When I first started writing this blog, I had 2 readers, my mom and Chris. Writing was fun, my way to share funny stories, or just for me to have a place to let loose with my thoughts. I've always wanted to be a writer, and I felt like I had good, important things to say, and honestly, I just love to write. Gradually, over the course of the next year I gained more and more readers, and while readership was a good thing, I think I got sucked into the whole "blogger" thing. I started writing posts and telling stories (even though they were true) because I knew they'd be funny material on my blog, not because I thought they were really worth sharing. If nothing funny happened that day, I'd struggle to find something, anything to write about. Yes, sometimes I wrote posts that I wanted to, sometimes I really enjoyed it, but for the most part, it was a chore. For the past month, it's been a burden. One more thing that I just really don't want to do.
For instance, when we moved here, there have been so many fun projects I've worked on, that I'd love to write about. I've worked hard on them, I've really surprised myself that I could do them at all, and I'm proud of myself. I want to share them. But I've felt like I couldn't. My blog hasn't ever been one about decorating or home projects. I'm learning to cook, Southern style, and I'm having so much fun with it, but I don't share because my blog has never been a cooking blog. The other day, there was a deer walking by the creek that runs through our backyard. The Earth seemed so quiet, so peaceful. I felt like I was witnessing the beauty of nature, the way God had intended it. I felt like it was an incredible gift that I'd been given, the feelings I had, the thoughts I had, I wanted to share them, I wanted to write about it. But I didn't because my blog has never been a spiritual blog. I read an article about how moms are more and more likely to become alcoholics because of their wine drinking obsession. I wanted to write about my own fears, about how I abused alcohol, and about how joking about having to have a glass of wine every night to be able to cope with your kids isn't funny, it's just sad. But my blog hasn't been a public service message, and I didn't want to piss off any of the more popular "mommy bloggers" by calling them out on it.
Somewhere along the lines, I stopped writing for me. Just the other day, a regular reader of my blog said, you don't seem like you're as funny as you used to be. I said, you didn't like my post? This person said, no, it was ok. Just not very funny. In the past if I got any kind of negative feedback, I made sure my next post was funny. And even if I wanted to write about something not funny, I apologized for it ahead of time. When did that start being ok? Since when do I have to apologize for writing what I want to on MY blog? I mean, I pay for the domain, it's my name in the title, doesn't that give me some right to write about what I want? And I know that I've said in the past that I'm going to write about what I want, but I couldn't. I wanted to be popular, I wanted to have a popular blog. I wanted my own 15 minutes, and I didn't think I could do that if I was too read. Somewhere in the past 2 or 3 months, something has changed. I'm not the same. I used to be a horrible cook, I'm kind of good now. Anything that even resembled crafting was a nightmare, but now, even though I still have a fear of glue guns, I'm pretty good at it. And more importantly, I'm a damn good mother. Out of anxiety, or fear, or maybe just because I thought it played better, I went to self-deprecating humor. I viewed my parenting skills as lacking because they weren't like other people's.
I know I rambling, but I don't care. I'm not apologizing anymore. If you don't want to read my blog anymore, don't. I'm at a point in my life where I have to be true to my authentic self, even if I'm still figuring it out. I have spent so long trying to be something else, and I just can't do it anymore.
I don't know the direction I'm going in, I don't know that I even have a "theme" anymore. I've never been much for labels anyway. I don't want to give up writing because it makes me happy, and I feel like that's the alternative. I thought about starting a different blog, but I like this one, it has my name in the title, and of course with all the pink and whatnot. I still may, I don't know. What I do know is, from now on, I'm stripping it all down. I'm done with the bullshit, I'm done with writing for other people, and I'm done with not being true to myself.
Showing posts with label uncategorized. Show all posts
Showing posts with label uncategorized. Show all posts
Too close to home
This post isn't funny, but it is important.
The town I live in has this thing once a year where local restaurants have a little "taste" of what their restaurant is all about. They close down Main Street, and all the vendors offer a plate of their restaurant's food for a really reasonable price, usually between $5 and $10. For the second year, my church (yes, I really go to church) is having a booth. This year, we're serving ribs, cornbread, fried green tomatoes and sweet tea. All kinds of yummy Southern goodness. We do Southern food because our pastor is from Alabama, and well, Southern food is really, really good. I'll be there all day, not serving food or cooking, but collecting donations for our local homeless shelter. This isn't a church-run homeless shelter, this is an honest to God-dependent-on-funding-and-donations-homeless-shelter.
While the economy may be improving, the crisis isn't close to over for many families. Many families are living in tent cities, shelters or on the street because they've lost their job and subsequently their homes. People who never imagined they'd be homeless now find themselves living in the most dire of circumstances. Our picture of what homeless is has changed. It's no longer the drunk on the corner begging for change, it's the college educated mother with 2 children who can't find work to feed or shelter her children. It's the hard-working family of 4 that lost their income when the local factory closed, it's any of us, it's all of us. The local homeless shelter is the "cause" that I've chosen to give my time and effort to because I just didn't know how bad it could be. I never knew that if not by the grace of God, it could be me and my family.
The wonderful man that runs our local homeless shelter told me that they've been at capacity of over a year now. In fact, they're usually over-filled, and are constantly looking for other places to shelter people. They've grown increasingly dependent on donations, both monetary and goods (clothes, can goods, blankets, etc.) because unfortunately, state and federal governments have cut funding for their programs.
I don't want to preach to you, I don't want to guilt you or obligate you, I just wanted to share with you something that has truly impacted my life. With another school year starting, maybe you could donate your kids' old out grown clothes to your local shelter. Maybe you have a couple of dusty cans of tomato sauce in your pantry that you could give to your local food bank or shelter. Maybe you just think about that mom or that family and do what you can, even if it's just being armed with knowledge about a growing problem in our country, our cities, and our own communities.
The town I live in has this thing once a year where local restaurants have a little "taste" of what their restaurant is all about. They close down Main Street, and all the vendors offer a plate of their restaurant's food for a really reasonable price, usually between $5 and $10. For the second year, my church (yes, I really go to church) is having a booth. This year, we're serving ribs, cornbread, fried green tomatoes and sweet tea. All kinds of yummy Southern goodness. We do Southern food because our pastor is from Alabama, and well, Southern food is really, really good. I'll be there all day, not serving food or cooking, but collecting donations for our local homeless shelter. This isn't a church-run homeless shelter, this is an honest to God-dependent-on-funding-and-donations-homeless-shelter.
While the economy may be improving, the crisis isn't close to over for many families. Many families are living in tent cities, shelters or on the street because they've lost their job and subsequently their homes. People who never imagined they'd be homeless now find themselves living in the most dire of circumstances. Our picture of what homeless is has changed. It's no longer the drunk on the corner begging for change, it's the college educated mother with 2 children who can't find work to feed or shelter her children. It's the hard-working family of 4 that lost their income when the local factory closed, it's any of us, it's all of us. The local homeless shelter is the "cause" that I've chosen to give my time and effort to because I just didn't know how bad it could be. I never knew that if not by the grace of God, it could be me and my family.
The wonderful man that runs our local homeless shelter told me that they've been at capacity of over a year now. In fact, they're usually over-filled, and are constantly looking for other places to shelter people. They've grown increasingly dependent on donations, both monetary and goods (clothes, can goods, blankets, etc.) because unfortunately, state and federal governments have cut funding for their programs.
I don't want to preach to you, I don't want to guilt you or obligate you, I just wanted to share with you something that has truly impacted my life. With another school year starting, maybe you could donate your kids' old out grown clothes to your local shelter. Maybe you have a couple of dusty cans of tomato sauce in your pantry that you could give to your local food bank or shelter. Maybe you just think about that mom or that family and do what you can, even if it's just being armed with knowledge about a growing problem in our country, our cities, and our own communities.
My story
I don't know how to feel today. Proud? Embarrassed? Maybe a little of both? My story was published at Violence Unsilenced today. It feels great to tell my story, maybe my story can make a difference for someone. It also makes me want to throw up. Every time I read those words, it makes me angry, sad, and sick, and now they're out there for the whole world to see. I told Chris last night that this was way different than posting my story on my blog, no one reads my blog! Putting it on Violence Unsilenced's website...well to me, that's huge. I keep telling myself, this is for the Katherines of the world, the young girls who need to understand how easily it can happen, how quick it can go bad, and how it's never ok. And its for all the Merritts, who wish they'd known better, wished they'd made a better decision, and lived to tell about it. I hope that telling my story will help someone else. Chris says it's supposed to help me too...I haven't decided yet whether or not it has, but either way, I don't regret it.
Violence UnSilenced
Today I was doing my customary web surfing, blog reading, etc., and I came across a really kick ass site on one of the blogs I read reguarly. She started a web site dedicated to telling the stories of domestic violence (Violence UnSilenced). This is kind of ironic because for the past couple of weeks, Chris has been bugging me to write my own story down, he says that if I share my story, maybe it will help someone else. Well, maybe it will. And I'm SO not ready to write the great American novel, but I was ready to share my story on this website. There is only 1 story posted there as of today, but there will no doubt be hundreds and thousands more shared. I don't know if all submissions are posted or not, but either way, I feel really glad that I shared my story. In case it's not posted there, you know, like if my worst fears came true and this nice lady was all, God her writing sucks ass, there's no way people could stand to read that garbage, I'll post it here as well. Once again, I'm noticing my $5.99 a month is paying for itself since I can do whatever I want on my own website. My brother was right, being a tech geek (or at least enough of a tech geek to have your own web site) has it's perks. Anyway, here's my story.
Because everyone tells you, smart girls don’t get into trouble like that…except when they do. Everyone tells you, pretty girls from good families with good values don’t get into trouble like that…except when they do.
I was 17 when it started. He was older, 19, tall, dark and handsome. When he was good he was wonderful, but when he was bad, he was a monster. The first time we had sex, he wrapped his hands around my neck, and smiled while I tried to squirm away. He whispered that he knew I liked it rough and laughed when I told him he was hurting me. The first time I disagreed with him, he slapped me so hard my lip split. I never knew what would make him so angry, or what would set him off. Once we had seen a friend of his at the movies, and I’d somehow “embarrassed” him. I spent the ride home crouching on the floorboard of his truck, fielding kicks and punches while he told me how disgusting, unworthy and stupid I was. As the cliché goes, he never hit me that he wasn’t sorry afterward.
My parents were clueless, they didn’t see anything out of the ordinary, and I certainly didn’t tell them. I stayed with him because they disapproved of him, my friends were jealous of me, and no one was going to tell me what to do. I stayed because I was too proud to ask for help and too proud to admit I’d made a terrible mistake and was in serious trouble. At times I think I honestly loved him, at times I hated him, but a part of me believed that he was right. I was worthless, and I deserved everything I got. I spent the next 9 months using makeup to hide bruises, wearing long sleeves and turtlenecks in the summer, and hating the person looking at me in the mirror. I hid until I couldn’t hide anymore.
My parents had gone away for the July 4th weekend. He and I were supposed to go watch fireworks. We were laughing and joking, it’d been a good day. I was looking at a pen he’d won at work. He told me to give it back, I playfully said no, and put it behind my back, playing keep-away. He seemed so happy, I thought everything was ok, but it wasn’t. I can’t remember everything that happened next, most of it was, and still is, a blur. I remember him picking me up by my ears and throwing me against the wall. I remember covering my face when I saw his fists coming at me. I remember him choking me so hard I lost consciousness. When I woke up, hot angry tears were streaming down my face, stinging on their way down. I was humiliated, I was furious, I was completely broken. I came clean to a family friend who told my parents. They never said anything about the bruises when they came home that Sunday afternoon, but their eyes told their story. They were filled with sadness, regret, and pity.
I’ll be 30 in 2 weeks, and even though the bruises are long gone, I’ll never forget what I felt that night on the kitchen floor. The person I have become is nothing like the girl lying on the floor all that time ago. I am strong, independent, and un-breakable. Even though I wouldn’t recognize that girl anymore, I can’t forget her. For my daughter, I can’t forget her. I have to remember, and I have to tell her story.
