I quit for a good reason

Today was Martin Luther King, Jr. Day. Living in Savannah, GA, this day is definitely observed and celebrated. Growing up in Dublin, TX, we finally got a day off of school when I went to Jr. High School, but we got the day off for Stock Show Day, not MLK, Jr.

 I’m glad my children are growing up in a place where this holiday matters and they get at least 2 full weeks of lessons in school teaching them the importance of Dr. King and his journey. They have learned the importance of sacrificing a bit of their own happiness to ensure others have the freedoms and opportunities in life that they deserve. While we didn’t do anything significant to celebrate this day, something did happen that will make this very special to me.

 Veronica sat in her bedroom this afternoon and took off her shoes, leg braces, and socks all by herself for the first time ever today. For most people, taking off shoes and socks is a mundane event that happens several times each day. But for an 11-year old girl with a disability, taking off socks and shoes on her own is quite a challenge.

But I have to be honest—Veronica should have been doing this on her own long ago. Before her last foot surgery, she was taking off her tennis shoes and one of her leg braces on her own. But the surgery slowed her down and I have been doing this task on command ever since.

To sum up, I have enabled her to remain disabled and completely dependent on me. Why? I have no idea except to say that I wasn’t strong enough to do the right thing.

Robby and I were talking this morning before I left his house. We always spend our weekends together either at my house or his and saying goodbye gets more painful with each week. This morning we were doing our usual pep-talk that gets us through another week apart.

We realized that we have a little over 4 months until we move in together and begin our new lives as a family.  To me, 4 months is not a lot of time. I began to flip through the tasks in my mind that I wanted to complete before we move in together—making sure my children are independent was #1 on the list.

I realized that my original plan with going to graduate school had been that I would receive small alimony checks for 2 years. During that 2 years, I would try to live off of that money while I earned  my master’s degree, started my new career, and became completely self-reliant financially. During this time, I would also help my children to get used to the idea that I was not going to be around every day after school to cook their meals and help them with homework.

The big idea in my head was to get Veronica completely independent before I joined the workforce. Two years seems like a long time in the beginning. Now my two years has become 4 months and I still haven’t enabled Veronica to figure out how to get her shoes on and off on her own—I began to panic a bit when Robby held up 4 fingers and said, “We only have 4 more months until we are together all of the time.”

 

I let her master archery,
but not shoes?





During the drive home, I zoned out in my head and thought about what I needed to do to get Veronica more independent. I realized that she wants to be independent, but I wasn’t helping her. She wakes up in the morning and gets dressed on her own—something she has only done for the past 3 months. Once she puts on her socks, she screams, “Mom! I need my shoes on now!”

I don’t miss a beat in dropping everything to put her shoes on her feet.

At the end of the day, she enjoys taking a long shower. Again, she has only starting bathing on her own over the last few months. But before she can undress, she sits on the toilet and screams, “Mom! I need my shoes off!”

Again, I drop everything to squat down and pull off her tennis shoes, leg braces, and sweaty socks. It’s tiring and I have been frustrated with the task—never sure when it would ever end.

So today, I handed her the dressing stick and reacher and told her that she needed to try to get her shoes and socks off by herself. This suggestion was met with a tantrum. “What? You know I can’t do that by myself!” she screamed.

Veronica's tools--reacher, dressing stick, and sock tool

I calmly said, “I need to put your brother’s clothes away. Why don’t you see what you can do while I do that and then I will come back and help you.” I walked out of the room while she continued to scream and throw her fit.

I stayed in Jude’s room and listened to her cry and shout, “Mom, please come help me! I can’t do this!” I hung up Jude’s clothes in his closet while she continued with, “Mommy? Mommy? Please help me! I need you, Mommy!”



If you have a disabled child, then perhaps you have been through this tug-of-war. The only thing worse than having to ignore your child’s pleas for help, is knowing that you are the reason that she cannot do most normal tasks on her own. On my drive home today, I realized that I was the reason Veronica wasn’t putting on and taking off her own shoes. I can blame it on her disability, but the truth is obvious—she is capable of so much more than I allow her to do.

Gearing up for zip line at camp--
I let her fall from sky but I didn't make
her take off her own shoes?

As tears streamed down my face in Jude’s bedroom, Veronica’s pleas began again. I heard her beating her dressing stick on the wall in frustration. I heard her banging her head on her metal bed frame. I heard her gasp for air as she cried in frustration—but mostly I heard fear.

After her father left several years ago, the realization that her mother might one day leave her became a fear in the back of Veronica’s mind. What would she do if she didn’t have me around to dress her and bathe her?

Not forcing this child to man-up and conquer this fear was one of the worst mistakes I have ever made as a mother. I kept hearing the voice of a friend who had to overcome her own disabilities—“She is mad at you now, but one day she will thank you.”

Veronica’s screams began to slowly subside and I heard her begin to try to take off her shoes. I heard a shoe hit the floor and she let out a deep breath. Then I heard the steady rip of her Velcro straps on her braces. I heard her gasping for air and pushing with all of her might.

She can scuba, so shoes should be no problem

I finally walked down the hall to take a peek at her. She was sitting on her bed with no shoes or leg braces on. She was pulling off her socks with her dressing stick and refusing to recognize my presence at her door.

She can dance in public,
so shoes should be cake

After the last sock was off, she looked up at me and said, “There, that wasn’t so hard after all.” We both laughed through our tears.

She stood up on her shaking weak ankles and hugged me tight. She buried her head in my chest and wrapped her thin arms around my waist. “I’m sorry, Mommy. I love you.”

I kissed the top of her head and said, “It’s okay, baby. I love you, too. And I’ve never been more proud of you then I am right now.”

I told her that she is one of the smartest people I know that she is capable of so much, but that she will never know what she can do if she never tries. “And trying is not the same as giving up quickly and making me finish the hard work for you.”

She seemed to get it and she walked down the hall to the bathroom to take her shower on her own. I left her wheelchair in the bathroom and I told her that she would have to get out of the shower on her own and get herself dressed. She groaned a little as I walked out of the bathroom.

She got dressed on her own and even tried to put on her shoes by herself. She said her goal is to be totally independent by summer. I think she will be independent before summer.

I let her hit the slopes but not attempt a shoe change? Why?

And a part of me is happy but a larger part of me is struggling to figure out what my role will be if I’m not the person she is dependent upon for everything.  Taking care of Veronica and knowing that her shoes are on her feet correctly gives me great peace even though I know it is wrong.

I feel like one of those mothers who is overfeeding her fat child because food makes her baby happy and hunger makes her cry. But it’s wrong. It’s wrong to make your child disabled because you can’t stand to hear her cry. I admit I was wrong. I was addicted to helping my daughter. I didn’t know how to stop. I didn’t want to hear her cry. I didn’t want to admit that my time as enabler needed to end. I didn’t want to feel unneeded.

But my job is not to raise a child—it is to raise a woman. I want Veronica to be a strong and independent woman who can go and do whatever she wants whenever she wants and not be tied to me. And today I made the decision to let her go.

It hurts a little to know that I have spent the past 11 years doing everything for my little girl and now that must end. I have no doubt that Veronica will know exactly what to do with her new-found independence. I just pray that I can continue to be a good mom and enable my child to grow up.

Can't you see I've waited long enough?

Those of you who know me know that I love the Foo Fighters. Despite the hundreds of songs I have stored on my iPod, I tend to listen to a random shuffle of the six Foo Fighters' albums I have on my playlist.

This morning, I went to the gym to do my morning run on the treadmill. I don’t exercise for fitness or weight loss—I run for my sanity. So, this morning I had to crank up the speed to run off the stress that lingered from the holidays and starting a new quarter at SCAD.

Wasting Light is the last album the Foo Fighters put out. It has been nominated for several Grammys including their nod for album of the year. In my opinion, it’s the best album they have ever made.

I don’t have a favorite song on the album, but I do have a favorite running tune, “Walk.” It’s the last song on the album and Dave Grohl reportedly said he wanted to put the song at the end because it wraps up the album's theme of time and second chances.

The end of the song is the segment that resonates with me. Here are those lyrics:

Now
For the very first time
Don't you pay no mind?
Set me free again
You keep alive a moment at a time
But still inside a whisper to a liar
To sacrifice but knowing to survive
The first decline another state of mind
I'm on my knees, I'm praying for a sign
Forever, whenever
I never wanna die
I never wanna die
I never wanna die
I'm on my knees
I never wanna die
I'm dancing on my grave
I'm running through the fire
Forever, whatever
I never wanna die
I never wanna leave
I'll never say goodbye
Forever, whatever
Forever, whatever

I'm learning to walk again
I believe I've waited long enough
Where do I begin?
I'm learning to talk again
Can't you see I've waited long enough?
Where do I begin?

Several days ago I realized when I sat down to think about my New Year’s resolutions that something was very different about me this year. I couldn’t figure out what it was though. Then it hit me yesterday when I was walking onto campus to start my fourth quarter at SCAD—I don’t want to quit anymore. I’m excited to be alive—I’m excited to be living.

It may be hard to believe that behind this tough exterior is a very tired person. I’m tired of fighting and struggling to make ends meet. I’m tired of trying to balance my duties of mom with full-time student. I’m tired of looking at an empty bank account.

I’ve never considered suicide, but there have been days when I wished someone would come to my house and pick up my children and take them away for a while so I could hide from the world under my blankets. This thought has always bothered me because I love my children dearly and I hate the idea of being separated from them.

This morning I could feel the lyrics speaking to me-- “I’m dancing on my grave, I’m running through the fire…I never wanna die.” And it all became clear to me—not long ago, a part of me did want to die. It’s not the part of me that loves my children and wants to watch them grow up. It’s not the part of me that wants to earn my master’s degree. It’s not the part of me that wants to marry Robby.

So, I had to ask myself, “What other parts of me are there?” And I realized that the parts of me that wanted to quit seem to be dead now. They don't exist anymore. They don’t whisper “you’re stupid” in my ear any longer. I haven’t thought about having someone pick up my children in a very long time.

I have this new sense of energy and love for life that I cannot fully describe. I truly want to live again. And in the words of Dave Grohl, “I believe I’ve waited long enough.”

A trip to see Santa

It’s been less than a year since I first met Robby, and all I can think is “I’m glad I decided to open my mind to love.”

Some of you know the story of how I met Robby. I used to refer to him as Mr. EHarmony and some of my friends still call him that. We met online at the beginning of March, took our time getting to know each other, and fell head-over-heels in love by summer. 

Family photo with Santa



Robby first met the kids at the end of April. It was Easter weekend and my sister had picked up the kids and me from the airport. We had just returned from Texas after Veronica’s foot surgery. Robby had offered to make us Easter dinner and leave it at the front door. I decided it was time for him to meet the kids and I thought it would seem more comfortable if my sister was there, too.

After Robby left that evening, my sister and I did our usual—put the kids to bed, made martinis, and played cards for the remainder of the night. Amy liked Robby and she could tell I really liked him. She asked, “Do you think you guys will get married?”

I laughed and said, “No, I’m never getting married again.” I was totally serious and I truly believed it. Amy was so mad at me. “Why would you say that?” she asked with tears in her eyes.

“Because marriage is horrible,” I said. “I will never do that again.”



But as time passed, I began to realize that it was wrong for me to base my future decisions on my past relationships. Robby and I talked about marriage several times. I told him what I thought about marriage and he listened.

Then he said, “I understand why you feel that way, but you have to remember that we can’t base marriage off of our past experiences because those people we were married to weren’t capable of loving us back in a normal way. Those weren’t real marriages.”

Over time I began to understand what he was talking about. I began to open myself up to trusting him. When we first met, I wouldn’t accept his friend request on Facebook because I was afraid of letting him into my “bubble.” Now, I can’t imagine not hearing his voice on the phone first thing in the morning.





And I said, "Yes."



Robby asked me to marry him on Dec. 23^rd and I said, “yes!” The proposal was a complete surprise to me, but I had no hesitations—there was no doubt in my voice when I said “yes.”

Here is what happened…Apparently Robby had been planning the engagement since September. Somewhere along the way he decided to make it a Christmas proposal. His sister and his friends were involved in the planning and things just seemed to take off from there.

Robby described the proposal in his blog, so I will tell you my side of things. I was under the impression that Robby’s sister Mary wanted us to go have our picture taken with Santa while she was in town. It was supposed to be a surprise to Robby’s mom. This all seemed reasonable to me.

Robby told me that he and Veronica had some more shopping to finish and that he would drop off Jude and me at Target so they could finish shopping and then we would meet at 1:00 at Bass Pro Shop to have our photo taken with Santa. Robby’s mom called last minute and wanted to be a part of the photo, too. I believed every word. Again, this all seemed reasonable to me.



Mr. and Mrs. Claus were teary-eyed



Jude and I showed up at Bass Pro Shop and I saw that Mary and Robby’s mom were waiting for us. Robby’s best friend Dave was also there. Again, this all seems reasonable—no red flags.

We went into Bass Pro Shop and got in line to see Santa for our family photo which will now include Robby, Mary, his mom, Dave, Veronica, Jude, and me. We got our photo made and I walked over to pick up my purse that I placed near the exit.

“Hey, Kim, I have something for you,” said Mrs. Claus. I froze. She reached into the pocket of her apron and pulled out a small box wrapped in red paper with a red bow—red is my favorite color.

She handed the gift to me and I looked at Robby who was standing beside Santa. My first thought was, “if this is a pair of earrings then I will hurt somebody.”

Santa said, “Come here and sit on my knee, Kim. Let’s see what is inside the box.”

I walked over and sat on Santa’s knee. My hands were trembling and I was not sure if I could open the box. Santa gave me a hand and held the wrapping paper so I could see what was inside the box.

I finally realized that Robby was on one knee at my side. “Kim, will you do me the honor of marrying me?” he asked with tears in his eyes.

I opened the box and saw the ring—it was perfect. I reached out and grabbed Robby’s face in my hands and held his face close to mine. “Yes, I will marry you.”

Perfect ring for the perfect proposal

At this point, we were all crying—especially Santa. “This is this sweetest thing I have ever seen,” Santa sobbed. I forgot about Robby and hugged Santa and told him to stop crying because he was making me cry even harder.

Then Mrs. Claus walked over and I noticed that she was also crying. “I’m so happy for you two,” she said.

I finally realized that everyone in the store was looking at us. They were smiling and some were crying. Veronica and Jude were standing with Mary and Robby’s mom and they were obviously happy. “I have a new family,” I thought to myself.

Then I noticed that two camera men from the local news stations were filming everything. And then it all hit me—Robby just asked me to marry him. And I said yes and I didn’t secretly regret it.

My first proposal was horrible and my first marriage was even worse. This proposal was perfect. This was the kind of proposal that all girls wish for. This was the kind of proposal that I deserved.

I never thought I would get married again. I always thought I would be the cool woman who was the swinging bachelorette in the group. I would never be tied down to one man—I would just go out on a lot of dates and have fun. I wanted to be that girl that all her friends envied because she had this carefree lifestyle. And as fun as that life could be, it was becoming a lonely existence.

But I decided to give love a second chance. I decided to trust someone again. I decided not to base my future decisions on past disappointments. But most importantly, I decided to love myself again. Thank you, Robby, for loving me back.



Neighborhood vigilante

Apparently my newfound sense of self-confidence may end up getting me into trouble. I don’t consider myself a trouble maker, either. Unlike my boyfriend who tends to get kicked out of places, I like to fly under the radar and go unnoticed in a crowd.

But this week I did something that surprised me. I’m not ashamed of what I did—as a matter of fact, I’m pretty proud of myself.

We live in one of the older neighborhoods of Richmond Hill. It’s small and self-contained—only two streets and they come together in a loop near the back end and we are surrounded by a small creek and wooded tree line. My house is on the back end of the loop.

Jude and Veronica take the bus to and from school every day. Veronica rides the special ed bus to accommodate her wheelchair, so it stops at the end of my driveway each day to pick her up and drop her off. Jude has the option to walk down to the end of either side of our road to catch the bus. He chooses to ride his scooter or bike down to his friends’ house each morning so they can hang out and shoot some hoops while they wait for the bus.

The problem is that in order for Jude to get to his friends’ house he must go around a corner where some idiot planted a row of evergreen trees. Over the past few years these trees have grown a lot and now they completely block the view on either side of the curve. Every day one of the children in our neighborhood has a close call with oncoming traffic because drivers can’t see the children on the road until after they pass the trees.

About a month ago, a driver had to slam on her brakes in order to not hit Jude and his pals riding their bikes. I saw the entire incident unfold and for a brief moment, I thought my child was going to be killed by a speeding teenager.

The trees sit on a foreclosed property. So, I dialed the number on the realtor’s sign in the yard and spoke to the person in charge of selling the home for the bank. I explained the situation about the trees and she came to the house the next day and took pictures to send the bank. The bank’s response was, “We’ll think about it, but removing trees is expensive.”

Last week, I called the city and explained the situation. Their response was, “We don’t cut down trees in people’s yards.” So, I called someone else at City Hall. Their response was, “We don’t remove trees unless they are in danger of falling on power lines. And in that case, the electric company would take care of the trees.”

My response was, “What is your stance on paying for funerals of dead children?”

I hung up my phone and decided that I wasn’t going to wait for one of the children on my street to be hit by a car. My garage is filled with tree cutting devices—hand saws, axes, and clippers. With the weapon chosen, I decided to wait until dark and make my move on the trees.

On Wednesday night, I put the kids to bed. I washed the dishes, folded the laundry, and organized the mail. At 10:00, I sat down to watch an episode of Dexter. At the end of the show, I put on my boots, jacket, and gloves. I grabbed my flashlight and handsaw and walked down the street.

I’m not good at sneaking around so I was a nervous wreck. I kept thinking that I heard a car coming or someone walking up behind me. I crouched down on my knees and laid the flashlight on the ground so the light was focused on the base of the biggest tree. I began sawing through the wood like my life depended on it.

It seemed like the creak, creak, creak sound of the saw was going to wake up the neighborhood, but I began to calm down and focus on the task at hand. My arms were beginning to tire and I realized that I was being stupid for fearing someone would catch me in the act.

“I’m doing them a favor,” I thought. “This is the right thing to do and I should have done it months ago.”

I sat back on my heels and wiped the sweat that was running down into my eyes. “This is ridiculous,” I thought. “I’m coming back tomorrow and finishing the job during the day.”

I stuck my flashlight in my pocket and walked home with the saw in my hand. “I hope the cops don’t drive by right now.”

Yesterday afternoon I finally finished the job I started—I finished it in broad daylight and not a soul noticed. In the end, I cut down 3 trees and I stacked them in the driveway of the foreclosed home. I’m not sure if what I did was illegal, but I know it was the right thing to do.

On my way home, I stopped by my neighbor’s house and told her what I did. “Good for you,” she said. “I hate those trees.”

I guess we’ll never know if I saved any lives—I wasn’t willing to “wait and see” what would happen. I told Veronica and Jude what I did and explained to them why I did it. “I’m proud of you, Mom,” Veronica told me.

This morning, we got up to leave the house for Jude’s karate class and the kids noticed our neighbor’s had also cut down their trees in their front yard (completely unrelated to my trees). Jude’s eyes got big and said, “Whoa, Mom, did you do that, too?”

I laughed and said, “No, honey, my tree cutting days are over for now.”

Even though I shouldn’t need to cut down any more trees for a while, I hope I continue to remember that it is easy to “wait and see” if others around me are willing to step-up and do the right thing. It’s hard for me to step out of my comfort zone and do what I know is right. Doing the right thing is usually never easy, and I may end up getting into trouble for what I did. But I don’t regret a thing and I would cut down a hundred trees if that is what it takes to keep my children safe.

The Foo Fighters are my co-pilot

A few days ago, the kids and I were taking Robby home. I was driving my beloved “soccer mom” minivan. The children know the rules of the van—no throwing stuff, no screaming, no milk products, and no talking while I’m listening to the Foo Fighters.

After we hit the road, I turned on the radio and “All My Life” was about half-way through. Veronica lives to listen to her pop music in the car. I’m fine with that, but if my song is on then don’t even think about asking me to change the station.

Veronica immediately starts screaming from the back seat, “Please change the station to Kiss FM!”

Robby assumed I would change the station to suit her, so he was surprised when I said, “no” as my free hand cranked up the volume a little louder.

I looked at her in the rearview mirror and said, “Who is singing right now?”

Ladies and gentlemen, the Foo Fighters

I hear Jude’s little voice say, “Foo Fighters.”

Veronica was mad. She wanted her way so she began to scream, “Please change the station!”

In order to drown out her plea for pop, I turned the music up even louder. She got louder, too. So I turned the knob again and then started singing along. For those of you who have heard me sing, you realize that this is the worst punishment I could ever inflict on my children.

Later that night, Robby laughed about the entire scene. He seemed surprised by my reaction. I really hadn’t put much thought into the whole episode—it happens often and I always react the same.

I am generally pretty lax with my children and they know that. But music is a big deal to me and I refuse to let anyone ruin that for me. The “Foo Fighters rule” in the car is one of those unbreakable laws. It’s one of the few times when I draw a line in the sand and establish my boundaries with the children.

Music has always been a big deal to me. My sister and I inherited my mom’s old record player/stereo when I was about 9 years old. I would sit in our room for hours every day and listen to records and the radio. When I got older—maybe 11 or 12—I started putting together one of the most awesome cassette tape collections in town.

My sister and I would scour the flea markets in the summer looking for cheap bootlegs. I loved everything from Metallica to Milli Vanilli (gasp), but I never cared much for country. As the years progressed, my collection expanded. I had my stereo running all the time—even at night. I couldn’t sleep without music. I couldn’t focus without music. I couldn’t ride in the car without music.

When I was 16, I saved up my money and bought my first CD player from Radio Shack. The first CD I bought was The Cure’s Disintegration.  “Pictures of You” never sounded so amazing.

My brother Luke, who is a brilliant musician, once told me that I was one of the biggest musical influences in his life—I was the first person he knew who owned a CD player and I always gave him my extra CDs when I needed to make room on my shelf for new ones.

I gave him Collective Soul, Pearl Jam, Nirvana, Green Day, and Stone Temple Pilots—he loved them as much as I did.

I loved good musicians and I loved terrible ones. I had a life-sized poster of Sebastian Bach from Skid Row on my closet door for about 8 months when I was a freshman in high school. I wanted to marry both of the Nelson twins when I was 15—I didn't think I could "Live Without Their Love and Affection."

I’ve been known to do a chest bump to Milli Vanilli and did a few fist pumps to Metallica—I now hate both groups and rightfully so—they disappoint me on a personal level. I spent the entire summer before my freshman year in college watching “Pure Country” and listening to George Strait—he almost turned me on to country (almost is the key word here).

But I’m also quick to point out that I am no music expert. I know this and I gladly accept it. Music snobs bother me. They act like you are stupid for liking pop music. I enjoy pop music—and yes, I can hear you chuckling.

There are many times in my day when I need to turn on the music and lose myself for a while. Sometimes I need music that doesn’t make me think. But sometimes I need music that makes me feel something.

Foo Fighters carry me through my 6 mile run on the treadmill. Red Hot Chili Peppers cheer me up on the long rainy drive to school in the morning. The Beastie Boys keep me company during my lunch break in the library. The Black Eyed Peas make the kids jump around in the living room which makes me smile at the end of a long day. And Robby’s classical music soothes me to sleep when we get the chance to spend the night together.

So if you pass me on the road and you see me singing while the kids look distressed, then you will know what is up—the Foo Fighters are on and I don’t feel like putting up with anyone’s crap today. And no, I will not turn it down.

The truth is a beautiful thing

“Then you will know the truth, and the truth will set you free.”  John 8:32 NIV

When I first learned the truth about my marriage several years ago, it took me over 6 months to begin to accept the truth. I was embarrassed that I was headed to divorce.

I was ashamed that my husband had been cheating on me. But most of all, I was humiliated by the notion that everyone knew about my ex's infidelity except for me.

I didn’t tell anyone what was going on for a very long time. I confided in my parents, but that was it. Several months later, I finally told a friend what was going on. Before I packed my bags and headed home, I finally told my sister the truth.

I soon realized that the more open I became about my divorce, the more liberated I felt. After attending several S-Anon meetings, I learned that “we are only as sick as our secrets.” That phrase really struck a chord with me. In order to heal, I had to start being honest with myself and everyone around me.

Writing this blog and putting the truth out there for everyone to see has been one of the hardest things I have ever done. But it has freed me from the chains of secrecy and shame.

I used to have a lot of secrets and I was very sick because of those secrets. I felt tired all of the time and I eventually had to be treated for stomach ulcers. Now that I have been able to slowly shed myself of those secrets, I feel better than ever.

It has taken me over a year to get to the point where I don’t breakout in a full sweat when I want to be honest with someone. Now I find it hard to “fake it” and I find myself saying, “I’m not trying to hurt your feelings, but I have to be honest…”

I know I will have to continually remind myself that I am only as sick as my secrets. Coveting secrets and living in shame is a hard habit to break.

I thought the truth would set me free immediately—but I soon learned that these things take time. When I first learned about my ex’s secret life, I was devastated. I wished I had never found out the truth.

But here I sit—2 years, 10 months, and 14 days later and I can honestly say that the truth did set me free. The secrets that destroyed our marriage and the secrets that I chose to continue to carry with me made me sick—physically and mentally.

I have also discovered that this new-found honesty I display makes it impossible for my ex to control me. So now I know that I am free—free from control and free of fear. I am now free to live my life the way it was meant to be lived.

A new friend

What a difference a week makes. Or maybe I should say, “What difference does a week make?”

I guess for me, this week has made a lot of difference. This time last week, I was sitting at home getting things ready for Veronica’s surgery in Jacksonville. My sister came to town to take care of Jude and get him to school. She was also a big help in taking my mind off of things. I am happiest when my sister is with me.

Amy and I on vacation--laughed so hard I hurt myself...

The surgery went amazing—the hospital, doctors, and staff were incredible. It was one of the best hospital stays we have ever had.

My ex showed up and decided that he was not speaking to me and it made me very uncomfortable. He was the only person who showed up at the hospital, so my loneliness was overwhelming.

Of course I had people calling my cell phone and checking in so I felt the love from the outside world. And one of the best things that happened was Robby’s sister reached out to me through email. We emailed back and forth while I was sitting in Veronica’s dark room watching her sleep.

She sent me the most hilarious stories about co-workers and her survival strategies of dealing with the “public” at her job at the library. Despite the humor we portrayed on the surface of our emails, there was this underlying sense of connection that began to develop through our communication. I realized that I have the unique opportunity to gain another close sister relationship. I only have one sister and our relationship is the most remarkable connection I share with anyone.

My sister Amy and I are very close. We share the most devoted bond that I have with another person. We have always been that way and I know that nothing will ever change that. We talk at least once per day on the phone and I never get tired of our conversations.

Robby and his sister are extremely close as well. He adores her. She is, without a doubt, the most important person in his life.

Even though we have never met face to face, I now feel a very strong bond with this woman. We both adore Robby and she knows that he adores the kids and me. But more importantly, we connected in our bizarre sense of humor. That doesn’t happen often to me, so it makes an impact.

So, while I realized this week that I will most likely lose my home and a large portion of my already depleted savings, I realized that I gained a new friend—perhaps a sister. And that relationship means more to me than the material objects that have held me hostage over the past few years.

So, in one week I went from sad, depressed, and distraught to encouraged, hopeful, and accepting. While a week may make a huge difference in my view on life, I have a feeling that this new relationship will once again change my life for the better.