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to his family

I love you all. 

I’ve been thinking about what happens if any of you are curious enough to wander this way, and it scares me. Makes me sad, really. I’m sorry if this hurts you.

I’m sorry if this is too honest for you or too much or if you asked him why I left and he just told you I was crazy. You can keep believing that if it’s easier. The truth is, though, that I’m not, and you know that I’m not. I’m smarter than that. 

It took me a long time to come to terms with the openness and publicness of these words, and I waited to post primarily because I was afraid of what you’d all think. Think of me, think of him, think of all of it. I wonder what you saw through your own eyes and if you can’t understand what I’ve done. To be honest, there were days in the past when leaving would cross my mind, but I stayed because I loved you. I didn’t want to leave your network and safety and all the ways I’d come to respect your family. I hate to think of losing yours.

So today, from the most sincere depths of my heart, I’d also like to thank you all. 

Thank you for always being so warm. Thank you for welcoming me in when I was quiet and shy and probably not all that interesting as a soft-spoken teen. Thank you for making me grow to feel comfortable and for always making me laugh. Thank you for sharing your children with me. I miss them. Thank you for letting me keep my beliefs and opinions and respecting them.

Thank you for teaching me how to sit for hours at dinner and the beauty of conversation. Thank you for the depth and color of life found in wine and taking the time for happy hour on a weekday. Life should be lived well, every day of the week. 

Thank you for all the time and money poured into visiting us or flying me to visit with you. Thank you for investing in me and supporting a relationship where you saw love. 

Thank you for nights out at bars, nights in for games, lazy days at the pool and trips to the ocean. 

Thank you for loving me. Thank you for telling me I was smart and telling him I was smart. Thank you for trying to teach him how to be kind to me.

I’m sorry that this happened. I’m sorry if this confuses the kids. I’m sorry that I’m here sharing my story and bringing you to places you probably didn’t want to go. Don’t read it if you can’t. I know your love and loyalty is for him. Just know that I still think of you all often, and there is a hole in my heart where your absence is felt.

Someday I hope you can see that I needed to stop protecting him and start protecting someone else. I needed to help the girl who feels alone and can’t tell if what’s happening to her is worth tolerating, if it’s all nothing, or if those small confusing moments of disconnect and disrespect add up to something a little more serious. I need to try to protect her. My sisters. My friends. The me I used to be. I need to try to let other people know they aren’t alone, even when they’re left in a house by themselves wondering why they aren’t worth the love they thought they deserved. 

I’m sorry, and I’ll always be sorry. I hope you all are well.

Love, 

Me

summer love lost

“I don’t think I miss him anymore.”

The words are out of my mouth in therapy the day before my flight takes off, but then I’m here, in the state we grew up in. I swallow my words; it’s all back. This is a joke, right? I mean, I still thought about him every day, but it was fading to more of the odd passing thing. Not this nagging headache.

Damn. He is everywhere. He’s here in the way the roads twist through the quiet woods, the way the headlights reflect off the leaves, brights turned up the whole way home because no one else is on the road. I see him in the stars, the way they splash across the sky in a dance of quiet faithfulness, and I’m back to nights breathing fresh air after hours lost kissing. 

I feel him in the breeze; chilly sweater-weather in the cool northern summer night. One of those nights he took me to the top of the hill by his house, hopping fences and lending me his sweatshirt so we could watch the hours pass by with the crickets. There was a shooting star that night- I was convinced it was a sign. 

I think of the night after prom, swimming in the pool with friends, mixing drinks, crawling into bed at dawn in his old football t-shirt. I think of rides in the truck with my feet on the dash, walks through the woods in the thick humidity. I think of the initials we carved in the bench near the swamp; I think of the sunset we went back for after we were married. It was still just as beautiful. 

There was the sweet innocence of hand-holding, shy first kisses and kayaking. He let me tie my boat to his, and I didn’t mind sitting behind him and watching the way his arms moved. There was Rita’s and Friendly’s and all the silly places you go on dates when you’re young. Summers were always full of each other- me home for a few months, him home for a week or two. It was like stolen time. I soaked him in until I wished I could just melt right into his skin and he stuck to me like the bonfire smoke in my hair. 

How did that become this?

And when does this end? He is still here, burned into every memory of this state, the air and the sky and the trees. Why? And worse than that, why is he in all my favorite songs, my best memories, moments where I grew up? Moments with my family? Why is he in all the movies I love, songs I know by heart, foods I eat, games I play? Why is he everywhere? Every damn thing is his.

I’m not sure what to do here and I wish I knew when it would end. I want to be free. I want to be done. But then I think of the way he kissed me that first night and those summer stars and something about how kind he used to be leaves me lost. I still have trouble knitting these pieces of him into the fabric of what we became. It hardly fits, like a gold thread of magic through a forgotten gray quilt. 

I guess I could thank him for that, for the little bit of magic we stole in our summers. Something about that young romance seems hopelessly lovely… What an unwelcome trick time plays. It’s as if we finally learned the ending: Cinderella doesn’t keep her prince, and the enchanted forest is nothing but a tangle of poison ivy. Probably full of ticks, too, knowing that part of town.

I’d like to think that Cinderella will be perfectly happy anyway, maybe involved with someone a little more consistently lovely. A nice cobbler’s boy or baker or something. Maybe no one, and that could be okay for her too. I guess we’ll see.

a year of celibacy

Not exactly the most exciting anniversary in the world, but interesting, yes? In the absence of being naked with anyone but my GYN, I’ve been on a very educational journey.

For starters, I’ve learned some lessons in self-worth. The binge-eating misery of divorce (college/grad school/night shift) has re-shaped my body. While I am on my way towards healing my relationship with food, I am also finding that the size of my jeans should not correlate with how confident I allow myself to feel. I don’t need to lose weight to be happy, and whatever that number says, or doesn’t say, I deserve to take care of myself. If that means I don’t even know what I weigh, then that’s great too. 

Either way, I deserve to feel beautiful. And I deserve to buy some damn bras that actually fit.

Speaking of undergarments, the next time I let anyone else take off this fancy-ass bra things are going to go a little differently.

Next time, I will not allow myself to feel manipulated into doing anything I’m not comfortable doing. This is good bedroom behavior, but, not surprising, also applicable to daily life. I am not to be taken advantage of.

Some other tidbits I’m going to keep in the back pocket of my high-rise jeans:

Crying after sex means that things are no bueno. RED FLAG.

Sex should not be selfish. At my most open, most vulnerable, and most intimate, I should not be left feeling used.

I am worth the work. I am worth the time. I am worth the effort. Sex is good and it should feel like it!

Also good: being a woman. Women are homes. Soft places to land and safe places to hide, built on strong, durable, brave, unbreakable bones.

We don’t just exist to be attractive, and our femininity is not defined by our desirability. I am still a woman if no one sees me, wants me, or validates me. 

Of course, on the other hand, women are inherently beautiful. Beauty is good and our bodies are good. We are worth celebrating and uplifting and appreciating. This does not allow for casual use and degradation. Also to be avoided: gossip and comparison. Two very reliable thieves of joy.

Anyway, here I am, a year untouched, living in a body I’m finally growing to love. I’m grateful for this year of alone-ness in my skin, and I’m grateful for this Creator of mine Who was kind enough to take as much time on me as He did sunsets and oceans and wine. Maybe more.

How magnificent. 

possibly a touch of depression

These are the things I am trying to tell myself right now.

It’s okay if you don’t have it in you. 

It’s okay if you don’t have the energy to work out right now. If you can’t bike or lift or run, at least you can walk. That’s okay too. It’s okay to be gentle. It’s okay if you don’t feel like praying. If you can’t think of anything to journal. It’s okay if you you don’t feel like writing or talking to going anywhere. It’s okay when you get irritable. If you don’t feel as interested or as happy or as confident, that’s okay too. It’s okay if you need to take a nap. 

It’s not normal to wake up every morning and feel like your throat is closing because you have to do laundry/walk the dog/go to work/live your life. It’s okay to not want to feel like that anymore. Other people don’t have to live with that, and it is just too much damn work to keep up with. 

Also, it’s okay if you don’t get to the laundry/the dog/the work/etc., etc. 

It’s okay if you just ate a whole bag of chips. You aren’t bad, or ugly, or fat, or unlovable. It’s okay if you got a little drunker than you planned. It’s okay that you thought about hurting yourself but you opted for a whole box of cereal instead. Not great, but probably the better option. 

It’s okay if you need to take meds. It’s okay to want to feel like yourself again. You aren’t bad. You are good. God is good. He’s somewhere out there, helping you muddle through the fog. Also, it’s okay if you don’t know what choosing joy looks like right now. Maybe it’s just something less exuberant right now, like quiet peace. More like the rhythm of a lake than the roaring of the ocean. That’s okay. It’s all still wet.

Stop trying to go shopping to make yourself feel better/feel anything. Clothes aren’t fixing you. Makeup isn’t, bathing suits aren’t, bags aren’t, and food isn’t either. Food isn’t your only friend and isn’t the only thing that will make you feel good. 

Go lay in the sun. It’s warm. It doesn’t ask anything back. Just rest. Be held. 

Mostly, it’s okay to want to feel better, but it’s okay to sometimes not be okay. 

an anniversary

Our wedding anniversary was this week. Of all the memories I have of our wedding, the ride to the church is what’s been following me around lately. I was with my dad crammed into the front seat of his car, drowning in tulle. We rode through the Dunkin’ drive through and ordered iced lattes like it was a normal day. I wonder if we knew what I was getting myself into.

After that, memories of the dancing or the church haven’t bothered me like I thought they would. Instead, it’s the night after. I didn’t have much planned, just was hoping for a sweet moment in some girly cupcake-fluff lingerie. We had danced so much that we were both too sweaty for that, so instead of a sexy moment we just slipped into normal life like we were meant to be there. He helped me unzip my dress and birdseed fell all over the carpet. I got into the shower, where he found me, and it felt like coming home. 

And then Costa Rica. So hot, so sticky in our quiet jungle cabin. So deep in the jungle there was hardly anything to distract us from each other, but also too removed from the world for air conditioning. Required a lot more showering. Something about that stands out to me most of all- beyond the awkward first-time-sex energy… It was such a normal thing, but became something kind of lovely. He let me wash his hair. It wasn’t much, but felt vulnerable and intimate, something like a secret. And honestly, you don’t let just anyone wash your hair. You could create chemistry with just about anyone if you tried hard enough, but something about closing your eyes and letting someone shampoo you is meant for people you really trust. I was happy to do it. It felt very wifely, like a simple I love you that was brand new to our brand new way of life. 

We were happy that week. There were frogs and flowers, sloths and iguanas, fresh fruit from the garden. Walks to town for fish, piña coladas, sunburns, and the strange dark color of the sand. I remember laughing and talking and ending every night on the deck. Him in the hammock, me in the rocking chair. There was hope. Maybe relief, too, that I had his attention all to myself, and he was being so devoted after months of the opposite. We got lost in each other a bit, and it felt like it could stay that way forever. I knew marriage would be work, but I thought we’d always find each other and find a way through. We had before.

Someone asked me the other day when the rest of it started – the neglect, the bizarre manipulation. I think it only took a month. It’d all been happening, really, but something about living with someone highlights their worst in a more obvious light. Obviously. So there we were, him talking to me like I was stupid, me with those first alarm bells tinkling in the back of my mind- he’s just stressed, he’s just tired, it’s fine, it’s fine, it’s fine. 


After my wedding, grief had me flipping through the Rolodex of the other weddings we’d been to. Usually they were good times, except for one we’d been to in October, right at the start of a bad stretch. I felt his mood shifting while the leaves were turning, like the weather was changing for us too.

It started with the bachelor party, where he’d either he’d been to a few full-nude strip clubs and lied about it, or he was so damn drunk he honestly couldn’t remember a thing. I couldn’t tell which version of the story annoyed me more. Then there was the reception; he made a joke about getting me drunk just in case I was pregnant from the weekend before. Wanted to fix that problem, ha freakin’ ha. Then he asked – Are you done? Meaning: was I done being an annoyed/annoying crazy wife because, really, none of my feelings were worth talking about for real. Best to ignore it all and be done. That night he woke me up for sex that hurt more than it should. He was drunk and careless and I thought I couldn’t say no. It felt too weird to talk about after.

Then there was last year’s anniversary. We’d had a barbecue for the holiday weekend with some friends, and everyone was happily buzzed and ready for summer. At the end of the night it was just the two of us and we started fooling around on the patio, as one does when buzzed in the summer. It was sweet until he couldn’t quite keep it going enough for sex and the night ended with me guiltily helping him towards a one-sided finish line. Started out feeling a little loved, ended up feeling a little used. 

I cried that night, wanting God to make it end- the guilt, the coercion, the fear of what would happen to me if I starting telling my husband no. No, I don’t like how that makes me feel. No, this doesn’t seem like you want to have sex because you love me, this feels more like you just want something from me and more than anything, I’m scared because I really don’t think you care what I think. 

There’ve been many more tears since then at his expense, but that was one of the last when things were good. Good-ish. Maybe normal is a better word? Back when things were status quo. Before I’d decided I’d had enough. 

I miss Costa Rica. I miss the simplicity, the easy sex and showers and undivided attention. I miss loving and feeling loved. It’s a small moment of time untouched, like a little pocket in the jungle still wild. I wish it could’ve lasted. 

going public

This account was set to private until last week. I’ve been typing away for months in hiding, getting my story down and out, processing, waffling somewhere between snotty tears and girl-power anthems. I knew I wanted to let this all breathe in the open someday, but I was planning to let it wait. I was scared.

Even here, after all this time, I was scared of him. 

I was scared he’d find this and read it all and be absolutely enraged. How dare I say this or say that, report this, talk about that. Interpret it this way, feel that way. No one was supposed to know, this was supposed to be private, it was personal, this was between husband and wife. I was afraid he’d be furious.

The thing is, though, he’s already furious.

The other thing- I already left.

I realized now was the time for me to let my story see a little daylight; it was time to stop being afraid of him. I couldn’t lose his affection any more than I already had, and I needed to stop giving him power over me. I stand on my own now because I choose to, and he doesn’t get a say here anymore.

I’m not trying to be hateful or take anyone down. I’m just trying to tell my story. And he doesn’t get to tell me how I do that anymore.

Of course, regardless of his opinion, telling a story of my own left me open to the frightening opinions of others. I was pretty damn afraid someone could hear it and tell me that I was crazy.

I was afraid that I could lay it out there: the moments, the facts, the feelings – and someone could look at the body of it all and tell me that I made it up. That I interpreted everything very, very poorly, and completely took it all out of context. That what I felt was wrong. I imagined it all. I was wrong to leave, I was wrong to believe what I did, I was insane to have the standards I did or the faith I had. He never really made me feel small, he never really ignored me, I must have been dreaming. I was stupid, I was being a typical woman, I was being overdramatic.

But I suppose that’s the point of overcoming any kind of abuse. I used to laugh when people claimed to own ‘their truth’ – it felt like a very millennial catch-phrase – but now I understand. You can’t cope with the reality of what happened if you don’t believe it yourself. Abusers are the ones who convince you it wasn’t real. Abusers tell you you’re crazy and completely in the wrong. So in the end, everyone might have a different version of this story, but I’m not going to believe the version where I am insane anymore. I have a claim to truth now, and I will not let that be silenced.

Aside from all that, there is still the problem of being seen. I was (am) afraid of that too.

Naturally, for all my fear, it’s one of my deepest desires. Who doesn’t want to be fully seen, acknowledged, celebrated, loved?  After spending a lot of time being unrecognized, becoming unrecognizable, I started to believe that was it until I left the shitty vortex of my marriage and found my voice again somewhere safe. 

Unfortunately, since then, I’ve come to realize that honest story telling isn’t safe at all. In all creation through all of time- in music, art, poetry, writing, acting- there is vulnerability. Even here, I open myself up to judgment, misunderstanding, forgettability, and failure. Still, I walk forward, willing to speak up and let everyone turn away, again, leaving me unknown, again. This time is a little different, though, because this time I don’t put so much weight on someone else’s seeing. This time, I see myself.

In reality, this story of mine just exists somewhere small, but it’s my somewhere small. I’m going to own it now. My story is part of a larger story, and I’m going to tell it without being afraid. Try like hell, anyway. 

Part of me still is cautious, and human, and I’d like to stay on your good side, so I’m sorry if my story bothers you. I’m sorry if it offends or paints a picture of reality you never noticed on your own. I apologize if the details are too much or you don’t understand or you don’t believe me. 

You’re welcome to walk on by. 

Because sorry or not, scared or not, I’m ready to let this exist. 

what i weigh

When I was born I was just over seven pounds. 

Today I weighed 207.6 pounds. 

When I was ten I was 105. When I was 15: 155. 145 after a breakup. 

Senior prom was 148. I cried, thought I was fat.

Freshman year of college I was 151. Junior year 175. 167 after a diet. Senior year 190. 185 after another diet.

The day I got married: 170. 

The day I ran my first half marathon: 165. 

When I got into grad school: 186.

Seems like I gained a lot of weight. 

Really, seems like it was my fault when he didn’t want to have sex anymore. Like I deserved it when it just stopped happening. Or when it started, but couldn’t finish. Maybe I should have stayed what I weighed when he met me.

On the other hand, maybe he shouldn’t have been calling me a manatee.Yes, they’re cute, I get it. And yes, I’m cute too, fine. But geez! The slowest, laziest, floatiest animal in the ocean? And when I turned around and asked for a new pet name, it switched to hippo? We saw them at the zoo once and they LITERALLY CANNOT GET BY without being supported by water. Because they are SO LARGE. And he thought that was just HILARIOUS. 

All teased, buried, smothered under a laugh and a hug. While the girl on TV/at the park/at the bar/in the movie was a dime/hottie/smokeshow/bangable, etc., etc., etc.

For some reason, before we were married, I was bangable too. I was hot. I was sexy and desirable. Fun. Dark-haired. Tall. Curvy.

And then we were married, I could be naked. I could be decorated like a damn lace Victoria Secret CAKE. I could have MY ACTUAL HAND DOWN HIS ACTUAL PANTS and STILL get turned down. WHY DID I HAVE TO TRY SO HARD TO HOLD HIS ATTENTION?

Maybe it was because I was 170. 175. 186.

All the while, I tried. Maybe this work out will make him want me more. Maybe he’ll think its hot that I can plank like a champ. Run long distance. Cook with quinoa. Or maybe I’m sexy now that I lost three pounds? That I cut my hair and got new jeans and I can rock some freakin’ heels? That my ass still looks great in yoga pants?

The thing about moving cross country, working night shift, and being a grad student is you get stressed. And tired. And heavy. 188. 190. 193. 204. The scale crept up, and our marriage started falling apart. Probably not cause-and-effect, but still a heart-breaking correlation.

Honestly, from the beginning, it’s all been heart-breaking. 

I learned how to stare at my body and pick the parts I hated when I was 10. I learned all boys cared about were butts and boobs, and I realized I was taller and littler softer than the rest of them. 

I learned in middle school I wasn’t worth looking at, with curly hair and glasses, while the other girls wore thongs above their pants. 

When I had to start buying size 12 jeans I learned how to call myself a “fat whore.” I learned not to shop at Hollister because I didn’t want to ask the sales rep for a ladder to the top shelf. I learned there was always bikini-season around the corner, and year after year that dressing room lighting didn’t get more forgiving.

I learned the boys liked you better when you were smaller. They liked volleyball uniforms and low rise jeans. I learned that when other people noticed you, that meant you were good. 

And then I got married. I learned how to hide when I was naked. I learned about how to be rejected at my most vulnerable. I learned that even husbands, who had once been ravenous, could simply turn away, pat you on the head, affectionately name you after fat zoo animals. I learned I wasn’t worth loving, I wasn’t good, I was disgusting.

Now I’m alone. Divorce, turns out, is more stressful than grad school, and leads to much more crying over bowls of pasta, bottles of wine, bags of chips. And now I tell myself I’m not worth looking at until I lose 50 more pounds. Who could ever be interested in me, ever again? 

I’m tired.

I’m tired and I’ve tried it all. Gluten-free. Paleo. Keto. Carb-conscious. Calorie-counts. Weight-Watchers. Nutrisystem. Optavia.

I’m ready to try something new. 

I’m ready to stop weighing myself every morning, letting the numbers set the tone for my day. I’m ready to stop punishing myself for my food, and stop measuring my day based on the success of my diet. All these days are worth more than calories consumed, and I’m wasting my life obsessing over it. I wish I didn’t know what I weighed on the day of my prom or my graduation. I wish I had just enjoyed myself regardless. I want that to end, and I want to enjoy my life for the rest of my life. Mostly, I want to stop letting the scale decide whether or not I think I am worth loving. Whether or not I am good.

So, inspired by various body-positive Instagram pages, I’m going to tell you, one last time, what I weigh. Because the space I take up in this world is more than what I can measure.

Today I weigh:

My heart. I am kind and caring. Sometimes I suck, but mostly I’m trying. Firm believer in growth and faithful prayer.

My mind. I am smart. I work hard. I’d like to think I’m a good nurse, too. 

My love. For humanity, for life, for color. For beauty. For swimming, dancing, laughing, drinking, eating, breathing.

I’m a little (lot) introverted, but I’m also fun. Even cool enough to go to the movies alone.

And I think it’s time I starting working out because it makes me feel good. Because I am strong, I’m mentally tough, and I have endurance. Because I am a damn boss. Because I am a woman, and I deserve to take care of myself. Because I am worth treating kindly, and I am not bad because I love pizza. 

Also, damnit, my ass still looks good in yoga pants. And I don’t need anyone to notice me for that to be true.