Untitled: Because no word could express what’s happened…but I’m gonna try anyways.
September 22, 2015I started this blog nearly 4 years ago. If you’ve been following along all this time, I hope I’ve at least entertained you. At most, well, it is my sincerest hope that somewhere along the way something in sharing my life’s experiences with you facilitated you connecting with your soul. And if not, it’s cool. I don’t blame you. After going back and reading some of the stuff I wrote after drinking copious amounts of wine…well, let’s just say I’m very glad most of us evolve throughout the years.
I poured my heart into this blog. I also dumped my anger, sadness, jadedness, hopes, opinions, beliefs and just about everything else into it as well and it is so timely that I close this chapter of my life and say farewell to I took her advice.
Having a baby will do that. Becoming a mother forces you to say goodbye to everything you knew before and embrace the most epic, terrifying and beautiful thing that exists. Giving life.
It’s been real. And now, I have the realist gift of all. Much love.
I’m knocked up, if I’m going to get straight to the point. The circumstances surrounding how that came to pass aren’t nearly as important as what the freak is going on about 2 inches below my belly button.
Pregnancy is a bunch of different words. Words like: beautiful, sacred, magical, feminine, give me all the flowers and white flowy dresses because I am a god damn Mother Earth, goddess, baby-making machine. It looks a lot like this…
And then there are words like: emotional, crazy, horrible, why in the fuck is this happening to me, what, what the hell is that!? And can I please take the red pill instead? And that my friends looks a lot like this…
Seriously, I am not the same person. Physically, emotionally, mentally, spiritually…Mercedes went somewhere else for the next 5 months. I’m hoping that means that through all this I “find myself”…otherwise, holy shit.
Facts of pregnancy (because I know this shit now):
1. Bye sleep. As in “bye Felicia”. Yeah, that bitch is the irrelevant entity you just ain’t got time for anymore. Oh, well I’m only talking about at night, you know, when you SHOULD be sleeping. If it’s not night, then sleep will show up, un-announced, uninvited and looking to bitch slap you all the hours that have light in them. It’s really quite incredible…eye roll.
2. You will eat Chipotle and casually read the words on the take-out bag and then cry all the tears you have in your body and be so fucking filled sadness that you just can’t live anymore. Or you’ll kill a squirrel with your car, accidentally, and then proceed to have the biggest meltdown in your life. Or how about one minute you go from holding your belly and dreaming about what your kid is going to look like to full on terror because you feel like you’re the only person on the planet and how in the fuck did you get here, in this moment, what if you die during labor, what if the kid hates you, did you just ruin your life, it’s 4 am and you want hollandaise sauce and you have nothing to make the motherfucking hollandaise sauce and you have to pee, back to caressing your belly and picturing how ridiculously good looking your kid is going to be. All in like 4 seconds. Then you’ll have a panic attack because you felt something weird and then Google every version of “what the fuck was that” and then find every horrible and terrifying pregnancy gone wrong story every written. Yeah, emotions. Not so normal anymore.
3. The feeling of vomiting and lying on a cold floor to comfort your sweaty, nauseas body will become like putting on your most fluffiest robe and bunny slippers. Because for some reason, although puking your guts out 20 times in one day because you a) smelled something weird b) ate something weird c) ate anything d) drank anything e) simply existed, sends you right to crazy town, you will also feel a surge of calm and “everything is well with my womb”. Why? Because is pregnant women need fucking proof we’re pregnant, ok!?
4. Everyone will have an opinion about your body, baby, emotional state, how you should be feeling, blah blah blah. Politely smile, tell them to fuck the fuck off (in your head, of course) and walk away. At this stage, maybe for the first time ever in your life, you realize: No body else fucking matters in this. You are carrying this baby, you are the mother and you decide what, who, when, where, and why. And if anyone has a problem with that, well, I’ve included some healthy dialogue above.
5. Responsibility is no joke. And it happens before the baby arrives. From owning the fact that you are now with child due to an err in judgement down to making sure you are drinking enough water and staying stress free, baking baby will suddenly make you grow up and step up to the plate. And you’ll relish in that feeling of having a purpose.
6. The person who helped create the third entity now growing inside your uterus will become the only thing in life you’ve ever cared about critiquing the shit out of and freaking out about when he so much as breathes. Human emotional punching bag? Walking suggestion box? Just chalk it up to your projection of your own fears about parenting…and also the fact that he’s a male. I mean, obviously there’s room for improvement.
7. Cravings will make or break you. Can’t get your hands on jack in the box tacos at 1am? Get ready for 24 hours of depression. Satisfy the intense need for jalepno cheese dip with grapes? Life is amazing and you’re gonna be the best fucking mom ever! Seriously, there’s no gray area here. Either you get the food the baby wants or things get murdered. And when you don’t get it, instead of breaking the law, go journal that shit and find something else to distract yourself until you get the next craving otherwise you will break the law.
8. You form some weird bond with all pregnant women all over the world. You’re able to sniff each other out and you now care, most fervently, about how far along she is, what she’s having, how she hates every body too and it’s the most natural thing ever. Sharing intimate details with a stranger. Pregnant lady wolf pack, that shit is real.
9. You feel guilty for ever thinking or saying that you never want to have kids or that people with kids are so boring or God my friend is never around since she had a kid. Because all the shit you used to do like countless fireball shots and nights of karaoke, being spontaneous and full of energy and up for anything and everything else in between doesnt fucking matter anymore. I know it doesn’t happen at the same time for every woman, but at some point, you are at total peace with everything you ever did in your past and you just want to embrace with every fiber in you this wonderfully, terrifying, gift you’ve been given.
Stay tuned, I’ve got 24 more weeks of this craziness…
I read somewhere once that where your mind goes when it wanders is exactly where you should be. Maybe because your subconscious is the gatekeeper of all truths in your soul? I agree with that statement, well, both actually. Lately, my subconscious is whistle-blowing me like a motherfucker…
I want to confess something to you. I’ve only finished probably 10 books in my entire life…but I’ve read hundreds. I think there’s a simple answer for it. I got ADDICTED to Goose-bump books when I was younger. Like so addicted that I would stay up all hours of the night, huddled under a blanket, with a flashlight, in my room, on a school-night and I would be enthralled, scared and all sorts of wonderment filled my revved up little brain. My father couldn’t understand why I was so tired in the morning and why he literally had to throw water on me to wake me up.
I couldn’t help it. Seriously, my entire 5th and 6th grade years I spent in a world of creation. In my mind, I would live out what I was reading on the page and then if I didn’t like what I was imagining, all I would have to do is go to another page and I could re-create whatever I wanted. I got so involved in these stories that I started applying them to everyday life when I wasn’t reading. It’s like they permeated and stained my brain. And then one night I was reading a story, I thought about my sick next door neighbor being in the story and then next thing I know, there’s an ambulance outside her house and she died. Wanna know what I did? Never read a damn Goose-bump book again.
I seriously believe those books are the reason that I find it so damn difficult to finish any other book. There’s a catch though. The books I don’t like, I breeze through, get to the last page, slam it down and shout, “WTF, that was terrible!”. Why? Well, when I love a book, I can’t get enough of it, and when I know I’m getting to the end, I stop. I don’t want it to end, I just want it to keep going. Because it turns my brain on like nothing else. I feel if I don’t finish it, the thoughts will never end, and my brain will always stay in that turned on mode.
Or maybe I just like being teased and knowing that there’s something waiting in my kindle for me to nerd out over is just sweet, blissful anticipation. Who knows, I’m just fucking weird.
Currently, there are about 1,345,762 reasons to be happy at any given moment. I haven’t personally counted them, but considering there’s oodles of blades of grass out in the world, I figure the number of “all happy things” has to be a pretty big number.
But you my friend, know as well as I do, that it is IMPOSSIBLE to be happy at any given moment. I don’t think any human has ever been able to tackle that feat. But man, it’s so easy to latch on to quotes and motivational articles that spew “You have the power to be happy…RIGHT NOW!”
Of course, I do, I’m the one plastering that shit all over Facebook.
However, I don’t fucking feel like it right this second. I actually feel like throwing myself onto the ground and crying until the snot pools onto the carpet. I feel like taking a spoon and digging out this god-awful heaviness sitting in my chest cavity and flinging it against the walls while I continue to ugly cry. I feel like punching things. Many things. All the things. Why? I’m a woman, I can’t even answer that damn question. But, all I want to do is act like a child and throw a temper-tantrum. All I want to do is literally emotionally vomit this horrific feeling out.
Oooooooooh….that’s Anger? Now what the fuck am I supposed to with that?
Seriously, what do you do when you experience anger? Do you even know it’s anger that you’re feeling? Do you even know where it’s coming from? Do you sit in it and really feel it or do you dismiss it as something else and pretend it isn’t there? Do you project it onto someone else or do you internalize it and feel guilty for even feeling it. Do you act on it and punch things or do you pull up your blog and vent interwebly? Do you hear the voice of your parents telling you that it’s not O.K. to be angry and that you need to pray to God and ask for forgiveness for sinning against him? Do you actually believe that God needs to forgive you for being fucking human? Do you get scared and have an anxiety attack, do you grab a bottle of vodka and numb it or do you literally fuck your way through it and let it dissipate as you reach an orgasm. Do you throw an iron at the person you’re angry with? Do you call your best friend and ask her what she would do? Or do you do nothing? And once you realize it’s a part of your life, how do you get rid of it…or should you?
Well, if you haven’t realized it by now, I don’t know jack shit about a lot of things. Especially anger. My pre-conceived notion of expressing anger is…don’t. That pre-conceived notion was my thought process until about, oh, less than 12 hours ago. But hey, we’re all this together, so hear me out.
Repressing anything makes it grow stronger. At least that’s what some random FB photo said to me. And I saw it right after I had a rage fueled meltdown. Like YEARS worth of anger stuffing lead to it. And it seems this year in particular, that’s been my main hurdle to try and jump over without catching my foot and fucking face planting on the concrete. I have failed so many times. Is that the lesson? Fail until you don’t fail?
Nope. You go to your local thrift store, buy the cheapest, ugliest set of dishes you can find and start busting that shit up. One mustard yellow plate at a time.
I just heard you laugh. It was not aroused by me. No.
For the marrying of decibels and vibrations was brought forth by something mysterious, something foreign.
Something that I have no fucking clue how to even begin to find productivity, or passion or even the smallest amount of entertainment in…
FANTASY FOOTBALL.
But, this isn’t about your masculine affinity to a football dream world. This is about the noises you make when you do it. This is about the feeling that fills the room when you start giggling at your own wittiness and “shit talking” with the other boys.
And perhaps, I have just had an epiphany on love. The depths that it can go, where it can awaken the deepest, darkest cracks in your soul.
The insignifigant moments that bring out euphoria in a lover can stir something so utterly profound in the counterpart.
I am awake. I am fucking awake.
For the laughter of the others who filled the moments before these, rushed past my eardrums. The ones I can remember…filled me with annoyance.
I am not Shakespeare but this moment…I’ll remember it like a first kiss.
And maybe that’s the reward. Being a writer. You cannot help but surrender to moments that aren’t even yours. You cannot say no to the door that is opened in your soul when the knock punches you in the chest. You can’t help but try and find some meaning in it.
But really, fucking fantasy football?
It’s crazy how much things can change in one year. It’s also crazy how the Universe has a cunning little way of showing up when you set your intentions and launch your desires.
Before I left for Guam last year, my entire spiritual practice shifted. Well, really, I think I was actually able to open myself up and commit to some form of spiritual practice rather than walking around aimlessly saying, “It is what it is.” That has lead me to a pretty in-depth self-realization of myself and a re-programming of how I want to exist. It has also lead me to using divination as a tool for self-discovery, a way to help myself heal and a pretty magnificent source to help others as well. So much so, that I have toyed around with the idea of turning that new found passion and path into it’s own blog, saying good-bye and closing the cover on Itookheravice and saying hello to the wondrous possibilities of a spiritual-based educational blog.
I will give you a small little example of why I love using these cards as a way to tap into MY divine knowing.
As has been the norm for me as of late, I go to my cards when I’m seeking just about anything. So, when I posed the question, “Universe, what do I need to know about this new venture I have swirling around in my head. A simple yes or no would be greeeeat”, I picked up my Goddess deck, began shuffling and no sooner than speaking the last word, 5 cards flew out and landed on the floor, one flying about about 10 inches past the other 4. I knew that was my card. I also already knew what was going to be on the flip-side of that card. She always shows up when something creative is on the table, something that I KNOW I “should” be doing but am procrastinating on. She also pops up to remind me that my voice is my gift and I am here to help others find theirs. She is Sarasvati.
Hindu Goddess of the arts, Sarasvati nudges us in all areas of creative expression and helps us focus our minds on our creative endeavors and not get distracted or procrastinate. Sarasvati means “the one who gives the essence of knowledge of our own selves” and is also considered to be the “Mother of the Universe”. We are all “mothers” of our own creations and this card is soooo fitting as a reminder of that.
I was not surprised when I flipped it over and saw that familiar face staring back at me. Most times I see her and she’s saying, “Mercedes, dear, pick up your journal. Work on the book, DO. SOMETHING. Create.” And yes, I already knew the answer to my question as I asked it, but the confirmations the cards bring are undeniable and really give a feeling of magic and synchronicity. Who doesn’t like magic?!
In a way, I guess I dropped a bomb. I like to think of it more as a necessary and very rewarding shift. Don’t worry, my posts aren’t going to take on the “crazy lady with tight hair bun, really ugly shoes and chalkboard pointer thing” teacher persona. More of a “I love my teacher because she uses the F bombs and never makes me take tests!” Boom.
Stay tuned.
I remember a conversation with a friend once. One of my exes got brought up in conversation. If you’ve been following along in the blog, you’ll know this ex by the term “DB”. You know, the equivalent to the grim reaper of hearts with a stomping fetish.
“I can’t believe you broke up with him.” – Friend
Time stopped. A lump in my throat formed. All of a sudden I wanted to scream, to maybe throw my drink in my friends face. Maybe even cry an ugly cry while I did it.
Instead, a “What?” fell out of my shocked mouth.
“He was sooooooo hot.” – Friend (Another friend nodded in agreement.)
Yes, I definitely wanted to throw my drink. And kick as many shins as possible and unleash my inner rage at all the vain, superficial people I had just realized I had been calling friends.
I sarcastically laughed and sharply lasered back “After knowing what he did to me, all you have to say is you can’t believe we broke up because he was sooooo hot?!” (I will admit freely and without shame that I still harbored insane amounts of anger toward this ex. I still pretty much fantasized about lighting him on fire. Don’t worry, I’ve come to terms with MOST of it cira…now.)
Other friend in the group saw my knuckles go white, grabbed me and tried to dance with me to divert my attention. I wasn’t having it. I stepped closer and said, “Would you be OK with your daughter dating a man like that? Would you just turn a blind eye to the pain he caused her just because he was of his perfectly hairless chiseled body?”
I ruined the fun moment. I popped the bubble of superficial bullshit and the look I was getting said it all. YOU DON’T BELONG HERE.
A moment of clarity smacked me right in the kisser. The above may be a terrible example. But,it tugged at my loyalty string like a mo-fo.
(End Scene)
I had a suuuuuuper bad day this week. Loyalty came to the forefront. Which sparked a Facebook rant. I came to the conclusion and commentary fueled idea: We don’t date douches, at least most of us try to avoid it at all costs, why would we be friends with them?
OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO. K.
How can you determine if something/someone is WRONG/TOXIC/EXPIRED for you if you don’t put yourself in the pile of flaming shit? You can’t. It’s impossible.
“Yeah-Huh, Mercedes” (Insert sticking out of the tongue)
Oh sure, you can heed people’s warnings, you can listen to your parents justify why they sheltered you your whole life because they “Didn’t want to see you make the same mistakes you did.” Or that they “Know better than you because they’ve seen it all.”
You can even look up tons of advice on the internets, maybe even THIS blog and try and save yourself certain torments or find words someone else wrote to confirm what you knew all along. I get it. It’s human nature to want to feel validated, to reach out aside from ourselves and connect with some other force of thought. Lemme tell you something though before you fall on your knees in a “Whhhhhhy meeee!?” plea with the heavens. Each shitty friend, each romantical death, each hindsight that makes you go, “God, if I only knew then what I know now”…brings. you. closer. to. LIFE. and LOVE. and Furry baby tigers. You know, if that’s what your heart desire wants.
How not to date/be friends with a douche: Date/Be friends with a douche.
Do it so you know what it looks like in the future? Yes, that’s what I’m going with. Because let’s face it, you don’t really get to know someone til the shit hits the fan. We’re all human, we all suck and man, some of us just like to believe that everyone is a good person. Til they’re not.
And maybe it’s a battle of the sexes thing. Women for example: when something is morally wrong to us, it is so terribly morally wrong because we are driven by our feelings and emotions and stuff. Men, not so much. If something beeps “wrong” on their moral compass they say, “well, he’s got my back anytime I need him so no judgement, dude.” Am I trying to say that women have a more sensitive douche meter than men? Probably.
I guess now I just need to work on my incredibly verbose definition of douche.
Rant over. M, out.
Best douche face I could make.
Best douche face I could make.
(Makes zero sense! I haven’t had enough coffee to refrain from mixing my thoughts up. So yeah, the world is my oyster and I’m gonna draw allllllllll over it. You know, as if it was a chalk board.)
I begin this “story” with an exceptional quote some of you may or may not have heard:
“When you want something, all the universe conspires in helping you to achieve it.”
The quote actually happens to be from an exceptional story I read yesterday on a plane home from Los Angeles. A few months ago, the first time I visited California, I found myself in the breathtakingly gorgeous town of Santa Barbara after a couple “magical” interventions from the Universe . I was hell bent on seeing an intuitive because there were answers to questions that I desperately needed and it seemed all my searching and trying to uncover the stirrings of my heart weren’t getting me anywhere. My thought process: “If I can’t figure this shit out, there has to be someone that can.” See, “trying to uncover” has been my motto once I figured out it was okay to have a voice of my own. The trick has been finding that voice despite not knowing what it sounded like, felt like or if it really even existed. I wanted explanations for why certain things happened to me, I wanted reasons why I had made certain decisions, realizations of why I had attracted certain people and situations into my life and needed a clear definition and physical manifestation of the unease in my soul and ache in my heart. After the relentless and exhaustive seeking I had done up to this point, sitting across from a “psychic” behind a red velvet curtain seemed like the most reasonable and rational way to go about getting my answers. Aquarius trait much?
I had to wait about 30 minutes before my scheduled reading, so I took the opportunity to browse the store. Smell all the essential oils? Check. Ooh and Aah over all the pretty stones and gems? Check. Sniff all the candles and acquire a headache from the olfactory overload? Check. Drink 4 cups of really kick ass tea in 15 minutes and tweak out on caffeine? Check. Have a sense of complete oneness and out of body experience as I got as close to “being in the moment” as I have ever been before? Check. Find a line of oracle cards dedicated to dogs, then see an entire shelf of things dedicated to the spirituality of dogs and make a note to myself that it’s nice to know I’m not the only one who thinks dogs know way more than they’re letting on? Check. Look to my left and see a small book and think, “I need to buy that book. It’s speaking to me”? Check.
Just as I went to pick up the book, my name was called. I jumped a little and the book fell to the ground. With my cheeks reddening, I picked up the book and set it back on the shelf. I followed the sales associate back, my heart beating a little faster while excitement AND anxiety built; As the curtain was drawn back I expected to see what everyone sees in the movies: gypsy explosion. However, there were no crystal balls or tapestries sewn together with gold thread. No patchouli infused incense, tarot cards or new age music playing. Just a table, two chairs, a beautiful picture of a woman standing in front of a prism of light and a very large gray poodle that decided to lay under the table and sniff my legs during the hour long reading. Pretty sure it’s the same dog that was on the front of that oracle card deck.
This is not part of the story where I tell you the secrets of the Universe were revealed to me and I emerged from the small room with the red velvet curtain with super-powers or the ability to see dead people. The opposite happened actually. Everything that I had “known” or possessed a gut-feeling about was confirmed. Things that I never even thought about were brought up to get my brain thinking. Then things that I really didn’t want to discuss were thrown in the mix and everything I thought I knew went to shit. My question of “Well, what am I supposed to do? Do I choose A or B” was met with “Mercedes, you already know the answer.” Enter internal eye roll and silent “Well, what the fuck am I supposed to do with that?”. Sigh. I was now an ambiguous super-nova. Thank you psychic lady.
Little did I know, things were about to get very interesting.
[If you are just starting to follow along with this blog or need a refresher, let me take things back just a bit. Last year I fell in love with a boy. I decided, even though I had fallen in love with a boy, I was going to accept a job in Guam and move 7,500 miles away to write my book and see shit, while still trying to maintain a relationship. How in the hell do you maintain a 7,500 mile long distance relationship? Uh, you don’t. 4 months after leaving to go fulfill some dreams, I came back for a number of reasons that are irrelevant to the story. Relationship between said boy and I didn’t end up working out and I broke it off shortly before visiting California.]
A few days after my reading in Santa Barbara, I sat on a little white couch in a bedroom, in a house that overlooked the ocean. Pandora was playing some acoustic station, I was studying someone else’s “vision board” and it was another one of those “in-the-moment-out-of-body-experiences”. The opening strums of Dream a little dream of me floated through the speaker of my phone, my entire body burst out in chill bumps and I started to cry. They say “when you know, you know” and I fucking knew. I was pregnant.
I had always day dreamed about picking my daughter up in her super-soft pale pink blanket, holding her to my chest and gently singing, “Stars shining bright above you, night breezes seem to whisper, I love you. Birds singin’ in the sycamore tree, dream a little dream of me”. As those melodic words filled the room of reality and I continued to spew tears, the world as I knew it completely…halted. It felt like a punch in the stomach or the hardest slap in the face, maybe a combination of both. For just a few weeks ago, I had decided to end my relationship and move to California. One of the reasons for me even sitting on that damn white couch in the first place was to figure out where I was going to live and where I was going to work once I bought my plane ticket. And now, the eve before Easter, I felt like Mary and the immaculate conception 2.0. Mechanically I knew how I wound up pregnant, but situation-ally I was screaming, “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”
“Do you know for sure?” my friend asked. “Well, in Santa Barbara I was already a week late. Can you give me any other explanation why my boobs are literally trying to murder me, I’m eating like a professional fat kid and want to puke about 7.3 seconds? I need to get a pregnancy test.” I would be lying if I said I went about the rest of the day like a normal person who isn’t plagued with the thoughts of her hopes and dreams going up in flames while she watches it from her old and tattered couch in her small and rented out trailer – Yup. I quickly transported my future-self to a Louisiana trailer park complete with shitty decorum. I refuse to hold back the utter fear and despair I felt that day not knowing what the fuck was about to happen.
That night, I stared at the little pink box that was to decide my fate. I read on the internet that the best time to take a pregnancy test is as soon as you get up in the morning, so I decided to wait. I slowly put on pajamas, looked in the mirror and placed my hands on my stomach and thought, “Well, I guess I better enjoy this view for the last time.” I climbed into bed and dreamed about looking through pink quartz. I awoke at 4:00 a.m., pulled the packaging off the test with my teeth and peed. Before I could even put the cap back on and place it on the counter for the 2 minute waiting period indicated on the instructions, the lines were loud and clear: You, my dear, are definitely pregnant.
And suddenly, there was a shift. I was happy. I had a purpose. Nothing that happened prior to that point mattered anymore because I was having a baby. Then things shifted again and I became insanely protective thinking about the not-so-nice and alcohol induced argument my ex and I got involved in before I left for California which resulted in me saying, “I never thought I’d be one of those girls that was with one of those guys who would get violent.” I had no desire to go back to someone that could possibly push me around while he went on an anger infused drunken rage, even if part of him was now growing inside of me.
A day before I got on a plane to come home, emotional and hormonally charged me called emotional him and told him I was pregnant and that I hated him and was moving to California and there was nothing he could do about it. Yes, a very smart and well thought out way to ask someone to pick you up from the airport. Let me tell you, most awkward pick-up from baggage claim. Ever. You see, we were still living together. You know, the whole “we’re broken up and sleeping in separate rooms until one of us moves out” thing. So now I had to go back to that situation. Pregnant. And him with one objective: to win me back.
I held out for like a week. Barely speaking, complaining about how shitty I was feeling and trying my best not to ask him to pick me up a 50 gallon drum of strawberries on his way home from work because that’s all I wanted to eat. Well, a funny thing happens when you and someone else co-create another life. There’s all these things like hormones and weird chemicals and crazy stuff that’s happening to your body that when the person you were once madly in love with says, “You’re really going to take my child away from me? Think about how you grew up. Don’t you think we owe it to our child to make this thing work?”, you actually stop to answer those questions. Despite all signs pointing to “NO! STOP!”, you say, “Okay. I have this un-explainable bond with you now and you’re right. I don’t want my kid growing up like me so I’ll stay with you even though I was outrageously un-happy and this relationship was never anything close to healthy. Yup; SIGN. ME. UP. A kid is going to fix all of our problems.”
I won’t lie to you. I really wanted to make things work. I was being given a chance to have my own family, something that I thought my endometriosis would prevent me from doing. There was this window being opened and the rustling sound of the wind coming through that window saying, “Here’s your chance to do it differently. To create something on your terms. To experience unconditional love.” I ignored all the other facts and focused solely on the fairy-tale notion building up like cotton-candy in my head.
My first ultra-sound was scheduled for a Friday. I was far-enough along that I should be able to hear the heartbeat. With all the research I had done, I even knew what range the heartbeat should have fallen in. As the ultra-sound technician took us both back she said, “Do you have an empty bladder?” as I took a huge swig of water. I swallowed and replied, “Uh, no. I thought I needed to come in with a full one.” She pointed me to the bathroom and said she’d meet me in the exam room once I was finished. My stomach dropped when I realized I was spotting but my fears quickly dissipated as I saw the little fluttering of a heart on the screen. I started to cry. Then the technician said, “Looks like you’re going to have one heck of a Christmas present. Your due date is December 25th.” This was really real and it was really happening. We were then taken back to the Drs office and I asked him about the spotting and said that I was concerned about the heart rate being lower than what I had anticipated and researched. “Everything looks normal, you have nothing to worry about Mercedes.”
24 hours later as I laid on the bathroom floor in the worst pain of my life, about to lose my baby, I no longer wanted to know the answers. When the bleeding and cramping began a few hours after the first ultra-sound picture was taken, I knew what was about to go down. I bargained with the Universe between trips to the bathroom and refused to take any pain medicine because I wanted to “feel” everything. As I stared at the small ball of tissue that once contained a beating heart and entire DNA make-up that should have been cuddled-up in a pink-blanket, on my chest while I sang sweet words, my heart broke for the first time in my life. There are no words to describe already loving something so small and it captivating every part of your life only to have divine timing step in and say “time’s up”.
It took me a few weeks and several bottles of red wine to move through the initial loss phase. I wanted everyone to stay the fuck away from me and everything angered me. Babies became unbearable to look at and I broke down in tears every time I saw the word strawberry or the color red. I purged my soul out and literally became and empty vessel full of pain and confusion. It was torture getting up, most days I didn’t.
Then the work began. For the first time in months, I picked up my journal and I wrote. A few sentences at first. It felt foreign. I had to literally force myself to get anything down at times. I wanted so desperately to hold on to the pain and sadness, it was the only thing keeping me alive it seemed. Then I realized I wasn’t inching myself out of a hole, I was actually digging a deeper one and if I didn’t do anything about it, I wasn’t going to get out.
So, I took on a spiritual coach. I started to re-program myself on how to live, how to breathe, how to pay attention to my body and my heart and had someone I could be honest with that possessed the tools to help me do what my heart has wanted all along – to find my voice. Not the voice that is conditioned on another person or is calibrated based upon any other belief or opinion other than my own, but the voice that is spoken by moving through life and experiencing everything that I have allowed to enter my reality. Knowing that everything that comes in is here for my growth and not to work against me. Knowing that happiness is not a destination but a continual journey that I alone can choose to walk. It is not dependent on circumstances going on around me, the money I have in my bank account or if I have a child. It is not a ring on my finger with a promise to another person or even having somebody to make promises to. Although, let’s face it, having someone to love is awesome. It’s the voice that vibrates from that place right in the middle of your chest and a little to the left. It’s the voice that only you can hear and articulate. It’s your knowing regardless of what anybody else thinks you should do and it’s where you can always go to get the answers. Some days, you can’t hear it. Some days, you want to tell it to shut the fuck up. Some days, you wonder if it has laryngitis. Some days, it hums a long beautifully. Some days, it knows French and you don’t.
I started this story off with a quote I read in The Alchemist by Paulo Coehlo a book I highly recommend. The same book I dropped on the floor before I had my reading. The same book I ran across right before my flight home yesterday. The same book I balled my eyes out reading because, “When we strive to become better than we are, everything around us becomes better, too.” – The Alchemist. As I looked at my sun-kissed skin and out the window at the double rainbow shooting out at one of the clouds below, everything around me becomes better because I am better.
I truly believe that when you really want something, the Universe works with you. How else can I explain everything that has happened thus far. In order to know what you want, you have to experience what you don’t want. Well, I never wanted a boring life…I’ve never been able to say I’ve had one. I also can say that I want a truly exceptional life full of creativity, radiance, abundance, inspiration, magic, authenticity and to feel god damn sexy as often as I can. I can’t expect to experience those things without some heartache, face-palm moments and the universe sending me “equalizers”.
When you focus your intention on your heart’s true desires, it has to come to fruition. It wouldn’t be there if it wasn’t meant to actualize. Do you know how many forms it could possibly manifest in?? Be OPEN. That’s my intention. To openly follow the voice of my heart and see where it leads me.
I got much more from sitting behind that red-velvet curtain than I bargained for. For what seemed like the first time in my life, I was forced to go inward instead of outward and discovered so much by going where my heart lead me. I may not be welcoming a physical presence of another life on Christmas Day, however, I am forever grateful for her coming in and out of my life so fast to wake me up to all that is here right now.
And a whole pizza. And a soft pretzel with cheese (easy on the large clumps of salt). And moist pumpkin bread. And my grandmother’s gooey butter cake. And bud light, and I don’t even like bud light.
Why do I want all these things right now? Why do I feel like I could scratch someone’s eyes out if I could only get to them?
I’ll tell you in just a second after I warn you that this post contains things that little girls made of spice do not talk about. But since I am no longer a girl in a frilly dress pretending she doesn’t like to get dirty to impress her friends…the shits gonna hit the fan.
Well, two days ago I found out I have celiac disease. For those of you unfamiliar with the term…it basically means an allergic reaction and intolerance to gluten. gluten=no bueno. I don’t know the Spanish word for Armageddon wreaking havoc on the body, but I’m sure you get the picture.
I always knew I had a sensitivity to wheat…and dairy. But I just always thought that they were the little annoying things that I just had to deal with in life. You know, the little interruptions all of us have. Like road rage, or eating those fluorescent kitchen sponges because you like the taste of them or collecting cat toys because you can’t stop.
I was diagnosed with irritable bowel syndrome in my early twenties, endometriosis a couple years after that and no matter what I did, I’d still spend my days either shitting out food in liquid form, or baring down and praying to the poop Gods to give me a break for once.
When I was little it was mostly diarrhea all the time. I thought it was normal. But then again, I didn’t have the habit of going around talking about the consistency of my poop. Unless it was, on rare occasion, solid and green and I would run into my sisters room and exclaim in jovial and curious song that “my green is poop!” I tend to have a touch of dyslexia when I’m excited.
And of course, being raised by my father and sharing my childhood with two younger sisters and 3 female cousins who I spent most of my days with, fart jokes became a norm at family functions.
But actually talking about “being regular” and what regular even meant…no way. Soon enough, having a stomach ache every day or feeling those all familiar intestinal cramps everyday were just my reminder that “hey beautiful, you’re still breathing!” Gee, thanks body. Good lookin’ out.
And then when the endometriosis got really bad, suddenly everything that seemed to flow like hot lava out of my ass, hardened into painful piles of shit that camped out in my intestines, which I found no release from.
Didn’t matter the medications I was put on, nothing ever changed. That’s because the food that I thought was nourishing my body, was really only slowly poisoning me and getting me highly addicted. Like a crack fiend, sniffing out his next hit, I’d get a craving for wheat and bam! Glorious, doughy heaven for about 10 minutes and then sicker than hell for a few days after. How did I never tie that together? I just used to think I had horrible luck and got food poisoning all the damn time.
Debilitating Depression that turned into fits of anxiety, bouts of insomnia which turned into me getting addicted to sleeping pills for 2 years, stomach pains that I only found relief from by popping pain killers for about 6 months, then popping pain killers and anxiety medicine for another year to numb the emotional upheaval and downward spiral I felt. Oh yeah, I was the picture of glimmering health.
So what’s going on now…
Day 1: I felt airy, free and like breath had been breathed back into my lungs.
Day 2: no longer airy, a bubbly gut and a head that’s thinking, “something missing. Must find what” Yes, like Cookie Monster.
Day 3 of zero gluten in my system: I might die. My boyfriend woke me from my sleep early this morning because the entire bed was soaked in sweat. I spent the day holed up at fortune teller bar with a gluten free cider beer trying to write away the cravings and the imminent death my body seemed to be barreling towards. I instructed the bartender that if I order anything that is not the squash and cauliflower soup or meat plate, to berate me in front of everyone and send me back to my writing hole. I thought if I stayed out of the house, which is teeming with gluten, like the apple cinnamon sausage I made Steve this morning, I would be ok.
I am proud to say I didn’t cave. However, I think at one point I may have started scratching my arm, hoping that pizza rolls would appear. After I walked home from my hideout, I passed the fuck out. (Not because of the alcohol, I only had one) sheer exhaustion took a hold of me and I could barely crawl into bed before my body just gave out. But sleep well I did not. Oh no, I was half awake, half asleep and dreaming of pushing a shopping cart down the aisles of a gluten ONLY grocery store. So then I woke up and started writing this post because OH MY HOLY CHEESE DANISHES this is awful and it has to be told.
My nutritionist says it’s all normal. In a week or so, apparently my body will have kicked the wheat habit and I’ll never look back. My eyes are shifting cautiously from left to right as I type this…paranoia is setting in.
Keep me in your thoughts brothers and sisters.
Love is like a game of chess. I don’t even really like to use the word game, because let’s face it. Love is the most terribly painful thing we will ever experience and is anything but a “game”. Where there is love, somewhere, behind someone’s closed-door, there will be betrayal, abandonment, resentment, ego-trips, loss, grief and all the other just plain shitty shit shit that can happen in a relationship. Some of us will be lucky enough to never experience it, but then again, most of will inevitably have our hearts ripped out in one way or another. But where there is all that murky darkness, there is also the warmth of acceptance, loyalty, security, safety, consciousness, abundance and sheer happiness. Along with all the other fluffy words related to loooooove.
Every story is different. The players are different, the circumstances are different. Highly confident Miss Scarlet could be getting with super reserved Mr. Green and Colonel Mustard could be completely addicted to Sgt. Mother Fucking Pepper and even though one twosome may be way better at conflict resolution and the other may be really good at putting on a show when they are out in public, I don’t think it makes anyone love anyone less or any more than any other person. I think that when two people come together, they each come with their strengths, weaknesses and oodles of life experience. They literally are only doing the best the possibly can with what they have.
I’ve never played chess before, but I know that there’s a strategy involved. Little dudes run around the board sacrificing themselves for their bigger counterparts, The Queen tries to remain the main bitch, I have no idea where the King comes into the mix and people get really serious about it that they go and join a club and spend hours of their days playing an extremely confusing version of checkers. I much prefer the simple checkers over having to strategize my next 14 moves but that’s just me. Anything having to do with math and I’m out….?
All relationships are not the same. Should you go into every relationship with the same mentality as everyone else and use the same 10 step program to finding and keeping that person the center of your world and then add 5 more steps to ensure you stay the center of theirs? In a phrase. FUCK NO.
So that’s why there is no certain advice column, or book or 7 ways to a successful relationship that is going to land your said successful relationship. How do I know this? Because I’ve fucking tried just about everything. I’m 28 and I know this…Love is the only fucking reason we are alive and with love alone can we figure out why our sack of bones and star dust reside on this planet and how on earth to be someone worth being in a relationship with. Some of us are just waaaaay better than others at “choosing” love over fear. Because when you think about it, all that dark stuff I was talking about earlier stems from fear. We all have darkness in us and it will manifest differently in each of us.
I’m gonna be really honest with you right now, I’m a jumbled fucking mess. Hormonally and cyclically speaking, I’m one estrogen spike away from a total meltdown. But damnit if I don’t do some of my most honest writing when my femininity is “peaking”.
Man, I just believe in love. I believe that love is hard and it doesn’t always work out. I don’t believe the people who have told me love isn’t hard and it will always work out if two people want it bad enough. I believe that shit falls apart so more shit can fall apart so eventually you can build something really awesome. I believe that relationships are teachers and we test our boundaries, loyalties and souls to the brink every time we’re in one. I believe that love should be calm, I believe love should be reckless, I believe love should be nauseating, I believe love should be steady, I believe love should be safe, I believe love should be dangerous, I believe love should take chances, I believe love should make you cry, I believe that love should break you. I believe love should be crashing waves. I believe love should be a gentle breeze. I believe love should be a grand ballroom. I believe love should be a tiny shack in the slums. I believe love should cause laughter. I believe love should cause you to shout in anger. I believe love should open you up and cause your raw wounds to bleed and bleed and bleed. I believe love should be a little more synchronistic and a little less strategic. And I believe love should always remind you who the fuck you are and what you ultimately desire in this lifetime because it is your brand of love. Not one that someone else says you “should” have.
I TOOK HER ADVICE 