Yesterday, I shared a post to my FaceBook page from a comedian who goes by the name of “God.” I shared it because I found it funny and a biting commentary on our current state of “religion” in this fine country of ours. I got a few “likes” and really thought nothing more of it. See below.

Later on in the day I decided it was a good time to sage (or smudge) my house. Since our youngest son’s bilateral VDRO surgery 10 weeks ago (a MAJOR hip surgery on both sides that we were so profoundly unprepared for it would be funny if I didn’t cry every damn day since), we’ve been living in a perpetual hell. Landry is in constant pain. He is on Valium every 6 hours but this does not seem to help. He refuses to move his body and thus his caloric burn has taken a nose dive and so now he also throws up 3-4 times a day. He cries really BIG tears every time I have to change his diaper, move him, bathe him, etc. This coming from a kid who has always worn the biggest smile on his face and laughed out loud in the best way. A kid who has been through 12+ surgeries and has never been in this much discomfort. Ever.

So I decided to sage the house and set some “healing” intentions and “happy” intentions and “growth/love/grace/prosperity” intentions all while thanking my god and reciting the prayer of St. Francis of Assisi. The sage was bought from an ethically sourced provider and was harvested by Native Americans in order to smudge my home and rid it of negativity, help bring clarity and healing back into our home. Right in the middle of this activity I received a text message from a friend with the above picture of my FaceBook post and a message basically stating that I had made a blanket statement about Christians and that I was better than this. Thanks smudging…you really helped me out yesterday. (Insert eye roll here).

I am here to say, I might not be better than that, or I might be. I don’t really know yet. I discussed the situation with my husband who does, himself identify as a Christian, and he too was unhappy with my blanket statement. He likes to say that I “paint with broad brush strokes” and that when a person paints with broad brush strokes they are ultimately doomed “to color outside of the lines.” But coloring inside the lines is not who I want to be.

My truth is that I am a spiritual woman who believes that everyone should be treated justly and with respect, without consequence of their skin color, religion, sexual orientation, or gender identity. I was raised in a home that was loudly and proudly atheist and I have worked hard to figure out what I, myself, truly believe. But I am not a Christian. I’m not saying I wont ever identify as a Christian, but at this current moment in time I do not identify as a Christian. The idea of organized religion does not appeal to me: fitting into a box that was created to keep people in check (in my opinion, women specifically).

Ok, let’s just get this out of the way so I don’t have to reference it every time….THIS IS ALL JUST MY OPINION.

So with all that said, I only know very surface ideas Jesus purported. I know he hung out with the drunkards and the prostitutes. I know he believed that every person, and especially the most down-trodden, should be treated the same as everyone else. I know God said that man was created in his image and that God doesn’t make mistakes. So if God doesn’t make mistakes, then a person who is born gay or lesbian, or discovers they are trans, should therefore be treated the same as any Jane, Dick or Harry according to God.

And yet. And yet. And yet there are legions of people who identify as Christian in the United States of America who also do not believe that a man and a man should get married. Christians who believe that the only genders are male and female and that only a male and a female should be allowed to marry, love each other, have a family. Christians who will harm others because these “others” do not fit into the box deemed appropriate in their eyes. That doesn’t seem very “Christ like” to me. To me that sounds downright hateful. And gross. And that’s definitely not who I want to be.

There is a person in my life who identifies as a Christian and tries to live their life in a very Christian way. This person (who will be referred to as they or them because keeping their identity hidden is of the utmost importance to me) is quite devout in their worship and belief. We have many conversations about their religious views and mine, and we have come to blows over some of these views due to our passionate personalities. This person revealed to me that they were struggling with their own sexual identity and that they did not feel there was a safe place for them to be who they truly are because they were rebuffed by both the Christian religion and the LGBTQIA community due to who they simply were. That, to me, is devastating. This person deserves to be loved and honored for who they are regardless of their sexual identity or religion.

So yes, I found the above mentioned FaceBook post funny, and satirical. It is a commentary on how the mainstream Christian community purports to be a religion of love and yet that love is only allowed to those who fit inside the Christian box or for those who dutifully color within the lines. It’s satire. And it’s not even MINE!!!!

I swore to myself that I would not take down the post because I truly believed in the message it was trying to send. But I took it down. Because my posting it had hurt people that I love and care about. Because it offended those people. And maybe, just a little, because I felt like I had made a bad choice; my paintbrush strokes were a little too overreaching this time around. And then I got angry with myself. I am angry because I once again didn’t stand in my own truth.

I do not believe that ALL Christians believe the LGBTQIA community is not worthy of love. But I do believe there is a great many who feel this way. There are a great many people who do not believe that being transgender is “real” and will fight tooth and nail to prove their point. And I do believe this section of our country that holds these beliefs as truth were strengthened and spurred on by the leader of our country for the past 4 years. It’s a whole lot easier to say what you believe (even when those beliefs might not be socially acceptable in this day and age) when the leader of the country is spewing hatred from every media outlet possible.

So my final thought is this: If you, as a Christian, were offended by the above FaceBook post, then maybe you should also be asking yourself some tough questions. What does loving the way Christ did really mean to you? Does it bother you that there is a whole world of people out there who might not think or believe or live exactly the way you do? If God doesn’t make mistakes, then how do we account for the many variations of skin color, religious beliefs, sexual identities and orientations? If belonging to a religion or practicing within a certain sect equals your having to choose people to hate or trying to convert them to a different belief system, then maybe that religion has it wrong. Maybe that box is too tight and those lines do need to be drawn outside of. Because the god I pray to, loves everyone.

Hi Friends! It’s been a while. Ok, a looooong while. It might have something to do with the fact that after Hubby read my last blog post he said “that was pretty mean and unnecessary,” and I just couldn’t quite put myself out there again. For about 6 months apparently. But, I’m back. Or at least I want to be back. I want to re-commit to this writing thing even if I know people aren’t reading it besides Hubby.

I mostly want to re-commit to writing because it’s something I truly love. I just finished reading a book of essays from Ann Patchett called “This is the Story of a Happy Marriage,” and her only advice to someone who really wants to be a writer is to KEEP WRITING. Every day. No excuses. I am also considering every single one of these blog posts a FFT. If you’re not familiar with this acronym, I highly suggest you check out some of Brene Browns’ work. But, and get ready to clutch your pearls, FFT stands for Fucking First Time. These are all just my Fucking First Times of trying to write something I think people want or need to hear. And it’s really, just shit I have to get off my chest.

So. Searching for Mental Health. It’s been a life-long journey for me. It started way back in the awful years of middle school. Back when no one knows what the hell is going on and who they are or aren’t and are just searching for belonging and understanding. I was initially diagnosed with General Anxiety Disorder and Major Depression and have pretty much maintained those 2 diagnoses ever since. (There was that time after a boyfriend unceremoniously dumped me for the second time on our 1 year anniversary and I took a nose dive into booze and drugs for about two weeks of my life that I have no recollection of, when I earned a diagnosis of Bipolar Disorder, but even I knew that bitch was way off base.)

Since then, it has been a dance with the devil: good days, bad days, good months and bad months, doctors, therapists, drugs, vagus nerve stimulation, exercise, self-help books, and salt bath soaks and meditation and energy healing. I have looked high and low for help with my mental health. Some days I feel like I’m winning, and others I know I am fighting a failing battle. Giving birth to your third boy 2 days after your birthday (and 15 weeks early, might I add) followed by several scary and touch and go moments with a grand total of 199 days spent in a hospital without a crystal ball, coupled with a diagnosis of Emery-Dreifuss Muscular Dystrophy for your now middle child who is only 3 years old WHILE your infant is still in said hospital, is enough to push anyone over the edge. And then said infant was released from the hospital. And no, even special needs children don’t come with a “How To” booklet. I became so involved in my two youngest children and all their needs that I neglected everyone. My friends, myself, my oldest child, my family and most of all my Hubby. And thus, marital problems arose on top of it all.

In a little less than a week, it will be the 2 year anniversary of me finding out about some untoward actions between Hubby and she who shall not be named. I didn’t even realize this was creeping up because 1 week after this “anniversary”, on February 8th, my youngest son will be undergoing major surgery for his hip dysplasia. I have been consumed with dread and fear about this surgery. And I didn’t even realize this is what I had been feeling until I met with my therapist today and she reminded me of the anniversary of the day my relationship with Hubby derailed.

So here are some thoughts I’m having. I have PTSD. I am labeling it and I am feeling at peace with this. I’m not being medicated for it, or at least not yet, but my meeting with my psychiatrist isn’t until this coming Thursday so possibly this will change. I have PTSD from the 7 earlier surgeries that my tiny micro-preemie had to endure at an age before most people are even living outside the womb in order to save his life. I am experiencing PTSD from the *at least 3 times* we were called by the hospital telling us our youngest was going to die in a matter of minutes or hours and we needed to get back to the hospital after having been there all day in order to say our final goodbyes. I am having PTSD from having to think about things like would we bury or cremate Landry when he was only 18 days old. Being told that if we wanted him baptized that it needed to be done soon because time was not on our side. I have PTSD from people telling me incessantly that there was something wrong with my 3 year old when everyday it was all I could do to get my older 2 kiddos to school so I could sit in a hospital room alone for hours until it was time to go home and be with the other 2 kiddos again. I have PTSD from being told that my middle son has a degenerative neuromuscular disease that I am directly responsible for him having because it is an X-linked gene. I have PTSD because while my middle son is an old soul and full of wisdom and sass, he is beginning to show signs of heart problems and was just put on heart medication. Declan’s form of Muscular Dystrophy is the rarest in the world. There isn’t much data or scientific research on this type and therefore no known treatments. When he was first diagnosed, we had people (some family members even) trying to tell us how best to treat Declan. What foods he should be eating or dietary supplements; as if an essential oil would cure him of a hereditary disease. We were told by the professionals that he would not die because his body would stop working like in other forms of MD, but that it would be his heart that would be the eventual killer. And so now, with the addition of a heart medication to add to the list of things to do for another one of my children, it all seems too much.

I just recently went to my special heart doctor because, lucky me! I get to have (possibly) all the same heart issues as Declan, being a carrier of the mutated gene that led to Declan’s disease. I have just found out that I am beginning to show some initial heart dysfunction as well but not enough to be treated for, so there’s that.

In September, my youngest, who has cerebral palsy, is legally blind, can’t walk or talk and eats through a g-tube inserted directly into his stomach, went to see one of his 11 doctors for a follow-up appointment in the Cerebral Palsy Clinic at Children’s Hospital Colorado. It was discovered that since the last visit to that clinic (a mere 6 months prior), Landry’s hip dysplasia had worsened by more than 50%. This meant it was time for surgery. MAJOR surgery. During a global pandemic. To a child who has chronic lung disease. I knew it would eventually come. It was always on the table as he doesn’t move like “typical” 5 year olds. But to have it become an option less than a year after we first discussed it was a gut punch to say the least. And at first, I was more consumed by the logistics of everything than by the actual surgery itself.

I never grieved any of this. I never took into account the grieving for a child who was born too early without a known cause and would live a diminished life because of his early birth. I never grieved passing on a mutated gene I didn’t know I had to a child who will now have to suffer the consequences for the rest of his days. I haven’t even begun to grieve the loss of innocence for my oldest child who has had to sacrifice so much in the name of his brothers. I never really grieved the impact all of this had on my marriage to the man I promised to love and cherish until death do us part.

And so here I am, suffering. Trying to better myself and usually feeling like a complete failure. Trying to present a happy face when all I want to do is not live this life anymore. Trying to be the perfect wife and mother and friend and always dropping at least one of those balls but usually more like all of them at the same time. I am finding ways to tune out of my life, to disappear, to hide from my feelings. Obsessively reading, obsessively running or working out, drinking too much at night, staying up far past a reasonable time and then waking to do it all again.

So yes. I have PTSD. I have flash backs to when the doctors told us Landry wasn’t going to make it through the night. I remember so vividly running from one side of the hospital with an unconscious and un-breathing Landry to the ED side in order to have him intubated and then stay in the hospital for 11 days, meanwhile we lost a dog while Landry and I were in the hospital and I never got to say goodbye. I remember finding out about the infidelity and thinking to myself every day since “Am I doing enough? Being enough? Loving enough?” in order for that situation to never happen again.

I just read an article in People Magazine about a mother who was arrested for killing her 10 year old autistic son. Her husband had left her and from the sounds of it, she had been calling out for help for a while. And she never received help. Or at least not the kind she needed. People who don’t know her will judge her and call her a bad mother and a terrible human being. Meanwhile, it is being reported that she was having thoughts of grandeur prior to the killing of her son. She was telling people in her life that she was the Messiah and that sacrificing her child would help to save the world. This is not a bad mother. This is not the picture of a bad person. This is the stark illustration of a woman who was experiencing a mental health crisis because she had NO HELP with a difficult child. This could literally be anyone in any of our lives. We need to help each other. We need to find our way back to compassion and love and fight back against judgement. We need to recognize that we were not made to handle all these hard life lessons by ourselves. There is a reason people have lived in villages or groups since the beginning of time and it is because we as humans crave connection and stability.

So if, or rather when, a friend comes to you in need and says “I am dealing with this today,” or “I have PTSD from XYZ,” please do not brush it off as attention seeking or just having a bad day. Please consider that your lending an ear, or offering to help in a way that you are comfortable and know you can give can literally save a life.

I will leave you with a prayer and a quote from St. Francis of Assisi.

“All the darkness in the world cannot extinguish the light of a single candle.”

“Lord, make me an instrument of your peace, where there is hatred, let me sow love, where there is injury, pardon, where there is doubt, faith, where there is despair, hope, where there is darkness, light, and where there is sadness, joy.

Oh Divine Master, grant that I may not so much seek to be consoled as to console, to be understood as to understand, to be loved as to love. For it is in giving that we receive, it is in pardoning that we are pardoned, and it is in dying that we are born to eternal life.”

Today marks me and Hubby’s 14th wedding anniversary. Plus 3 years of dating prior to equal 17 years of being together. And if you’ve been following along, it has been a somewhat tumultuous 17 years.

We loved and fought passionately in the beginning. We moved across the county, we had three children, two of whom are disabled, we’ve been through infidelity and come out the other side. We’ve been in counseling together and separately. We’ve had to learn how to fall in love again.

Marriage is not for the feint of heart. And if you aren’t really into working hard on relationships, you should probably just not get married. Because once you do, the undoing of that union is devastating, heartbreaking, and sometimes worse than the reason for divorce in the first place.

A few months after I found out about Hubby’s infidelity, the other woman reached out to him about something (I don’t even remember what it was at this point) but it set me off. In my mind, it was an off-limits topic for them to be discussing. I decided right then and there that I needed to see her face-to-face.

I was nervous beyond comprehension. I had promised myself that I would not cry, or apologize, or accept any responsibility for what happened between them, at least not to her. She had been my friend and I wanted to know how she could do that to someone I thought she considered me a “friend” as well. But the truth is, I don’t think she ever considered me a friend. I think she was using me to get closer to Hubby. I can only see that now and it’s most likely due to the fact that I am still so angry at her. I forgave her for my sake. Because I needed to move on. But I still hate her. I left that meeting feeling lighter myself and sorry for her life that she had so thoroughly fucked up. I felt like I had said what I needed to and had done so with as much respect for her as I could muster. And yes, I both cried and I believe, apologized to her which still chaffs me to this day.

Hubby told me that about a week after I found out about the relationship and he had ended it with her, she came crying to him asking if she had been a mistake. I want to say to her today, YES! 1000% you were a mistake. He never would have picked you, you were just convenient. And available. I was so lost in my own grief and depression I couldn’t see what Hubby was going through. I couldn’t be the solid rock he needed and that I always had been for him.

He and I have always been meant for each other. We are living a life we didn’t dream of, a life full of grief and plan B’s. But we both continue to fight to find happiness and gratitude within our relationship and family. Our love is a choice, made every day, every moment. It is a love we have fought for. It’s not a fairy tale, it never was. But it is a true love story and there is no one on this planet I would rather cheers to 14 years with.

Love you babe.

Seriously, I think this Pandemic is turning me into a “Karen.” And I know, it’s sexist and demeaning to people who are actually called Karen (sorry nice Karen’s out there), but with this new trend going around of people yelling their opinions as loud as possible and not listening to others and trying to prove how “right” they are about everything to BLM, COVID19, schools re-opening, politics, abortion, systemic racism, I feel like I *might* be turning into a Karen.

Evidence point number 1: I am a “middle-aged” white SAHM who recently went through a bout of serious issues with our landline (landline!?!?) and internet service. I have literally called about 15 times in the month of July to ask for help, to be hung-up on, to have repair tickets placed for someone to come to my home, to being told the issue is inside the house meaning more $$ I have to shell out. Middle-class white lady problems, I’m aware. But here’s the thing: I’m usually a very nice customer. I have worked in service industries before and I know that you catch more flies with honey than vinegar. But over the course of July, I haven’t found it inside myself to be kind to one single person on the phone. Sometimes I even catch myself thinking “If the person trying to help me on the phone just spoke better English this wouldn’t be so hard,” or “If this were a woman I was talking to, I would be treated with more respect and actual good customer service.”

But the truth is, I went in guns blazing. I went in the the attitude that I was owed something by my internet and landline (LANDLINE!?!?!?) provider. That I deserved better customer service because I’ve been a customer for over 7 years. That I always pay my bill on time and that alone should account for something.

Example number 2: Yesterday, after having yet another fight with the internet company, I went to pick up junk food for me and the kids because Hubby had softball and I was done being a productive or even kind human being. As I was on my way home, there was an incident at a notoriously “dumb” intersection. The traffic coming off the small highway has the right-of-way and there is a 3-way Stop sign for the other lanes of traffic. Well, it quickly became clear that none of the people driving yesterday were familiar with our neighborhood or this particular intersection because the car exiting the highway was just slowly inching their way through the intersection meanwhile pissing off every other person (or probably just me) by not following proper driving rules. Once the person had cleared the intersection, we started to go in order of first come-first served and in the appropriate direction. THEN, another car from an oncoming land took my spot and just drove in front of me. I was incensed! I honked, threw my arms up, then the middle finger. I realized in that moment, that I had officially turned in the crazy white lady that believed she was owed her turn in the intersection: AKA, Karen.

I couldn’t shake the anger I felt. I literally feel like I’m losing my mind. I never would have let something so silly upset me like that prior to the Pandemic. At least I don’t think so….I came home and talked with my sensitive, understanding and loving oldest son. I explained to him that I thought I was going crazy and that being cooped up at home is really not good for my mental health.

I keep seeing memes that say things like, and I’m really paraphrasing here, “if you don’t come out of lock down with a better body and more creativity then you’ve done it wrong,” or the complete opposite idea of “take care of yourself, no one expects you to cure cancer during this stressful time.” But I keep thinking, yeah, but will I have a family left after this crisis is over? I’ve been mean and vindictive. I’ve ignored my kids more times than I can count. I’ve avoided friends, family, talking to my spouse at times. I haven’t been scheduling normal doctors and dentist appointments because it’s too hard to find any motivation to leave the house. And when I do leave the house, you can put money on the fact that I will probably cuss someone under my breath or think terrible things about random strangers I know nothing about, or wish death upon people for minor infractions.

So I guess I’m saying, yes, being a “Karen” and calling cops on POC doing every day things or on people for not wearing a mask in a public place is a total bitch move. But I can also kinda relate. The stress, pressure, and divisiveness of our current society is getting to everyone. And it totally sucks that we have turned to a woman’s name to point out the ludicrousy of these current situations. I wish we could have called them “Jeffery” or “Donald.” It seems like a much more fitting name. But since women have always taken the fall, we shall overcome this as well.

I’ve had a rough morning so far. There have been fights between the kids and adults and between me and Hubby. I have those feelings of loneliness and desperation. That sick feeling in the pit of my stomach where I just know I can’t, for one more second, keep going.

So I meditated. Well, first I cried. Hard. And then I meditated. The guided meditation with Deepak Chopra was about finding happiness and inner-peace. And I realized, during the mediation, that I haven’t felt true inner happiness or peace since I found out about the infidelity. And to be completely honest with you, I really thought, or had convinced myself, that I was better. That I had really moved on. But I couldn’t stop feeling, in a very deep way, that I haven’t dealt with all the emotions yet. I have been running and numbing for 2+ years now.

Plus, we are supposed to go visit with my parents today. And Hubby said something a couple months back about how much I’ve changed since moving back to our hometown. And not to be extra-cliche but, I probably have some issues around my parents. Maybe more surrounding my father but there are lingering issues with my mother as well. And we will go over there tonight and have fun, and drink too much, and get into ridiculous arguments about politics and religion and how we are choosing to live our lives and I will react how I will react because the truth is I’m not really in the right headspace to go over there and do that today and then there will be another fight tomorrow morning between Hubby and I.

And I will feel like I ruined the whole weekend and not just Saturday.

Which, in all honesty, isn’t much different than many other weekends. Why is it that I always feel responsible for ruining the weekends? And then if I start to think about it too much it brings me back to just a few short years ago when our marriage started disintegrating. And that makes me even more sad.

So today is not going well. Sometimes I think, if Hubby had had the balls to end it with “her” when he wanted to, which he says was at least 3 months before I caught him, that I might be happier right now. You know, cause Ignorance = Bliss? Right? And then I think of all the times in the past 2 months I have told people that Knowledge is Power. Which is actually what I believe. And the truth is, I’m glad I know about the infidelity. Because I see it making us stronger, whether just as friends or as life partners. But the change and metamorphosis that this revelation has forced me into is painful. And scary. And heartbreaking. But as Miranda Lambert says so eloquently in Running Just In Case: “Happiness ain’t prison but there’s freedom in a broken heart.”

So after meditating for 30 minutes, and then feeling the overpowering need to write, I’m starting to think that maybe I can make this day ok after all. Turn it around some how. But I know that means I will have to be unbelievably vulnerable and open with everyone around me. And it will take an endless amount of courage in order for me to do that. And I will be very, very tired at the end of the day. From being more open, from being more physically affectionate, from choosing to bite my tongue when everything inside of me wants to scream whatever it is from the top of my lungs. But I will remind myself, we are only as sick as our secrets, and I don’t want to be sick anymore.

So when I set out to become a “blogger,” I had this idea that it would serve as a way to tell my spiritual journey. But then I started writing and it became more of a journaling experiment. Which is fine. I’ll just write some of my deepest darkest fears/thoughts/ideas/circumstances and let everyone who stumbles across this blog read them, and judge them. But I do some of that on social media already so I guess the question is, “What’s the difference?”

Well here, I want to be transparent, and a little more professional. More professional than re-posting random stuff I find on FaceBook and then trying to defend my stance. So here goes… The story I’ve been wanting to tell. And all the off-shoots it will take along the way.

My husband and I had a nice life. I was a stay-at-home (SAHM) mom of two young boys and my husband had just accepted a job with a large corporation that gave us the opportunity to move back to my home state of Colorado. I had always wanted to be a SAHM, even though I had a college degree, a good career and was 12 credits shy of my Master’s Degree. I thought it would be a dream to be at home with my children instead of having to put them in daycare. Plus, being a social worker doesn’t leave a whole lot of disposable income left over for daycare.

I have always wanted a large family. Even before we were married I had said 5 kids and Hubby said 2 and then somehow we settled on 3. But after our cross-country move for my husbands’ job, and just 8 months after moving, my husband was fired from his job. We started panicking. I started applying for social worker positions but had been out of the workforce for so long people weren’t interested in my resume. Then Hubby stumbled across a really exciting opportunity. Basically to come in a fix a troubled situation. And boy did he thrive. Crisis averted. So we decided that we could have that last child I had wanted so badly.

We got pregnant almost instantly and my youngest at the time started preschool. It was awesome to see our family growing and achieving and moving up in the world. Then, at 25-weeks and 2 days, I went into labor. I had, up until that point, a perfectly normal and healthy pregnancy. We didn’t opt for any additional genetic testing because it didn’t matter to us what the baby was like. We were just happy. We found out it was going to be another boy and I can admit, I was a little sad. I had REALLY wanted a girl to be the end-cap to our story.

So when I went into labor 15 weeks early, we were completely shocked. Because nobody discusses those possibilities with you when you are having a normal pregnancy. Landry was born weighing 830 grams and was only 13 inches long. His eyes were still sealed shut and he had fine lanugo hair all over his tiny body. Hubby’s wedding ring fit incredibly loosely around Landry’s wrist. He was on a ventilator, tube fed, and it was 5 days before I could even hold him. By day 15 he was so sick that he had to move to a new hospital. Turns out he had a silent colon perforation that included sending him into septic shock and full kidney shutdown. On day 18 of life, his heart stopped 3 times and we were called in by a nurse in an emergency to come say “good-bye” to our sweet baby who we didn’t even know yet.

When we got to the hospital he was barely alive. He was on an oscillating ventilator that basically shakes the babies body constantly in order to keep their lungs open. He was on so many different drugs, one of them morphine, just to keep him alive and out cold so he wouldn’t be “uncomfortable.” The doctors themselves couldn’t even bring themselves to tell us we needed to say goodbye. The charge nurse was the one who told us to call our family and bring our older children in so everyone could meet him in person and say goodbye all at the same time. They gave Hubby and I a room to sleep in so we would be right there when he passed.

We couldn’t make decisions about having him baptized, about having him buried, about who to call. See, we didn’t belong to a church. I grew up believing in evolution and Hubby grew up in a strict Pentecostal family that he no longer felt attached to. Plus, how do you say goodbye to someone you don’t really even know yet?

There were these alarms or sensors of some sort in every room in that hospital that had the same code on it. “PSLM-#####.” I don’t remember the numbers or letters or anything else and I do realize that because we were at Presbyterian/St. Luke’s Hospital that is most likely where the PSLM comes from, but one day, sitting in that room they give to parents whose child is waiting to die, I looked up the Psalm coordinating to the numbers that were on the sensors. That was all that was in that room, just the Book of Psalms, not even a full bible. And in that coordinating Psalm, I found peace. I started to believe that maybe, just maybe, there was something greater than me and Landry and this current life.

A couple weeks later, Landry was doing slightly better but not even close to out of the woods yet, but we were back to living at home and traveling to the hospital everyday to see him. I was taking a shower where I had subsequently begun a daily ritual of praying. Praying for peace, for calm, for a miracle, for help for the doctors, and mostly for strength. Landry had recently had another set back and I was probably just asking for mercy. I heard my dead grandmother, clear as day, like she was standing in the shower with me say, “It will all be ok, Jennifer. I promise it will be ok.”

Meanwhile, my parents had starting taking care of my middle son because his preschool was only half day. They started telling me they were concerned with his physical development. Then the preschool called and wanted to have a meeting because they too were concerned. I took him to the pediatrician and had a physical therapy eval but the thing is, I had real things to worry about. A 3 year old who couldn’t skip or hop wasn’t on the top of my worry list. Even his pediatrician wasn’t worried.

After 3 hospitals, 8+ surgeries, and 199 days in the NICU, Landry was finally released from the hospital. He was on oxygen, legally blind, had a GI system that didn’t work properly so he had a central line that delivered a chemical nutrition straight to his blood stream, he was missing almost all of his cerebellum, had kidney disease, chronic lung disease and weighed only 8lbs. We were instantly thrown into a life of learning how to do sterile line dressing changes, having therapists in our house on a daily basis. Having at least 4 doctor appointments a week (in fact, the first week he was home he had 11 doctor appointments) and having a working relationship with medical care providers that bordered on intimate.

Meanwhile, everyone kept bringing up Declan and their concerns for his development. Almost a year to the day of Landry’s release from the hospital, we found out Declan had the rarest form of muscular dystrophy currently known about. He was diagnosed with Emery-Dreifuss Muscular Dystrophy at the tender age of 3…7 years before most kids with this kind of MD are usually diagnosed. If you know anything about MD it is a hereditary disease and is usually X-linked, meaning I am the one who gave him this disease without having any idea I was a carrier.

Thus began our second medical journey with another of our children. While not as severe as most cases of MD, Declan suffers from weakening muscles, exhaustion, and joint constrictions. He has endured 2 surgeries so far to help release his Achilles Tendon’s. He has a heart condition that will most likely be the cause of his death. He is a fighter and resilient in ways I don’t think I’ll ever be.

And again I was left thinking, what the hell God? Do you even exist?

Then began the crumbling of my marriage. I had found a couple new girlfriends who I completely immersed my self with because I could complain and cry and laugh and make crude jokes and it didn’t feel like they were judging me. And Hubby found solace in another woman. Someone I considered a friend. We did girl things together and family things together with our kids. And the whole time there was another relationship going on I wasn’t even aware of. And let me be completely honest here: If I had a job and had been leaving the house and interacting with other adults, it could have just as easily been me who strayed. I was so lonely. Hubby was so lonely. We didn’t see life the same way anymore. We didn’t talk about our grief or challenges.

We never said to each other (and maybe not even to ourselves) “This isn’t the life I wanted. This isn’t the life I signed up for.” We kept it bottled up inside until finally, one day, Hubby asked if we could see a counselor. And so we did. And a year into counseling, I finally found the evidence of an emotional affair with someone I considered a friend on Hubby’s phone. And again I thought, What in the actual Fuck, GOD?!?!?!?!

That was a turning point for me. See I have always struggled with depression and anxiety. And this revelation sent me over the edge. There were days in the car I would try to hit 100mph to see if I would get caught or think about swerving while I was driving that fast to see if I could die. And I usually had at least one child in the car with me when that happened. I thought about getting in my car and driving away while the kids were at school and never coming home. Being one of those moms people talk about. “How could she just leave like that?” Well, now I know. I know how women can just leave like that. I started seeing a physiatrist on the strong urging of our therapist and when I came home with all these new pills I calculated how many I had and how many it would take for me to die. I had enough, more than enough actually. I’ve thought about turning on my car in the garage but I don’t want my children to be the ones to find me. I’ve thought of slitting my wrists but I don’t have the guts for that. Mostly I just think about driving off a cliff. It sounds like the easiest, can provide different versions of a story for those who don’t want to admit that I would take my own life and fulfills a sick enjoyment I have for that last scene in Thelma and Louise.

Luckily for me, I ran straight into a spiritual awakening instead of a guardrail. I found Father Richard Rohr in his book The Universal Christ and then a corresponding podcast. I found Glennon Doyle who told me I could believe in Black Lives Matter, LGBTQAP+ rights and abortion and still be loved by “God.” I found Jen Hatmaker and Anne Lamott and Nadia Bolz-Weber and Brene Brown who all said the same things.

Then COVID-19 hit and I started a class with Dr. Laurie Santos and started listening to her podcast. And with all the strife and divisiveness in this world, it has truly been a struggle to see God around me and in my life. There are more and more health issues for each kid to deal with. My heart is still trying to heal from our marriage issues. We fight, for each other and our family. But life is still hard. And then I see young black men and other POC dying at the hands of people who have power over them and a president who doesn’t seem to care at all. And it makes me heart sick. How do we find God here? I think Hubby has stopped believing in God altogether which is honestly a little funny considering where we came from in the beginning of our relationship.

Today I was listening to a Happiness Lab podcast and she talked about the fact that we need to stop trying to be “good people.” That all we really should be striving for is good-ish, because ultimately, we are all human and we will eventually make a mistake. We will make mistakes as parents, as daughters, partners, community members. And if we keep an open mind and a growth mindset and we strive to be good-ish, then maybe, just maybe we can live in peace.

I know that sometimes I wish I hadn’t become a mother. I know that I have pretty regularly said “this isn’t the life i wanted,” and I know that I have had thoughts of running away from my life. And those thoughts aren’t going anywhere anytime soon. But if I keep trying to be good-ish, I hope that I am able to set an example for my children of what a good-ish human should look like. Someone who wants to understand more than be understood. Someone who wants to grow more than they want to be right. Someone who loves more than they hate.

So with everything going on in the world right now, I haven’t felt it was my place to speak up, being a middle-aged white woman and all. I don’t feel like my voice is one that needs to be heard right now, mostly because I am still trying to learn (and un-learn) all of the stereotypes, prejudices, tropes and other mis-guided notions that have been a part of America’s history and present. But since I started this blog to get my ideas down on paper and I’ve been sitting on some pretty big feelings for the last few weeks, I’ve decided to spew them here. Where I’m pretty sure no one is watching. Or reading. And I’m ok with that.

I have started reading so many different books and articles and watching movies and listening to podcasts and trying to discover what my own biases are based on my childhood and the world I grew up in. My biases about being a racist or an antiracist. And let me be clear, I am striving to be an antiracist. I see so many people on FaceBook (friends, family, people I genuinely like, or at least thought I did) spewing vitriol and misinformation like it’s their fucking job. I have family members who literally say to my face “you know I love you” and then turn around and write some of the most horrific shit on FaceBook and all I can think is…”well obviously you don’t.”

I don’t understand the resistance to information and education. It’s one thing to be a conservative or a liberal but to blatantly refuse to look at facts or twist information in order to support your own agenda and then to do it under the guise of GOD is so hypocritical to me I can’t even. I am over here trying to find my way to a spirituality and a God that makes sense to me and all I see is things like “Trans people are faking it” or “white privilege is a joke” or #alllivesmatter and then blatantly disregarding those babies (black, white, brown) if they are born to a poor or drug addicted mother who can’t take care of her child and turning around and saying it’s all on the mother to figure her shit out.

Wake up America!

I guess what I really don’t understand is how I amassed this amount of people in my life who are so far away from what I think and believe and my value system. I’m sure there are a lot of people out there thinking that right now. How did we become so divided? I used to say all the time that I loved having conservative friends because it gave us something to talk about. Like something real to talk about. It made life interesting. I don’t want a bunch of friends exactly like me, ugh, I can hardly stand me. But I honestly don’t think I want to be related to, or friends with, a majority of the people on my FB “friends” list. Maybe it’s social media. It’s given a platform to any and all and without respectful face-to-face discussion these major issues can rarely be figured out behind a computer screen. Maybe it’s the disrespectful and abhorrent President we’ve elected.

When I see inflammatory rhetoric being thrown around haphazardly, it makes me cringe. Like calling what has mostly been peaceful protests “riots” or calling those who are pro-choice “pro-abortionists,” that shit really fires me up. Words are powerful. They carry heat and can turn situations around in a heartbeat. When a person uses inflammatory speech to make a point it’s not being used to bring people together, it is being used to divide and conquer. And that’s all I see happening right now. Dividing and conquering of this nation and its good people. All the people. To paraphrase Ibram X. Kindi: There are bad individuals in every group, but there isn’t now, nor has there ever been a bad group of people. And to me, if you think otherwise, we probably won’t be friends. Ever.

I’m a 38 year old woman who still feels like I’m 12, just waiting for someone to tell me that I’m not “doing life right.” Ever felt like that? Ever felt like an imposter in your own life? Cause man, I am there. Right. Now.

20 years ago I graduated high school and started that following fall at the University of Colorado at Boulder. I was majoring in psychology because….well, people interested me, and I never bothered having a meeting with a guidance counselor to help me figure out what I really wanted to do in life. I mean, come on, what 18 year old really knows what they want to do with their life? (That’s why I’m obsessed with this new millennial thing called a “gap-year” but I digress). So I ended up at a state college and with a major because one of my very closest friends had said to me, about a year prior, that all our friends didn’t really believe I would end up going to college. That I didn’t seem to have any drive. So I applied to some very highfalutin universities and all the state colleges as well, didn’t get into any of the colleges I really wanted to attend, and ended up 45 minutes away from my family. I finished that fucking degree, in four years, thank you very much and then when older adults asked what was next I said, “graduate school of course!” Mostly because all through my four years of undergraduate school I heard about how terrible a psychology degree was and how I better have a back up plan because no one earns any money with a psych degree.

So I set about applying to the University of Arizona for a Master’s in Counseling. See, I had met the most amazing girl in a math class my sophomore year of college and we realized we were the best of friends. She ended up moving back to Tucson because she was homesick, or out-of-state tuition was too much or something, I don’t really remember, it was like 18 years ago. Anyway, I helped her move back to Tucson and fell head over heels in love with the desert. I had never seen anything so beautiful and breathtaking. And hot. I mean, really fucking hot. But it’s a dry heat, right?

Anyway, I didn’t get accepted into the Master’s program at U of A because I was applying to a program I had no business applying to. I hadn’t really thought any of this through. I didn’t have a job, I wasn’t going to be attending school, and all I had was a promise of a place to stay once I got to Tucson. Oh and did I mention I had just started dating a guy I was madly in love with from high school? I had recently been dumped by my first love and had spent the summer between junior and senior year of college basically sleeping around and getting as wasted as possible so as to not feel any of my feelings. Then, in walked my high school crush and we started dating. I told him right off the bat that we didn’t have long for a relationship because I was headed to Tucson once I graduated. I told him point blank that I didn’t care what his plans were or how strong our relationship was, I was moving with or with out him. And that’s honestly the last time I made a decision for myself. I was 21 years old.

Since then, I’ve been a preschool teacher, a job that landed in my lap thanks to that amazing best friend from Tucson who I moved there to be with. Then I started graduate school at a for-profit school and was horribly mislead about how much it was all going to cost. Through school (for a Master’s in Counseling) I met a wonderful woman who encouraged me to apply for a job with the State of Arizona to become a child protection case manager. I got the job, and I can honestly say I’m not sure why, but they must have been desperate for case workers at the time. I married that crush from high school about 3 years after we first started dating. And then he got an amazing job that would force us to move to North Carolina. I was 15 weeks pregnant and had only owned my first home for 10 months and was 12 credits shy of my Master’s. But there we were, packing our home up and moving from one side of the country to the other. It’s not that my husband hadn’t asked me about the decision, but it ultimately wasn’t up to me. I had bought our first house but only because my husband’s credit was shit and his income was amazing compared to mine. I was the opposite: excellent credit and shit salary. So we went where his job took us. I felt so alone when we first moved. I didn’t have a job and I’m such an introvert that joining any mommy and me classes felt like a terrible idea.

The one thing I have always loved doing though is writing. I have been a writer from the very beginning. I have journals filled with my thoughts and stories only partially finished. I never went to school to become a writer because, to be completely honest, my father was a big believer in me becoming a doctor. That’s right, I chose my major and then graduate direction based on what my father wanted. He wanted me to be a doctor so badly that I could see in his face the disappointment that I had not fulfilled any of that dream for him. So I kept my writing for myself.

Cut to present day. I have been a stay-at-home mom for the past almost 12 years. I haven’t held a job in as many years and am, for the most part, unemployable. I have three boys, who I love dearly and am thankful for the fact that I get to be as present as possible for their day-to-day lives. Two of my boys are disabled and I do get paid to be their caretaker which has brought me some sense of purpose. I received my Certified Nurse Assistant license in order to care for my youngest who has the most significant issues. But it doesn’t feel real. It doesn’t feel purposeful. And I know how terrible that probably seems, not being fulfilled by being a stay-at-home mom and having a paid position to help take care of my boys. But that’s where I am.

Then came a crisis in my marriage. Yes we had been dealing with family health issues for the past five years, but all of a sudden, my husband and I were more like roommates than partners. We stopped talking about anything other than the children. We were, to be as cliche as possible, two ships passing in the night. He turned to another woman for support. I turned to some friends for support and our marriage continued to disintegrate. Until my husband asked us to get help. So we started therapy and a bunch of other shit came out during therapy, which is always the case, and I suddenly realized that I felt so inconsequential in my own life.

I have been in therapy and self-help hell, as I like to call it, for the last two solid years. I have stumbled across some of the most amazing women writers and trailblazers. I recently found the Queen, Ms. Glennon Doyle herself, and read her book “Untamed.” Then I started following her on IG and she said the most amazing thing. She said that someone had asked her how to become a writer. She said that if you wake up everyday and feel like you need to write, then you’re a writer. She said that if you know other writers and envy their work and their ambition, then you’re a writer. Those words were enough for me to realize that I have always been a writer. Whether anyone reads my words or not doesn’t matter. I just need to get them out and onto paper. I just need to know that I have a voice and that voice matters.

So I reached out to a good friend who is also a blogger (and you should really check out her site because she is AMAZING!!! http://asweetpotatopie.com). She helped me set up this tiny little blog that is boring but it’s a place where I can write and share my thoughts. Plus, instead of just thinking it in my head, I can now actually say I am a published writer. I wrote my first blog the first day I set up my site and then had the most frightening and terrible vulnerability hang-over I’ve ever had. I felt paralyzed. I can’t possibly be a writer. I don’t really have anything to say. My life isn’t extraordinary in any way and I haven’t had any purpose in my life for like 20 years so….yeah, who cares about me or what I have to say. But what I also realized is this: I care about me. I care about what I think and feel. I used to be an individual who had something to say and had interesting thoughts. I may have lost my way but I’m going to push through and keep writing and publishing. Maybe not every day. But at least once a week. That’s my promise to myself and now that I’m putting it out into the universe, I plan on honoring that promise. Just like I promised myself I would go to college and finish, even if it was to prove all my friends wrong…

Approximately eight weeks ago I decided to begin an online class through an Ivy League school. Because I have a lot of time on my hands. Just kidding about the time on my hands part, but we will get to that. But seriously I did enroll in a free online class through Yale called The Science of Well-Being with Dr. Laurie Santos. It is apparently the most popular class at Yale. It teaches students the brain science behind happiness and well-being and why most of the things we think will make us happy really don’t. It also asks students to engage in activities throughout the course that will (hopefully) lead to a more happy life.

So a little background. In my “before” life (aka before three kids), I was in the process of finishing my Master’s of Counseling (only 12 credits shy), owned my own home, had a career I loved as a social worker and a great marriage. Oh yeah, and I had just figured out I was pregnant with our first child. I was a strong, independent, confident woman who was living life on her own terms. The life I truly thought I had always wanted.

Flash forward 12 years and I am now a stay-at-home mom of three amazing boys. The youngest two have disabilities. I never finished that Master’s degree, I don’t own anything anymore (thanks to the 2008 market crash and the loss of my home) and I have been jobless for twelve years. So basically unemployable.

Five years ago, our third son decided to make his entrance into the world 15 weeks early. After an incredible 199 days in the NICU, he came home to us with a myriad of diagnoses and equipment. We also found out that our middle son, who was just three at the time, was diagnosed with one of the rarest forms of muscular dystrophy. Thus began our five year journey in survival mode as a family. Along with losing myself, my passion for life and any semblance of “self-care,” my marriage took a huge hit.

My husband had a year long emotional affair. To say I was devastated when I discovered it wouldn’t even begin to brush the surface of the emotions I was experiencing. We went to hell and back and I fought harder than I have ever fought for anything. We are still in the rebuilding stages to be honest. The wounds are still a little fresh and tender.

Then COVID-19 hit and I suddenly became not just a stay-at-home mom, but also a homeschooling mom, a physical therapist, occupational therapist, speech therapist, vision teacher, and a special education teacher. So…naturally, signing up for an additional class for myself would be the absolute right choice for now.

Turns out, it was the exact right thing at the exact right moment. This class has forced me to examine parts of myself that I haven’t wanted to look at closely or didn’t even realized needed examining. Much of the assignments are “self-care” oriented. Learning (or re-learning) to take care of ourselves so that we might be able to find true well-being in our lives. Then came the assignment on gratitude. We students were directed to write a letter of gratitude to someone and then read it to them in person. Well, I will be perfectly honest, I knew exactly who I was going to write the letter to, but DAMN did it take me a long time to write it. It was so therapeutic in the end. My healing, my journey is not over. But what I have realized is that I still have a voice. A voice worth being heard. To find forgiveness for myself and those people who have hurt me has been a struggle and not one that I’m done with, but it’s finally helping me find that passion that has been hidden in the deepest parts of my soul from the very beginning.

Dear Hubby,

I am so incredibly grateful to have you in my life. Your humor and lightness has brought me out of some of my darkest moments.

When we were in high school, I never could have imagined that we would build a life together. Much of that feeling came from my own insecurities and lack of self worth. I feel in some ways we have grown up together. We started out as fresh faced 21 year olds who only knew how to live life passionately – whether loving or fighting. You showed me what it was like to have immense self worth and to carry that self-assurance proudly. I remember those early days of our relationship and how empowered I felt because I could call you mine and I yours. That was where I first truly found my own self esteem. And for that I am so grateful.

As we grew older and made more mistakes, you showed me what unconditional love is. And I can honestly say that I think I’ve only ever felt that from my mom, you and the boys. I don’t really understand the depths of your love, and maybe I never will but I continue to see it in even the smallest things. To be honest, it’s both scary as hell and one of the most joyful things in my life. I learn every single day (even the darkest ones) how to love you back with that unconditionality.

I am, obviously, grateful for all the things you do for our family. The job you sometimes hate, the care and love you provide us. But i am so grateful for the man you have become. You have worked your ass off to get to where you are today and i really am in awe of who you are. I am grateful that i was here to witness it and my prayer every day is that i continue to watch you grow because it has been so inspirational and exciting to watch.

I am also grateful that you are the father of our children. You are by far the better parent and watching you guide our sons has been one of the greatest joys these last 11 years. You tenderness with them and the boundaries you set can only lead to them being even better versions of us.

Thank you for choosing me. Thank you for choosing me almost 17 years ago and thank you fro choosing me again last year. 17 years is a long fucking time and we have gone through more than some people go through in a lifetime. I know, in the deepest part of my soul, that I am right where I’m supposed to be though because being anywhere in your orbit just feels right. So thank you for holding onto our relationship and fighting for us. For our family.

This letter really doesn’t even scratch the surface of the amount of appreciation I feel for you. But I’m not sure I know the right words. I just pray that I am able to continue loving you the way you deserve and that we are able to keep forging a path forward and together. I love you more than anything.

Love, Jennifer