;

I stood there, in my bathroom, staring at the stranger in the mirror.  I was there crying.  So much torment in my head and pain in my heart.  The weight of the world was resting on my crumbling shoulders.  Patsy Cline was echoing off the tile walls as she belted out that heartbreaking, familiar, pleading as she fell to pieces.  A fresh package of double edged razor blades was enticing me from the counter with a promise of eternal relief.

The hot water was running, offering it’s aid in my plight, some Aspirin to push the cause further.  I knew how quickly the blood would flow down the drains and far from my heart leaving me pale and cold.  It would be so fast and so easy.  I’d just slip silently into the Great Beyond.

My hands trembled as I slid the blade from it’s case, tears down my cheeks, thinking confused thoughts.  My mind raced over the violent abuse, the way it made me hate myself, mixed with the way it felt to be kissed by a cute boy and laughing with my best friend.  That internal struggle tore my soul apart.  I had to force those happy memories from my head.  If I thought about them too hard, I’d lose my nerve.

There was thought behind the first slice - traveling the length of my vein - making it harder to repair.  I was so numb that I almost didn’t feel it.  Watching it drip, swirling it’s brilliant color with the crystal clear contrasting water.  It was fascinating and beautiful.  And relief would not be too far now.  It created such thick pools that it took several seconds to fully dilute and stain the water.

Then the pain started  to hit and my fingers started to involuntarily curl.  I couldn’t muffle my cries.  I didn’t expect such sharpness.  It’s not like that in the movies.  They just cut, the blood comes, then a few minutes later their internal agony is done.  But that’s not real life.  In real life, there is excruciating pain.

Patsy was quiet now, at least I couldn’t hear her.  The sensation running up my arm was deafening.  Now, I wanted to die more than ever.  And the door opened.  I sat there, in the shower, with my favorite ripped jeans on, donning the Nirvana t-shirt my BFF got me, and a flannel.  My (grand) mom stood over me - “Why Nich-ee, Why?!”  The thickness of her horror was palpable.  She looked down on me - the girl she saved, the daughter she chose, the little girl with wild curls and abundant freckles, and she grabbed me from the shower and put as much pressure as she could.  She screamed for my (grand) dad.  And there they were - holding me when I could no longer stand.  11 stitches and several evaluations later - I was back home.

I don’t know why she came in the bathroom that day.  I’d locked the door.  What was it about this time that sent her to me?  I wish I could thank her for it and apologize for the sight she had to see.  The thought of my own children or loved ones laying there terrifies me.  While I can’t look her in the eyes again - I thank her with my actions.  That was my second chance and I'm not wasting it.

The Bright Side is Suicide

Several weeks ago, one of my nearest and dearest friends witnessed a human being become a memory in the hearts and minds of his loved ones.  This happened some two thousand miles away and far from my front door.  We didn't talk directly about it.  But this moment,in social networking updates of the past, has impacted me so much so that I'm writing this to you, right now.

My youngest, who is now 5 (yes, blog slacker, I know) and started his first day of kindergarten, has a morbid side to him.  He talks about death regularly.  Curiosity, fear, immortality, bravery - they are just small facets of these discussions.  He asks me if I will still love him when I'm dead.  I reassure him that my love is not something he will ever have to worry about.  I explain that the love of a mommy is the strongest love ever.  And it brings me to tears, every time.  There's a pain associated with it that aches my core.  I can, literally, feel it in my heart.

Then, another, ugly thought creeps into my soul.  That person, the one who was ended, by a gunshot, that person had a mother.  Maybe she was like me.  Maybe she looked into the eyes of her young son and felt pangs of terror in the thought that one day - their physical bond would be severed.  But hers came true.  Someone, in one instant, put an end to some mommy's baby.  She felt his first flutters in the womb.  She cried, tears of joy, at ultrasound pictures.  She helped him get ready for his first day of school.  She kissed his hurties away and rushed to his room at night when he had a bad dream.  She's now missing her baby.  Crying at the mention of his name.  Falling asleep with a shirt that still smells like him or clutching his picture in her hand.  She will go the remainder of her life - wondering about what he'd be like today.  Would he have kids?  What would he have been?

That could be my youngest someday.  Or my Stormykins.  Or my Tabasco.  Or my Mini-Me.  Someday, it could be one of my babies that is slumped over, lifeless, on a sidewalk.  And it's completely out of my control.  I created these people, devote every second of my life to them, nurture them, teach them, hug them, hold them, laugh with them, watch them grow - and someone could get pissed off and take that away from me.  From the world and rob one of these babies of the life they have planned.  So I make it a point - every single day that I'm blessed to share life with these beautiful creatures - to be a little less angry when they dump milk on the carpet, break my possessions, interrupt my sleep, or take my last piece of candy.  I wish, somehow, someway, when one person goes to take the life of another, they could, for an instant, see that person through the eyes of their mommies.  I wish they could see how precious life truly is.

It makes me want to go back in time.  I know - kind of a left field thought, right?  Well, there was a time when I was hell bent for death.  I wanted so much to end myself.  Obviously, I lost that particular battle.  For which I am grateful.  Every single day. I want to put my hand on the shoulder of the troubled girl 20 years my junior, look into her tear filled eyes and tell her - There will come a day when you will want to live forever.  I want to sit her down and tell her that one day she will value life so much that hearing of the demise of a stranger will hurt her heart.  I want to explain to her that the pain she feels that drives her to this point, has an end.  Those moment where death seems like a release - they will be replaced with smiles and laughter.  I wish I could tell her that there will be rough spots, hurdles, pain - but those moments will be negated.  The hurt will be diminished.  Someday - she will look out of her backdoor, watch her baby daughter play happily with her brothers and death will be the furthest thing from her mind.  Because life gets better.

Maybe that walk in the darkness, those nights of wishing there'd be no morning, maybe that experience helped me appreciate the utter beauty of life.  There is no pain, no anger, no tangible thing, no emotion, no dollar bill, no NOTHING - worth taking a life for (including your own). 

Dear God

Dear God,

 Let me start off by saying - I'm sorry for the crappy things I have done.  I've made some serious mistakes.  I've hurt people that I love.  I've broken so many commandments.  I've been wrong more times than I can count.  I'm imperfect.  In the past I've been selfish and self centered.  I didn't read my Bible.  I didn't go to church.  I broke my marriage vows.  I've been so angry at Ex Douchebag for leaving me the way he did that I got wrapped up in it.  I cannot take back anything I have ever done and I wish I could sometimes.  The last year I've been working on getting on the right path.  For myself, for my family, for my children.

I remember why I walked away from You.  I thought I was left behind.  My sisters & I were living in squalor and being raped by a sicko that claimed he was a Christian.  In my 8 year old mind I thought that no God that I'd read about would abandon me like that.  I'd never done anything wrong.  I got straight a's and did everything I was told.  I prayed my hardest.  Why would You leave a good little girl?  Why would You let me hurt.  I see now that I was given strength to survive and sense to go forward and go to police.  I was given the courage to stand and fight to get out.  But back then... well...all I wanted to do was end my own life.  The images in my head haunted me and tormented me.  I took it out on myself and everyone around me.  I swore I'd worship Satan himself before I'd trust You again. I'm sorry.  Sincerely. 

Now my Middle Son is hurting like I did (for different reasons).  He is so much like me that I'm scared for him.  His little eyes fill with tears that I cannot stop.  Watching your child hurt and knowing that there is nothing you can do to stop it - well You know what I mean.  I've tried to reassure him.  I've tried to hug him and kiss him and hold him.  I've tried therapy.  I have tried love.  I've tried explaining to his father that this "here one minute, gone the next" attitude is taking a toll on him.  He's talked about killing himself.  He's talked about hurting others.  He's reverted to an infant when I try to talk about the hard stuff.  I've spent the last 6 months with Ex Douchebag trying to put our marriage back together because it's what I thought was best for our kids.  It's not that he doesn't understand what is going on - it's that he does.  Way more than he's been given credit for.  Honestly, I think he understands even more than adults do.  It's taking it's toll on him.  It feels like all I can do is watch.

So God - I'm on my knees in front of the whole world.  Help.  Make it stop.  Fix it.  Be with him.  My little baby didn't do anything wrong.  I did.  Ex Douchebag did.  Not Middle Son.  God please.  Just protect my baby from our thoughtless, impulsive and stupid decisions.

Thanks for listening.

Divorcemas Eve

Tomorrow morning I will wake up for the last time as a married woman.  I find myself sitting here reflecting on 12 years with someone who started as my best friend and ended with someone I barely recognize.

We were happy.  Not all the time.  There were some serious downs but for the most part we spent so much time so incredibly happy.  And I'm not just making that up.  Or glossing over the facts.  We were happy.  The last few years though - well, they took their toll.  Criticize me as you'd like but even now when I look at him and into those eyes somehow I still see the other half of my soul and love him with all of me.

My wedding ring is on a silver chain in a special place.  I never once looked at it and saw a shackle.  I looked at it and saw my past, present & future.  Sometimes I slip it onto my finger and remember that happy day - Valentine's Day - years ago.  If I close my eyes and catch a quiet moment in the house I can still remember giggling like an idiot at the way the diamonds sparkled and how funny it was that I couldn't figure out which hand his was supposed to go on.  I can still hear Pastor Sam's marital advice during our wedding ceremony.  And wearing my "moms" dress.  I felt so safe and secure by his side.  I felt full.

I can distinctly remember that instant in 1999 when our eyes met for the first time.  He was wearing these silly snapping pants and a Nike shirt, his blonde hair in a pony tail and white gym shoes.  When he spoke to me I felt this tug inside of my and something just said to me "Home".  I just felt this overpowering feeling that I was supposed to be with him.  My gut said that this man was the missing pieces of me.  Like somehow God made us to be One.  

We cannot take back the actions of the last year.  Sometimes I don't want to.  Most of the time I'd give my right arm to erase it all away.  The part that cuts me the deepest is that he is not thinking the same thing.  He is happy with her.  Acceptance of this is unbearable at times.  How can it have meant so much to me and so little to him?  Where is my husband and how on earth can I get through to him? 

For the most part I don't cry anymore.  At least not outwardly.  I nod & smile and go through the motions as if I am doing the most ordinary thing in the world.  Distractions come easy in the form of 4 terrific children and 3 jobs, great friends, extraordinary family.  The truth of the matter is that I can't sleep in our bed anymore.  I sleep on my couch so that I don't feel so alone.  Couches we used to take naps on together.  It doesn't feel as empty.  Everyone tells me that he's not the same person anymore and that he is hollow.  He is gone.  Like somehow I need a reminder.  No one knows better than me.  That does not halt the grieving process.  If only that made it easier to bear.  The weight of his absence is bearing down on me like nothing I could ever explain. 

Do you think if I place wedding photos, centerpieces, toasting glasses, ring and favors by the fireplace, a lock of his hair under my pillow, his old shoes on the porch or leave cookies out maybe the Husband Fairyclaus will bring him back?  Maybe, just maybe, all the Kings Horses and all the Kings Men....... nah.  I guess not.

Realistically - I will walk into the courthouse with my head high and eyes dry.  I will say what needs to be said and sign whatever paper I have to sign.  Inside I will scream that I don't want this.  No one will hear my cries or see my tears.  I will smile in spite of every painful step.  My heart is breaking but life has to keep going.  Just for me though I will say one last prayer that something somehow keeps this from happening. 

I won't hold my breath.

"Plese"

Yes, I am aware of it's misspelling.  There's a reason for it and you will understand by the end.  You know it means "Please".

When we say "please" we are usually trying to be polite and get something in exchange.  We are taught from a young age (well, we should be at least) that it's the "magic word" and it will get you what you want.  All you have to do is use it.  I imagine that I say "please" about 100+ times a day.  "[Youngest Boy], please don't wipe that booger on the couch" or "[Middle Son], please put on underwear"  or "[Oldest], please stop making 'Your Mom' jokes with your brothers" to the generic "Please pick up your toys" and an occasional "Bitch PLEASE!".  As a parent you want to instill politeness in your children.  So you teach them to use it.

My kids are generally pretty good about using it.  Most of the time it goes unnoticed or unmentioned and sometimes taken for granted.  I'm probably guilty of not enough praise and a little more emphasis on the negative than I should.  Guess it's part of parenthood.  There are times where Youngest Boy will look at me with those big blue eyes and in his sweet, yet devilish voice and ask for an Uncrustable.  I'll hold it in my hand and say "What do you say?" and he will respond with a "Please" knowing that satisfaction is just a word away.  He will snatch it from my hand and skip off to some remote location of his room where he is not supposed to have food and consume it.  His belly will be full - all because he said it.

Every time we go to the store the kids ask me for trips down the toy aisle.  They don't necessarily want something (ok, who am I kidding?).  They like to look and dream about toys I can't afford to give them.  They start in with their insincere "please" fest.  Begging me for 1 more godforsaken Beyblade or just 1 more Toy Story figure - I'll hear "please" no less than 712 times per child.  Sometimes I feel bad because I don't have enough money to give them these little things.  The way that they say "please" tugs at my heartstrings.  But then I remind myself that I provide them with much, much more.  Clothing, food, shelter, love, Eddie Izzard... you know, the important things.

On Monday morning my little Tabasco (the last nickname my dad was able to grant before he died) and Youngest Boy started their 6 day visit with their father.  Mini-Me has been spared somewhat for now.  Maybe a little longer if I can manage it.  Middle Son has been having the worst time with the divorce.  He was very close with his father.  That closeness was lost over the last year that Ex Douchebag chose to stay out of his life.  He has kind of clung to me in the process in ways that he hadn't before.  We've bonded in a different way.  He was apprehensive about this stay.  He saw his father not only leave him and his 2 brothers but his unborn sister too.  I can tell him that it'll be okay til I'm blue but actions have spoken much louder than words.  He's not ever been away from me for more than a day or 2 since he was born.  That's 8 years of togetherness.  His lifetime.  He and I have kept in touch through texting and calls.  I got to see him yesterday for a few minutes at his therapy session.  He looked down, withdrawn and sad.  I wanted to hold him and run out the door to take him home.

Around 7:30 last night I got a text from him asking if he can come home.  I explained that this was his time with Daddy and that he would be back in my arms in no time.  I tried to tell him that this time apart was going to fly by and that he'll have fun, Daddy loves him and will take good care of him.  In my mind I saw him standing there, in that hallway outside of his therapists door - with that sullen look on his face and the tears welling up in those precious brown eyes.  I started to cry.  He couldn't hear me or see me.  But I felt for him.  His fear, his anxiety - that hopeless feeling of wanting so badly to go home.  For a minute I was in his heart - confused and scared.  Several minutes went by and my phone emitted the "I like turtles" alert letting me know that I had an incoming text again.  I looked down and next to his name and picture of his beautiful smile taken during a much happier moment and saw the painful pleading of a little boy who wanted his mommy -

"Plese"

Til Death Do Us Part - or infidelity

I'm 32.  I have 4 children - 3 boys and a girl.  I've been with my husband for 11 years.  And 2 weeks ago - he sent me divorce papers.  Apparently, I'm not as fun as a teenager.  Grown up life proved to be too much.  He cheated, I cheated, then he cheated again and hasn't stopped yet.  He left December 11, 2009.  The boys and I have been left to deal with the ups and downs, cleaning up the messes and get on with life.  So this is me - getting on with my life.  Reluctantly.

My sons - The Oldest (14), The Middle Son (7) and The Youngest Boy (3) have been my reasons for carrying on and have provided solace when I didn't think it was possible.  The 4 of us have formed this little tribe - unbreakable and delicate at the same time.  In August 2010 we welcomed Mini-Me- my daughter- into the world.  So go- do the math.  Yep - he left 8 days after the "+" sign.  But hey - we're not the first ones to go through this and we surely aren't the last.  Together we have faced some interesting and frustrating obstacles.  I don't know where I'd be without them. 

My friends have been there for me at all hours of the night.  Helping me analyze every text, call, email, visit and communication over the last 10 or so months.  Up to now I'd never been the type to cry.  Let alone cry uncontrollably.  Definetly not the type to cry uncontrollably on people.  Oh and never in public.  Boy how things change.  Used to be a time where I was always right.  My gut was never, ever wrong.  It's been an adjustment!  Not only is my gut wrong but I've been more wrong than I have ever thought possible. 

Anyway - my family, friends, therapist and even soon-to-be ex husband always said I should write.  It's always been my dream.  I don't want to pen the next Angela's Ashes or anything, nor do I want fame & fortune (at least not until the divorce is final, haha) - I just want to get it out.  Sometimes it's funny.  Sometimes it's angry.  Sometimes it's torn, confused, hurt, tearful or astounded.  It's always something.  Maybe somewhere someone else will find this in the vast internet and get some inspiration.