short. Eat what you want.” (And again, been there, said that)
And it’s partly true. Life is too short. But too short for what exactly??
Too short to not eat the fry?
Or too short to actually feel good about myself?
You see, I’ve used that line a zillion times. All overweight, unhealthy people have. It’s our solace (I’m actually enjoying my food while you eat rabbit grass) and our downfall (but I’d kill for your body. Kill for it. Not work for it. Duh).

If I can eat it and not rip myself to shreds afterwards, then F A B U L O U S.
But I can’t.
And it’s not because I ate.

It’s because I want something else more and I don’t think I’m worthy enough to have it.

Jeff can tell me I’m beautiful all day, every day.
He can kiss my belly and whisper it’s the sexiest thing he’s ever seen.
He can grab my butt like it’s the only thing in the world he wants to touch.
And sure, I’ll feel good.

Until the lights come back on.

Until he turns away from me and I look down to see stretch marks, and dimples, and waves where flatland should be.
Then it starts.
You know.
The whispers.
You. Are. So. Fat.
And Lumpy.
He only thinks that because he loves you. (Like this is a bad thing)
You felt him squeeze your roll, right?
Oh yeah, that’s attractive. (insert eyeroll)

Shutting these thoughts down requires a butt-ton of energy.
More energy than 30 minutes of working out. That much I know for sure.

You see, Jeff can say all those things to me. He can mean it too.
Every single time.
But it’s not his job to make me feel good about myself. It’s not for him to keep all the bad thoughts away. It’s not his place to pick me up every single day. It’s not his purpose to carry my self-worth.

That’s a burden too big for anyone.

I have to do it.
I have to look in my own eyes and say, “Ok, You were created for a purpose. Fearfully and wonderfully, you are made. Unique. Special. And altogether beautiful.”
That’s what my God says about me anyway.
My Papa. My Designer.
And if I think any different, I’m calling him a liar. Every time I criticize, every time I tear down; I am saying He did a bad job. And that’s just not true.
Everything he makes is good.

If I think it’s not good, it’s probably because I’m not treating it very well.

We all have our reasons right?
To not treat ourselves well. To make ourselves a dumping ground, or a party pad, or a junk yard.
We can take it way back to our daddy issues, the day someone walked out, the moment we were cheated on, the second someone took advantage of us and we wanted to disappear, when the popular kids called us fat, or maybe when we got passed over again and again and again by the guy we really liked because he liked our best girlfriend; the pretty one.
Maybe we feel safe here, snug in our yoga pants and over-sized sweatshirts, secure behind the filtered selfie that only gets us from the chest up, reassured in our husband’s voice that we are, that I am,
beautiful beautiful beautiful.

I have to tell you, I just got tired.
I’m tired of all this crap.
Tired of being tied to all the voices in my past.
Tired of looking in the mirror and sucking it in.
Tired of always choosing “extra large” at Target.
Tired of making another excuse.
Tired of hating summer and not because it’s hot (like I say), but because I can’t hide in my clothes. The thought of going to the beach leaves me in anxiety that ends up hiding itself in a container of Ben and Jerry’s (Chunkey Monkey please) and then a personal chew-out session in the mirror.
The self-hate. It doesn't just go away. We have to tell it to get the hell out. We have to push it to our edge and heave it over a cliff.

We have to choose US. I have to choose ME.
My Best Me (as my Coach would say).
Notice I am not saying, my skinniest me,or my hottest me, or my most-ripped me. I am saying my Best Me.
And I'm more than positive my Best Me doesn't include a lot of negative self-talk and more than a little body-hating.

I was ready.

And 21 days ago I decided to put my money in my health, my mouth to food that's fuel, and heaved my butt off the couch and started moving.

We all know when that moment comes. When what we have always been and always done no longer works for us.
No one can convince us.
No one can talk us into it.
We have to finally convince ourselves.
WHY NOT?
Why
not
me?
And so I read the instructional book, and I took pictures, and I prepped and prepped and prepped (there’s a lot of prepping) my food for the week.

Jeff helped me take my beginning measurements; one of the hardest things I have ever done. He’s seen me naked more times than I can count but this was the first time it was with a measuring tape. It looked like a death sentence.
I’ve never felt more exposed.
And so when he got to my stomach,
I began to cry.
My hands shook and I oscillated between wanting to vomit all over his head as knelt down to read the number, and yanking him up by his hair, screaming,“I’m sorry for being a number that’s going to make you want to turn around and leave!”
Me.
Turn around and leave
me.
Irrational.
Crazy. (issues ya’ll. For real)
Oh oh so real.
But he didn’t leave. And he didn’t pass out in horror. And he didn’t say, “Well it’s about time you did something.”
And he also didn’t say, “How ’bout a cheeseburger?”
He hugged me. Kissed my forehead.
And told me I was going to kick ass.

The first week of exercises I literally thought I was going to D I E.
I couldn’t do them all. My thighs burned. The side plank had me cursing as I tried over and over to heave my butt up off the floor and it refused me every
single
time.
It was like a bad date I couldn't leave. I was stuck there, counting the minutes until it was over.
My weights were only three pounds.
And let’s be real – I was worn out after the warm up.

But I grunted and sweated and heaved and lifted and I kept going.
60 seconds.
You can do anything for sixty seconds.
That’s what she kept saying. The lady in the video. The one you want to punch in the face every time you see her because she looks amazing and you look like death on a hot day.
But then I started to say it too.
And every day I felt stronger, tighter, smaller!

Until the night I bought the scale. And got on because I was feeling so good. And thought for some strange reason it was going to be my new bestest friend?
.
Thank God Jeff wasn't home.
Small mercies. For both of us.
I won’t tell you what my number was. Is. Still. After another week.
I will say it is higher than I thought.
I cried when I saw it.
And then I ate some chips.
And then I got out some dip and ate the chips and dip together.
And then I said (out loud for crazies sake), “Screw that effing work out.” (But I said it the real way, not the way we say it when we are trying to watch our mouths and make Jesus proud. I said it the way we do, the way I do, when I feel defeated and super pissed)
And I went to bed feeling like a giant, bloated whale who must have inhaled my very own Jonah and possibly the town of Nineveh too.

Thank God for new mornings and fresh starts. Thank God for a clear head and grace.
You have to look at the scale differently. This is what God told me.
(How do I know it was God? Because it was for my good, not harm.
And because it was sane.)
The scale measures our weight but it does not measure ourselves. We have to start seeing the difference. I have to see the difference.
I am not a number. I am me and all that encompasses. The scale is a line in the sand; sand that shifts and moves and erases.
It’s not permanent.

I did my workout that night and guess what?
I held that effing side plank for 30 seconds on each side. (a first ya’ll)
I squatted, low, weights at my shoulders, and held it without collapsing.
I use eight pound weights now, not three.
And instead of doing one 30 minute workout, I do doubles. One hour. (fist pump. YES.)
I grunt. I sweat. I shake until I think my limbs are going to fall off.
But
I
finish.
You ever see Legally Blonde? And in the movie everyone thinks she’s going to fail. She pushes ahead anyway and works hard, focusing on the goal; the summer internship. In the defining scene, everyone crowds in the school hallway, trying to see the list of names of who made it. She squeezes her way to the front, sees her name, turns and shouts triumphantly, “ME!” (and basically gives everyone the finger with her smile)

That’s how I feel every time I finish.
Every time I shakily get to my feet on my mat.
Every time I roll out of bed a little bit sore in the morning.
Every time I button my pants and they are a little less snug.
Every time I say “No thanks” to something unhealthy.
Every time I wrap the tape around my body and see the new number.
If I could, I’d high-five myself all over the place.
ME.
I am triumphant. (and giving dimply fat the finger).
I did more than I could 21 days ago, more than I could last week, and more than I could yesterday.

ME.

I am worth it.

You are too.

Ready?

Where did all the good grandpa's go?

This is not the original post I intended to write. For two days I have hammered out consonants and vowels, explanation points and long periods but something, something was just
off.
I felt muddy. And like I couldn't see clearly. So I took a deep breathe this morning, hit "save as draft" and took a shower.

Wouldn't you know it? While shampooing my hair all these thoughts and and complete sentences flowed in and out and I thought, "Wait a minute! I can't even write this down.... should i get a tape recorded for the bathroom?"
I mean, come on. Should I?

Because I have to be honest, some I have forgotten and the more I try to piece it together the more I feel like I'm trying to herd a field of cats, so instead, I wiped the page clean.
and here we are.

I like do overs. I think they are pretty rad.

So here we go, I'm just going to let it fly.

My monster died last month. He had a name and a title. But I never use it for him. Just thinking it makes me want to hock a loogie the size of my fist into the ground and then poop on it. Or dance in a graveyard wearing a white dress.
I won't do this though. I don't poop outside and I don't wear dresses.

Instead I will write and I will attempt to rid myself of the junk and maybe, just maybe, help someone else get through the same thing. I mean, one in five ya'll.

That's a fact.

A woman every two minutes. 60% go unreported. So, I'm not a math genius or anything but one in 5 is keeping it on the low side. There's a lot of us walking around out here.
The sexually assaulted. The raped. The molested.
We're breathing, singing in our cars, taking our kids to Chuck E Cheese, filling our gas tanks, hiking up a mountain, sitting in church, and trying real hard to have good sex with our husbands without freaking out because all of a sudden we get so damn scared, and then it's not our husband kissing us anymore.

A lot of survivors. Even more victims.

And some, some, are forced to see their abuser

every
single
day.

They smile, and hug, and go to restaurants,

pretending

it's all ok.

A big high-five to all ya'll that do that for one reason or another. It's a bravery I do not have. I prefer the confrontational kind. But this kind, it takes a different sort of strength to keep moving in dignity and quiet while someone constantly tries to break you with whispers that no one else can hear. I shed tears for you. In applause, not pity.
my sisters, my sisters.

So yes, he's dead.

Finally.
And maybe you can detect a little bit of flippancy here, a tiny fraction of anger as I type? I've got some stuff to work out.

This I know.

But not with all the details. I don't want to get stuck. Freedom is calling. So I am going to post an essay I wrote a little bit back. Just so we're all on the same page and we are clear on who the monster is.
In case any of my family reads this, I imagine you are getting a little excited, a little red-faced concerning all the dirty secrets I'm letting out because "ding dong the monsters' dead" is playing a tune in my brain.
Please. (I'm smiling)
Let me assure you. (My smile is growing)
I let it out (yes?)
a long time ago. (biggest smile ever breaking my face wide open. Can you see it?)

I did it (spilled the beans, lifted the rug, threw poop into the fan)
To my coaches in juvenile hall.
On the internet.
To my therapist.
To my husband.
And my ex-husband.
My kids know.
My friends know.
My church knows.

Women I meet for the first time find out when I hug them and pray with them and tell them...
you don't have to be stuck. don't give him that power. you are free. break free. live your life and be happy. God's gonna get em'. Cross my heart, girl.
Cross
My
patchworked, duct-taped, dragged on the ground, held together with toothpicks and Jesus mercy,
Heart.

God knows. I mean, seriously, ok? GOD. KNOWS.
Beat that.

So here it is. My story. Well, a small portion of it anyway. I saved myself in this one. It is the only time I was able to.

Small…and Slightly Bigger

She was eight when this all went down.
Eight is very small.
She wore her hair in pigtails then. It was long. She’d dress up and walk really fast in her purple plastic high heel shoes so she could hear them click, click, click, just like pretty grown –up ladies. She had a lot of Barbies and a 3-story Barbie Dream house. It was pink and white with an elevator. She loved Strawberry Shortcake more than anything. Her Grammy made her all the dolls and for Christmas one year, she got the record. She would put headphones on and sing at the top of her lungs in the living room… “Ice cream! And my name is Sugar… and I love all the flavors of the world. I like chocolate and vanilla and mocha…”

She used to fish with her Grandpa.

Tucked inside in the dark, knees to her chin, eyes squeezed shut, she hides. She doesn't like the dark much. Bad things happen here, in bedrooms with heavy tapestry curtains that block out all the light and muffle the voice. The bed is too high for her and so she must pull on the blankets and climb up, work her way towards what makes her stare at the ceiling and dream of butterfly cocoons and blue skies that let her float and fly free… far away from here. This room smells like her Grammy; feminine, vanilla, and glamorous. But it sounds like him; old, out of breath, and monster. Where did all the good grandpa’s go?

Her Grammy would read her bible stories at night. Her favorite was Noah and the ark and the rainbow. She loved the rainbow! A multi-colored sticky-note from God. His promise the sun would come back.

She wished everyone would keep their promises the way God did.

She loved snuggling up to her Grammy, she was alabaster and soft, a satin shirt pillow with pink lipstick. She was fascinated by her. She was so different from her own mother who blended in with everyone else that wore bell-bottoms and long hair parted in the middle. Mother was plain. Grammy was a movie star. She would always call her “Darling" but she would say it all southern and draggy and high-pitched, "Daaahhh-ling!", and then she'd throw her head back and laugh so hard and deep her breasts would bounce all over while her belly danced along. She was Marilyn Monroe but better. She was hers.
And she loved her so.

Eight is very small. Very small indeed.

The house she lived in with them and her mother was two stories and brick. White pillars stood tall and grand in the front. The backyard was big with a garden, and a lone oak tree held a homemade swing of rope and boards. There was a birdbath. And anthills. The first time she saw them they made her think of California. She smiled and pushed both hands in all the way up to her elbows so she could smell the salt and feel sand run out of her fingers. But it wasn’t sand and the tiny dots of red fire curled all over her arms in angry protest and she screamed and screamed until her mom came running out of the house to save her.
While she stared at her mom with the remnants of the anthill demolition on her hands and a dirty face of streaked tears; her mom told her she had to be careful with what she touched; things weren’t always what they seemed.

She didn’t know until later her mom wasn’t just talking about ants.
She didn’t know until later her mom would not save her ever again.

This is where she lived. In a house seen normal. In a house others would envy. He was IMPORTANT. Everyone knew him. People at the City. People at the Church. The girls at the school where he worked. But it wasn't normal. It was nightmares and secrets and dark; full of pretend love and make-believe smiles.

She wasn't the only one the monster came after.

She’s just the only one that wanted to leave.

He would whisper to her, in the dark, “this is our secret. You can’t ever tell. I’m just protecting you now.. ‘cause if you tell.. they ain’t gonna believe you. And they gonna be real mad.” Sometimes she would ask why, why would they be mad at her? And he would smile.. and he would kiss her on the lips… and he would say, “because good little girls don’t do these kinds of things.” Sometimes she would cry but not very often because if she did, he would put a pillow over her head.

But she did tell, a lot of days and too many naps later, she blurted it out when she was standing next to her Barbie dream house, still dripping from the shower and wrapped in a towel. Her mom was yelling at her about something else, something small. “Mommy¸ grandpa’s touching me... down there.” Her mom stared... stuck with her arms mid-air and a mouth that moved but no words came out. She doesn’t remember when her mom walked out of the room and didn’t hug her or when she got dressed or how they got to the living room where he sat crying… and Grammy was crying and clutching her bible and sometimes she would yell out, “Jesus Frank! How could you do this?”… and his other daughters were yelling too but not at him, at her… And he was right. They didn’t believe her. They were real mad. They called her bad girl names.

bitch. liar. whore.

I left. I only went back once.

Eight is very small. Eleven is only slightly bigger.
But for me, it was big enough.

My Grammy wasn’t supposed to leave me alone. That was the agreement. I would have someone with me at all times. But the phone rang. Someone called in sick. Now she was showering, blow drying her red hair, putting on her pink lipstick… while I waited, my blue eyes watched her and my tongue was stuck inside my throat.

It made no difference to speak.

She turned to me as she grabbed her purse, “It’s only for a few hours honey. Everything’s gonna be just fine. You two have fun now and Grammy will be back.” Then she was gone.
I stood at the bedroom door staring at the spot Grammy no longer was. I could hear my heart thudding in my ears. I could hear the blood moving through my veins like cars on a freeway going too fast too fast. My eyes blinked.

Who would help me?

I could feel him staring at me from the couch where he sat. He said my name. I looked at him. I did not smile. I did not make any noise.
“Don’t be scared of me. Please.” He looks down at the floor, his hands fidgeting in his lap. I stare at the wisps of gray on his balding head. He looks back at me. He is starting to cry on the couch. His bloated belly hangs over his pants, pulling his shirt tight. “I’m not like that anymore. Please don’t look at me like that. Just come here. Come. Sit.” And he pats his fat old man knee.
My brain has exploded. I can’t hear the words in my own head because it is so loud. I don’t know what to do. He is crying. (liarliarliarliarliarliar) He is old. (liarliarliarliarliar) It’s been three years. (liarliarliarliarliar) Maybe he is… different? (nononononononono)
I walked over to him.
I sat on his knee.
“See there, it’s ok.” He smiles. He pats my knee that is covered by jeans. “There’s nothing to be scared of. I will never hurt you.” And then he did. Just that quick.

I felt his hand go up my shirt, brush my belly, and squeeze my nipple. I was numb. I was dead. I didn't say no. I didn’t beg or cry or scream. It really is my fault, I thought. I sat on his knee. I am a whore. I asked for it. Just like they said.
stupidstupidstupidstupid
And then he put his tongue IN. MY. MOUTH.

It was then that I saw her. In the dark. Eight. But she looked different. Her eyes were not squeezed shut. Instead they were wide open and blazing and fierce. Her face was wet but it wasn’t fear leaking out of her eyes.
It was anger.
And it was hate.
And it was BIG.
She screamed at me. "GET. UP! You knew this would happen, you knew he was the same. You knew it! Don't just sit there. GET UP!! You are not 8! Fight him! WE are not 8!"
And then the whisper.
"No one else will help you."
I knew she was right.

I whipped my head back and jumped away from him, even as he tried to grab me back down. Into the kitchen I ran, looking behind me to see where he was, and turning back to snatch what I was looking for.
I grabbed a knife.

It was a very big knife.

Just the kind of knife a girl at eleven may need to keep herself safe.
Because she knew no one else would help her.

I held it in front of me and we did not shake. We did not cry. We did not stutter. We pointed it at him. He stopped walking and watched us from across the kitchen.
I spoke quiet and bold, pushing the fear down and letting the hate rise up.. into my heart, into my blood, into my hands.

My fingers clutched the knife.

“I will kill you if you come near me ever, ever again.” He flinched.
And he did not move. He knew that we meant it.