Grief, and Where I Am Today

Three weeks from today is the one-year anniversary of losing my mom.

You might as well say I’ve lived nearly a year without one of my limbs, because I feel like a part of me has been amputated. I have to live without she who carried me in her womb for nine months… she who nearly died soon after I was born because of a severe infection… she who went into the work force for the first time in her life when I told her I wanted to go to college… she who held her tongue many times when she didn’t want to… she who spoke her mind, even when no one wanted her to… she who made a bigger imprint on my very being than anyone else in the entire world ever could, can, or will make.

I can’t believe it’s been nearly a year. It feels like yesterday… and years ago. It feels like, just last week, Wendy and Daddy and I were deciding what to put on the grave marker. It feels like a few hours ago, talking to Daddy on the phone and hearing that tone in his voice—the tone I had never heard before, when he told me it was important to come to the hospital—now.

And it was still too late…

I’ve been through so much—we all have, really—and yet, I’m still going.

Some days are easier than others. Some days make sense. Some days don’t.

Sometimes, my mood still astounds me. The grief feelings bubble underneath my surface as I try to carry on normal conversations, actions, thoughts, and words throughout the day. Some days, I succeed.

Other days—not so much.

And of course, if I had “only” lost my mom, that would be enough. But then a drunk driver killed my sister, and then I found out the man I was dating was having an affair. And all of these things have shaped me and changed me far more than I can articulate here, in one blog post.

I wish I could say that I have some sort of grand perspective. That I feel “better” about losing my mom. Or even that I understand it.

I don’t.

I can say that I am more grateful for life now than I was before.

I can say that my mind has opened up, and things I never would have previously considered have become part of my day to day tapestry. Things like past-life regression… visiting a medium… collecting crystals and meditating with them… performing rituals and ritual dances… equine therapy… grief groups… communicating with my deceased loved ones… reading about grief… blogging about grief… EMDR therapy... managing slippery-slope emotions while trying to function like “normal”…

All the while, I’ve been learning how to laugh again.

I’ve been learning how to let joy back into my life without feeling so damned guilty about still being alive.

I’ve become open to the possibility of romantic love in my life again.

I’ve gained more wisdom than I ever wanted.

I’ve learned more than I ever thought I would.

I’ve lost weight.

I’ve started learning what it actually looks and feels like, on a day to day basis, to take care of myself physically, emotionally, mentally, spiritually…

But if I could trade it all to bring back my mom…

I would.

Life doesn’t work that way, though. And so, I am here, feeling grateful for the privilege of waking up every day, and I am trying to make the best of it—even through the tears… even through the confusion and heartache and sadness…

Through it all, I am here. Still standing.

Still believing.

And, somehow—

Still having faith.

Thoughts on a Sunday Morning

It’s been a quiet morning and a slow morning. I’ve come to realize how sacred my weekend time is to me—that I don’t need to get out and do, do, do all the time—it actually means much more to me to be still—to relax, to do nothing.

The art of doing nothing—ah yes, indeed.

My life has slowed down considerably since my mom’s death. I find that trying to “pack it all in” does little more than exhaust me and wear me out. I have limited energy, and I want to devote that energy to things and people and endeavors that truly matter and that are in line with my values.

As part of an assignment for a class I’m taking, I’ve been noodling with different phrases and words that can help bring me back into focus when I’ve lost it. And since I’ve done a lot of work around taking care of my body lately, I wanted to come up with a specific phrase around that.

I woke up yesterday with a specific word in my head, and I related it to taking care of my body. That word was “abide.”

I knew, loosely, what it meant. But looking it up was actually powerful, because I found new meanings for it. The word goes deeper than what most people assume.

Google’s definition for abide is: “to accept or act in accordance with.”

But I found a webpage with three additional and powerful deeper meanings, and I wanted to share:

“When we abide in something, we are loyal to it even unto death.”
 “To abide means to continue doing whatever is being done even when it is hard and the urge to quit is almost too much.”
 “…to cling to something and have faith in it, even when it seems to have failed.”

When I read that last one, I wept. How many times have I given up on my body, because it failed me? Or because I failed it?

How many times have I given up on myself, because I failed? How many times have I given up on something—anything—because that was the quickest way out? Because the urge to quit was intense, and it won?

My whole self is made up of a very important team: my body, my heart, my mind, and my soul. I need all of my team members to be on the same page. So that means paying attention—asking and listening—in the quiet stillness of my most private moments.

God is part of my team, too—and the quietest moments are usually when I hear Him speak directly to me.

We have conversations then.

We laugh and cry together, and I am reminded that I am His precious child, and what I perceive as failure or shortcomings—He perceives as learning.

Learning, that is, to be more like Him…

And so, in my learning to take care of myself the way that He wants, I came up with a phrase that resonates deeply with me:

My body tells me what it needs, and I abide.

A Sip of Freedom

“Dance, when you're broken open. Dance, if you've torn the bandage off. Dance in the middle of the fighting. Dance in your blood. Dance when you're perfectly free.”
― Rumi

Back in January, I went to my favorite yoga class. It was the first time I’d practiced yoga since my mom’s passing on November 29, 2012. The signs of depression were sinking in, and I had all but stopped moving my body—no yoga, no dancing, no exercise.

In that class, I had traumatic flashbacks of seeing my mom’s body in the hospital. And then I kept thinking, over and over again, about how her body could never do the things that mine can do—the things I was attempting right then, during class.

I’m not sure I could ever fully explain what happened in that hour and a half, or why that experience was so deeply traumatizing—but my grief was overwhelming.

From that point forward, the thought of practicing yoga again made me shiver.

I just wasn’t ready.

A month or two ago, my friend Liz Tucker came to town and held a bhavana in motion class at Move Studio.

Yoga was part of the class.

I knew that, and I felt that if I was going to step back on the mat, I wanted to do it in a safe place, with a trusted teacher and friend to help guide me through it.

For about the first 10 minutes that I stood on the mat, I wept. Tears flooded my face and the mat below me.

But I got through it.

But that isn’t what this story is about—I just wanted to give you some context, so you could grasp how much progress I’ve made in the last few months.

I journaled this last night after exercising and practicing yoga:

I’m sitting here on my purple yoga mat, crying. I’m not entirely certain why—except that the other day I realized I needed and wanted some time in pigeon pose, and so, that’s where I finally went.

And then the tears came, as I realized it wasn’t hard like it used to be, it was just a really nice stretch, a lovely pose, one of yielding and release and surrender and femininity.

And then, I lost it—realizing how far I’ve come in three years, since I first attempted yoga—and pigeon pose—

realizing just how much my body has yielded—

to my whims, wants, needs, desires, addictions, sadness, depression, grief—

My body has witnessed it all.

I am thankful…

Deeply thankful for being 38, and I get to choose how the women in y family are remembered. I honor them by dancing because they cannot dance. I honor them by practicing yoga because they cannot—and they never did.

I honor them by living as fully as I can—as exponentially as I can.

“I rise from all my sorrow, I let the sun shine on my face,
All alone in comfort, it’s my solitude I embrace.”
 – from the song ‘Quicksand’ by Natalie Walker/Thievery Corporation

I felt that tonight, as I moved on my makeshift dance floor with a fire and fervor inside of me as I realized—I am one body, dancing for three women who never danced—my grandmother, my mom, and my sister.

I dance the dance they never danced.

I dance my own dance, too.

My dance is the thread that binds together the lifetimes of women in my tribe who are no longer on this earth in physical form.

I practice yoga awkwardly. I am wobbly and odd, but interspersed are moments of purity—

of tranquility—

of grace—

of beauty—

A beauty I cannot express in words, and tonight, it expressed itself in tears during pigeon pose, and I flashed back to my traumatic yoga experience from January, and I honored the depth of grief I felt in those very long moments, realizing I was already (and finally) grieving many lifetimes worth of loss, sorrow, and despair.

And more tears came as I realized the freedom I am beginning to feel—

Freedom from chains that bound me to the past, freedom from the guilt I have always felt under the surface, freedom from a prison I will never adequately describe here.

This life of mine is a gift, and the best—the very best gift I can give to the women of my tribe, including me, including my family—here and gone—is to live it.

Live it fully and out loud…

Live it authentically and imperfectly and messily.

I am here for some unknown number of days. It is a gift I am only just beginning to truly unwrap and discover.

It is a gift I finally feel worthy of receiving.

My mom and my dad and God and the universe and all that is divine within and without—gave me this—

this gift of life.

And it is up to me to truly live it.

Thank you. Thank you for this blessing… thank you for this body, for this moment, for the dance, for the practice.

Thank you for this beautiful moment—where serenity coincides with joy.

And thank you, most of all, for love.

A Prayer of Sorts

Grief has a way of humbling me in ways that still surprise me. 

Any sort of ego is out the door. And on some days, it’s all I can do to maintain my confidence and self-worth. 

When you’ve been through as much as I’ve been through in the last 9 months—and truthfully, the last three years—sometimes just getting up and getting dressed and getting to work is all I can manage. And then I am faced with a whole day of tasks, responsibilities, conversations, and accountabilities that have nothing to do with my grief.

But the grief is always there. It’s bubbling under the surface, and what matters is how I manage that on a day to day basis. Some days, I manage it very well. Other days—not so much.

Some days, it’s this Grand Canyon-sized chasm that often leaves me feeling utterly foolish, childish, and out of control. Tears rush down my cheeks, and I can’t stop them.

But the facts do not change. My mom is still dead. My sister is still dead. The man I thought was the love of my life betrayed me in a way I have never before been betrayed—and that relationship is understandably dead.

But I—I am still here.

On some days, that confuses me. I see so many possibilities, and I have a hard time translating those possibilities into focused action. It’s a weakness I’ve always had, but it’s exacerbated by grief.

Today, I ask for the Divine to step in and guide my life. Guide my mind, my soul, my heart, and my body to Your light. I cannot do this alone. I need Your help. I need Your guidance and love.

Amen.

Amen.

Amen.

Thank you.

I Cannot Be Broken

All of the things I've experienced have built the ground upon which I stand at this time.

I am deeply rooted, like an old pecan tree—my roots spanning wide and plunging far beneath the surface towards the core of the earth.

My branches have been broken by trauma, my leaves beaten by the wind and rain of difficulty and strife, my bark stripped by the unrelenting skies of life—leaving me standing here before you, naked—exposed.

How mightily my roots have grown—stronger. My bark has returned, and new branches are growing. At the tips of those branches, tiny leaves are sprouting in the shape of hope.

With my roots so firmly planted in the ground, I have become more flexible—almost fluid.

I cannot be broken.

My arms sway in the wind. My hair whips wildly around my head. I feel the deep-bone chill of cold and the blistering heat of the sun. My skin takes in only what it needs—the rest falls away.

The stronger my roots,

The stronger my soul.

The chaos around me continues.

Inside is silence. Inside is calm.

I cannot be broken.

It is here—in this earth, in this moment—where my home lies.

Here—within me.

Here—in my heart.

I have existed many times, and I will exist many more times.

And yet, I have never before been more present than I am in this moment.

I turn and look at the landscape behind me, and I grieve for all I have lost.

And, I stand in shock—in awe, marveling at the beauty that is my life, the fullness with which I love, and the faith carrying me through darkness I never knew the human spirit could endure.

I am here.

I am now.

I am.

Grief is Temporary

"Time and time again, when I take people through the process of healing and feeling the feelings that are terrifying to them – afterwards, they feel lighter, they feel clearer and they have a sense of peace about themselves.

We all have pain. And there’s no amount of chanting, yoga or green juice that can take away that pain – it must be felt. Not dwelled on for a lifetime, but felt for the appropriate amount of time. It is scary, but on the other side is bliss." ~ Mastin Kipp

I acknowledge that I have done a lot of grief processing here on my blog. And I have witnessed it making some people pretty uncomfortable, to the point of feeling the laser pointer of sharp judgments being flung my direction.

Who does that say more about, though? The fact that I am rather messy in my grief, which I find normal, because grief is messy—but I’m also honestly not saying anything that I regret (and, still not regretting it, even after going back over and rereading multiple posts)… or does it say more about she who judges?

I’m not sure, and it doesn’t matter.

What does matter is recognizing the impermanence of feelings. I recognize the roller coaster of emotions taking me up as I think I’ve got something figured out—and the scary downhill plunge once I realize I have nothing figured out, after all… and then, the intense processing I do when I’m in the throes of valleys, twists, and turns, as I’m tossed about in this learning adventure called life.

It’s all okay.

Grief is disarming. If I weren’t already an “emotionally healthy” person, it might just do me in, cause me to alienate all of my friends, and fold up on a little ball of depression.

Forevermore.

But, lucky me—I am fairly emotionally healthy.

So instead, I’ve spilled my grief out all over the place. I’ve felt remarkably immature and lost in some moments, and undeniably strong and grounded in other moments. Most who have witnessed my grief (my therapist, my family, my friends) have said that I am handling things remarkably well.

I don’t feel that way.

But, I also know that I tend to be hard on myself. I tend to not give myself enough credit—for anything. To be honest, I feel like I’m just sorta getting by.

Some days, I feel strong and good and happy. Some days, I can experience joy, I laugh hard, and I smile a lot. Other days, I feel sad and miserable. I miss my mom and my sister, and I wish I could talk to both of them about dating and men and the way I feel.

My “typical” day since my mom’s passing encompasses all of the above and more.

I think it’s safe to say that every day, I experience a much larger gamut and depth of emotions than someone who isn’t in a state of grief.

My typical day can start out with me bawling in the shower, shedding a few tears at my desk at work, laughing hysterically at a joke, having a heart-to-heart conversation with a friend—and while all of this is going on, I’m processing emotions, thoughts, and needs under the surface, too.

So, I am finding that grieving is sort of like being an emotional human—in double-time.

No wonder I’m so exhausted at the end of the day.

So, I just want to say thank you to everyone. Thank you for your love and light, for your words of encouragement, for your energy and thoughts. I know that God, the universe, and all the spirits of my life (this life and past lives) are opening me up, guiding me on a path to something so beautiful and so big, that I can't even fathom it right now. I can't even wrap my head around it.

That is where hope resides... and right now, my hope is gently guiding me forward, baby step by baby step.

And in the dark moments, when hope feels thin and fragile and unreachable, my faith is the bridge that reaches out and invites hope back into my cells.

Right now, I don’t have to have a firm grasp of much of anything, but that’s all right. I can feel that I am loved.

I feel this openness in my heart, that feels like a channel through which light and love flow in and flow out.

And sometimes, when the grief tsunami hits, I feel like the grief might just swallow me whole. It feels like I’m grasping at tiny, thin, delicate strands that might keep me from falling into the bottomless pit, the pit that catapults me out into space—where I cannot breathe, where I cannot live, where I am totally alone.

When that happens, it’s important for me and everyone connected to me to remember that it’s temporary. It will pass.

And I will stand up again, I will breathe, I will move from that paralyzing moment into the next, slightly less whacked moment.

And I am doing the best I can, and on some days, that looks pretty damn good.

And on other days… well—you already know what that looks like.

Grief sucks. And sometimes I feel all enlightened and shit—but sometimes, I feel like the world’s biggest fool.

Grief. Like everything else in this amazing, painfully beautiful existence—

It is temporary.

"Faith means living with uncertainty - feeling your way through life, letting your heart guide you like a lantern in the dark." ~ Dan Millman

"There is no death. Only a change of worlds." ~ Chief Seattle

The Depth of Grief

The depth of our grief is really the expression of our love. Tonight, the depth is bottomless...endless... and overpowering. I feel like I'm clinging to the edge of my sanity tonight, and the grief is winning.

Who am I, without these strong women in my life? Who am I, without the man I thought was the love of my life? Who am I, childless and alone? Who am I, music blaring against empty walls in vain effort to fill this space—this gaping, wide open space that echoes back at me, a mirror to my pain?

It’s everywhere—in every breath, every sob, every word—I am a lost child, wandering in a black forest. I have shrunken back down to my four year-old self, unable to guide myself out of this darkness, and so, here I sit—paralyzed with pain, the intensity and depths of which I have never before experienced. I wish I could pull my heart right out of my body, because I think that might hurt less than what I'm feeling right now.

I am lost, afraid, and alone.

This is a perfect time to call on God. Or all of the spirits that I know are constantly around me. Or all of the above. It’s a prime moment to ask for guidance and help, yet God feels so far away.

I know that’s my own ego, getting in the way of my faith…

This grief makes me weak. So, so weak. I can barely lift my arms, let alone my head. My body is just here… existing in a slump, my eyes heavy and sad, my heart firmly rooted in the pit of my stomach, my legs useless extensions, and my will completely defeated.

My story is written all over me.

Perhaps one day, my story will be one that’s uplifting and hopeful, inspiring and full.

But tonight, I find myself wondering why I am still here… 

(No, I am not going to do anything stupid... and yes, I know that everything is temporary, including feelings like what I've express here tonight...)

Things Happen in Threes...

I’m sitting here in my apartment, in my favorite big chair, with my feet up. Most of the time, it’s a comfortable position for me. Most of the time, it’s a place I love to sit. I love my fairly small, slightly cluttered home.

But right now? After what’s gone down this week?

I feel sick to my stomach just being here.

On Wednesday morning, my boyfriend David hopped in the shower. Because he recently loss my trust (again), I’d taken to going through his phone from time to time (usually with his knowledge, because I did it right in front of him).

I had noticed that he’d been leaving his phone in the car or completely out of sight an awful lot lately, and I took the opportunity of him getting into the shower to grab the phone and look through it.

I saw two unread text messages from a phone number with no contact name attached.

They were the only two messages in the thread.

I read them and forwarded them to myself.

Yeah, that’s right, I’m going to share them. Because this sort of behavior deserves to be outed, and why not in public? I’m feeling a tad irrational, anyway… and I have nothing to lose, because I’ve done nothing wrong.

“And I love you which is why I want you to be sure of your decision. I don’t want you to have any regrets.
Just know that if you decide to stay with her, it won’t affect your job. I don’t make scenes.”

Yeah.

I didn’t really say anything as I left. I was incensed and I also needed to leave for work. I figured we would have the confrontation when I got home. I didn’t even want to look at him.

So, I left for work.

I sent this text when I got to work:

It must be so hard to live a lie.

I went on, saying I was surprised at his silence, and eventually I got his reply:

“There is nothing to say. I did not want to hurt you and that is what I did! I am the worst kind of person, and I am ashamed of myself. You are my best friend and I did not want to be such a bastard. I am so sorry!”

That’s the last thing he sent me.

When I got home from work Wednesday evening, I walked into the bedroom and immediately noticed that all of his watches and necklaces were gone.

I stopped in my tracks.

I walked to the second bedroom, where his closet is.

Most of his clothes were gone.

I stepped into the bathroom.

Most of his toiletries were gone.

I felt all breath expel from my lungs. My stomach instantly tied itself in knots.

He’s gone.

Just like that.

All the rest of his stuff—furniture, DVDs, TVs, kids’ stuff, and not to mention all the stuff in storage—he just left it.

Deserted.

Just like he deserted me—the best thing that’s ever happened to him (according to him, unless that, too, was a lie).

A flood of emotions made me woozy and I tried to call him.

No answer.

I left a pretty nasty message.

And then I called back… and left another nasty message.

And then, because I figured he would probably never listen to those messages, I texted him basically the same things I said… mostly expletives and confirming that Kevin Wheeler was right when he called him a pretty nasty name (starting with the letter “P”).

The last thing I sent him:

You have until July 31 to contact me, arrange to pick up your things, and remove them. If your belongings are not out of here by the 31st, I will consider them my property since I will be paying rent on them. The locks will be changed first thing tomorrow.

Honestly, just changing the locks helped me feel better.

I didn’t sleep Wednesday night, not more than a couple of hours, anyway.

And of course, the whole relationship has been flashing through my mind. Things he said or did, or didn’t say or didn’t do, that I should have seen as red flags or warnings or something… and I just didn’t.

I am fairly certain I’ll never hear from him again. He is highly averse to confrontation, and I’ll leave it at that, because that’s the nicest thing I could possibly say right now.

So, not only am I left with all this stuff…

I’m left with all the shattered pieces. The pieces of what I thought our relationship was. The lies. The masterful manipulation. The cheating.

And since we started having a rocky time somewhere in the window of mid or late March, I’m suspecting that’s when the affair began.

And if you remember, my sister was killed by a drunk driver on her way home from work on April 29th.

Also remember, my mom passed away on November 29, 2012.

And so, less than three months after my sister’s passing, I have also lost my relationship of nearly two years.

Yes, we lived together since about April 2012.

Yes, we’d planned to get married. We had even picked out rings.

They say that things happen in threes.

And I believe it.

David had been hiding so much and acting so weird lately that I had already found myself questioning the longevity and viability of our relationship. I found myself asking, “Do I really want this?” Uncertainty had already crept in.

So in some ways, it is a relief that it’s over so quickly.

And I know I’ll never get answers, because even if he suddenly overcame his intense aversion to confrontation, it’s not like he would actually tell me the truth, anyway. A liar who is so mired in the manipulation and lies is not going to suddenly tell the truth.

And so, I have to create my own truth from this situation.

And so, here is my truth:

• I gave him so much of myself. I gave him my heart—no holds barred. I loved him big, and this will take some time to work through.
• I believed in him, when no one else did.
• I believe that he has a good, beautiful, and tender heart.
• I believe he is terrified of revealing his true self to anyone, but especially to himself.
• I believe he feels condemned.
• I believe he is a Master Manipulator. But I also believe he is the most masterful at manipulating himself.
• I believe he is in a very destructive, downward shame-spiral, and I hope he allows someone healthy to be there when he hits bottom. (It won’t be me.)
• I taught him what intimacy, trust, love, and vulnerability look like and feel like.
• I taught him how to speak to his kids like they’re real people, not as if they’re still 4 year-olds.
• I showed him what it’s like to have a safe place to fall.
• He was my soft place to fall.
• He was safe. At least until he changed.
• He was always tender and loving, except when he was sarcastic and saccharine.
• Being in his arms was a heaven like nothing else I have experienced.
• I feel so deeply betrayed… sick-to-my-stomach betrayed.
• I have been through too much in the last 8 months. Hell—in the last three years…
• My family loved him. My friends loved him. Even my therapist liked him.
• I believe he may be a compulsive liar. He conned everyone… my family, my friends, and me. He even conned my therapist—and let me tell you, she isn’t happy about that.
• I believe he may have cheated on me more than once. (As if an affair lasting 3-4 months isn’t enough.)
• I believe he may have cheated on every woman he’s ever been with since his first marriage broke apart.
• I believe he has built a life around lying and carefully crafting lies to always leave himself a way out.
• I believe he loves his kids, but he makes stupid choices without thinking about them and how it will impact them and his relationship with them.
• I am angry and hurt at the way this is bound to impact his kids.
• I am fortunate to still be welcomed in their lives.
• I adore them so much.
• I know that I will be all right—better than all right, honestly. I’ll thrive.
• I believe that he left five of the things he left quite deliberately. I believe it was his way of telling me good-bye, his way of saying what he could not otherwise say.
• I believe he loved me with all his heart.
• I believe he still loves me.
• I believe that his most divine purpose in my life was to help me through the initial crisis phase of losing my mom. He was simply amazing to me during that time. Totally, unwaveringly supportive. That was a precious gift to me, a real and divine gift, and I will forever be grateful for that.
• I believe that scared him too much, that intimacy scared him too much, and I believe he could not handle it.
• I believe that after my mom's death, the way I opened up even more really threw him. I think it overwhelmed him, and he didn't know how to handle it.
• I knew he was sabotaging our relationship. I could feel it happening, and I even asked him about it… I just didn’t know the extent.
• I love him and I am deeply in love with him. I am dumbfounded, confused, and shocked. 
• I believe he is a good person. I believe he's actually so much better of a man than what he has ever been able to recognize. He just makes terrible, hurtful choices because he doesn't believe in himself. 
• I will always love him.
• Even though I hurt deeply... I know he is hurting, too. 
• I am worried about him.
• Even with all of this—the good and the bad—I have received so many gifts. I have received messages of support and love… prayers… positive thoughts… all kinds of good.
• I am grateful for the support I’ve received.
• I know I am loved.
• And I love myself.

My therapist called me yesterday. Exasperated, she said:

“Well, I guess when someone tells you over and over again that you’re too good for him… believe him.”

Amen.

(I believe him now.)

I hurt.
Oh, how I hurt.

When you’re with a liar, it’s hard to know how much of the whole relationship is a lie. I could drive myself totally crazy with remembering precious, tender moments, and then wondering whether it was real or just an illusion.

And I probably will do some more of that…

But hopefully not tonight. I am really tired, but I have the urge to move some furniture around, too.

I really, really thought he was the love of my life…

I am utterly heartbroken.

And as I mentioned to someone today—I don’t have a whole lot of hope right now.

But I do have faith.

And, I am loved.

And that will get me through…

And besides—I have some super positive things to concentrate on, like my recent trip to Maine, and a bit of good news that a few of you already know of, and the love I have in my life, and at least I didn't marry a liar, and my cats love me, and I have good taste in music, and my dad reminded me of a family joke in the midst of my emotional despair and it made me laugh.

This life is at least not boring, right?!

Now, excuse me while I go cry in my wine…