To be your friend.

To be your friend was always easy. Always easy till it wasn’t.

I saw you the other day. We passed each other at a turn not far from either of our houses. I was stopped and you made the right turn, passing by me on my left. You looked right at me.

Then I saw your eyes scan my daughter, who was next to me.

I also saw you at our local super store. I saw you by the books, you looked the same. My heart hurt. I turned my cart and went the opposite direction.

I wondered if you would show at the local fest. You know which one, and I did find myself looking for you. I wondered how it would go.

I do miss you. I think of you often and am often overwhelmed by the wave of sadness that washes over me.

It’s hard for me to make friends. It’s easy to strike up a conversation with anyone, but it’s not easy to make friends.

It’s mainly trust. For me to even accept a friend and be even a tiny bit vulnerable with someone is huge. I never put that on you, it’s more something that is internal with me. In the 14 years I called you the best friend I ever had on this planet, it was because I trusted you.

To this day I have to stop myself from calling you or texting you or tagging you in something that only you would understand. I told you often that you were the only one in my life I let my walls down with and I could be myself. You often told me the same. You seemed to accept me as I accepted you.

You never tried to change me and I never tried to change you. We were very different people but we were who we were with each other and I swear to you, in all my relationships from my husband to my family to other friends, you were the best and the perfect fit to my crazy self.

14 years, a thousand miles of hikes and bikes and walks. Gyms joined and fighting with neighbors that build walls. Talking for hours and hours. Weddings, graduations, parties, our children, their children, our pasts, canons and fireworks, green bonfires and drunk gummy bears. Wandering in the woods, ghosts, chickens and funny plants. Stolen ferns and haunted coffee, boats and lakes, random dinosaur eggs on a poison ivy covered island. Illegal swimming in clear water and snakes that have eyes. Buzzards and tiny deer and kids that have old souls. Wondering if she’s dead in the bathroom and enjoying steam rooms & hot tubs.

You were my friend.

You are missed and there are days I forget the end. The end that I still don’t understand. The end that I’m positive contains three sides. Yours, mine and the truth in the middle.

For me it was the first time you were mad at me for something and instead of talking to me, you pulled the silent treatment and shut me out. It was after a weight class, I noticed you icing me out and after class I smiled at you and said “hey!” You made eye contact with me and looked at the instructor near me and said. “Great class! I have to run tho, can’t stay and talk, I’m meeting a good friend for lunch! Byeee.”

And walked out.

I tried, but I couldn’t come back from that one. I tried. I had seen you do exactly that to others, but I was on the side of listening to you as you put them through it. So I knew you.

I knew you.

But I tried. I knew I had fucked up royally in your eyes, but you never told me what I did.

That same summer, as we tried to put the friendship back, you were looking for advice on remolding a room. The most expensive room a homeowner can remodel, and you were looking for advice.

From Facebook.

But this is what he does. 30 years, this is what he does. He’s got all the connections for this room, he knows where ripoffs come in.

It actually took me a while to figure out that maybe you thought I wanted him to be the one to do it for you. It took a while because it was never in my mind at all that he would do this job for your family.

It was only in my mind that you not get ripped off and what you should be asking your builder to do because this particular room being done is not easy on a family and you should never be inconvenienced during the makeover. I know that part because I’m the wife of a guy that’s been doing it for 30+ years.

He even tried get you in touch with his suppliers. Again, not because he wanted the job either, he absolutely did not, but because you were my friend and you should not be ripped off.

But that day at the pool when I mentioned one thing you should ask your builder before he starts, you sat up, snapped your fingers in my face and said, “I give my builder keys, that’s how much I trust them.

I said, “ok.” And I remember getting up and walking over to the pool. I had no idea what keys had to do with it and mine is always given keys too. It was weird.

One more time, after a class, you were bitching about costs. I mentioned again something I knew, this time you put your hand in my face to stop me speaking and said, “I know what I’m doing.”

So I never spoke about it with you again. Weirdly, it was that day on my way home that it crosses my mind that maybe you thought I wanted my husband to be doing your job. It was so far out there for me that I would never ever even be thinking he should.

You then posted on Facebook the progress of that job. I guess because I couldn’t stop thinking about that hand in my face, I never liked a single one. Immature of me, I know, but you really were incredibly rude.

I just didn’t want to hit that like button. You were getting nastier with me more and more and I started to realize maybe we were not the friends I thought we were.

I noticed anything I liked, or liked doing, you would put down. I noticed you talked about people on Facebook a lot. You would use the word “jealous” a lot. You would say seeing pictures of people traveling or doing things made you jealous.

You would tell me that the people looking at pictures of your life and your grandkids were jealous of you.

It was weird to me because I don’t ever feel that way. Ever. It doesn’t dawn on me to look at someone’s life and feel jealousy. I don’t post in hopes of making others feel that way.

But I just stayed quiet and let you feel however you wanted to feel.

So your job gets finished and I guess because my first comment on your Facebook about it wasn’t up to par for you, you decided to send me the most insane texts ever.

What you didn’t know was that I was nowhere near my phone that day. It was in another room charging and I honestly forgot about it. I was on another floor in a different room with my iPad. My iPad will receive iMessages, but not messages from an android.

I truly did not get your messages until later that evening.

It’s like madness overtook you the longer I didn’t answer.

I immediately answered you the moment I saw them. I told you everything was fine, I loved you, I loved your family, everything fine.

But that was the doormat in me talking. Everything wasn’t fine.

You then made your whole family block me and you blocked me out too.

Now I’m done. This is a friendship, I’m already exhausted over the state of my marriage, I’m done.

Then your husband passed. Damn. I truly loved him. He was hilarious and fun and always had a bright blue eyed smile for everyone. He was such a good human.

But I didn’t know. You made everyone block me! I had NO IDEA.

But you bitched to a mutual friend that I wasn’t there for you. But I’m not sure how I could’ve been since you made everyone who knew block me.

That’s your MO too. Every time you fight with someone, you make your family block them. Your brother then goes on to torture them. It sucks that you do that. No, I’m not jealous, lol… I think it’s gross.

Then last Christmas, our families passed each other. I saw you. I was really sad for you and your family. The first season without him had to be hard on all of you and my heart broke when I saw you. You passed and kept going. I turned to look back at you, I was trying to figure out how to say hi, and I saw you whisper in your sons girlfriends ear and then you turned back to us, pointed at us, your head went back and you laughed this fake, loud, obnoxious laugh.

I turned and walked on.

You were my only real life friend I told about this blog. I don’t know if you’ll read it, I guess I don’t really care either way.

Or do I?

I will never know what caused that initial act of nastiness that first time after the weight class. But what I do know is that for me, it was hard to come back from. I tried.

I guess I needed to acknowledge this friendship and it’s end. For me, there was pain and heartache with its ending. Confusion. Anger.

I don’t think you should have to fight so hard for friendship, or love, or value.

I never felt like you owed me anything, I gave freely.

But I think you felt I owed you, and I don’t know what to do with that.

I saw you the other day when we passed each other at the stop sign. I was surprised at how sad I felt.

It’s like I have to pull up the end, the bad parts, so I can breathe again. So I can hold my head up and keep going forward. I have to pull up the bad so the sad isn’t so big.

I have to say that again… it’s interesting… I have to pull up the bad so the sad isn’t so big.

I wish it ended differently.




I did this blog this way, to write it out and if you read it? Then that means you looked for it. I won’t send it to you, that would be like knocking on your door uninvited. I won’t do that.




You were a good friend and I truly wish nothing but the best for you.



But don’t laugh at me in the Christmas tree park this year. Not cool.

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I dream of that Kentucky house more and more.

Settlement of the estate is supposed to happen in a few weeks and I’ll be heading south.

This time I want to stay. I want to stay for a while. Will I? I don’t know.

The last time I was in the house I knew I would be able to sleep there. I think with finding out what was in the hospital records that there’s a bit of peace now where my dad is concerned.

So I’m pretty sure I can stay there.

I don’t know anyone. The town shuts down with sunset. The main attraction in town during the day is Walmart.

I don’t know anyone and I don’t have to talk to anyone.

This is becoming more and more preferable.

I was talking to someone the other day and I realized after a short amount of time, I wasn’t making sense. It’s like I’ve almost become this feral being that doesn’t know how to talk anymore.

I do go to the gym. I take a class where I disappear into my head and violently beat the hell out of my husband, the other woman, my mother, the douchbag in the red Honda that tried to cut me off… but I’m in my head.

After class there’s a group that will linger and talk and I enjoy listening. Sometimes I talk too, but it feels like I don’t make any sense.

I go back home and that’s it. That’s kinda it for my interactions.

At home I’m reading, I’m scrolling TikTok and twitter. Im cleaning and I’m doing all the mindless things possible to not think.

I also wander. I put on hiking boots and go get lost in the woods.

I do find myself thrifting a lot. I’ve moved into my office and Im thrilled to be decorating the room in thrift store finds and plants and things that make me smile.

But that doesn’t require speaking to anyone either.

I smile when I walk into that room. I find the silly things I’ve put in there make me smile and the space really represents me.

Whoever that may be.

I haven’t had a room or space of my own since I was 18. It’s been fun. Nothing matches or makes any sense and I love it.

But on the other side of that? I’m on constant high alert fight or flight at all times. My heart races and anxiety attacks come out of left field. They have become debilitating and I don’t know what to do.

Especially when he’s around.

When I think of him being around. When I look at him. When I hear his truck pull into the driveway. There goes the heart rate.

I’m cordial. I’m still people pleasing and not rocking any boats. But I’m not OK.

I wonder if I’m lonely. Am I depressed? I don’t think so. But I wonder if the mindless things I do are some type of survival mode.

I think about that house in Kentucky a lot. I have already dreamed of the clean up, and what thrift stores and antique places I can explore. What would I do there? What could I do?

Just me and my bird and a cat or two. A dog… oh I want a dog again. I miss my best friend every day.

Maybe I don’t stay long. The thought of being that far away from my kids doesn’t sit well with me, but maybe I just need to go for a little while.

A little while.

Maybe if I take some time and attempt to get out of this insane fight or flight, maybe I can think straight. Or even maybe attempt interacting with people.

Maybe I just don’t know what I want. Maybe I think too much.

I need peace. I have no idea what that feels like anymore.

Breathe… just breathe. Settlement happens soon and I’ll figure it out.

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Well well.

The past few days have been quiet. I have gone silent and I need to just think.

I over think everything anyway, but I just need my head to quiet.

He hasn’t spoken to me either. Not really.

We did go to a local festival yesterday, but I knew I wouldn’t see him once we arrived and our son has looked forward to attending it for for the first time, so we went.

I sat with friends, my son found a group and split off and H hung out with the bands that would play.

It was nice.

But it was different. Im so done that I think even friends picked up on it.

I said almost zero words. I just feel as though there’s nothing else to say until we can sit down and talk like adults. I don’t see that happening though.

Now that my oldest has moved out, I have taken his room as an office. However, over time, it’s also turned into a catch all room.

So I have been moving things out and around. I had a big chair in there for reading, I moved it out.

I bought a bed frame and will get that together tomorrow along with buying a mattress.

I know he saw the big reading chair of mine in the barn.

He knows. He knows something is different.

He’s tried to talk to me today here and there and my answers are short and empty.

I’m just done.

I don’t know how to do this under the same roof, but I need to breathe, overthink and just get a moment to myself.

I’m moving into that room. I’m pushing my daughter hard to get her license. She’s the reason I’m a bit stuck right now. That’s another story in itself.

So tonight, he goes into town to pick her up from a friends house. I get a text.

It’s a link to a song.

I don’t even want to hear it. But I follow the link

“The King”

Although I may have faltered 
I’m just a man 
For I’ve been broken 
Time and time again 
But in your moments of doubt 
When there’s nowhere left to run 
Within these tears of darkness 
I would steal the light from the sun 

I may not be a king 
But I’ll carry you through it all 
Your shelter from the storm 
To catch you when you fall 
I may not be a king 
But I’ll give you my world 
All and everything 

Enslaved and condemned 
By the fears that hold your hand 
Abandoned and betrayed 
Time and time again 
But in your moments of doubt 
So empty and afraid 
When it all falls to pieces 
I will not walk away 

I may not be a king 
But I’ll carry you through it all 
Your shelter from the storm 
Catch you when you fall 
I may not be a king 
But I’ll give you my world 
All and everything 

For I may not be a king 
But I’ll carry you through it all 
Your shelter from the storm 
Catch you when you fall 
I may not be the king 
But I’ll give you my world 
All and everything

It’s interesting. It pulled at me for a second. I can’t help but feel sad though.

It’s too late.

It’s just too late.

He watched me break for years since dday. He watched me cry. I’m such a simple soul, all I ever needed was just a bit of reassurance.

This and this song he sent is the first time since dday he’s done anything like this.

It’s too late.

But it’s also what I feared. If he felt the tides turning, would he then put in effort? What would I do then?

I will remember that he watched me cry and didn’t care. Remember that he blamed me, that everything he chose to do with her was my fault. That not once in all these years has he told me the truth or even that he was sorry.

I need to remember all that I have not written about.

I need to remember that he watched me cry.

This song may not seem like much, but I fear it. I fear it.

I need to hang on to something tight because he’s going to try.

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Well, I’m Crazy!

I’m cleaning and just minding my business and I get hit out of no where with something stupid. A stupid stupid thought that knocked the wind out of me for a second and caused an instant anxiety reaction.

My husband installed hardwood floors for the whore and her husband. Sometime in 2014. He won’t tell me when and I can’t quite remember. His clients run together in my head.

In January of 2015, her husband died.

My husband went to his funeral. I was under the impression at the time that my H knew him, that he was his client.

But it wasn’t. She was the client. He didn’t even know her husband.

So I’m cleaning and this hits me.

He went to her husbands funeral.

Did he know him? Now, I don’t think so. He was 25 years older than her. She is the same age as we are. He wouldn’t have run in the same circles as we did. As she did.

So I sit with it. I do nothing. I sit with it and try to breathe. Try to understand.

Because he did not go to my fathers funeral with me. The service was at 1:00 that day, my husband and said he wasn’t going and left at noon.

Like the good girl, I worried more about him that day and didn’t try to understand why he wasn’t staying to be with me.

But I needed him. I really really needed him. I had my sister there, but we don’t have a relationship. I really needed him.

It didn’t hit till much later that it was kind of fucked up that he didn’t go. That he went with how he felt about my dad and what he did, then to stand with me and be there.

I buried my grandparents and my father. He wasn’t at any of them.


This was Saturday. So I held my tongue and didn’t say anything.

But today I had it.

Me: How did you know her husband?

Him: (rolls his eyes) What do you mean.

Me: I repeat. He shrugs.

Me: Did you know him only through her?

Him: yes.

Me: You went to his funeral. Why? You didn’t know him.

Him: To support her.

Me: She wasn’t a client anymore. The floors were long over by that time. Why?

Him: I thought it would be nice.

He wanted to be nice.

Me: You did not go to my fathers funeral. You did not support me.

Him: Your sister was there.

Me: And her entire family was there for her and HIS entire family was there. His children, his grandchildren. She was not alone.

She had support.

You did not support me.

I barely know my sister.

He didn’t say anything. He couldn’t. What could he say? I had a minor meltdown and crying and I just couldn’t even understand.

Not once. Not once in all these years has he even looked sorry.

So then I got nasty. Im so angry at this point that I got nasty.

“Did you tell her her husband is in hell like you told me my dad was?”

He looked at me.

“You know, because he was having sex with her while she was still married to her second husband, so I’m pretty sure that’s a sin, yes?”

That was nasty. But I’m still pissed he said that to me.

I’m crazy, I guess. Because he went to support her, but didn’t for me. He was kind to her, hugs, checked up on her.

Why do I even fucking care?

It doesn’t matter. I guess it all just doesn’t matter.

It doesn’t matter. I’m losing it over something that in the end doesn’t really matter.

But I’m still sad. My chest still feels heavy and it’s a little hard to breathe as I picture him hugging her. Checking on her afterwards.

It’s that level of respect and caring for this woman that I have never gotten.

I’m a fucking idiot. I’m an absolute idiot.

He’s an asshole.

I feel like I’m searching for justifications to walk out the door. Like him cheating isn’t justifiable in itself.

I’m thinking of just going and seeing her. Just show up at her job, like he did, and ask her to join me for a talk and a coffee.

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No note.

Dad talk again. I need to write this out of my head. I don’t think I’m going to make much sense, as I feel like I’m bouncing between the suicide and the affair.

Graphic talk and here’s your trigger warning.

It took me a while. Months actually. But I found out in February by going through his phone that he had gone to the ER 4 days before he ended his life.

I called, back in February, but the hospital wouldn’t release his records unless I was executor of the state. Which I became in May.

But I didn’t call back for the records. Not until last week.

I was in Kentucky a few weeks ago. I stood in the house just trying to take it in. I was convinced he shot himself in the foot and I was convinced it was an accident.

I had convinced myself he may have been embarrassed, mortified, scared.

I stood in his room that day. It was quiet, I looked around and tried to put together all that I thought happened. There was so much blood tracked everywhere when we first came in.

Not a trace now.

But I stood there, trying to remember the state of that room, the confusion at what I was seeing. Calling the coroner that day and asking what I was looking at.

“It seemed to be a wound on his foot he was taking care of”

I never asked what the wound was. I never requested a coroner report either.

I may still do that.

I just created what I thought happened in my mind. I would’ve gambled all I owned on what I created. That he shot himself in the foot.

He carried. In Kentucky, you can carry and he did.

I have been shooting since I was 8. I went to classes and learned from the best, but my Dad? No.

Lord he made me crazy with how he handled a gun. He absolutely never should have ever been carrying. I knew, pretty much since I was 8, that he was going to have an accident one day.

He was even in the Army!! Did they not teach how to handle them?

Anyway, so I created what I thought went down.

I took in the room, the surroundings, I remembered the footprints, the kicked off shoes, the amount of blood in that room was hard to take in. Because that’s not where he took his life.

I walked to his nightstand and opened the drawer. He would’ve done the same that day. There he would’ve gotten his gun. There were bullets scattered everywhere. Like he was fumbling and dropping them.

There were still some in the drawer. I gathered them and put them on the bed, I’ll come back for them.

I moved through the room, went through the kitchen. The dining room. The living room. I look at the spot he decided on.

The flooring is ripped up in the bedroom and in the living room now, but my mind still sees the then.

I think my mind will always see.

There were things my eyes saw that day a year ago, that my mind could not accept. It’s like my brain split in two and I knew what I saw but I denied it. I went into this weird hysterical denial, all while the other side argued heavily that there was no denial.

I stood there looking. I looked to where his feet were and remember the clean up there too. Whatever that wound was, on his foot, made no sense to me other than it had to be a gunshot wound.

So, that’s what I did. I created the entire thing. That’s what had to have happened.

Why do I need to know? I don’t know. Maybe because there was no note. Maybe because the unbelievable weight of guilt I carry, beating myself up constantly that I was not a good daughter, that I should’ve been there, that I should’ve done more for him… maybe the anger I feel at him is killing me, maybe my heart just needs an answer. A reason. A theory. I don’t know.

Does anyone who is on this side of a suicide ever get what they need to heal? I don’t know.

But it’s like my mind needs to piece it all together. So why did I wait so long to call and get his records?

Everything in me knew, just knew, that his decision to end his life was a result of whatever he went to the ER for.

I knew.

But yet I stood strong in what I thought happened and stuck my head in the sand and fingers in my ears and didn’t want to know anything else.

Until last week.

So I got home from Kentucky and still replayed it all in my head. Over and over. I was watching TV and just picked up the remote, turned it off and called the hospital.

Within a few hours I had the report.

8 page report.

He did not shoot himself in the foot.

He fell.

In the shower.

He fell in the shower and somehow almost ripped his big toe off.

It was described in detail. Bone showing.

They stitched him up and told him he needed to see an orthopedic the next day. He said he would. They told him the chance of amputation was high.

I have his movements that week. He did not go to a doctor on Wednesday. He did not go on Thursday or Friday.

But he did go to the grocery store, the bank, and gas station on Saturday. He was moving around.

Here’s where I create the rest…

I think he broke open the stitches or something on that outing. Because he hit the retaining wall, and garage door pulling back in. That whole scene felt panicked. I could tell the hit was new, fresh. It wasn’t old.

He made it in to the house, I can’t even imagine the pain he was in.

I think he made the choice then. I can see that’s the day he downloaded a phone cleaner and wiped his phone. He stacked the bills on the coffee table for me.

I think he was done. I think the shutdowns from the virus, the isolation he was in, me being so far away and I think he was in pain and was done. I think he saw no future past the pain he was in and was done.

So I created the end, it matches what I saw, it finally feels right.

Doesn’t change the roller coaster of emotions I still go through, and the nightmares, but in a weird way, the hospital report somewhat gave me the note.

I wanted a note. I wanted something, just something that may give a reason.

It seems to have lifted a bit of the weight.

It’s no longer made up in my head, it’s truth. It’s a reality I can look at and understand.

There is healing in truth.

So that brings me to part two of this blog. I guess.

I saw this and it ripped through my body. It literally ripped through me. I couldn’t breathe for a second and I had to slow my heart rate down after.

There is so much truth to this. But her scream? Her cry?

That was me. Twice in my life have I dropped to my knees. Twice has a sound like that escaped me.

Twice have I laid there and not known how to even stand up again.

When I got the call that my dad had committed suicide.

When I watched my husband walk out the door with a laundry basket of clothes days before Christmas.


The two are not the same. I’m sure I’m not supposed to compare. I’m sure there are rules or something.

But both hit me like that. Both forever changed me and both are choices made by others that I have to figure out how to heal from.

The night I got the report and the next few days after, I felt myself processing it all. I went through all the emotions of that, I probably will for the rest of my life, but I could feel through that processing that I began this feeling of understanding and almost forgiveness. The understanding came with its own emotions… sadness, anger… but also acceptance.

My mind was no longer working overtime creating what I thought was truth. My brain actually fell silent and left me feeling calmer. It didn’t have to work to figure anything out.

I looked at my husband and told him this. He knew how I was obsessing over what I thought happened. He watched me struggle for a year trying to figure it out, piece it together.

I looked at my husband and I told him this.

He looked at me and I looked back. We just stared.

I said it again. He didn’t look away.

“There is healing in truth.”

I saw a flash of sadness sweep across his eyes. He looked away first.

He knows. He knows. He doesn’t agree with what I needed to heal, he thinks sweeping it under the rug and never speaking of it again is the road to take.

He knows what I’ve needed from day one, but he will never hand it over.

Truth. Hand me the truth and let me process and heal as I can. Together or not? I still feel like I’ll need it.

I have created their entire affair in my head. I’ve convinced myself all that created and imagined was true.

Imagine where I could be now if I had the truth then.

There are some days I hate them both.

I got no note from my dad and no reason from my husband.

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Paula, your blog has me thinking. 🙂

About a month ago, my H went to a musicians only gathering.

I was very glad he was going. I didn’t question, I didn’t worry, I actually didn’t care, to be perfectly honest.

I even had to pick up our daughter that night and had to pass by the venue he was at and didn’t even glance over at it as I passed by.

But I did look on Facebook if there were any posts about it.

There was nothing. I went to his page and looked to see if he was tagged. Nothing.

Ok. Not a big deal, but I was genuinely interested to see him on that particular stage and with different people.

We are coming up on 32 years. He has always been in a band. It’s how I met him. I have literally spent 32 years in bars, big venues, little venues, parking lots… clapping and cheering and dancing and being there.

The baby years had me at home though, but he still did his thing. Strangely though, during the baby ages of our kids, he found himself on stage with big names. Big.

Shaking hands with even bigger. Hanging out on tour buses, eating dinner with them, drinking with them, stories are still being told from those years.

I never ever was the kind of wife that worried. He would come home with the stories and I would be wide eyed star struck as I listened.

Anyway, I wandered a bit, so after that night, I find out he was on stage with some girl.

He didn’t tell me. I asked and he straight up lied about much of that night.

He WAS tagged that night, but he has his settings set so that he has to approve it to go to his wall. So I couldn’t see it. He didn’t approve the tag. Why?

But I knew who was putting this together, so I went to his page, saw the video and saw my H was tagged.

Why are you hiding it? He said, “Because I wasn’t sure how you were going to react.”

His lies made the reaction much worse.

So I found myself digging. Going to all the pages and people that were tagged from that night. Digging. More digging.

I stalked the girl he was on stage with. I was going crazy.

And then I stopped. I just stopped. I can’t do this anymore. I blocked my H, I blocked the venue, I blocked everyone there.

I went and blocked him from all of my social media. Not that I’m hiding anything, I just post my animals and weird things I find in the woods.

But I found I was questioning every thing he does and side eyeing every female that interacts with him. In the end, I can no longer do that. It’s not worth it.

It feels much better not having him around the social media. It’s been a very freeing month.

It’s all fake anyway. Im even fake on there. I hold back and I wear a mask there too.

My son just went on a cruise with his girlfriends family. He reported back to me it was screaming, fighting, tears, drama filled and ridiculous.

But her mom posted all these sweet things and how much fun they had and perfect every minute was.

Fake. It’s all fake.

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When you do something that goes against your lifelong people pleasing nature that in the end benefits you, is it selfish? Or survival? What is it?

It’s super uncomfortable, that’s for sure. Foreign feeling.

I wrote recently about chess. Im playing multiple games right now, I’m playing offensively…and I’m holding strong on the moves, but oh, it’s scary.

I know Im going to lose pieces along the way. A rook. A bishop.

The queen.

But the game is slowly moving along.


On another note, I called my step-dad yesterday to tell him I’m swinging in for a minute as I pass through his town.

Im going to need a minute, a cup of coffee and a snuggle with his dog. A huge German shepherd that gives the best hugs and lets me sit in his spot on the couch.

Step-dad, R, has been involved with chess game #1 from the start. He knows. He knows me and he knows the players, so he’s been my sounding board and gives advice.

He also knows my mom, obviously, and knows about my dad and also about DNA dad. He’s been a bit shook for me since May. He’s been angry for me.

While we talked on the phone, he said, “If you’ll have me, I want to adopt you.”

Oh, he will never know how much that meant. I got all these dads, haha, and he’s been the only constant all of these years.

I immediately started crying. He does not have to do that, but even saying those words meant more to me than I even realized.

This man that did not have to accept me when I was 8, but he did. He just did. As years went by, I never let him go. He didn’t let me go either.

He was at my wedding, he’s held my babies, he calls himself their pop-pop. I called his dad the same. I loved his mom and dad. His mom taught me how to cook, clean. I have an insane love of cooking with cast iron, I learned from her.

I live 5 minutes from his brother, I see him often. His family has been mine since I was 8. Not only did he accept me from the start but so did the rest of them. His sister calls herself my aunt. They’re just a big giant mess of awesome and I’ve always loved them all.

But him saying that? It just broke me.

I think as humans, we just want to be wanted? I don’t think I’ve ever felt like someone wanted me until he said those words.

When I went into the foster system and sitting in court, I knew at that time that my mother, my father and my grandparents were all served with paperwork about that date and that time.

I still have those papers.

Basically, it says “If you want this child, show up. If not, she goes to the foster family.”

I remember that day, staring at the doors. These big fake wood double doors. I wanted so bad for one of them to walk through.

Please don’t let me go live with these strangers. Please walk through that door.

They didn’t. Those doors didn’t open.

So who knew 36 years later the one who does open the door and walks through would be R?

It feels right.

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I love to play chess, but I really suck at it.

I learned the game when I was eight. How each piece moves on the board.

Since the day I learned, to this day, I am not good and can count on one hand how many times I have won.

I realized I play defensively. Always. Well, I don’t know if I actually ever realized it, but it was pointed out to me.

Instead of the attack, I move to surround and protect my King AND Queen.

The most powerful piece on the board and I surround her with pawns and rooks and knights and bishops to protect her and her silly one-square-move-only partner.

I’ve never brought her out and used her in all her glory as being able to do whatever and move wherever she wants on that board.

In no time at all, my defenses get taken down and I’m left open. My king moving one square at a time until it becomes a stalemate or checkmate.

It was pointed out to me after a game, this sad way I play.

It was my Dad. He and I would play every time I went for a visit.

When I was a teenager and would spend a couple of weeks with him over the summer, we played every night. My mom taught me to play, but my dad became my chess player partner.

He always won. After a long game one night, I just shrugged and said, “I love this game but I can’t seem to figure out how to strategize and pull off a win.”

He always had a glass of Makers Mark nearby, I can still hear the ice clinking against it. I can still smell it.

He picked up his glass and took a drink. He looked like he was considering what words to say to me and then pointed at me with his glass.

I can still hear the ice clinking against the glass as he said, “You play defensively. You can’t win a war hiding behind walls, the walls will always be torn down and then there you are, exposed and not able to move.”

I’ve been thinking about chess lately. 

I’ve been thinking about him.

When I went through the house after he died, I opened up a cabinet in the kitchen. I stared at its contents and in my anger towards him, I yelled, cried out and slammed the cabinet door closed that held the whiskey glasses and a half empty bottle of Makers Mark.

But I’ve been thinking about chess lately.

I have lived my whole life like I play chess. I feel an attack coming so I throw up defenses. The walls always come down. I always lose.

But I’m realizing that lately I’m making silent moves, putting things in place. I feel each move is an offensive move, something I don’t think I’ve ever done. It feels foreign.

It feels good.

When I go back, I think I may open up that cabinet and have myself a glass of Makers Mark and honor my Dad a little. A toast to him.

Let’s see how the game plays out this time.

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Breathing and forgiving?

Ahhh, I can breathe a little.

I just hired a property manager for the Kentucky house. He’s going to assess the tree fall damage and hire someone to cut up and remove the downed tree and haul it away.

I can breathe a little now.

It will be looked after now while I’m away. I still need to go though, some paperwork needs to be done at the courthouse, but I can maybe push this back.

Dates get me. Im coming up on the one year mark with my Dad and his choice he made. I don’t want to be there during that date. It’s probably dumb, but I just don’t want to.


I have issues with the word “forgiveness”. I feel like it’s pushed. Like, if you can’t forgive people that you’re just a horrible person.

People always say, “It’s for you and your peace, not really for them.”

I’ve never understood it. Maybe because in my life, I have not wanted to forgive.

Why do I have forgive someone for something they did?

I don’t want to forgive my mother for being a horrible abusive alcoholic hot mess.

I don’t want to forgive my husband for lying to my face for 8 months and the subsequent six years since. For jumping from my bed to hers. For blaming me for his choices.

I just don’t. I think it’s OK for my soul to just not.

But something is slowly happening to me dealing with my Dads choice. I’m almost to a point that I may forgive him. The anger is subsiding. The sadness is rolling in. Dare I say it..But understanding is also flickering at the edges of this sadness.

Under the sad, the guilt, the confusion and anger… I’m forming this unfamiliar feeling of forgiveness. I’m sad he was alone.

He was not a good father, but he was what I had, what I took care of and I do miss him.

So I’m letting that guy take care of the house for a bit. Maybe I’ll head down, maybe I’ll wait.

There’s a song that keeps playing when I get into my dads car. It’s crazy. I call it the haunted Buick. I let the song play. I sing with it. I cry everytime.

When you hurt under the surface
Like troubled water running cold
Well, time can heal, but this won’t
So, before you go
Was there something I could’ve said
To make your heart beat better?
If only I’d have known you had a storm to weather
So, before you go
Was there something I could’ve said
To make it all stop hurting?
It kills me how your mind can make you feel so worthless
So, before you go

Before you go

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I wonder…

There are some days that I simply cannot take much more. I truly wonder how much more I can take.

Or, I tell myself that, but yet I do. I take it, I don’t crumble under it and just keep going.

We had a storm hit that was insanely scary and left us without power, in JULY ( 🥵) for 6 whole months!

Ok, it was 5 days, but you can’t convince me it wasn’t 6 months.

But not only did my house here on the East Coast get hit, but my newly appointed to me Kentucky house also got hit and damaged on the same day.

The insanity of that had me going crazy. Turns out, I can handle it. Good neighbors there have me informed here and I can take care of most of that from here.

But I’m heading there next week.

I bought a travel cage for my parrot and he’s going with me. I’m weirdly excited about it.

That house has no air conditioning, we blew it up during the clean up of the house after my dad died. I wasn’t thinking, it was 100° in Kentucky at the time, but I really wasn’t thinking at all. I opened every window in the house and never turned off the air.

It died.

So I’ve got to figure that part out when I get there because no… no can do with hot Kentucky heat in July.

My husband? Throwing a bit of a fit. He does NOT want me to go and does not want me to take my bird.

He knows. I think he knows. He knows if I go with my bird that I may not come back.

On another note, I decided to look into my dna dad for a half a minute. Just searching his name, a marriage record popped up. It looks like he got married a little bit over a year when I was conceived.

I’m an affair baby.

I’m a freaking affair baby.

I want so bad to ask my mom what went down. But I’m not quite ready to make that call and Im still sitting with it for a bit.

But I can almost put it together. Almost.

She was 19. Barely turned 19 when I was conceived. Who knows what she was doing. But I was always told I was the result of a rape. That my dad invited her to dinner and then did whatever he did.

She told this to anyone who would listen. She even told my grandmother, his mom.

She told everyone. I didn’t even know what the word was when I was told, that’s how young I was.

It made sense to me though as I grew up, because that woman hated me. Hated me, so it made sense.

Now this.

So the story forming in my head tells me she was sleeping with ‘ole married Kenny as a side chick, maybe decided to go to dinner with my dad, that situation that night happened, and she has no idea who the father is.

My mother and my foster mother were somewhat friends at one point.

This is why all of this happened, because she told foster mom “I’m not sure of timing, because I don’t think T is Chris’s dad.”

Foster mom told my grandparents, T’s parents, my dads parents, when they were on a visit in ’85.

Grandparents told my dad in a letter what my mom told foster mom.

Grandparents pass. Dad passes. I find letter.

Dad is not dad. Married Kenny is.

So now I’m like, what kind of karma am I in this world that affair shit just keeps happening?

Dumb, I know, it’s just my head attempting to wrap around it all.

And to top off all that going on in my head, my husband decided to spend 6 hours on stage with a female singer.

He didn’t tell me.

He went to this private invite only party of musicians. He was there for 6 hours. I asked him the next day how it was. He said incredible and had a ball.

I asked if there were females there. He said, “One. She took the stage for one song and everyone made a huge deal about her. Seems she’s the managers (he set this up, this collaboration of musicians get together) next big thing.”

I said, “Oh, that sounds cool.”

But he was nervous telling me this.

Later that next night, a video gets posted on FB from the party. She was on stage for the entirety of the party and you should see my husband on stage with her.


She’s about 25, if that. Gorgeous, blond, tiny, voice like an angel.

He is practically humping her leg in the video. He’s playing, but he can’t stop moving toward her and he cant stop looking at her.

Hell, I couldn’t stop looking at her in the video. She’s that beautiful and her voice is incredible.

So yeah, he doesn’t think he lied to me and tells me I’m a “crazy bitch and trying to change him and nothing will ever be good enough for me.”

That’s a man right there.

He will never change, ever.

But he IS trying to change himself for himself. Since the week that he took the stage with her, he’s trying to lose weight and dusted off his acoustic guitar and has been playing that. Years… it’s been years since he played it.

That’s what she plays. 🙄.

He’s so dumb.

So I have no problem taking my bird, and possibly cats, to Kentucky next week.

Annndd another note, but positive:

New brother is awesome. He older. He’s nice. He sends me things from California and I send him weird stuff from here. He seems genuinely interested in my life and I do find myself holding back a bit, but I find myself thinking of him all the time.

There is no going back, I know. There was no way we could have grown up together, but now we have this.

This time in this stage of our lives and I find it interesting.

I may go to California one of these days.

Oh, I also applied for my passport.

The world just opened up a little.

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