Dad

My dad was a spiritual giant. He thoroughly immersed himself in scripture, devoted himself to prayer, and treated every task and job as a ministry. I don't think there is a single person that he met that was left with any doubt regarding his faith and devotion to Christ. He was a deacon, Sunday School teacher, Bible study leader, prayer warrior, mentor and Biblical scholar. 

But to me, he was just dad. He was the best man I ever met. He was thoroughly trustworthy and never once told me a lie. He set a standard for manhood that no man on earth, with the exception of my brothers, has ever met. He laughed and smiled and joked. If there was ice cream in the freezer, it was a guarantee that he would have ice cream after dinner, and the way he packed as much ice cream as possible into a cup was a feat of food engineering. No air, no space was allowed into that cup. Ice cream filled every crevice and sometimes nuts and chocolate syrup and even raisins went on top. There were evenings when he ate that ice cream wearing a fedora and sunglasses, just because it was fun. He always cleaned his plate, scraping it with a fork, while we sat and cringed at the sound of metal against porcelain. He exemplified work ethic. Everything he did, he did with enthusiasm and immersion. It was not worth doing, if not done well. (Colossians 3:17)
He surfed, and crafted surf boards. He played tennis, and strung racquets. He made toys out of wood for my kids, tops that spun and catapults that hurled little tiny bean bags. We needed a computer- he researched and taught himself what he needed to know to build one. If something broke, he could fix it. He did things of great magnitude, building houses, clearing land, driving tractors, learning Russian to minister to Russian children, but he also was a master of delicacy and art. I will keep forever the hand drawn cards with illustrations and cartoons that he sent me, the bowls and vases he turned on his lathe, with delicate lettering burned into the bottom- dates, names, a message, a scripture. He wrote music and played guitar, crafted a ukulele and learned to play it. There were nights that he would throw on a garish wig and costume and goof around, just for fun, just to make us laugh. Every year, his Principles of Technology class at the high school would do a project- construct a model of a car out of balsa wood with a hole in the back for a CO2 cartridge, then race them to see who's car was the most aerodynamic. Every year, he would bring home a wooden form me for and my brothers, so we could make one, too. They were masterpieces. He taught us how to draw a design for the car, how to sand it down, gradually increasing the sandpaper grit, until it was smooth, like butter. When the cars were done and painted, looking like a professional tiny racer, they were strung on a string, the cartridge was fired, and they would fly. My dad gave us the gift of his time. He was not too busy to paint wooden model cars with his kids, help me perfect a cartwheel, play baseball in the backyard, have an ice cream date, build a snowman or go sledding. When we went to the beach, he would launch us into the waves again and again, and I only realize now, as a parent, how exhausting that was. At the time, all I saw was how much fun he was having with us. There were weekly Saturday breakfasts at Mrs. Wenger's. My brothers and I alternated weeks, taking turns so that we all got an equal opportunity for Saturday breakfast out with Dad. He was silly, funny, serious, brilliant, inspiring, faithful, honest- and always there for me. When my daughter was an infant and wouldn't stop screaming, he would take her outside and walk around the yard, in the grass, near the trees, and talk to her and she would grow quiet, listening to the rise and fall of his voice. He was a master story teller. On long car rides, we would often ask, "Tell us a story, Dad." He told stories to my brothers and myself and then told stories to his grandchildren, often about two rather naughty protagonists named Billy and Jimmy. Billy and Jimmy got into a lot of trouble. One of the more memorable tales was told to a certain child of mine that had a habit of eating boogers. Unfortunately, Billy or Jimmy, I cannot recall which, also had this habit, turned into a giant booger and died. After hearing the story, the child in question never ate a booger again, for fear that one day they might turn into a giant booger and perish. There was the year that my mother bought my dad turtleneck long sleeved shirts and my dad dutifully tried them on, clearly hating every second that his neck was entrapped in the softly suffocating fabric. She exclaimed, "David, you look so handsome!" He then proceeded to pose like a JC Penney model, while we laughed until we hurt, and there are photos to prove it. The turtlenecks were returned to the store. 

My mom and dad had a marriage that was perfectly imperfect. They laughed, got on each other's nerves and half drove each other crazy, disagreed, and always came back together at the end of the day. He was my mother's best friend, her confidant, her person, her prayer partner. When he worked at the high school, he called her, to the best of my memory, every day when he took his lunch break. It was dependable, like clockwork. On payday, he would call and say, "The eagle has landed." They took care of each other. She kept him humble. He was her rock. There was never any question as to the fidelity of their relationship. It was one of the utterly true and reliable things in my life as a child and an adult. They loved each other in a way that was refined and excellent, through their human faults, lifting each other up always. My father showed so much respect for my mother, and she for him. They spoke highly of each other in the other's absence. My mom always said that she would go first, that there was no way my dad would be allowed to leave this earth without her. She often said that he was the most handsome man, and I agreed. My handsome, strong, dependable dad. He was everything that a man should be, flaws and humanity notwithstanding. 

The memory that stands out most prominently to me takes me back to my late teenage years, when my parents and I were going through a very rocky period. Relationships were strained to the point of breaking and tensions were high. My dad and I were facing off, standing outside in the driveway, about 8 feet apart. We were having a very intense conversation, about what exactly, I cannot recall. I do remember the way I felt. I was angry, hateful, hurt, and stubborn. I was non responsive. Finally, he held  out his arms, like an earthly representation of Jesus on the cross, and said, "I love you, Joni." Then he stood, waiting for me to come to him. I stood rooted there and didn't move. I waited. His arms stayed outstretched, steady. I waited a long time. Finally, he wavered, dropped his arms. His head dropped. At that moment, my heart broke a little bit and I went to him, accepted the hug he offered. He was always there. No matter what, I have never doubted that my father loved me. He truly did exemplify Jesus to me and is the standard of manhood that I will forever hold as ideal. 

If I have any regrets, it is that we did not have more time. We didn't have enough coffee dates. I didn't get to make him enough cookies. I didn't get to hug him goodbye. I hope he knew how much I loved him, how special I knew he was.

a gentle grief

 My dad died yesterday. 

It is finally done. For over two years, he has battled the cancer in his body, with my mom at his side. I remember that phone call, when he said, "I have something to tell you. You need to sit down." I foolishly thought that he was going to tell me that he was planning a visit, that I could finally take him to see all the places on the island that made me think of him. I could show him the Bonsai Pipeline and he could tell me surfing stories. I could take him on hikes and share the magic that I've found at summits and peaks. He and my mom would love on my kids and I would cook for them both. Instead, he said, "I have colon cancer." The world dropped away and I remember, my whole body went cold. I heard Death laugh. When he told me the diagnosis, so many things raced through my mind. I saw suffering and pain. I saw the end. I did not see hope. My dad was healthy and strong. His dad, my grandpa, lived until his late 90s, building ramps for the disabled, driving his tractor, tending his gardens. My grandma, his mother, is still alive, even now. My dad came from good stock. There was no reason to expect that he wouldn't be around to see my children's children. The diagnosis did not make sense. 

Over the past two years, I have both yearned for and dreaded phone calls. He tried everything humanly possible to rid his body of the cancer that spread to rectum, metastasized to his skin. Chemo, supplements, dietary restrictions, clean eating, essential oils, DMSO, CBD. He deteriorated and wasn't able to bike anymore. He still maintained the house, the expansive gardens, still worked in his shop, making beautiful and useful things. He began to experience subcutaneous bleeding and horrific swelling in his extremities. Getting around became difficult, but not impossible. He had good days and bad days, and I heard hope, but I didn't feel hope, only fear. 

Then, three weeks ago, things changed. He couldn't breathe. He started blacking out. Congestive heart failure. This was the inevitable. Death failed to take him with the cancer, but his appointment still stood and must be kept. For the past three weeks, I have lived in a state of hyper vigilance that I have not experienced since Sam was an infant, and I listened for every sound, every murmur. I know that feeling, when Death is close and lurking and, as a human, you cannot be stronger or smarter, but you are vigilant. Waiting. Constantly wired and buzzing, alert for the next development. Every phone call, every text, sent me diving for my phone. I checked my email every hour, sometimes every 15 minutes or less, depending on the time of day. I constantly did the math, "It's five hours later where they are, what time is it? What are they doing?" For two weeks, I have gotten out of bed in the morning with what feels like a alcohol free hangover, my head heavy and my stomach a little sick, overwhelmed by dread. 

It wasn't just the suffering that my dad was experiencing, it was the knowledge that my mother was suffering alongside him, dying for love of him, trying everything to help and make him better. From the beginning, I prayed for mercy, that my dad would not be cursed with the fate of Job. I've read that story so many times, and I saw it being relived in my father, but without the hope of earthly restoration and a happy ending. My prayer was a plea, "Please. Please don't make him suffer. He is the best man I've ever known and he doesn't deserve this. Mercy. Grant him mercy." But then, it went on too long and I saw that it was too late for my prayer to be granted. The suffering had gone too deep. We passed the point of mercy and grace. His spirit stayed strong, his mind held steady. But his body was giving up, fighting against life. He started having seizures. My brother stepped in and became my mom's rock, lifting and assisting my dad because she could not. Hospice was called in. My morning headaches increased. The hyper vigilance intensified. It was coming. Come soon, but also, don't come- spare us. Let us keep him. Take him, make the suffering stop. Leave him alone, we don't want him to go. This state of the in-between. My dad told my mom that he felt like he was, "in the middle." His mind and spirit were here but his body was failing rapidly. 

I have been mourning this for two years. I have been angry, but primarily heartbroken. The phone calls with my mom, where she is so positive but the news is so bad. I am an empath. This is a blessing and a curse. The physical pain I would feel when I hung up from a phone call, taking on their pain and stress, but unable to effect anything, I can't even begin to adequately explain. This strain has stretched me thin, until I feel transparent, pulled apart by the hurt that they felt and that I feel. I've had to push it down, these past several weeks, just to keep myself moving and functioning. The loss of my grandmother last weekend broke me. I wasn't expecting to have to let her go, lose her presence on this earth. I wasn't prepared. I was already stretched so thin, I snapped under the additional strain. 

This week has been a conscious nightmare. The seizures increased in frequency, breathing became labored and painful, skin began to turn grey. Through it all, my dad never lost his dignity, never lost who he was. Through it all, my mom was there, and that hurt me. She carried so much and she is so small. My tiny mother, with this enormous burden that no human is equipped to bear. She is truly a warrior, bound by humility and borne up by her faith. 

On Saturday morning, I had planned a 20 mile run. I intended to run a route that would keep me in a service area the whole time, so that I wouldn't miss any phone calls or updates. I woke up feeling so heavy, like my body had lead running through my veins instead of blood. I had a tension headache that was worse than any I've ever experienced. I had decided the day before to shut down my social media and turn off my notifications. Everything seemed too loud, too noisy. I got up and took the dog for a walk. Usually my morning headache alleviates during these walks. Being outside in the fresh air, surrounded by all the green typically clears my mind and eases the pressure. But this morning, the pressure increased. I was irritated with cars and trucks that drove by in my quiet neighborhood, because their motors were obnoxiously loud, too much noise. I got home, and got ready to head out to run, laid out my clothes and stood looking at them. My legs said yes but my head felt detached from my body. So I lay down for just a minute, closed my eyes. Then my phone rang. My mom told me, "We think he's gone."

I called my other brother, told him to call her. My mom, myself, and my two brothers were together, joined over thousands of miles via cell phones and landlines. We waited, as she tried to contact hospice. We stayed with her. He was gone, finally free. 

At some point, through the tears, I realized- my headache was gone. It has not returned.  

I have mourned this for two years. I mourned the pain, the suffering, the impending loss. I mourned what this was doing to my mom. I mourned not being there to share this burden. 

Now I am free to mourn the loss of who my dad was. This is a pure grief, and it is mostly gentle. I mourn that my mom is alone, that she has lost her best friend, her confidant, her partner. 

I will write about my dad. I will write about how he was funny and brilliant, how he researched everything, almost to an irritating degree. (I just want a CD player boom box, Dad. Do we HAVE to learn how they are made before we buy one?) I will write about how he made swing-sets and tree houses, coached soccer and tennis, played baseball with my brothers, took me to play tennis and bought us ice cream afterwards. I will write about his love for God and how he touched the lives of every single person he met, how his life itself was a ministry, even up until his final day. I will write about the sculptures he made out of wood, turning hard blocks into soft butter with his lathe, turning and turning and shaping, until something hard and rough became something soft, smooth, and beautiful. The whole house that he tore down to the bones and studs, meticulously re-crafted, over 30 years, remodeling and customizing, until it was exactly right for him and my mom. I will write about his dad jokes and tickle fights and how he wouldn't let anyone else put the lights on the Christmas tree. We would drink hot chocolate out of the Christmas mugs and wait, while he assembled the tree and strung the lights, listening to Christmas music, impatient to hang the ornaments. I will write about these things.

But not today. 

I am sad. I am sad that he is gone. I am sad that my mom is without him. He leaves a empty space that no one can fill. I am sad that my kids will grow up without him. I am sad for myself, that I am here, far away, mourning this alone. The shock of that hits me frequently, and will continue to do so. This mourning is a peaceful mourning, free of agony, free of dread. I truly believe that he is in Heaven, that he is in a place of joy and reward. This is not a cold and broken hallelujah anymore. This is a warm sadness, a grief that acknowledges great loss, but it is no longer malevolent. 

I miss him. I love him always. I do not wish him back, to the suffering that his life had become. Death is swallowed up in victory. Death only has power when we are alive. So in the end, my dad won. Death caught him, but my dad broke free. There is release. There is relief. There is joy. And always, there is love. 

the quiet place

 This is the quiet place. 

Where there is nothing but space and air and no passage of time, where Peace and Grief battle. Peace stands, silent and patient, while Grief rages and fights and throws punches. Grief is not a fair fighter. He hits low, high, he scratches and claws. Peace waits. It is a gentle, understanding, biding of time. Grief will grow tired. His arms will fall. Then Peace will hold out his arms and the two will meet and become one until all that is left is Peace. 

This is the quiet place. 

We never want people that we love to go. We always want them, selfishly, to stay. 

Glynn Pettus. She will not be forgotten. She loved me when I felt unloved. She wrote letters to me every week when I was in college and sent me money for my ice cream fund, so that I could walk over to Hardees and get a scoop of moose tracks. She gave the best hugs. No one left her house hungry. She was sharp and smart and sarcastic. She said words like, "fanny," and "fiddlesticks." She was an expert at making people feel welcomed and wanted. Her life was layered and well lived. She shopped too much and gave too much and drove my Grandaddy a little bit crazy. Her grip on reality started to slip when he began his descent into dementia, and I want to believe that now they are together and she'll never again have to ask, "Where's Edward?"

She was beautiful, skin like a rose petal and always scented with Oil of Olay. Her hands were spotted and aged from years of dish water, cotton picking, and endless washing from hours spent in the kitchen. The best way to clean a kitchen floor was on your hands and knees and she had the most extensive collection of Precious Moments that I have ever seen. She loved beautiful things. 

The things she said, in that sweet southern drawl, "Lord have mercy!" That gentle chuckle, followed by, "Well, honey..." or, "Bless your heart." She had the gift of southern gentility, the ability to convey that you are an absolute idiot but also utterly loved. 

She was a lady. I have been called a, "nice lady." I am not a nice lady. My grandmother was the very definition of a lady. She commanded respect and carried herself with dignity and she was adored. I adored her. 

I have pieces of her, her cookbooks filled with her slanted scrawl. She was so self conscious about her handwriting, but I loved reading it. I have the cards she sent, the letters she wrote. 

I hate that she is gone, but I love that she was here. I have missed her for a long time, since she started losing herself to Alzheimer's. The cord is finally cut, and it was time. 

To those that took the time to read this, thank you. Take a moment for me, say her name, make her real. 

stay

 Sometimes I can see my energy. I know what it feels like, what it looks like, how it sounds. 

My energy is cold heat, ever burning, never warming. It burns with passion and flame and my spirit writhes, but it is silent. Inside there is a scream. Released, it will tear its way out, ripping through soul and body and there will be blood. I dance in the flame, as it consumes me and is one with me. The fire burns within and without, but my spirit is cold. 

One beat. Two beats. Breath in. Breath out. Oxygen tingles all the way into my fingertips and and toes, seeps into the strands of my hair. I am alive, but we are all dying. Death will not be cheated, only postponed. 

It comes ugly and slowly. It takes privileges that we failed to recognize as such. It is taking my father. Death is playing dirty. 

This year has brought so much loss. 

I am asking politely, as politely as I can, addressing Death as a lady would a gentleman:

Please. Please don't take him yet. Please let him stay. Just stay. Stop hurting him and let him linger. He is needed and we are not done. This journey has more miles. 

How can a cold, silent flame burn so relentlessly? On and on, it burns. Call me, text me, give me news. I feel my skin crack open like a cicada shedding it's skin in a painful rebirth. I break apart, but am still whole. I am enrobed in flame and it consumes, but I do not burn up. My mouth opens, and I cry, but there is no sound. This is grieving, this is the pre-mourning. This is the knowing and the unknowing, the awareness of the inevitable, the inability to see beyond the next hour. 

Just stay. Please don't go. Let's have the coffee we always said we would share. Teach me your wisdom. Teach me (more) how to create beautiful things out of ugly, commonplace, raw materials. Laugh with me more. Be well. 

Just

stay.

in a tree

what if

we lived

in a tree?

the strongest branches underneath, 

as strong as anything a man could build

but flexible

giving and swaying with the wind and storms

the branches above,

a canopy

green umbrella,

shelter from the rain

light filtering,

turning the atmosphere green and soft

what if we lived in a tree

everyday rejoicing in a new leaf, 

a small new beginning 

the sky above, the earth beneath

and we, in the middle

what if we lived in a tree

ate the fruit of our neighbors

but only what friendly branches offered up,

never taking more than the earth gifted

would our troubles climb our tree

or would they sit at the bottom and howl

like a mongrel dog 

waiting for us to come down

could we stay

forever

in our tree

sunrise

and sunset

in love with the wind 

gusts softened by the kind leaves

never angry, always softly caressing 

creeping between leaves and branches

to come visit us

in our tree

zee floppy dark bird

Anxiety is a big floppy dark bird that flies behind me, always. It seems ridiculous that he (yes, my anxiety is gender specific) should be swift because he is so large and lacking in grace.

And yet, he flies.
He catches me on the uphills and wraps his wings around me. He does not have feathers. He is a being clothed in darkness and velvet that smothers. His wings compress my chest and cover my face and his darkness sinks into my mind. The ability to breathe is gone. My heart races away from me. The darkness catches me.

I feel like I used to be unstoppable. Reading back on old blog entries and remembering how I used to run circles around an airfield at 4pm, in the middle of the summer, with the heat index sitting at 110, pushing a stroller containing a child that almost broke me. The stress that was present in those days was overwhelming at best. I feel so much weaker now, and I struggle to understand how I stood up underneath all that weight. I used to run so fast, anxiety couldn't catch me until I stopped. Now I am fallible and weak and not fast enough to outrun it.

I'm so confused by this anomaly. Those were such hard days, those early stroller days with Sam. Getting up at 4:45 to run on the treadmill in the early hours. Another run later in the day. Everything was regimented. My life was broken up into segments of predictability and battle. I didn't have time to dwell on how I felt, I just kept going. Molly's schoolwork got done. Sam was defined by the all consuming hope of him eating and drinking. Those were the days when he still threw up constantly. Baby blankets went with us everywhere, to soak up the mess that was inevitable. He did not speak. He was so far behind developmentally. Molly was on a competitive gymnastics team. My husband worked from dark to dark and got one weekend off every three weeks. I did it all and I held it together. I made cloth napkins and hung our clothes to dry on a clothesline because it was better for the environment. All our meals were homemade. My husband ate on a different schedule because he worked late, so I always prepared a plate for him that was waiting in the fridge for him when he got home. My kids got minimal screen time. We read books and played. We ran errands and they went with me everywhere. During the 4+ years we lived in North Carolina, as far as I can recall, we never had a babysitter. It just never came up. I never went out at night. My friendships were defined by children.
All these things. I did and did and did. Are they anything? Do they count? Are they just chasing the wind?
My son devours books now. I taught him to read. He read voraciously, but talks of almost nothing but video games. He tells me how many games he plays over the weekend, when he is not with me. The child that couldn't watch an episode of The Andy Griffith Show, or get through Monsters Inc without hiding behind the couch to avoid the conflict and stress, he now watches Clone Wars.

I poured myself into Molly from the beginning and it was joyful. She was my best little friend, from South Carolina to Alaska to North Carolina to Indiana to Hawaii. She was conversation and sunshine and light and fun. She is the reason I bought my first Bob and started running outdoors in Alaska, avoiding the main streets because I didn't want anyone to see me wearing shorts. We saw marmots and moose and avoided bears when we smelled or heard them. We saw Denali in the distance and climbed small paved mountains. We joined a Mom's running group and I traded strollers with moms that pushed doubles and did hill repeats because I didn't mind the pain. I wanted to push harder and feel it hurt. I taught Molly to read when she was six. She went from being illiterate to reading chapter books in less than six months. Stroller running became a different experience. Loads of books, contained in a plastic bubble stretched over the stroller so they wouldn't fall out when we crossed streets. Molly was a dance. She was stubborn and refused to eat and fell asleep on her broccoli when I told her that she couldn't leave the table until she had eaten. I could make her cry just by looking at her and she was incapable of telling me a lie.

Sam was equal parts fragility and iron.
He was cuddly, happy to snuggle in a rocking chair for hours. I gave him parts of me that I did not know that I had. He brought elemental things to the surface. He stripped the skin from my bones, the sanity from my mind and left me raw and then clawed at me. I stood between him and death. Death taunted me on one side and he struggled on the other and my brain broke. I became a shadow person, just functioning, carrying on from one task to the next, crashing at the end of the day, then getting up and repeating the process. One of the biggest challenges of parenting, in my opinion, is being nice. Just- being nice. Anyone can function on minimal sleep. Not everyone can sleep for only four hours nightly and still be nice. Eventually, it wears you down and you want to cut a bitch. If you have small children, you don't cut anyone, you just get really angry at bad drivers and drink an obscene amount of coffee.
With Sam, everything was broken down into small incremental bits. Things that I took for granted with Molly were celebrated as milestones.
I gave Sam everything that I had left and more. I have no regrets. Except for that one time when I accidentally overdosed him on heparin. I regret that.

My life is a snowglobe, turned upside down and shaken. All these things that I have done- teaching my children math and how to read, all the things they have seen and the stories we have told and lived- what are they worth now? There is no mental rest. There is only transition and questions.
"What will you be?"
"What will you do?"

Why is anxiety catching me now?

Is it
the divorce
the pandemic
the quarantine
protests
racial tension and the desire to show love, but not knowing how
the uncertainty about my future
        a job
           finances
              child support back payments that are still floating around somewhere
                 

?

It's probably just the unbearable lightness of being.

There is so much going on in the world right now. I am struggling to balance it all, to properly mentally allocate priority to all the different things going on. I feel like I'm being pulled in so many directions right now, to care about so many things, and I do care.

This season of thought, time, and isolation, equally defined by inactivity and revolution, it is bringing memories to the surface and causing me to examine myself. I'm studying who I am and what has built me, these blocks of life experience.

I look at my hands, and they are old. My brain is tired and my emotions are weary and worn out. My limits are set lower. My tolerance for manipulation is gone. I crave real things. This is why I love the trails and the ridges and the waterfalls and the mountains. These things are real and hard, soft and green. They cut and heal.

Anxiety, I am tired of you. Fly away, dark bird. Drown and dissolve. 

the problem of consent

The problem of consent.

What is no?

 "This isn't working. We should stop. Just stop. Please." Are these statements the same as, "No," and should they be respected as such? If you don't claw a man's face or back or draw blood, is it still no?



What about silence? What if you're in a group situation where close quarters are necessary and unavoidable and touching happens and someone's ass gets grabbed and,
"Haha, sorry, my bad.."
"Haha, no worries, it happens..."

But then it happens again.
How many whoopsies does it take to equal intention? When does an accidental touch become an assault? He, "didn't mean to," but her ass still got grabbed and she still feels violated. It was an accident, and as a female, with the inborn auto response to apologize, step out of the way, and say please, when does one stop forgiving the accidental offense?

What is the appropriate response for a minor and is it the same as that of an adult?

We tell girls to stand up for themselves and self advocate. Do not tolerate being disrespected or inappropriately touched. Who do you tell?
-authority figures
-coaches
-teachers
-parents

Is it worth it? There are several possible outcomes to speaking out regarding suspected inappropriate touching. Tell an authority figure, preferably a female. That's sound advice, unless there aren't female authority figures available. There is always the possibility that you will not be believed. You speak out, tell your side and- Congratulations, you are now a pariah. You will lose your friends, your self respect. Your friends will be forced to choose sides. Did he really do it? Is she lying to get attention? She's lying, what a dramatic dirty whore. Or: he's a pervert and that reputation will follow him as long as he remains in the social vicinity. There are no winners when a bad thing happens, even if the person in the wrong is reprimanded and correctly disciplined. The damage is already done. Speaking out regarding sexual assault or harassment is not simple. The rules are not clear cut or easily defined. If you don't speak, there is always the possibility that the male in question will continue his inappropriate behavior, with you or with others. By not speaking, are you paving the way for another Brock Turner? White male privilege is power. Do you risk sacrificing your self respect, invite the questions, the awkward conversations, the disruption to your life, all just in case the guy that ruined part of you decides to ruin part of someone else? The possibility that he will reform or be punished enough to change his attitude and actions is tenuous at best. He won't change. You will just be another name in the paperwork, if it gets far enough for paperwork. At the very most, one day he might end up serving three months, get out on good behavior, and his people will mourn the time lost. All that potential, that future wasted, just because he made a mistake.

I search myself and turn inward to try and understand what it would take for me to reach out and consciously touch someone without consent. I cannot lift my hand far enough. I cannot imagine reaching into someone's personal space and grabbing their body, just because I want to.

 I want, I will. I want, I must. I see it. It is my right to touch it.

What happens to a person's brain, that it becomes bent and broken and perverted to the point that they believe they may violate someone's body just because- They. Want. It.
This uninvited intimacy that ruins real intimacy.


I drank too much. He drank, but I don't know how much. I only knew his first name. He was a friend of a friend. I don't remember how I ended up in a bed with him, I only remember him being on top of me. He was a lot bigger than me and I couldn't push him off. I said all those things:

"This isn't working. We should stop. Just stop. Please."

He did not stop. I drove myself home later. My self esteem was so shattered, I couldn't openly accuse him. I talked to my manager at work and lost my job because they could/would not continue to employ a lying whore.
I was in the wrong place at the wrong time, doing the wrong things. For years, I believed, that due to those facts, what happened was my fault. I shouldn't have been there. If I hadn't been there, it wouldn't have happened.
On the flip side, he could have gotten off of me and let me walk away. That would have been a good choice.
Was drinking Jager shots as good as a non-verbal consent? Did my bloodstream consent when the alcohol hit and slowed me down and made me easier to manipulate? Did I get what I deserved because I was in the wrong place at the wrong time? Nearly 20 years are gone between now and that short chapter in my life, but it was formative.
I did tell people. I tried. I got two types of responses:
- Shit happens, what can you do?
- You're a lying whore.
Even now, it's difficult for me to type the word and say what it really was.

What are the critical learning points? Men are usually bigger and stronger. As women, we are typically physically disadvantaged. Saying NO doesn't guarantee an appropriate response in return.
I cannot speak for an entire gender and I don't have everything figured out. I know what I will tell my daughter. Don't go to a party alone, even if you know the person hosting. Keep your girls close. Squad goals = safety. Go with your girls, leave with your girls, no girl left behind. If it comes down to it, be dramatic. Yell, scream, use your nails. Leave him with memories of you that he will never forget. Be the crazy bitch in the story he tells his friends the next day. Tell your girls how it went down so that you retain validity. Whether you take it further than that is a personal decision that is highly individual. There are no hard and fast rules, each situation is case by case. You can say he touched you, he can say he didn't. If he maintains that he didn't touch you, it becomes a judgement call. Do you want to live with that, the division of public opinion about who is right and who is lying? Are you strong enough in spirit and confidence that you can stay unbroken while under scrutiny? Will it hurt you more to accuse or more to stay silent?

The rule of consent when it comes to uninvited touch: Don't touch a woman unless she's okay with it. Don't touch a man unless he's okay with it.
This is a simple basic standard of normal and healthy human contact. If you have to sneak a touch, make it seem like an accident, you need to work on your life. The man that grabs and brags is a pathetic excuse for a human.

I'm so sad for the man that is not man enough to merit consensual touch. What a lonely piece of human trash, this person that has to reach out and touch something that isn't his to touch, especially when he knows the consent to touch would never be granted. He wanted, so he took anyway. Stop stealing. Work on yourself. Be better. Women are not the sum total of their bodies and appearance. We aren't toys to be played with, squeezed until we squeak. Dogs play with squeaky toys. Real men do not. Stop encouraging this mentality of inevitability, the inevitability of sexual violation. If it didn't happen to you, it's happened to at least one of your friends. I believe the state of the world is only deteriorating. People are moving away from relationships and keeping sex and intimacy separate. It will get worse. If sex is not about intimacy, it is a a physical act just like rock climbing or boxing or running or biking. The depersonalization of sex makes it easier to justify thoughtlessness about the act itself.
She's not a person, just a nice piece of ass.

This desperate life

Today I cleaned out my email. I went from 160 unread messages to 0. As I hit the tiny trashcan emblem and methodically cleared away the unopened messages from 2020.. 2019... 2018.... 2017

I saw the evolution of a changing life.

I am gripped by my loss.

Messages from FRG, baseball teams, potluck dinners, church groups, running groups, race confirmations, deployment reunion photos, swim team updates

It is all gone

My life is different.

There is no FRG. I am not a military wife anymore. There are no baseball team updates, soccer team updates, swim team updates. We left the swim team we were members of for almost two years and then quarantine hit us, so we have no ties to any teams, anywhere. We left the church that we attended for almost two years, and at which I helped lead AWANA weekly. As far as I know, we were not missed. Race confirmations? Quarantine. Running groups? Quarantine. I have little motivation to run at the moment and even less to be around people. Deployment reunion photos? That is a life that is done.

I have to find a new purpose and build it around my goals and that is something I have never done before now. I am completely overwhelmed by this new pressure that has been born:

What are you going do? What career fits your skills? (What skills?) What are you majoring in?

I don't know what I'm good at, where my skills lie. I was raised to be a good wife and mother, and I slayed. No regrets. Hot meals everyday, unless they were cold on purpose. Birthdays celebrated, milestones acknowledged, laundry done (folded, ironed if needed, put away, not left in piles), dishes done, house neat. Family first, me last.

Now the priorities are all jumbled. Family first, me first? Kids first always, me second? Me first, kids first. I am no longer adequate. I cannot meet the needs of the people that surround me. Financial security is gone, future is uncertain and indeterminate.

There was a plan, but looking back, I don't know if I was the one with the plan or if the plan belonged to "we," or "us," or if it just became: an evolution of expectation born of decisions forced or made out of obligation.

Being a family in the military is a unique experience. The lie of choice and control- pick your next duty station, find a suitable house, it's your choice! The reality is, you have very little control over where the military sends you. As if Crayola said, "You may have any color crayons you would like! You may choose from blue, yellow, or red!" When choices are limited, there is safety. There is frustration. "We don't want any of these! Red, blue, yellow. Fort Bragg, Fort Rucker, Fort Bliss. We don't like these choices!"
In the end, you choose. Blue is ok. We choose blue. You are given yellow instead. Yellow works, we can work with yellow. You go where you are assigned. Find a home. The myth of control reasserts! We can choose where to live! So exciting! Anywhere we like! On base or off base? We choose on base! So convenient! So easy, financially! We choose on base!
Housing office: "Here are your options. You may choose one of these two homes. You may not see the inside until after the lease is signed. You have 24 hours to decide, or the home will be offered to someone else." That seems wrong and strips us of our individuality and control.
We choose off base! Easy. Find a rental that is available NOW because our household goods are being held in storage and we only have two weeks of paid TLA and then we are out of money. There are three rentals available. One is over budget. One is too far from base. One is smaller than any house we have lived in yet and will require immediate downsizing. The first two rented while we were trying to decide, so house number three wins.

The safety of the scarcity model. That myth of control is so comforting. I wrapped it around myself like a warm blanket. I learned to adapt and evolve, the Darwinist lifestyle of the military spouse. There was the security of all expenses paid healthcare, COLA, housing allowance, military discounts, commissary access, paychecks on the first and the fifteenth, like clockwork.

It is gone. I never took it for granted. I appreciated it always. I do not regret letting it go.

What I miss:

Stroller running. Not just pushing a kid in a stroller, but the life that went with it. Get up, make breakfast, do laundry, clean house, go for a run, maybe end at a park and have a snack. The lifestyle of the stay at home mom. It's so much easier to build a life around other people than around yourself.

Meal prep.
Kid's sports.
Dinners like clockwork.
Quick grocery store runs.
Solo runs during swim practice.
Runs with Sam on his bike.
Being stressed because our schedule is so full of activities.
Predictability.
The absolute absence of looking inward.

The absolute absence of looking inward.
That is what I miss the most.
I had a secure identity. I was a wife and a mother. I am still a mother.
But now I have to just be me and I am uncomfortable.
I have never been best friends with myself. I don't know how my skills translate to a career, to financial independence.
I have never had career goals, or had interests that lay beyond holding my family together.
I have regressed 17 years.
Figure out what you want to be when you grow up.
This decision has been on hold since I was a sophomore in college.
Now I'm a sophomore in college once again, a rising junior in the fall. It is time to decide what I want to be! It's so exciting! I can be anything I want! The scarcity model, with all it's safety and security and limited choice is gone. The options are limitless and terrifying.

"So exciting! It's like a blank slate! I can do anything!"

My future is a blank slate, but I am not. My slate has been written on and erased. Indelible marks remain: my children, my memories (many repressed), my trauma, my children's trauma. The shadows of my choices that will never disappear, these remain. Like chalk stains on a worn out chalkboard. Or ink that stains a whiteboard that has seen too much use. I don't know how to write over these marks. I don't know how to start over at 37. I don't know how to decide what direction my life should go or what I want to be when I grow up. I thought I knew.

Now I know that I don't know anything. I don't know what to do or who to be. My identity has shifted and nothing feels safe.
I had predictability and order. For 16 years, my life had a rhythm and a beat and I danced.
It is gone.
No regrets.

I will allow myself this mourning, of a life lost. The fear of the unknown is paralyzing. The hope of new beginnings has worn thin and I am already tired. I am good at following directions, devastatingly bad at writing them for myself.

Play me a new song, and I will dance. Teach me new words, and I will sing.

Now I have to learn to write my own music, but all I hear is silence.
I have to find my own beat, but my timing is lost.
I would write lyrics, but my poetry is dissonant.

Perhaps, if I am very quiet
The music will play
The beat will begin
The words will form
And a new life will be born
Out of this brokenness