REFLECTING BACK ON MY BEST FRIEND

Is it possible to have the marriage of your dreams? Are you a husband wishing you were appreciated? A wife wishing you felt loved? What if I told you that true love and soulmates can and do exist? Would you roll your eyes? That’s what I did when people mentioned it.

I remember doing a cleaning estimate in the home of an elderly couple, Elsie and Jim. I always asked our potential clients to walk us from room to room and tell us what they expect, and I would, in turn, tell them what we would do as I would reach up and rub a finger across the top of the door frame, checking to see how much dust was up there. I had a notebook and a pen, writing down each room we entered and anything I noted, and anything they specifically mentioned. It was a modest home in an older neighborhood that was once home to the upper middle class. The home’s original layout was smaller, with add-ons like a step-down den with an attached, closed-in sunroom. The trees no longer let the sun in. The furniture and decor were what you would expect for someone in their 80’s. Their house was not dirty by any stretch of the imagination, but they were not able to keep up with the cleaning, as their eyes and muscles just were not up to the task. Elsie was walking us from room to room, explaining what she expected and asking if we did certain things. She went on to tell me how she found out about us, which ensured her a discount. When we reached the formal living room, we found metal sculptures throughout the space. Unique and clearly custom-made. Elsie could see I was looking at them with intrigue. I always like creativity, and she began to boast about how Mr. Jim had handcrafted them. She was so proud of these unusual, out-of-style, out-of-character art pieces.

“Jim had a welding hobby, making ornamental iron and porch rails. Every time he would do a project, he would make me a sculpture and bring it home. I told him he had to stop making them because I was running out of room. But it sure is the sweetest thing.”

I looked up. She was right, she didn’t have room for any more. When she told me of the ways he showed her love, I had to admit I was a little jealous, seeing as I was married to a self-centered, non-affectionate man. There were never birthday cards, anniversary cards, or even Valentine’s. No, those were holidays for him to have a rage because he felt like I expected him to do something, and since I expected it, he refused. I didn’t receive anything on any other day of the year, either.

“Wow, that is so cool! How long have you guys been married?”

“Sixty years.”

When I heard those words, I stopped and felt like something pushed me back. How? That is more years than I had been alive, and I was surprised. I could not recall knowing anyone else who had been married that long. My parents were approaching 50 years of marriage. How in the world can you be with and live with someone that long? There is no way. One of us might kill the other first, and I was sure he’d be the one to do it to me.

She immediately answered without hesitation, “I married my best friend.”

That was that. Nothing more.

I hope she could not see the cynicism in my response,

“Oh, that’s awesome.”

But boy, did it get me thinking. Really? Are you telling me you guys actually like each other? That is incredible, and oh my god. We are doomed. I can’t stand him, and he can’t stand me. Friends? Absolutely not. Whenever there was a fight, he would announce, “I am not your enemy,” but it sure felt like he was. If he wasn’t my enemy, and he wasn’t my friend, then what was he? What would you call it?

We definitely were NOT best friends, and we were struggling to be friends, but more like acquaintances. I could not stand being around him; we had nothing in common. We were complete opposites. Whoever said opposites attract failed to add “misery.” Opposites attract misery. I desperately wanted to marry my best friend, but that had long since left the table. I do not remember a single moment we were friends. The closest we came was that my best friend and his best friend were siblings, and we were friends through friends.

After that meeting, I determined to do my best to make my husband my best friend. But how do you do that? Quick disclaimer: You don’t. I will spare you the sickening ways I tried because this particular article is not about my ex.

“Mom, you need to start dating.”

It was good to hear those words. I was afraid of what my kids might think when they found out that I was on a dating app. Yes, I used a dating app because I had been so sheltered that I had no idea how to meet people. And I was not interested in going to bars. I had long left the formal setting of church, and quite honestly, I was not interested in getting back into religious control. I wanted to stay as far away from “god-fearing-church-going men” (read my other memoir material, and you’ll understand why).

During my divorce, I kept Natasha Bedingfield’s songs “Soulmate” and “Unwritten” on repeat. Those were my jam. I played them over and over. They were a lifeline to me.

I purchased a membership to the Zoosk Dating App, figuring that if I used the paid version, it would weed out the guys looking for a booty call. On the app, you can check boxes of what kind of person you do or do not want. Then they would show you a photo and a little bio. It wasn’t too hard to narrow it down. I was certainly aware of what I did not like. And I was exploring ideas of what I did want. I did not want to be with someone in my own town, but left it open just in case. My parents live 2 hours away, so I was hoping for a guy nearby them.

I put in my bio that I was not looking for a marriage or long-term commitment. I just wanted adult companionship, someone to hang out with occasionally. There were two guys from Crosset. One of them had a son, and he made it clear he was looking for a mother for his boy. He was a love bomber and came on so fast and furious that it made me sick. It was too much, too soon, so I stopped conversations with him quickly. The other guy in Crosset had a working relationship with his ex and never wanted to leave her in the first place. It was apparent he was still in love with her, and I sure did not want to start a love triangle. There was the guy in El Dorado who wanted someone a little younger, a party girl. He was not my type at all. And then there was the guy who took me on my first date after the divorce. I do not remember where he was from or what his name was. I don’t recall any of their names, for that matter. Our date included Geocaching and dinner. He was a dirt bike rider, and although he was kind, we had nothing in common. We agreed to keep in touch, but we both knew we wouldn’t, and didn’t.

I did not get discouraged, as I kept seeing the face of this guy from Hot Springs. There was something about him that intrigued me; he looked like a Guru. Maybe it was his profile picture. He was squatting in a field of pansies, yet his face was fierce, not threatening. It was confident. I thought, if a man is willing to take a photo in a field of flowers, he must be pretty harmless. So we started a conversation in the app. We had several things in common, including poetry. The only thing that scared me about him was that the church still had a place in his life. I wasn’t opposed to church, but it had to be the right one.

We never spoke on the phone. Our entire conversation was via text on the Zoosk app. This went on for a few weeks, maybe a month, then he finally asked me for a date. It was arranged that he would pick me up at my parents’ house (neutral ground) while they watched my kids. I drove up after a hard day of cleaning houses, exhausted and nervous. When he announced he was on his way, I took a shot of tequila to calm my nerves.

The text came in, “I’m here.” I went outside, and he hopped out of his big white Ford F150. I had no idea what to expect. Zoosk had been our only form of communication.

Here he was, dressed in jeans and a dress shirt with boots, bald, not nearly as tall as my ex, thank god. And cute. Wow, was he way better looking in person than on the app. And his eyes were slate blue like water. His blue shirt made them pop.

I chuckled inside when I heard his voice for the first time. He had such a southern accent.

He opened my door as I climbed up into the truck. It was nice to have someone plan everything for me. I do not think I ever had that, not in the last 24 years for sure! He would not stop staring at me. He kept saying I had the most beautiful eyes he’d ever seen.

He found a parking spot downtown, and we walked to Rolandos, where he insisted we start with the top-shelf margaritas, claiming theirs were the best in town. We talked and talked. It was as if we had known each other our entire lives. There were no awkward moments of silence. Each sentence went on to the next. When we felt we had outstayed our welcome at the restaurant, we walked downtown for a bit. It was misting, so he held an umbrella over both of us while I linked my arm in his.

We decided to stop in the Bathhouse Brewery for a beer and more talk. Being with him felt right, comfortable, normal. I was so comfortable in his presence that I even set my hand on his leg while we were talking. He understood me, he listened. And I got him and hung on every word. Some would say we bonded over our similar traumas, and maybe we did. But we also had the same life goals. We had a lot in common and a few things that weren’t. But the things we did not have in common were what made us individuals. And I learned he was not as active in church as he had put on the app., which was a relief.

Since he was driving, we decided to cash out and head back to my folks’ house to continue our conversation in the driveway. I didn’t want to get out, nor did he. Since I had worked all day, I fell asleep while we listened to one of his favorite songs. He woke me, and we decided to call it a night.

He once again hopped out and opened my door, such a gentleman. When we kissed goodnight, his lips were trembling. It made me smile. He felt like such a virgin. He was fresh out of a 20-year marriage with 3 kids, so I knew he wasn’t. But his sweet innocence was a delight.

He picked me up for lunch the next day, and our conversations picked up where we left off in the truck.

And here we are, ten years later, and I can honestly say I found my soulmate and married my best friend.

It wasn’t until I went on that date with my husband that I saw a future friend. I can say without hesitation that he is my best friend. There is something so different about being married to your best friend.

You’re friends because you have things in common and can sense what the other person is feeling and thinking. You care about their feelings, and they care about yours. And if you accidentally hurt them, you will apologize. You enjoy each other’s company.

I now understand what else Elsie meant when she said she married her best friend. They’re your support system, and you’re theirs.

Reflection is resurrection!

I fell in love with a stare into those green eyes, then a smile that turned into a comfortable laugh, washing away the nerves of newness.

Then… when we danced and swayed in each other’s loving arms as we found each other.

I fell in love with the placid lake, colored blue eyes that caught my gaze, and a tender gentleness of spirit as I listened to you from across the table.

Your hand that reassured mine when I reached for your arm. The laughs and giggles… The quivering lips that kissed me goodnight.

I fell in love with a woman I could embrace with my quivering lips …

…at The Baker … you made love to me so tenderly, while looking into my eyes the entire time.

I won’t forget the beautiful woman across the table, trying Irish beers, or the face of my love, smelling the roses.

I won’t forget a man casting a voodoo wish behind a screen and kissing me in the rain.

I won’t forget us being the only two on Bourbon Street kissing, while it was raining!

I won’t forget how you held my hand the whole time when I had hurt you… Yet, you still reassured me of your love.

That’s because I’ve loved you ever since the day I said it.

I think you loved me before you said it.

And you?

I fell in love with you the first time our eyes met.

Reflection is resurrection! Plaster it on the palette of your life

Sometimes our written words pierce louder than any voice spoken.

True. Sometimes they’re easier to go back and reflect on because they are tangible.

A Poem we wrote to each other reflecting on a few memorable dates.

Are You Addicted to Suffering and Struggle?

A Letter from One Survivor to Another

Let me take you on a journey through my own cycle of pain, one that might mirror your own.

For over 24 years, I stayed stuck in a cycle of pain. Not only because I didn’t know how to escape, but also because I had no idea that part of me had become used to it. That pain was my comfort zone; I needed it. That is not easy to admit, but maybe that is precisely what you need to hear.

I was addicted to pain and suffering. And maybe you are too.

Consider if your life feels like a constant storm, with relationships that break rather than build you, where chaos feels more familiar than peace.

Then I want you to consider that you might be emotionally addicted to your struggle. In the same way, someone is addicted to alcohol, cigarettes, or drugs.

You don’t choose to be this way on purpose, but you can choose to stop feeding it.

How Does Someone Get Addicted to Suffering?

It might seem strange, but when survival mode becomes your norm, your body adapts to a constant state of fear, anger, and panic, as if these emotions are essential for survival. The body doesn’t know good adrenaline from bad. It just feels familiar. So if pain becomes what you’re used to, your brain will start chasing it like a drug.

I’ll be honest with you: After I left my abusive husband, I thought I’d be free. But instead, I felt lost, restless, and empty. And one day I caught myself missing the drama, missing the feeling of being needed, even if it came with cruelty.

That’s when I realized I wasn’t just healing from abuse. I was detoxing from it.

Understanding the Chemistry of Emotion

Here’s what’s really going on under the surface. Every emotion you feel, love, sadness, rage, guilt, and fear, comes with a chemical mix your body gets used to. When you feel anger or shame over and over, your body floods itself with stress hormones like cortisol and adrenaline.

And your nervous system thinks,

“Ah, yes. This is normal. Let’s keep doing that.”

It doesn’t care if it’s killing you emotionally. It only cares that it’s predictable. That’s why breaking the cycle is more than leaving them. It’s also about rewiring your system and healing your brain. You have to teach your body that peace isn’t dull, it’s safe.

Why You Keep Ending Up With the Same Kind of Person

If you’ve ever escaped one toxic relationship only to fall into another… and another…

You’re not weak or broken. You’re still addicted to the feelings that chaos brings.

And your brain will unconsciously lead you straight to people who can give you the fix.

It’s not because you want to be hurt, but it’s because deep down, you don’t yet believe you deserve anything else.

The Good News: You Can Break Free

I won’t lie to you. Healing is hard, but so is staying stuck. The difference is that one of them leads somewhere beautiful.

Here’s how I started the process, and you can too:

1. Tell yourself the truth.

Not the story you’ve been told or the lie that “this is just who you are.”

Say the truth, you are addicted to survival mode, and you were made for so much more.

2. Decide that it ends with you.

Not tomorrow, not when it gets easier. Right now.

You don’t need to hit another rock bottom to be done.

3. Catch yourself.

When the negative self-talk kicks in or when you feel that familiar urge to sabotage yourself, tell yourself, “I deserve better.

Then, breathe, even if you don’t believe it yet.

4. Let peace feel weird for a while.

Because it will, trust me. Quiet will feel loud, and safety will feel foreign.

That’s okay. Stay there anyway. Let yourself get used to calm.

5. Give it time. Give yourself grace.

This isn’t about perfection; it’s about persistence.

You’re teaching your nervous system a new language. That love doesn’t hurt, and peace doesn’t mean danger.

One More Thing,

You’re not broken. You’re not stupid for staying too long. You were surviving.

And now? You’re waking up.

Your addiction to struggle isn’t your fault, but healing is your responsibility.

You deserve a life that doesn’t hurt. And it’s waiting for you, whenever you’re ready.

DON’T TAKE IT PERSONAL

Why You Take Everything Personally (And What No One Told You About It)

Let’s be real. You don’t just “hear” what someone says—you absorb it.
A sigh? You feel it like a slap.
A short text? Your stomach drops.
If they are quiet? You spiral.

Taking things personally isn’t a flaw—it’s a reaction to what you’ve been through…

Someone trained you to feel this way.

Maybe you were in a relationship like mine—one where your partner, or parents, made sure you were never really safe. Where you had to study their mood the way a sailor studies the sky.
Because one wrong word, one wrong look, could start a storm.

I know what that feels like.
To live in a home that felt more like a test.
To love someone who used your love against you.
To be blamed for everything—their anger, their silence, their outbursts, their boredom.

When you’re with an abuser, especially for years, you don’t just fear them—you become them in your own head.
You start criticizing yourself before they can.
You start shrinking your needs because it’s safer that way.
You start interpreting everything around you as a threat.

That’s why you take things personally.
Because you were trained to see danger in the subtlest shifts.

You were taught that mistakes mean punishment.
That emotions are weapons.
That love means walking on eggshells while setting yourself on fire to keep someone else warm.

So now, when someone gives you feedback, you feel attacked.
When someone pulls away, you assume it’s your fault.
When someone’s upset, you blame yourself.

But here’s the part you need to hear:
It’s not your fault.

You were conditioned to believe that your survival depended on reading people perfectly.
You weren’t being sensitive—you were being smart.
You were protecting yourself.
But now?
Now you don’t have to live like that anymore.

That voice in your head telling you “you messed up,” “they hate you,” “you ruined everything”—
That’s not your voice.
That’s theirs.
That’s the voice of the person who broke you down, not the one who gets to build you back up.

And you’re allowed to question it.
You’re allowed to replace it.
You’re allowed to heal—even if they never apologize.

So if you’re sitting there wondering why you take things so personally, let me say this:

You’re not crazy.
You’re not broken.
You’re carrying a survival instinct that once kept you safe—but it doesn’t have to run your life anymore.

You can learn to breathe again.
To trust again.
To love without fear.
To hear someone’s words without turning them into wounds.

You’re allowed to take your power back.

One truth at a time.

Why Happiness Makes You Nervous

For the girl who thinks the tightness in her chest is normal

Good times make you nervous, don’t they?

You don’t call it fear—you call it “being cautious,” or “not getting your hopes up.” But the truth is quieter: you’re not used to peace. For so long, love has felt like tension, panic, apologizing, overthinking, and walking around someone else’s moods like they’re landmines.

So when something finally goes right… Your whole body glitches.

You look around, waiting for the explosion.
You wait for the tone in his voice to shift.
You wait for the moment he decides you’re “too sensitive,” “too emotional,” or “too much.”

And if nothing happens right away, your brain fills the silence with dread: Is this the part where it all turns again?
You don’t trust happiness—not because you’re broken, but because you’ve survived too long without it.

Girls like us learn early that peace feels like a trap.
A setup.
A calm before the next storm.

No one told you that real love isn’t supposed to feel like bracing for impact.
No one told you that safety isn’t the same thing as “keeping the peace.”
No one told you that if your body relaxes only when he isn’t home… that’s not comfort. That’s survival.

Listen, sweetheart—if happiness feels foreign, it’s not because you’re incapable of it.
It’s because someone taught you to expect pain.

And here’s the part I wish someone had whispered to me sooner:
You don’t have to keep living in the story where fear feels like love. You don’t have to keep shrinking yourself just to fit into a relationship that was never safe to begin with.

Real peace doesn’t make you nervous.
Real love doesn’t make you flinch.
And real happiness doesn’t feel like a setup—it feels like finally coming home to yourself.

You deserve that kind of happiness.
And I promise… it won’t explode.

When someone ties despair to God Himself, it buries you in a deeper kind of fear. You stop dreaming. You stop believing in the better. And every time life gets quiet, you brace yourself, because you know the calm never lasts.

I remember once, after one of our rare calm seasons, we tried to dream again. We made a little vision board together — nothing extravagant, just things a normal couple would hope for. A peaceful home. A reliable car. A future that didn’t feel like walking through broken glass.

But his face went dark, the way it always did when anything felt too good.

He looked at me and said,

“God hates me. We will never get any of this.”

And just like that, the air changed.
The hope drained out of the room.
My body learned — again — that peace wasn’t safe, and happiness wasn’t to be trusted.

When Pain Feels Familiar, And Peace Feels Like ARisk

It’s not your fault you feel this way. But you don’t have to stay there.

Sometimes it feels like emotions happen to us, like the weather.
“I guess I’m just sad today.”
“It is what it is.”

But here’s the part no one tells you:

You might not get to choose the feeling that shows up. But you do have a say in how long it stays there.

When we’ve been through trauma or long-term hurt, sadness, or pain can start to feel familiar. It’s almost comforting in a strange way. We stop trying to feel better because part of us doesn’t trust that “feeling better” is even possible. So we sit in the sadness like it’s the only place we belong.

Sometimes, without realizing it, we even let the pain in like a guest who shows up uninvited…. and we don’t ask it to leave. Not because we want to suffer, but because suffering is what we know. It feels predictable. Safe. Normal.

But here’s the truth:

You’re allowed to feel your feelings, and you’re allowed to move through them.

Pain doesn’t have to be your home anymore. You deserve moments of peace, even if they feel unfamiliar at first, because you deserve better.

It took me over 20 years to realize that I deserved better. I sat in my pain day after day—wishing it would go away, wanting it to stop—but doing nothing about it because it had become my comfort zone. I was stuck in a rut and had no idea how to pull myself out.

But once I finally recognized that I did deserve better, the answers started coming to me — sometimes slowly, and sometimes all at once.

I spent 24 years in an abusive marriage. Today, I can say I made it out. And so can you.

Why No One Can Cheer You Up (And Why You Don’t Want Them To)

It’s not that you can’t feel better…it’s that you don’t trust better.

When you’re upset, it feels like nothing can touch you. Friends try to cheer you up, but their words bounce right off. You shut it down with,

“You don’t understand,” or “I can’t help the way I feel.”

Here’s the thing: you’re not wrong for wanting to sit in your feelings. Pain can feel safer than pretending everything’s okay. But sometimes, without realizing it, you hold on to that pain like proof. Proof that you were hurt, evidence that your feelings are real, proof that you’re not invisible.

And letting it go? That feels scary. Because misery, as heavy as it is, can start to feel familiar. Almost like home.

You’re not broken for feeling this way. You’ve just learned to live with despair for so long that happiness feels foreign. But here’s the truth: you deserve more than the familiar depression. You deserve peace, even if it feels uncomfortable at first.

Such was I. I lived in an abusive marriage for 24 years. When I finally dared to leave, I started reflecting and asked myself,

“Why had I stayed so long?”

In the future, I knew I didn’t want to make the same mistake. I didn’t want to end up in another abusive marriage. So I looked back at my past relationships, and they were all the same. Abusive.

Wow. Who am I? And why am I choosing this path?

That’s when I realized I had an addiction problem. I was addicted to pain—the pain and the drama of the chaos. I was stuck in a cycle, like a revolving door. So I constantly had to remind myself why I was leaving. I had to remind myself that I deserved better and that I should look for someone who was the complete opposite.

And that’s precisely what I did. Today, I stand on the other side of abuse. Stronger, freer, and committed to helping others find their own path out.

Need help?
If you or someone you know is struggling with addiction, emotional distress, or abuse, support is available 24/7:

Addiction Recovery: Call 866-606-0182 or visit our treatment center directory
Suicide & Crisis Lifeline: Dial 988 (free, confidential, 24/7)
Domestic Violence Hotline: Call 800-799-7233 or text START to 88788
Sexual Assault Hotline (RAINN): Call 800-656-4673 or visit online.rainn.org

You are not alone. There is help. There is hope. And you are worth the healing.

Question Everything

“Learn from yesterday, live for today, hope for tomorrow. The important thing is not to stop questioning.” – Albert Einstein

Have you ever asked God, “Why?”

Have you ever questioned His existence?

Have you ever screamed out in agony, wondering why YOU even exist?

Have you ever wondered how a “loving God” could allow such pain and suffering?

Have you ever sat in a puddle of your own tears and felt you couldn’t go on?

Have you ever felt the hatred burning in your bones?

Have you ever tried to wake up, hoping it was just a nightmare?

Have you ever sought answers but found none?

Have you ever wondered, “Why me?”

Have you ever put on a fake smile so that you didn’t have to talk about it?

Have you ever wanted to start all over?

Have you ever wanted to give up? Everyday?

Have you ever wondered why you couldn’t get on the good side of life?

Have you ever felt cursed?

Have you ever felt depressed and regretted so much of your life?

I have.

“The power to question is the basis of all human progress.” – Indira Gandhi

How many times have you been told that you should never question God? I lost count of the times I was told that. But guess what? He understands. We were born questioning everything around us. That is how we learn and grow. The only ignorant question is the one that is never asked. Asking questions clears confusion, gives us a better understanding of any given situation, and helps us find answers. Questions help solve problems. It is absolutely fine to question our life; it shows that we do not accept our current position or status and that we are willing to improve.

A Quiet Voice Echoes

Dear Me,

I hear you.
I see what you endured.
I believe every word you wrote.

You were a victim—not because you were weak, but because others chose to harm you, control you, silence you.
It was not your fault. Not then, not ever.
You were not to blame for the loneliness, the violence, the brainwashing, the betrayal.
You were doing your best to survive inside a world that kept telling you to disappear.

And still, you are here.
You are speaking.
You are remembering.
You are healing.

I honor your pain. I honor your courage.
You don’t have to carry this alone anymore.
You are allowed to rest.
You are allowed to feel angry, sad, and confused.
You are allowed to feel everything.

There is no right pace. No deadline.
Only this: you are not silent anymore.
And that is everything.

I love you.
I am with you.
You are not alone.

— Me

She Meow’s Like My Ex

“She’s a diva,” I tell people.

She truly is demanding, entitled, and relentless. She will sit outside my door crying and bawling as if she has been wronged because I did not give her the beloved wet cat food this morning. She is so sure she is starving that she sits on the other side of the door, telling me so.

I wasn’t trying to be mean or withhold food from her; she has a bowl of hard food available at all times, but she has become accustomed to a routine. A routine that doesn’t tell time unless, of course, I am late.

This particular day, I got up earlier than usual, around 3 a.m., and figured it might be a tad too early to feed the fat thing. I reasoned that if I fed her now, then she would be hungrier later. But she did not care. I was up, and she deserved her morning breakfast, which I ignored.

There are days I may linger in bed, especially on the weekend. And by linger, I mean 6 am or 7 am, but a lot later than the usual 4 or 5 am. If I dare allow myself a moment of pleasure in bed, longer than she’s used to, she will sit outside my bedroom door. Weeping and wailing about the hell she’s in, as if her stomach has shriveled and is actively atrophying.

Is it wrong that I find myself resenting a cat?

She’s so needy. I can’t stand needy people, and this cat, in all her demanding glory, reminds me of my ex-husband. Always needing emotional propping. Constant ego strokes. He’d smell it if I didn’t convince him of my sincerity, and explode.

Oh, such a quandary living with a narcissist. You never know from one minute to the next if you’re going to set them off. No matter how hard you try to be perfect. And this needy, fluffy cat needed me to feed her.

I also find myself resenting her because she is so demanding. She stood outside my door, the door to my room – I don’t have a name for this room, but the room where I write, the room where I go to deconstruct. To get away. To lie in the red-light bed and forget. In this room, I sit, typing this. She paws under the door, meowing,

“Feed me bitch”.

Her demands take me back to my ex again, as everyone already knows a narcissist is demanding. They demand that you give them all the attention. If I showed my children more attention than him, he would start to act out in jealousy, so all the attention would be back on him. He insisted that I give him undivided attention 24/7. And if I had to take a break to use the bathroom or breathe, all hell would break loose, and I was disrespecting him. He’d say,

“You aren’t listening to me! “.

This Tortie creature does the same thing. I can be sitting on the couch with a blanket watching TV, and she will be minding her own business, but as soon as I pull out a crochet project or the laptop. Then here she comes,

“Hey! Pay attention to ME!”

Staking claim to my lap, insisting I rub her head. I miss the days when she was less affectionate. She now needs pets and rubs more often than I care to give. Perhaps her deprived cries for attention cause me to want to withhold affection.

I used to be a cat person. Every cat I have ever owned was needy and demanding in its own way, but living with a narcissist for 24 years has helped me realize that maybe I shouldn’t be a pet owner because I didn’t even tell you about the codependent Goldendoodle.

That one needs a story of her own.

What I Remember About My Mom…

What I remember about my mother is…

October 14, 2025

With a title like that, it makes me feel like it should go under the title of “what I can’t write about”. What I remember about my mother is how emotionally unstable she was when I was a teenager. But should I stay focused on that? I feel guilty even putting that on paper. Shouldn’t I be looking for the happy moments to remember about my mom? Like the time she took me to Disneyland? Or the time we simultaneously fell on the beach? Or the time we drove, what felt like across country, to visit family in Texas. Those were some fun times. And I suppose, if I allow myself, I can recall those and focus on them instead, but it feels like my mind wants to dwell on the events that scarred me or caused the most unrest.

Once, I remember in particular. She came home from church crying, sobbing, actually. Staring at her hands, hands that were starting to wither and constrict from years as a red cross nurse. When my 15-year-old-self asked her why she was crying.

She said, “Because Gayle wouldn’t talk to me . She wouldn’t even shake my hand”.

Gayle and my mom were best friends for a long time, then all of a sudden they weren’t. Some issue went down between my mom and Gayle’s son, Dave, the same one who molested me. And Gayle no longer wanted to be friends with my mom. I could not understand why she was allowing another human to cause her such distress. This woman controlled my mom’s every emotion. As a teenager, I wished my mom had been stronger. I knew that I was not able to go to my mom if I was in distress. She wouldn’t be able to handle it. I needed her to be emotionally available. I needed her to protect me. But instead, I had to be strong for her—a fifteen-year-old girl holding up a grown woman who couldn’t carry her own grief. She leaned on me like I was her anchor, her therapist.

What she wanted—what she demanded—was my undying devotion, my complete loyalty, maybe even my worship. But her constant victimhood repulsed me. The way she wallowed in it, wrapped herself in it like a favorite robe. She didn’t just live in that identity—she tried to pass it on to me. Now that I am an adult, she looks at me like I am broken. Like I am stuck in suffering, too fragile to stand on my own. But I’m not. I have already learned how to carry pain quietly. She doesn’t see that. She only sees what she wants to—someone who needs saving, so she can be the savior. But I don’t need her to rescue me. I need her to show up, like I needed when I was a teenager.

I remember my mom would go places on the weekends with her friends, and I would feel abandoned and neglected, wondering why she never took me. I suppose that is the life of a lonely only child. You get used to them keeping themselves occupied that you forget to invite them to places. Or maybe they stop asking because they always say no, like my last and only child at home.

I remember my mother being capitulating, emotionally distraught, and neglectful. It’s hard to put into words how exhausting it was to carry the emotional weight she dropped. I didn’t just have a mother—I had a fragile force of chaos that needed managing. I was the one steadying the ship, reading her moods like weather, preparing for storms. She needed me to be her anchor, her audience, her child-lover and devotee. But I needed her just to be a mother. I needed someone who could tell me everything was going to be okay. Instead, I spent most of my youth making her feel okay.

I also remember how she was so spiritual and sanctimonious until her family came around. She didn’t drink unless they were there. Now bear with me, I detect I am being a bit judgmental here, because I was raised in church and taught that drinking was sinful. So to see her drink when family came around seemed like a double standard. My adult self sees it a little differently now. I don’t know how to put it on paper. But good for her for choosing not to drink daily. Only allowing herself to let go of her inhibitions when the family was around.

I remember when I threw them a 25th anniversary party, I was a staunch Christian at the time, and I made sure EVERYONE knew that there was no alcohol allowed. So, they brought it in their ice chests, in the back of their cars. They would step outside to chug their beloved beer. I attempted to create order—purity—something untangled and clean. I wanted to make her proud, but I also wanted to undo the parts of her that embarrassed me, shamed me, weakened me. I wanted her to see me as strong, in control, untouched by the mess she seemed to bathe in. But the truth is, even then, I was still craving her approval, still hoping she’d finally see me—see what I was building to survive what she gave me.

Drinking is and was a thing my family does, has done, and still does. I did a genetic test, and it showed that specific genes inhibit my ability to produce dopamine. I can’t help but wonder if this is an inherited thing and why drinking and drugs are the go-to for dopamine hits in our family. Then I think about my mom and her pain pill addiction. She’s not like the ones you would think of who take them to be high; she’s what we call functioning. She waits until a specific time of day. Then mixes it with a beer for the best effect. But cannot go a day without the pill. To do so would cause excruciating pain.

What I remember about my mom is how she wanted to file for grandparent rights because we were not letting her see the grandkids, because she wasn’t in church, or because she was drinking. Honestly, I do not remember the actual reason why we did that. Again, it was self-righteousness on my part, but I remember that about my mom.

What I remember about my mom is how, when I turned my 22-year-old son in for molesting his sister, Mom was willing to stand by his side to testify on his behalf instead of standing by my daughter. THAT is what I remember about my mom. How she allows him to call her every week, how she gives him money, and how she accepts his letters. I know that is her grandson. It is my son. It hurts. It stings. But everyone assumes that “that is memaw,” and she can be weird like that. What devastates me isn’t just her loyalty to him. It’s what her loyalty costs. Her silence toward my daughter. Her refusal to draw a line. Her willingness to let me fracture. It’s like she needed to prove she could still be someone’s everything—and he gave her that opportunity. That kind of loyalty looks like love, but it isn’t love. It’s desperation. She’s always needed someone to cling to, to believe in, to fight for. I just never understood why it couldn’t be me.

What I remember is when she left my dad because she was so sure he was filming child pornography in their home. (He wasn’t) She still believes that to this day. Mom is delusional. Currently struggling with thinking someone has hacked her Facebook. Yes, it’s possible, but after looking at it multiple times, her FB is not being hacked. She has forgotten how to navigate it, and if FB upgrades, she will be even more confused and, with absolute certainty, think she is being hacked by someone else. There’s something hollow about watching your parent decline into paranoia. There’s grief in it, but also resentment. She still calls me like I’m her tech support, her lifeline, her handler. But I’ve been handling her my whole life. There’s no space to say, “I can’t do this anymore.” She wouldn’t hear it. She would only feel betrayed. Every time I try to step away, I feel like the bad daughter. But being her daughter has always felt like an assignment I didn’t ask for.

Reminding myself that I don’t have to decide right away whether to focus only on the “happy moments” or only on the painful ones. Memory is not tidy. It rarely divides neatly between joy and hurt. Often, the most actual writing comes when both are allowed to sit side by side.

I remember how, when she laughs, it is crackly, raspy. She has COPD from years of smoking. Laughter will send her into a coughing fit. Although the cough sounds congested, it is never productive; the phlegm persists.

I remember how mom goes silent when she is angry or feels wronged. Mom often feels like she has been wronged. She views life through a victim’s eyes.

When mom looks at me, she looks at me with pity, as if I am experiencing some horrible event. Yes, many times I have. But my daily life as a mom, wife, and office manager is not horrific, and I am not a victim because I go to work every day (well, technically not every day). It’s like she wants me to be wounded. Like she needs me to be just as broken as she is so she can understand me—or maybe justify herself. She calls it concern. But it feels like a projection. I’m not fragile. I’m tired. I’m functioning, flawed, healing—but I’m not living in a wound like she does. And every time she looks at me with those sad eyes, it’s like she’s trying to pull me back into her story, her suffering. I won’t go.

But still—I remember her. All of it. The good, the unbearable, the beautiful, the warped. I remember her as she was, not as I wish she had been. Maybe that’s the most honest kind of remembering there is. Not choosing sides between pain and peace, but letting them live together and letting them both be true. What I can’t write about is exactly what needs to be written. And maybe, somehow, that’s enough.

Yoli's Write To Sanity

Just Breathe And Write

Tag: divorce