How I Wish I Could Have Met You

I try to encourage my husband Shea to write more often, because he is a gifted writer, especially involving matters of the heart.

When we first started dating, one of the things I loved most about Shea was the compassion and love that was so apparent when he talked about his grandmother, and how he repeatedly said he wished she could have met me.

He also repeatedly talked about the pain and regret he had over not being able to speak at her funeral, for reasons he and I and few others know. But even though it hurts me knowing he didn't get to give the eulogy in person--because he wanted to so badly--here it is now. His love for her shines through. I know I would have loved her, too. 

You can see the post on his blog here, or read it in its entirety below:

Dear Grandmother

I have been honored to deliver eulogies at the funerals for several close relatives, including my maternal grandfather and my paternal grandmother.  My dad's father passed away several years before I was born, and for reasons I won't get into, I did not speak at my Grandmother Canupp's funeral. 

I have regretted it ever since.  I am sorry these words are eight years late.

Dear Grandmother,

I miss you so much every day, but I miss you most at Christmas time.  Especially Christmas Eve.  Christmas Eve was always our day.  Our entire family gathered at your house for our annual celebration.  But luckily I grew up within walking distance of your house, so I was always the first to arrive (and the last to leave.)  I just loved every part of that day with you and granddaddy, and I wanted it to last as long as possible.

I loved helping granddaddy bring in wood for the fire we would build, or serving as your unofficial food taster, or as I got older, driving to the store for last minute purchases.  I treasure the memories of the planning of those days as much as the actual parties.

There was one unplanned tradition that dominated my childhood.  I would get so excited about Christmas and food and presents, that I would literally throw up at some point during our Christmas Eve party.  This happened every year.  Until I was 11 or 12 (In an effort to stop the embarrassment, I finally decided to avoid food for 24 hours before the party.  I wound up passing out and falling down a flight of stairs.  But, next play, as they say.  Keep pounding.)

The rest of the family would always make sure I was OK and then (rightfully) enjoy a few laughs at my expense.  But grandmother, you always knew the right thing to say to make me feel better: "Santa Claus is coming. I don't know why everybody isn't throwing up."

Christmas was and remains my favorite time of year, but the truth is, every day was special with you grandmother.  I was lucky that I got to see you almost every day growing up.  I don't know how I was able to stay so skinny as a child, because a lot of days I had two dinners- at our house and yours.

In fact, everyone who knew you grandmother, will remember just hard it was to leave your house without eating or at the very least taking a plate for the road. It was next to impossible, whether you were hungry or not.  It almost became like a battle of wills.  But grandmother, you were going to win. Actually, everybody won.

Everybody thinks their grandmother is the best cook in the world.  But they are wrong.  Because you were, grandmother.  From the dressing at Thanksgiving and Christmas, to the biscuits that were made from scratch virtually every day and so much more.  And it was all delicious.  (I have to admit that fried squash was not my favorite, but yours was better than any other I've ever had.)

And grandmother, you were responsible for the single best meal I ever had: country fried steak after my high school graduation.  I can still remember being in your kitchen that night, thinking this was as good as it gets.

But grandmother, any time spent with you was automatically more special.  Our family vacations at the beach were always fun, but were off the charts when and you and granddaddy were there.  My favorite little league games were when I saw you in the crowd.  And I am so, so thankful that you and "Ma" Griffin were both able to be in Boone when I received my college diploma.

Everybody who knew you knew how much you loved the Lord.  It was powerful, and it was genuine.  And I have never known a better example of what a true Christian should be than you and granddaddy.

My favorite days in church were when I sat beside you and granddaddy.  (Actually, my very favorite days were when I sat beside you while granddaddy delivered a sermon.)  I remember you always had the little peppermint hard candies in your purse.  We would try to unwrap them as quietly as possible, then try not to laugh when we would inadvertently make too much noise.

I worked for nearly 20 years as a sports broadcaster and, whether you realize it or not, you and granddaddy had a profound influence on my career path.  Granddaddy was the biggest baseball fan I ever knew and I loved to watch games with him.  I spent nearly every Monday night of the summer at your house watching "Monday Night Baseball" (back when baseball on TV was a true event).  I also read the sports page at your house nearly every day, and you gave me my first subscription to "Sports Illustrated".

I'm sure you thought that, if anything, I could possibly write about sports some day.  I am certain that the thought of that quiet, shy kid talking about sports for a living never entered your mind.  But I loved seeing the videos of you "watching" me on the radio.  I always knew that you were proud of me.  I hope you know how much you inspired me.

There are so many more memories that spring to mind when I think of you, grandmother.  All good.  All special.  Just like you.

But you gave me my most special Christmas memory of all time, at your last Christmas on this Earth in 2007.  Alzheimer's had ravaged your memory, and I wasn't sure if you had recognized me for quite some time.  But when I walked into the nursing home to see you that day, you lit up and said "Shea Boy", the name you called me as a child.  It's a moment that still give me chills.

This Christmas Eve, as has been the case for the last few years, finds Kim and me 3,000 miles away from most of our friends and family.  I really wish you could have known Kim, grandmother.  I think the two of you would have been thick as thieves.  She had this photo of you and granddaddy printed on a canvas and framed and gave it to me for Christmas several years ago.

I just hope you knew how much I truly loved you. And still love you. Always. Merry Christmas.

Actually, Merry Christmas Eve.


by Shea Griffin 12/24/2015 

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Searching for Sea Glass

Last year on this date, my husband Shea and I were a week away from setting off on our big adventure-- moving to the San Francisco Bay Area. I wrote about all the hope and possibility that lay ahead of us, and how excited we both were about the future. We were both nervous—Shea even more than I—as he had never been where we were going. I had lived here before, in the very town we were moving to. Our townhouse actually sits less than a mile from my former apartment, the little one bedroom I lived in –fifteen years ago- which seems unbelievably long ago now. Time has flown. This past year has flown. 

What we didn’t know was that once we left South Carolina, once we headed out for our adventure, everything would go wrong. I can’t even begin to explain or remember all of the little things that went awry, but the big things are burned into my memory: our corrupt moving company holding our belongings for ransom, finally giving them up only after an emotional battle and thousands more dollars of money that we had to borrow, finding out that the same moving company had kept many of our belongings including our mattresses, which left us struggling in our first weeks here on an air mattress until my first paycheck.

Then, while I was gone on my first business trip, Bear encountered a foxtail – something we knew nothing about- but once he inhaled it- cost us almost $1000 in an emergency veterinarian bill. (goodbye to the rest of the first paycheck!) Those first few weeks were horrendous, and Shea had to deal with a great deal of it alone, in a new city where he knew no one, while I was a few states away, working. Then, to top it all off, while I was on that trip, I took a tumble down a small flight of stairs, luckily breaking nothing, but the fall left me in such pain for the rest of my business trip, that I spent part of every day in the restroom in tears, and cried myself to sleep every night. This was contract work, and I refused to go to the ER because I knew no doctor would let me continue to work, and our financial situation was so perilous at that moment that I couldn’t risk being sent home. I waited to visit the ER after my trip once I got home, and came out hobbling on crutches, but relieved I had made it through and gotten paid. 

I kept waiting for the moment when we would turn the curve and our fortunes would change. I kept waiting to see the light in Shea’s eyes and know that he loved it out here as much as I always have. I kept waiting for him to find his next career direction and see the light at the end of the tunnel he has been waiting for. I kept waiting for my job situation to settle down and for me to feel I was really where I was supposed to be. The contract work dried up, and I finally found a full time position. But for the most part, for most of these things, I am still waiting. 

I have had more than a few challenging times in my life, so I know this is not the lowest point. There have been days in this last year, though, when things have felt bigger than me, bigger than us, and I have lost faith in myself. I have doubted the decision to bring us out here. Even though it was both of us deciding, it was me who started this chain of events, it was me who suggested bringing us here—all the way to the other side of the country. We both loved living in Myrtle Beach, SC, a place that held a lot of childhood nostalgia for us, and where the people that are truly family to us live. I cannot express how much we miss Aunt Marlene. We would be in her kitchen celebrating Easter with her and other family members tomorrow, and not doing that will be a hole in our hearts. I had assumed that by this time, we would be able to afford to fly back for holidays, and we are just not at that point yet. 

The truth is, we were struggling back in SC, and we are better off financially here, even if we are still struggling. It’s hard to face that, especially for Shea, who doesn’t know anyone else here, and I know he feels so disconnected from the world at times. Changing careers is so hard, and navigating through that has been more challenging than he or I could have ever imagined. 

I have wanted to write for months, to spill my soul out and share what has been going on in my mind and heart, but I haven’t been able to find the words. Working has left me drained and while I am so thankful for my job, especially now, I come home exhausted and unable to summon the creative energy to do the thing I love and honestly need to do most when I am trying to work through a hard time. I know creative people all struggle with this. We have to pay the bills, so your art-- whether it’s writing, painting, music—it becomes the thing you do on the side unless you have been lucky enough to find away to make it your livelihood. 

On the train ride home, standing in the middle of dozens of people every day, I find myself getting emotional thinking of all the time ticking away. I am not writing my novel, I haven’t even written a blog post in months. It has been overwhelming lately. I tell myself I will make the time, I will stay up late, I will carve out time on the weekends. But I can’t summon the words at exact moments. They come to me or they don’t. Lately, they haven’t. 

I wish I could say I see all these hopeful changes just around the corner for us, and that within a few weeks, we will be out of this rut, full of purpose, and without any doubts of our choices and our place in the scheme of things. I know that won’t be true- unless a winning lottery ticket finds its way to us. 

I have to keep myself focused on what we do have. I tell myself all the time that it’s like being at the beach, looking for sea glass among the broken shells. You have to look really hard to find these beautiful, cloudy blue-green pieces of glass, little gems among the wreckage of the ocean, but they are there. Right now, my pieces of sea glass are that we both have health insurance, we are both ok health-wise, Bear is healthy and happy and loves it here- as do all of the animals, we live in a great place near beautiful walking trails, I am working full time, and we can pay the bills- barely- but we can. Tomorrow and the next day and the next, we will have plenty to eat, and we have a roof over our heads. We have each other. And although things have been rough and we have struggled at times, we know and love each other more every day. Some days are harder than others. Some days are good. We laugh, a lot. 

It has become this weird little mantra for me when I am having a bad day…look for the sea glass…a way to remind myself to look for the positive things. I don’t even know if the analogy makes sense to anyone but me. 

Sometimes the pieces of sea glass are really hard to see. Tomorrow, I am promising myself I will take a few extra moments to look harder to see them, to wait for the sun to catch the colors and show them to me. I know they are there, hidden among the broken shells of my life right now. 

Here's hoping in a few months, it's not as much of a struggle to find them. 

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Secrets and Lies: What is Mine to Tell?

When I first began writing this blog in June of 2007, I had a whopping seven readers. One was the original friend who encouraged me to blog, and the other six were other friends that she coerced into becoming followers. I didn’t completely “get” blogging at that point, and didn’t know if I had anything to say. I knew I still wanted to be a writer, but that dream was tucked away behind financial stress, career uncertainty and my ever present companion: depression. I remember very clearly thinking that I had nothing to say, at least nothing that wouldn’t depress the hell out of anyone reading my words. I had given up on a lot of things in life, and had resigned myself to the fact that this was as good as it was going to get.

So, the first posts were extremely mundane, even for a blog with only seven readers. I began with a posting about adopting a new kitten, who five years later is now a fat and happy member of our family, at the moment lounging on the dresser in the bedroom, staring at me, as he usually does, for hours on end. I can hear his little motor running from across the room.

As I continued to post, I took more time with each entry. I remembered that my dream of writing had come from a realization when I was young that I loved to write, and that writing came easily to me. I remembered that teachers and mentors paid attention to the words I scribbled on my spiral bound notebook pages, often almost illegible as I tried to write fast enough to keep up with the words pouring out of me. I remembered that feeling before I lost confidence in myself, before I began to doubt every word that came out of my mouth, as well as the ones I wrote.

Looking back over the history of posts on my blog, I can see that it began to evolve from the monotonous to more meaningful with each new entry. I was beginning to dig deeper, to mine for the person I once was, and to somehow solve the mystery of who I had become.

Having only seven readers, with only one of them being a person I actually had met and knew in real life, I felt safe to write anything- everything. I shared deep, dark family secrets, and my own worst fears and hidden moments. I started sharing more about the depression I was battling. I was losing the battle and I wasn’t shy about expressing that, either. It seemed harmless because it felt like no one was really reading it (even though they were). It was also incredibly helpful- to me. I was writing, but at the same time, I was working through things I hadn’t dared to delve into before. As I wrote about my relationship with my father, my pain in the loss of love, and my worries for my future, it became a type of therapy. Using my gift and love of words, I was sliding back into the past and writing my way out, one sad memory at a time. I was almost able to step outside of myself—but not too far. Somehow, through the blog posts, as raw and laid bare as my emotions were, I was able to piece together a puzzle—slowly. Things were starting to make sense to me. All along, I had believed there was something wrong with ME. That all of the things I was suffering were due to some faulty manufacturing of the person that I was. The more I wrote, the more I realized that while I wasn’t perfect, and definitely had flaws and imperfections, at the core of it all, I wasn’t irreparably broken or defective. At the heart of who I was, even with all of the imperfections, all of the mistakes, all of the bad choices, I was worthy of redemption, I was worthy of all the things we all need- love, acceptance, and most of all…hope.

How amazing is that? How powerful is that? My words alone did not save me, a fantastic therapist was a huge part of the process of me piecing together the fragments of my history, to make sense of the present. But, my blog was a large part of that recovery. 

Then, in 2009, I was selected as a Blog of Note with Blogger. In one day, tens of thousands of people were viewing my blog, commenting, sending words of love and encouragement from all over the globe. What is amazing to me now, is that in all of the hundreds of comments and emails I received, not one of them was negative. Not one. I floated for days—feeling that I was in another universe from the one I had previously resided in. My words had not only healed me, they resonated with so many others. So many beautiful emails and comments came to me from people sharing their similar experiences, some of the most powerful stating that they had never opened up before until they read my words and understood that they weren’t alone.

Somehow, in the midst of the darkness I had wallowed through, I had helped someone else. More than just one person. Many. It solidified in me the belief that I was not the worst version of myself that I had grown to accept. There was more, I was more. For the first time in a decade, I cried happy tears instead of the depression soaked weeping that seemed to swallow me whole in the dark, lonely hours when I felt the world had left me behind.

The number of followers for my blog grew from 7 to 1300 in a matter of hours. And as melodramatic as this may sound, everything changed. Some blogs that I love have a million or more followers, and their authors have gone on to pen books and see some measure of fame. Although I would love that same success, the 1300 followers that I had gave me a brazen courage I hadn’t known before. I submitted my first piece for publication, an essay that I had written the day before I became a Blog of Note. The essay was accepted, and a long held dream of mine to be published came true. I could not have done this without the 1300 supporters who gave me that courage.

As the months have passed since then, turning into years full of happy milestones for me, I have been ever thankful for the community I have become a part of and the day in June, 2007 when I created my blog and typed those first humdrum words.

Somewhere in all this, I joined Facebook, and the 1300 anonymous followers grew by a few dozen or more of people that I knew. That my family knew. People I grew up with, visiting their homes, sharing vacations and sleepovers. Most of these people were lost to me due to the passage of time between high school and real life—marriages, careers, and children. Now, here they were, reading the words that I shared so freely when it was all anonymous. Reading the words that five years ago were meant for those seven original people. It was worrisome. Not for me exactly. I had shared the painful truth of parts of my life journey and I had no regrets in doing that. No regrets that anyone could read those words and know my secrets. But, it was not me alone that was mentioned, that was affected. I grew up in a small town, and everyone knew everyone. Not necessarily the truth behind closed doors, but my Facebook friends knew my family.

My mother is the one I have worried about. Although I constantly battle within myself over her level of denial, over the way her life and all of our lives have played out, I wouldn’t want to add any more pain to her life. She has gotten more than her fair share of that. She is also insanely private (which comes with the territory of the life my father created for all of us). She knows about my blog, she knows that I write about very personal things, but she has always said that it is my private space to write what I want, it is personal and she doesn’t read it. (I know this to be true because I can track locations and viewers of my blog. She has never even peeked once).

I have family members, and I use the word family loosely here, that have threatened me, blackmailed me with this blog—telling me they will share all the “horrible” things with my mother and break her heart.

So, I have struggled. What is mine to share? Is everything I have written here true? Yes. Are the passages sometimes painful in their honesty and difficult to read? Absolutely. Are there things I should just keep to myself? Of course, and I do. There are some things that I don’t need to “write through”, that would just needlessly hurt other people. I don’t do that. What I write about is what is in my heart, what has shaped my soul, what has helped save me and  helped me to face my lowest points and survive.

I watch other writers bare their souls with brilliant words on their blogs that reach into the hidden parts of me and make me weep, rejoice, and feel I have a kindred spirit somewhere out there in the world. I can’t say that my words have that kind of power, but I know that in some small way, the collection of what I have written is important. If not to the readers and followers I have, but to me. When my husband and I first started dating, I shared everything with him about my life, but I know that reading my blog helped him understand me…SEE me in a way that I might not have been able to express just in conversation. I am extremely thankful for that.

So, all I can do is tell the truth, trust my gut and keep writing. Honestly, over the last few months, I have struggled to do that. I started second guessing what was my right, what I could say, what I should share. There were stories I had to tell that lay quiet within me. I don’t want to cause anyone pain. 

But, I was caused pain and lived through pain. I did not make the choices to see what I saw growing up, to face what I had to face at times. The choice was made for me long ago, in a small house, with the speaking of vows. My history is mine. No one else can tell my stories. No one else can see things through my eyes. And as long as I know that I am only sharing because my heart calls me to, I will keep typing, keep telling, keep sharing. There were so many years of secrets and lies. Some from my family, some of my own. This was my history: secrets and lies.

Now that is behind me. My history is mine alone to share. It is my truth and my heart. The place these words come from is the purest part of me.

The truth can be hard, painful, and unyielding. But there is beauty in the truth that outlives the mystery of secrets and lies.    

I am counting on that. I’ll take my chances…and keep writing.

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Decisions, Worries, and Missing San Francisco

 

I am up tonight, struggling. Struggling to sleep, struggling to make an important decision, and struggling to understand how someone related to me can be doing horrible things that are hurtful and incredibly selfish. It frightens me.

Earlier tonight that I was scanning through San Francisco photos from my time living there, and searching out my friends from that time in my life on Facebook. It seems that when I am struggling with something, I often miss the Bay Area and try to “visit” there visually, or through my friends who still live there.

I may be romanticizing things a bit, but that was one of the happiest, most fulfilling times of my life. My only regret is that I didn’t realize how magical that time was when I was living it. Do we ever? I wonder that. Right now, I know that I am living the absolute happiest time of my life. I know that having my husband, sharing a life with him, is the fulfillment of a dream I never thought would happen. So, I do appreciate now. But, this was a dream I had given up on, so I think it is more natural that I realize what I have now, and how precious that is.

When I moved to the San Francisco area in October 1998, I had no idea what was going to happen. I had only been to San Francisco a handful of times before, and I didn’t know if I would sink or swim in a new place where I knew almost no one. Before I moved, I was living in Atlanta, Georgia, and while in San Francisco on business for my company, I found out about an opening at another company, interviewed, was hired and the new company wanted me onsite in two weeks. It was frighteningly fast, and left me no time to think. It was a blessing in that sense. I think if I had longer to think about it, I might have been too scared to go. I was so different then.

Once I was moved and working, it became evident that I had lucked into the perfect place to be at the perfect time. I was working hard, and being appreciated in a way that I never had before, in a way that I didn’t even know was possible in a workplace. I was rewarded with praise, support from upper management, and an amazing group of co-workers who made work so much fun. It was the perfect atmosphere for me, and I learned and grew so much. 

That decision in October 1998 literally made my career for me. Were it not for that decision and that position, I would not have had all of the amazing opportunities I have had since then. Sure, I have been through layoffs and work struggles. But, because of that first job in the Bay Area, I have had jobs, responsibilities, and experiences that have made me who I am…not just as a marketing professional, but as a person. I am forever grateful for that, and I know not everyone is so lucky, even when they are more than worthy through their education and work experiences.

So, I understand why I go back there in my mind when I am having inner turmoil. It is not just missing the city, I think it is also feeling comforted by those accomplishments, the appreciation, and the friendships I had there. To this day, I can email friends from that time and feel such a connection. I was so fortunate that so many people wanted me to feel welcome in a new city and a new job and went out of their way to make me feel a part of everything. I miss that. I miss them.

I have friends that mean everything to me, and for the most part, they are all scattered across the map. I am thankful for Facebook because it is so hard to keep in touch through emails and phone calls. Seeing the pictures of everyone’s growing children, sharing in birthday celebrations through status updates…I love it. I love that in that sense, we are all still connected.

I know I can’t run away from the things that are troubling me tonight. I know putting a country’s worth of distance between me and some of my family won’t really solve anything. I know that if we moved to California tomorrow, everything wouldn’t be perfect. I am just longing for a time when so many things in my life were running smoothly. I was making good money, I loved where I lived. So many of my friends were a short drive or a quick train ride away. I loved the work I did and felt appreciated. A lot of the pieces were in place. And honestly, at times and given my family history, it did help to be farther away.

My husband Shea was the only missing piece. And now that I have him, I wish I could turn back time a little and share some of those experiences with him. 

I am rereading these words and wondering if I sound crazy. 

It’s always hard, I guess. Things are never perfect. 

But, tonight, I am dreaming of the beautiful memories I have of California: My drive into work those first years when the views of the city and the Golden Gate would take my breath away, my first trip to the beaches at Inverness and the small pebbles that made up the sand, the small grocery markets with their cornucopia of beautiful produce and fresh-baked bread, my little apartment in Walnut Creek with the tall purple flowers outside my window, the quaint street in Los Altos where I spent so many Saturdays walking from shop to shop- always ending in the antique store that I loved.

Tomorrow I will wake up with the same decisions to make, the same worries, and the same struggles. I will walk outside and smell the salty air and be thankful that I can spend my lunch break with my toes in the sand if I want to. It will all be ok. But tonight, my heart is in San Francisco, and revisiting a time over a decade ago when so many things were just beginning for me, a time when I took a chance and made a sudden decision that changed everything—all for the better.

The artwork above is by Megan Nolton, view more of her beautiful work by clicking here.

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Zach Wahls: Defining Family, Defining Love

Zach Wahls, a 19-year-old University of Iowa student spoke about the strength of his family during a public forum on House Joint Resolution 6 in the Iowa House of Representatives. Wahls has two mothers, and came to oppose House Joint Resolution 6 which would end civil unions in Iowa.

You may have already seen this video-- it has gone viral, has had over 5 million views, and the number is constantly rising. If you have not seen it, I ask you to please take a few moments to hear this young man speak so eloquently from his heart.

Of the many things I take for granted that I have that others don't, I try not to ever forget how lucky I am that I found the love of my life--and we were able to get married. All it took was a little paperwork, a small fee, and by our choice, a ceremony. It both breaks my heart and simultaneously makes my blood boil that many people that I love and care about, people that have impacted and changed my life in amazing ways, people that I don't want to put in any other category except that of being dear to me--cannot marry the ones they love. Not only can they not marry, they are treated as second-class citizens in many other ways as well.

I have been so fortunate to have people in my life --both gay and straight-- that have taught me about love, equality, and acceptance. I cannot understand the lack of clarity and the depth of prejudice and discrimination all around us. Love is love. Love has no gender.

The video above is such a beautiful tribute to one young man's family-but it is also a shining example of the product of love and a loving home. Why we are still debating, judging, and arguing this issue in the year 2011 is beyond me. And how anyone can listen to this young man's articulate, powerful speech and not be moved or even changed by it will remain a mystery.

Hats off to Zach Wahls, and to the two women who raised him--obviously very well.

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Katie Granju: A Mother's Love and the Fight for Justice

 

“A mother's love for her child is like nothing else in the world. It knows no law, no pity. It dares all things and crushes down remorselessly all that stands in its path.” - Agatha Christie
 

I have watched over the last year as Katie Granju has been torn down, ridiculed, and all but ignored by the people in power in her community who were supposed to support and protect her. For those of you that read my blog, you have seen my past posts about Henry’s death and Katie’s fight. To really understand the case and what has happened, you should visit the site she and her family created to document their fight for justice.

When I first began reading Katie’s brave posts as Henry was fighting for his life, I was educated in so many ways about the true depth of a mother’s love, and about addiction and the judgment, stigmas and pain that accompany it. I learned that every addict is someone’s child, worthy of love and forgiveness. I learned a lot about my own prejudices and judgment concerning addiction. Katie changed the way that I, and countless others, viewed addiction.

Then, Henry Granju died. I remember so vividly watching the videos Katie posted on her blog of Henry as a baby, a toddler, a young boy, a teenager…he was so loved. The loss rocked Katie and her family to its core.

Then, I watched as in the midst of her grief as Katie was treated so callously by various members of the local DA’s office and the sheriff's department, all because she wanted the drug dealers that provided her son with the drugs that killed him (and also did not call for help while Henry suffered for hours) brought to justice. 

Today, I woke to see that the three key people involved in Henry’s death have been arrested on multiple felony counts. While the charges aren’t directly related to Henry’s death, these criminals are off the street. I know that if Katie and her family hadn’t kept fighting, this would not have happened. It is so sad that it took a family in the middle of unbearable grief to light a fire under the system and make this happen.

But, they did. She did.

So this morning, I write these words through tears as I have learned something else. A mother’s love is stronger than a corrupt system, painful and hateful anonymous comments, deceit and betrayal. 

One mother’s love can withstand anything and everything to find justice for her son. 

Katie Granju has taught me many things, but that I know most of all.

Click here to visit the Justice for Henry website.

Click here to read more about the arrests and indictments.

Click here to learn about Henry’s Fund, created by Henry’s family to help others struggling with addiction.

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Band of Gold

This past Christmas was special for many reasons. It was my first Christmas with my husband as his wife. We married on the one year anniversary of our first date, Nov 13. Holidays have always been a tough time in my family, and although I loved the traditions and spirit of Christmas, I was on my own during that time of year a lot before meeting my husband. Christmas with my family became a boiling point of emotions, and almost always, a showcase for my father’s alcoholism and anger. My mother desperately wanted me home each year, and I tried for many years to be there for her. But finally I realized that my self esteem was getting battered each December so much so that it took me months to recover. I quit going home and took solo trips or stayed on my own for Christmas for the last dozen years or so.

For our first Christmas together, my husband and I planned to enjoy it with each other and then spend time with his aunt and cousins who live here locally. It was special for both of us. Then, my parents announced they were traveling from their home in Florida to NC to visit our old hometown and to spend Christmas with my sister and her family. They said they would like to stop in for the night to see us on the way.

My husband marveled as I was immediately in knots after the phone call. I was worried about how they would interact with us for an extended period of time. I was almost sure the time would be uneventful, as it was only in private amongst our family that my father let loose on me—and a great source of his anger and my mother’s disappointment always seemed to be because I wasn’t married yet. It was odd that they so wanted me to enter into an institution that had seemed to have almost ruined their lives. Their marriage, for both of them, seemed both suffocating and a façade—in different ways. My father was unfaithful and kept our house in a state of tension and fear growing up. My mother lived in denial of all of his faults, but was also utterly dependent on him.

But the fact that they would behave and put on a front (as I saw it) around my husband was almost as upsetting as the alternative. While I have been so honest with my husband about my childhood, my history with my father, and their history together, it always seems so surreal to sit with them when they are on their best behavior, acting like the happiest couple in the world.

My mother later called back to clarify that they would be staying in a hotel nearby and would only really have time for a late dinner as they passed through. I was relieved, but still on an emotional roller coaster until they arrived the day before Christmas Eve.

We met at our house and then drove to a local restaurant. My father, as he always is in situations like this, was utterly charming, engaging and funny. He shared funny anecdotes about my childhood, and lovingly joked with my mother about her growing obsession with germ avoidance, a level of OCD that is quite startling. As he gestured with his hands, imitating my mother trying to avoid a public restroom doorknob, I saw it. A wedding band. On his finger. For the first time in my life.

My parents, astonishingly, have been married 50 years. When their last anniversary rolled around, I remember staring at the number in my mother’s email announcing it with much pride. Fifty years. I would never, ever have described my parents as being happy or well matched, or even in love. It has been quite the opposite, watching the fighting, the days and weeks of silence, and the violence on my father’s part. My father has also been unfaithful. Many times. I don’t let myself think how many times or with whom. I fully expect there may be half sisters or brothers out there that I don’t know and might never meet.

But in all the time I have known my parents, from the time I toddled around and inspected my mother’s necklaces and jewelry while being held, until the Christmas of last year, I have never seen my father wear his wedding band.

I knew he had one. I would often sit and rifle through my mother’s jewelry boxes-- she loved jewelry and had tons of costume jewelry as well as nice gold and diamond pieces that she often saved up for herself. I remember several times coming across his band and asking her why he didn’t wear it. I have tried to remember her exact answers. I know she seemed to always give a different one—it didn’t fit right, it hurt his hand, he just didn’t like jewelry—until I felt sad asking her, as I could see it bothered her.

About 10 years ago, my sister found out about a company that would take men’s wedding bands and stretch and mold them into the shape of a heart for the wife to wear as a pendant. Oddly enough, the company most often did this for the wives of deceased husbands, as a way for them to carry that part of him next to their heart, dangling on a gold chain. Although she had the best intentions, my stomach dropped when she told me what she had done. She had told my father about it, sneaked into the house when my mom was at work, and swiped his band to send it off. She thought that my mother would love it as a birthday present, a way to make use of a band that meant so much to her, but that my father never wore.

My mother’s reaction was not what she had hoped or expected. My mother called to talk to me later, and touched only a little on the gift- in her usual way of skirting around anything painful. She only said, I wish she had asked me first. But, to me, my mother’s voice was saying- “he will never wear it now”.  

Even when I was little, five or six, I remember knowing it was wrong that my father didn’t wear his wedding band. I didn’t fully understand the easily identifiable adult reasons for not wearing the band, but somehow, even then, I knew it was wrong. It was false. It was somehow lying.

What no one that cheats ever seems to understand is that you don’t just cheat on your spouse. Not wearing that wedding band was saying to the world—“I am connected to no one”. It was a betrayal of my mother, but also our family as a whole. As I grew up, I quickly learned the bigger reason he didn’t wear his ring, even though no one ever explained it to me- and my mother certainly never shared anything. If I believed her and her level of denial, my father was the best husband and father in the world. And I knew differently. On both counts.

So, as my father finished telling his story, I got lost across the table, and my husband took my hand and looked at me. I snapped back to reality and we finished our dinner with no outbursts or uneasiness. It was a perfectly normal dinner…from the outside.

My mother called on Christmas Day to wish us a good holiday and I asked her about the ring. She joyfully explained that she had bought it for him as a gift for their 50^th anniversary. She had been so excited by the tiny engraving on it, the style of the band, and the sale price she had found. She ignored my initial question of why he was suddenly wearing a wedding band now. 

And I am happy for her, that 49 years into her marriage, her husband, who has caused her a great deal of pain, is finally, in some way, honoring their union. I know that in their own way they have settled into getting older and realizing that they have reached the time of their lives where no one is leaving anyone and they are what they are.

But I hate that he has chosen only now to wear his wedding band. It took really having no other options for him to place a band of gold on his finger and say—this is my wife—this is my family. 

And for me, it will always be 49 years too late.

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Name Change

I have a new last name. It is bizarre after 41 years to say the name, write the name, know that it is mine. It is a gift.

I was married last Saturday, November 13 in a small church near our home. If I had handpicked one day out of the year to tie the knot, I could not have picked a better one. The weather was absolutely perfect, around seventy degrees, and if there was a cloud in the sky, I didn’t see it.

Without a doubt, I had given up on this dream ever coming true. About 3 years ago, after a combination of heartbreak, bad luck, and just life, I remember writing in my journal: I am on my own for good, I know it. I have to face that.

I didn’t have some hope off in the distance, I wasn’t writing those words to be dramatic. It was my truth. I knew it in my heart. 

I am writing these words now because I want so badly to give hope to someone out there who feels the way I did. And I want to be so clear that I was in such a low place, as low as one can get. I just remember seeing emails and stories of friends and strangers finding love, bliss, happiness, and it seemed like another species on another planet to me. Depression had an unshakable hold on me, had grabbed me with its tentacles, and pulled me into the shadows and gave me no hope of breaking free. Depression had found me as a result of many things—my childhood, failed relationships, career let downs, and my own self esteem.

Today, my life has changed. It wasn’t just because someone walked into my life and flipped a switch. It was a process of healing, therapy, and friends and family circling the wagons for me. It was a long look at myself and my life, and somehow letting love in—cracking the door enough to give my life another chance.

It was not easy. I can honestly say that the last four years of my life were the hardest because as an adult, I had to face down demons, fears, and patterns that had grown accustomed to living with me. Going through everything through the years was excruciating, but trying to relive the worst parts, dissect them, and then make sense and heal was at times worse. There were things I kept shut away, and it was easier temporarily not to put them out on the table.

My husband (I still can’t get used to saying that!) and I do not have a perfect, flawless relationship. We argue, disagree and sometimes annoy each other to pieces. But we do have an honest respect for one another. And we truly like each other as we are- flaws and all. I have never ever been in a relationship where I was myself. I couldn’t be for one reason or another. (all signs that you are in the wrong relationship). It has alarmed me how at ease I am around him, how I catch myself being totally silly or just effortlessly free.

I have realized that I have settled in the past in so many ways, and I beg of anyone reading this—man or woman—don’t settle. Not in any way, not in one cell of your being. And we all know when we are settling. That inner voice tells us. We just ignore it because we think we don’t deserve better or can’t do better. And you can. 

I have cried happy tears every day since the wedding. I have stopped and relived the happy moments of our wedding a hundred times. One of the greatest joys for me was seeing all the people who circled the wagons for me when I needed it, there with us to witness the fruits of their labor. These were the people who refused to give up on me, who saw the hope of something I couldn’t see. These are the people that built a pathway for me to take to the place I am today.

All the decisions Shea (my husband!) and I made about the wedding were the right ones. We fretted over tradition, family pain, our own beliefs, and of course, all the food and event decisions. I can’t count the number of times we have looked at each other since Saturday and said—it was all so perfect.

So many women- my friends and fellow bloggers and women who read my blog- wrote to me before the wedding and told me to try and slow down on the day of the ceremony, to drink it all in. Several women said they couldn’t remember a lot of the day- it was a blur.

I talked to Shea about this a few days before the wedding. We made a pledge to each other that we would savor the ceremony, really take care to be in the moment and drown out everything else.

As I followed my bridesmaids to the back of the aisle, I took a long deep breath. I looked around at the women who would lead me into the sanctuary. I caught a glimpse of the blue sky as we walked by the open back door of the church. And I watched my dear friends wink and wish me well as they headed down the aisle. I will never forget those moments, or the moment I stood at the back of the aisle and saw Shea’s face just as he saw me for the first moment. We never lost eye contact for a second as I walked down the aisle to him. 

It was one of the most beautiful moments of my life.

It was the beginning of my new life. 

My new life with a new name.

~~We had an amazing photographer at our wedding, the photos won't be ready for a bit. For those of you that asked and want to see them, I will post a link when they are ready. Thank you to everyone for the sweet wishes for our wedding!~~

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Circle of Love

In the last few months, with the wedding date ahead of us, my fiancé and I have been tumbling through a bittersweet time. There has been so much shared joy- first between the two of us. Both of us are 40 (ok, I just turned 41), and neither of us has ever been married. Although it may not be too uncommon these days for folks to wait to get married—or even not to get married at all—for us, it was never not wanting to get married—it was not having found the right person. We both feel such a sense of gratitude in having finally found each other. It was a long wait, and both of us doubted we would ever have this bond and this love in our lives.

The other joy has been sharing this time with family and friends, feeling the love and happiness pour over us. So many of our friends have been wishing this happiness for each of us—and to see them so happy for us is as touching as anything I have encountered. Our close friends knew how badly each of us wanted this happiness—this love--this wedding—this life. To share it with people who have been along with us for our journeys before this—all the heartbreaks, the career highs, the life losses—it is all so special. At our wedding shower last month, we looked around the room at all the people there, remembering all the milestones we have shared with so many. All the weddings, showers, birthdays, holidays, family additions…the list goes on. These people made our lives whole up until we met each other, and now the intermingling of everyone just makes everything complete.

The bittersweet explanation is the turmoil we have been dealing with that only a few close friends know about. We were betrayed and hurt by people we trusted…so deeply that I cannot find words to write. We continue to try and tiptoe through the daily reminders of this pain, a pain no couple should ever face in the days leading to their wedding. I have watched my fiancé hurt in a way I cannot completely heal, and I have shared his pain in a way I have never shared anything else with anyone. I worried for weeks that our wedding would be tarnished by this pain. I worried that these memories would somehow cast a shadow on everything—darken the day somehow.

Instead, we have found this new strength…knowing how good we are for each other, knowing how strong we are. We have had rough moments but have never for one second doubted one another. This test of us has almost, just almost been a blessing.

I had never doubted anything about the man I am marrying- his morals, his heart, his honesty, his simple goodness and inability to be false. But, even knowing that in my heart is strengthened by seeing it in action. This time of trouble has shown me who he is and who we are. It has let me know how we will handle a crisis. We are not perfect, not without flaws or the ability to make mistakes. But, in the end, in times that are as tough as these moments have been with the worst possible timing, I know that we can swim our way through together, picking up for each other where one leaves off, saving each other in the process.

If it is possible, I will walk down the aisle more sure than I could have imagined that I am headed in the right direction, into the arms of my best friend, my soulmate, my happiness. 

I am finally at the point in my life that I believe I deserve it. 

We both do.

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Yours and Mine

It is all yours and mine…

This unexpected pain

Robbing us of time

That should have been

Dedicated solely to joy.



We share the weight

We keep going, you carrying me

When I should carry you.

And all I want is the moment

Thirty days from now.



A white dress

The scent of freesia

The faces of friends turned forward

Then back to me…

I want to just be there.



Seeing you

Waiting for me

Beckoning me to take the first step

To hope

To know we are each other’s fate.



My heart worries

My soul is restless

Afraid I bring dark clouds with me

Snatching the blue from your sky

Robbing you of light somehow.



You promise me

Every day

That I am the other half of your heart

Your happiness, Your light…

Your life.



I can’t imagine

That I am to you

What you are to me-

Peace, hope, love, joy

Laughter in the darkest moments.



If you only knew

The pain you soften

With your words

The memories you erase...

The hurt you heal with a glance.



It is all yours and mine…

To take back our own sky

Paint the clouds, find the light

Hear no voices

But our own.

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Pain vs. Tradition: The Walk Down the Aisle

It’s not that far to walk. Maybe 30 feet I am guessing? It is a small church. And at the end of that walk, a part of my life will be over and a new one will begin. It will take 3 minutes or less. And yet, it is the one thing about planning this wedding that has caused me the most worry, the most heartache. It has been the one argument my fiancé and I have had over anything to do with the wedding.

Will my father walk me down the aisle?

I actually have already talked to my mother about where my father should get fitted for his tux. I have already had a disjointed conversation with her about him walking me down the aisle. I never called her to formally ask. He and I have not really spoken in over a year. The last time we spoke was by necessity at a family gathering for Christmas last year. My mother called me a few months ago once I started to plan the wedding, simply asking what my father should wear to walk me down the aisle.

It seems easy enough to those outside the situation. Knowing my history with my father, knowing my feelings about him, knowing the pain he has caused in my life—NO—he should not have the honor of walking me down the aisle. It seems easy enough.

Do I want him to? No. Mainly because I have had to take care of myself for a long time. I may have done a poor job of it at times, but I have had to find a way to navigate through this world, to honestly survive my relationship with him. It was his voice I heard in my head for the better part of my life. The voice that made me doubt myself, that made me make choices I would not have made otherwise. The voice that told me I wasn’t worth a healthy relationship or belief in myself. The voice that constantly made me doubt myself and at times hate myself. That voice I heard—his voice-- became my voice. I was 36 years old before I even began unraveling that mystery; before I began to try and hear my own self in there. Before I realized it was his voice and not mine I had been hearing.

This isn’t about breaking with tradition. For me, tradition went out the window years ago. I could care less about wedding etiquette or rules, or what people see as right or wrong. A lot of people don’t know the truth about what went on in my house growing up, or who my father was behind closed doors, or who he is now. So yes, there might be questions at the wedding, but that isn’t it either.

It begins and ends with my mother. Although I have wanted to pummel her at times over the years for concentrating on nothing but the fact that I wasn’t married, that I was getting older and was going to end up ALONE, that I was going to get too old to have children—I am happy that she is getting to see this happen. It has worried her to death—almost literally. I know she only wanted my happiness as she completely missed the irony that she was begging for me to enter into an institution that had brought her nothing but pain, disappointment, and loneliness. I know that it will be one of the happiest days in her life to be at my wedding. And I think she has had too few of them. I know if I tell her (because I will have to tell her since my father and I don’t speak) that I do not want him walking me down the aisle, that it will be she who suffers. She will hear him venting, he may refuse to come, and my mother is at times dependent on him when traveling. Not because of any illness or anything like that, she just relies on his opinion, almost his permission, to do anything.

My mother is living in the biggest state of denial I have ever witnessed. Part of this is that in her world, we are the perfect family, have had no issues or dysfunctions to speak of, and every holiday has been a Normal Rockwell painting. My wedding is just another painting in progress, and everything should be in place: the bride in white, the handsome groom, the three tiers of cake, and the father walking the daughter down the aisle.

As much as I want to just let it go, and do the easy thing…I woke up yesterday asking myself who this was easy for. I have, too many times in my life tried my very best to make things good for everyone else. And to be honest, because I grew up living my mother’s denial, I too kept up appearances that everything was normal, if not wonderful in my family for many years. You can learn denial and keeping secrets just like you learn everything else. Everyone at college went home for Christmas and excitedly talked about relatives not seen all year, presents, family meals, and just happiness. At times I even made up stories, or at least very heavily embellished what I had to look forward to. The truth was, Christmas was one of the most painful times of year for me. There were several Christmases that my father either made me leave the house (on Christmas Eve) or things became so explosive that I had to leave. I wasn’t a problem teenager. I didn’t come home with a tattooed boyfriend or a pregnancy announcement or any of the other afterschool-special problems that might send a parent over the edge, even at Christmas. It was as if just my existence, my very being, and all the disappointments I had become were too much for him to handle without loads of alcohol and profanity spewed in my direction. It took me awhile to stop trying to be the last missing piece in my mother’s Rockwell painting, coming home to make it complete for her. Finally, I started taking vacations at Christmastime, saving my vacation time at work, and not always being honest with those who I knew about where I was going. No one wants to hear that you are spending Christmas alone, even if it is in Maui or Paris. It is best to just let people assume you are heading home with the rest of the world.

I took baby steps in trying to preserve my sanity. Not going home for holidays, and then not visiting when my father was home. I felt guilty making things hard on my mother, but had to, at some point, save myself.

And in about two months, I am getting married. It will be one of the most important and happiest days of my life. And though it may seem like an easy decision one way or the other…to spare my mother’s feelings or to say no to someone who doesn’t deserve the honor…it isn’t easy. But, I have waited so long for this. For this love. I honestly had completely given up on it happening for me. And the joy I have had in my life for the almost ten months I have been with my fiancé has changed my life and made me stronger. I honestly believe I had to learn to love again, and my fiancé has taught me. They say you have to love yourself before you can love someone else. I think for the most part, that is true. But sometimes, you can’t see yourself until someone else sees you. Believes in you. Helps you hear their voice and your own above everyone and everything else. And that has happened for me.

The thought of even the gesture of letting my father walk me down the aisle makes my stomach hurt, makes me angry, makes me sad.

The thought of walking myself down the aisle, toward the man I love, toward my new life makes me nothing but happy.

Maybe it is an easy decision after all.

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Cherry Grove

I never thought of living here—in the Myrtle Beach area. This was a place my family vacationed when I was a child, specifically in Cherry Grove. My parent’s best friends had a family beach house there, and some of my happiest memories of childhood are those weeks we spent together, our families comingled, sharing bedrooms, bathrooms, beach towels, and sunscreen.

Since we were spending time with their closest friends and their small children, most of the tension of my family was left behind as soon as we headed south in the direction of Cherry Grove. I remember just loving the sound of those two words- Cherry Grove. It meant a week of laughter, good food, and feeling almost normal. I have known the Harris family since I was six years old, have spent as much time with them as any of my extended family, and have always been in awe of the happiness in their house, their family—that has only grown more beautiful over the years. I feel so lucky that I grew up spending so much time with them, really seeing firsthand what a healthy marriage and family looked like- what it felt like. And I always felt at home in their house- and still do to this day.

Once we were all at the beach, the minute we drove up to their orange and brown house on stilts, I felt relaxed and more myself than most any other time. I loved the Harris’ daughters as if they were my own sisters, and reveled in the role of big sister—and the opportunity to do it for a whole week was thrilling to me.

I couldn’t tell you the exact years we started going to the beach, or when everyone’s schedules got too busy and children grew up, moved away, and finally the house stopped being a gathering place. But of all the places I have traveled and lived, Cherry Grove held a special place in my heart.

I remember so well waking up in the mornings on vacation, slipping on a swimsuit still damp from the day before, finding flip flops (mine or someone else’s) and trekking the block to the beach. I can still see pictures in my mind—photographs we would get developed after the trip, showing one of the Harris girls as a toddler in a tiny, baby-sized bikini on the beach, eating fistfuls of sand, usually with me hovering somewhere nearby, laughing, the ocean breeze sweeping my hair to one side.

Nighttime was spent with us all gathered in the kitchen, seemingly everyone cooking something, eating until we felt we would burst; or we would all head out to dinner, trading children in each other’s cars and heading to Calabash to eat fried seafood in a restaurant overlooking the water.

Slipping into bed at night, my skin still felt warm from soaking up the sun all day, and I felt more a part of a normal family than any other time.

But I never thought of living here. This was a vacation spot. I think there was also some magical association I had with the time I had spent here, and the thought of marring those memories would have been too risky. Better to leave those experiences safe and in the past—and not return to see a reality of some sort, or create any unhappy association.

Then, when I met my fiancé, one of the first trips we took together was to this area. He had also grown up vacationing here, but had continued that tradition himself as an adult through the years. He also had an almost magical view of this area, and said he had hoped to retire here one day. He had dreamed of living here, but never saw a way for it to work out.

And then, in a bit of a whirlwind, we got serious, his work situation changed, my work situation changed, and I made inquiries about a job here. Neither of us thought it was likely we would really be able to end up here, but it was nice to entertain the idea and put a few feelers out. His dream became my dream.

It all popped into place so quickly, it is still hard to believe. And as much as I am thrilled to be here with him writing our love story, I see the signs for Cherry Grove and I am taken back immediately, decades ago. I almost wish I could go back and tell that girl—me at 12 years old—that all the love I needed, all the things I hoped for—were going to find me—a little farther down the line than I might like—but in a place I treasured. This beach, these roads, these places I knew and loved would one day be home for me…in more ways than I could have imagined.

In the past month as I searched for a church for us to get married, I googled information, called churches and pastors, and drove around looking for a place that felt right. One night, I came across a Facebook page for a little church nearby. I called the next day and made an appointment to visit. The moment I walked into the sanctuary, I knew this was where we would say our vows. And the address, of course, is Cherry Grove. I can’t imagine a better place for this new beginning, this new chapter of our lives. I will walk down the aisle in a church in a city that held nothing but happiness for me, and that happiness will continue... right where I left off so many years ago.

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An Open Letter to Men Who Cheat

After watching in disgust over the last months as John Edwards, Tiger Woods and Jesse James all had their dirty laundry aired before a world-wide audience, I have found myself relating to the women and children who are dealing with the pain of those betrayals. I know all too well the embarrassment and shock that comes from finding that someone you loved and trusted is not the person you believed them to be—nor is your life what you imagined. It has, quite possibly, all been a lie.

I know women cheat, and are as guilty as men of this behavior, but I can only speak from the side I know, and so I offer this open letter to men who cheat. To clarify, I am specifically writing this letter to men who cheat who are husbands and fathers.

To Men Who Cheat:

Perhaps you got married too young. Perhaps you married the wrong person and know it now. Perhaps there is nothing wrong in your marriage and you can’t help yourself. Whatever the reason you are stepping outside of your marriage—whether it is once, twice, or too many times to count—you have no excuse. You may think—if only you knew MY situation. Well, I do. I grew up watching my parents in a broken marriage and knowing my father was cheating. I knew it before I knew what cheating meant. I knew it before I knew what sex was. I knew it and learned it before I learned what it meant to fall in love or be in love.

You may say that there was no way for a child of four to know all that. You would be wrong. While I didn’t know the details, I overheard arguments my parents swear (to this day) that I could not have heard because they took care to be quiet. Even when I recite word for word things I heard at four years old and still remember verbatim, they deny it. They deny it as the shock washes over their faces that I could say those words. Words they DID speak over thirty years ago. Words I have never once forgotten. Words I recorded in my head, words I didn’t understand the meaning of. But each syllable remained in my brain until each year passed and I understood their definitions.

Not only are you hurting someone that at least at one time you cherished—adored—loved—enough to stand in front of a churchful of people, and/or God, or just everyone you knew and loved on both sides of your families and someone legally allowed to unite you—and said—YOU are the one, and I will do right by you, honor you. Not only are you hurting this woman, changing her life, demeaning her, disrespecting her, hurting her in ways she could never have imagined…you aren’t just cheating on her. You are cheating on the children you brought into this world.

If I know you, and I do, you have somehow separated the two things completely. What is going on with you and your mistress(es) has NOTHING to do with your children. You love your children unconditionally. And they love you the same way. And therein lies the key. You expect their unconditional love despite your actions. And you will get it. And it won’t cost you a thing. But, it will cost them everything.

No matter how careful you believe you are, how little you think your wife knows, how justified you think you are for what you are doing, know that, in addition to damaging your wife’s self esteem, your children’s self images will be redrawn by your choices. You can shake your head reading these words. But, beyond a shadow of a doubt, it will happen.

Your son may grow to resent you for your treatment of his mother, but somehow, inexplicably in the torment of learning what we live as children, he may grow up to do the same thing, cause the same pain, repeating what may be a never-ending cycle of broken vows and lost faith.

Your daughter may grow up to date and/or marry men who treat her just as you are treating your wife now. And somehow, no matter how hard she tries to choose differently, she will always end up with this same type of man. And the cycle will continue as her children learn what they live.

And this I can promise you. No matter how your children end up, at one time or another, and maybe always, they will somehow blame themselves for what you have done. It makes no sense, and you may believe there is no possibility of this. But, they will. They do. Right now. They believe if only they had done something different, you wouldn’t have torn their family apart, wouldn’t have made such an important and devastating choice.

So, as you make a list of all the reasons you are justified, or even if you feel you don’t need to explain yourself to anyone… ask yourself this: is it REALLY worth it? Is a lifetime of damage and pain that will repeat itself for generations…is that worth it?

It’s not. I promise you. Some words of advice…if you are headed in the cheating direction…be a man. Step up to the plate and either make a choice to heal your marriage—or leave. How many times have those of us who grew up in these households heard that our parents stayed together for the children? This gift you are giving us is a ticking time bomb. This gift of “staying” is a prison sentence for everyone involved. Show us (your children) that real adults face the end of things and respect everyone involved enough to do the hard things. To make the hard choices. To do the right thing even when it isn’t easy. Teach us how to be honest, to make tough decisions, to treat people with respect.

Perhaps none of this will happen. Perhaps you will never be caught. Perhaps if you are (or have already been) caught, there will be no repercussions. Perhaps your wife will remain whole and unscarred, and your children will grow up to find the love you somehow didn’t, and have the healthiest of relationships, the happiest of families. Perhaps. And maybe you won’t regret what you are doing or have done. Maybe it won’t matter one bit.

But, ask yourself…how likely is that?

Read the words I have written above, read almost every entry on this blog. I am your daughter, decades from now, all grown up, living with the choices you have made or are making.

I can answer a lot of questions for you.

I can tell you how my life has been changed, altered and damaged by these choices you have made or are making, how it still affects my life even as I have just celebrated my 40th birthday.

Trust me.

It matters.

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Back in Time

A few years ago I was browsing in a little antique shop and saw a tattered wicker basket filled with photos. I sat down in a chair much older than me and started flipping through the photos. My family has very few old pictures as my mother and father grew up very poor- and the few pictures they took or had taken were an extravagance. So, looking at the worn sepia and black and white images, actually holding them in my hands, fascinated me.
I remember vividly coming across a wedding photo, the bride and groom’s apparel hinting at the era they belonged to. The picture was in a heavy cardboard frame that folded with a flap like a greeting card to reveal the picture inside.

I stared at that couple, the nervousness on the bride’s face, the humorous look of boredom on the groom’s. I turned over the photo to find the studio and the year the photo was taken, but no trace of a hint as to the identity of the people in the picture.

Even then, I couldn’t explain to myself why I wanted to buy it, but I did. And I started a little collection of vintage photos that I have added to over the years.

At first I thought I would just collect old wedding photos, and started keeping my eyes open when I traveled or wherever I saw an antique store—especially one I hadn’t been to yet. But then, as I sifted through photos over the years, others would speak to me somehow—a group of men photographed for a formal occasion with tan lines across their foreheads from working outdoors in hats, a seemingly ancient schoolroom with children all dressed in their Sunday best-looking solemnly into the camera, a sepia photograph of a mother holding her baby in her arms-gazing at her with such love and intention that it almost made me weep.

Without fail, I always wonder how these pictures have ended up where they are. I sit in a small damp store surrounded by items discarded or sold from another generation, and have trouble understanding. I can see tables and mirrors, knick knacks and dishes finding their way to a store a lifetime later, but family photos? Photos of weddings, christenings, holiday photos—how do those get separated from the family?

Having gone to many an estate sale in my time, I know that the odds and ends of a family can find their way to the auction block or for sale after everyone has picked through and chosen the things they want from family members that have passed. But these intimate photos stare back at me from another era and I have to wonder how they landed in my photo box—what journey brought them here and how did they get lost in the first place?

So there is some weird pull that I feel, almost to give these photos, these families a resting place.

The photos that I do have of my family, my grandparents, and my childhood photos are precious to me—even with my background with my family—it’s the history of those photos that mean something to me. Watching from one generation to the next as my parents left poverty to build an upper middle class life when the odds and their lack of education made that seem impossible. Seeing my grandmother’s eyes return in my mother’s face and then in mine. Seeing the resemblance of cousins, aunts, and great grandmothers in the mirrored reflection I see every morning. And maybe most importantly, seeing how my parents grew up—even with just a few photos—when trying to make sense of who they are…who we are.

I love looking into the eyes of these strangers and trying to imagine who these people were, what their lives were like, where they ended up, who they became, what they were thinking in the moment the camera clicked. I won’t have answers for any of these questions I am sure, but I keep collecting these pieces of history and adding them to my photo box, wondering what mystery I will find next.

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