I upset my manchild this morning as I drove him to school. One minute we were discussing breakfast options and the next, he exclaimed in a louder-than-normal-but-less-than-yelling voice, "Don't look at me!"
My audible response was automatic, "UH. Do NOT talk to me like that. OK?"
The silence thundered. I know, dramatic right?
But it was a rocky silence and I am not good in rocky silences.
I am the one who always wants to CLEAR THE AIR (picture my arms waving at wisps of streaky air mud). This drives everyone I love CRAZY but my husband is the only one patient enough to embrace it.
My kids are like, STOP IT. I NEED A MOMENT. THIS IS A NO-FIXING ZONE RIGHT NOW.
Because I am practicing the art of BEING QUIET and holding back, my mind goes into a steady stream of mom-yack. Verbal vomit of the brain.
This ever happen to you? It looks like this.
WHATTHE? wheredidthatcomefrom? whyisHEupset? UGH ihateitsomuchwhenthishappensbeforeschool!!! whatdidido? iwanthimtohaveagoodday IWANTTOHAVEAGOODAY BLECH whyisheactinglikeapunk? jesushelpmebreathe doitalkagain? nonotyet toosoontoosoon teenagersareinsane isthatacramp? ohjeez maybeIAMINSANE imseriouslytooOLDFORAPERIODLORDcanwebedonewiththisalready? werealmosttooschool hesnotgoingtosaybye werealmostthere yeshewill nohewont pullingintothedriveway tellhimyoulovehimLIKENORMAL ofCOURSEIWILLTELLHIMILOVEHIMhesmybaby therehegoes hesgoingtoshutthedoorandjustwalkaway oh! see? hesaidbyetoo.
woohooVICTORY hesok imok
WHATTHEHELLHAPPENEDINTHEFIRSTPLACE?
everythingisfine everythingisfine
My momyack quieted and I was able to think like a sane person again.
What did happen?
And as my heart and mind slowed and I sat in silence for a few minutes, the answer came.
I have learned this is how answers are revealed.
Ask.
Wait.
God does not tease us. He says very clearly, Ask and you shall receive and also, If you lack wisdom and you ask for it, God will give it too you because he's a GOOD God. (paraphrase mine)
I texted my kid. I apologized for the tone in which I had spoken to him. Not the firm MOM tone after he became frustrated and probably mortified, but the one right before that, when I baby-coddled him.
That's right. That was my crime. I spoke to him like he was three. Not even on purpose. It just flew out like some of those mom-things do.
Doesn't seem like such a huge deal. Right?
Unless you are a seventeen year old with a beard. Then it's like your mom is stealing away your almost-adult card and trying to shove a binky in your mouth.
It reminded me of when I was in labor with my oldest. I was practically DYING on the table. All that pushing and uncontrollable shaking, along with trying to resist an epidural because I was listening to all the people telling me how WONDERFUL it is to deliver in full capacity of my senses.
Side note: this is not my jam and with my other two labors I practically carried a billboard inside the hospital flashing, "GIVE ME ALL THE DRUGS!"
My mom was next to me and in the middle of my almost-becoming-a-parent moment, she reached down and stroked my hair and said in a "mommy voice" - Oh Shannon!
It may as well have been, Oh Shannon baby boo-boo.
I slapped her hand away.
Please don't judge me here. Let's follow the thread. I was on the cusp of child > teenager > parent, and my mom was having her own moment and trying to pull me back.
I was not having it.
Neither was manchild.
We don't get to pull back mamas. Even if it slips out. We can't pull back. It is our job to always gently and firmly, propel forward.
I don't write about manchild, or Sammi, or Bre all that often because well, it's not like when they were three and could not read or have their own Facebook account and internet access. They can read my words. It could be a post describing how much I yucked up a moment or a post that boasts about how amazing they are ....
when you are seventeen - it does not matter.
You get a comment that says, "DELETE THIS."
You get an eye roll when you get home.
You may get a lecture on respect and privacy.
(insert mom eye roll here)
But there's a lot of us mamas-of-teenagers who are struggling and it's not the same struggles as a mama-of-toddlers. It's a silent struggle.
Mama of teenagers. I SEE YOU.
And in response to my morning,
I prayed for a whole bunch of us and then left a card surprise for a random MOM going to Costco today.
Just remember - our group may be quieter but WE ARE HERE. We are not alone.
I am rooting for you in your own wacky conversations and mom-vomit mornings.
Please please - root for me.
XO
Feb 6, 2017
Jan 23, 2017
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
Jan 19, 2017
#olw
Last year, for the very first time, I chose #olw, or as the non-hashtaggers know it, one little word.
I liked the idea of choosing a word to live the year by - a mantra to set my heartbeat to. And if I'm being completely bare and honest, it was super trending in the facebookinstagrampopulargirlssquare.
And at that point, for all the wrong reasons, I really wanted to trend.
All the cool kids were doing it.
And I was struggling, struggling to find my place in friendships and groups so I followed. If it was good enough for the cool kids, well, it was good enough for me too.
The word I chose was "INTENTIONAL". Which is really laughable when my reasons for choosing it (reread above and picture my eye roll) were so far from it.
Can you guess how well it went?
I failed. Like, big time.
The sad part is I may not have even noticed if someone hadn't pointed out how completely UN-intentional I was treating some tiny people I love.
I sat with that realization for a good bit, chewed on it, let it get under my skin and into the marrow of my bones.
Flash towards the eve of 2017 and the #olw was trending yet again.
This time I was not even close to wanting to roll with any cool kids. I almost nixed the idea of "one little word" altogether but my reasons for that would have been just as impulsive and wrong as the first time around.
I thought about the past year of my life. What had I learned? what had hurt? what had healed? What had I contributed to the building up, or the tearing down, of ALL the relationships surrounding me? Where did I want my efforts to go?
Tough questions require answers brave enough to not just shake hands, but to take my shoes off, trudge through the mud in my bare feet and THEN splash in the streams. I am learning (always always always learning) the best relationships include both. A relationship with depth and life and conversation must be wide enough to hold the sticky mess and the happy clean.
Otherwise it's just a convenience. You don't get one without the other.
guilty. and also, enough of that.
So this year I picked my word with a lot more thought and a whole lot of intention. (It took a year but I finally got the real meaning of that one.)
C U L T I V A T E.
1. to prepare or prepare and use for the raising of crops. also (and I really love this. I mean, really really love this) to loosen or break up the soil
(All the praise hands here. I mean seriously, WHO ELSE prays this alldayeveryday ? Break it up, Jesus. All that rock. All the hard earth clay that is unyielding and useless. Grab a hoe, a rake, a shovel, heck - let's get some jackhammers and make a real mess here. Break it up. Prepare me. Prepare all of me for CROPS. I can practically see all the lettuce heads popping up with people's faces on them. LOVE THESE. WATER THEM.)
2. to foster the growth of
(I mean, YES. this also seems like it should have a "duh" at the end.
Grow.
grow in love. grow in faith. grow in being teachable and let's get some of that forgiveness and grace in there too. Yeah? The people who need grace the most are the ones you don't want to give it to.
The conundrum being - then how will they know what it is???) DUH.
3. to IMPROVE by LABOR, CARE, or STUDY
(Labor. WORK. Cultivating is not automatic. It is not second nature. Maybe not even fourth or fifth.
To cultivate, to love, to foster growth, to care for and to allow yourself to be loosed and broken, requires a whole heck of a lot of work, and don't for a second think that work is like, cracker jack easy.
Oh no.
Grab your antiseptic and some tissues. It's going to hurt at first. You will bleed. You will ask yourself, "holy heck - IS THIS EVEN WORTH IT?"
The answer is YES.
Yes it is.
Then you'll see it. Green. Growth. Buds of life and love and friendship and family pushing through so much you want to weep in thankfulness and joy)
I pray every day God helps me to do this. I know I will not always be successful. I'm human. I get tired and selfish and hurt and I've never made any secrets of how BLACK my heart is.
BUT.
(and this is when the BUT is oh so good)
Jesus loves my black heart. Period. YOU may not love it. I may not love it. But HE does.
And.
He also knows how much this black heart wants to LOVE
and forgive (well, most of the time. some people. I'm still working on this.)
and WRITE
and be free
and laugh
and really just fly itself all the way up to heaven,
singing
at the top
of its lungs.
XO
I liked the idea of choosing a word to live the year by - a mantra to set my heartbeat to. And if I'm being completely bare and honest, it was super trending in the facebookinstagrampopulargirlssquare.
And at that point, for all the wrong reasons, I really wanted to trend.
All the cool kids were doing it.
And I was struggling, struggling to find my place in friendships and groups so I followed. If it was good enough for the cool kids, well, it was good enough for me too.
The word I chose was "INTENTIONAL". Which is really laughable when my reasons for choosing it (reread above and picture my eye roll) were so far from it.
Can you guess how well it went?
I failed. Like, big time.
The sad part is I may not have even noticed if someone hadn't pointed out how completely UN-intentional I was treating some tiny people I love.
I sat with that realization for a good bit, chewed on it, let it get under my skin and into the marrow of my bones.
Flash towards the eve of 2017 and the #olw was trending yet again.
This time I was not even close to wanting to roll with any cool kids. I almost nixed the idea of "one little word" altogether but my reasons for that would have been just as impulsive and wrong as the first time around.
I thought about the past year of my life. What had I learned? what had hurt? what had healed? What had I contributed to the building up, or the tearing down, of ALL the relationships surrounding me? Where did I want my efforts to go?
Tough questions require answers brave enough to not just shake hands, but to take my shoes off, trudge through the mud in my bare feet and THEN splash in the streams. I am learning (always always always learning) the best relationships include both. A relationship with depth and life and conversation must be wide enough to hold the sticky mess and the happy clean.
Otherwise it's just a convenience. You don't get one without the other.
guilty. and also, enough of that.
So this year I picked my word with a lot more thought and a whole lot of intention. (It took a year but I finally got the real meaning of that one.)
C U L T I V A T E.
1. to prepare or prepare and use for the raising of crops. also (and I really love this. I mean, really really love this) to loosen or break up the soil
(All the praise hands here. I mean seriously, WHO ELSE prays this alldayeveryday ? Break it up, Jesus. All that rock. All the hard earth clay that is unyielding and useless. Grab a hoe, a rake, a shovel, heck - let's get some jackhammers and make a real mess here. Break it up. Prepare me. Prepare all of me for CROPS. I can practically see all the lettuce heads popping up with people's faces on them. LOVE THESE. WATER THEM.)
2. to foster the growth of
(I mean, YES. this also seems like it should have a "duh" at the end.
Grow.
grow in love. grow in faith. grow in being teachable and let's get some of that forgiveness and grace in there too. Yeah? The people who need grace the most are the ones you don't want to give it to.
The conundrum being - then how will they know what it is???) DUH.
3. to IMPROVE by LABOR, CARE, or STUDY
(Labor. WORK. Cultivating is not automatic. It is not second nature. Maybe not even fourth or fifth.
To cultivate, to love, to foster growth, to care for and to allow yourself to be loosed and broken, requires a whole heck of a lot of work, and don't for a second think that work is like, cracker jack easy.
Oh no.
Grab your antiseptic and some tissues. It's going to hurt at first. You will bleed. You will ask yourself, "holy heck - IS THIS EVEN WORTH IT?"
The answer is YES.
Yes it is.
Then you'll see it. Green. Growth. Buds of life and love and friendship and family pushing through so much you want to weep in thankfulness and joy)
I pray every day God helps me to do this. I know I will not always be successful. I'm human. I get tired and selfish and hurt and I've never made any secrets of how BLACK my heart is.
BUT.
(and this is when the BUT is oh so good)
Jesus loves my black heart. Period. YOU may not love it. I may not love it. But HE does.
And.
He also knows how much this black heart wants to LOVE
and forgive (well, most of the time. some people. I'm still working on this.)
and WRITE
and be free
and laugh
and really just fly itself all the way up to heaven,
singing
at the top
of its lungs.
XO
Jan 3, 2017
PEARLS // Part one
I am out of practice, of all things important and the sum of all my parts. Even now, I hesitate.
I don't know how to write edited. I don't know how to voice; censored. It goes against everything I have been taught and all that I am. I will do my best to keep my pearls separate; to know which I can hold close for protection and which I can throw out for trampling.
This past year has been a process of inner deconstruction and navigating unknowns; an education in long-suffering and quiet.
It has hurt like a motherfucker.
I learned a long time ago these hurts, rejection and withdrawal, will not kill me. No. Nothing so definite and absolute.Nothing so extreme and dramatic and ... quick.
Instead,they will bring me to my knees. They will kick the air out of me.
They will grab me by the hair and yank back my head and force me to look
andlookandlookandlookandlook
until the complete decimation of all that I held dear has become a public play of mockery of which I have no part.
The screaming doesn't stop. Neither do the tears. Not for a long time.
The "why's" do. Blessedly. Mercifully.
The "why's" slink away and eventually the "what if's" follow them.
And then I can breathe again.
Some days I can stand. Sometimes I can laugh. And then eventually,
I wake up
and
I stop looking.
There.
Mostly.
And this is a mercy. This is a gift. And I am so grateful for it I squeeze my eyes shut and pray the prayer I have said over and over this year,
God. GodGodGodGodGodGod
GOD.
And my heart thumps, and my hands shake, and I feel a little clammy and queasy sick but I know, I know, I know, He is hearing me. He is seeing me there, all huddled up and broken, kicked to pieces and bruised, bloody heart and shredded character. He sees me. He hands me a blanket to wrap myself in, a tissue for the snot.
He tells me I'm going to be ok and also, it's time to start minding my own business. He holds my heart and reminds me He will heal it up, as He always has, but I have to stop grabbing it out of His hand and hunting for the things that damage.
Time. Time passes.
Time gives distance, but it does not give healing.
Trust does.
Reflection does.
Praying does.
Finding a mirror helps.
Beginning the shaky walk on a footpath to forgiveness will get you on your way.
Even if it's only a teeny bit at a time.
Even if you find yourself wanting to be an indian giver and grabbing it back because it's become wood for a fire you are tending religiously within you.
I gotta let that fire burn out.
If I don't,
if I let it rage and find it's own life,
it will burn to the ground all that was good and wonderful and right for a
very. long. time.
It will consume me until I'm nothing but ash and memories stained with bitterness.
I don't want stained memories. I want real ones. I can't let the difficulty of relationship take that from me.
I know. Sometimes watching the fire burn is mesmerizing. It warms me. It whispers that I'm right. I become entranced with my own pride and ego. There are some days I sit next to it and think, just for a minute. What's the harm in just a minute?
It takes a lot of grit to turn away and walk in the cold, where stark clarity and a new reality slap you in the face. Hard.
Be gritty. Let it sting.
You don't have to have the strength to walk it.
Crawl.
Lay on your back and look at the stars when crawling is too much.
Embrace the reminder that you are small and fleeting and just a speck of breath, and all of that is more than ok. Let it free you. I am letting it free me.
Crawl again.
Let the pebbles dig in your knees. Let your hands scratch and bleed. Feel it all.
You are alive. I am alive.
In this moment, this right now,
I. Am. Here.
I don't know how to write edited. I don't know how to voice; censored. It goes against everything I have been taught and all that I am. I will do my best to keep my pearls separate; to know which I can hold close for protection and which I can throw out for trampling.
This past year has been a process of inner deconstruction and navigating unknowns; an education in long-suffering and quiet.
It has hurt like a motherfucker.
I learned a long time ago these hurts, rejection and withdrawal, will not kill me. No. Nothing so definite and absolute.Nothing so extreme and dramatic and ... quick.
Instead,they will bring me to my knees. They will kick the air out of me.
They will grab me by the hair and yank back my head and force me to look
andlookandlookandlookandlook
until the complete decimation of all that I held dear has become a public play of mockery of which I have no part.
The screaming doesn't stop. Neither do the tears. Not for a long time.
The "why's" do. Blessedly. Mercifully.
The "why's" slink away and eventually the "what if's" follow them.
And then I can breathe again.
Some days I can stand. Sometimes I can laugh. And then eventually,
I wake up
and
I stop looking.
There.
Mostly.
And this is a mercy. This is a gift. And I am so grateful for it I squeeze my eyes shut and pray the prayer I have said over and over this year,
God. GodGodGodGodGodGod
GOD.
And my heart thumps, and my hands shake, and I feel a little clammy and queasy sick but I know, I know, I know, He is hearing me. He is seeing me there, all huddled up and broken, kicked to pieces and bruised, bloody heart and shredded character. He sees me. He hands me a blanket to wrap myself in, a tissue for the snot.
He tells me I'm going to be ok and also, it's time to start minding my own business. He holds my heart and reminds me He will heal it up, as He always has, but I have to stop grabbing it out of His hand and hunting for the things that damage.
Time. Time passes.
Time gives distance, but it does not give healing.
Trust does.
Reflection does.
Praying does.
Finding a mirror helps.
Beginning the shaky walk on a footpath to forgiveness will get you on your way.
Even if it's only a teeny bit at a time.
Even if you find yourself wanting to be an indian giver and grabbing it back because it's become wood for a fire you are tending religiously within you.
I gotta let that fire burn out.
If I don't,
if I let it rage and find it's own life,
it will burn to the ground all that was good and wonderful and right for a
very. long. time.
It will consume me until I'm nothing but ash and memories stained with bitterness.
I don't want stained memories. I want real ones. I can't let the difficulty of relationship take that from me.
I know. Sometimes watching the fire burn is mesmerizing. It warms me. It whispers that I'm right. I become entranced with my own pride and ego. There are some days I sit next to it and think, just for a minute. What's the harm in just a minute?
It takes a lot of grit to turn away and walk in the cold, where stark clarity and a new reality slap you in the face. Hard.
Be gritty. Let it sting.
You don't have to have the strength to walk it.
Crawl.
Lay on your back and look at the stars when crawling is too much.
Embrace the reminder that you are small and fleeting and just a speck of breath, and all of that is more than ok. Let it free you. I am letting it free me.
Crawl again.
Let the pebbles dig in your knees. Let your hands scratch and bleed. Feel it all.
You are alive. I am alive.
In this moment, this right now,
I. Am. Here.
Sep 30, 2016
Fear factor
It's Friday night.
I love Friday next as much as the next twenty-something. Mine just looks a little different.
Because I am forty.
And trying hard to rewrite my definition of fun.
Typical Friday night before 6 days ago:
Hang out with the boy. This likely includes carne asada fries or pizza with a Disney movie (Aladdin last week!MY pick!!!) or something weird like zoo animals turning into zombies (this is a real thing. and also, manchild's pick). After manchild goes to bed, the hubs and I grab a beer (something NOT fancy for him - think Fosters or Mickey's - in a can the size of my face, and a Shocktop Twisted Pretzel for me. Because that is the best beer on the PLANET.)
We go outside, grab our smokes, settle in our chairs and proceed to talk for at least three hours. Minimum. We talk, we plan, we belly laugh, we give kisses, we high-five, and we dream a little more. Then we go to bed.
Friday night as Day 6 of NO SMOKING. What does THAT look like?
Well - we did not go into this decision unprepared. This life change was the topic of conversations many Friday nights.
We planned how we would stop smoking while we smoked our brains out.
You see, we've tried before. Or - Jeff has.
I am the one with the pitchfork and horns in this situation. I am the BAD INFLUENCE. He has done 6 days. He has done TWO WEEKS. And I'm outside like, "No one is making me quit. I'll smoke if I wanna." puff puff flick. puff puff flick.
That plan doesn't work. Not for us. We both had to or it wasn't going to happen. All. Nothing. All. Nothing.
And I didn't want to. I was adamant about it. I would quit when I was ready and you know, I didn't think I ever would be. Even typing this sentence right this second, I feel scared. I feel scared about not smoking.
Jeff wouldn't push me and he'd come back outside and we would continue.
Oh, I'd feel shame. For sure. What kind of WIFE doesn't support her husband when he wants to quit smoking? When he wants to better himself?
I'll tell you,
A selfish one. An addicted one. A struggling one. A scared one.
But I'd rationalize, and he would too, and the shame would crawl back into the mud it came out of. See you next time.
puff puff flick.
I started smoking when I was twelve. It started as pressure, for sure. Not the kind you would think though. I didn't smoke to "be cool." I smoked to disappear. It's a lot easier to disappear when you look like everyone else.
A year later I was living in a group home. We ALL smoked. To disappear. To be outside. To avoid slamming each other's heads against the wall. To not cry out our fear and rage. Instead we sucked it down. We sucked it all down.
puff puff flick.
And that continued for me for the next 27 years. Cigarettes became my bestie. Sure, I knew the dangers, I'm not an idiot, but those seemed far, far removed from me. Like a city on a continent I've only seen pictures of. I know it's real but I don't have plans to go there.
I smoked and I sucked it all down - abandonment, anger, loss, insecurity, fear, and fear, and fear. I inhaled deep and controlled my exhale out. I would not let these things beat me. I would not.
And even as I write this I wonder, who will be my friend? When all is quiet and everyone is asleep and my mind is goinggoinggoing and I am trying to pray and trying to feel and also trying not to, who will be my friend?
But, I can't think about that. I have to focus. I have to remind myself Jeff and I have a plan. We made a plan and part of that plan is, don't think too far ahead. And a second part is, we're going to feel it all and we're going to give grace and love like we're made with it. And another part is, we're going to learn how to talk, like normal people, we will learn how to talk. While doing dishes, and laying in bed, and walking the dogs. And maybe we will gain a little bit of weight but we are going to keep saying, You are BEAUTIFUL and You are STRONG, and so we will smile and keep going. I will do this. We will do this.
We have to.
The thought of losing Jeff scares me frozen. I could not bear it.
He started coughing a while ago. He started coughing and its been so long since I've heard the cough that I can't remember when it started. All I know is that sometimes he hunches over and he coughs so hard it reaches out and squeezes my heart until I think it might shatter. He coughs so hard he can't breathe and I hold my breath and not breathe either until he does again.
I found myself making deals with God, "If you let him be ok, I'll stop. I really will." And then I would light another one. I'm not very good at this deal business. I am good at fear.
Here's the thing. I had to decide which fear was bigger - living without my constant of the last 28 years or living without Jeff?
And Jeff wins. Jeff wins every time.
Maybe it's because we're forty now. Maybe its because over the past two months, two people we know have died and left us shaking our heads thinking, "What the fuck is happening? He was SO young!" Maybe it's realizing, this life is pretty damn precious and if I want it, I better live like I want it. Maybe its finally beginning to believe, I am worthy. I am worthy of not just surviving in this life,
but thriving in every second of it too.
And so, come. Come, new Friday night with food and movies and no beer and no smokes.
Come.
I am going to see you. I am going to face you.
And I am going to be OK.
I love Friday next as much as the next twenty-something. Mine just looks a little different.
Because I am forty.
And trying hard to rewrite my definition of fun.
Typical Friday night before 6 days ago:
Hang out with the boy. This likely includes carne asada fries or pizza with a Disney movie (Aladdin last week!MY pick!!!) or something weird like zoo animals turning into zombies (this is a real thing. and also, manchild's pick). After manchild goes to bed, the hubs and I grab a beer (something NOT fancy for him - think Fosters or Mickey's - in a can the size of my face, and a Shocktop Twisted Pretzel for me. Because that is the best beer on the PLANET.)
We go outside, grab our smokes, settle in our chairs and proceed to talk for at least three hours. Minimum. We talk, we plan, we belly laugh, we give kisses, we high-five, and we dream a little more. Then we go to bed.
Friday night as Day 6 of NO SMOKING. What does THAT look like?
Well - we did not go into this decision unprepared. This life change was the topic of conversations many Friday nights.
We planned how we would stop smoking while we smoked our brains out.
You see, we've tried before. Or - Jeff has.
I am the one with the pitchfork and horns in this situation. I am the BAD INFLUENCE. He has done 6 days. He has done TWO WEEKS. And I'm outside like, "No one is making me quit. I'll smoke if I wanna." puff puff flick. puff puff flick.
That plan doesn't work. Not for us. We both had to or it wasn't going to happen. All. Nothing. All. Nothing.
And I didn't want to. I was adamant about it. I would quit when I was ready and you know, I didn't think I ever would be. Even typing this sentence right this second, I feel scared. I feel scared about not smoking.
Jeff wouldn't push me and he'd come back outside and we would continue.
Oh, I'd feel shame. For sure. What kind of WIFE doesn't support her husband when he wants to quit smoking? When he wants to better himself?
I'll tell you,
A selfish one. An addicted one. A struggling one. A scared one.
But I'd rationalize, and he would too, and the shame would crawl back into the mud it came out of. See you next time.
puff puff flick.
I started smoking when I was twelve. It started as pressure, for sure. Not the kind you would think though. I didn't smoke to "be cool." I smoked to disappear. It's a lot easier to disappear when you look like everyone else.
A year later I was living in a group home. We ALL smoked. To disappear. To be outside. To avoid slamming each other's heads against the wall. To not cry out our fear and rage. Instead we sucked it down. We sucked it all down.
puff puff flick.
And that continued for me for the next 27 years. Cigarettes became my bestie. Sure, I knew the dangers, I'm not an idiot, but those seemed far, far removed from me. Like a city on a continent I've only seen pictures of. I know it's real but I don't have plans to go there.
I smoked and I sucked it all down - abandonment, anger, loss, insecurity, fear, and fear, and fear. I inhaled deep and controlled my exhale out. I would not let these things beat me. I would not.
And even as I write this I wonder, who will be my friend? When all is quiet and everyone is asleep and my mind is goinggoinggoing and I am trying to pray and trying to feel and also trying not to, who will be my friend?
But, I can't think about that. I have to focus. I have to remind myself Jeff and I have a plan. We made a plan and part of that plan is, don't think too far ahead. And a second part is, we're going to feel it all and we're going to give grace and love like we're made with it. And another part is, we're going to learn how to talk, like normal people, we will learn how to talk. While doing dishes, and laying in bed, and walking the dogs. And maybe we will gain a little bit of weight but we are going to keep saying, You are BEAUTIFUL and You are STRONG, and so we will smile and keep going. I will do this. We will do this.
We have to.
The thought of losing Jeff scares me frozen. I could not bear it.
He started coughing a while ago. He started coughing and its been so long since I've heard the cough that I can't remember when it started. All I know is that sometimes he hunches over and he coughs so hard it reaches out and squeezes my heart until I think it might shatter. He coughs so hard he can't breathe and I hold my breath and not breathe either until he does again.
I found myself making deals with God, "If you let him be ok, I'll stop. I really will." And then I would light another one. I'm not very good at this deal business. I am good at fear.
Here's the thing. I had to decide which fear was bigger - living without my constant of the last 28 years or living without Jeff?
And Jeff wins. Jeff wins every time.
Maybe it's because we're forty now. Maybe its because over the past two months, two people we know have died and left us shaking our heads thinking, "What the fuck is happening? He was SO young!" Maybe it's realizing, this life is pretty damn precious and if I want it, I better live like I want it. Maybe its finally beginning to believe, I am worthy. I am worthy of not just surviving in this life,
but thriving in every second of it too.
And so, come. Come, new Friday night with food and movies and no beer and no smokes.
Come.
I am going to see you. I am going to face you.
And I am going to be OK.
Sep 27, 2016
2.85 Days and counting
I haven't smoked a cigarette in three days.
Well, 2.75 days. If I'm being honest, which I am.
The day is not over until I am in bed, eyes closed, and in the throes of REM. The day is not over until I see 12:00 glowing green. Then I can tell myself, "YOU ARE A ROCK-FREAKING-STAR."
I am fighting it. My stomach is aching from too many Hot Tamales. My fingers are nail-less and a few are a little bloody, but I am fighting.
I keep telling myself,
it's ok if you gain a few pounds. It's ok.
It's ok if you gain a few pounds and you have ugly, bloody hands. It's ok.
I try not to wonder too long if it really is ok because that stresses me out and that makes me think about smoking.
Focus on the good, right? RIGHTO!
(I've never said that by the way. Is that even real?)
Here is the good stuff.
I haven't had to wash my hair yet. I know what you are thinking - that's a good thing??
Ummmmm
Have you smelled a smokers' hair the day after?
It's bad. I can't tell if I look like Pigpen from Charlie Brown but I am sure I can sense the swirl of nasty around my head. Saving time and money and fears of being Pigpen. That is also RIGHTO!
But I will wash my hair tomorrow. Just because I like to be CLEAN.
I am getting rest!! Rather than walking to bed like a mummy at 10 or 11pm, I am practically leaping into bed at 8:30. Is this because I have nothing else to do and no conversations to be had with my husband?
NOPE.
It IS because if I don't get under these covers, if I don't shove my toes into the sheet that is tucked tight like a cocoon, if I don't tell myself,"Only crazy people get OUT OF BED to go light up," I will likely run as fast as I can out the back door and shove that skinny little stick into my mouth.
(sigh) This is not a pretty picture. I straight up sound like some kind of addict.
So, it's 8:30. With a book.
Which takes me right into the next BEST THING,
I am READING LIKE A STARVING PERSON.
(current book is LOVE WARRIOR which basically every woman, and man, on the PLANET should read)
Here's a marvelous thing though - I WAKE UP refreshed. Seriously.
AND AND AND
My morning breath has changed. YES. This is a fact.
Now - I have also switched toothpaste so a big shout-out to Thieves and all the essential oil lovers out there, but I am also thinking all the chemicals I typically suck into my lungs are no longer trying to escape through my wide-open (very possibly drooling) mouth while I twitch and slumber.
Do I want to suck face as soon as I open my eyes?
EW. NO.
But the morning breath has definitely gone down a notch.
Sunday was DAY 1.
Sunday night I was rethinking this whole "quitting smoking" business or at least seriously considering putting it off until Monday.
Some serious stuff happened Sunday. Stuff I wanted to talk about, ponder, ease in to - all while smoking.
But here's the thing - ISN'T THERE ALWAYS GOING TO BE SOMETHING??
Life does not wait. Life does not slow down and give us a breather. We have to make our change while we bob and weave. Change does not happen while we stand still.
So here I am. 2.85 days (updated!) I want one with every twitch in my fingers. Can you tell? I've never written with so many CAPS before!
But not today.
Not tonight. I'm going to bed. I'm going for FOUR.
XO
Well, 2.75 days. If I'm being honest, which I am.
The day is not over until I am in bed, eyes closed, and in the throes of REM. The day is not over until I see 12:00 glowing green. Then I can tell myself, "YOU ARE A ROCK-FREAKING-STAR."
I am fighting it. My stomach is aching from too many Hot Tamales. My fingers are nail-less and a few are a little bloody, but I am fighting.
I keep telling myself,
it's ok if you gain a few pounds. It's ok.
It's ok if you gain a few pounds and you have ugly, bloody hands. It's ok.
I try not to wonder too long if it really is ok because that stresses me out and that makes me think about smoking.
Focus on the good, right? RIGHTO!
(I've never said that by the way. Is that even real?)
Here is the good stuff.
I haven't had to wash my hair yet. I know what you are thinking - that's a good thing??
Ummmmm
Have you smelled a smokers' hair the day after?
It's bad. I can't tell if I look like Pigpen from Charlie Brown but I am sure I can sense the swirl of nasty around my head. Saving time and money and fears of being Pigpen. That is also RIGHTO!
But I will wash my hair tomorrow. Just because I like to be CLEAN.
I am getting rest!! Rather than walking to bed like a mummy at 10 or 11pm, I am practically leaping into bed at 8:30. Is this because I have nothing else to do and no conversations to be had with my husband?
NOPE.
It IS because if I don't get under these covers, if I don't shove my toes into the sheet that is tucked tight like a cocoon, if I don't tell myself,"Only crazy people get OUT OF BED to go light up," I will likely run as fast as I can out the back door and shove that skinny little stick into my mouth.
(sigh) This is not a pretty picture. I straight up sound like some kind of addict.
So, it's 8:30. With a book.
Which takes me right into the next BEST THING,
I am READING LIKE A STARVING PERSON.
(current book is LOVE WARRIOR which basically every woman, and man, on the PLANET should read)
Here's a marvelous thing though - I WAKE UP refreshed. Seriously.
AND AND AND
My morning breath has changed. YES. This is a fact.
Now - I have also switched toothpaste so a big shout-out to Thieves and all the essential oil lovers out there, but I am also thinking all the chemicals I typically suck into my lungs are no longer trying to escape through my wide-open (very possibly drooling) mouth while I twitch and slumber.
Do I want to suck face as soon as I open my eyes?
EW. NO.
But the morning breath has definitely gone down a notch.
Sunday was DAY 1.
Sunday night I was rethinking this whole "quitting smoking" business or at least seriously considering putting it off until Monday.
Some serious stuff happened Sunday. Stuff I wanted to talk about, ponder, ease in to - all while smoking.
But here's the thing - ISN'T THERE ALWAYS GOING TO BE SOMETHING??
Life does not wait. Life does not slow down and give us a breather. We have to make our change while we bob and weave. Change does not happen while we stand still.
So here I am. 2.85 days (updated!) I want one with every twitch in my fingers. Can you tell? I've never written with so many CAPS before!
But not today.
Not tonight. I'm going to bed. I'm going for FOUR.
XO
Apr 24, 2016
Flat
I couldn't bring myself to go to church today. I could barely bring myself to do life. Jeff knows something is wrong. He stopped doing today so he could sit on the couch with me and watch a movie. I did not ask him too but I think he knew I needed the support in my nothingness.
I wanted to spend time with God on my own and sometimes the best place for me there is when I write.There are no secrets for me here, in the written word. I let it all out - even if people decide not to like me anymore. It's the place I find my voice. It is here I can feel safe in the dark that moves inside me.I want people to see it. I invite you in to relate or repel. Pretending is too exhausting for words.
The disappointment I am learning to live with is almost tangible. I can taste it; everything I consume is muted, as if I have a cold. I can feel the heavy, a thick blanket that I wrap tighter rather than throw off. I've never been a person who gets depressed. I think I am too stubborn for it. The thought of something or someone getting the best of me is enough to keep me moving, keep me doing, keep striking a line through the tasks on my list.
Until now.
I am tired, God. I am.
I am tired of smiling when I don't mean it. I am tired of hugging, tired of thinking of an answer, tired of making excuses for other people. I am tired of putting their shoes on my feet when I know they don't fit me anymore. I am tired of walking in them, with them, when they are so tight I cannot breathe, so constricting in where they are taking me, in a life, in a story, I don't want as my own.
I remind myself, God, to love them like I want to be loved.
But here is what I am learning, God, what I have known deep within,
you can't make people love you back. Not even a little.
I remember my ex-husband saying to me one time, a thousand times, screaming;
Why can't you ever have my back? Why can't you take my side?
Those words have remained on me, deep in my skin, a scar that will not ever be unseen.
And now I know exactly what he meant.
It was always with good intentions, God, always with good intentions that I tried to see why people do the jacked up things they do. Maybe they had a fight with their spouse. Maybe their kids are too much today. Maybe they don't know how untangle themselves from the lassos others threw around them. Maybe they like it there because they learned how to walk in ropes.
This feeling, God, this feeling is so unknown and I do not like it here.
But here's the thing,
I don't know how to get out.
My list is not working. Distractions are not working. I listen to your songs, God, but I feel like I don't belong in them so I turn it off. I see the quotes, God, one inspirational word after another and all I can think is,
"Shut up. I'm so sick of your blanketness." I write cards, God. I write cards and I feel so much better for a minute because I do know, in that act, I am saying what I need to hear and I think, maybe someone else needs to hear it too? But then I tape it somewhere and I walk away and I walk away from the words. They have left me.
The tears come in the most unlikely of moments. At the grocery store, driving home from work, in the bathroom while I change to workout, in reading the thoughts of a fictitious twelve year old girl who lives in the pages of a book.
Are you there God? It's me, Shannon.
I walked out on my mother last week while we had dinner. I couldn't do it God. I couldn't sit and listen and nod and smile and pretend that all the words she spoke were true. I couldn't stop myself when I asked, "Oh, is that how it happened, Mom?" Even though I know better, even though I know she doesn't like to be questioned, even though I know it's a mistake to interrupt what she has re-written.
But it came out anyway, God, it did, and I'm not sorry for it because I was there too and I had to remain silent then but I won't remain silent now.
She is demanding too much. She is taking more than I can give out.
And so I warned her. I did. You heard me, right God? You heard me say, "I don't want to talk about this anymore."
But the Carrie-show stops for no one. It never has and she kept right on.
Her proclaimed epiphany was a joke, and not one of those ha-ha-ha ones God, it was more of a, what-the-fuck-is-she-saying-I'm-so-stunned-I-gotta-laugh ones.
But it's when our eyes met, and hers narrowed, and she instructed me to "go ahead and put a smile on my face", that I kind of lost it God. But not in a typical "Shannon" fashion so hey God, that's an improvement right? I didn't curse at her or make a scene or take her face and smash it into the basket of tortilla chips. Instead I stood up, so calm God, did you see how calm I was? And I grabbed my things and said thank you to Steve and I left. I heard Jeff behind me. I heard him stand up too. I heard him say to her, "you should have stopped. She asked you to stop." (unlike me, Jeff can always be counted on for a good back-having moment) and then he was with me, side by side, all the way out.
And still God, there was nothing, no ranting or yelling, nothing more than an occasional, she's fucking crazy, but even that was measured.
I know God.
I know all those "fucks" are unrighteous at best, deep-rooted sin time at worst, but I gotta tell you God, I think just about every one of those "fucks" was earned. I hear people say it all the time, "You can choose better words to express yourself" and hey, I've said it to my own kids.
But if I get right down to it, I really can't think of anything else that fits. So fuck it is.
I'm not trying to be disrespectful to you, God. Really I am not. I am being as up front with you as I can. Isn't that when prayer works best? Isn't that when you come in and do your biggest work? When we let it all hang out?
So there it is God. I am letting it hang. I am stuck. Believing in you is not a problem. Believing you is not a problem either.
The problem is me.
The problem is smiling when hey, it's not all alright.
The problem is I just don't have it in me right now to go that extra mile.
I'm having issues crawling.
Steps are kind of out of the question.
I know you God. I know you love me no matter what. I know you are going to stick by me, in all this junk I keep trying to toss out but when my back is turned, it's like someone is refilling the can. I know you are going to help me here, in this place. I know you will wait. I know you will speak.
But here's what I don't know.
Who else?
I wanted to spend time with God on my own and sometimes the best place for me there is when I write.There are no secrets for me here, in the written word. I let it all out - even if people decide not to like me anymore. It's the place I find my voice. It is here I can feel safe in the dark that moves inside me.I want people to see it. I invite you in to relate or repel. Pretending is too exhausting for words.
The disappointment I am learning to live with is almost tangible. I can taste it; everything I consume is muted, as if I have a cold. I can feel the heavy, a thick blanket that I wrap tighter rather than throw off. I've never been a person who gets depressed. I think I am too stubborn for it. The thought of something or someone getting the best of me is enough to keep me moving, keep me doing, keep striking a line through the tasks on my list.
Until now.
I am tired, God. I am.
I am tired of smiling when I don't mean it. I am tired of hugging, tired of thinking of an answer, tired of making excuses for other people. I am tired of putting their shoes on my feet when I know they don't fit me anymore. I am tired of walking in them, with them, when they are so tight I cannot breathe, so constricting in where they are taking me, in a life, in a story, I don't want as my own.
I remind myself, God, to love them like I want to be loved.
But here is what I am learning, God, what I have known deep within,
you can't make people love you back. Not even a little.
I remember my ex-husband saying to me one time, a thousand times, screaming;
Why can't you ever have my back? Why can't you take my side?
Those words have remained on me, deep in my skin, a scar that will not ever be unseen.
And now I know exactly what he meant.
It was always with good intentions, God, always with good intentions that I tried to see why people do the jacked up things they do. Maybe they had a fight with their spouse. Maybe their kids are too much today. Maybe they don't know how untangle themselves from the lassos others threw around them. Maybe they like it there because they learned how to walk in ropes.
This feeling, God, this feeling is so unknown and I do not like it here.
But here's the thing,
I don't know how to get out.
My list is not working. Distractions are not working. I listen to your songs, God, but I feel like I don't belong in them so I turn it off. I see the quotes, God, one inspirational word after another and all I can think is,
"Shut up. I'm so sick of your blanketness." I write cards, God. I write cards and I feel so much better for a minute because I do know, in that act, I am saying what I need to hear and I think, maybe someone else needs to hear it too? But then I tape it somewhere and I walk away and I walk away from the words. They have left me.
The tears come in the most unlikely of moments. At the grocery store, driving home from work, in the bathroom while I change to workout, in reading the thoughts of a fictitious twelve year old girl who lives in the pages of a book.
Are you there God? It's me, Shannon.
I walked out on my mother last week while we had dinner. I couldn't do it God. I couldn't sit and listen and nod and smile and pretend that all the words she spoke were true. I couldn't stop myself when I asked, "Oh, is that how it happened, Mom?" Even though I know better, even though I know she doesn't like to be questioned, even though I know it's a mistake to interrupt what she has re-written.
But it came out anyway, God, it did, and I'm not sorry for it because I was there too and I had to remain silent then but I won't remain silent now.
She is demanding too much. She is taking more than I can give out.
And so I warned her. I did. You heard me, right God? You heard me say, "I don't want to talk about this anymore."
But the Carrie-show stops for no one. It never has and she kept right on.
Her proclaimed epiphany was a joke, and not one of those ha-ha-ha ones God, it was more of a, what-the-fuck-is-she-saying-I'm-so-stunned-I-gotta-laugh ones.
But it's when our eyes met, and hers narrowed, and she instructed me to "go ahead and put a smile on my face", that I kind of lost it God. But not in a typical "Shannon" fashion so hey God, that's an improvement right? I didn't curse at her or make a scene or take her face and smash it into the basket of tortilla chips. Instead I stood up, so calm God, did you see how calm I was? And I grabbed my things and said thank you to Steve and I left. I heard Jeff behind me. I heard him stand up too. I heard him say to her, "you should have stopped. She asked you to stop." (unlike me, Jeff can always be counted on for a good back-having moment) and then he was with me, side by side, all the way out.
And still God, there was nothing, no ranting or yelling, nothing more than an occasional, she's fucking crazy, but even that was measured.
I know God.
I know all those "fucks" are unrighteous at best, deep-rooted sin time at worst, but I gotta tell you God, I think just about every one of those "fucks" was earned. I hear people say it all the time, "You can choose better words to express yourself" and hey, I've said it to my own kids.
But if I get right down to it, I really can't think of anything else that fits. So fuck it is.
I'm not trying to be disrespectful to you, God. Really I am not. I am being as up front with you as I can. Isn't that when prayer works best? Isn't that when you come in and do your biggest work? When we let it all hang out?
So there it is God. I am letting it hang. I am stuck. Believing in you is not a problem. Believing you is not a problem either.
The problem is me.
The problem is smiling when hey, it's not all alright.
The problem is I just don't have it in me right now to go that extra mile.
I'm having issues crawling.
Steps are kind of out of the question.
I know you God. I know you love me no matter what. I know you are going to stick by me, in all this junk I keep trying to toss out but when my back is turned, it's like someone is refilling the can. I know you are going to help me here, in this place. I know you will wait. I know you will speak.
But here's what I don't know.
Who else?
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