Posted by: lolalately | September 7, 2012

Disclaimer (the fine print)

Disclaimer

 

All images, unless otherwise noted, were taken from the Internet and are assumed to be in the public domain.

These images are not presented as my own work, unless I note it under the specific post.

Copyright still belongs to the owner / creator of each work.

In the event that there is still a problem or error with copyrighted material,

the break of said copyright is neither intentional and not for profit in any way.

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Posted by: lolalately | September 7, 2012

Floating

I’ve wanted to blog all week, and yet I’m not sure that I should write today. I have so much I need to get out, want to get out, but I’m afraid it will all come tumbling out in a rush and not make much sense. Maybe that’s a disclaimer. Maybe it’s just a sad yet accurate description of where I am today. I’m floating. Floating between frustration and indifference. Floating on waves of sadness and exasperation. Floating between layers of doubt and sureness. But floating nonetheless.

My husband travels for a living. He’s an airline pilot, so every few days he disappears into thin air for somewhere between 10 and 20 hours until he’s back on terra firma and sends me the same tired text message; “OTFG” … “on the fucking ground”.  Sometimes “otfg” is followed by the airport code for the city he’s just landed in, but more often than not, it’s just that 4 letter acronym that lets me know his aircraft has safely landed, and that I’ll hear from him within the next two hours.

And though he calls while he’s away, there used to be days when we’d talk a dozen times, and sometimes for hours on end. We don’t talk that long or that often anymore. Not while he’s gone, not when he’s home. I think sometimes we’ve run out of things to talk about. Even when we do talk, I have to admit I don’t always pay complete attention to what he’s saying. Sometimes I just wait for the silence. I wish for it.

I used to hate it when he left, I hated the silence, the emptiness and loneliness I felt in his absence. I don’t hate it anymore, although I still occasionally tell him I do. Sometimes I actually long for it, long for him to go, to return me to my silence. Where I don’t have to talk, don’t have to listen, don’t have to think. Yes, some days, I just want to cocoon myself in silence and simply float there.

If it sounds like I don’t love my husband, I do. I’m not sure I can define that love, although I used to be able to. Maybe I’ve grown more realistic about love. Maybe I’ve come to realize that the love I’d imagined isn’t a love that truly exists. Or maybe I’ve just been hurt, lied to, disappointed, betrayed and played so often, that love just doesn’t really matter anymore. See? I told you I was afraid all my thoughts would come tumbling out, and indeed, that’s what’s happening. Deal with it. I have to.

When I woke up this morning I phoned my husband (who’s in China). It was nearing midnight his time and I figured he’d be headed to bed, if he wasn’t there already, and I wanted to hear his voice. He’s forever telling me to call anytime, day or night. But he knows from our history that I’m pretty careful not to call in the middle of the night (not wanting to disrupt his rest) and I don’t call often.

He didn’t sound happy to hear from me, and that hurt my feelings. I felt rushed to end the call. Like he had something better to do. And after we said our goodbyes, I sent him a text telling him how I felt. Hey, he’s the one always preaching to me to “be honest”, “say what you mean”, “don’t hold back”.

My text to him read; 

“Hmmm, you didn’t sound very happy to hear from me. Is it my imagination? Or is my gut instinct that I interrupted something spot on? No need to call back. Sleep well.”  Oh I admit that my tone was accusatory, even damning. I intended it to be. Why pussy foot around the issue?

We’ve been here before. Many times. And though his standard behavior is DENY & DEFLECT … I no longer buy the bullshit. I also don’t care nearly as much as I used to. Of course, it still stings to think my husband may betray me, but I’m used to it. I know it’s not about me, it’s entirely about him, and in my heart, I happen to think all men are dogs. There, I said it. ALL MEN ARE DOGS. They all want to sniff someone else’s junk, they all want to leave their mark, they all care far more about the chase than the prey. Yep, that’s my opinion of men. And if I became single tomorrow (not that I wish for that) I would have absolutely no use for a man, ever again. I can kill my own bugs, I can paint my own walls, I can make myself cum. I need a man like a fish needs a bicycle.  

I can hear it now; “bitter, party of one, your table’s ready” … lol … And I can’t deny it. The bitterness floats right above the anger.

My therapist, our marriage counselor, asked me months ago if I could go on being married to my husband knowing there would likely continue to be “gray areas” in our marriage. Gray areas being those situations that gut instinct and common sense tell you exist despite your partner’s best denials. I had to take a week or so to think about it, and I concluded that though I’d try, the truth is, I just don’t know. It’s that floating thing again. Floating between the marriage I’d always wanted and dreamed of and the marriage I actually have. So today I’m floating there again. I’d like to believe him when he says my accusations are unfounded … but I still have my doubts. And when he responds as he did with something so asshole-stupid as; “sometimes I think I should just go out and fuck around since I’m accused of it so often, I might as well do it”,  I felt absolutely no guilt or shame in replying; “sometimes I think about going out and fucking every man I can find just to rub your nose in what it feels like to be on the receiving end of bullshit and lies.” How’s that “don’t hold back” crap working for ya?

Gray areas and floating. One in the same. Today the sky is gray, my heart feels cold, and I’m floating here alone … in silence.

Float on ~  Lola

 

Posted by: lolalately | August 17, 2012

What I know for sure: Relationship Truths

Preferring to think myself something of an original, I rarely if ever re-post entries from other bloggers. I’m making an exception to that tonight, because this is simply too good NOT to share. What follows is a re-post from TWISTEDLOLA (http://twistedlola.wordpress.com) … who is not related to THIS Lola. I hope you’ll take away something to ponder just as I did when I first read her post. ~ Lola

12Aug

“A promise is a promise. Don’t promise anything if there is a doubt you may break that promise to someone.  It opens the door to continuous let downs if you don’t follow through.

Don’t date a married man or a married woman.  Married is married.  They belong to someone else.  Almost divorced, separated, living apart but almost divorced, “I don’t love her/him anymore”…still MARRIED.  You deserve better than any married person half-assing a relationship with you.  They are selfish if they pursue you.  PERIOD.

When someone wants to leave a relationship, don’t ever beg or try to reason with them to stay. Love doesn’t run. Let them leave.  Our greatest stories are tied to those who want to be a part of our lives.  The ones who leave are just little excerpts to help us get to the next chapter.

A person needs to realize their own self-worth, and until you realize your own self-worth, no one else will either.  Realize how truly amazing and wonderful you are. Right now.

What you put up with, you end up with. If a person keeps doing something you don’t like or are not comfortable with, there is a reason for it.  It usually means they put their feelings/wants above your own or they simply don’t value your thoughts.  There is nothing wrong with YOU getting to decide if you will accept those things.  Just make that decision and only blame yourself if you keep getting the same mediocre results because of what YOU allowed.

Gut feelings should be trusted.  Especially if the same situation is repeating.  It’s alright to be open and honest about how you’re feeling when your gut is feeling a bit “off”.  Don’t feel badly for wanting to trust yourself.

It’s not always rainbows and butterflies, it’s compromise that moves us along.  Thank you, Maroon 5 and Adam Levine, who I really, really love.  I fell in love with “She will be loved” and cannot get that song outta my head.

Be with someone who truly values you as a person.  One who accepts you just for YOU.  No comparisons to others.  Don’t be with anyone who wants to change you.  Don’t let anyone compare you to another.  It’s more about them than it is about you when they want to change who you are.  Love yourself and know this.

Be with someone who won’t hurt you intentionally.  And if they do, don’t give them another chance to hurt you again.  Don’t tolerate anyone hurting you.  There is someone out there that would do ANYTHING to never see you cry or to always see you smile.

If a person breaks your heart and wants to make amends, make them work for it.  Make them really work for it.  Value yourself first, and make them value you as well.  Don’t tolerate mediocre behavior.  There is someone out there just waiting to treat you like the fabulous person that you really are.  Make them work for it.

Words need to match actions. Period.  Don’t let anyone half-ass any relationship with you.

I believe that if someone truly loves you, you’ll know it.  They will show up for you.  You won’t have to question anything.  They won’t want you to forget.  And they won’t disappear or deliberately ignore you.

Excuses and blame put on you is a person not taking ownership of their own feelings or actions.  Call “bullshit” on that.   Only own your own emotions and feelings.  You only have the ability to control you own stuff.

*******************************************

These were and are really hard “truths” that I have learned over the last year.  I hope they help you, too!  I want to pull these out whenever I forget my own value and self-worth while inside of any relationship that I may question, especially in the future!

It IS really OK to put yourself first.  Really.

Maybe the hardest relationship is the one with ourselves….”

Posted by: lolalately | August 12, 2012

Trashing Dreams

People who know me well know these simple truths about me;

I’d rather have peace than be “right”.

I’d like to be remembered for my kindness rather than anything else.

I’ll support animal charities over people charities every single time.

I HATE, HATE, HATE the house I live in, with what I believe is a passion as fierce as Satan.

I believe we do not miss what we do not have, and therefore, I no longer dream of having.

Those last two are very much intertwined, and with good reason. Before I lived in this house, I was a happily single woman living a rather carefree life in a small apartment shared with two cats. Walking into my home one was always greeted by a basket of flipflops and an invitation to trade in your shoes for something comfy … you were now entering the “I wanna be at the beach” zone. My apartment was awash in a sea of soothing beachy colors, sea shells, soft lighting, plush pillows, and coffee table books full of picturesque sea side villages, beaches, and the sea. My apartment wasn’t about perfection, it was about something much more valued. Nothing about my home suggested I lived in the middle of the desert. And thank God for that, because I freakin’ hate the desert. How the hell I ended up here, is another story for another day (and a tall Long Island Iced Tea for good measure). But since I was stuck in the desert, I decided to make my home the mirage I needed to get through the day.

I got a lot of compliments about that apartment; how calm it always felt, how welcoming it was, how it made friends relax. More importantly, it made me relax. It was my haven, a sanctuary to which I gladly escaped after a day of fighting the hellish traffic of Arizona’s highways and the lunatic boss I did my best to avoid most days. I actually looked forward to going home, and it was a home … MY home … all mine.

During the first few weeks of dating my husband he would often drive us down a particular road through a neighborhood that looked for all the world like it had been plucked from another time. Lined with big trees and dotted with large homes accented with pastures with horses, I could forget the noise and hustle of the city we’d just left, if even for a few minutes. And as he drove, he would always stop at the top of one side street and glance wistfully to his left at one certain house. The first couple of times he did it, I said nothing, thinking it was just a house he admired and perhaps hoped to own himself one day.

And then one day as he stopped in the same spot, he turned to me and asked what I thought of the house. To me it was just a house. Nothing special, nothing to be envied, and I said as much. And immediately regretted it when he told me that it was his house. In fact it was the house his soon-to-be-ex lived in with his little girl, and the ex’s two older children whom he’d adopted. Ah, I thought, no wonder he stopped to look at the house every chance he got. It made complete sense now. But it was still just a house to me, and not one I gave much more thought to.

Around that same time he casually asked me why I still lived in an apartment (he felt apartments were for young people, and that mature adults owned houses). It was then I told him my philosophy; “you don’t miss what you don’t have”. He seemed to accept my rationale, but went on to ask if I ever dreamed of having a house of my own. Back then I did sometimes dream of such grandiose things, along with whirlwind travel, big diamond rings, and happy marriages. Not long after that his divorce was finalized and his house was returned to him. He would be moving out of my apartment, back into the home he loved. Sadly, he wasted no time telling me how much he disliked apartment living. This despite my apartment having become his own haven. He’d spent many a relaxing and happy hour in my little apartment … or so I’d thought. Having been kicked out of his house when he’d filed for divorce, he’d been sleeping at his mother’s house until after six weeks of dating, I’d impetuously offered him a key to my apartment, and invited him to move in. A decision I will go to my grave regretting.

He wasted no time in gathering and filling boxes with the belongings that now littered my livingroom and filled my bedroom. He’d only been living with me some eleven months, but it seemed as if he’d taken over my little beach shack, mostly with legal paperwork. As coincidence sometimes will have it, it was during this same period that my lease came up for renewal. Since the boyfriend had made no mention of our co-habitation continuing, I could only imagine that he planned to move back to his home, and I would stay put in mine. That thought saddened me. I thought we were happy living toghether. I knew I was in love with him, and he’d said he was in love with me, although I had my doubts.  Still, when my landlord issued a ten-day notice to either renew my lease or advise them of my move-out date, I felt I had no choice but to ask my boyfriend what if any plans he had for “us”. I should have remained silent, and just renewed the damned lease, but back then, I still dared to dream of better things. The boyfriend said he “just figured” I’d move with him (why hadn’t he said so?) and so that’s what I did. I gave the apartment manager 30-days notice, and began my own packing up.

On August 1st of 2003 I entered this house for the first time. Oh how I wish I’d run right back out that door, back to the peaceful place I’d come from, but I didn’t. I wanted to please him. I wanted to love his home because he did. I wanted it to become our home. And I was foolish enough to believe that was possible.

I won’t go into the details of the disaster we found when we entered the house. I won’t elaborate beyond sharing that every single exterior door was booby-trapped to cause glass breakage as we opened it, I won’t detail all the drugs we found deliberately hidden throughout the house that eventually necessitated us involving the Sheriff’s department and demanding the services of a drug dog, or the urine that had been sprayed inside kitchen cupboards and up and down the entryway walls. What I will say is that the house made me cry like nothing ever has. It was completely and utterly uninhabitable for a good solid two weeks, and required carpets to be removed, along with deep, intense cleaning, repainting, and removal of trash the likes of which I hope never to see again in my life.

When the cleaning and repairs were done, we moved in, and I set about trying to turn the house into a home. I hung pictures of his children and his parents, along with a couple of us. I put personal touches that I thought would please him wherever I could. The house was his; it looked like him and it felt like him, with evidence of his hobbies and career everywhere.There was precious little “me” in the house. No trinkets of my past, no pictures of my family, other than photos of my cats on my bedside table. I felt temporary here, it didn’t feel like home to me, in fact I was mourning the loss of my “home”, but I didn’t know that then. I actually felt rather numb. I’d get up early each weekday and make the now longer commute to my office where I’d spend an average of ten to twelve hours, then another long commute back to the house.

It took some time before I realized that I didn’t refer to the house as “home”, it was always just “the house” to me. Now, some nine long years later, it is still not my home. It will never be my home. It is the house my husband lived in and owned with two previous wives; one I’ve never met, and one who has been hell bent on destroying or at least hurting me for the past ten years. Every single time I walk into this house, I am reminded of her presence in my life. The kitchen was remodeled to please her, the wine rack and china cabinet were installed to her specifications, the arched doorways were her idea. She may not live here, but its’ still her house … she is everywhere. I feel her in this house, every single day. She’s a ghost I cannot exorcise.

Despite the presence of my little trinket box collection atop the mantle, my family photos on the sofa table, my book case in the corner, my crystal in the cabinet, it still does not feel like my home, and I still refer to this place as “the house”. A house that I hate. A house that could burn down tomorrow, and as long as my animals and husband and I were out … I wouldn’t bat an eye. We can’t sell the place because like many Americans, we’re upside down financially. My husband knows how I feel about the house. He’s always known. From the very start he promised me we wouldn’t be here more than three years. That was nine years ago.

I recently came across a folder in which I’d collected images of homes and decorating tips. Things I spent years tearing from magazines for the home of my own that I dreamed of having. I tossed it into the trash, but my husband fished it out. Yesterday I found it in his home office, but since he’s out of town, he won’t see it’s been tossed into the trash until it’s too late. The folder is there, but it’s empty now. Just like the dreams I once had. You don’t miss what you haven’t got.

Lola

 

Posted by: lolalately | August 2, 2012

I should’ve known better

For me, watching wedding shows is a bit like gawking at an accident while you’re driving down the highway. You know it’s going to be grim, maybe even haunting, but you can’t stop yourself from looking. I should know better. Nearly seven years after my own wedding, it’s still tremendously painful to recall the event, and it’s equally painful to watch tv shows about proposals and weddings. But I do it anyway, rubbing salt in old wounds that will not heal.

Like many girls I grew up with, I dreamed of meeting my Prince Charming, falling in crazy-mad love, eventually having him present me with a beautiful ring and a heartfelt proposal, and the dream wedding that would follow. Only it didn’t happen that way, and it’s something I still have not made peace with. I should’ve known better than to hope for a perfect day. Back then it’s fair to say there was little perfection in my life, and expecting my wedding day to be the exception was foolish at best.

My husband and I met online. We met when I was at something of a crossroads in my life. My career was going well, but my personal life seemed to be on permanent hold. I’d stopped dating altogether after a disastrous end to a brief relationship with a worm of a man who’d hidden the fact that he was married. The entire year that I did not date anyone was spent in serious introspection, not to mention repeated testing for HIV. Thankfully the sob didn’t leave me with a disease, just a broken heart, and a renewed lack of trust in men in general. Still, loneliness is a powerful motivator, and when a co-worker announced that she was entering the minefield of on-line dating, I was curious.

After reviewing my on-line options, I decided to follow her lead, and I signed up with the website “Date.com”. I posted a fairly brief bio, without a photo, and sat back to await my fate. Within a day my date.com inbox had action. But as I sat at my computer reading email after email, all I could think was; WTF? More than half of the emails were from inmates at a state correctional facility. Not date material by my standards. Was it me? Was my profile somehow inviting this unwanted attention? Was any attention better than none? No, no, and no … it wasn’t me, my profile was perfectly ok, and being alone was far preferable to being a prison visitor. It was time to find another way to meet Prince Charming.

Enter “Match.com” … another on-line dating website my co-worker seemed to be having success with. I decided to punch up my bio, but I still left off the photo. I wanted to meet someone who didn’t judge his books by their covers. Again, my profile got some play, and soon I was meeting men for coffee at a local Starbucks. It’s only fair to say here that there was nothing essentially “wrong” with the men I was meeting, they just weren’t quite “right”. Not for me at least. I’m not interested in sports, or Nascar, I don’t care who the Laker’s trounced and when you say the word “camping” to me … my mind goes immediately to such websites as Travelocity, Orbitz or 1-800-Hilton.

They were nice enough guys, they just weren’t the guys for me. That said, meeting all these men at my local Starbucks did afford me the opportunity to get to know the evening barista, and for her to immediately call out “Skinny Vanilla Latte, extra ice” when I walked through the door. Then again, maybe meeting a new guy every evening, and sticking around long enough to have just a single iced skinny vanilla latte, wasn’t such a good thing. Maybe they thought I was a “working girl” meeting her clients since we were usually in and out in fifteen minutes or so. I should’ve known better, and switched locations now and then.

So when I complained to my co-worker that Match seemed to be no better than Date, she looked me straight in my face and said; “Maybe it’s you. Maybe your picker is broken.” Hmmm, could she be onto something there? Later that week I changed my Match.com profile preferences allowing Match to do my man-shopping, and asked that they email me only potential matches that were a 80 to 100% match. The following morning I awoke to an email from Match.com containing not one, but two 100% matches to my dating profile.

The first one was a no-brainer for me, in that one look at his profile picture and I just knew Mr GQ Magazine spent more time in front of the mirror than I did. The wind-swept hair, the upturned collar of his Polo shirt, and the (probably) cashmere sweater tossed casually over his shoulders screamed HIGH MAINTENANCE to me. But the other 100% match had  possibilities.

Here was a guy whose profile made it clear that he was well travelled, and that he was familiar with some places I truly loved. It was also clear that he was a pilot, as he was sitting in an airplane I didn’t recognize, looking completely disinterested in having his picture taken. Pilot’s are like that; single minded, focused, purposeful. I should’ve known better. After all, at the time I worked for a software company whose sole focus was the airline industry. I worked very closely with the airlines, and had regular contact with their pilots. So much so that I’d developed a personal philosophy of never dating a pilot. They were whiners, complaining about everything from a sliver of daylight peaking through their hotel room curtains to having to arrange their own wake-up calls.

Like I said, I should’ve known better, but here I was, emailing the pilot a pithy hello, inviting him to “get to know me”. And I still did not enclose a photograph.

He responded to my email the following morning, suggesting we meet for lunch or dinner and asking for a photo. He also told me the Cliff’s Notes version of his life up to that point. Where most women would likely have run in the opposite direction at the mention of an impending divorce, I was unfazed. I wasn’t looking to marry the guy that week, I just wanted someone to have some fun with, maybe travel with now and then, and yes, I wanted intimacy. I’d been celibate an entire year and now with my clean bill of health, I wanted sex.

We decided to get to know one another through email first, and I agreed to send him a photo. He seemed pleased with what he read and saw, and after a week of emailing back and forth, I agreed to meet him for coffee. This time there would be no Starbucks. Later that week, I walked into a local Coffee Plantation coffee shop and met a man I could spend more than fifteen minutes talking with. In fact, we spent five hours talking that first night. You read that right … five whole hours … talking. He elaborated on his previously provided Cliff’s Notes including details (some extremely personal and painful) about his divorce, as well as his two previous marriages and divorces. He told me about his children; four biological plus having adopted wife number three’s two teenagers, and he told me about his love of aviation and travel. I shared a bit about my life, my career, and my own travels.

Over the coming weeks we saw quite a lot of one another, and I began to feel more than just friendly affection for the pilot. It seemed he felt the same for me. But I should’ve known better. Pilots have a reputation for being players. It’s a well deserved reputation. Not that I mean to tar the entire field with the same brush, but truthfully, I’ve never known a pilot (airline pilot that is) that didn’t screw around on his girlfriend/wife. Some people say it’s their ego, some say it’s all the opportunities they have, some say it’s the damned uniform that makes some women weak in the knees. I neither know nor care what it is, I just know that it is. The pilot was no exception. While dating me, and in fact having moved into my apartment just a month and a half after meeting, he continued to maintain his dating profile on Match.com, and he continued meeting women.

He insisted to me, and to anyone who challenged his actions, including his adult children – that he was on Match to “make friends” because he had so few, but I knew better. It’s easy now to say I should have issued an ultimatum; Match or me, or at the very least kicked his ass out of my apartment. But I did neither of those things. I swallowed what little pride I had back then, tucked my tail between my legs like a whipped dog, and accepted whatever crumbs of affection the pilot tossed my way. Even on Valentine’s Day when he went out with another woman, I did not complain aloud to him. I told myself I didn’t deserve to. I told myself that someday he would see how good we were together, and I would be enough. I should’ve known better.

The following year, after standing by the pilot through his highly contentious divorce, a divorce in which I covered some of his legal bills as well as helped him pay off marital debts to avoid having his pay check garnished, he continued on Match. And all the while he lived rent-free and expense-free with me. And still I told myself, as well as friends and family members who were now questioning the sanity of my arrangements, that some day he’d see that I’m enough, that we’re good together, that I deserve better. I told that line to myself so many times you’d have thought I’d have come to believe it … but I didn’t, not really. Not even after he’d had his house restored to him and I’d left my apartment to move in with him. Not even after his older sister stood at our kitchen counter telling me I wouldn’t last six months there, that I was simply the “flavor of the month” and that her brother was all about the chase, not the having. No, even then I denied the truth to myself, and everyone else who was by now vocal about their fears for me.

And then I lost my job. The pilot says he knew I was about to lose my job, even though I myself never saw it coming. He actually was quite happy I’d lost my job, and in fact didn’t want me to go back to work. He liked having me at his disposal when he returned from a trip, or better still, able to join him when there was an empty seat on the plane. I did enjoy traveling with him, I cannot deny that, but our home life left me wanting. By now he’d at last ended his Match.com membership, but I knew he still wasn’t being 100% faithful. I’d seen emails and photos sent to him, even gifts that had come in the mail for him that made clear he still had “outside activities”. Oh he denied it all, and I tried my best to ignore it, to keep swallowing my pride, to stuff down my fears with food, but inside I knew the truth.

Another year passed, and with it any money I’d managed to save up before losing my job. There were good times peppered here and there, both traveling with him and simply staying put. I felt like we were just playing house. And more than once I told him I felt like a trapeze artist without a net to hold me should I fall. But the pilot was gun shy, as much as he said he believed in marriage, he wasn’t ready to re-marry. And by the end of that year, I was no longer able to quiet my doubts and fears. I began to push for a decision about taking our relationship to the next level. I should’ve known better.

When the next New Years Eve came around I told the pilot that he had until April 1st of that year to either agree to us moving forward, getting engaged, or it was time for me to move ahead with my life. I could not play house past April first. We both agreed we wouldn’t mention it again until April, and I was determined to hold up my end of the deal. Sometime in the middle of March of that year, after more game-playing by the pilot, I took myself quietly to our bedroom and began to journal. April 1st was just around the corner, and there had been no sign of him even considering marriage, much less planning a proposal. With my hopes and dreams now sinking fast, I began to write a plan of exit. A list of things I would need to do in order to extricate myself from his life, his home, his world. It wasn’t that I had suddenly stopped loving the pilot, on the contrary, I loved him very much, even as I doubted his love for me. But personally I was drowning in a sea of anxiety and depression, and I knew I wouldn’t be able to keep my head above water for much longer. It took everything in me just to make it through a single day.

When the pilot walked into our bedroom that afternoon, and saw me calmly journaling, he asked to read my journal. Having never shared these private thoughts with another soul, I at first balked at his request, but then relented. I simply didn’t have the energy to argue the point and besides, I figured he might as well know that I was resigned to him not wanting to marry me. What woman wants to have to force a man’s hand? Certainly not me. But as he read my list, including the entry where I spoke about saying goodbye to his then-three-year-old daughter, a look of panic crossed his face. Foolishly he asked me why I was even thinking about any of this. At first speechless at his ignorance, I went on to explain that I would not beg anyone to love me, much less marry me, and it was clear to me now that marriage – at least to me – was not what he wanted.

To which the pilot responded; “if you want to get married, we’ll get married, I just wanted to be ready, that’s all.” And yes, I SHOULD HAVE KNOWN BETTER. But somehow I was just so damned relieved to hear him say it, that all common sense and self-respect flew out the door, and I let him take me into his arms and kiss me quiet. Not the first or last time he’d done that. And suddenly, I was engaged.

A far, far, far cry from the romantic proposals I’d imagined and hoped for, but once more, I shushed those sad thoughts and doubts and swept them out of my mind. Within days we’d set a date for later that year, despite the pilot pushing hard for a l-o-n-g engagement, and we’d begun shopping for an engagement ring. The truth of the matter is that by this point, I was virtually broke and so was he. I’d sold everything of value that I’d owned to pay my own debts, plus help support us and keep the utilities turned on in his house. The pilot had lost nearly 70% of his pay to his ex-wife and three children paying child support and alimony. That didn’t stop him from throwing away money on an expensive boy’s toy because as he put it; “I never get what I want”. Once again, I silenced my doubts and fears, and contented myself with the fact that at least we’d be married. So what if I couldn’t have the wedding of my dreams? So what if I couldn’t even have a decent wedding reception or a honeymoon? I told myself it didn’t matter. But the disappointment didn’t end there.

Though I already adored my mother-in-law to be, I made the mistake of asking her to join my mother and I in wedding dress shopping. Because the pilot had been married three times already, both mothers took it upon themselves to become arbiters of fashion, and proclaimed it totally inappropriate for me to wear white, or even ivory. Never mind that it was my first (and only) marriage, I was penalized by association. Even the florist insisted my choice of wedding flowers was out of the question (dark blue and silver silk). It seemed the only points I could win were the decorating of the wedding cake and the location of the ceremony. I didn’t even get my own way on attendants, because my sister wasn’t able to be here, hence I had no matron of honor. In the end, I once again succumbed to the pressure of others, and allowed the college-age daughter of a friend who’d “always wanted to be in a wedding”, to be my maid of honor. My soon-to-be step daughter was to be my flower girl, but even she had been guided and persuaded by outside forces to keep a sullen look on her face all through the wedding. There isn’t a single wedding photo of her smiling, just looking glum and sad.

When just days before our wedding my mother was suddenly taken ill and entered the hospital, and a childhood friend I’d counted on to be present at the wedding announced she couldn’t make it, I should’ve known better. I would be married without my mother or sister present, my father only begrudgingly attending the wedding, wearing a dress I felt unattractive and uncomfortable in, carrying flowers that looked depressingly inadequate, I should’ve known better.

The day of our wedding dawned bright and clear, warm for December. Unexpected houseguests managed to dirty the floors making it impossible for me to keep a hairdresser’s and manicure appointment, because now I’d have to re-scrub the floors before the reception guests arrived. When the pilot brought the flowers to the house, I somehow lost my reading glasses (my only pair) and was now panicked about how I’d read my vows. But all of that paled in comparison to the pain I experienced just a short time later, when it appeared that my beloved old cat had somehow gotten out of the house, and had disappeared. Deep in an anxiety attack, and fearing the day would somehow only get worse, the pilot and I managed a quick trip to the hospital to see my mother before the ceremony.

Arriving at the outdoor evening ceremony, I was suddenly made aware of the presence of an uninvited, and most unwanted “guest” … someone whose very presence terrified me and threatened the absolute undoing of the entire night. And now a full on panic attack had me in its clutches. I was paralyzed and in tears, and the music I was to walk down the aisle to was due to start. Not even the young maid of honor or her mother, my friend, could ease me out of my panic. They called for the pilot. He held me and assured me that everything would be fine, that I looked lovely, that the uninvited intruder would not ruin the night, that all was well. I should’ve known better.

With the flower girl and maid of honor already down the aisle, I finally managed to pull myself together and holding my open cell phone beneath my bouquet so that my mother could at least hear the ceremony, I walked completely numb to the place where I would say my vows. With no glasses and no ability to clearly see what I’d written, I stumbled through the words I had so carefully and lovingly chosen to say to the pilot. It was over in a blur. I remember signing the marriage license, I remember taking some pictures, I remember arriving back at the house still fearful that our unwanted “guest” might still try to ruin my night. In the end, if she’d had a plan, she’d been thwarted by one fast-thinking friend who’d taken away her only means of distruction. A story for another time.

My father stuck around just long enough for the first toast and a slice of cake, then disappeared into the night. The pilot and I never did get to dance to the music we so painstakingly assembled on a cd, there was no garter to remove, as I hadn’t been able to afford one, and there was no point in tossing the bouquet, as the only single women there were my maid of honor and three year old flower girl. So as the night wound down, we gathered our overnight bags and headed to the pilots truck for the short drive to our wedding night hotel. As we left the house, he reminded me that it would be cold that night, and my poor sweet old cat would be unlikely to survive the night out of doors. I hadn’t wanted to leave, knowing she was out there somewhere, cold, alone and afraid. But I held even that inside of me. Arriving at the hotel, I suddenly realized that I’d lost the family sixpence out of my shoe, it was the straw that broke the camel’s back. The sixpence had been in my family for many, many years. My mother had worn it in her wedding shoe, a gift from her loving father. Even my sister had worn it, and now, I’d lost it, just as I’d lost my glasses and my cat. What a miserable day it had been. Miserable and sad in every possible way. Yes I was married, but my wedding day had been a disaster, and not a single wedding dream had been realized. I could not have been more sad.

The next morning I awakened as a married woman, but nothing else had changed. We left the hotel and stopped for a quick bite of lunch before returning to the house. As I stepped up into the pilots’ truck, there was the shiny silver sixpense, staring up at me on the floor of the truck. Could my luck be changing? We arrived back at the house just after noon, expecting to see a mess from the previous night, but my second step-son and his wife had thoughtfully cleaned up every bit of crumb and clutter. And as I walked into the pantry, for something I’ve yet to remember, I heard her soft meow … there, hidden in a cupboard, was my sweet old cat. Finally, something truly good to hold onto. I scooped her up into my arms and smothered her in kisses and tears. She was safe after all!

The pilot and I went to the hospital to see my mother, and to take her a slice of cake. We were hosting an open house for the out of town wedding guests, and had planned to leave on a brief three-day honeymoon to the coast the following evening. Once again, there was the unwanted “guest”. Pleasant enough to my face, I still felt the implied threat of her presence, but I felt powerless to do anything about it. Mostly, the open house went off without incident, but my mind wasn’t really on playing hostess. The next day we attended another family function, before we were due to leave for the coast. But when we got back to the house to gather our bags, I told the pilot I thought we should cancel our plans and just stay there. We really couldn’t afford the honeymoon, meager as it was, and in all honesty, I was exhausted physically and emotionally. We told no one of our change of plans, and spent the next three days alone and in peace. That may have been the high point of the entire wedding period. Sad thought, actually.

Our wedding day remains a sore spot for me. The pilot doesn’t get that. He thinks the fact that we’re married and that he had a “great time” means I should see it the same way. I don’t. I remember that day with great pain and disappointment. I remember all the hopes and dreams I had about my wedding day. And maybe I should have known better, but those hopes and dreams were very real to me. As I watch wedding shows on tv, or attend weddings now, I cannot help but feel pinches and pangs of jealousy and pain over the failure of my own dreams. Didn’t I deserve a romantic proposal? Did he really only agree to marry me our of the fear that he’d lose his cush gig if I left? Did he love me at all?  Wasn’t I entitled to wear a white (or at least ivory) gown? Why couldn’t I have carried blue and silver flowers? Isn’t the bride supposed to feel beautiful, confidant, happy and loved? If not on that day, then when?

When people ask me now to recall our wedding day, the only thing I can think to say is that we were married. Everything else is a blur of disappointment and sadness and pain. The very same thing I feel every time I plant myself on the sofa to watch one of those damned wedding shows. But like a moth to a flame … I’m glued to my seat every time.  I guess I just should have known better than to have such lofty dreams. The hell of it is, I still dream of what might have been. Even now. When I know better.

Lola

Posted by: lolalately | July 24, 2012

Suspicious Minds

Someone once told me; “if it walks like a duck, and it sqwalks like a duck … it’s a duck”!

I learned the truth about someone today. The husband of someone I know and respect recently initiated divorce proceedings. He claimed there was no one else. He lied. In fact there was and is someone else, someone his soon-to-be-ex knows well … a co-worker in fact.

Why do people do that? Why cheat? Why lie about it? There’s no crime in telling someone that you no longer love them, that you want to end the relationship. It’s easier to divorce in this country than it is to get married. So why all the game playing?

As for the two former friends … is there no level of indecency people will not stoop below? To deliberately go after or succumb to the advances of the husband of a friend and co-worker seems to me the lowest of lows. Positively Maury Povitch-worthy! But it happens … a lot it seems. Or maybe I’m just hyper-aware of it.

I’m an airline pilots’ wife. This industry is rife with cheating spouses, on both sides of the cockpit. Not a month goes by that I don’t hear some tale of misdeeds and misplaced trust. And yes, every story causes me to worry and wonder if and when I’ll be next. It make me try even harder to live in the moment, to focus on what I have now, not what or when I might lose it all. But I admit it’s a challenge.

Last week another fellow pilots’ wife discovered her husband of 22 years has been embroiled in an affair for more than 2 years. He told her he’s in love. That the woman he’s involved with is his “soulmate” and he wants to grow old with her. Funny, his wife thought they were growing old together. Twenty-two years is a pretty long marriage. But apparently 22 years means nothing when you suddenly find your “soulmate” … who happens to be younger than most of your children.

And what about those children? How do you explain to your kids that you no longer love their mother? How do you introduce them to your new lady love and not have them hate her for ripping apart their world? That wouldn’t be an issue in my case, because we have no children together. But I’ve been in my stepchildren’s lives for 10 years now. I suppose that’s long enough that they’d wonder if their father suddenly dumped me for a new flavor of the month.

But people do that. People walk away from marriages all the time without so much as a backward glance. Just ask my friend whose former friend is now bedding her husband. There’s a part of me that would like to grab these two by the shoulders and shake them as I ask them just what they hell they were thinking. But it wouldn’t change anything.

Instead, after my husband told me that they’re both on his current trip, I sent my husband a text telling him to have a safe flight, reminding him that I love him, and asking him this;

Please don’t hurt & disrespect me the way A has D. If you find someone else, just have the compassion & decency to tell me to my face & set me free. Don’t shit on my heart & destroy me for sport. The truth may hurt for awhile, but a lie hurts forever.”  And I meant every single word.

There is no truth that hurts as much as a lie. When and if you want out of a relationship, be mature and respectful enough to be honest about it. Don’t play games. Don’t screw with someone’s heart and soul. Love isn’t a game, leaving isn’t a sport. Don’t make it one.

Lola

Posted by: lolalately | July 23, 2012

From surviving to thriving

While at first this may sound like the story of a childhood sexual abuse victim/survivor … it’s actually the story of a THRIVER.

It’s true that I was victimized by the deliberate actions of a depraved family member, and it’s also true that my parents ignored or denied all the warning signs … but that isn’t what matters most. What matters most is that thanks to more than two years of intense and often painful therapy, I can now say that I accept myself without complaint or judgment and in fact, I’ve learned to respect and love myself. So much so that I’ve recently gone through life-changing bariatric surgery to tear down the wall (of weight) that I’d built up around me as a result of the abuse. From victim, to survivor, to THRIVER … this is my story.

I don’t remember the exact day, I don’t remember the way. I can’t remember the pain, but I remember the shame. My earliest memory is from four years of age. My older brothers are in the driveway of the rental house we lived in and they’re admiring Es’ new red bicycle. E is the oldest of the four of us, he’s nearly eight years old, and he doesn’t want to hear his little sister rattle on about the ice cream truck that will soon be circling our neighborhood. He’s busy talking with our middle brother R about something that must be more entertaining, because they’re both laughing wildly. I remember feeling left out. What I didn’t know then was that I was the reason for their laughter.

I remember R pulling a metal milk crate up to the bike, and E helping me up onto the bright white seat. In my right hand is my little Mr Frosty spoon. It’s red, just like the big bike I’m proudly sitting atop. A brother standing on each side of me, holding me up. Suddenly something is wrong! E and R have let go of the bicycle, and I’m hurtling down our steep driveway. My feet don’t touch the pedals! As the beautiful new red bike and I crash into the gutter, I see red everywhere! I’m bleeding from my right elbow, and there is a bone sticking out of my arm.

R comes running, screaming for our mother whose somewhere inside the house tending to our baby sister J. And E just stands at the top of the driveway – watching, taking it all in. I remember nothing more of the incident until I’m in the Children’s Hospital with my arm above me attached to some mechanical contraption that’s painful. I remain in the hospital, my arm suspended above me, for nearly four weeks. I remember feeling so alone and afraid each time my mother would leave the hospital at night. Oddly, I don’t have so much as a single memory of my father coming to see me in the hospital. Perhaps he did and I’ve simply forgotten. It’s also possible that he never did come.

Somewhere in a photo album there’s a picture of me standing in front of our house with my little sister. We’re both smiling, and my arm is in a cast and sling. I looked at that picture recently and thought how small and innocent I looked. Despite the broken arm and time in the hospital, my life was so simple then. Shortly after that period, my life, as I knew it, changed. In fact, it was never the same again.

Maybe it was all the attention I got from the family as a whole after the accident. Maybe E was punished for setting the events in motion. Hundreds of “maybes” have drifted through my mind over the past fifty odd years, as I’ve tried to understand why he did it. But the truth is that I will never really know. And the “why” is no longer important, except that perhaps that first act of violence against me should have been taken more seriously by my parents. For what came after, was a million times more painful than a broken elbow.

As vivid as my memories of the bicycle accident are, my memories of the beginning of the hell that followed are more blurred. What I do remember clearly are the Sunday’s we spent at my grandparents’ house. Every Sunday after lunch my parents, would bundle the six of us into the family station wagon for the twenty minute drive to my grandparents’ house. My little sister always sat up front between my parents, and I was always in the back seat between my brothers. Though I loved seeing my grandparents, I dreaded the ride there and back. First of all, both of my parents were heavy smokers, who smoked incessantly in the car. I hated their cigarette smoke being blown into my face, and though I’d always beg to sit by a door so that I could drop my window just enough to breathe fresh air, I was nonetheless relegated to that dreaded middle seat.

It was on one such ride to grandma and grandpa’s house that E made his first brutal and completely unwarranted attack, pinching the inside of my left thigh hard enough to leave a bruise. When I cried out, and tried to tell my parents, E denied any wrongdoing, and I was shushed for interrupting my parents conversation. Maybe he wanted to see how far he could go, maybe he was checking to see which one of us would be believed. Add it to the list of questions I’ll never be able to answer.

Over the weeks and months that followed, E hurt me again and again, sometimes by hitting or pinching me, sometimes kicking me as I got into or out of the car. Each time seemed more emboldened and more painful than the last. Around the same time, he started stealing toys or trinkets from my bedroom, and again, he’d deny doing anything wrong when I’d tell on him. Unfortunately for me, E was my mother’s favorite and she couldn’t or wouldn’t believe he’d do anything to hurt me. To my mother, I was either lying or imagining all of it. As for my missing belongings, she insisted I’d been careless and had lost them. Even when he teased me by showing me he had my toys, mom wouldn’t believe her first born could be anything other than her “perfect boy”. E reveled in his protected status, and his actions against me picked up steam.

Sometime before my birthday later that year, E snuck into my bedroom and took a small doll I’d had for some time. In a fit of tears, I searched everywhere for her both inside and outside the house. Instinctively, I knew what must’ve happened to my little doll, and I went to my mother insisting that E had her. For the very first time, my mom seemed to take my complaint seriously and searched the bedroom my brothers shared. And there, tucked between the mattress and box spring of Es’ bed, she found my missing doll, along with other things I’d been sure he’d taken from me. I remember that my mother was really angry with him, something I’d rarely if ever seen, and I’m guessing that made him even more  angry with me.

My next memories of his abuse drift to summer, and the local pool where my mother and the four of us spent most sunny days. I remember being really happy to have a new swimsuit; a pink and white gingham bikini with a ruffle around the hips. While my mom laid on her chaise lounge sunning, smoking and gossiping with other mothers, the four of us were in the pool. Since we’d all had swim lessons by this time, my mom paid little attention to what went on in the pool. The first time I remember E touching my genitals was in that pool. He swam up to the edge where I was practicing my flipper kicks. He didn’t say anything, he just looked at me. Then he dove under the water, and the next thing I remember is him poking a finger into my vagina. I’m sure I must have screamed, but my voice mixed in with all the other noisy children meant nothing to anyone, and he quickly swam away. I know that I got out of the pool and went to sit by my mom. Nothing would convince me to go back into that pool. For a kid who’d always been a fish, you might think my mom would’ve questioned the change in me, but I guess she was too busy talking to her friends to notice me wrapped in a big towel, shivering in the hot summer sun.

There are stretches of my childhood and the abuse that I don’t remember. Maybe because I blocked them out, maybe, mercifully, I’ve just forgotten them. But I do remember coming home from perfectly normal schools days, and having them turn into sheer hell at the hands of my oldest brother. One such day occurred on a day when my mother wasn’t home. When we got to the house, E rushed up to his bedroom, with R in tow. I remember R calling to me (I was in my bedroom) asking me to come down the hall. When I got to the end of the hall where their bedrooms were, R asked me to come into E’s bedroom with him. Suddenly R was closing and locking the door behind me. I can close my eyes and see the events of that afternoon as if they’d happened yesterday. E had a Playboy Magazine in his hands and he was turning the magazine so R could see some of the pages. The two of them were looking at the magazine and snickering. I tried to leave the room, but R blocked my way by standing in front of the door. That’s when E came towards me, telling me that if I just looked at the magazine with him, he’d let me go. I knew things would be bad if I didn’t give in, so I remained silent. E turned the magazine to me. It was a black woman and man in sexual positions, touching each other. I’d never seen an adult male naked, and I’d never seen two people in sexual positions. I was stunned. I remember starting to cry. I remember E telling me that men were going to do that to me. That he was going to do that to me. R suddenly opened the door to leave and I saw my chance to escape. The next thing I remember is hiding in my bedroom closet, crying, holding onto a doll. I’d never been so frightened in my life. I spent a lot of time hiding from my brother; in my closet, under my bed, under the basement steps. Anywhere I might escape his attacks. Years later, I would often grab a knife from the kitchen as I got came through the door from school, and I’d hide it inside a book, thinking it meant I was safe. But E was always one step ahead of me, and soon he was threatening to go after my little sister if I didn’t give in to his demands. I couldn’t let the same horrors happen to her, and I didn’t.

The intensity of the sexual abuse increased as did the frequency over the coming few years. From what I pieced together during therapy, I believe there was a correlation between my parents’ frequent arguments and E’s attacks on me. My parents argued about everything, mostly money or the lack thereof. My father, an automobile salesman, worked long hours to provide my mother (and the 4 of us) with a lifestyle my mother believed she deserved. But it was never enough. Actually, I now believe that in my mother’s mind, SHE was never enough. She was so wrapped up in the image she presented to the world, that it apparently never occurred to her to look at her fractured family and see the truth of our existence. In between my parents vitriolic arguments there were her repeated suicide attempts. One of which my abuser/brother told me I’d caused. He convinced me that my mother hated me and was trying to get away from me. Hating myself more in that moment than ever before, I believed him. When she came home from the hospital a few days later, her coolness towards me seemed to confirm his words, and I was filled with a new fear now. If my brother was sexually molesting me, and my father was constantly talking about “getting the hell away from all of us” and my mother was trying to die to get away from me, who was there to protect and love me? E didn’t have to work hard to convince me I was unlovable.

Years later when as an adult I confronted my mother about the sexual abuse, she angrily denied it had ever happened, insisting that “her E would never do such a thing”. Contrast that statement with my father’s reaction; he acknowledged that it made sense. That he’d seen and heard so many things in our home that it now all made sense to him. Was my father telling me he’d suspected I was being raped and sodomized and he’d done nothing? Was he recalling something in particular that he’d seen but ignored? He wouldn’t answer me then, and today, my father and I do not speak or see each other.

Over the years, I think it’s fair to say that my childhood had great influence over the choices I made. I chose friends who ended up taking advantage of me, men who were emotionally unavailable and needy, and habits that were anything but healthy and productive. When a job got challenging, I’d look for reasons not to go to work. When an intimate relationship got difficult, I’d bolt rather than stick around and work out the issues. Over time, life took its toll on me, and it became clear that I needed to find a way to change the course of my life.

In early 2008 my husband and I entered marriage counseling over what he called my “trust issues” It wasn’t long before I was undergoing EMDR for PTSD. If I’d had any illusions of therapy wiping out the painful memories of my childhood, my thinking was quickly corrected. Six months into therapy, amidst some of the most painful memories, including daily flashbacks and nonstop nightmares, I reached what I believed was my breaking point. I didn’t want to continue to remember, I didn’t want to feel the pain of my childhood all over again. All I wanted was to close my eyes and sleep … forever.

That evening after trying unsuccessfully to convince my husband to take his two youngest children out of the house, and feeling overcome with anxiety, I grabbed the gun I kept under my pillow and ran out the back door of the house I share with my husband, intending to end my life. My husband was close behind, and thankfully was able to talk me into giving up my weapon, and coming back inside. He phoned his mom, with whom I’ve always had a wonderfully close relationship, and she immediately drove to our house. I later phoned my therapist who repeated to me something she’d said before; suicide is a permanent solution to a temporary problem. We talked for quite some time and she was able to help me see that suicide wasn’t the answer … regaining my power over my past, my present and my future was. The following day I was back in therapy, back to the EMDR, back to facing my past head on. Nobody said therapy would be easy or fun, and it wasn’t. But I can say today that therapy gave me back ME. Or rather that it helped me find my way back to ME.

Sometime late last year as I began to close those chapters and finally put the book of my life on the shelf, I began to think about all I’ve missed, and all I’ve denied myself. Chief among them was caring about and loving my body. I wasn’t a fat child. In fact, I didn’t become overweight until at the age of 14 I realized E really hated fat women. He had only to see an overweight woman in a store or on tv to make disparaging remarks. I finally had my way out; I’d become one of those women he hated! It didn’t take long to pack 50 pounds on my 14 year old frame, then another 10 and another 10. Soon, he was as disgusted by the sight of me as I was. And he stopped touching me. But now there was no longer any possibility of him harming me. I was safe. I and I alone controlled my life. It was time to take down the wall of weight I’d put on to protect myself.

In January of this year I took the first step by researching weight loss surgeries, and attended a local weight loss seminar in February. On the 19th of April of this year I had a Vertical Sleeve Gastrectomy. I’m proud to say that I’ve taken off more than 70 pounds since I began this journey to better health. I have a long way to go, but I’m on a good path, and I love myself enough to stay on that path. I know that I’m not the first and I won’t be the last person to go through the monstrous thing that is sexual abuse and parental disinterest. But if my story can give even a glimmer of hope to one person, it will have been worth telling.  

Through all of these long and difficult days, I’ve had three people in particular standing by me; one is an amazing therapist, whose belief in me helped me believe in myself. I know many people think it’s a sign of weakness to seek therapy for one’s issues. I disagree. I believe it’s actually an act of courage, a leap of faith. As I mentioned before, I have been blessed with the most wonderful mother-in-law any person has ever had. In fact, she’s much more than a mother-in-law … she’s a true friend. She’s the sort of mother I dreamed about as a girl, but never imagined I’d be lucky enough to have. Last but certainly not least is my husband. We’ve been through a lot in our ten years together, and we both brought more than a little baggage to this marriage. That we’re still together, accepting each other warts and all is a testament to the power of love (and maybe persistence). All three of these people have my unending admiration and love. I wish everyone could have people like these three to believe in, accept and love them. That I do … is a gift, that I’m here today telling my story and thriving, is a gift from God.

If you or someone you know has been the victim of sexual abuse/sexual molestation/rape or physical violence in any form, please know that help is available, and please reach out for it. Life is a precious gift, and you deserve to live life safe in the knowledge that you were not the cause of the monstrous acts you’ve suffered. Please don’t remain silent. Ask for help or contact me and I’ll do my utmost to help you find help.

Posted by: lolalately | July 15, 2012

Hello world!

Welcome to Lola Lately (lolalately).  I’ve blogged before both personally and for my company, but this time’s different. This blog is about me and my life. It’s about where I’ve been, how far I’ve come, and where I believe I’m headed. It’s about hopes and dreams and living with intention.

I’m not going to make any promises about how frequently I’ll post, but my plan is to at least attempt to write every few days. You know how it is, sometimes despite our best made plans, life conspires to keep us from our appointed rounds. It is what it is. All I can do is my best, and that will be enough for me.

So, until next time, this is Lola Lately saying see you soon!

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