The Kings Of Heart .com

Wow, it’s been a while since I’ve posted anything. I’ve had so many thoughts that I’ve meant to type out, but alas, real life interferred with all of my “extra time” to write about it.

I’m currently training for a marathon. It’s been really interesting. I’m a really terrible “dieter” and find that if I don’t burn off some of my energy, I get quite moody. Reactive, specifically. Anyway, between those two issues, running seems to be a good fit for my personality.

I ran my first half marathon in September. It went really well, so I decided to take on the big 26.2 run. Currently, my long runs are 16-18 miles, and I’m doing okay with it. However, my body starts to fall apart on me if I don’t cross train. I hit the gym a few days a week, and recently joined….wait for it….Karate. Tae Kwon Do, specifically.

Let’s be honest. Karate is not cool. Unless you are a blackbelt, of course. Then, and only then, are you cool. Which, I’m not. I’m the 36 year old lady in the back of the class in stark white. Not. Cool. However, my hubby has studied another form of karate in the past, and really enjoyed it. He has talked about going back for years, and especially since our son has joined, but isn’t the kind of person to go out of his way to do something that doesn’t include his family, unless encouraged. Encouraged only by me jumping on the Not -Cool karate bandwagon with him.

Don’t get me wrong. I’ve come to enjoy it a bit. My husband gets almost giddy before class, which of course, makes me happy. I’m learning how to take a punch and how to throw a few, and who doesn’t want that? I’ve also filled the cross training need in my marathon training. However, in over a month, I’ve told only two friends of this venture. Not cool, remember?

I’m a big Facebook junkie. It’s basically my socializing on most days. Prior to joining karate, my instructor was my Facebook friend. Like my real life, I am quite picky about who my friends are. Every so often, I “clean Facebook house”…i.e., unfriend people I don’t really speak with, or don’t remember clearly, even though 48 of my high school friends are common friends with that person. Basically, if I have a friend on Facebook, it’s by no means, to have a high number of “friends”. I say this because my Karate instructor is my friend. Well, was my friend. Until last week….

My hubby and I (the geeky white belts) were bowing out after class last week, when my instructor says to me (from across the studio- or dojo), “Hey, Sarah, I’m going to have to unfriend you on Facebook, because I’m just not suppose to be friends with my students.” Uh….awkward, as I’m standing with all of the other students, who obviously witnessed the awkwardness. Did you hear that? Yeah, it was a pin dropping. Sweet.

Yes, some of you may not think that this is a big deal. Maybe even most of you. Well, good for you. You are more evolved than I. For me, the geeky white belt, who was already learning humility through just being in class, being shunned by the 23 year old karate instructor in front of the other students was well, too much.

The hubby looks at me, I look at him. I say, “Uh…Ok.” I mean, what am I suppose to say? I think he – the instructor- was trying to make it casual. I really do. Maybe  he was trying to follow the rules and be professional, and from his perspective, could help him to be more respected by his students. Albeit, he was misguided in his attempt. There is also the possibility that he  doesn’t like me. Either way, my ego was in a bad state.

The hubby and I left. I discussed the awkwardness of the situation with my husband, who laughed uncomfortably, and then reminded me that the instructor was young. A very good point. Yet, I still couldn’t shake it. So, I immediately went home and unfriended him with a private message, kindly explaining how his open discussion make me feel incredibly uncomfortable. He called the next day. He told me that although the rule could be taken into more of a “gray area” context, because it was a rule specifically designed for underage students, for him, it was a black or white issue. Okay, then. Still awkward. At this point, I’m feeling really uncool. Apparently my ego is larger than I realized. Wow.

I went to class tonight. I listened politely as my instructor talked (again) about his friend’s new baby, and when he turned to ask me where my “partner in crime” was. My response was “not here, sir”. Black or white. I figured it was a better response than “none of your business.” Yes, I am 12, and a 12 year old with a bruised ego is not cool either.

Tonight was a gift. It was a night that also broke my heart in some ways.  I had no intentions of writing about this for possibly a long time, if ever. However, tonight it feels necessary. I went to a party tonight….

First, I think you need the backstory…

My mother was 17 when she had me. I have an older brother. She was 15 when she had him. I feel like I grew up with my mother, somewhat. I watched it happen, anyway.

My parents divorced soon after her pregnancy with me. I had limited contact with my biological father throughout my childhood. I may have seen him 5 times or so, until I moved out on my own – which was when I was 17. We grew up poor through my youngest years. My father was one of those guys that had a ton of potential. High School football star, super handsome, lots of charisma. Unfortunately, he was also one of those guys that, brutally speaking, probably peaked then, too. With no financial help from my father, my mother chose to go to college, when she realized that she couldn’t support my brother and me on a minimum wage job and welfare, very successfully. This was the best thing my mother ever did for herself and for us. I do not want to discredit her accomplishment. I do remember the welfare days and I remember the days after she got her job as a chemist. They were very different times.

My mother remarried when I was in the 5th grade. She met him at her new job. I must have been in the 2nd grade when he moved in. My mother has always needed a man to define her. I know that now. So, my stepfather…I loved him, and called him Dad. Except that, he had a severe drinking problem, and turns out, was a child molester. Specifically speaking, molested Me. I can’t tell you the exact year it started. I can tell you that I was wearing white panties that had the word ”WEDNESDAY” printed on them, the first time it happened. I can tell you that I pretended to be asleep throughout the whole episode. I can tell you that I didn’t want to tell my mom because she had such a hard time in her life, and I felt like I couldn’t be the one to take away the happiness she had found in him. My mother’s role had always been “the one who had such a hard time as a single mother.” And she did have a hard time. I knew at that age, that I didn’t want to put her back in that role. She needed him. From my perspective, anyway.

The mind is a very strange thing. I can say that it continued unpredictably, and to the point that I slept backward on my bed even through my early adult years, out of habit. If he came in at night, it would give me a little extra time if he couldn’t spot me easily in bed. It would give me a chance to jump out of bed and hurry to the bathroom to throw him off. He wasn’t violent, and I think he must have known I wouldn’t tell, although it was never discussed. So,  I chose to forget it all. I told myself it didn’t happen. My mom deserved happiness.  There were symptoms, though. I would wake up in the bathtub in the middle of the night, fully clothed. Sometimes, I would wet the bed.  This is painful for me to type, but I remember that  I couldn’t wipe myself after peeing on occassion, because it hurt too badly.  

My stepfather lived with us until my sophomore year in high school. He hadn’t touched me in years. Not since Elementary School. It was much easier to forget, as time went by, or maybe just to compartmentalize.  He was the man that made my favorite dinner of spaghetti and garlic bread, and taught me to drive his Chevy Sprint, and picked me up whenever I needed a ride. He was my Dad. The only one I ever knew.

The week he moved out, I told my mom. I sobbed like I had never sobbed in my life. I started crying one night after my mom and my brother had gone to bed. I couldn’t stop and so I went and sat on the top of the staircase, next to her bedroom, hoping she would hear me. I couldn’t bring myself to just go in and tell her what I had chosen to forget for so many years. She did hear me and she did come out. I really don’t know what I would have done if she hadn’t. I was a mess. I could hardly get my words out. Years of supressing and trying so hard to forget wasn’t easy to verbalize.  I wasn’t able to tell her exactly what he had done, but somehow, I was able to get my point across. My mother’s words to me were, ” I had some suspicions. ” At the time, I felt validated and relieved. As an adult with my own children, I saw my mother’s brokeness.

I begged her not to tell. I needed to think about everything. I was confused and sad about my dad leaving, which was confusing in itself. How could I not know how to feel? More confusing, I  kept having a repeat and random thought about him. A memory of him taking so many pictures of a little girl who had come over to swim with her parents. Why was nobody stopping him? Doesn’t anyone see how strange his behavior is? Me slamming the door into the house in the midst of these new friends visiting. Seemingly, for no reason. My mind was willing me to let these thoughts out. I kept remembering random things.I was unable to think about one specific thing or to think clearly. Just so many memories literally flooding at me. I had to have some time to think and examine my thoughts.

I think when emotional trauma occurs, it doesn’t have to define a person, but it does need a release. If the wound isn’t opened up and cleaned, it festers and seems to manifest itself in anyway that it can find release. I know that now, too.

The next day, I was home alone. The doorbell rang and there he was, standing on our doorstep. I remember that it felt as if 1000 years had gone by and I no longer knew him, even though the week before, I had been calling him Dad. In that instant, I knew she had told him, and I had to look him in the eye and acknowledge what we both had pretended never happened, for so long. I wasn’t ready, but I didn’t have a choice. I wasn’t prepared.

I had my dog in my arms. She was a little terrier that had actually been his dog. I didn’t think she had liked me much, but I knew if I didn’t hold her, she would run outside. Actually, she had been his and my moms dog, and yet in that moment, she growled and barked at him. That little stinker growled and barked at him. Ha! One for the home team! I loved her from that moment on.

While I was standing on the inside of the front door of the house, and he on the outside, my heart was racing and my mouth immediately felt dry. I was afraid to talk, and I remember shaking. I was scared and confused. There was my dad, and I knew why he was there. In that confrontation, he didn’t blatantly deny anything, specifically. He said that  he heard what I told my mom, and he told me that he would never hurt me and that he loved me. I looked him in the eye, and at my 15 year old self, although unprepared emotionally, said, “you and I both know what you did, and I loved you too. ” I closed the door and those were that last words I said to him, until many years later when my mother, yet again, needed my strong personality to fight another battle for her. That however, is another story.

My mother’s and my relationship has been strained from this point on in my life. This was the defining moment in our relationship for me. My trust was broken and in that moment, I transferred all of my hurt and betrayal from this man onto the person who should have protected me. My mother.  She of course, denied telling him. I know that she reached out to him again, after this. I also know that she tried to make lunch plans with him, without me knowing, and in her brokeness is not able to acknowledge her part in the dysfunction.

I truly have moved on. I know that molestation occurs so disgustingly frequently, that it cannot define me. I am 1 in 4. I am not “special”. I am not uncommon. I processed it –  I did drugs. I slept with the bad boys. Too many of them. I picked an abusive boyfriend. I picked a healthy boyfriend, I was too broken for. I hated my mom. Finally, I focused on me, and thought about what I wanted. Then, I picked a man who was unfamiliar. Not my normal type. He has been good for me, patient with me, and we have learned from each other. We had kids, and that’s when it all resurfaced. When I held my first son in my arms, I could not imagine not fighting for him. Doing whatever I could to protect him. It was instant for me and has not lessened.

In the months following my son’s birth, I began to see the dysfunction of my experience more clearly. So, I sought therapy for the anger toward my mother, as it seemed to be growing. I would not allow her to have my son to stay the night with her and her new husband. I did not feel I could trust her. I knew that if she could not protect me, she could not protect my son. If something happened, would I ever learn about it? So, I chose to do my job as a mother and put his interest first, and not worry about what she thought. It caused some problems, though. However, I also knew that I had to seek help.  My mother and I were in one of our sick cycles of anger and resentment. It felt like it was leaking into my healthy relationships. Eventually, I ultimately had to let our relationship go. I do have polite conversations with her a few times a year, following a 4 year break, and that is just fine with me. It is a healthy balance for me, and it has taken me a long time to get here. I am fiercely protective of my children and my attempt to try and be as healthy as I can. It’s not an easy battle for me.

Only a handful of friends know this about me. I truly do not let this define me, and when I use to try and talk about it with my mother, she would become very angry with me. She felt like I shouldn’t discuss it and that I should just get over it. I just wanted her to hear what happened. She was not interested, and it made her very uncomfortable. Me too, frankly, but my wound needed to be exposed so that it could begin to heal, for lack of better explanation. She had tried to help me when I was 16, when she handed me a note that had 779-HELP written on it. That was that for her.

Some things in your life do not have to define you, but they do change the core of who you are. I believe this. I walked around angry for many many years, I have trust issues. Who doesn’t? There is always a story there, though. I have been changed by my experience. The trajectory of my life was changed and I am forever aware of certain things. I don’t share this with people, normally. It is just something that has happened, now. However, I cannot carry any shame in it anymore. I also can’t  apologize for it having happened to me. This topic is a cancer that nobody is treating. Child Molesters are all someone’s husband, father, uncle, best friend, cousin, neighbor, son. Nobody wants to talk about it.

The man that I had called my dad died 3 months ago. He drank himself to death. His internal organs shut down, basically. I saw it in the paper and I felt sad. This bothered my husband, who felt protective, of course. He couldn’t understand why I would feel anything toward him. A molester grooms his victim. We have all heard it. It’s true and it is complex. Mainly, I just felt sad because I wondered how anyone could waste their life to that degree. He poisoned himself to the point that his organs shut down. Dead at 52. I always wondered what came first. Did he drink to forget, or was he so drunk, that he could pretend he didn’t do it afterward? The other part of me had always wished to see him again. Not for an angry confrontation, but more of a peaceful moment that I had always fantasized about. The moment that I would make eye contact, hold my head up high, prance my beautiful, strong family through his sight. Sort of a “fuck you, you couldn’t break me, and you did not write my story.” Childish, I know.

So, tonight, I went to a party. There were 2 people there that brought this story full circle for me. My stepfather’s brother and my biological father. I enjoyed myself at the party in sort of a detached way. I am polite to people who don’t mean anything to me. That sounds like an angry statement, but it really is not. I experienced my father, once again, very intoxicated, teary-eyed, talking about “paying for his mistakes” with his children. Awkwardly hugging and kissing me, saying “I love you so much, baby girl”. Me, trying to comfort him in his brokeness, telling him that it’s okay. He, telling me how proud he is of me for pulling my life together. Parental pride should make you feel something. It doesn’t for me, sadly. I appreciate it as a compliment from a friendly aquaintance, and that is okay. The past is the past. If we had this scene happen once or twice, then fine, Unfortunately, it happens the one or two times I see him annually. It’s very awkward, and I politely listen. I believe people can pull themselves together at anytime. I hope this for him.

As for my stepfather’s brother. Big Sigh. I know from our conversations tonight, that he was aware of what his brother had done. I did not hide in my shame. I also did not come across as angry. It was also not the sole focus in our conversation. It has actually become more of a fact for me. For example, I learned to ride a bike when I was 4. I did gymnastic for many years when I was young. I was molested by my stepfather. I enjoy snowboarding and long distance running. Polite detachment. It is what I have worked very hard to succeed in, and I’m working on it everyday.

The party was a gift. I was able to recognize how far I have come. I did not need anyone to point it out, or notice it. I felt it. Or rather, I didn’t. It also made me sad, as it is not often I am reminded so blatantly of people who did break my heart.

At the end of the night, my husband came by, and I saw him come in the door. In the moment I saw him, I physically felt a weight lift from my chest, that I didn’t know was there.  It was another reminder of how far I’ve come.

I did it. I told my 7 year old that Santa Claus, the Easter Bunny, and The Tooth Fairy were just things we believed in and hoped for, but weren’t exactly real. It was awful. First, I want to say that from the time he was born, I debated with my husband, on whether or not we should lie to our children about this topic.  It truly bothered me. My husband, who had survived two older boys said that it was fine to believe in things that weren’t real, and that we would confess when the time was right. He made it sound so simple. The lie part of it was. Well, when you start with a lie, and continue that lie for years, when exactly, is the time right? Never, actually.

I have some friends, who have always told their children that these characters of certain holidays, and celebrations, didn’t exist. They’ve been truthful from the beginning, while explaining that it was a discussion that should only be held within their family, because most kids were lied to. Although, I’m sure they didn’t exactly phrase it like that. That is probably my own guilt talking.

I remember the day I found out it was all a lie. I was washing dishes. My older  brother was drying. I was in the second grade, and he in the fourth. He blew the whistle, not only on my mother’s horrific lies, but he also chose to hit me with a twofer - the truth on how babies were made. What a shock. My mom confirmed the truth, and although I was always grateful for my brother, as I didn’t want to be the only second grader walking around believing in untruths, I was also heartbroken. It should have been my mom, right? Although, how could she know when this traumatic event/right of passage would occur for me? When exactly is the right time?

You may think I’m being a bit dramatic, but to see my baby realize that I was speaking the truth, and to laugh amidst the shock, and follow it up with some tears and real sadness, was awful. He needed details. Where do the teeth go? Let me see them. Who hides the Easter eggs? Who eats the cookies we leave out for Santa? Who is that guy in the picture that looks like Santa? Where do my letters go that I send to the North Pole? Inside I’m thinking, “wow, we really do create an extensive lie just for our own enjoyment.” Yes, we see the joy on our children’s faces, when we speak of Santa and his reindeer. As if they would only have joy for the Christmas Holiday if they believed in a fictitious invisible man and his flying animals? Then, when we see that they are putting things together, we create a bigger lie, only to eventually traumatize them by telling them that for 7 years, they were lied to. Awesome.

I know I could have waited a few more Christmas seasons. However, it was really bothering me. It was important to me that he hear it from me. Very important. I would have felt terrible if he discovered the truth on the playground. It was my lie, and I was going to own up to it, dammit. So, I took a random opportunity, and had the talk. I started with a hint at the possiblity that Santa and The Tooth Fairy may not exist. I also suggested that it was possible that it was a belief that makes us feel good, and threw in a few “using our imagination” terms and watched him process it. It took a good 10 minutes of letting him work it out. Then I held him and talked about it some more while he cried.

Then, after those 10 minutes, he realized something, and had a change of heart. He realized that he had a one-up on his brothers. He had grown-up knowledge that his little brothers did not,  and he couldn’t wait to use it. He asked if he could help wrap the “Santa” presents and hide the Easter eggs for his younger brothers for the upcoming holidays. Let the lies commence. Awesome.

I’ve had some great responses to my blog adventure, including some great support from friends, old and new, and  as well as some questions – “what is it exactly that you’re doing?” to which, I have no response for. If I could only answer that one question – in every aspect of my life, actually. I have no idea. What is it that I’m doing? Not a friggen clue.

Today was one of those days that was made of up the things that make up most of my days. Kids, dentist appointment, work, friends, lessons for the kids, doctor appointment for the sick kids, etc…  I had a defining moment, however. It was in regards to my hubby.

A good friend took me out to lunch today, as a belated birthday present. Prior to lunch, we had a quick shopping expedition, where I mentioned that I’m thinking I would suggest to my hubby that he get both of his ears pierced and wear diamonds – not real, as he would lose them – in each ear. She was laughing, as I assume many people would. I’m not sure even why I find this attractive, nor do I know if it would look so hot on my husband, but it has recently crossed my mind. This friend was laughing because my husband is a professional, and the double diamond earring look may not work for him. She also said she may have to think on the idea. We were both laughing, and I told her that my husband would do it if I really wanted him to. My friend responded with something like, ” Of course he would. We know how easy you have it with him,” or ” We know he would. If only we all had it as easy as you.” This was not a sarcastic or snide remark. It’s the truth. My husband can be a real Pain in the Ass. Like most human men – or like most humans, for that matter. He also would bend over backwards to make me happy. It was not just a defining moment, I guess, but a reminder of the man I married. Although, the double diamond earring debate is still on, I appreciated the light my friend shone on my beautiful (most of the time) partner in life.

My middle child, who I will now refer to as Bugs, had a great day today. He was “on”, and frankly, I appreciate those days, and give him lots of praise for them. However, I experienced a moment that I was reminded to think less like a mom and appreciate the humor in who he is. We had just arrived at the stables where the boys take their riding lessons. My oldest had been out riding for the first half of the lesson, so it was time for Bugs to get ready, which included socks, riding boots, helmet and warm coat. All while standing in the back of our vehicle because of the heavy rainfall outside. He finishes and tells me he’s ready. I tell him he needs to put on his warm coat. He tells me he doesn’t want to wear his coat because it makes him look sooo fat. First of all, he’s 5. Secondly, the kid is in fact, underweight. His 15 month old brother weighs just 9 pounds less than he does, and this isn’t because Bugs undereats. In fact, he’s my best eater. It’s just the way his body is, and his freakishly fast metabolic rate. Thirdly, we aren’t the family that talks about being “fat”. I have always been cognizant of body image that I project and if I’m feeling “fat”, the kids won’t hear it. So, after I analyzed his comment and not only took the “how am I responsible for this” out of the equation, while simutaneously red flagging it for something to watch out for, I looked at it for what it was. Ridiculous. So, I started laughing. I know, if you are reading this and don’t know me, you may be concerned for my child’s self-worth. Or that he may have an eating disorder at 5 – which is so hilarious in itself, that I won’t even explain either too much. However, I will say, I’m trying very hard to make sure he grows up with all the stuff that helps in those departments.

Having kids is a constant reminder for me, that everyone is different, because my 3 boys couldn’t be more different. I so often am trying to get them to conform to so many things. Manners, politeness, education, expectations, etc…, that I often forget that they are their own little selves. I am not their only teacher, and I can only control the words and sights in my home. Bugs thinks high heels are slimming, too, and I’m pretty sure I didn’t teach him this.

I guess I’ve always thought about blogging. I wanted a record of certain things. Maybe I also wanted a cathartic release of my feelings. I, like many people, have a certain habit of holding thoughts in a and then releasing them at inappropriate times – i.e., at the flaky painter, or the employee who doesn’t show up to work. No, I don’t yell and scream at them, but I call them out. Brutally. I know it’s not healthy. I also know it isn’t kind. I believe that as humans, we have a certain obligation to evolve. Some of us get stuck. I would like very much not to. There have been many places in my personal journey that if I were to get stuck at, it would leave me a blubbering pile of flesh and bones, curled up on the floor in the fetal position. Hard to raise kids like that. Or find happiness. No thanks.

Sooo….here we are.

I’m 36 years old and have been married for 9 years. I have 3 amazing boys who are my heart. I don’t always do the right thing for them, but I try my hardest to do better when I eff up. I’m fairly structured with my kids, as I didn’t have much of that growing up. Not cuckoo structured – but, I’m guessing those cuckoo moms don’t really think they’re cuckoo structured either. Feed the boys healthy food. Organic when convenient, small sweet daily. I guess my philosophy is everything in moderation. Don’t go crazy here, “everything” doesn’t literally mean “everything”.

I struggle with the changes that occur with my boys so quickly. Their ages are 7, 5, and 15 months ; Reef, Ripp Kai, and Wilder, respectively. My 7 year year old is very literal. Like his dad. Very science oriented. He has to be pushed to do physical sports. Yes, we push. Let me just add that he has a great time once he’s up and moving, and usually has to be pushed to stop, as well. Know thy children. We aren’t a big sports oriented family, but do push individual sports. Reef  has been riding horses and doing gymnastics for 3 years and karate for almost a year. Ripp Kai, gymnastics for 3 years and horseback riding on the occassion he feels up to it. He is much more physical, so I worry less about his physical foundation, if you will. They both also have been skiing since they were 3.

Ripp Kai is my character. He is very dramatic and emotional. He is also the kid that can make me laugh. I mean truly laugh. He has always had a love for dresses and anything traditionally girl-oriented. I mean, always. For his 2nd birthday, he wanted a baby stroller in pink. Saw it, and fell in love with it.  I am fiercely protective of him and feel passionate about allowing him to be who he is, without squashing his spirit. He is also aware that many people will be cruel because they think he should be who THEY want him to be. When he is home, he is exactly who he wants to be. I am his mother. My job is to love him and nurture the man he will become. Whoever that is.

Wilder is the baby. He’s got a very sweet spirit and is the seperation anxiety kid. Not terribly, but because my first 2 were –  and still are – mama’s boys, I just had only experienced the “okay, see ya later, mom” attitude. So, Wi has the label of seperation anxiety kid. Of course we don’t tell him this. I think it may be because I was home full time with my older boys, so getting away from me on occassion was fun. Whereas Wilder started having a sitter 3 days a week after he turned a year old. Or, maybe they just are who they are.  Wilder is the snuggler and seriously very smart. Yes, all mothers think this, but he knows about 10 words in sign language,  on top of his regular words. He can escape through the baby gates and the front door already. Scared me so much, I felt nauseous. As I said, I find it difficult to keep up with their constant evolution.

As for the hubby, he is an amazing man who has been very patient with my own personal evolution. I like to say I have with him, as well. Just like any relationship, I guess.  Although, I think I was a little more broken than he was. He was just more exposed. Which to me, says mine was buried just a bit deeper. That is for another time, however. Kevin is a professional who owns his own business, and I manage his office. Not my favorite job, I might add, although, I’m grateful for work.  Again, another time.

I’m excited to see how my own personal writing evolves and to be able to look back on these entries. Now, it’s time to take the kids to the movie I promised them.