Maybe It's Chemistry or Maybe It's Just My Trauma Bonding

LENGTH WARNING: This piece is very long. I tried for short and sweet but it’s about trauma bonding for the love of God. There is nothing short and sweet about it.

Back in late September, I downloaded Bumble after deleting a different dating app. I thought maybe the change of scenery would bring with it a new palette of offerings. I’m not sure what I was actually thinking because what I really wanted to do was delete all the dating apps all together. However, in the time of COVID, I have no idea how to actually meet someone so instead, I decided to switch apps.

Within minutes there he was. The guy. The one that gave me butterflies in high school and who periodically, for reasons unbeknownst to me, popped into my head from time to time over the years. I wonder what XXXXX is doing with his life.

I stared at his profile and questioned whether or not I should swipe right. He was, after all, the older brother of a girl who was in my graduating class and I knew him in real life. Sort of. Plus, he always felt so far out of my reach. Could I really sit with the discomfort of him possibly not swiping back on me?

I decided what the hell. This is 2020 after all. Anything is possible. We are adults now. We are no longer awkward teens. We are full-blown single forty-somethings just looking for love. Why is it so hard to believe that maybe it could be with each other. So I swiped right.

A MATCH! A hit of dopamine shot to my brain and butterflies danced in my belly. What the what? I was not expecting that. And then, Oh God. I thought. We…matched. Could a version of my own Hallmark Movie really be in the near future? You know the one where the girl moves back to her hometown, runs into the older brother of a girl she went to high school with who she secretly always had a crush on and he sees her and is like, "Wow. You sure grew up!” And they fall in magical love right then and there. End scene.

I stared at my phone. The rules of Bumble require the woman reach out to the man first. I know, stupid. I think it sets a weird precedence but I believe, is to help prevent the often uncomfortable and entirely inappropriate slew of annoying and cheesy come-ons and occasional unsolicited dick pics. Yep, that has actually happened to me. Uninvited. Unwelcome.

What do I even say to him? Will he remember who I am? What if he REALIZES who I am and doesn’t respond? What if he accidentally swiped right? And just like that, I’m back in high school right along with all my paralyzing insecurities about the boy I have a crush on.

“I’m not that person anymore, Amanda. I’ve grown up. I’m different, more self-assured. More, interesting. Plus, he is not the sun Amanda. YOU are the sun.” I coached myself until I had the courage to type, “XXXXX! How are you? You know we know each other in real life, right?” Knowing full well I may never hear back from him I hit SEND. And then chewed off all my nails waiting.

Within a little bit he wrote back and the smile on my face spread from cheek to cheek and just for a brief moment I entertained the thought that just maybe I would get my Hallmark movie after all. After several long exchanges back and forth and a few hour long phone calls we decided to meet up. We picked a place in Issaquah with outdoor seating to be COVID safe. We met and six hours later, it was decided. We had amazing chemistry. Or at least we could talk nonstop for six hours. But it was more than just two friends talking at length. Mixed in was the perfect amount of flirting and lust filled eyes gazing. It was dreamy.

We continued talking over the next few days, both through text and on the phone as he lives an hour and a half north which is a little outside my comfort level of “no long distance dating” but not a total deal breaker. One of the things I found so refreshing about him was that he preferred talking over the phone. It wasn’t just refreshing. It was a full on turn on in todays dating world. We decided to meet up later that week when he was back in the area.

But a few days into our whirlwind flirtation it happened. I don’t know what it is but I feel it in my gut before it actually happens. A disconnect. It’s like I can feel them break away or wander off mentally. As an anxious attachment style, in the past this would send me into a fit of anxiety. But now I know as an anxious I tend to attract avoidant so I know to hang back a bit and just let them work their process too. So I did. I went about my thing all the while knowing something felt off. It’s the blessing and the curse of being a highly and borderline freakishly intuitive person.

When the day we decided to meet up came and he hadn’t solidified plans I just knew. This was also after two other unanswered texts. I knew he had no intentions of really pursuing anything. I’ve been in this dating game long enough to know what it feels like to have someone interested and to have someone throw me in their "I’ll just reach out when I’m lonely” back pocket. I also knew that I really needed to uphold my boundaries and that I am looking for a man that is consistent. Someone who wants to get to know me as much as I want to know them. Someone who’s actions and words totally align.

Mind you, wanting and actually holding out for are two entirely different things.

After the second unanswered text, I decided that here was my opportunity to see my growth. I could lean into the anxiety of being ghosted or the potential ghosting that was happening and allow myself to feel the rejection and disappointment, and let it go, knowing very well that ghosting is a reflection of them, not me. The next day he called and left a message that he had to head back north because a friend had an emergency. Which, now knowing what I know, I can’t help but wonder if this “friend” was really more than a friend.

Cool. Stuff happens in life. I get that. But that still doesn’t warrant not responding to my “hey did you still want to get together today” text from the day before. When I called back it went to voicemail and then, after two days of no response, my anxiousness got the best of me. Ya’ll know how I feel about ghosting and if you don’t, read this post. I have a 0% tolerance for it and call that shit out when I realize it is happening. We literally live in the easiest time to just be direct. You can send a friggin’ text message it’s that easy.

After several text drafts I finally settled on the one that felt the most emotionally mature and just wished him the best but that I am worthy of the decency of someone not just disappearing on me. Blah blah blah. He called right away after receiving this text. We had a good conversation and he apologized and said he did want to continue getting to know me and was interested.

Then….nothing. Ghosted. Again.

After nothing more came from him over the course of the next few days I just let it go. I was already exhausted from something that was suppose to be fun, flirty, steamy and new.

I know enough now to know that sure, his actions plain sucked and were rude and insensitive but I also recognize that I had a part too. We always have a part because we continue to entertain their actions. We ignore our boundaries.

So I spent the next few weeks in my shop working on my art and doing what I do best, reflecting on why it is that I am still attracting avoidant and unavailable men.

And here is the part of the story I really don’t want to admit but I have to because well, it’s part of the story and more importantly, part of my next level of growth.

The weeks rolled by until about a month later there he was again. To be honest, I could feel that he was going to reach out soon. Don’t ask me how or why I know these things but I can ALWAYS feel it. The night after election night I saw my phone light up indicating that I had a text and as I reached for my phone to see who it was I knew before I looked.

“Hey Amanda. I hope you are well. I’ve been thinking about you and I’d really like to spend time with you and continue to get to know you more.”

I stared at my phone.

Fuck.

My mom’s words that she borrowed from Oprah who repeated what was originally said by Maya Angelu echoed through my head, “Amanda, people show you who they are right away. Believe them.”

Yeah ladies, I know I know. But this was the guy and I’ve still got unresolved daddy issues so…

I responded. Right after I went up to my landlords place and talked to him for thirty minutes about what I should do. We have a funny relationship like that.

High school crush guy and I talked for awhile on the phone ever so delicately tip toeing around the elephant in the room and I listened as he told me how overwhelmingly busy the weeks were after we initially met and as he talked, I told my intuition that was screaming “NOBODY IS THAT BUSY WHEN IT COMES TO SOMEONE THEY ARE INTERESTED IN” to take a hike. Hottie McHottie was back damnit and we had unfinished business.

Before we got off the phone he said he would be in touch to let me know about ‘spending time together.’

As we hung up I couldn’t shake the feeling that nobody is THAT busy for someone they are truly interested in. But then again, this is my Hallmark movie and anything is possible.

The days that followed again proved my intuition right. Nothing.

As I type all this out all I can think is, good Lord Amanda. You’ve still got work to do.

I want to point out here I am in no way trying to be a victim to his actions here. I know very well that by responding to his messages, I invited him back into my life knowing that my gut was telling me a different story.

There was a time not too long ago that I would take this and make it ALL about how I wasn’t enough for them. Because of therapy and actively pulling apart my past trauma and the stories I create in my head, I realized that this is merely a reflection of where I still need to heal.

This time I just let his lack of follow through go. Annoyed I promised myself that when he reached out again I’d ignore it.

Util he did reach out again two weeks later. I stared at my phone once again.

“Hey! I’ve been thinking about you and your curls.”

I know, barf. As I type this all out I see how barfy this actually was. Believe you me, I am cringing at myself right now.

I know exactly what I should have done. I do.

It’s just, with some men it’s easier then others. Some men I can just say good-bye too but others, others are like the emerald green Kryptonite in my life and Jesus Christ, it’s like even though I’m repeatedly burning my hand on the hot stove, I just keep forgetting it’s hot or choose to believe that this time, even though the stove is a bright fiery red, it’s really not that hot.

But yeah, instead of ignoring the text like I should have, I responded. And once again he said he really wanted to spend time with me. This time I laid my boundaries out VERY clearly. I said the only way I would entertain this is if he was consistent and actually made plans.

And this time he was actually consistent with the correspondence. He called and texted but after two weeks of still no attempt at making any plans I knew, once again, I was being strung along. Probably because he knew he could get what he needed (attention) from a sucker like me. Somewhere inside he knew he was my form of Kryptonite, my drug of choice, and all he had to do was give me just enough and I was hooked.

But I kept coming back to something: nobody is THAT busy when it comes to true romantic interest. Sure, maybe it’s timing. Or maybe I just need to admit to myself that still have work to do.

I keep telling myself that I want a man who shows up from day one and is consistent in his interest for me. I want the chemistry AND the consistency. I don’t want guessing games or the wondering what if’s. I know, on a conscious level, that I am worthy of what I want and am actively learning how to really believe that. I suppose this is done by showing up for myself different. By setting very clear and consistent boundaries and communicating and acting on them.

So I bid him farewell and asked that he please respect my boundaries. And I hated every moment of it because this drug feels just as good as it feels bad.

And I took my bruised ego and disappointment and annoyance at boundaries on a good long walk. I have a clear idea of the truth now. My truth. I want more for myself.

There is still a part of me that is longing to be chosen by the avoidant man. That little girl in me who’s dad never could be there for her the way she needed him to be aches to be chosen.

I guess what I am realizing is I have to keep choosing her and one day that will be enough.

I look forward to mulling this one over in therapy on Tuesday.

The Stories That Lie Just Beneath

Sometimes I stand staring at my naked body in the mirror running my fingers along the scars that scatter my stomach as if they were braille and I was trying to read the stories that live buried deep beneath them.

I try and remember the intimate details of memories from a long time ago. All that comes to mind are vague and scattered ones. Only bits and pieces, sounds, and smells.

The beeping of the machine that connected the pic line into my inner bicep that pumped the three different liquids into me fighting to keep the infection at bay and keep me alive. I remember the day the technician came into my room to insert the pic line and how while she was inserting the line up my arm she told me that if the line went the wrong direction she could blow out my eardrum and how I started crying and demanded that she stop and asked if there was another way and how they wheeled me down somewhere else to finish what she started.

I remember another procedure in a cold room in the basement of the hospital a week after my first surgery when they asked me to lie on my stomach and how I looked at them as if they were crazy and around the room realizing I was all alone and had nobody to defend for me. I sobbed because I was so scared of the pain. My stomach had been cut open and they were asking me to lie flat on it and I still could barely even walk by myself. They gave me valium to calm me down as they inserted the plastic tube into my left butt cheek and deep into my pelvis to help drain the infection that was trying to kill me.

Then the muffled voices of doctors and nurses shuffling around the hallway. I remember Chris the Charge Nurse and how I loved her and everyone that worked on the Swedish seven southwest surgical floor.

I remember watching my mom sob uncontrollably at the end of the hall as they wheeled me back for emergency surgery right after my surgeon told us he was going to have to give me a temporary ileostomy bag. She sobbed for me because she knew my biggest fear was coming true but I was too sick to care. She cared enough for both of us and that image of her crying as she watched me roll away is burned into my mind.

And the mixed smells of sterilization and illness that wafted throughout the halls and the taste that filled my mouth as they injected certain drugs into my line.

I remember waking up in my room from the first surgery, eyes fluttering open, head still foggy from anesthesia and pain meds. The pain I’ll never forget. The excruciating pain and staring up at my older brother looking down at me with his big hopeful smile as I whispered, “Am I going die?”

I trace the smooth six-inch reminder of this time knowing these memories will never go away. These memories will always be there teasing me with the complicated emotions that come from a trauma like this. That one time when someone else’s mistake cost me something great and how what I didn’t know then was that I’d never be able to have children because of it.

There are other memories too. Ones that make me smile. Like how if it wasn’t for that time in my life my older brother would have never met his wife and I wouldn’t have my niece and nephews. She was the nurse that happened to be in the hall when my mom rushed to find help as I stood sobbing naked in the bathroom after the seal broke on my temporary ileostomy bag and everything starting leaking down my leg to the ground below. I remember the door opened and she was backlit by the sunlight and I couldn’t see her face, I could only hear her sweet, comforting voice and somehow I just knew she’d be in my life forever.

Or how every night my dad would come into my hospital room and curl up on the reclining chair next to my bed and we’d watch a documentary about the Green River Killer or the latest on the aftermath of the Tsunami in Thailand until we both fell asleep and how the nurses never asked him to leave. In the middle of the night, I’d have to pee and he’d jump up and we’d fall into habit, helping me put on my socks with the sticky grips on the bottom and unplugging and untangling the cords from the wall from my machine as he slowly pulled me up from the bed.

I remember this one time I needed to feel the January sun on my face so he and I snuck out a back door of the hospital and into a concrete garden and stood there, hand wrapped tightly around the machine pumping different liquids into me as I closed my eyes and felt the sun for the first time in days.

And how after work my older brother would come to sit beside my bed and read the writings of C.S. Lewis to me as I drifting in and out of sleep. I don’t remember a single word but I do remember thinking how his love for God would be enough for both of us.

Then this one time I was sitting on the edge of my hospital bed crying about something I can’t remember what. My mom stood in front of me trying to help me get up. She was growing impatient and I was feeling sorry for myself. I don’t remember why but suddenly we looked at each other and both started laughing and it hurt my stomach so bad but I didn’t care because it felt so good to feel joy for that brief moment. That’s my mom and I for you with our secret language and understanding and perfect timing.

And then there was the day I went from bad to good. From sick to healing. From walking a thin line to turning the corner. I remember it as if it were yesterday. It was day seven. I woke up and felt better. I felt the life come back to my cheeks and I ate real food for the first time in a week and saw hope for the first time too. My surgeon came into my room and said he could take out the drain in my butt cheek that had become almost unbearable at that point because of where it was and he said, “okay, count to three.” I was so scared it was going to hurt but by three he had already taken it out and I felt nothing but a relief I had been desperate to feel for a week.

I went home two days later but that is a story for another time because those are the stories from only two of the nine scars on my stomach.

Most days I just see the scars that scatter my belly but sometimes, these are the memories that come rushing back when I look at my stomach as I think about how scars are these crazy visual reminders of stories from our lives and nobody ever knows until you open your mouth to tell them.

Here Is How You Date. Tips From The Girl Who Is Perpetually Single

“We are all a little weird and life's a little weird, and when we find someone whose weirdness is compatible with ours, we join up with them and fall in mutual weirdness and call it love.” ― Dr. Seuss

The other day my best friend sent me a text. “Hey! I told ________ that we should do a girl’s night and maybe you can show her the ropes on how to date now and which apps to use. Another family friend just broke up with her boyfriend and is moving back to Seattle too!” All I could think was, oh my sweet friend, it’s obvious by your enthusiasm that you’ve been married a very long time.

I read the message and all I could think was, “Welcome ladies…to the Hunger Games. May the odds ever be in your favor” Because let’s be honest, dating now in general feels a little bit like we are all running around aimlessly on an island, without a clue as to what we are doing. And dating in 2020 feels like we are Tom Hanks in Castaway stranded on a desert island talking to our friend, the volleyball.

But then I laughed and accept that I’ve been in this game a long time and really nothing has changed and now I have become some kind of dating expert that my married friends refer their newly single friends to. Albeit, not the best one but as my mom likes to remind me, I’ve dated a lot over the years because I’ve been perpetually single for the majority of my life. Except for that one time I got married. So yeah, maybe I am some kind of expert.

I tend to do really good with relationships that last just about two months, and every now and again, I land on a six monther. Yes I can pretend I know what I’m doing but really, lets be honest, I suck at dating. I am, however, an expert, at being single.

Dating is hard for someone like me who is intense and full of big emotions and feelings and thrives in deep conversation. First dates are the worst. Just like with a job interview or networking event, I’m usually the awkward one talking about the weather. I have no middle ground. No in-between. I’m either “Oh did you hear it’s suppose to be sunny next week?” Or I’m like, “So, tell me about your inner child pain and how you are working towards healing it so you can show up in the world as your most authentic self.” Sprinkle in some lingering daddy issues, lack of trust from an ex-husband that cheated repeatedly and an anxious attachment style, my friends, dating expert I am not. A regular on my therapists couch, er, computer screen, I am.

The point of my self-deprecating rant is dating scares the shit out of me because it always shines a big bright search light on my deepest, most painful wounds and I like myself better when I’m single. I’m cool, calm, witty, super confident, sexy and fit, adventurous and relaxed. I’m like, every guys dream girl.

I also feel like good, available men are like some mythical creature. Everyone says they know a friend of a friend of a friend who’s seen one but there is very little evidence that they actually exist.

Admittedly, I’ve spent many a mind-numbing hours perusing dating apps, looking at profiles of men sitting next to giant Tigers or holding a large dead fish with big creepy smiles sprawled across their faces that says, “Ugh. Me. Provide. For. You. Me. Strong. Me. Brave.” I can’t help but wonder if this is some kind of subliminal cavemen messaging. Like, they may not be able to hit us over the head with a club and drag us into their cave by our hair anymore but if they post a picture sitting next to some sedated Tiger on an island in Thailand I’m suppose to be like, “Oh, damn, this man, he’s gonna keep me safe.”

Ah, nope. Swipe. Left.

If you sense a cynical tone it’s true. I’m close to almost settling on the fact that I’ll probably just grow old alone in a cabin in the woods with cats and books and a shop out back with a chop saw. And then I find myself thinking with this current dating market, one can only hope.

The other day I found my cynicism bleeding into a conversation with a friend and saying that maybe all I need is a sex friend and companion to spend a few hours talking with every now and then. Ya know, scratch both itches with one stone kind of thing. Or is that kill two birds? Basically, someone I hump and then spend a few hours eating food and talking with and then we go about our own independent way. But he called my bluff and reminded me that this isn’t really me and what I truly long for is what most long for, a meaningful partnership where I am loved for my unique weirdness.

And he is right.

Despite my cynicism, I am a internal optimist when it comes to matters of the heart. A lover of the dream.

As my therapist once told me after another devastating heartbreak, “Amanda. You know what I love about you most? Your heart just never gives up. No matter how much you get hurt by love you still believe it’s out there just looking for you too.”

And it’s true.

As jaded or reluctant as I may appear, there is a part of me that is filled with the hope that love is out there for someone like me. That one day my weird will find it’s matching weird counterpart and we will live happily ever after in our perfectly little weird bubble. That one day we will meet and he will be everything I never knew I was looking for and he’ll like cats too. That is what keeps me swiping.

The truth is I don’t really date and I haven’t dated since I ended the two month thing with the last guy in early May and now there is this whole hysterectomy thing and healing from that so I’m just, I think, in a bit of a holding pattern right now because to be honest, I’d rather meet someone in real life and this whole Coronavirus thing has made that feel a bit hard right now. Not impossible, just hard. I mean, I do look great in a face mask.

Most of the time I just don’t come across anyone I find interesting enough to swipe right on but every now and then I do. It’s more likely my trauma bonding but that little pit in my stomach starts to flutter, ripping down the cobwebs that began to form from when things ended with whatever guy I was dating last and excitement erupts. And I think, “My faith has been restored! I I just may want to know more about this person.” It doesn’t happen often but when it does it’s like a sugar rush straight to the head. I’m high and hooked.

It actually happened recently but just as quickly as he entered, poof, he disappeared never to be heard from again. Which is a whole other rant and brings me back to something I’ve already written about before; ghosting and how unbelievable immature it is. And rude. Didn’t your parents teach you about respect?

Oh my God can we stop with the ghosting already? People. I’m going to say this once. There is an actual human being behind those profiles and text messages. Human beings who have their own ‘stuff’ they are working through and I know our brains have somehow forgotten this but for f*&k’s sake, despite the technological shield these apps make us believe is there, ghosting still feels pretty damn shitty. No matter how many Mark Groves Instagram quotes you read about how it’s not you, it’s the other person’s lack of something, it. still. feels. shitty.

And you want to know why so many of us are a jaded?

Ghosting. It’s called ghosting!

Especially when we literally live in an era where all you have to do is send a text message that says:

Hey, it was nice getting
to know you a bit
but I’m not feeling it.
I wish you the best.

This actually happened to me several months ago and it was like a breath of f*&king fresh air. Yeah my ego stung for a moment upon first reading it but then I just felt relieved because it was honest and true and oh how I love and value both of those things. Door closed, move on. Next!

There is no wondering if maybe they were in some kind of terrible car accident or how they are probably just scared because I’m that awesome and that intimidates them (insert sarcasm here please). No, it’s good old fashion clear communication and it’s what my dreams are made of. We need to get back to this. Actually, we need to start this because let’s be honest, it was really never there to begin with. Remember, I’ve been at this a long time. I know.

And here is another thing I want to bring up about honesty. What should be on your dating profile. These are non negotiable and it’s backed up by a poll I took on Instagram so it’s fact. Trust me.

If you are looking for something real and long-term, casual or if you are just DTF (Down to F&*k and yes for those of you that have been in a relationship forever, it’s a real thing)

Okay my friends, there are those of us that are seeking something real and have turned to dating apps because meeting someone in person just seems so out of the realm of possible in todays world. Then, there are those who are just exploring dating and want to keep it casual and fun and ‘see what happens.” Last there are those who are just wanting to plain old get down and dirty, no strings attached with every Jane, Suzy and Pam. Cool. All of it is okay. All of it is welcomed. But ALL of it needs to be clearly communicated in your profile. This gives the other person the option to think responsibly about what they want and whether or not they are willing to entertain the idea of getting to know you. Simple as that. It’s call R.E.S.P.E.C.T. Aretha Franklin wrote a song all about it.

Kids

I posted in my stories the other day asking my Insta community what they thought about whether or not people with kids should be fully transparent about it in their profiles. Every single comment came back was a big resounding YES. And I agree. Same guy above that was poof, gone, also didn’t disclose that he had kids in his profile. I found out after he gave me his Instagram handle and I did a little “research.” To be honest, I was irritated, first that he so quickly gave me his Instagram handle because I have a hard boundary about not doing said ‘research.’ Instead, I prefer to get to know them organically. But when you put it in front of my face it’s like putting candy in front of a small child and saying don’t eat it as you walk out of the room leaving them all alone. Yeah. Right.

He didn’t share that he had kids in his profile nor did he share it in our back and forth conversation. Although not a very long conversation, he did list out other ‘fact’ about him like how he owned a home and makes mean tacos. Personally, I feel like “I’m the proud dad of kids” goes right up there. Right after “I make mean tacos and stiff margaritas.” And to preference, I’m totally open to dating guys with kids but it’s a very different mindset and I need to mentally prepare. It’s a whole different set of boundaries, potential responsibilities and lifestyle to think about. I also feel that when you withhold that information it can lead someone to think you are a deadbeat dad and aren’t proud of being a parent. Honestly, if I’m going to date a guy with kids, he better be damn proud of the dad he is.

It’s called integrity.

It’s also similar to why I always have a picture of me with my dog and cat on my profile. I know a lot of guys don’t like cats and well, I do and will more than likely always have a cat and I rather give them the opportunity to pass me by then feel like it’s some big dirty secret that I like cats. My cat is curled up on my lap right now in fact and it is pretty friggin’ cute. So yay cats!

But in all seriousness, take a step back for a minute. Don’t you want the person you meet to be fully on board with who you are from the get go? And I mean ALL of you. For me, it feels better to get some of the bigger, I can’t change this about me things out in the open ASAP, especially as I get older. Instead of many dates later only to discover (after feels have started to form, etc) that they are in fact, deadly allergic to cats. Or kids for that matter.

If you are in an open relationship

This, to me, is a no brainer but apparently it’s not. This was also something that got brought up by a friend of mine that is in an open relationship. He told me that when he puts it in his profile he doesn’t get a lot of matches but when he leaves it out, he does. Um, yeah, duh. Makes sense. Although I completely support those who choose to be in an open relationship, I myself, know I would not thrive in one and want to know what I am getting in the very beginning. I want the choice. I asked said friend what happens when he eventually tells the person he is in an open relationship and he said he is met with a lot of questions and that people tend to assume that he is up to no good. That’s what happens when you are not transparent about something from the beginning. It makes you look like you are doing something sleazy even when you aren’t.

I agree that we could all be a lot more open-minded about open relationships and there is absolutely nothing wrong with them. However, it’s not for everyone and to get to the point where you may be open to it, there needs to be a level of trust and trust is built from truth, transparency and alignment.

Put it in your profile my friends.

If you have a non-negotiable, strong religious affiliation

Look, I’m down with the G.O.D and the Universe and Spirit and all that jazz but my God may not be your God and if your way of relating to God is a nonnegotiable for you and you don’t have room in your life for my view of God then it will never work. Seriously, I’ve tried this. Remember that one time I got married. Yeah, well, we had very different ideas of God and it bled into every decision, value and overall, the integrity of our whole marriage. And thank G.O.D we actually never did get pregnant because it would have bled into that too.

Now I’m not talking bout your every day average holiday church goer. I’m talking about those that maybe want to try ChristianMingle.com instead of your good ol’ Hinge or Bumble. If you are on that level it’s important to fully disclose it. If it’s a serious part of your life, own it.

And to cap it all off. One of my best friends, same friend who sent me the text above gave me some of the best advice ever. Way back when she met her now husband, she told me that if I am truly looking for a relationship, to always ask the big questions right from the get go. Because as she says, “Amanda, you are looking for a partner. Don’t waste your time. If they don’t want the things you do, move on. Next!” It took me a good long while to figure that one out.

So yeah, I’m intense and my own version of weird and maybe I will end up in a cabin in the woods with cats and books walking in circles singing Gregory Alan Isakov melodramatic songs on repeat as I wallow in the idea of a dream that never happened but I will always believe that somewhere out in this big old world there is someone who likes cats just as much as I do. Or who can at least tolerate them because they like me a whole lot. I have to believe that there is someone(s) out there looking for my perfect version of weird too. And hey, at least I’ll always know that during this whole damn dating process I stayed true to myself. I lived my integrity.

And to that is say, ME-OW. I mean, a-men.

Grief Is Not Something You Get Over but Rather Something You Learn to Carry More Gracefully

“You can still grieve and hold space for joy.”

The Before

I sit curled up on my bed in my cool basement apartment and the noise from the busy street outside echoes in my open window. It’s late afternoon and warm outside and my skin is hot and a new golden brown from spending so much time outside walking Baker. Today I took him to a park and practiced presence while proudly watching him explore the cold lapping waters edge at a nearby park. The joy stretched across his face was infectious and those final hours make what I’m about to endure worth it.

I still want to be outside soaking in the last few rays, watching my puppy discover new things but I’m tired. So very tired. I realize it’s the grief washing over me as I count down the hours until I begin prepping for my surgery. Today is Sunday, Tuesday is the day.

I wipe away the tears as I think about what this surgery means and how many times various doctors over the last sixteen years have hinted I should start to consider having it. Like a broken record each time, I wipe away their concerns with a well-practiced response, “Forty. I’ll decide when I turn forty.” My throat hurts from crying but I can’t stop. I must let myself feel the sadness wash over me as I finally close this very long chapter. This at times, beyond a heartbreaking chapter.

Over the years I’ve wondered what life would have been like if that surgery sixteen years ago would have gone as planned. If that tiny hole the size of the tip of a ball point pen hadn’t been missed. I wonder what life would have looked like had I never gotten an infection that nearly took my life but did take something else away. Would I maybe have a toe-head kid with springing curls and big blue eyes and a nose peppered with the trademark deep brown “Whitworth” freckles both my younger brother and I had as kids playing in the grass on a hot summer day? Or was that never meant to be mine in the first place? Was I never meant to be a mom? I’ve given myself permission to go to that place of curiosity so many times before and it’s a strange feeling that in just a few short days I’ll never again be able to wonder if just maybe there is still a chance.

I’ve grieved this all before, many times. I grieved when my ex-husband and I tried for two years and even went through fertility treatment to no avail. I grieved when I sat before the radiation oncologist and she told me my cancer treatment would more then likely send me into early menopause. And I’ve grieved the many times a woman with a big round belly full of budding life has walked by me and the quiet voice deep within that whispers, “that’ll never be you.”

Oh how I have grieved.

And it’s ok to grieve about this because as women, this is what we are taught to want from the time we can remember. I used to wrap my dolls in blankets and protect them fiercely from any oncoming threats as any mother would. Cooing and singing to them I had a list of names for all those unborn children. I prepared my whole childhood for something that in reality, I would never experience. Although I’ve spent a significant amount of time over the last few years asking myself if that was really a dream I truly wanted or just one that I was told to want, it’s still ok to grieve it even if it wasn’t.

I know this grief well. I’ve sat with her so many times over the years. Today though, she looks different.

Because I know it’s time. I promised myself when I turned forty. That’s when I would decided to do it. Maybe it was because my mom was forty-four when she was diagnosed with uterine cancer and her mom was young too and cancer takes time to grow. Maybe I just intuitively knew that it had to be forty.

I’ve worked really hard at looking at this decision through the lens of maturity and not through the one that says cancer is stealing from me once again. This decision doesn’t come on the heels of some medical disaster, it was my choice and sometimes it’s easier to decide in a disaster because then I got to be the victim. But I know now that my victim tendencies of the past have gotten me nowhere but a body full of rage and anger so palpable, I pushed a lot of people and opportunities away. I know I am no longer a woman who faces these things from that point of view. I’ve come too far to go back there now.

I’ve spend the better part of the last three years working on repressed disappointment, sadness and anger and have let go of a lot. I feel content deep within in a way I’ve never experienced before. In a way I still don’t have words to describe how I feel. I know, however, it may surface again. Old ways of doing things, old ways of feeling and I’m ready. I’m ready to meet myself differently. Meet myself with love. With acceptance. With my newer friend grace.

I’m committed to processing things as healthy as I possibly can and one of the things I’ve come to believe is that we are given the full spectrum of these magical feelings to experience them all fully. They are our greatest teachers. Our wise and at times, excruciatingly harsh elders. So when a few months ago they started speaking to me, that quiet voice deep within began whispering, I looked myself in the mirror and just nodded knowing that I would be able to handle it now.

It was time.

The After

It’s been six days since I had a total hysterectomy and surprisingly I feel really good. I had my uterus, ovaries, tubes and cervix removed. My trauma around routine surgeries told me these things go terribly wrong and I had a tremendous amount of anxiety prior to surgery. It’s been good for me to have such a smooth recovery. It has restore my faith in the medical world.

I remember waking from my surgery bracing myself for horrific pain, both emotional and physical, but all I felt was deep sense of peace as my eyes fluttered open and I saw my mom sitting quietly in the corner chair. I looked on at her and thought about all the pain she’s endured over the years from cancer and I’d be lying if I said a part of me didn’t do this for her too. Because I love her that much and it’s ok to do big things for those you love.

The choice I made means I get to eliminate two of the major cancers I statistically have a higher chance of getting and for a long time I couldn’t bring myself to do something because statistics told me to. However, after having two different Lynch Syndrome cancer and one very scary unknown tumor in my groin in the past fifteen years, I decided. It was time to live instead of continue to be consumed by the fear and anxiety that comes with the statistics.

I’ve been through a lot with my health in these short thirty-nine years and I’ve spent the better part of the last two years watching my mom fight for her life knowing that I had an opportunity to spare myself from some of what I was witnessing if I just made this decision.

I could only do it when I was truly ready though and honestly, I had no idea when that would be. Forty was really just a number I told myself knowing I could change it if I wanted to. Any moment sooner, instead of being filled with peace I would have been filled with regret. I know that about myself. I would have felt forced into doing something I wasn’t ready for. I learned that lesson the hard way many times before. This decision was all mine and could not be influenced by what other’s thought was best for me.

Although I had always promised myself forty, I knew I would be okay waiting longer if I needed to. But a few months ago something inside of me started thinking about it more seriously, it wasn’t some profound moment rather more of a quiet inner knowing, a feeling, a subtle shift towards a new perspective. I just new. I knew the time was approaching.

From the time that I confirmed my decision to the day I had surgery was two weeks. I sat across from my surgeon, my eyes staring down at the piece of paper with the drawing of the female reproductive system and scattered notes from my doctor describing the details of the surgery. I felt tears start to well in my eyes and I took a deep breath slowly lifting my gaze. First to my mom, then to my doctor.

“Okay.” I said. “It’s time. When can we do it?”

And just like that I knew.

When I opened my eyes after surgery I remember thinking, it’s finally over. Sixteen years of being scared of having to make this choice is finally done. And then I smiled because I was proud of myself. I felt a peace wash over me because I knew that I wouldn’t regret this but rather I’d sleep just a bit better at night knowing I’d never get uterine, ovarian or cervical cancer.

Ever.

That I’d never have to go through the pain and suffering endured by long treatments and scary outcomes. I was free.

And I felt deep peace that this choice wasn’t made on the heels of some medical disaster but one I made for myself over time, when I was truly ready. I was proud that grew to know and trust myself that well.

Today, I choose to live.

Today I want to live.

And maybe there will be days when I feel the depths of grief that come with this experience, this loss of sorts, but I’m not so worried about her anymore because I know she’s just a part of me. I know she is there for a reason and I’ve learned to let her take my hand and walk with me. With her I walk taller and just a bit more gracefully. I know she is no longer the enemy but rather, a close friend.

Waking up to frost and remembering your dream

Well, the seasons have changed and I’m finally back to living somewhere that actually experiences winters. It seems as if in a matter of a day we went from above average warm temps where I was still having to open the doors and windows to freezing cold and waking up to frost.

I’m not complaining though. This kind of weather makes my soul sing with joy. I’m a PNW kind of girl through and through and although I’m not ready to head back now if ever, I was definitely ready to get back to a climate that felt like home.

My biggest challenge so far has been trying to figure out how to keep the yurt warm. It is, after all, a big tent. And since I’m on a limited budget, I’m having to get clever. I did purchase insulated curtains that are supposed to help but I also have three space heaters that aren’t the most efficient but are definitely better than nothing. But I like this exploration process. It makes me feel like I’m living.

The farm has totally different energy now too. It’s amazing how something like that can change with the turning of the weather and seasons.

I feel different as well. I feel more internal. Hibernating if you will. Which is exactly what part of my intention is. To flow more with the seasons and this time of year represents slowing down and turning inward more.

My days have been spent baking and cooking and yes, more relaxing too but I’m still struggling with the rewiring of my brain a bit. The go and do more equates to self-worth mentality is a long-time story of mine that I am working on daily. Living out here is helping.

With the change of the season, I am reminded of why I am here. To remember who I am and my dreams and the frost reminded me of living on the farm in Oregon and that part of me that felt so alive planning for the spring planting season and that is what I am doing now.

It feels good to remember your dreams.