• i should have told somebody

    **Trigger Warning:** This post contains sensitive material regarding domestic abuse, psychological torture, and suicidal ideation.

    What follows is a sample of the types of writing you can find at my blog, as well as my Substack.

    ________

    When I was 15, I didn’t think much about giving the boy sitting behind me in the lunch room my phone number.

    I mean, I was elated that he asked for it. But I didn’t think about the implications.

    He called me that afternoon, and we chatted for about 45 minutes.

    And he told me about his life, and his mom, and his plans for graduation— he was going to art school, thinking about a school in California or Florida.

    And when he asked me if I’d like to see a movie, I didn’t think much about it either. I was excited that a boy was asking me to go out with him for the first time ever.

    My friends were sort of conspiring to push us together. I knew it, too.

    He bought two tickets for ”Legends of the Fall” because he was 17. But I was 15, and the girlfriend going with us and his friend was 14, and we couldn’t buy the R-rated tickets. So even though he’d already bought two tickets, he turned around and bought another for himself to match the one I had for “Dumb and Dumber.” I found out about the other tickets later.

    He didn’t talk much, but when he did I adored the soft depth of his voice.

    But then, that soft, deep voice started telling me his dark secrets.

    And, for years upon years, I kept those dark secrets.

    He didn’t go to art school when he graduated. He waited for me to graduate, two years later. He went to art school, I went to GSU.

    He went to art school for a quarter, I should say.

    He hadn’t consulted me as to whether he should wait for me, for us to go to school together.

    So when I met someone else the night before classes started, and decided about a week later I wanted to go out with that person, I broke up with the first boy I’d kissed.

    I broke his heart.

    I can still see him standing outside the gate to my dorm complex, from the view from my floor.

    But maybe I should have told his dark secrets to somebody when I was 15.

    Because that boy could have had a free ride due to his mother’s employment, to a prestigious private university.

    But that boy was depressed and didn’t understand the value of a liberal arts education. He only saw the pressure: that his mom wanted him to go to that prestigious private university so that he could become a rich doctor, so he could support her.

    And maybe I should have told somebody that the stories that boy told me scared me.

    That it scared me when he told me about carving words in his chest.

    That it scared me when he told me about holding his mother’s gun in his mouth. That it petrified me when he told me the only reason he didn’t pull the trigger was that he couldn’t stand the idea of me standing over his coffin, crying.

    Maybe, if I’d told somebody, anybody, about some of that when I was 17, I wouldn’t have felt trapped when I was living with that boy when I was a 21-year old college student.

    Maybe I could have prevented him assaulting another boy, threatening him with a knife.

    Maybe I could have prevented the sneer in the police officer’s expression when he checked on me that night, telling that boy that no judge would take my word over his if the other boy decided to press charges.

    Maybe, just maybe, I could have prevented the psychological torture I went through myself when that boy figured out I was planning to leave.

    Because when I really started getting serious about leaving, that boy trapped me in the dark. He knew I was afraid of the dark. He inverted the locks to a section of our apartment, tripped the breaker. One night after I arrived home, finding the apartment dark, I found myself trapped in the locked portion of that apartment.

    I can still hear the sound of the door slamming behind me.

    I was pretty sure I was going to die that night.

    And I managed to save my own life by telling that boy I would stay. I knew there was no point in telling the police what had happened; it had been made clear the week before that I was trash for the boy to do with as he would.

    But the next day, I called my parents, telling them I needed rent money.

    __________

    This story is one piece of a much longer journey. If you’re ready to read more about the truth behind these moments and what I’ve learned about being a survivor, you can find the rest of the story at my Substack.

    Follow my journey at Tickle the Sun— https://www.ticklethesun.com.

  • the turnaround

    Last December, I had a series of experiences that shook my world.  

    While the details are juicy, what happened doesn’t matter much anymore.  

    I came away from that time in December confused. And hurt. And angry  

    And maybe as I continue to write I will better be able to articulate why I was hurt and angry.  

    Suffice it to say, I found out in December that someone a very long time ago, decades ago, chose greed over spending a lifetime with me.  

    I got confirmation that a mindset shift I’d had with regard to that person in 2010 was accurate.  

    And, in the aftermath of December, I experienced heartbreak all over again.  

    I remembered that prior to marriage and creating a family with my husband, I had thrived on participating in interpersonal romantic drama.  

    I remembered that while I have been a victim of trauma, I am a survivor.  

    And, for six months, I mourned.  

    I mourned for the version of my self that was too trusting in December.  

    I mourned for the version of myself that was too trusting over two and a half decades ago.  

    I got angry at my whole world– for some reasons justified.  

    I have spent the last three months in the aftermath of my hysterectomy trying to pick up the pieces of myself and my world.  

    I’ve faltered. I’ve fallen back into old patterns of doubting myself.  

    And, I’ve felt sorry for myself an awful lot.  

    I’ve learned some things about myself though:  

    One of my best friends called me the most industrious person she knows not long ago.  

    She’s right; I am industrious.  

    I’m a survivor.  

    I’m a talented writer and photographer, if I do say so myself.  

    I have few friends, but I am a good friend.  

    Jared says I can be funny.  

    I have a near-indestructible marriage.  

    I’m a good wife. I’m a good mom.  

    There are still things to work on.  

    Finding contentment where and as I am is a challenge. Probably the biggest challenge of my life.  

    I am up to the task.

    I’ve only just begun to pick up the pieces, and I’ll be sharing the complete story of this journey in my Substack newsletter, “Tickle the Sun.”

    My public posts will continue to be about the messy reality of my life, but in my paid Substack, I’ll be sharing the journal entries, the full stories, and the hard-won truths that come with living in the light.

    You can join my free list for updates, or you can become a paid subscriber to get the gritty, behind-the-scenes stories I am ready to share now.

  • and life goes on

    The Marina a little after 8 AM this morning

    I’m actually not sure how depressed I actually am, versus exactly how much I was really just dreading the first day of school.

    The first day of school is today.

    And Liam and Jared got off in time for Liam to be at school for Senior Sunrise. Oliver and I spent about 30 minutes in traffic because for some reason, the first week of school requires people to not drive like they normally would. And for some reason, all those parents who normally do not drive their kids to school, whose children usually ride the bus, have to bring their precious darlings for the first week or so. Or people forget how the crossing guards who direct traffic really do know what they are doing. It’s a thing for sure, the first week of school.

    But, I managed to get them off to school. I managed to get to the Marina for a shortly-after-sunrise photo, which was a regular thing last Spring. I managed to come home and make my coffee. I managed to scoop the cat litter. I managed to get every bit of trash in this house taken out to the dumpster and the dumpster was taken to the street. I’m making my breakfast. I did my meditation. I allowed myself my normal doomscrolling.

    It’s time for a new routine.

    And just for today, I am going to focus on one thing at the time. After breakfast, I intend to do my yoga. I might allow myself a mid-morning nap.

    Food routines have been hard too, and that has also meant there have been entirely too many sweets etc. But this morning I let myself have a piece of my brie before taking Oliver to school. I had my protein bar when I got back. Now that I am having my coffee, water is boiling because I am hungry enough for a real meal so I am fixing myself some Banza pasta with goat cheese and garlic and sunflower seeds.

    And, all that means that I will probably end up being back to somewhat of my intermittent fasting, with eating finishing up around 3 PM. Which is a good goal.

    I feel like I am getting back into a writing routine, which is welcome. It’s strange to think that I was so frozen for so long. I’m still writing about superficial stuff which is okay– the other will come I am sure. But for now, this is enough.

    And it’s a pretty darn good feeling to feel better about the world this morning.

  • depressed

    Jared and Oliver at the Marina earlier tonight. Schneide-Kreuznach Cinelux-Ultra 85mm f2 on GFX 50sII

    I’m not sorry I sold the second GFX body.

    I’m not sorry I sold 4 of my GFX lenses.

    I’m not sorry I quit the part-time job I’d gotten in July.

    I’m thrilled that Porter is off at UGA and has a beautiful brand new apartment in a brand new apartment building.

    I’m thrilled that Liam has a vibrant social life, and that Oliver is running cross country.

    I’m not even all that sad that school starts tomorrow.

    And yet, I sit here, depressed.

    I tried today. But we were up late last night, so I knew I wasn’t making it to church. When I did wake up to get up close to 11 am today, I really thought I would be able to do the cleaning I want to do today.

    But my body feels so heavy.

    So, when Jared got home from church, it was Jared that did laundry. It was Jared who did dishes. It is Jared who is getting the boys ready for the first day of school tomorrow.

    It was Jared who managed to get me and Oliver out of the house and down to the Marina earlier this late afternoon.

    I have managed to feed myself today and take the photo above and that is about it.

    I guess I am just struggling with where I fit into the world anymore.

    We got Porter moved in on Friday and were back in time to go to the football game Friday night.

    I didn’t feel much like being social. I should have known then where things were headed.

    Poor Abby has to deal with me shutting her out when I am like this too, when all she wants to do is be my therapy dog.

    It’s 8:09 PM, so I will go to bed soon. I will sleep through the night so I can be up tomorrow morning to get Liam and Oliver to school since it will be raining and Jared won’t be able to ride his scooter.

    And I will do what I can to stay out of the bed tomorrow.