I don’t believe in child support. I don’t believe in government involvement.
There, I said it.
Friend of the Court called me yesterday for a friendly conversation. We had our 3-year review, guess who didn’t send in documents or fill out the form. Hint: it wasn’t the responsible parent—they even got my letter.
I have a great relationship with the FOC. I’ve always lived by transparency and honesty, the use of documentation to back things up, and being proactive. They called to ask me if I wanted to increase my child support that I received.
I turned the opportunity down.
The lady was absolutely amazed by my response. It’s uncommon. She couldn’t refrain from asking me why instead of letting it go, so we continued into a discussion.
It’s my belief that because I get to—not have to, I get to—raise Evelynn, she is my responsibility. Her dad may have donated the sperm but in my eyes, she only has one parent. Even if you ask her, she finds it weird when kids split parenting time between houses; she only wants to live with me and maybe visit with him. He’s a friend to her, not a parent.
I related to this woman how I believe Evelynn is my sole responsibility. I pay the bills. I handle her school and sports and doctor visits. Since I get to be the parent in her life every day, I don’t care about the money. Now, when he comes at me wanting to use Evelynn as a pawn in dating or for his ego or making claims of how he’s her father or because he’s jealous of a new guy in my life, then I make sure he is up to date on payments (he’s typically behind). I also don’t allow him to get crazy in changing the visitation schedule.
I believe in consistency. I will not allow for him to get her hopes up only for him to start cancelling again. It appears seeing her only five times a year is best for him not to cancel. We tried it, her last birthday, for him to see her twice within a month because he forgot about her birthday being the following weekend; SHOCKER he cancelled on the second one due to sickness.
Called it.
A man who claims he never got sick while we were together suddenly was always sick and had to cancel. He’s cancelled so many times over the years we are now down to him only seeing her—supervised visits only, of course—five times a year. When she was a baby, we started the schedule at twice a week. Imagine cancelling so much that he went from 104 visits a year to only five. Absolutely insane to me.
When we also broke up, FOC wasn’t involved—they forced their involvement eventually due to needing state insurance for Evelynn—and he only gave me $100 a month for diapers. When FOC told him that amount was increasing, he was furious. I didn’t really care. I even allowed them to lie about my income so he could pay less.
Once, I also offered him $25,000 to walk away with the promise I would lie to people and tell them I had cheated on him, that she wasn’t his. To his credit, he refused. More to ego, than anything. Though, I can’t fathom why over the years given how much he cancelled on her to golf with buddies or due to hangovers (social media and many mutual friends slapped me in the face with the truth). Then again, at the time, he had gone months without seeing her in hopes of manipulating me into missing him (yes, he admitted this). It backfired on him.
He’s a man of poor calculating skills.
Yes, I’m not afraid to admit I attempted to pay him off. I would rather my daughter have a father who is not involved at all than one who didn’t even want her, cancels on her, uses her to boost his ego, and quite frankly, not even worthy of her.
Evelynn is amazing. Her personality gives me life. She saved me. I’m not sure how anyone could ever give her up.
Then there’s the entire history of him hurting me, manipulating me, degrading me.
Clearly, I have no respect for him.
Back to FOC.
What infuriates me is this stigma against single moms wanting the dad to pay for everything. I could care less if he pays, I simply want him gone. My daughter is strong because I have nurtured that within her. I have made sure to love her twice as hard. I have played good cop and bad cop, parent and friend.
Evelynn will tell you how I’m “such a mom. The other kids’ moms aren’t really moms because they don’t make their kids eat veggies for lunch like you do. I know I don’t want to and why you make me, but you’re really a mom.”
I am that mom. I know my kid. As soon as we sway from her daily designated fruit, veggie, and protein intake and her sleep schedule, she gets sick. Happens like clockwork every time. Yet, she’s rarely sick, hasn’t been to the doctor since before covid (just a couple phone calls). Clearly what I do works. She’s not a fan of the rules but she understands them. And because she knows how much I love her, she respects them….mostly.
Anyway, back to FOC. Again.
This woman couldn’t believe me. She couldn’t believe my ex.
I can’t blame her.
He’s mandated to provide for Evelynn’s health insurance and pay 80 percent of her medical bills. He hasn’t. I have her insurance, I pay her bills. He racked up late fees and I paid them. She had a heart condition when she was born (she had two holes in her heart, thankfully they healed themselves) and multiple audiology appointments (diagnosis: stubborn and selective hearing, legitimately. She made a movement showing she heard the sound but then wouldn’t turn towards the sound to indicate she knew where it was coming from, instead she would do this very slight head tilt and a smirk. She was only three. They had never seen this reaction before, they found it hilarious. I did not). I racked up $18,000 in medical debt for her because I refused to ask him for money and I had to pay his late fees since most of the bills were past due.
By the way, he never asked when or how those visits went. Someone else had to bring it up for him to remember.
Holes in the heart is not normal. That’s not forgettable. It should not be forgettable.
I refused to be the single mom who made the ex pay for the kid he didn’t even want, a kid I would do anything for.
The woman at the FOC was appalled. I didn’t even give her details. She was simply appalled looking at his child support payment history and hearing he wasn’t providing her insurance or hadn’t paid medical bills. She’s sending me a form and highly recommended in the future, that I not only don’t allow for this to continue but to get the court involved if it does. It’s his responsibility.
Funny, he claims that as Evelynn’s father it’s his responsibility too, to provide for her, and yet he doesn’t do it. The boy only knows how to talk about doing and thankfully I’ve stopped listening. I learned early on he was never good at taking any action.
Let’s travel back to my core belief: I get to raise my daughter.
I get to tuck her in at night. I get to enjoy her laughter daily. I get to hold her daily. I get to watch her play soccer. I get to listen to her sing and hum through her entire day. I get to send her off to school and do the morning rituals of a kiss and “Have a good day, love you!” and for her to yell it back to me proudly. I get to do our nightly “I looooooove youuuu” song followed by tickles as I tuck her in. I get to do all that. I choose to. Every day. That’s a freaking blessing.
The fact that he has messed up so terribly and doesn’t even care, has allowed me to get that for over 7 years.
Get that.
Do you understand the difference? Do you understand the meaning of word change and how much word choice matters?
I’ve been thinking about it all day and night.
Yet again back to FOC, though. She couldn’t believe my decision. Asked me three times. Asked about the medical debt and going after him for repayment. It’s off my radar. I only care about lack of time he has with her. It still makes me sick knowing he’s around my daughter, knowing at some point in my life I had hit such rock bottom to allow him near me. Knowing what he did to me and yet gets to breathe the same air as Evelynn.
The only thing I wish they’d change is his connection to Evelynn. She deserves so much more than him. Her having his last name as part of hers sickens me, still. I’ve seen his dating profile—you would never guess how little he sees her. He shouldn’t have that privilege to “claim” her as his.
I’ve said it before and I will say it again: it’s 2022, family dynamics have drastically changed along with society’s acceptance and views. Providing half the DNA doesn’t make one a parent, it only makes a child. Our actions and love make the parent.
He loves to correct me when I call her “my daughter” instead of “our daughter.”
She is my daughter and I love the hell out of her. He can keep his money; I get to have her.
Our societal views on single vs. relationships is fucked up.
Being single does not mean I have to date. Someone thinking I’m pretty does not mandate me to have to be in a relationship with someone. My single status does not mean I have to say yes to guys when they ask me out. Having a profile on a dating app does not mean that I have to say yes to any date, respond to any message, or even be active on the app. It means I have it there as an option for the very rare slow moments in my life that I might want to see if anyone interests me to engage in some conversation or maybe even give up my favored single crown. Slim chance, though.
I am so sick of defending my time spent to my career and my kid instead of paying attention to and responding to messages from guys.
Speaking of valued time, scheduling a showing or listing appointment with me simply to meet me because I don’t have time to date is not a smart move. It’s the fastest way to turn me off. It’s a complete disrespect of my time, and my freedom as to how I spend my time.
It takes two to make any relationship work. Simply because someone wants me bad enough does not mean that I owe them a chance. Honestly, why would you want to have to talk someone into dating you? They should simply want to be with you. If they’re not, they’re not the person for you. If you have to talk someone into dating you, are you really going to feel good and secure about being in that relationship?
Wanting me does not mean you get to have me. It is not that easy.
And when the hell did being single translate to not being able to get a guy? I love the comments of “how the hell are you single?” people will make to single folks. Well, sir, ma’am, we single folks choose to be single.
How about being single means I am actively choosing, in this moment in my life, being single is the best decision for me. That being single is what I want to be.
How about…
I choose to dedicate my time to my career.
I choose to dedicate my time to my daughter.
I choose to dedicate my time to my commitments.
I choose to dedicate my time to rediscovering my friendships.
I choose to dedicate my time to ME.
And how about I refuse to enter into another relationship that is anything less than I deserve.
Every time a guy comes after me and solely focuses on my looks or body, I’m sorry but it further pushes me into enjoying being single. I don’t want to settle. I want to be appreciated.
Quite frankly, I really appreciate me single and finally learning to set boundaries.
I don’t want to be tied down to someone right now. I don’t want to deal with their expectations of me making time for them. I don’t want to defend myself when I choose my career over date night. I definitely don’t want to repeat myself when I can’t make time due to having 100% custody of my daughter and choosing to spend my free time with her. I’ve been struggling to make time for friends, I’m not trying to date.
I want my freedom.
I want to be single.
How about I’m good enough for me, just me, more than enough, and that makes me incredibly happy right now.
I’m a single mom. That’s just who I am. I’m a mom who by definition takes care of her kid on her own. A fulltime single mom.
It’s what I’ve known.
I make all the decisions. I pay the bills. I play good and bad cop. I play parent and best friend. I don’t have someone to turn to as backup or support. I don’t have someone to talk through hardships with. I don’t have someone to juggle her schedule with. I figure it out on my own. All of it. There’s no one to argue with when she’s sick and must stay home from school. There’s not many options for me to call to pick up my kid from school if I’m stuck in a meeting or running late. There’s no one to take her to school if I’m sick.
There’s no one to rock paper scissors with on Saturday mornings when she wakes up at 7am and is ready for some dippity eggs and toast. There’s no one to cover for me when I have a debilitating migraine and need a day off spent in bed, amid darkness, quietness, and closed blinds. There’s no one to spend time with Evelynn during the long working days. My daughter is known for being my showing assistant.
It’s not a path well lit. It’s a path lit by just a cell phone with a dying battery that must be made sure to be charged every night.
Aka it’s poorly lit.
Aka sleep isn’t always on my side.
It’s navigated by putting one foot in front of the other and trusting my feet and my heart will take me where I need to go and my head will stop me when or before any shit hits the fan. If I’m not sleep deprived and delusional by then.
I’m doing the job of two. I don’t have someone to lean on at the end of the day for reassurance or backup. It’s just me and that’s draining.
But I’m incredibly grateful for the people I have in my life. The companies I have worked at over the years who help me make it work.
From Hall Financial where Evelynn would go in and sit with the boss man during meetings to Fitness Tee Co. where there was a kid room she could chill in if necessary. I’m grateful for the understanding of flexibility and working from home ability. It’s taught me discipline in keeping a strict calendar, time management, getting work done, the meaning of non-negotiables. It’s taught me that time is our most valuable currency.
It runs out.
I’m grateful for the clients who accept me as a fulltime single mom and choose to work with me. I’m grateful real estate offers me more flexibility as Evelynn gets farther into her education and sports. I’m grateful for Graydon’s and their allowance for Evelynn to come in on sick days or no school days so I don’t have to cancel work. It’s a blessing and one I have never taken for granted. Although, sometimes, I do struggle with understanding why more companies can’t be so accommodating.
Last week, we were kicked out of our place 8:30AM to past 6:30PM with an unusable kitchen so we spent our days at the restaurant after school. I have the most sociable child and I’m not quite sure where she got it from. She has no problem going up to a kid and asking if they want to play her games with her (this happened Monday). Or forcing the bartender’s husband into playing her Nintendo Switch with her (Tuesday). Or asking a couple people at the bar to scooch over so we can fit in (Wednesday). Or, my favorite, the time she roped a regular (now friend) and the bartender into creating barbie clothes out of gloves and napkins with her.
I refuse to be the person who says, “My God, this is so hard. You don’t understand.” Quite frankly, there’s others who have it much worse. I might not be great at asking for help but I know there’s a crowd of people rooting for me; who wish me well. That’s an incredible feeling. Somedays, knowing someone else believes in me, is all I need. That alone is enough to keep me going.
It drowns out the ones wanting me to fail. They don’t even register on my radar. (To the point this is an afterthought.)
Even more, I did choose this path. I had it as my New Year’s resolution to make it on my own, to break it off with the baby daddy. I don’t believe in resolutions…but that one. It was it for me. He hurt me and I was done with him. I couldn’t trust him. He wasn’t a good dad. He wasn’t a good human. I deserved better. Despite all the fear thundering through me, I was going to squish it and set my own path. I was going to teach my daughter that you can make it on your own. I was going to show women that you are worth a hell of a lot more than a bad relationship. I was going to show single moms, nothing is worth staying if you’re not treated well.
So these hard days, these long days, these lonely days; I’ll still take them all. They’re worth a hell of a lot more to me than any day where I was hurt; was degraded and talked down to; made to feel stupid or ugly or unworthy; made to feel less than or not enough.
There are many days I need a nap but the love for this little girl and the life I’m building for us carries me through. She’s my best friend. Even on the days she drives me absolutely crazy, she’s my everything.
I get to see her every day. I get to tuck her into bed every night and sing our I Love You song. I get to teach her healthy eating habits. I get to nurture her into a good human and woman. I get to set her on the path for independence. I get to hear her laugh and make her smile. I get to sing and dance with her. I get to set an example for her.
I get to watch her grow up. Wake up to her and say goodnight.
Mama might need a nap but I’m not missing any of this. If I knew how my days would turn out, I’d choose this path again, without hesitation. Often times, the hardest moments are the most rewarding memories.
I’m a fulltime single mom. I wouldn’t dare change that until it’s well worth changing.
Last week I had a one-on-one with my team leader and was asked, “Okay, what is your goal for this year?”
My response, per usual in regards to this question: “First of all, I don’t believe in goals, I believe in commitments.”
I don’t believe in goals. I’m not a fan of the term, to be frank. I find them to be for dream chasers not the go-getters. Too often, I find people don’t set goals that are motivational enough or, more importantly, highlight discipline. Discipline keeps you showing up through the hard times and when motivation is nonexistent. When reaching for a goal, there’s too much of a rollercoaster ride. Folks coast when they reach a high instead of using that adrenaline, that acceleration, to propel them even farther; and then they hit a low and this cycle repeats.
Goals offer an illusion. Something you want to strive for, a wish. When you break a goal down, it’s nothing more than a wish.
Commitments, though.
Damn, that lights a fire under your ass.
Commitments are grounded in discipline. A commitment is a promise you make to yourself that you will, come hell or high water, make happen. No excuses. It’s saying to yourself, “This might be hard, I might want to take a break at times, I might even want to give up, but I will do this.”
Sometimes with commitments, we overpromise and that’s okay. The key is we committed, we pushed to make it happen. We dedicated our decisions and time and efforts to pushing forward and keeping our promise, our commitment, to ourselves. It’s changing your mindset from “I want” to “I will.”
Once again, mindset is everything. So, are you team GOALS or are you team COMMITMENT?
Children astound me. This girl amazes me. Everyday.
This morning before school we FaceTimed Big Jake, my brother Travis’ dog. Jake is only about 6 months older than Evelynn. When we lived with my parents and on the east side, she spent a lot of time with him. Travis is putting Jake down today because of how unwell he’s doing. We’ve known this day would come for a while now and it’s finally hit a point where Travis can’t put it off any longer.
Death is a difficult subject to handle and kids can simultaneously amplify the difficulty & break it down into such simple terms. We always tell Evelynn the dead remain within us if we allow them to; are no longer suffering. Sometimes, she will feel the need to want to visit a gravesite to say hi, needing something tangible. She didn’t quite understand an idea that someone was simply gone, she needed an idea that they still exist around us and so I’ve allowed her to create and expand her own view on death and after.
She has a picture of her great grandmother Goetz & I’ll catch her in her room having a full-blown conversation with great grandma Goetz. Telling her what’s going in her life or that she misses her but is thankful she’s “still here with us.” She has a toy dog that barks when there’s movement nearby and sometimes, we will hear it randomly bark—she’s convinced it’s because of ghosts, specifically her great grandma Goetz. She calls it her proof.
My views with religion and God are tumultuous. You don’t grow up with a brother like Taylor, watching him suffer and smile and not be confused about a greater power. And yet, over the years, my views have simplified. Took me 25 years to grapple with my religious views, but I finally understood them.
Evelynn is 7 and seems to already know where she stands regarding an afterlife. She calls it a new “city.” So, this morning, she told Jake she loves him, goodbye, she will miss him, and that she hopes (no, she knows) he will enjoy his new city and she will see him again one day.
Jake is an amazing dog. Always very protective of Evelynn while everyone else could basically handle things themselves. When another dog would run at Evelynn to knock her over when she was only 2 years old, Jake would body slam that dog like NOT TODAY SATAN. When Evelynn wanted to visit the llamas on the edge of my parents’ property, Jake would stand guard, barking and making sure she didn’t get too close; he didn’t like them hissing. Jake always allowed Evelynn to treat him like a jungle gym or her personal chair, his patience with her was mind blowing.
So Jake, we love you, goodbye, we will miss you, we hope you enjoy your next city.
One of the best compliments I’ve ever been given was, “She’s not a woman who needs a man or who is scared to be on her own, that’s a woman who is independent and completely secure on her own.”
They’re not wrong.
I do date. I will relentlessly put myself out there, as my dating history has shown over the years, but I ultimately choose who I want to be with. I have no qualms about turning someone down. I will not force feelings. Sometimes, I’ve gotten it wrong and allowed a man to tear me down but in the end, I always get up. I always leave what’s no longer worth my time (& time is my most valued currency). I always realize my worth. I always choose to walk alone instead of being treated like a last thought.
And I don’t just walk, I freaking dance.
I’m a firm believer that you can simultaneously choose to be with someone and make them a priority if you want to. Hell, I’ve turned guys down simply because my busy lifestyle in certain stages won’t allow me to make a relationship a priority.
Reality is everyone is an option, they should be. You should not need someone in your life to determine your happiness, worth, or outlook on the world. The best thing is knowing someone doesn’t need you but they want you. They wake up choosing you. Above everyone else, they’re not only choosing you but they’re not even trying to look for someone else. They have to earn to be in your life just as you earn to be in theirs. It’s a partnership—it takes two to tango, one can’t do it all.
My last three relationships I jumped into. I let the man decide the pace of the song & the status of our relationship. When they wanted to be exclusive, we were. When they got distant and didn’t communicate, I allowed them to act like I was hardly a back of mind thought. I allowed them make me question my worth for a period of time.
I’m not proud of any of this.
And yet, I always find my independence again. At the close of each relationship, I’m reminded what I compromised. I find myself again and it’s my favorite thing about a breakup.
I love the freedom of dancing alone, selecting my own song to groove to.
I also love the freedom of whom I choose to dance with; when we create a peaceful symphony of harmonies & melodies.
I’m shaking. I can’t stop shaking. I’ve been shaking all morning.
It’s days like today when telling myself I’m fine and I have moved on that are the hardest. Like I’m being slapped in the face and forced to acknowledge I’ll never be fine; I’ll never fully move on.
I shouldn’t be expected to move on. I shouldn’t be expected to accept the situation. I shouldn’t have to be fine for the sake of being fine when I’m not always going to be fine.
I’ve successfully gone 6.5 years without having to be the one who sticks around when my ex visits Evelynn. Yes, visits. Always visits. Those first few years, I got away with my parents being the ones while I either, more often than not, left the house to work out or hit up a yoga class and do some retail therapy—and I racked up the debt to prove it—anything to take my mind off the fact my kid was meeting with the man who hurt me; or, I would hide in my parents room or the basement, areas off limits to him and Evelynn. His voice would carry through the halls, though. I couldn’t drown him out when I wanted him drowned.
When we moved out of my parents, by this time my ex had cancelled enough on my daughter that his visits were down to only twice a month. Every other weekend Evelynn would go to her grandparents for two to three days and for a couple hours one of those days my ex would see her there. My parents didn’t know at the time what he had done, only that he had hurt me but not the extent or how exactly. They haven’t seen him or had to deal with him since finding out this fall.
By the time the pandemic came around and Evelynn and I moved in with my most recent ex, A. was a saint at letting me leave the house and he be the one to deal with the baby daddy. Until A. caught her dad talking negatively about us and A. to Evelynn; her dad made E. feel bad for calling A. “daddy” or “Andy dad” and A.’s parents Grandma and Grandpa.
Now, I’m forced to be in the same room as him. Forced to watch him interact with my daughter. Forced to witness the man who raped me on my birthday simply because it had been too long for him and it felt too good to him. Forced to wonder what he could possibly say or do if my daughter was ever assaulted or worse.
Nothing, he could do nothing. That same night of my birthday, a guy at the bar had grabbed my ass hard, full palm, and he did nothing to the dude. Two girlfriends, however, had words to say and drinks to throw and we had to leave the bar.
I spent the drive here telling myself I’m okay. I’m okay I’m okay I’m okay. I spent the drive here trying to focus more on the road than the lies I was telling myself.
I’m not okay. I am never going to be fully okay.
I have moved past many things regarding this situation but the more I’m forced to see him or hear his voice, the more I’m pushed back into that bed and the harder it is to ignore my daughter’s dad raped me because it was more important for his dick to feel good than me begging for him to stop when I felt as though I was on fire.
We met at a restaurant today. Always public places. I won’t allow him in my home, I won’t even tell him where we live. He’s not allowed in my space. When I was with A., it was different. I had three bulldogs and a beast of a man. It didn’t bother me that he had to enter our home. Since the breakup with A., it has all changed. Parks and restaurants only. The first time was at a pizza joint, and I sat there and read. I couldn’t eat, didn’t even try to attempt it.
I never eat well on days when he comes around. I have to force it. Sometimes it stays down, other days I can’t even try.
Today we met at a restaurant for him and Evelynn to have brunch. I sat at a separate table. I ordered her food for her to ensure it was gluten free safe. I sat here writing this damn blog and dealing with all the conflicting shit roiling through me.
And I puked.
Drank more coffee. Failed to control the shaking. Succeeded in controlling any frustrated tears.
Frustrated as hell over the situation.
I hate him. “Hate” is not a word in our vocabulary I allow to be spoken. I find it poor choice when there’s so many others that can better articulate our emotions. Yet, I hate him. There is no other word accurate enough. I have struggled with accepting the fact that I will not only always hate the father of my child but also the fact that I am allowed to do so.
Evelynn has begun to ask why I don’t like her dad and it’s been draining. I don’t want her to know, I don’t want her to know how her dad betrayed me or became a monster. I don’t want her to know the hell her dad is capable of doing to a woman. I don’t want her to have to experience the emotions behind all of this bullshit. We only tell her that he hurt me and that I’m allowed to not like him but that doesn’t mean she can’t like him.
The strength it takes for me to tell her that completely drains me. There’s a voice in my head screaming, “LIES! BULLSHIT! KEEP HIM AWAY!” There’s a quieter voice in my head wondering why he can’t disappear already. Right now, all I can think about is how I would love to drown out the noise with some Jack Daniels and friends. Surround myself with people who support me not hurt me. Fuck a guy who if I told him to stop mid sex he would do so because he understands and respects consensual sex. I want the intimacy of feeling loved and appreciated.
Not a toy.
It’s been a struggle dating this season because of the comments guys make on my body. I like me, I’ve worked incredibly hard to become me. I’ve pushed past physical obstacles to build strength and correct issues. It hurts when guys only want me for my body after Evelynn’s dad did what he did to me. I can have a sexual relationship with a man, not date them, and they still respect me for more than my body, where we have a strong friendship. Yet, I’m struggling with this concept of gaining weight, fat not muscle, to make the comments stop. I don’t mind if a guy wants my body—me—as long as he’s not objectifying me.
That’s how this began. That’s how he felt the need to rape me in the first place.
He didn’t respect me to stop. He didn’t see me as human to care. I was nothing to him.
I am not okay.
I won’t look at him. I won’t converse with him. He’s been in the mode of kissing my ass ever since A.’s and my breakup. It’s eating at me. I want nothing to do with him.
I refused to even have us walk out of the restaurant with him.
Back home, I’m better. Still shaking. Not as sick. Secure.
I’m not always okay. I’m strong because I choose to always move forward. I choose to pick me. I choose to look for the good. I choose to look towards tomorrow. I choose daylight over nightmares.
I might not always be okay, I wasn’t okay for most of today or last night leading up to this day, but I firmly believe I will be okay. I will be more than okay. I will not be defined by a nightmare.
I will be okay. I am more than a body, I know this. There exists in me more light than this nightmare.
Have you met Taylor? Likely not given he doesn’t get out…at all.
A couple weeks ago I had covid and still worked out. I was over the negativity. I was over the pessimism. I was over the fear.
From others, not me.
The negative assumption that I wasn’t doing well. The pessimism of the worst-case scenarios and to make sure I watch myself. The fear that I could end up in the hospital or Evelynn would.
There was no, “Oh you’ve totally got this.” Or, “Well, make sure you’re eating and staying hydrating and take your vitamins.” Or, “This is why you eat healthy, right?”
When it’s my time, it’s my time. I’m a firm believer that I can do as much as I can and then it’s out of my control. Stressing over it isn’t worth the headache, time, or energy. I take care of my body and my body takes care of me. I fuel it with self-love: exercise and healthy eating habits.
Someone argued how did I get covid if I took care of my body so well. I had to promptly educate them on carrying an illness is different than succumbing to the illness. I never succumbed.
I may have been forced to be in quarantine jail but I still worked out every morning. I didn’t even skip cardio. I still don’t have my taste and smell back, three weeks later but I have so much more.
I still have lungs that breathe. Legs that walk…run….jump. I have a mind that can persevere, overcome, and stay positive. I push for more even when it feels like I’m being knocked down and pummeled by life. I don’t give up.
Why? I’ve seen someone, a kid nonetheless, live a life that’s less than and still smile. Still live.
So I repeat, have you met Taylor?
If not, you should. Let me introduce you.
Yesterday, Taylor turned 25. TWENTY-FUCKING-FIVE. I don’t think anybody thought this day would come. He’s officially a quarter century old. That is absolutely insane.
For over the past decade—13 years?—he’s lived in a hospital bed, being rotated between two televisions. When he was younger, we had hopes he might walk, might sit; might control a spoon even to feed himself, even if it turned into a mess and wasn’t pretty; might be able to speak or sign words to communicate. I used to put his feet on mine and we’d walk around, he loved it.
Now, he’s hooked up to those damn oxygen and heart rate monitors and is fed through a g-tube. He used to love ice cream but there’s no more for him. At one point in time, he could enjoy birthday cake. Again, no more. He aspirates.
Watching Taylor devolve over the years yet still smile, still laugh, still live, you can understand why I have no tolerance for excuses. You can understand why I’m so fucking fed up with this victim and why me and negative, toxic mentality so many people display these days.
Until you’ve gone through surgery and not known if you could wake up because you’re allergic to aesthesia, you don’t know death.
Until your lungs have operated at less than 50 percent, you don’t know what it’s like to not be able to breathe.
Until your legs are unable to hold you up, you don’t know what it’s like to not be able to walk.
Until you’re not allowed to taste your food or eat or drink because you can aspirate and you’re forced to be fed through a tube surgically inserted into your stomach, you don’t know what it’s like to not be able to eat or to have no appetite.
Until you’re forced to spend every fucking day in a bed, you don’t know depression.
Until you have to have someone roll you over because you can’t even turn over by yourself, you are not helpless.
Until you have lived with a life expectancy hanging over your head, again, you don’t know death.
Or maybe you don’t quite know living. The beauty of life, of today.
Growing up, Taylor was never supposed to keep living and yet, he’s still here. Imagine that, being told your younger brother should not live past his first birthday, fifth birthday, seven years, ten years, to be a teenager, twenty-one. Imagine that, celebrating every holiday and birthday with him as if it’s the last one he will be around for. It’s not something you pass up or overlook or forget easily. The negative expectation of a young life expectancy. Well y’all, we’re fucking here at 25 years and it’s fucking beautiful.
I am all for mental health, I am all for self-awareness. I am all for checking in.
But I will also call bullshit.
There is so much good in life. My life has been blowing up all over for the last 6 weeks. Shit is being flung at the fan and is sticking to the walls. But I haven’t melted down. I thought I might at times but life and the opportunities and possibilities that I still have, the abilities I have, are too good for me to let myself get down in the dumps. It’s really simple, I appreciate the small things immensely.
I love that I can breathe fresh air and can experience the difference in fresh air between all four seasons.
I love that I can walk and run up and down stairs and feel the strain in my quads from exertion.
I love that if I am craving a burger or a salad, I can enjoy them and savor them.
I love that I can curl up in bed and read as a nightcap.
I love that I can push my body through a strenuous workout, cussing myself for doing it, doubting if I can make it through but refusing to give up…until it’s over and I’ve completed it. That feeling of accomplishment, that feeling of becoming stronger every day. It’s worth so much to me.
Meet Taylor.
People always ask me what’s my motivation for working out, being consistent, eating healthy. It’s simple, I have little motivation—motivation is a fool man’s crock. I have a ton of discipline. I owe it to Taylor. I owe it to myself. I could very easily give up on myself but why would I when I can do so much more. Once you say yes to yourself, it becomes easier to keep saying yes.
You can have excuses or you can have results.
You can go to bed every night lying to yourself, “tomorrow will be the day I do better.” Or, you can wake up every morning actually doing better.
Do it for you. And if you find doing it for you isn’t a good enough excuse, do it for those who don’t even have the opportunity to do it themselves because I can guarantee you, they would give anything to be in your shoes. I don’t care how bad things might get in my life, I’ll never hit rock bottom. Ever. Why? I know there is someone out there, many people in fact, who have it so much worse and are praying to be in my shoes instead. When you pity yourself, when you give up on yourself, it’s like giving a “fuck you” to those like Taylor.
I wish you knew how good you have it in life. I want you to appreciate the small things in life. I really hope to God you can be happy even when life seems hard.
This is my story of darkness. This is my story of tragedy. This is my story of weakness. This is my story of sadness. Of loss. Of grief. Of heartache.
This is also my story of overcoming. Of growing. Of strength.
But let’s be clear of one thing: this is my story.
You will inevitably have questions. Concerns. Comments. It’s natural. You’re human. We want to know everything about certain events to understand, to heal, to help, to sympathize. For some, to properly judge and feel righteous about it even—yes, I did just call those folks out. You don’t get that. You don’t get that luxury. This isn’t about you. It’s not even about me. It’s about how broken we have become as a society. How broken systems have become. How much we’ve made everything about the individual instead of as the whole. How much we’ve ignored the individual to make it about everyone else.
This is about the silenced. This is about the abused. This is about the unprotected. The uneducated. The loss.
My god, this is about the loss.
And this is also about the gains.
I am not a victim. I am not a survivor. I am me. That is still my superpower.
There is an immense power and feeling of achievement in being secure in my own skin to have done a boudoir shoot after everything. I will not let that power be stripped from me.
__
“Want to play the rape game?”
“No.”
“That’s the spirit!”
__
The first time I had sex I was raped. We had been hardly dating, both virgins, and shared the same birthday.
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They say you have to say it. That saying it is what helps you get over it. False. But there. I said it. It’s true what they say: the hardest thing is admittance. This next one, though.
__
The second time I was raped it was by a long-term boyfriend and on my 25th birthday. I might also mention he is the father of my daughter. My daughter who partially shares his last name. If you think I had her name changed because I’m a single mom with full custody of my kid and I was sick of proving she was mine—we had different last names—you’re wrong. That’s just excuse I had given him. I had her name changed because his name makes me physically ill. I still hate that it’s partially attached to her.
His name. The sound of his voice. The sight of him. Sends me into a downward spiral. Chasing the flush of the toilet.
And did I mention he knew about the first occurrence? Talk about a betrayal. Talk about the hurt. Talk about the disrespect.
__
I wish I would have seen what her doctors saw.
My daughter’s first two doctor visits, they made a point of asking me if I feared for our safety. The first visit, he was with us, they made an excuse to pull me into the hall. They asked me twice. Are you sure? The next visit, I took her alone and they asked me once again.
They told me it was standard procedure, normal protocol. They ask all the moms.
I’ve asked other moms about this. It’s not standard practice. They were never asked.
Why didn’t I see what the doctors saw??
__
I hate my birthday.
Eleven years ago, it was a different kitchen in this same city. I was of a different mind. There were no brown cabinets. Everything was white—the counters, the cabinetry, the appliances—but I was picturing them stained red. Instead of laughing with my daughter in my lap, there were silent tears with a phone in one hand and a knife in the other. I couldn’t see the future; I was blinded by nightmares. I was reliving a moment I couldn’t even fully remember.
Yellow light. Lines. The carpet tells me it’s daylight. His snores tell me it’s early. My head confirms it’s too early. Then the flashes.
Hands on thighs. Spinning room. Darkness. Limp hands. Fingers wrapping wrists. A tug. Pounding head. Nooo. Thick tongue.
Darkness.
Denial.
Text message.
Gathering clothes, shoes, keys.
Down the stairs.
Out the door.
Car.
“I think I had sex last night. Mind if we stop at the drugstore first?” Oh thank God.
“You know what? Same here,” Denial reroutes. Changing story.
We took the pills together. Nobody cared. All was silent.
Denial loves silence.
__
The thing about private colleges is they’re small. Too small. Everyone knows everyone. Everyone parties with everyone. Everyone knows who bangs who.
Or didn’t.
They never knew. It had been a week. We stopped talking. It was as if neither existed. Then I’d hear him slip past my dorm room door with a different girl almost every night. My how the mighty virgin had fallen. They don’t know.
__
It was lunchtime when I learned he supposedly lost his virginity differently than how I’d lost mine. There was a party at a larger campus and after years of waiting for the right girl, he chose a random chick to hook up with. The story was out. It was news. It wasn’t me.
But it was.
Denial.
Twenty months later I “lost” mine on Christmas Eve to a random guy I graduated high school with. It was over. No more falsely holding the title Virgin. No more being asked why I hadn’t yet or what I was waiting for. Over. The story was wrong, the time was wrong, but it was over.
Twenty months were spent in nightmares, wondering. Piecing together a night of clips. Until one night when it became too overwhelming to deny. I ran from his house, puked along his driveway. Lost the battle to tears on the drive home. I couldn’t get home fast enough.
Because, what if I just ran this truck into a tree instead?
I made it home, only because I wasn’t sure if crashing would work.
The following years would be spent hopping beds in drunken stupors.
__
Stranger Danger. That’s what we’re taught in schools. We don’t learn how sometimes it’s the closest ones we allow in who we have to fear. How that guy you’re dating could be a monster. How even if his friends know you’re dating you might still want to keep him at an arm’s length. How you can’t trust the guy to just cuddle you in bed. How you can’t trust the guy for an untampered beverage. How you can’t trust the guy for just some Advil.
__
My 25th birthday was rung in fighting off my boyfriend and then sleeping with the palm of my hand cupped around my own private after throwing up—not because of the alcohol—and a shower to wash him off me. 3:30 am on my birthday and I’m standing in the shower scrubbing him off me furiously—why won’t he just wash off me?! I was stone cold sober. He couldn’t get it through his drunk skull that I didn’t want sex. He thought he was being irresistibly cute. I, however, wasn’t drunk enough to forget a fucking detail. This time, I didn’t have enough in my system to forget and two and a half months later, I didn’t have the mind to deny it any longer.
He doesn’t remember a thing. Doesn’t understand why that was the last night I let him touch me until I finally broke it off over two months later. How I was short fused and found the presence of him annoying, ugly. How I would find every excuse in the book not to be alone with him.
How two weeks later I locked him outside of his own damn house.
We had gone to a friends’ wedding. I played I had migraine when friends asked me what was wrong—they noticed I would flinch at his touch, my forced smile, my aggravated voice, my judgmental tone, and disgusted stare—he couldn’t do a damn thing right. I didn’t allow him to go out with the after party—I encouraged him. I went home to his house—I was in town visiting—and ignored his calls and texts when he got home. I had locked him out of his own house. But that fucking banging—he wouldn’t stop pounding on that goddamn front door for me to open up.
He tried again. This time when I forcibly said No, he heard me—though not without calling me a tease first.
I was his fucking girlfriend.
I was revolted.
I wanted him gone.
I still do.
I want nothing more than that night to be erased and the man who did it, as well.
Do you have any idea how it feels to be the type of person who wastes every single birthday, shooting star, 11:11 wish on the disappearance of someone? Not just someone but the father of your child. I’ve done it so many times I’ve lost count. Seven years of wishes wasted on a sickness.
Do I think he was intentional? No. He had no clue what was going on. He’s a compulsive liar and the most selfish person I’ve met. Do I think he knows what he did? I’ve watched him spin so many lies over the years, he could never comprehend. If you told him the story as it involved two other people, would he recognize the wrong? Absolutely, he’s not that stupid.
He thought it was a game. He thought he was being sexy—he said so. And it had been so long. Seriously, that’s what he said: “But baby it’s been so long,” “But baby, doesn’t it feel so good?” No, it didn’t. In fact, it hurt. I felt raw. I was dry. It was like sandpaper. And I told him such when I begged him to stop but he didn’t believe me because to him, it felt “amazing” (gag me). “But baby, I can’t believe you’re doing this to me.” No, baby, what YOU are doing to me; I can’t even fucking fathom.
Apparently, that’s common after giving birth. Not being able to get wet enough for sex or feeling overly tight. But it was six weeks to the night post birth, and it had been so long for him.
One-in-four women are sexually assaulted by the time they’re 25. I read that statistic once and it’s never left my head. I was lucky enough to be assaulted twice. Correction: Raped.
I wonder what the statistic is for that.
I hear admitting the actual term is great for healing and moving past a tragedy.
Catch me later on it, maybe it will have worked by then. No promises.
__
Full confession: I hate the #MeToo movement with a passion. It capitalizes on this idea that men in power assault women who want to rise up. It negates the fact that majority of these cases actually happen between relationships, in the home or with a boyfriend or close friend. It’s not men in power. It’s everyday men who we give the world to and abuse that power, that trust.
Newsflash: marriage doesn’t give one ownership of a body. The only one who owns my body is me.
Consensual sex: agreeing to have sex the entire time for which the event of sex occurs.
This means that as soon as one person wants out or says no or becomes unconscious to where they can no longer say yes, it is over. Done. Pull out. Get off.
I was in a college classroom—Sex Ed for my health education minor—when our teacher reiterated this again and again. As I sat in that seat and couldn’t stop shaking. I was the last to leave the classroom. The reality, the last little straw of denial that I had tried to hang desperately on to had simply evaporated. Funny how they don’t reiterate it when it matters—when we’re kids. Twenty-six years old, I was just then hearing the firm definition of consensual sex. Funny how my teachers never went into the details or exercises of what consensual sex means when it counted—before the rape, when I was innocent and ignorant of sex. Maybe then girls wouldn’t be blamed for the guy’s abuse of power. Maybe then society wouldn’t assume guys were the only gender who could commit such a crime. Maybe then victims wouldn’t feel like the justice system was rigged when it came to rape cases.
Not just rigged, assaulting.
Who am I kidding? I still wouldn’t have had the mental capacity to come forth and fight for the truth.
And who am I kidding? He still wouldn’t have pulled out when I had told him to.
That didn’t happen. Instead, I had to wedge my knee in there and force him out and off of me. Me, 118lbs. pushing a 190lb. male off me. Because it had been too long and I couldn’t possibly be saying No to him. I was. He just didn’t want to hear it.
One good thing about not having enough to drink that night: I could overpower a clumsy drunk ogre.
I didn’t sleep that night. Instead I thought of all the ways of how this could’ve been my life. How this could’ve happened twice. How my baby’s daddy could do this to her mother. This couldn’t be real life.
But this was my life. And I had made it through it once before.
Though, before I hadn’t been capable of accepting the truth and working through it. Instead, I blindly found guys to replace the memory, to put as much distance (sex) between that first rape and the present—a futile effort that never succeeded. I chased sex to erase that first time as if it was the only way. Instead, I learned how many guys listened when I did say no. Some may have been assholes about it.
But they stopped when told.
Somehow, that knowledge and recognition was healing.
I don’t think every walking male is a rapist and I can be in a room alone with a man I don’t know. That’s the stereotype, that’s why we don’t speak up: we aren’t all victims, we don’t all let it ruin our lives, we don’t all allow it to blur the lens when we look at the rest of the male population. Just because one guy hurts us doesn’t mean we believe all men will.
It’s the victim mentality that keeps us quiet. That and the truth. We suddenly know the worst part of someone, we’ve been held captive (literally) by their evil, but that is not always who they let the public see. Then, there’s the little girls who cry wolf—they are the ones who shut us up. They are the ones who make us believe we won’t be heard because too many have lied before—yet we don’t dare call them liars because who are we to judge and assume? We can’t know which ones are lying, we just know some are. Or we question their tale because we knew the man or because their story is never consistent or because whenever something doesn’t go their way they’re quick to claim sexual harassment. Or we question their tale because we had been there and it’s not a laughing matter. It’s not the butt end of a joke. It’s not for fucking talk radio.
It’s fucking hell. It’s suffocating. It’s drowning. It’s clawing at my throat to breathe. It’s my god why can’t I just crawl out of this fucking life and be done.
Speaking up isn’t hard because of the fear of not being believed, it’s because we first had to fight someone off and then we are forced to fight the world in telling them who someone really is; when really, we just want to forget. We want to move on. We don’t want to live in the nightmares and we don’t want your pity. We don’t want to retell the same story we relive every night when we fall to sleep. We don’t want to be put in the same room with the one person who makes us dizzy, whose voice makes our skin crawl, whose proximity makes us fight to not lose consciousness.
We don’t want to fight to prove we were raped—we want to fight to forget the entire event and the person exists. We don’t want to recount our story over and over again for someone to find fault—someone who wasn’t even there, who couldn’t feel the warmth of our tears on our cheeks or taste the saltiness when they reached our mouths; who couldn’t understand the inner turmoil of “this is really happening” and “this can’t be fucking happening”; who isn’t sent back to that fucking nightmare with just one word from one voice and then we’re fighting to be out of that room even though we’re already miles and years away.
No, fighting for justice is another form of rape.
We aren’t survivors. We are living.
sur · vi · vor
noun
the remainder of a group of people or things.
a person who copes well with difficulties in their life.
I hate that fucking term. It assumes the odds are against me. The odds were never stacked against me. I decide my odds.
Let me be clear when I state the only thing that died that night was my respect for this guy and our relationship. I am very much alive. It didn’t kill a part of me. It was a tragedy, it was by all means a “difficulty” to “cope” with—still is, I refuse to be put in the same room with him, I avoid all his phone calls—but I refuse to let it define me. I refuse to let this one night, and the other night, determine the woman I have become and am still becoming. I didn’t “learn to cope”. I was already strong. This didn’t make me stronger. It just taught me evil exists in the world and sometimes, it’s close to home, closer than we can ever imagine. I refuse to give him or this event credit for who I am today.
He does not get that.
I can love my body, feel good in my body, feel secure in my body, and show some skin without it being an open invitation to my body. I am the only owner of my body.
__
I didn’t realize how much that first one affected me until I realized I had stopped singing in the shower. I was always singing in the shower. When we had to be quiet in the house and my mother would tell me to keep the music down in the shower, I would get an attitude. It was habit. I don’t remember many times during my childhood when I didn’t sing in the shower. But that changed when I came home my first summer of college.
I started singing in the shower again last year. I had met a guy who made me feel unbelievably safe. I was never one who fell asleep easily but somehow, with him, or his one dog that always slept on the bed with us, I could pass out quickly and sleep through the entire night.
I’d give just about anything to feel that safety again. It has been the hardest part of our recent breakup—not being able to sleep well or through the night—for me to give up and get over. He wasn’t perfect but for the first time in twelve years, I had felt safe behind closed eyelids.
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My rapists don’t get to define me. They don’t get to have a piece of me, not even the broken pieces.
Here’s a reality: I love sex.
That feels so damn good to say.
After everything.
The fact that I get to say this makes me feel so incredibly good about myself and how far I have come. What they couldn’t keep from me. What I have been able to put behind me because I know. I know the beauty of intimacy; I know how good it can feel. I know that it is not the clothes I wear or how I act that determines my choice to give someone my body. It is me saying yes, for the entire time we have sex. And it is someone accepting and also saying yes for the entire time.
They don’t own the broken pieces of me because I didn’t break. I may have wanted to end my life at one point, I may still collapse at the slightest appearance of his name, sound of his voice, or sight of him…
But I’m still here.
I bended. I chose to move on. I have said the words that no one should ever have to say, and I kept going.
I still choose to date. I still open myself up to love. I’m still standing. I still choose to believe there are good guys. I still choose to trust.
More importantly, I choose to live. Every day. Not walk around in a daze, not succumb to the fear or the nightmares. I choose to fall asleep at night. I choose to close my eyes. I own my life and my body and I make sure I know this.
These days, I put myself to sleep at night and I wake up wanting and ready for a new day.
I’ve been through hell, and I visit it on occasion, but I refuse to become a resident there.
Why do I so firmly believe in pushing forward? It’s the only way to move. I’ve been held down, I’ve been stripped, I’ve been taken. There is power in knowing we can overcome.
We can. I am.
What happened to me will never be okay. It will never be okay that our system is rigged. It will never be okay that I will never feel safe to talk about this shit. It will never be okay with me that my daughter’s father is a disgusting human. It will never be okay that even though I have confronted him about this once, I will likely never hear an apology from him. It will never be okay that I can’t seem to simply forget, forgive, and move on—I would love to forget, maybe forgive. It will never be okay with me that people could talk behind my back but could never ask me, “Why can’t you be in the same room with him?” It will never be okay that as soon as this is posted…if I post it…people will look at me differently. It will never be okay that some people will have the nerve to talk about this even though it doesn’t consume them, it doesn’t involve them, they are not part of the nightmare.
It will never be okay.
But I am okay. Not every day, but most days. And I will be okay. And I am more than okay with that. You don’t need to be—this doesn’t involve you. But I need to be.
And for anyone who thinks they have been in my shoes, you haven’t. And if you have had to spoke those words or are still trying to admit those words and give them a voice, I haven’t been in your shoes. Because your nightmare didn’t involve me, it’s yours to work through and overcome and I will not talk as if I know your nightmare. I don’t.
There’s something about breakups that make me come out on the other side stronger and more in love with me and everything I still have in life. Even when it feels like things might be falling apart, or that I might be meant for singledom. When things fall apart, I learn just how many people I have in my corner; even when it feels like I’ve grown incredibly distant with everyone because I’m an introvert used to being alone.
They show up for me and it feels good.
This isn’t easy. I’m struggling. I’m hurt. I’m lost. I’m heartbroken. We’re still living together. We still sleep in the same bed at night. It’s incredibly difficult to walk through a house with someone who I firmly believed the best in him only for him to break up with me because he believed the worst in me. He held his ex and all her faults over my head as if I was her and it’s difficult to grapple with his reasonings when at the core of our breakup is not our relationship, it’s his schedule and his inability to communicate and love.
I can’t read minds. And I shouldn’t be faulted for such.
I dated a runner, though. What could I expect? I dated a man who has never been chosen and will only love his dogs. He loves the idea of love but I can’t say if he ever loved me. It sure doesn’t feel like it. You don’t give up on the people you love simply because something got difficult, or someone got busy.
I prosper with breakups. I suck at dating and finding good, mature men, but I prosper with breakups and excel at finding me.
And understanding what I deserve.
I deserve more than someone who will walk two feet ahead of me when going on a date and will let the door slam on me instead of waiting or holding it open.
I deserve someone who is willing to have the patience to win my kid over and work through issues, who understands she’s seven—and that by saying such is not an excuse, it’s cause to teach her and show her acceptance.
I deserve more than someone who will snuggle and love on all three dogs and then only give me a quick quiet shout before walking out the door or ignore me completely.
I deserve more than someone who believes that because I’m not his mother nor the mother of his child, he doesn’t have to recognize or celebrate Mother’s Day for or with me. I should not have to explain to someone that loving me is accepting that I’m a mom and therefor celebrating that with me, especially when Mother’s Day is one of my favorite holidays—highlighting all the accomplishments I’ve done to get where I am, everything I’ve overcome as a full time single mom.
I deserve more than having to pick up and pay for my own birthday dinner for the entire family.
I deserve more than just a “how much money will you make off that?” while still glancing at his phone when I announced I just released and published my first book of poetry, a longstanding childhood dream of mine that finally came through. I also deserve someone who will take enough interest to see what the book looks like and will at the minimum flip through its pages.
I deserve someone who will follow through with wanting to celebrate my first real estate sale rather than just chalking it up to his dad “doing me a favor” (I sold his grandma’s house).
I deserve someone who wants to show up to events and parties with me that we’re invited to and tries to recognize each other’s schedule instead of one reigning priority.
I deserve someone who will communicate with me when he’s going to be three hours late to our plans because he stayed longer with friends than he had initially said he would—and understands the difference between this being respectful of my time and not me being controlling. I should not have to explain this to someone.
I deserve someone who will not neglect my daughter’s birthday.
I deserve someone who will not tell my daughter to lie to me or keep something from me.
I deserve someone who will console me or talk to me when he makes me cry, not ignore me or intentionally hurt me more.
I deserve someone who will not attempt to belittle me in order to feel superior—this is a partnership, after all.
I deserve more than someone whose go to defense mechanism when Evelynn acts up is that he is not his father and she is not his responsibility, especially when I have never said anything remotely similar about his own son. And he should not be telling this to her with anger in his tone.
I deserve someone who wants to show me off and take me out and will speak highly of me.
I deserve someone who will believe in the best of me, be honest with me, love me, and respect me.
We met during covid, when things were relatively easy and we didn’t have jobs to show up to and we could be present for each other so easily. We could skip off to the beach, deliver GrubHub and DoorDash together, talk endlessly about life and philosophies and beliefs and our past. It is so incredibly hard reconciling this man; who I know he can be with who he ended up being. Why do I still believe the best in him? Why did I let all those things I didn’t deserve slide?
He taught Evelynn how to ride a bike. He taught her how to use her fingers and nose to do math. He taught her the alphabet in a manner where she could remember it. He was around when her own father only showed up five times in a year for her. He prioritized showing up for her school conference over coaching cheer. He would help her build a sandcastle and play in the water with her, two things I’m just not great at doing, whenever we went to the beach. He would lay in her dirty pool with her just because she asked and didn’t want to be alone. When she started calling him daddy in public, he took it in stride and just let her do her thing, what she wanted and needed. When she later was insistent that he was NOT her dad whenever she was asked, he accepted it even though it bothered him, her aggressiveness in stating that he wasn’t.
I’m not easy to date me. The whole 100% custody thing is difficult to get around. I’m a packaged deal, there’s no way around it. There is no break from parenting in my world. Andy took it all on. When Evelynn’s dad scolded her for calling Andy “daddy” and spoke negatively of Andy and his family to her, it created a major riff and thus began the spiral of Evelynn acting out against Andy. Her father was jealous and began ruining her relationship with the only man that had stuck around and took on the fatherhood role of showing up for her, asking her about her day, encouraging her with her education, not allowing her fear to get in her way of achievements.
Andy helped her break through so many barriers.
I hate her dad and hate is not a word I allow to be said in this house. It’s not something I allow in Evelynn’s vocabulary. Yet, I have spent too much energy wishing he would just disappear. What father does that to his daughter? Discourages a healthy relationship. I would have hoped that a man willing to step up and be there for her would have been an amazing thing to embrace and be comforted by.
Jealousy really is an ugly green monster.
Not to mention her own dad forgot her birthday. I can’t be shocked, he only saw her five times last year and has a history of cancelling, hence why we’re down to only every other month of supervised visits. He’s lied about being sick so many times I blocked him on social media—I was completely over the blatant truth of him instead being too hungover or wanting to hit the golf course because he didn’t prioritize seeing his daughter.
Andy, despite his conditioning to hold a grudge and not willing to be around to celebrate Evelynn’s birthday, showed up in other ways. He allowed us to move into a house he bought designed for just him and two dogs. Instead, he got three other humans (his son moved in with him about a month before we met) and yet another dog. He hasn’t had the ability to enjoy this home he bought all on his own through hard work and perseverence. We moved in and took over, and that’s another grudge he’s holding over my head.
But I never needed shelter from him. I needed love and support.
And grace and acceptance, as I had shown him.
I needed communication and no judgment.
And I needed a cheerleader. For being a cheer coach, he failed at cheering me on the moment it was inconvenient for him.
I don’t get a clean breakaway. I’m stuck until I find housing and it hurts.
There are so many moments where I would just be enraptured by him. I’d just stare at him and be so in love. I was so sure of him. I felt so unbelievably safe with him. My favorite sound was when him and Evelynn would wrestle and he would make her belly laugh. God, I miss that sound. I miss him being the sole reason for that sound.
It is utterly heartbreaking to find yourself at the end of a relationship where you thought you would and could spend the rest of your life with the person. When he was job searching, I had told him to look wherever he needs to because I could sell real estate anywhere. And we had fully discussed this possibility.
Somehow, instead, only months later, we’re over. That’s really fucking hard to accept.
While attraction draws me to someone, compatibility keeps me around. I was so sure we could make it through anything. It’s depressing to learn you’re the only one in love and willing to fix things, believing in your relationship.
All those things I deserve, I mean it. However, I also knew he could do them if he wanted to.
I remember our first fight. He’s a yeller. He sees red. It consumes him. He yelled so hard he spit on me—accidentally! Don’t get your panties in a bunch (still spit though, I know). I told him to walk away from me.
The next day I made it clear that I am not someone to speak to like such and that we will not have arguments of such nature. It’s not something I will allow. It’s not something I want my daughter to view as an acceptable form of communication. It’s not something I want his son to see and think is okay to replicate.
He never did it again. Not once. He learned to walk away when heated or upset. He learned to calm down first.
And I noticed. It meant something to me, oh dear lord how it meant everything to me, that he understood what I wouldn’t allow and didn’t do it again.
It’s hard moving on when I’m still here in this god damn house, sleeping in the same bed with him, exchanging niceties. It’s all so fake. I thought he was my best friend—he’s not. I still want to fight for us but again, I can’t be the only one wanting to fight for us; and also, again, I do not need someone in my life who doesn’t want me in theirs.
There are moments when I forget we’re broken up, and then it hits.
Those moments floor me. They knock me down. Makes it hard for me to breathe.
I still want his arms wrapped around me at night when we’re on the couch. I still want a kiss goodbye when one of us leaves to go somewhere. I still want to be invested in his day and accomplishments. I still want to be able to touch him in bed at night. Still want to love him and show him love.
How am I, really? I have a way of breaking free with breakups. I realize what I’ve compromised on that I never should have allowed. I will come out on top, I always come out stronger. Despite feeling lost, I have a way of grounding myself. I know I have a hell of a lot to offer someone, someone who will appreciate me and what we have; and I also know that I’m the best he will ever have, in all aspects.
I said what I said.
When he first mentioned going on a break, I wanted to hold on to the idea that he just wanted space and for us to date, traditionally, after I moved out…. but let’s be real, that was just worthless words he said in passing to ease the blow because he didn’t have the respect for me to break if off. I had to force him to make a decision. And let’s be realer, why would I want to hold on when he was letting me go so easily? It felt like he was leaving me to drown as he steered the boat away.
I loved hard and deeply and I lost big for it. I can be okay with this knowledge. I know, leaving, that I gave him everything. I showed up for him. I celebrated his wins. I cooked and meal prepped for him to make his nights after a long day easier. I took care of his dogs, and dealt with their attitudes and the one’s aggressive psychotic episodes, without refusal to do so or claims that they weren’t mine. I made sure his son ate every night. I didn’t push him away or reject him. I changed up my routine and how I do things to fit his style.
He did a lot for me…when it was convenient for him. That is where all the hurt lies.
I showed up for him regardless; behind closed doors where no one else could enter and in the public eye.
I made clear that I still love him and wanted to work on things, be with him. I made clear that I still believed we both could do better and be happy together. I made clear that even though there were things in our life I was unhappy with, at the end of the day having him made me happy overall.
And I made these things clear without hearing them in return. All I got was a “well, we’re definitely on a break, I know that much.”
So I’m working on breaking free because wild horses run in me.
Jo Taylor Blogs 