I was sitting in a booth across the table from my oldest daughter, in our favorite Coffee Shop. The high-backed seats provided privacy and a perfect setting for catching up on life events. The aroma of her Dirty Chai made me wish I had ordered coffee instead of my tart Kombucha. Her voice mingled with the background murmurs of other conversations around us as she told me about my grandson’s first day of kindergarten. I was studying her face as she talked. I cherished these moments, admiring how her long eyelashes accentuated her chocolate eyes. They sat under perfectly manicured eyebrows so as not to resemble the unibrow she inherited from her Father. The tiny scar on her cheek was barely visible; a reminder of the time her sister threw an old metal hanger at her in an attempt to win an argument. Her perfectly heart-shaped lips reminded me of her Dad.
Suddenly, out of nowhere, I gasped when I felt someone grab me by my hair, wincing as my head and neck jerked from the force. My heart sank to my stomach, beating hard and fast. The attacker behind me growled, “You’d better get out of this place. Get back home!”
I did not need to look up to know who it was. I began screaming, “Help! Somebody, please help me!”
He pulled me out of the booth and dragged me toward the front door of the cafe.
My hands went to my head, trying to free myself from his grip. As always, he was much bigger and stronger. She sat motionless, shaken, not knowing what to do. Her mouth hung open, her eyes wide and glassy with tears.
I was trying so hard to have a different life, a better life. I did not want my children to experience this violence anymore. I wanted them to know that this is not OK and that life can be peaceful.
The harder I fought to break free of his grip, the tighter he held on. There was no way I was leaving without a fight. Part of me wanted to give in, to stop the pain in my scalp, but I couldn’t let him win. Not this time. I tried to plant my feet on the floor, but they slid effortlessly across the tile. What if he overpowers me? What if I can’t get away?
I stopped screaming for help, and I started yelling at him. “Stop! Get away from me! Leave me alone! You can’t control me!”
I take a big gulp of Guinness. I remember her surprisingly acerbic words. She yelled them across the parking lot. “I hope something absolutely horrible happens to you on the best day of your life!”
It was all I thought of while I drove back to the Wagon Wheel. I did not make it a habit to drink in front of my employees. Yet, I needed to get the shopping trip off my mind. I tried to enjoy my drink. The place lit up as the door opened. I made the mistake of checking who had entered my establishment.
It was them. The gal from the mall with her mom. They sat at the round table near the corner by the pool tables. Mitzi went over, fully ready to ask to see their membership card. I tapped her arm and shook my head no. She knew that we would be making an exception this time.
I followed Mitzi to the back on my way to my office and told her not to let them pay. I would handle it. Mitzi gave me one of her suspicious looks and said she would need an explanation.
Later, when they left, I told Mitzi,
“I went to Dillard’s to get Shiloh and Drake their Christmas presents, and the entire parking lot was full. It was Christmas Eve, and I hadn’t even started shopping yet. I finally saw a handicap spot open up. I justified to myself that I wouldn’t be in there long enough to matter. You know, that is the exact same thinking that cost me my marriage. Cassie used to say I was always too busy rushing to the next thing. I never noticed who I was running over. I guess she was right. A car had been waiting for the same spot. I was closer, so I took it, even though she’d been waiting for it. Anyways, she blared her horn, rolled down her window, and yelled at me. I didn’t realize she had a handicapped person with her. I didn’t even care, honestly. But when I kept running into her at every rack and corner, I thought, here I am. I am an able-bodied man taking a handicap spot. Her handicap spot. More like an able-bodied asshole, that’s what I am. I couldn’t handle it, so I left. I feel like such an idiot. The least I do is pay for their time here.”
Mitzi had a big grin from ear to ear while she was digging through her purse. She pulled out a bundle of sage and handed it to me. I hesitantly reached for it.
“I told them that their meal and drinks were on the house. She told me to tell you to keep your Goddamn money. She also hopes that you need to take a shit when you step out of the shower.” Mitzi was laughing so hard that she had to cross her legs, and her eyes were watering.
The weight of it hit me harder than I expected. She wouldn’t even let me try to make it right. I’d been such a selfish prick that my apology wasn’t worth accepting. Maybe I didn’t deserve her forgiveness.
“What is the sage for?”
“That’s to get rid of their bad JuJu. We don’t need their attitude lingering. There ain’t nothing worse than trying to use toilet paper to wipe shit off a clean wet ass.” Holding her stomach, she turned to leave. “Merry Christmas, John. Give the kids my love.” She swung her hands up to the sky. She bellowed, “May your showers be warm, and your ass stay clean, bahaha!”
I looked down at the silver twigs, held together by handmade twine. I wondered if it works on people, too. If burning sage undoes years of being an asshole. The asshole who takes handicap spots and causes a divorce.
Sounds of a creaking door… As I write about the sounds Of water hitting bedrock below A crescendo from thirteen feet above.
More than a trickle, Less than a roar. Yet still a fall. A lazy stream’s descent.
Laughter behind a glass door. Nude. The house has finally warmed To a temperature that’s Birthday-suit worthy.
The buzz of a yellow jacket In search of food for winter. My fingers and nose tell me, It’s too cold for this creature To be flying about. Yet it defies logic, Buzzing close to my ear.
Wasp stings are a powerful, A Solid blow. I remember the time Three tagged me on the back.
BOOM! I felt it. BOOM! again. BOOM! a third time.
It was between the second and third I realized what was happening. Then I ran Yelling, crying, Screaming. A third of each.
The pain was immense. It did not stop. Not a throb,
A Stab. As if it were stinging me Again and again.
For over an hour.
So now, As this cold-weather fiend Flies near, I watch.
“What do you have to say?” I ask.
I listen. I observe.
All I can gather is… It is in no hurry.
It finds a grease stain On the patio chair arm, And begins lapping it up In the manner yellow jackets do, Until the spot is no longer visible.
Cleaned its mess. No Cleaned a mess. Not its own.
Like we as parents So often do.
I swing my hair Back and forth, Hoping it will leave me alone, Not lap any oil From my body.
Memories rise Panic follows.
I feel it there, On top of my head.
I swing my curls again, Trying to send a message: Go. Elsewhere.
But it is here. It was here before me. And unless I smush it, It will be here after me.
For now Gone. Or out of hearing reach. Out of sight.
The soothing sounds of nature… Not made by man.
Water falls onto rocks. Into a pond-like puddle Knee-deep, perhaps, Or at least it was last year.
From the top of the stairs I can see the bottom.
This place, carved by nature You can’t help but wonder What was on the Divine’s mind When it shaped it.
I want a place like this. All to myself.
But would I share it?
Places like this deserve to be shared.
Yet I want to hoard it. Keep it for myself. Unfettered access At all times.
And I suppose With a tweak in scheduling That’s always possible.
Cold water cascades Slaps, Claps, Splashes, Sings.
It continues its journey.
Boldly it goes Down, winding, trailing, Lulling. Its journey never ends.
Can you see the wind? No But you see the evidence.
Young, dumb, and 21. That’s what we were. We were of the age of invincibility. There was nothing we could not do, and if it was wrong, we would never get caught. We could drink all night and get up for work the next morning. There was no limit to the trouble we could get into or the amount of alcohol we could consume. As was the night of October 28, 1990.
Receiving an invitation to one of Brody’s parties was something everyone bragged about. So when we received ours, we were ecstatic! I called Cheryl and Lisa and told them the news. They, too, were just as excited. We asked ourselves if we should invite Christy, weighing the pros and cons. If she finds out we went to Brody’s without her, she will be so mad at us. She’s been wanting to go to one of his parties for a long time. But if we invite her, she’s only going to regret it in the morning, then ghost us for weeks while she gets right with God and aligns with her church and parents’ values. With that last thought, we decided not to tell her about the party.
The three of us pull up to Brody’s huge, lustrous mansion, the lights illuminating the circular drive. The valet took the keys to my bug and drove away.
“Wow, this is bigger than I imagined!” I said.
‘No, I thought it was going to be way bigger and way prettier.”
Lisa, wanting to keep the peace, said it was exactly as she imagined.
Once inside, a large staircase led upstairs, and people were sitting at the bottom. To our left, French doors opened into a huge room full of people. Brody had a DJ, and the room was dark, with strobe lights that danced like shooting stars. There were coolers and kegs and bottles of alcohol everywhere. We each grabbed something to drink and started mingling. We didn’t know anyone here. So, we regrouped in a corner.
“Do you know anyone?” Lisa asked.
“No. Do you?” Cheryl replied.
“Me either, this is weird. Well, the valet took my keys, and I’m starting to feel this drink, so we may as well make the best of it. Let’s go explore.” I pulled out my phone.
“Should we text Christy the address?”
Lisa shook her head. “You know how she gets. She’ll have fun tonight, then spend the next three weeks feeling guilty, ghosting us while she gets right with God.”
Cheryl nodded. “I can’t deal with another guilt trip.”
I put my phone away. We left the room with fresh drinks inside 24-oz tumblers with lids and straws.
“Wow, taste this!” I extended my cup to Lisa. Cheryl was a germaphobe. And shook her head no at the thought of sharing straws.
“Oh, that’s good. Here, try mine.” Lisa’s drink tasted of kiwi and pineapple with a lot of vodka.
Huge portraits of people we didn’t recognize hung throughout the house, and the bathrooms were bigger than our bedrooms. We found two kitchens and a room that I later learned was a butler pantry, equipped with a sink and fridge.
Before heading outside, we stopped in the ballroom to grab another drink. Bodies were dancing provocatively, a good indication that they were heavily inebriated. Cheryl wanted to stay and dance, Lisa and I wanted to go outside to the garden, so we parted ways.
We linked our arms together and headed outside, swaying and stumbling as we walked. The giant hedges arched into an opening, and we entered with the courage that alcohol gives. It was dark; the full moon illuminated the path before us.
“Shit, we’re going to get lost.”
Lisa burst out laughing. “It’s not like we will be stuck in here forever; someone will eventually come looking for us.”
“But what if they don’t?”
We stopped laughing and stared at each other for a moment, then burst into another sort of laughter. The kind that pushes away fear.
“Well, this is a dead end, I told you we should have gone right. You always go right. That’s the only way to go.” She scolded.
I hated to admit she might be right this time. So, we turned around.
“But we have to go left this time because we didn’t go right the last time.”
Lisa rolled her eyes, and we went left. “Ugh, this drink is getting to me. It was way too sweet. I’m going to set it right here. That way, when we come back out, we will see it and know we are going the right way.”
Onward we walked, hands grazing the hedge’s edge. When we came to a fork, Lisa reminded me to go right. And this time I listened. I set my drink down before turning right, knowing our drunk brains will need all the help they can get.
We stumbled through the maze, giggling. It felt like forever, dead end after dead end, but we were having too much fun to care.
Finally, we found the end of the maze. It opened into a garden full of roses and a gazebo in the center. There was a water fountain with a stream circling around. It was heaven.
“Wow, this is amazing. Have you ever seen anything like this?”
“Once, but it was Colorado when I hiked to a waterfall. But this is man-made, so it makes it more surprising.”
We walked to the gazebo and noticed someone was slumped on the ground.
“Who do you think that is?”
“I have no idea. In case you forgot, we don’t know anyone here. “ Lisa snorted.
“Hi. Do you mind if we join you?”
There was silence. I wondered if they were passed out and decided to check on them.
We stepped onto the gazebo floor and realized it was Christy.
“Christy? I am so glad you came!” I said.
Lisa’s eyes were huge. She stopped, her jaw dropping to the floor.
When I turned back to Christy, who was still silent, I thought maybe she was mad at us for not inviting her. Then I noticed her hair was matted to her head. I grabbed my phone and shined it on her. Her hair was matted to her face with dark, sticky, reddish brown crust. I stood up and gasped. I shined my light down her body. Her skirt was pulled up and her panties were tangled around her ankles.
Blood was everywhere. It was on me too. Lisa was frozen, silent from shock. I stumbled backward,
“Oh my god! I she….” I couldn’t bring myself to say, “…dead?”
There lay our friend Christy, whom we chose not to invite, in a pool of her own blood.
“It’s all my fault,” Lisa sobbed. “I’m the one who said we shouldn’t invite her. I said she’d kill the vibe. If we had invited her, she would still be alive.”
In the distance, I could still hear the music from the house. People laughing, dancing, living.
According to my husband, I spend too much money on Amazon, and for once, I had to agree. I blame it on COVID, like all the other not-so-great habits we picked up and some not-so-bad ones, too. “Since COVID, I haven’t been able to…. When COVID hit, I… bought groceries online, and now I can’t stop….started drinking more… stopped going to church… stopped exercising… started exercising more… stopped going out… started writing….” COVID has been blamed for the reason we are doing whatever we are doing.
My Amazon purchases were so bad that the driver became accustomed to delivering packages to my house; if a neighbor ordered something on Amazon, they would automatically assume it was for me. I had to constantly redeliver Amazon boxes to our neighbors because they were mistakenly delivered to my home. I do not recall ever receiving one of my missing packages from a neighbor. Apparently, karma only works one way on our street, and I just want my slippers!
One morning, after unboxing a delivery, I stepped out into the garage to dispose of the garbage. As I stepped off the bottom step, I landed right on what I thought was fallen debris, perhaps an Amazon box. It felt firm under my foot, which left me a little confused. When I turned around, I realized I had stepped onto a snake. This snake was about 3 feet long and 3 inches in circumference. It was a fatty. Later, I would learn it was just a harmless water snake. I jumped back and screamed. Remembering what my kids said about me whenever I yelled at them.
“Mom, you can’t yell, we can’t take you serious.”
Yelling and screaming weren’t things that came natural to me, and according to them and the snake, it didn’t sound right either. The snake looked confused, acting like it wanted to slither away. I stood motionless as well. I looked at the creature blocking the entrance to my door. The door was still open. Now I am afraid the dog might have heard my scream and come to see what was going on. Then I started to worry that my 14-year-old would come to investigate too.
At this point, my mom instincts kicked in, and I stopped screaming because I do not want them to be in harm’s way. I stand there, staring at the snake, it lying there, staring back at me. I move left; it moves left. I move right; it moves right. I move forward; it moves backward. It is like one of those moments when you and a stranger are trying to get through the same entrance, but neither of you is sure which way or which side the other will choose, and you keep choosing the same way.
I want to run into the house, but in front of the steps lies a humongous snake. I want to run outside the garage, but the path between me, the car, and the snake is far too narrow to chance it. So I start waving my arms in the “shooing” manner to encourage it to go outside. Instead of going outside, it decided to slither around the steps and coil up under the mop bucket left there earlier in the week to dry.
I immediately called my husband, “I just stepped on a snake in the garage, and I have my Chacos on.”
“What?”
“I just fucking stepped on a snake in the garage with open-toed sandals, and it is still in here!” I said, emphasizing each word.
He, hearing the panic in my voice, jumped in his truck, drove down from the shop, and took care of the snake.
This is one of those life-changing moments that alter the way you live your life. I’ve had a few of those moments, like when a giant wolf spider was in my slipper while I was trying to put it on. Like when there was a huge King snake on our back deck, mind you, this deck sits elevated about 8-10 feet off the ground, so I’m still trying to figure out how he got there. And then there was the time my husband found a copperhead in the garage on MY side of the car.
Fear doesn’t fix you; it just teaches you to move differently through the world. The Amazon boxes still arrive. But now I never walk into the garage without looking down. I shake out my slippers, scan the deck, and check every corner. COVID gave me one set of compulsions; a three-foot water snake gave me another.
Is it possible to have the marriage of your dreams? 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, jotting down each room we entered, 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 such as a step-down den and 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 could not 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 whether we had done 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.” She was telling me.
I looked up. She was right, she didn’t have room for any more. When she told me the ways he showed her love, I had to admit I was a little jealous, since I was married to a self-centered, unaffectionate 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?” I wondered.
“Sixty years.”
When I heard those words, I stopped and felt as if something had 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 him?
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 isn’t 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 wasn’t looking for marriage or a 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 I was very hesitant.
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. It was a welcome contrast to my ex-husband.
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 wasn’t as active in church as he’d made out 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. After a long day at work, 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.)
Beep-beep-beep-beep, I hear the constant noise of a business just one mountain over from us. We often tell our guests that sound carries in this valley, and that is no lie. Today, it seems as though the breeze is bringing the sound my way. Du-du-du, mingling with the clank-ety clank of engines pushing and scraping. Another engine chugs to life. Beep-du-beep. It’s all day long.
My view, however, is textbook. The steep, not-so-gentle slope of the hill coming off our back patio dips ever downward into an overgrown brushy area of trees and leaves where deer often like to bed down. In the distance, I hear a man yell a sound that I cannot make out. Beeping and engines continue.
In front of me, dry leaves lay fallen. Winter’s blanket for the ground, our rocky soil welcomes the nourishment, chirps and cheeps, then the dee-dee-dee of a Chickadee. Walking out, I spooked the doves, hoping they would come back when they realized I was no threat. I love when winter delays its cold slap across the cheek. Mornings like this make the season bearable.
Deet-deet-deet, another machine’s noise, but that one beep above all will not stop. I try to tune it out, trying to focus on the chickadee and the titmouse and the occasional crow with the hawk. That relentless beep with its piercing signal, I see red. I can imagine there is a red light attached to the top of whatever is making that beeping noise. The cathedral chime plays in the key of C, humming, switching octaves as the gentle breeze passes by.
Woodpecker calls to the chickadee, wondering why I’m here. I guess I came to listen to the business over the mountain, because beyond that, it’s hard to listen to anything else. The thing about the industry over the hill is that it isn’t even in my backyard. It doesn’t pertain to me. But the call of the birds, they are here, they are in my yard, in my trees. They pertain to me.
Isn’t that just like us? We want to focus on what’s happening around and beyond us, things that have nothing to do with us, because sometimes they’re louder and more evident than what actually matters. Sometimes, those things cause us more distress and keep us from enjoying the little things right in front of us. The birds and squirrels ignore the background noise; maybe we could learn from them.
A squirrel is hopping at the bottom of the hill, unfazed. Caw-caw-caw, says the crow. I hear the hum of the hot tub turning back on, working to keep the water at an ideal temperature. The breeze switches directions, proudly reminding me that it is winter, after all. Dark clouds peek over the mountain, shoving the sun to the side.
The beep of that business is the kind of sound they use to torture people, relentless, shrill, designed to drive you insane. Someone’s dog in the distance barks. Leaves rustle as the squirrel jumps, skips, and hops. What an enjoyable sight.
I take a swig of my lukewarm coffee and ponder:
If I didn’t mind missing the aviary conversations, I might wear headphones next time.
It was a beautiful sunny day with a few clouds against a bright blue sky. I loved looking up at the clouds while I walked—it was invigorating, almost like walking blindly, yet your eyes are wide open. I walked this path so many times that I did not need to look in front of me to know where I was going. So looking up at the clouds while I walked had become my favorite pastime, a game.
There was this one cloud in particular—it looked like Snoopy. Seeing it took me back to my childhood Christmases when Charlie Brown and Snoopy had their Christmas specials. Snoopy was one of my favorites. I loved it at the end, when Snoopy would be asleep on the top of his doghouse, with big heart floating away from him. I could tell he was loved, and he knew it.
The blue in the sky seemed bluer than usual. It wasn’t the standard gray-blue today. It was more of a robin’s egg blue. Vibrant and cheery. That reminded me—just the other day I’d found an actual robin’s egg on this very path, that perfect pale blue, delicate and whole. I’d stopped mid-stride, my foot hovering just above it, not wanting to crush something so beautiful. I’d stepped carefully around it and—
My foot landed on something soft.
I toppled forward, falling flat onto what felt like the cold seat of a car cushion.
Before I could get myself up, panic began to rise from within my bowels as I realized I had stumbled onto a person!
“I’m so sorry. I didn’t see you.”
There was no reply.
“Ma’am? Are you okay?” I shook her shoulder as I scooted back and lifted to my knees.
The woman was face down and unresponsive. I didn’t know what to do! With trembling fingers, I pulled my phone out of my back pocket and dialed 911. Through my shaky voice, I told the dispatcher,
“There is a woman on Elm Street, and she’s unresponsive. She’s cold and her lips are blue.”
How did I not see her? So much for the cloud game. I had to forfeit today, or resign the team altogether.
Ambulance and police cars arrived, taking my story, asking me all kinds of questions. They didn’t understand how I couldn’t see her. How I just literally stumbled onto her. I guess they never daydreamed before either. I think they don’t realize what daydreaming is either. It’s like awake dreaming. You’re awake, you’re dreaming, but unaware of your surroundings. That was me looking at clouds, reminiscing about my childhood, while God knows what was happening around me.
Everything after became a blurry tunnel of questions and rustling uniforms, the paramedic’s clipboard pressed gently against my shoulder, a police officer’s voice gently corralling me to the side.
I kept apologizing, still explaining, though the explanation was nothing more than the fact that I’d been looking at the sky, like I always did. They led me away (I followed because it seemed like the right thing to do). There was no blood., the woman just looked like she’d laid down for a nap and forgot to get back up.
They took my information and then left me to myself, sitting on the curb while the medics checked for a pulse and shook their heads in a subtle, practiced way. The woman had been dead. Maybe for hours. Maybe since the night before. They zipped the lady up, loaded her into the ambulance, and drove away with their lights off. The blue sky had retreated behind a thickening layer of clouds, not that it mattered; I no longer wanted to look up at them.
That was the last thing I expected out of this walk. I remembered kicking that empty robin’s egg with my toe, the color, the way it shattered perfectly. I remembered my own mother’s hand on my shoulder, steering me away from the broken things on sidewalks.
One of the police officers, a big pale guy with a pink face, asked for my name.
“Chelsea,” I said, my voice shaky. “I’m sorry, I—I walk here all the time. I should’ve been paying attention.” I felt the need to say it, as if apologizing enough could excuse all of this.
I was looking at the clouds, that I’d been so caught up in shapes and memories that I’d missed a dead woman lying right in front of me. But it sounded stupid, selfish even. So I just shook my head.
The officer nodded, scribbling something in his notepad. “You did the right thing calling it in,” he said. “We’ll be in touch if we need anything else, but you’re free to go.”
I stood up slowly, my legs still unsteady. The street looked different now—smaller, darker, like someone had turned down the saturation. I walked home the long way, keeping my eyes on the pavement the whole time.
For weeks after, I couldn’t bring myself to look up. Every time I tried, I’d see her face instead of clouds, that awful stillness. My teammates asked where I’d been, why I’d missed practice. I told them I was sick, which wasn’t entirely a lie.
Eventually, I started walking that path again. I had to. But I kept my head down, counting cracks in the sidewalk, and noticed the weeds pushing through concrete. There was a whole world at my feet I’d never paid attention to before—ants carrying crumbs, dandelions growing in impossible places, the way light caught on broken glass.
I still think about the clouds sometimes. I miss them, the way they used to make me feel untethered and free. But I can’t go back to that, not entirely. Now, when I look up, I make sure I know where I’m standing first.
I told my assistant, after spilling everything about why I had been absent,
“Hey, that’s a dismissive statement. You can’t dismiss this. It is not your fault.” He said.
Yesterday I stopped by my parents’ house to help Mom with her Facebook. After about an hour of scrolling through her activity history, and Dad complaining about how three of their specialist doctors were leaving our town for a bigger one, they ended with,
“She owes us an apology.”
I shook my head no. They didn’t like that.
They insisted they had been wrongly accused. They brushed past the fact that they are still, even after everything, keeping contact with her abuser. Instead, they turned the extra pictures on Facebook into their own story. A story where they were the victims. A story where she had attacked them.
Dad with his angry, silent face. Mom had her lip pulled in, as if she were bracing for battle.
“Yes, she does,” they sneered. “Wouldn’t you want an apology if you were accused of something you didn’t do?”
I let out one of those airy laughs. The kind you do when you remember something painful. In my case, it was Dad’s accusatory text. I brushed it off again by saying,
“You have to understand how scared she is.” And then the conversation was over.
I left feeling like I had failed her and myself.
I have never been good at ‘thinking on my toes’ when I get backed into a corner. And for some reason, my parents have always had the power to back me in that corner. Even as an adult. Even after therapy. Even after years of growth.
I think I have been dismissive of them for years without realizing it. Not because I didn’t care, but because I didn’t want to face the fear I carried of them. A fear I only recently learned to name.
Therapy has helped me draw cleaner lines. It showed me that my anxieties did not begin with my ex-husband. He added to the damage, but he did not build the foundation. My parents did. Their dismissiveness shaped me long before adulthood, long before marriage, long before the trauma that came later.
My dad does not know how to love without control. His love has limits, and those limits end where his control ends. My mom has always believed the world is against her. So it makes sense she sees her own granddaughter as just one more person out to hurt her.
And for years, I’ve repeated the exact phrase like a mantra.
“It is what it is.”
But now I know that phrase was never peace. It was resignation. It was the sound of folding into silence. It was the armor I wore when I didn’t yet have the language to name the wounds.
If something happened that left you shaky, ashamed, exposed, or suddenly doubting yourself, I want you to know this:
What you’re feeling is real. And it makes sense.
Most people have no idea what humiliation actually does to a person. They think it’s “just embarrassment.” They think you should shrug it off. But humiliation is a psychological wound. It hits the same part of your brain that reacts to physical pain. It knocks your confidence, your voice, and sometimes your sense of self out from under you.
And if no one ever taught you how to deal with this kind of emotional blow, you might be blaming yourself for a wound you never deserved.
Let’s walk through this slowly, in a way that makes space for your pain and gives you a way forward.
—
1. Something painful happened — you didn’t imagine it
Someone cut you down. Someone used their words, tone, or power to make you feel small. Someone spoke to you in a way that pierced straight through your dignity.
You weren’t “overreacting.” You weren’t “too sensitive.”
You were caught off guard by a moment that should not have happened.
Humiliation exposes the person who delivered it — not the person who received it.
—
> “A painful moment happened to me. It does not define me.”
—
2. Your body responded because humiliation is a body-level injury
Most people don’t talk about this part, but humiliation hits the body first:
Your throat closes. Your stomach flips. Your face gets hot. Your mind blanks out. Your chest tightens.
This is your nervous system trying to protect you.
It doesn’t mean you’re weak. It means you’re human.
Before you try to make sense of anything, let your body settle.
Try this:
Drop your shoulders
Loosen your jaw
Place your hand on your chest
Slow your exhale
Whisper, “I’m safe enough right now.”
You cannot think clearly in a body that feels attacked.
—
3. The wound came from the story your mind created afterward
There’s the event itself… and then there’s the meaning your mind wrapped around it.
Humiliation tries to whisper things like:
“Everyone saw.”
“You looked foolish.”
“You should’ve known better.”
“They were right about you.”
But those thoughts aren’t truth. They’re the bruise talking.
Say this gently: “The story I told myself was…”
Name it so it stops running the show in the dark.
—
4. Humiliation makes you want to hide — but hiding keeps the wound open
After you’re hurt like this, the instinct to disappear is strong. You avoid eye contact, replay the moment, pull your energy inward. You shrink as if shrinking will protect you.
But hiding is exactly what keeps the wound tender.
You don’t have to tell the whole story. Just start with one simple sentence:
“Something happened that made me feel small.”
Speaking it breaks the isolation humiliation depends on.
—
5. Reclaim your authority over what the moment meant
When someone cuts you down, their voice can become louder in your head than your own.
But your dignity is still yours.
Say: “I get to decide what this means.”
Not them. Not the moment. Not the fear that followed.
You.
Every time you say it, something inside you stands a little straighter.
—
6. Give yourself what you needed in that moment
Ask yourself: “What did I need right then?”
Respect? Understanding? Protection? Someone to step in? Someone to say, “That wasn’t okay”?
Now ask: “How can I give even a small piece of that to myself now?”
This is what begins to repair the psychological wound.
—
Here’s the truth I want you to carry with you
You are not the smallness someone tried to put on you. You are not the version of yourself their words tried to create. You are not the moment that knocked your voice out of your chest.
You were wounded. And wounded people don’t need shame — they need understanding, space, and a way back to themselves.
