Beware of the mother in the candy aisle.

Being a mother is difficult.

Obviously.

Being a mother who tries to keep her sanity amongst a million opinions, parenting techniques and snarky comments from strangers and even her own support group is a challenge to put it politely.

I'm not a perfect mom.

No Mother is.

I am a Mother who raises her voice to epic 'Italian' levels and because of that my son does, too.

I set the precedent for that kind of behavior just as my parents did for me.

My Dad was not much of a hitter but he was a yeller.

My mother was a rager and I'm still going to therapy to get over it so, I get it.

I do.

Generational Habits.

They run thick don't they?

The best within us wants our family legacies to insure gratitude and kindness not violence and resentment so I work at reigning in behavior that might encourage the latter.

I'm reminded on a regular basis by my partner that the temper tantrums my son throws are very similar to my own.

That kind of insight is helpful but not quite the support I need after a long work day.

It's intended to be a 'wake up call' but when you've been trying your best to raise a thoughtful child who splits his time with a father who thinks it's funny to teach his son to cuss and tells him that going to school is punishment... 

Well...the reality is that THIS Mother just wants a little compassion, maybe a hug and to be told everything is going to be ok even if it's just ok for another moment.

I'm trying to be a good mother.

I think considering the circumstances that my son was brought into he is doing well but I've been guilted for not taking my son to his current preschool years ago and all I can say is that yes...

I wish I had been able to afford a more nurturing preschool in the past but I was living paycheck to paycheck without financial support from his father.

Things changed when I finally reached out for help from my family.

My own shame and delay in asking for help meant that Atticus started school later, more stressed out than most children his age and impulsive.

He has thrived since he began his new school and I am grateful that he has been able to grow. 

I have, as well.

I also know that we could have had it much worse.

I have family to lean on and I am privileged for that.

I grieve for the families that are truly alone, working all the time but under constant stress and having to make even tougher decisions than I have.

Being a parent requires patience, skill, emotional maturity and financial finesse.

I didn't have much of that when I left my son's father and became a single mother.

I just knew I couldn't stand living the way I had been for 16 years.

I had no plan.

I had no idea how to be the mother I wanted to be so I have read books, observed other parents and locked myself in my room to cry it out MANY times.

I know my non-parent friend shake their heads and say "Why would anyone have a child?".

Some days I wonder the same thing but I get reminded more often than not that the person I brought into this insane, crazy and dying world is HERE and he fantastic.

He's here and he is LOUD about it.

Willful.

Stubborn.

Kind.

Generous.

He has a sense of humor that is both intelligent and absurd.

And...today?

My ass is tired and exhausted.

My morning was spent fluctuating between sweet cuddles, perfecting my squash blossom recipe and not freaking out after an hour of Atticus chanting words I don't recall but may as well have been "I'm annoying" over and over.

It's barely 11am and I raised my voice at least twice today before leaving the house.

I didn't feel good about it but I'm not beating myself up about it.

Not too much, anyway...just a little.

About an hour ago, we went to the market. 

It's something we do almost every day.

My boyfriend finds my 'European-style' of daily market trips to be charming and ridiculous but it's my thing.

I want my food fresh.

And because this is a routine, rules have been established regarding grocery store etiquette:

Stay near Mama.

No hands in the bins and don't put anything in your mouth.

When I am well rested, calm and poised I know it's easiest to just stick my son in the cart in order to ensure no tiny, dirty hands find their way into the candy bins at Sprouts.

Today was not that day.

Today,  I thought we'd wing it with a small hand basket since my list was short.

Everything would be fine.

I was wrong.

Atticus streamlined it to the Gummy Worm bin before I even had a chance to pick up my basket.

He walked towards me with his head down and his hands covered up by his t-shirt.

I knew what was up.

He had stolen some candy but before I could talk to him about it an older woman walked up behind him and said "Little Boy, they are going to throw you in jail for stealing. Do you know that?".

I didn't say a word.

I figured maybe a stranger would get through to him faster than I ever had and despite having a mouth filled with gooey grossness he immediately said he was "Sorry" and apologized.

I figured it was settled.

Lesson learned...

But, then this woman grabbed my son and began to spank him.

I was stunned.

I grabbed him away from her and again had that moment of "What the fuck do I do that doesn't get ME arrested."

Thankfully, I didn't have to do a thing.

A mother who was also in the midst of battling her very small kid from reaching out from his stroller to grab snacks from the bins stood up for me saying "It seems to me you need to learn some boundaries because you just crossed the line."

I thanked the helpful mother who just gave me that always appreciated look of 'Motherhood is hard'.

The spanking woman just walked away and I stood there feeling angry, spent and tired.

I probably could have followed the spanking woman and given her a piece of my mind.

I didn't.

I felt that the whole scenario was my fault.

 I had failed in every way. 

I shouldn't have let him out of my sight. 

I should have told that women to mind her own business from the get-go. 

I should never have bought sweets for my son, in the first place. 

I should have...

Yes, I'm judging myself!

I'm judging myself but so is everyone else.

My family, my friends, my boyfriend, my son...

When I feel frustrated I get a list of why my son acts out and it always my fault:

I should have stayed with his father and worked on being a 'real mother' and not focus on a career.

I should have him medicated (his pediatrician disagrees, by the way).

I SHOULD spank him.

I should NEVER raise my voice to him.

If I had a vaginal birth he wouldn't be so high strung.

If I hadn't had him vaccinated he wouldn't be full of negative energy.

Honestly...it's shit.

I'm tired.

Parenting is hard work so why do we make it so much more difficult for the people who are trying so hard to bring another person of value up in this world by bullying them?

As mothers...the expectations and fear mongering begins before you even give birth:

Do NOT rest on your right side or lay on your back.

Don't eat feta cheese unless you have a death wish for your child.

Sushi? 

No way...who cares that cultures all over the world seem to procreate and eat raw fish but us? Americans? 

No way!

It's too bad we don't demonize processed food the way we do fish.

You MUST breastfeed if you want to bond properly with your child.

I did for almost 4 years and we are very close but I don't think that's the only reason.

You should Home-Birth.

You should Hypnobirth.

Or to be efficient you should schedule your C-section.

Heck, Preplan your child's afterbirth craniosacral appointment.

Do not circumcise.

Circumcise.

Raise them gender neutral.

No TV.

Classical music, only.

Baby Einstein all the way!

Aye...stop.

Stop!

It's exhausting, isn't it?

For crying out loud, Motherhood shouldn't be a competition, should it?

I just want to raise a good person.

I remind him on a regular basis how wonderful he is.

I hold his hand and remind him to stand up for himself and he does.

I can assure you of that!

He stands up to me all the time AND I don't always agree with him but our battle of wills always ends with hugs.

I don't believe it's weak to apologize when I am wrong or I am traumatizing him when I hold accountable for his actions.

I know that in the end my son is his own person.

He came through me but he isn't mine.

He will do what he does and I do my best to let him learn from his mistakes without shaming him.

He's a bright, curious, clever, mischievous, fearless and completely awkward person.

It's awesome.

When I put him to rest at night or wait for him to wake up in the morning...

I see the world's most beautiful person quiet and all I want is for him to wake up and ask for cuddle time.

Those are the best kind of difficult moments in my book but not the ones I learn from.

So as I've had time to reflect on this morning's drama, I am reminded that while being a mother is hard, it is incredibly rewarding.

I get to watch this little person grow up.

I get to watch myself evolve and find my own voice.

In the moment, at the market, I felt somewhat powerless and overwhelmed but even that messy moment has reinforced my recognition of how I want to raise my son.

He shouldn't steal.

He shouldn't lie but he also doesn't need to be abused by strangers and neither do I.

He knows there are repercussions for his actions and like most adults he picks and chooses when he learns from his mistakes and when he doesn't.

But...he is learning.

He sits himself down in the midst of meltdowns to breathe.

He walks with his breath when he knows he is about to explode.

It's not everytime just now and then but it counts and I know that little bit of self care he learned came from me and that's huge.

And I'm grateful.

The abusive habits that were handed down throughout my family line CAN be broken and I will do whatever it takes to see to it.

No matter how hard it is.

Shhh...I'm practicing YOGA.

I've been thinking a lot about 'YOGA' and all that it means to the students that arrive to share their time with me. 

Because I work at a resort my students are transient  often doing yoga for the 1st time so I take my responsibility to welcome them into the possibility of a practice with care.

Yoga has been a big part of my life for almost 20 years and I appreciate the challenges it has brought to my attention.

The need to find steadiness and ease as you stand on one foot may not seem like much until you realize how many stories your mind can throw at you:

I need to get my foot up to my thigh...then I'm really good at this.

Why can't I get my foot above my ankle...I'm good at making dinner.

What should I eat for dinner?

Is that guy next to me farting?

Look everyone...my foot is on my inner thigh...clearly, I am a better person because...oops, I just farted.

I'm a terrible person.

And so on and so on.

My first class was at our local community college when I was 20 years old and I remember thinking a few things:

1. The twisty blonde next to me was gonna eat crow in a few weeks because my body was younger, bendier and I was going to show her she wasn't the only impressive Gumby in the room.

2. The white haired bearded man teaching the class must have been doing this since the 60s. 

Did he ever met George Harrison? 

3. I bet if tell him I've been a vegetarian since I was 14...he will be very impressed. 

4. What language is he using?

5. Everyone else knows what 'Vira-ba-whatsana' means so they must be smarter and more enlightened than me.

6. They probably don't get mad like I do.

7. Why can't I touch my toes?

8. I reeeeeally need to be touching my toes.

9. Damn it. Why can't I touch my toes?

10. I'm gonna practice the crap out of this and be so amazing that everyone will be so jealous of me and my ability to touch my toes.

Pretty much...me and my first experience was wanting to become a human pretzel.

I took the Sun Salutation handouts he gave me, showed them to my roommate and tried to convince her we would be doing this EVERY morning and we would become oh, so interesting.

Then for many years...I dated yoga.

On and off.

More like flirting...really.

A little stretch here and there, a few months every year dedicated to learning Primary Series from a DVD and dropping in at the class at my gym when I had time.

Then I got into Capoeria and Tai Chi and Pilates but like yoga...

I just wanted to look good while I did it.

Learning to play the berimbau or learnng the stories behind the movements of Tai Chi were not in my realm of interest.

I had other things to do...

And I did them...but then I hit 30.

I started to have a flurry of health issues and went back to yoga and found a studio near my house.

I even remember my first "real class" back.

I was late.

Not like a minute or 2 , probably closer to 10.

I walked in and plopped my mat down and when the teacher asked me calmly if I had done yoga before...

I said ' oh yeah, all the time.' 

She smiled.

She let me stay despite...and years down the road she actually hired me as a teacher.

The embarrassment and learning that came from my first year teaching are equally humbling but for now...let's focus on 'younger yoga me' and the new students I see all the time.

I meet  'younger yoga me' all the time.

Everyday.

Of course...

Now, they bring their cell phones and their outfits are smokin hot.

I also meet people who've never done a lick of yoga in their 60 years of life but their partner or friend or child dragged them along.

Yoga.

What's the big deal?

I love it because I will always have more to learn, about it and from it.

I watch people move in my classes and I explain to them that looking a certain way in a pose isn't the most important thing.

After all, the point of asana is to prevent future suffering so you can rest your body in meditation.

Some people get it, some roll their eyes and others beat them selves up or ask me to tell them what they're doing wrong.

Does it hurt?

What feels good about holding this posture?

If the answer is nothing and it hurts, then come out of it, already.

My own 'younger yoga me' still lingers within my mind.

She likes to come back to visit and she can be persistent just like current me.

She stops by and bangs loudly in my head whenever a student walks in with a perfectly toned body and an Olympic-Gymnist -Type practice.

I react.

I wonder if I'm lame because at 39 years of age I've decided that all I want is to be able to keep touching my toes until I'm 100.

Don't get get wrong...

I thouroughly enjoy the challenge of trying a handstand again and again but for me that is a physical challenge that just gives me a little adrenaline rush and reminds me to play...

I'm not a better yogini because I can do it and I'm not an inferior one either because I still wind up using the wall whenever I can.

I like my wall. 

'Older yoga me' has for the most part become okay with falling on my tuckus and trying again next week.

Of course that's me but what I see too often in classes is ego floating through the rooms like the never ending dust that is constantly stirred up with every breath.

The brighter the room, the more obvious the dust becomes in it.

It's all over the place and it seems to go unseen because the focus of my words get mistranslated in their minds and all they want is to nail 'the pose of the year' and wear neon colored Malabeads while doing it and then later listing every Yoga Festival they've attended.

My ego joins the party and I feel a little small because I think I'm somehow a disappointment.

I haven't studied with any rock star yogis like Shiva Rae?

I didn't travel to India?

I am not a strict vegan?

I don't play the Harmonium and I didn't participate in Shivaratri Puja?

No.No.No.

And then I breathe...

And recognize that I have managed to stay healthy and alive in this aging body.

I wake up each morning to sit and watch the little dramas from my mind percolate like my morning coffee (yes, I drink coffee) until I find some moments that just let me pause.

I practice.

I practice asana everyday...at least, a little.

Sometimes, it is a long Yin practice, sometimes it is 3 Sun Saluations and sometimes it's a sweaty 90 minute Vinyasa practice however movement isn't my priority anymore and I have to remind myself that I'm not better or lesser for it.

I remind myself when the yogis who DO want to perfect a pose walk in to my class to be humble and encouraging because I was once the same as them...

and what happened when I aligned my body just so, breathed in and out, held my dristhi?

I noticed a pause.

I noticed me.

I noticed my sadness, my joy, my anger...

I noticed compassion in my bones and muscles and got to watch my self moan with relief when I came out of Triangle Pose...and smile with delight when I first held headstand steadily.

Whatever we get from our practice has value but it's not always glorious, magical and sparkly.

I celebrate my fellow practitioners who beam with joy and speak to one another as if each comment is being written down as the Facebook Yoga Meme of the day.

I would love to be in a constant state of bliss and I've been told I could be, if I only worked harder.

I'm messy. 

I'm a moody, cranky, funny and joyful person and that is worthy: 

My strong jump backs, My pranayama practice...My geek outs regarding anatomy, 

My moments of ' oh, I just yelled at my dog for being a dog' right after I finished my yoga or meditation practice, 

My-I still struggle with my relationship with my mother,

My-Am or am not really attractive to my boyfriend,

My-I'm doing a Kitchari cleanse and 2 days later I'm gonna eat my body weight in Strawberry Pie moments are important and I shine the light on all of it with my students because even the old moldy stuff that becomes unearthed after I thought I just cleaned my shit up immaculately...

Well?

They have value.

So now...when 'younger yoga me' walks into my class...

Whether they are Santa-Monica-Power-Yogi-Proud or Iowa-is-this-a-cult? student...

I just hope they become a bit more aware of themselves during my class.

If they hold handstand with ease or never try it once...I hope that in the quiet of savasana they can hold themselves in their heart and have some compassion for themselves.

Maybe, that's not straight Sutra teachings but that's what 'YOGA' means to me.

Today.

 

Earth to Mama! Hello? Where's my socks?

It's 8am and my son is still sleeping.

Happy Mother's Day to me!

I love this person and he knows it.

He's 5 and a half as of 6 days ago.

He was very upset that I had not planned a 1/2 Birthday Bash for him.

"Why didn't I send out invitations?"

"Am I even thinking about his 6th Birthday Party, yet?"

"Oh Mama...do you even have a jumping castle reserved and when are we going to Disneyland...I've never been in my whole life?!"

This guy...

My precious little boy who fluctuates between being my Cuddle-Muffin-Kiss-My-Boo-Boos for me and now the Shut-the-Door-I-Can-Do-It-All-By-Myself kid makes my heart flutter, sink, rage and soften to a place of comfortable vulnerability.

He is so strong.

So generous.

He wants what he wants but he will share it with everybody once he gets it.

This little boy is smart, curious, defiant and honest about it.

Like me, he has that very self inconvenient habit of admitting his follies.

"Mama...I broke this, I stole your lipstick, I cut up your shirt to make it more beautiful, I peed in the trash can to see what would happen".

He tells me all of it.

Or so I tell myself.

I love this age.

I remember my best friend telling me that each age was her favorite and I finally get it.

Newborn Atticus came in the midst of a crumbling marriage and I thnk he knew it.

Every night from 4 to whenever, his lungs wailed with cries and I remember holding him and thinking this speechless person is able to express my frustration in the most raw and honest way.

How will I ever show him love when our home is so dark and confining?

It was the complete opposite of how I wanted him to see the world.

During our divorce and transition, this boy kept me going.

He reminded me that I would be better...this was a stage and we would evolve and grow up together.

I'm finally growing up and he is a little boy.

Sometimes, he seems so much wiser than me and other times with fingers in nose, mouth and every other germ filled place I remember...nope he DOESN'T know everything.

I'm the Mama.

I make the breakfast, brush his hair, kiss his boo-boos, tell him when the scary parts of E.T. are over and I will be responsible for him for a long time and also have to find that balance between holding his hand tightly and then letting him run, fall and make a lot of mistakes.

A lot, I am sure.

So...Happy Mother's Day to me, to my own mother and grandmother and my community that tries to nurture and support us all on this brief little walk through life.

Fleshy Time in the desert.

Oh, God!

Yesterday, my boyfriend posted a picture of me walking towards him in a bikini.

I freaked!

All I saw in the picture was that the light hit my thighs in such a way that you could see...

Wait for it...

Wait for it...

Some cellulite.

Sort of.

I was pissed.

I went into my room.

Looked at the photo and totally missed that in the foreground was an incredible picture of my son looking so damn happy and impressed with his beach find.

Nope.

I didn't see that...I just noticed that my thighs revealed what is a hint of fat beneath the skin.

Wow.

Of course, what was kind of awesome about this whole little thing is that I am going to be speaking at a book launch on Sunday about how being photographed in my chonies has increased my ability to love myself and focus on more important things like taking care of my emotional and mental health and loving my son but here I was...about to break down in tears over a photo that showed me less than perfect.

What a bunch of bullshit.

So...I looked at the photo again and I 'liked' it.

Did I, for reals?

No...at least not the 4th and 5th time I checked it out but then I decided to look at my son.

I looked at his smile and I remembered the moment of when the picture was taken:

I had been strutting my stuff up and down that sliver of beach thinking to myself 

'

Damn, for almost 40... I am looking good.'

I am, damn it.

And to let a beautiful moment shared between the two most precious fellas in my life to suddenly be overshadowed with the realization that 'oh, I have cellulite and my ass jiggles when I walk' is stupid.

Just stupid.

So...here it is folks.

Here I am.

In a bikini.

Having an awesome time with my boys.

Since You've Been Gone...

15 years ago on April 23rd my Dad passed away.

As far as memories go that day is a blur...

I know I gave my Dad a morphine shot that day, I recall him talking to people who weren't there and counting out loud, I held his hand and heard his last breath and in the morning after he died it rained and the desert smelled sweet with creosote.

There were many friends that I relied on during that time...

Susan Kay Johnson and Nadia Hagen were stable listeners as well as my coworkers at Cafe Quebec and my Flam Chen comrades but all in all it's hard to recall much of that time and I decided that instead of reflecting on the past I'd celebrate the life I've lived because of him.

He will never know the dramas and the beauty that has transpired since he left but even though he died young his existence affected my own.

In the last 15 years as I've grown up...my little brother, Paul graduated college, secured his place as an influential and philanthropic business man, married a kind and generous woman and has a beautiful and feisty daughter, my older brother, Jon has raised two incredible children who continue to amaze me and he has grown his business to be a national leader in the mortgage industry and my oldest brother Jim, has continued to struggle, he has fallen, picked himself up but fallen again...as we all have.

Me?

My father's influence to set goals and meet them created a foundation that led me to graduate college, move back to be close to my family, follow my passion and become a yoga teacher, get married, have a son and then recreate my life to be true to myself.

He made me a tape before he died and one of the things he repeated again and again was that I needed to be true to myself so as I think about the years since he died it took me awhile to remember his words but I did and so as I hold him in my heart today, I hope that he would be proud of me and of all of us...

He brought some good people into this world and were doing our best to raise our children with the same foundations to be true, to work hard and to live.

His last years were spent doing what he loved and as they have always been...these are my last days and I hope to use them wisely.

Welcome to Crazy Town...it's just fine.

Life is short. 

Not as short as a fruit fly but definitely shorter than the life of a saguaro or an elephant...

They live a really long time, ya know?

I try live in the moment whenever I can but like anyone else...

I get lost in the past or worry about the future.

It's not a bad thing.

Often, it's very constructive.

Reflecting, planning and learning.

But, this year I turn 40 so I've been thinking about how much my life has changed in the past decade.

I think about the people that I've met and how they've inspired me in some way.

I appreciate all of them.

Even the assholes.

I know that today I can look outside and smile with adoration for the sweet life I have even though just a few days ago I was feeling despair and unable to feel joy.

It happens.

To everyone, actually.

If you ever feel like you are the moodiest human that ever lived just watch how quickly a toddler can fluctuate between glee and misery within a few breaths and you'll understand that we are ALL wired this way.

It's a relief, really.

Now, about me:

I was diagnosed with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder when I was in my 20's.

I remember the day that I walked into the Nurses Office at Portland State University and said "I think, I am having a heart attack."

I felt like I couldn't breathe, that my heart was pounding so hard I thought it was going to explode and everytime I stood up, I got dizzy.

The nurse hooked me up to a monitor, sighed and told me that I was having an Anxiety Attack and needed to see the School Therapist.

Wonderful!

No heart attack just me being a super nut-job college kid.

Hooray, I guess?

So...?

I went down the hall and scheduled an appointment with the school Psychologist.

My first session was awash in tears, snot and brief moments of hyperventilating but my therapist was thoughtful and patient, as she should be.

She listened as I described my first sexual assault at 4 years old, the subsequent harassment throughout Junior High, the stalking and sexual assault by a stranger and another violation by an ex-boyfriend in my mother's house.

She heard me talk about seeing my first dead body in grade school as my friend, Cito laid in an open casket with half his head missing after being hit by a car on his bicycle and Whitney Houston's "I believe in You and Me" played on the speakers of the funeral home.

That song still makes my skin crawl.

I told her about the 3 other childhood friends who died before I got to High School.

Nicky was thrown from the back of a pick up truck, Raymond shot himself in the head with his parent's gun and Danny was killed riding his bike.

I told her how Danny's mother calmly said that I was the cause of the death around me...

She said I was a Grim Reaper and how if she spent more time with me she could die, too.

I told my therapist that for years... I believed she was right.

I described the 8 close family members who died within a 4 year period before I graduated Junior High and how their deaths forever changed my mother, my parent's marriage and the way I saw the world.

I explained that between the ages of 4 to 10, I was beaten on a regular basis by a mother who was unable to maintain friendships, lonely and overwhelmed.

I told her how we joined a New Age 'Pyramid Scheme' Spiritual Group when I was 12 and even though I was taught meditation, which was helpful, I was surrounded by adults who seemed lost and well...creepy.

I told her about the time that I was 15 and my oldest brother offered me to his friend, Trey in exchange for drugs and I was only spared a probable molestation because one of my parents came home.

I explained that in High School I moved out and lived with 3 other kids and watched my family crumble apart, become strangers to me and how my father got secretly married to a woman we had never met, how he started a new life with her and her son and then at my High School Graduation he got sick, left early and was diagnosed with terminal cancer 2 weeks later.

I told her that I had detached further from my family and friends and left my home for the Pacific Northwest with my boyfriend to only return home 6 months later to take care of my dying father, his mother who had Parkinson's disease and my oldest brother, who was a Crack addict.

I explained that I held my dad's hand when he was dying and how my grandmother immediately blamed us for his death saying we were bad children.

I told her that for well over a year I could not stop the nightmares of seeing my father die over and over again.

I told her that I drank myself to sleep every night but managed to go to school, finish my projects and begin a performance troupe with my best friend.

I told her that I couldn't  cry or feel sorry for myself because I had a handsome boyfriend, I had a fun life, I had friends.

So...why was I feeling so terrible?

Why didn't I trust anyone?

Why did everything hurt so much?

We engaged in 3 months of talk therapy.

I begged her to diagnose me as crazy, put me away and just be done with it but she wouldn't.

She said I had PTSD.

The talking was good, it was cathartic but it didn't stop the anxiety and panic attacks.

It didn't keep me from completely shutting down for 3 days after a guy groped me on the street of Downtown Portland and my boyfriend just shrugged and said that he would have done the same if he had seen me in the tight jeans I had been wearing.

I stopped going because as far as I could tell I had only reaffirmed my victimhood but I hadn't stopped the constant stream of bad dreams and feelings of inadequcies.

For another 5 years, I self-medicated with beer, randomn bouts of bulimia, flirtations with Yoga, Tai-Chi, Capoeria...

I threw myself into my art work and cried myself to sleep, a lot.

These outlets helped mask the pain.

They gave me a momentary respite from the grief, the anger and sadness that I was too afraid to feel without acting upon.

As my 30th Birthday approached, my boyfriend and I decided to move back to Tucson.

We had our fill of grey clouds, blackout drinking and chain smoking but we didn't have a plan so...we moved in with my mother.

For 3 months we lived in a tiny room that now serves as a closet for the new family that lives there.

It was not a good time.

I got a job working at a Mortgage Company for my older and youngest brother.

Eventually, we moved out and got our own place.

I got up every morning to practice Ashtanga yoga, meditate and then would bike to work. 

FINALLY, I had all my ducks in a row.

I got into the daily routine of being a corporate person, crunching numbers, entering data and sitting for 9 hours a day.

If nothing else...I was no longer a disappointment to my family.

I was growing up.

FINALLY.

FINALLY.

FINALLY!

Except...I hated it.

Most of the time, anyway.

I loved the competitive nature of my job, the continuous need to go, to feed off of adrenalne and to see if I could get everything done before it's deadline.

It was a productive distraction except for the way my body felt from sitting all day and that when I came home it was to a house that reeked of pot and had the shades drawn shut because my ex was convinced that being stoned and in the dark was the only way he could function.

I was miserable.

My time at work and home became overrun with anxiety again.

Dizziness lingered even when I sat down.

I had to see a cardiologist.

My heart was not happy in ANY way.

It was breaking down in EVERY way, literally.

Stress was killing me and I was still a child in so MANY ways.

I had to change.

I started to take my daily yoga practice more seriously and got certified to teach.

I dedicated myself to yoga and to saving my very broken bond with my boyfriend.

After 2 years in Tucson, we bought a house.

I proposed.

We got married.

I left the corporate job and began working full time as a yoga instructor.

I got pregnant.

We grew further apart.

He left for several months.

After our son was born the destructive and isolating nature of our relationship became crystal clear.

We fought.

We yelled.

I began drinking again, spending money we didn't have and started throwing up.

I hated my life, my body, my brain and all of its shitty memories.

I hated that everytime I walked past the place I was assaulted in High School, I would look away...

So, I agreed to continue to be in charge of Tucson's All Souls Procession Altar Project even after it was moved to Armory Park, the place of the assault.

I was going to face my fears.

I would reclaim that space and in addition I would honor and grieve the 20 + people I had lost in my life.

Yes!

I was multitasking my need to deal with my traumas.

I had a plan and it would solve everything.

I would stop freaking out and move on.

I thought that if I meditated enough I'd realize what I needed to do to make our family work because it was me, my crazy mind and my ugly body that were to blame.

I blamed myself because someone needed to be blamed and my ego was comfortable with turning myself into a loathsome martyr.

Ugh...blame.

Such a useless way to spend ones time.

When I got a pretty steady gig teaching at a resort, it became a refuge from my home life, my struggles and my pain.

My coworkers were warm and encouraging.

Thankfully they were also VERY honest and direct.

I remember a dear colleague saying that I needed to be treated better and that my husband was mean.

These two things never occurred to me.

Never.

I left him.

I gave him our house and everything in it.

I was free.

I was broke.

I moved in with my mother, me, a 3 year old, her 3 dogs and my own.

I was a mess.

My temper became short, I stopped eating, stopped sleeping and my son was stuck with two dysfunctional misfits trying not to explode on each other, as parents.

It took its toll.

Somedays, I was brave enough to be with all of the pain and beauty during my meditations but usually I abused the tools of my yoga practice to escape my reality until my son began to explode in fits of rage.

He would ask me why I ruined our family.

My son, my love...he was so sad.

I moved out of my Mother's home and into a small 1 bedroom house.

I filed for bankruptcy.

I stepped down from my position of being in charge of the All Souls Day event,  as it only made my anxiety worse.

As I look back on that period of my life, I see that I was on autopilot.

All I wanted to do was dance, cry and be loved but I couldn't seem to feel the last thing on that list.

It's was absent.

I stopped loving myself.

I had ripped apart my family and left my son confused and angry.

I would go to work, speak of enlightenment but come home and just feel numb.

Dead.

Worn out.

I hurt.

So deeply.

I wanted to love myself.

I had done it before as I found the courage to leave a marriage that was not healthy but I fell back into the patterns from my childhood.

The judgmental voices that I had heard from others became my own internal mantra.

Ugly.

I felt ugly inside and out.

I'm not.

No one is but we forget...

I get stuck in the darkness a lot and it's not always a bad thing but it's not always productive.

I like learning and exploring.

I dislike feeling overwhelmed as if I'm trapped in a tornado of anger and anxiety and I'm just waiting to be thrown out of its spiral and smacked back into reality as my body hits the ground and I realize where I am.

Reality.

It's fine. 

Even when it's not.

So...I've started to really practice but in a more relaxed way.

The hyper vigilance of an Ashtanga practice isn't for me...in fact, I do something different everyday.

I wake up and try to honor the person I woke up with for the day.

Sometimes, I'm a feisty girl wanting to move, balance and sweat it out.

Other times, I sit.

I grieve.

I stretch and go for a swim.

My teachers have not lived my life or experiences...they gave me a foundation to evolve from so I take their teachings, I learn and I try to apply them to me, my body, my brain.

I've begun to journal and to talk to friends.

I always felt ashamed and exhausted by my past stories.

I let them slip out casually in conversations but tried not to say too much because at a certain point peoples eyes just glaze over...

Much of my life has felt unreal and unbelievable.

Sometimes when I go through it...

I think, I can't have seen that or been treated that way.

It's just not possible.

I think of my life long process much like the hurried stashing of unfolded laundry, piles of paper and quick sweeping of floors when a friend says they are going to stop by real quick.

I put the mess in the corners, shut the doors and welcome them with a smile and hope they think I've got it together until they accidentally open the closet door and everything crashes down and I have to awkwardly explain myself.

Of course the thing with friends or at least good ones is that they ARE nosey.

They always look in your cupboards when your not looking.

Damn them.

Bless them.

Over 2 years ago, I left my husband, got divorced and now I find myself in a serious relationship again and those  crammed doors have been flung wide open.

The dirty dishes, the moldy food in the refrigerator....all of it has been exposed.

When we first began dating he thought I was perfect and I tried desperately to appear as perfect as I could. 

Of course, as time passed we got beyond the excitement and romanticism of pillow talk and I told him my stories.

He didn't flinch.

He hugged me.

He wept...

I feel safe around him but I didn't feel safe explaining that despite a daily meditation and yoga practice that I freak out ALL the time.

Every 'freakin' day, actually. 

There is so much, too much.

So, I hid my neurosis as if I could outwit him...except he ain't no dumby.

He's annoyingly smart, actually...

Thankfully.

It turns out that when I've had a long day, feeling tired, feeling hungry, hear a certain song, see a date of remembrance on the calendar that I can't hide my shit.

In fact, when I list my strengths...having a Poker Face is not one of them.

So...here is the thing with PTSD and especially long term and untreated traumas: 

You will find yourself triggered into a moment of panic over something that you know is not really happening but it feels like you've been pulled into an undertow.

Sometimes, I waste a lot of time struggling against it...which always prolongs the experience.

Now and then, I take a deep breath and remember to stop and just let myself float back to the surface.

I try to stay.

I try to be with what is, feel it and observe it but sometimes it still sneaks up on me.

When I see a kid sitting in the back of a pick-up truck I still find myself becoming immediately nauseous and angry even though I know that child will probably make it home safe.

When my boyfriend casually brought up my own son wanting to sit in the back of a truck...I became enraged.

He didn't understand why I started to yell at him as if he was punching me in the gut.

To him...most kids have that experience.

Was I not going to let my son ride a bicycle, either?

I've lost a handful of friend to bike accidents.

The answer is that my son will not ride in the back of a truck bed on my watch but also my boyfriend was not trying to hurt me by the mere mention of it, either.

His life has been different than mine.

More fearless, more grounded.

He doesn't understand or empathize with a lot of my experiences but he is willing to listen and learn about them.

He accepts my need to clean the house and having everything organized before I fall asleep because it is a habit I got into as a child, as my mother used to wake me up, pull me out of bed to re-dust the furniture if it failed the clean test when she ran her finger along the top of shelf.

Cleaning is a way to feel safe and is calming for me, now.

And no...I'm not for hire so don't ask.

To paraphrase Pema Chodron...I am trying to make friends with my neurosis.

I am learning not to cling to the moments of clarity as a 'A-ha! I am finally normal' certification because stuff is going to come up.

It always will.

I'm just learning to enjoy the periods of ease and appreciate when I recover from a mental tantrum more quickly then I did the same time last year.

Last night, I planted seeds in our garden and as I ran my hands through the soil and compost I thought that this is what it's about...

The scraps, the trash, the rotten parts all have value when we recognize them as a part of the process.

The trash, the used up and decayed parts lay the foundation for new growth and without them there are no nutrients, just barren ground.

As this newly planted garden begins to thrive my family will be fed and nourished and I will be grateful for the process.

Of course, the season will change, the plants will die and I will find myself mucking through the dirt again, throwing out the old roots but preparing for the next crop as I plant new seeds and start again and again and again.

All I can do is love.

Love it all.

Even the rotten parts.

Trust Me, you won't need sugar for your coffee after you read this. It's that Damn Sweet.

Oh, Golly G-Whiz.

A year ago marks the date that a juggler came into town and took me on a date.

Like many modern romances...I was courted via Facebook.

He 'friended' me after seeing me at a party with a few too many beers and/or glasses of wine in my system and a belief that I owned the dance floor and pretty much anyone who came within an arms reach.

As is Facebook custom, I did a little bit of stalking.

He's a handsome fella with big brown eyes, a bright smile, black rimmed glasses AND a very respectable beard.

HELLOOOOOOO!?!

Ughhh...but Damn!

I was also pretty sure he had a girlfriend.

A super cute girlfriend, too.

Of course.

So...I did my thing and tried to figure out the 'dating scene' of Tucson.

I had no clue.

How do I ask a guy out?

Do I dress like I want to get busy or do I try to look casual?

Do I wear short skirts or jeans?

Should I mention I am recently divorced?

Holy Crap!

My experience was all High School.

Really.

No.

Clue.

The Men of Tucson became fair game for my journey into love, dating and just being awkward.

I spent a lot of time hitting on my friends, having lots of bashful moments and just being a single woman for the 1st time in 16 years.

Oh...what a fantastically frightful time that was but also sweet...yes? 

I think, it was sweet.

A few months after 'the friending' I began to notice that this pretty bearded man was 'liking' my posts...

The posts about my child, about teaching yoga and all the other mundane things we share in a virtual world that somehow appeases the loneliness that happens now that we all work too much, have less time but still yearn to share our little part of this human experience.

I started to pay a bit more attention.

It turned out he didn't even live here anymore and the cutie pie girlfriend I was so sure of was actually his ex-girlfriend.

So, who was he?

Does he just 'friend' single moms everywhere because he is secretly a psychopath?

Regardless...I didn't mind too much.

Somewhere in the daily scans of status updates...

I mentioned that my son was sick and he sent me a message of well wishes for my sweet boy.

I was smitten.

Oh man...SMITTEN!

He said he was coming to town and he asked me out on a date.

HOORAY!

I was excited.

He had a plan.

A Sunset hike and dinner.

Who does that?

I'd never been properly taken out so I was kind of dumbfounded and nervous.

How nervous?

Like studdering and clammy hands nervous.

I knew I was in trouble from the beginning.

I won't get too detailed about all the happenings of the date but I will say that things went well.

A few days later...he went to The Grand Canyon to raft The Colorado River and for the first time in a long time, I truly missed someone and not because I was lonely or needy but because I just liked the obnoxious amount of bawdy laughs that seemed to escape when he was around. 

He returned from his trek down the river but soon he had to return back to Bend, Oregon.

Bend.

Oregon.

A long distance relationship started.

Despite working tons and a weird schedule, we managed to keep in touch and talk daily.

I left Tucson to meet him.

At first, after getting off the plane, I had a panic moment.

Oh Dear Lord...

What was I doing?

I left my son at home to roam around the Pacific Northwest with a guy I just met.

A guy who is 4 years younger than me, as well?

What the Hell happened to me?

He took me around town, drove me to Portland, Oregon to see and meet my friends, we camped at Mt.Hood, his Van died, (Yes, I said "Van." It was an awesome Van.) , we floated down The Deschutes River and fell in love!

Ughhh...my eyelids still twitch just a little whenever I gush...it's a little awkward for me, to be honest.

LOVE!

Oh, No!

I'm all for LOVE but being IN Love?

I was sooooo not ready, was I?

I left him in tears, counting the days apart and wondering if I had made it all up in my head.

Then he moved back to Tucson and my life got turned upside down.

Me + him + my son + my dog + his dog + a full time job, a very grumpy ex-husband and total fear that I was going to lose my independence was thrust into my world, all at once.

Huge fears welled up, grabbed hold and very soon after his arrival we had our first fight.

Now, here is the backstory of me:

When I fight, I fight like a wounded animal...fear, insecurity and pain are shielded by blind rage and I become badger-mean.

I kicked him out of my life.

Why?

Truthfully, I can't even remember but it felt awful and we talked.

I apologized.

He wrote me a love letter.

It wasn't the first, either.

He has sent me handwritten love letters since the beginning.

I've never been so sincerely romanced in all of my life.

I always thought I was the type of girl who didn't need to be wooed.

It turns out I don't NEED it but I do like it.

It's beautiful and loving, as is he.

I still continue to panic.

I feel old, not 'arty' enough, tired, unappreciated and just scared out of my mind because not only do I love him but so does my son.

Atticus calls Zack his best friend.

Our family.

All 5 of Us.

It is ridiculously terrifying for some reason.

Today it's been a year and within that time period we have moved in together.

He wanted it sooner than I did and it took time for me to adjust to living with someone who wants to spend time with me and be my partner.

I feel like a child sometimes, not sure how to do this...the goofy-in-love-couple thing.

My childhood was full of love but also lots of abuse and death so at a very young age I learned to shut down, close off and put up walls.

It was my habit to validate bad behavior, distrust kindness and try not to become too attached to anyone.

So being 'in love' was always something that others did but not me until Zack came into my life.

He inspires me to open my heart.

He makes me laugh.

He may not always understand the foundation of many of the dramas that sometimes pull me away from being grateful for the present moment but he tries as best as he can to be there for me.

As I move into my 40s,  I am learning to truly love and listen and it's been really hard, to be honest.

I've been messy and chaotic.

EVERY time I feel my heart strings start to wonder too far from my control I retract in fear and look for reasons to escape.

To be alone.

Sometimes, I worry that being in a committed relationship means that I have to be perfect and I can't make mistakes.

In my past relation, I walked on egg shells for much of it, so I don't always know how to relax, breathe and recognize that this man actually loves me.

All of me.

He loves me when I'm hilarious, passionate and sassy.

He loves me when I've become too tired, too hungry or too overwhelmed to function in a rational way.

He always lends his heart, his head and his hand when I need it.

Slowly...I'm learning to let him take my hand without hesitation and I'm glad about it.

I love him.

And he loves me...crazy sexy, bossy, controlling and brilliant me.

Yep.

We are in love and I think it's awesome.