I just finished reading Rosie's book "Find Me" and loved her candor and transparency. That took guts, even if she is a big star and all. She writes in a conversational style, as if she is relaying the story to you while you're sitting on her deck sipping a Sam Adams and watching the kids play in the back yard. I'm sure that is why so many people find her so appealing. She is true...and we all desire true, sincere people in our lives.
Before you think I am all stalker-ish and star crazed, let me explain a little about why I even write this blog. It's rather simple, really. I seek meaning. I find that writing this blog helps me define what my life means. It changes almost daily, sometimes. This blog allows me the chance to reflect on the events of my life and how I see things....much like the hand written journaling I used to do in my twenties. Back then, I wrote mostly about my feelings, my goals, God, and the things that confounded me. I worked hard just to reconnect the disconnect within me. Coming from a childhood that made it a necessity to seperate from emotions, this was a journey I knew I had to take to benefit more than just my own emotional well being.
My childhood ended at 18 with another child. Pregnant with the child of a man who didn't love me the same way I loved him. A man afraid of a future with children, and ultimately, me. He ran like the wind when I revealed my pregnancy. Where he once whispered his love for me, he now spewed accusations and disgust. So much betrayal. It took all of my twenties to recover from the rejection of him, and the shame I brought my parents. Though my family accepted and helped me raise my child, I knew I needed to do more to prevent the same damage that was done to me from being done to my child. The soul searching began.
For the next ten years, I journaled. I sought comfort in God and joined a great church. There, I immersed myself in bible studies, singles groups, church outings, and leadership. My child and I thrived in this environment. Though we struggled financially for many years, I alway kept us clothed, fed, and safe.
During that time, I even went to college and earned a bachelors degree in Social Work. Since I had saved myself, I had a strong desire to save others as a profession. It took me five years, but I finished. At the start of my last year of college, I had healed enough from the storm of my life that I even appeared in court, face to face, with the man who left me and my daughter, along with his share of the responsibility of raising her. He tried to act like he didn't know me, but I saw the recognition in his eyes when I walked in. All the things I wanted to say to him, the hurt, the anger, the love-turned-hatred disappeared when I heard about the horror of his life.
It turns out, his life was shit. He was a drunk, a drug addict, and in and out of jobs. He admitted to blackouts on the stand. His hands shook, whether from nervousness or alcohol withdrawal, I don't know. But I found myself feeling sorry for him. Even when he cross examined me (he who represents himself in court has a fool for an attorney) I felt pity and ever so thankful that my life and the life of my child did not include him. What a nightmare he had become to himself and those who loved him. Who knows? Maybe his addictions were his way of dealing with the guilt of his denial of his child. It didn't matter to me at that moment. What mattered was my child didn't have to deal with the trauma of a drunken father. For that, I was grateful beyond belief.
When I walked out of that courtroom with papers in hand requiring him to pay, however small the amount, for his child's well being, I knew my daughter and myself had been spared from the destruction his crisis-filled life would have brought. Since we now lived three states and 500 miles apart, I was confident he would not pursue any kind of relationship with his daughter. Even though I thought it was important that he pay for her care (if only so that I could look my daughter in the eye one day and tell her I tried), I knew for sure that would be his only contribution to her. My father had long ago taken the male role model job, and was treating her better than he had ever treated me or my siblings long ago. My daughter's father could be nothing more than sporadic, court-ordered wage garnishments.
He had chances over the years. I sent him letters and pictures of his daughter a few times. I even sent his mother a birth announcement. No response. The last letter I sent him was returned to sender, indicating he had moved and left no forwarding address. My daughter was 3 at the time. He had our address. He had our phone number. He had a choice. He chose oblivion. Absenteeism. Nothingness. Even after the court proceedings, he chose to stay away. All of our contact information was on the court papers. The only thing he DID try was to claim his daughter as a tax deduction that first year he paid (she was 9 by this time). Since she lived with me and I cared for her the entire year, I got the deduction AND the delay in my tax return for 3 months as the IRS sorted this all out. Gee, thanks.
I realized early on how lucky I was. Even though I was a single parent with very little money and no skills, I knew innately having a child would change my life for the better. It would stop me from leaping too soon into love. To love myself enough to require all who want to be a part of my life treat me with respect and honor. I wasn't hoity toity at all about it. Laughter was my middle name and I used humor to cope with all that life had to offer. I made friends easily and could find the funny in the most serious of things. I didn't take myself too seriously, but I did set the bar high in the relationship department. I knew instinctively that I had to heal my wounds before I could be in a healthy love relationship.
Though I wanted to be in love again, I still had lots of work to do internally. I didn't love right. I obsessed. I gave. I became a doormat. Too forgiving. Too pleasing. Too servile. I couldn't make demands of others because they were better than me. I learned that as a child. As an adult, I found my worth in my twenties. It took having a child and wanting to make damn sure she didn't ever feel diminished for me to look on the inside and try to fix what was wrong with me. To be an example for her to know what you want and insist that others act in a way towards you that is loving. I taught her that.
When my daughter was 6 and in kindergarten, she had the most horrible teacher of all. She looked like a sweet little old lady, but she was mean spirited and long overdue to retire. During my very first parent teacher conference, this devil told me that she "didn't expect much from my child, because she came from a single parent home". I was 24 at the time, working full time and going to college at night, trying to make a better future for us. This woman's words struck me like a slap in the face. I looked at her in disbelief of what my ears had just heard. I felt the rage swell up inside me. I told her, in no uncertain terms, that my child is not a statistic, she has no right to label her as a failure without truly seeing her as a valuable human being, she deserves the chance to succeed as much as any other child, and she has enough support at home to ensure she will do her best work possible.
The conference was over. I got up from the little child size chair I was sitting in (the teacher, of course, was seated in her regular sized chair) and marched down to the principal's office to tell her what a horror I thought this teacher was and she should suggest retirement ASAP. Her words drove home the reality of people's prejudices and the obstacles they would place in my child's life. I vowed after that horrible conference, that I would never, ever allow those kinds of words to be uttered to my child. I spoke in positives. I encouraged my child even more after that, that she could be whatever she wanted to be. She had value and worth, even if she didn't have a father. I knew I had to model that for her, not just say the words. That's why I was picky about the people in her life.
When my own mother stated aloud, after I had told her and my father that my now third grader was struggling with math, that "girls can't do math", I literally clamped my hand over my mom's mouth. I told my mother that my daughter has never heard me say that, and I didn't want her own grandmother to speak words like that to her ever again. My mother knew, in that instant, how important it was to me that my daughter be encouraged with positivity and hopefulness. My mom and I shared a locked gaze that spoke without words, the invisible power of motherhood and she knew in that instant that I would not damage my child with negativity and cruelty, as she did her own.
I have come a long way, baby. Once the recipient of rage from a bipolar mother, and neglect from a workaholic father, now I was a strong survivalist who had learned from their hell how NOT to be. I am not perfect and can relapse quickly into negativity, anger, enmeshed boundaries. But I learned how to diffuse. I learned how to repair. I learned how to confront the demons that fly from my mouth and replace them with angels. Words that can heal, hands that love, actions that nurture the people I love. I do not seek perfection, only effort. From myself, and others. When we stop TRYING to do our best, we fail. No effort, to me, means you don't care.
Putting it all in perspective is what this blog helps me do. When I have poured out my thoughts in this blog, whether they be about things that infuriate me, or people that inspire me, I have found meaning for myself in some small way. After I post my words, I can focus on the day, my kids, my husband, dinner plans or day trips. It's all put into perspective. I got it out and can take another tiny step forward in my journey. Each day brings a different focus and a different topic. Meaning.
Before you think I am all stalker-ish and star crazed, let me explain a little about why I even write this blog. It's rather simple, really. I seek meaning. I find that writing this blog helps me define what my life means. It changes almost daily, sometimes. This blog allows me the chance to reflect on the events of my life and how I see things....much like the hand written journaling I used to do in my twenties. Back then, I wrote mostly about my feelings, my goals, God, and the things that confounded me. I worked hard just to reconnect the disconnect within me. Coming from a childhood that made it a necessity to seperate from emotions, this was a journey I knew I had to take to benefit more than just my own emotional well being.
My childhood ended at 18 with another child. Pregnant with the child of a man who didn't love me the same way I loved him. A man afraid of a future with children, and ultimately, me. He ran like the wind when I revealed my pregnancy. Where he once whispered his love for me, he now spewed accusations and disgust. So much betrayal. It took all of my twenties to recover from the rejection of him, and the shame I brought my parents. Though my family accepted and helped me raise my child, I knew I needed to do more to prevent the same damage that was done to me from being done to my child. The soul searching began.
For the next ten years, I journaled. I sought comfort in God and joined a great church. There, I immersed myself in bible studies, singles groups, church outings, and leadership. My child and I thrived in this environment. Though we struggled financially for many years, I alway kept us clothed, fed, and safe.
During that time, I even went to college and earned a bachelors degree in Social Work. Since I had saved myself, I had a strong desire to save others as a profession. It took me five years, but I finished. At the start of my last year of college, I had healed enough from the storm of my life that I even appeared in court, face to face, with the man who left me and my daughter, along with his share of the responsibility of raising her. He tried to act like he didn't know me, but I saw the recognition in his eyes when I walked in. All the things I wanted to say to him, the hurt, the anger, the love-turned-hatred disappeared when I heard about the horror of his life.
It turns out, his life was shit. He was a drunk, a drug addict, and in and out of jobs. He admitted to blackouts on the stand. His hands shook, whether from nervousness or alcohol withdrawal, I don't know. But I found myself feeling sorry for him. Even when he cross examined me (he who represents himself in court has a fool for an attorney) I felt pity and ever so thankful that my life and the life of my child did not include him. What a nightmare he had become to himself and those who loved him. Who knows? Maybe his addictions were his way of dealing with the guilt of his denial of his child. It didn't matter to me at that moment. What mattered was my child didn't have to deal with the trauma of a drunken father. For that, I was grateful beyond belief.
When I walked out of that courtroom with papers in hand requiring him to pay, however small the amount, for his child's well being, I knew my daughter and myself had been spared from the destruction his crisis-filled life would have brought. Since we now lived three states and 500 miles apart, I was confident he would not pursue any kind of relationship with his daughter. Even though I thought it was important that he pay for her care (if only so that I could look my daughter in the eye one day and tell her I tried), I knew for sure that would be his only contribution to her. My father had long ago taken the male role model job, and was treating her better than he had ever treated me or my siblings long ago. My daughter's father could be nothing more than sporadic, court-ordered wage garnishments.
He had chances over the years. I sent him letters and pictures of his daughter a few times. I even sent his mother a birth announcement. No response. The last letter I sent him was returned to sender, indicating he had moved and left no forwarding address. My daughter was 3 at the time. He had our address. He had our phone number. He had a choice. He chose oblivion. Absenteeism. Nothingness. Even after the court proceedings, he chose to stay away. All of our contact information was on the court papers. The only thing he DID try was to claim his daughter as a tax deduction that first year he paid (she was 9 by this time). Since she lived with me and I cared for her the entire year, I got the deduction AND the delay in my tax return for 3 months as the IRS sorted this all out. Gee, thanks.
I realized early on how lucky I was. Even though I was a single parent with very little money and no skills, I knew innately having a child would change my life for the better. It would stop me from leaping too soon into love. To love myself enough to require all who want to be a part of my life treat me with respect and honor. I wasn't hoity toity at all about it. Laughter was my middle name and I used humor to cope with all that life had to offer. I made friends easily and could find the funny in the most serious of things. I didn't take myself too seriously, but I did set the bar high in the relationship department. I knew instinctively that I had to heal my wounds before I could be in a healthy love relationship.
Though I wanted to be in love again, I still had lots of work to do internally. I didn't love right. I obsessed. I gave. I became a doormat. Too forgiving. Too pleasing. Too servile. I couldn't make demands of others because they were better than me. I learned that as a child. As an adult, I found my worth in my twenties. It took having a child and wanting to make damn sure she didn't ever feel diminished for me to look on the inside and try to fix what was wrong with me. To be an example for her to know what you want and insist that others act in a way towards you that is loving. I taught her that.
When my daughter was 6 and in kindergarten, she had the most horrible teacher of all. She looked like a sweet little old lady, but she was mean spirited and long overdue to retire. During my very first parent teacher conference, this devil told me that she "didn't expect much from my child, because she came from a single parent home". I was 24 at the time, working full time and going to college at night, trying to make a better future for us. This woman's words struck me like a slap in the face. I looked at her in disbelief of what my ears had just heard. I felt the rage swell up inside me. I told her, in no uncertain terms, that my child is not a statistic, she has no right to label her as a failure without truly seeing her as a valuable human being, she deserves the chance to succeed as much as any other child, and she has enough support at home to ensure she will do her best work possible.
The conference was over. I got up from the little child size chair I was sitting in (the teacher, of course, was seated in her regular sized chair) and marched down to the principal's office to tell her what a horror I thought this teacher was and she should suggest retirement ASAP. Her words drove home the reality of people's prejudices and the obstacles they would place in my child's life. I vowed after that horrible conference, that I would never, ever allow those kinds of words to be uttered to my child. I spoke in positives. I encouraged my child even more after that, that she could be whatever she wanted to be. She had value and worth, even if she didn't have a father. I knew I had to model that for her, not just say the words. That's why I was picky about the people in her life.
When my own mother stated aloud, after I had told her and my father that my now third grader was struggling with math, that "girls can't do math", I literally clamped my hand over my mom's mouth. I told my mother that my daughter has never heard me say that, and I didn't want her own grandmother to speak words like that to her ever again. My mother knew, in that instant, how important it was to me that my daughter be encouraged with positivity and hopefulness. My mom and I shared a locked gaze that spoke without words, the invisible power of motherhood and she knew in that instant that I would not damage my child with negativity and cruelty, as she did her own.
I have come a long way, baby. Once the recipient of rage from a bipolar mother, and neglect from a workaholic father, now I was a strong survivalist who had learned from their hell how NOT to be. I am not perfect and can relapse quickly into negativity, anger, enmeshed boundaries. But I learned how to diffuse. I learned how to repair. I learned how to confront the demons that fly from my mouth and replace them with angels. Words that can heal, hands that love, actions that nurture the people I love. I do not seek perfection, only effort. From myself, and others. When we stop TRYING to do our best, we fail. No effort, to me, means you don't care.
Putting it all in perspective is what this blog helps me do. When I have poured out my thoughts in this blog, whether they be about things that infuriate me, or people that inspire me, I have found meaning for myself in some small way. After I post my words, I can focus on the day, my kids, my husband, dinner plans or day trips. It's all put into perspective. I got it out and can take another tiny step forward in my journey. Each day brings a different focus and a different topic. Meaning.
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