Our son told us he couldn’t go with us to Portugal. He had just been offered a new job, and they needed him to start immediately. Of course it is ok that I am sad he cannot go on this trip.
“I knew you would say No.” I blurted.
With all of her dizzying and big feelings, Little-Girl-Me (age 4) steam-rolled over Slow-to-Process, Adult-me. Instead of congratulating my son, I made it about me.
Instead of telling his new boss, “yes,” our lovely son waited to come home and talk to me first. “Mom, this means I cannot go to Portugal.” I felt like an ass.
My son is sweet. He has a great reason not to go. He was hired for a really cool new job. Adult-Me, my true self, understands, is excited for him and supports his responsible decision. I wish Little-Girl-Me was more healed and would not just blurt stuff out. I own my shit and continue to work. I want to be better. I don’t want my kids to have to live with the resonance of my deep pain.
Immediately, I apologized. “Hey, I am sorry I said that. It really is ok. I am happy for you.”
I left the room and was flooding-after-a-huricane, flooded. I cried, I mean, I wept tears buried deep inside and forgotten by Little-Girl-me. I did not cry because my son is not going to come on a trip with us. I cried because I recognize there were times when the unhealed trauma from my past is so big that it bled all over my children. They could not escape those large moments of my overwhelm. That must have been really hard for them. I am so sorry. I am trying to heal. I am trying to make amends.
As I sat there, I thought of my children. I felt pride. How was I gifted the best kids ever? They are nuanced and beautiful. I looked at my phone and noticed a missed call earlier from my son. I realized it was when I was in the shower. When he couldn’t reach me, he came home to talk to Dave and me. He put us first and shared his news before telling his new boss. He wanted to make sure I was ok. I took a breath and assured him I was ok. The brutality of my past is not my children’s to carry. I am healing that pain and letting it go.
I saw my mom. I heard her pleading words the time I told her we were moving to Virginia,
“BETH, I will kill myself if you leave Utah. You cannot move. Please don’t move. Please don’t leave me.”
My mind blurred. I felt the paralyzing weight of my mom’s stranglehold. I have always been determined not to do this to my kids, even unintentionally, which I had sort of done by telling my son I knew he would say no. Oof! Adult-me encourages them and truly wants them to follow their dreams.
At that moment I heard this voice distinctly say,
“You are their mom. Your burdens should not be theirs. Pull it together and make sure he knows you support him and that everything is ok and then shut up and listen to him.”
That internal voice is right.
My son and I spoke a few minutes later. I reminded him of the trip we took to Southern Utah.
“Remember how you stayed with me when Dad went rogue and hiked down that crazy canyon? You were careful. You were kind and so much fun. We are good.”
Tearfully, I paused and made sure to make eye contact. [insert me gesturing at myself here] “I am just sorry that my big feelings sometimes take over and make you feel bad. I am working on my shit. You are good and I am really happy about your job.”
“But I don’t like your tears.” He said.
“Hey. Hey. I am ok. I love how you communicate and articulate your point of view. I learn from you. My tears are tears and are not your responsibility. I have big feelings. I am healing my stuff and I am sorry when my stuff explodes onto you. I am really happy about your job. Seriously.”
Minutes later he was back upstairs sharing about his new job, his schedule and we were joking about all the discounts he could get us. I apologized for allowing my Little-Girl-Me feelings to overshadow such a cool moment.
“I am really excited about your job. Of course they hired you. You are amazing!” He shared that he is a little nervous. I encouraged, “You are responsible. You are never late to class. You show up.”
“You are right. I am always on time for class.”
We laughed and I assured him he is a great fit.
This is not the first and hopefully will soon be the last time my kids and I have exchanges like these. My sons are kind and forgiving. I am learning and I am healing. I am grateful for the grace they show me.
It is time for this cycle to end and for me to let my burdens go. That is why I need to let sweet and earnest Little-Girl Bethy, who was like a bouncy ball fighting her way out of a dark room, know that she is strong, smart, wonderful and beautiful, that her weight is perfect at any weight, that she is not disappointing Heavenly Father when she says, “Goddammit;” that I am so sorry that Little-girl Bethy was often asked to step aside, was frequently left alone to figure things out completely unsupported or sidetracked to take care of her own mom. Nevertheless, Little-Girl Bethy was strong, determined and tenacious. She survived, is fucking amazing and has always been open to figuring things out. And now Little-Girl Bethy FINALLY realizes that her mom’s pain is no longer hers to carry or to pass on. High-fucking-fives to that!
—
Parenting is difficult. Owning your shit is brutal. Healing past trauma is otherworldly. I feel weighted by grief. Breaking dysfunctional cycles and patterns is the hardest work I have ever done. I hope my children forgive me. I am grateful for the grace they show me.
We were living in Park City, Utah at the time. I have been told that living at high elevation is what saved my life. I was pregnant, and we were visiting Portland, Oregon (sea level) when I learned our baby no longer had a heart beat. That day I spoke to my Utah OBGYN, who assumed the baby would pass normally and to be safe, gave me some warnings.
We made our way to lunch with a college friend, who we had not seen in years, and his wife. My husband and I were seated before they arrived. I had already been to the bathroom twice, soaking my pad. My cramping felt like childbirth. Our friends arrived. We ordered. Sweat pooled on the back of my neck. As each excruciatingly painful built up and passed, I remained still and smiled as if nothing was wrong. Our food arrived. I felt another gush. I excused myself from the table. By the third time I needed to excuse myself from the table, I had soaked my clothes. Now I needed to excuse my husband. He had the car keys and I needed more feminine hygiene supplies. How do you tell your friend that you haven’t seen in years and his wife that you just met, “Um, so I have bled through my protection four times since arriving. Every time I go to the bathroom the fetal tissue expelled is greater than the time before?” You tell them vaguely what is going on and then you leave.
Once in the car, I called my OBGYN. I wanted to make sure I was not overreacting.
“If this does not settle down in two hours, you need to go in.” She urged.
We waited, the bleeding increased and we made our way to pick up our sons, who were with Dave’s best friend.
Trying to keep my mind off of things and knowing I would have to break our OMSI Science Museum date, I asked our children if they wanted to get ice cream from Ruby Jewel. “Of course we do!” Our youngest giggled, “Mom, do you know this will be the sixth time we have gone to Ruby Jewel since we came to Portland?”
“That’s absolutely perfect.” I responded.
We made our way over to the Mississippi Avenue neighborhood of Portland where we enjoyed our delicious ice creams. Then I paused to share our news.
“Ok guys, you know last night I think we lost the baby, well, now things are getting a little weird so we may go get things checked out at the hospital.”
I saw the concern and fear wash over them: “Mom, we want you to be ok.”
We made our way to the hospital. This was before Roe was overturned, and furthermore we were in liberal Portland, Oregon, a politically liberal city. My husband dropped me and my older son off. “You come with me.” I said. I grabbed my son’s hand while Dave parked. I checked in and then talked with the nurse. She took me seriously and quickly admitted me. Calm. I was calm. I was assigned a male nurse. When he talked to me, I maintained my steely Midwestern composure. “I am bleeding a lot. I’m from out of town and my doctor recommended I come in.” I asked him about D&Cs and what they could do.
“Oh, we don’t perform D&C’s at our hospital.”
“Really?” I pushed.
The kids had made their way to my room. They were understandably bored, hungry and my youngest kept asking, “Mom, when will this be done? When can we leave? I am hungry.”
“We are not leaving until we know what is going on with Mom.”
Hours passed. I urged my husband to take the boys and leave. “They need to eat.” They left and I walked myself to the bathroom. I could not believe all the bright red blood. It was coming out of me. “How can I still be standing with this much blood?” I thought. As I sat on the toilet, a clot the size of a plum, flipped out and landed on my ankle. I stared at it transfixed. I grabbed some toilet paper to use to pick up the clot. I cleaned myself up, lifted my IV bag off the hook and walked back in my room as a sweet young med tech tried to get my attention. I felt another gush. It felt like someone had just broken my water. My legs were soaked in blood. I saw the blood on the floor.
“Um, I do not know what is happening. I think I need some help.” I stood there motionless as if my not moving would make it all stop.
“What do you need?” She asked.
“I think I need to go to the bathroom again. Will you help me?”
“Of course. Whatever you need.”
I kept apologizing and blood kept gushing. “I do not know what is happening. I do not understand.” Fruitlessly, I tried to clean off the blood. We walked back to the bathroom. The tech pulled up my blood-soaked gown so I could sit on the toilet. There was no urine, just more blood. The tech helped me stand.
I was back in my hospital bed and texted my husband, “The bleeding is worse. I am afraid.” I felt like I was going to pass out and then another uterine bursting cramp and a gush.
I needed the bathroom. I was delirious and completely covered in blood. We made our way to the bathroom again and I wondered if I was going to die.
Back in my room I found the ultrasound tech. Maybe she can help me live. “Please. Please. I do not know what is happening.” She asked me what I needed.
“The bleeding won’t stop. There is so much blood. I need to use the bathroom again,”
“Whatever you need.”
In those moments my husband came rushing back to the room, leaving our kids in the car. “What do you need?” He asked.
“I don’t know. Help me. Please.”
I did not know. What I knew is that the lower half of my body was soaked in blood and like a fast flowing river the bleeding would not stop.
The ultrasound tech inserted the ultrasound wand. “Ouch! Shit! That hurts!” I screamed. The pain was otherworldly. Dave held my hand. For several minutes and from every possible angle, she viewed my uterus. Like a faucet turned on full blast, blood continued flowing out of me. I whimpered. I did not cry. I pleaded and kept asking her what was happening. “Oh honey. I know. I know. I know what you are going through. There really is a lot of blood.”
I was, in a way, giving birth. She pointed and showed me the gestational sac on the screen. There was no baby. I felt the air leave my body. Even though I was bleeding, even though I was completely covered in blood, somehow I had convinced myself that maybe my baby would beat the odds and as a result would be hiding, waiting for all the bleeding to stop. Nope. My baby was gone.
Once I accepted that my baby was really gone, I was acutely aware of every sound, smell and sight. The room was bright. The machines were loud. The air smelled like death. I felt naked. I saw the red. I felt the liquid. I was lying in a pool of my own blood — blood I have only seen in really bad horror movies. I wanted to run. I was weak and kept bleeding. My blood pressure kept dropping.
Finally, really, finally, after he took a long lunch break and completely vanished for hours, my male nurse came into my room. That is when my lovely Ultrasound tech insisted,
“She really needs something for the pain. You need to help her!”
After confirming with the doctor, the nurse gave me a shot of Dilaudid. Until then I had not been given an IV, nor had I been continuously hooked up to the blood pressure or oxygen monitors. I have no idea why. I asked the nurse if he would take my blood pressure. “I feel dizzy and I do not feel right. Please. Please take my blood pressure.” He handed my husband a blue plastic barf bag, slipped a blood pressure cuff on my upper left arm, and cautioned my husband, “If she throws up, come find me.” I felt the pump, pump, pump of the cuff and watched my blood pressure go down, down down to 54/33.
“I don’t think that is ok.”
The nurse lowered my bed and said, “Oh, it’s fine.” Once my bed was lowered, my pressure went back up to 77/33. I know enough about blood pressure to know that once it goes too low that the body starts shutting itself down. I knew if I kept bleeding and my blood pressure kept dropping that we would have a bigger problem. After the nurse left we texted our doctor friend. When we shared my blood pressure numbers with him he insisted,
“Push your call button now!” And this is an ER doctor dude who does not scare easily.
Again I whimpered. Then I cried. I could not believe the intense and constant pain. The pain medicine was not helping. That is when I asked my husband,
“Am I going to die?”
“No. No. You are not going to die. You are going to be ok.”
I already had these two beautiful and amazing children. I needed to fight for them. Unfortunately, my body had a different plan. My blood pressure did not stabilize. They kept switching IV bags for another IV bag. We stopped counting at around ten bags of Packed Red Blood Cells (an IV where Plasma has been removed from the Red Blood Cells). Repeatedly I heard the phrases “this hemorrhaging needs to stop and low blood volume.” Yet through it all the doctor kept saying while simultaneously being freaked out,
“You are so healthy. You should have already had a transfusion. Wow. Living at high altitude and now being at sea level is saving your life. I cannot believe this.” I couldn’t either. Because I live at 7,200 feet (yes, that’s right) and was now at approximately sea level, I had extra hemoglobin.
Immediately before surgery I was able to change out of my second completely blood-soaked gown. I asked the med tech if things were bad and she shook her head. That is when I saw a lake of blood on the bed. “Only really bad head wounds or gunshot victims have this much blood,” I thought. She and my husband helped me remove another bloody gown. I saw blood on the floor, blood on the bed, clots stuck on the fabric of my gown and the heavy red stains making up the baby I had just lost.
Let me be clear, it took until I was on the precipice of death before the ER would call a surgeon. When we met with the surgeon, they said,
“We need to do a D&C. We need to stop the bleeding. The only way the bleeding will stop is if all the fetal material is removed.”
Under general anesthesia I had the surgery. Once they performed the D&C, which removed all the fetal material, my bleeding stopped. I was able to go home in the middle of the night.
—
About Women’s Healthcare.
Here is the deal: The deck is already stacked against women. By the time the mother’s life is in danger, every second counts. When there are really severe penalties to medical care, time is wasted trying to decide if a doctor can and or will intervene, which only adds extra dangers to an already dangerous situation. Even if there is no heartbeat, with these total abortion ban laws, medical professionals actually cannot intervene, or better, may not choose to intervene in enough time fearing risk of breaking the total abortion laws.
Keep in mind, one in four known pregnancies result in miscarriage. Now please consider miscarriages and the caution doctors already take to perform life saving D&Cs. Any additional legal friction such as a TOTAL ABORTION BAN will arguably lead to significantly more deaths. Further, many anti abortion laws do not have a carve out law that protects the mother in cases like mine, and even those that do require already-cautious doctors to be even more risk-averse because of their draconian penalties. Even in a place where abortion is legal, even in my case, which was during Roe, the medical establishment was very cautious about making interventions.
In the end, here is why I am speaking up again. Recently, I opened up about my miscarriages and the D&Cs I received as a result. I have been challenged, bullied, attacked and told I have no idea what I am talking about regarding how doctors treat a miscarriage or how easily a doctor will perform a D&C.
I have the unique and traumatic experience to know more than most how and when a D&C is performed.
If you think my experience is rare, think again. Other data suggests, 10 – 10% of all recorded pregnancies end in miscarriage. If you are shaking your head because you somehow think a Trump presidency will make things easier for pregnant women, women who have miscarried, you are misguided!
You have not walked in our shoes. You have not been near death, and because legal liability and fear of malpractice is already such a colossal deal, you have not experienced the caution medical professionals already take to perform life saving D&Cs. You have not experienced a time when the health of the mother is the last thing a doctor is able to consider. Yet, somehow you have convinced yourself that a GOP who will take away these rights with a TOTAL ABORTION BAN will somehow magically be more open minded and make exceptions to protect the mother? YOU ARE WRONG!
I cannot overstate this enough: when I was in the very liberal city of Portland, Oregon, before Roe was overturned, the medical staff still waited until I became critical before they considered performing a D&C. Only once they absolutely confirmed that the baby was gone and that the only way my bleeding would stop was to perform a D&C, did they perform a D&C.
Sure, maybe it was different for your wife when she miscarried. Well, then she was lucky. Would you really want to keep rolling the dice on that? How about the women who were like me? Before Roe v. Wade was overturned by Donald Trump’s Supreme Court, I had two D&Cs. I was treated for 2 other miscarriages with Plan B known as the morning after pill. All of these procedures saved my life. Think about the real world consequences of these legal decisions.
If you want the best odds for the life of the baby and the mother, vote for a president who cares about women’s healthcare and wants to protect women.
For like twenty years, on and off, I have been working on my memoir. Really. Stops and starts. That is what it has been. I test the waters. When I do write about a family member, or suggest to family that I might be writing my story, I am often met with pushback and threats. I shut up. Like I am trapped in a sinking car, I want to breathe so I stop writing. As I surface, I realize that my words want to come out. Honestly, I wish my family understood that this is my story, yet I don’t expect them to. I don’t want to share their secrets or make my story them about them. Instead, I offer them grace. I take deep breaths. I go to therapy. I write privately. When I do freak out or worry about being sued, (yes, I have been threatened), I think of the words of writer Anne Lamott:
We write to expose the unexposed. If there is one door in the castle you have been told not to go through, you must (open the door)…You can’t do this without discovering your own true voice, and you can’t find your true voice and peer behind the door and report honestly and clearly to us if your parents (or siblings) are reading over your shoulder. They are probably the ones who told you not to open that door in the first place. You can tell if they’re there because a small voice will say, ‘Oh, whoops, don’t say that, that’s a secret,’ or ‘That’s a bad word,’ [Instead]…Write as if your parents (and siblings) are dead.
I have lived another entire lifetime since I first had a story I wanted to tell. I married. We had two beautiful sons. My heartaches like infertility, suffocating loss, and serious health crises have (hopefully) filled me with compassion and the ability to confidently and lovingly share my truth. I have taken that time to learn how to set boundaries and break cycles. I am a work in progress. I know my past lurks in the shadows, and like cocaine in the 1980’s, it begs me to repeat its dysregulated patterns.
In 2020, out of things to sanitize and masks to buy, I started getting serious about my life story. We (like the world) were stuck at home. In our case, our eldest son was ripped from his dreamy Sydney, Australia Study Abroad. His girlfriend, who was studying away in Paris, was also forced to leave. She moved in. A month later, our youngest graduated from high school in an eleven minute drive-through ceremony at a local park, including a picture with his principal and returning his cap and gown correctly on the hanger on the rack situated on the park lawn.
We were (still) trapped at home. As the parent, (whatever that means), I tried not to make things worse. Our house was really clean, especially our kitchen counters, which I repeatedly washed out of sheer boredom and maybe germs. Our pandemic-addition was nearly complete, which included expanding our master bedroom and the one below. Out of counter spray and maybe a little loneliness, one morning I began digging through our storage. I happened upon my old journals. I picked one up and began to read from February 11: “Today is Dad’s fiftieth birthday. Two weeks ago he told Mom he doesn’t know if there is a God.” I read on and was hooked. A few pages later—April of that year—I wrote, “Well, Mom and Dad are really getting a divorce.”
That night I told my husband about hours I spent reading. Enthusiastically he urged: “These are primary source materials. Use them in your memoir!” It had never occurred to me that I could use the assistance of my childhood journals to tell my own stories. I said right out loud: “Dude, you are a genius!” I decided to see how I could infuse my journals into my story.
Of course. See, it was my mom who taught me about journals. After spending the day reading and reflecting, I wondered if Mom used her journals to record the bad feelings and fear of God, the obvious echoes of her own trauma. Nevertheless, in the corner of our dusty storage room it was clear that Mom’s own trauma and journal-keeping were ingredients in what I would call my epic narrative; a crucial ingredient like flour or eggs.
As I read, in a flash of big “I am being followed down a dark alley” feelings, memories of my past flooded in. I felt the dread of Mom’s constant, “I have a bad feeling. Did you pray?” I continued reading as my ominous feelings were validated: “Mom” literally had a “bad feeling.” I thought about my mom. I wondered if her need to feel safe and in control were constant, and were easily reflected in her daily rituals and routines, like writing in her journal, reading her scriptures each night and kneeling in prayer.
I recalled seeing her, scriptures open, reading and highlighting.
She would explain, “The Mormon prophet and leader of our church proclaimed that for us to receive Heavenly Father’s blessings we need to read the scriptures for at least thirty minutes a day.”
Once she finished her thirty minutes, she meticulously brushed her teeth, made her way into her room, knelt at her bedside and said her prayers. “The prophet has also asked us to pray for thirty minutes each night. I can’t let him down.” I often found her asleep, still kneeling at her bedside.
The part of her routine I was most intrigued with was her commitment to journaling. Journaling wasn’t just a novelty, quirk or affectation. It was my mother’s adherence to a specific admonition from our church leaders. Before her scriptures and prayers, Mom, dressed in a flannel nightgown, found her way to a quiet corner, which usually was our upstairs yellow and brown-colored, plaid couch. Holding a ballpoint pen in her left hand, (I am also left handed), I watched as she began writing words in a large notebook:
“Mommy, why are you writing in that book?” I asked.
“I don’t always remember everything. I want to keep a record of our life. Our prophet has asked us to keep a journal. I want to follow the teachings of our Heavenly Father.”
I felt Mom’s urgency to follow God’s commandments. Consequently, when I was seven years old I asked Mom for my own journal.
“Oh Bethy, Heavenly Father will be so proud of you.”
Then one day she handed me a journal. I hoped God would take note. Writing came naturally. So did processing the world around me.
In what some might call “exhausting detail,” I logged my daily life. When I did not log my life, I felt like I was letting God down.
Picture a piece of lined notebook paper. There are two to four words per line with twice as much space in between each word. The page is positioned in a 1.5” mustard yellow spiral ring binder, next to a cardstock cover of a bible coloring book called, “The Life of Daniel,” (You know, Daniel, the guy in the Bible saved by God as he sat in the Lion’s den.)
My first journal entry:
“This is the story of my life. When I was four I moved in a new house. It was fun but sometimes I was sad…”
Out of some obligation to God, or probably because I really enjoyed it, I never stopped journaling. I wrote what I saw or wanted to know, which led me here to sharing my story. As I did research for this memoir, I followed through and reviewed thousands of pages from my hand-written diaries, from that very first journal entry to the laptop I write in today. Through the years, my life’s experiences have been edited, mellowed and recontextualized into the memories that live in my head. As I read my writing, my own primary sources, including pages that I may not have read since the moment I wrote them, I have come to learn that my actual memories are much softer than the words I found hidden on those pages. Not only had I forgotten many painful, horrible events, the experiences I did remember have been worn smooth, illuminated with compassionate light.
As I read my childhood journals with a grown up understanding, I am amazed at all the buried, dark family secrets and revelations that have emerged. Truths were waiting in plain sight, if not always in plain language. I wrote around the brokenness. I left out the specific details, like how loud I screamed or how many times I cried myself to sleep or woke myself up in a cold sweat.
In my case, my writing became less about fulfilling an obligation and more about me. What I observed, which I am still trying to reckon with, is that I wrote about my traumas so casually that it was as if expressing them were as normal as blowing your nose—as mundane as watching television with an old remote control. I wonder if me of yesterday hoped that me of today would be able to decode those empty, clearly identifiable spaces shaped exactly like each specific trauma. I am here to say, “I think so.”
This became my writing practice: I watched. I observed. I processed it. I could not stop taking it all in. I loved taking it all in. I analyzed and deconstructed everyone and everything as a means to understand the world around me. I talked about what I saw: “Mom, did you see the man on the street? He was wearing a brown shirt and green striped pants. He wasn’t wearing shoes. I wonder if he is cold.” Mom was a great listener. After I exhausted my voice, and probably my mom’s ears, I wrote everything down.
My journaling is vivid. I am curious. I am interested. I love human behavior. I love how people interact. I absolutely love human connection. As such, I receive the world through the lens of relationships. Asking my mom and dad about sex at the dinner table as a nine-year-old completely made sense and had no bearing on the fact that my two older brothers and three older sisters were sitting around that table with me. I would also argue that there is a human need to construct and reconstruct which gives voice to our story, authority and ultimately healing to our lives. Ultimately, with all my observations and questions answered and then recorded in my journal, my journals have become the reliable narrator in my story.
I am grateful for Mom’s desire to journal all those years ago and my desire to follow suit. Without those decades of record keeping, I don’t think that I would have a good understanding of the events that shaped me and set me on my course, and I would not be able to understand my own mind, my personality, or my family dynamic as well today.
By the way, I certainly do not claim to be the world’s best writer, observer, human, wife, mother, sister, daughter or friend. I am a storyteller. We are human. I am human. I believe that we are here to heal, to forgive and to learn. This is my hope.
Pick the title for my upcoming memoir. Do you like Paper Doll Pioneer? If not, suggest another one.
My story begins. The reader is air dropped onto Salt Lake City’s temple square. It is my first day as a sister missionary there. I want to be anywhere, but on my Mormon mission”
“Years ago, pen to my raven-colored Mormon Missionary Journal, I wrote the following:
I cannot stop thinking of ways I can hurt myself. When I see a moving car, I calculate how fast I can get in front of it.
When I wrote, “in front of it,” I literally meant that I wanted to get myself squarely in the path of any moving vehicle. I always saw myself jumping through, in front of and off of things.
“How quickly will this kill me? What will it sound like? Will my death be quick?” I wondered.
As I imagined my dead self, I could clearly see the aftermath: people wiping, scraping, even tweezing my indistinguishable, flattened, mangley bits off of whatever grate, pothole, or windshield wiper blade I had landed on. As fiercely as I wanted to jump, (and was not afraid to jump), thoughts of eternal damnation and making my mom cry, consumed my cautious, cluttered and complicated mind.
I could hear the church congregation whisper, “Poor girl. Her body was everywhere. Now she will be condemned to a life of eternal darkness.” [insert church members shaking their heads in disappointment here] “This would not have happened if she had enough faith.”
Seconds later, I made myself stop thinking evil thoughts. As a means to make penance for allowing myself to have self-destructive thoughts, I took a rapid cleansing breath. I gripped my own wrist tightly, protecting me from my hand’s next intended act, which was to claw my face. I did not claw my face. I felt the warm sunshine. It was nice.
I made my way to Temple Square, in the epicenter of Salt Lake City, Utah, where I was now officially a Temple Square missionary.”
The memoir asks many questions. The prominent questions is, “How did I get here?” As I answers these questions I address themes of generational trauma and abuse perpetuated by a pure belief in patriarchy which is then reenforced via my family’s conversion to Mormonism. I explore the importance of being a cycle breakers and separately from patterns of abuse ultimately learning to use my voice, pushback and say no.
If you are interested in updates, new chapters or would like to know when my memoir is released, please join the CrazyUs Memoir Mailing List:
Moments ago I sat in the orthodontist’s office. My oldest son was getting his braces off. His braces came off easily.
“Do you plan on keeping your wisdom teeth?” The dental assistant asked him.
“Yes.” We both replied.
“Well, they are coming in straight. So I say why not.” She responded and continued, “I just want to make sure we get this right and it is hard to get impressions of wisdom teeth. They are so far back.”
After five tries, they were (finally) able to get the right teeth impressions retainer molds. I was impressed with her care and her fortitude. Soon we would be on our way. We just needed orthodontist to polish my son’s teeth. We sat. We waited. And we waited some more. As we waited, a woman holding a notebook, (who I later found out was a new employee). With her walked in the lovely dental assistant. Shortly after that, a mother and daughter came in. The girl (probably around twelve years old) sat in the dental chair next to my son’s. My mind drifted as I remembered the days of individual dental rooms. The newer, assembly-line-style orthodontia surely makes appointments faster and enables the orthodontist to move swiftly from chair to chair. Consequently, I imagine it also makes things more cost effective. My sons definitely seem to enjoy seeing that they are not the only ones who have to wear like sixty different rubber bands in their mouth.
As my son and I waited, we watched as the assistant readied the girl’s station. At once the girl’s mom stood up and warmly said,
“My daughter does better if you tell her what you will be doing first. She likes it if you walk her through the process.”
“Of course.” The assistant responded and then sweetly explained the next step.
I was amazed. She was the same assistant who had just taken five impressions of my sons’ teeth.
“We use this sand to make it easier for the braces to adhere…” she continued.
It was now 11:00 a.m. My son had been at the orthodontist since 8:00 a.m. I saw his anxiety. He had an AP test at noon. He looked at his watch. He needed to leave.
As my son’s face grew pale, I could not ignore what was happening next to us. The girl was screaming. Her mom was standing with her fists clenched. The woman with the notebook sat silent. The assistant calmly and gently continued,
“Now we are going to place these trays in. I have not seen this process hurt anyone. I do not think it will hurt you.”
“Hey honey. They are going to tell you what is going to happen. You can do this.” The mother said.
My son sat silent and wide eyed.
The girl began to weep. Then sob. Now she was wailing. That is when I saw the mother cry. She stood up, turned her back and looked like she was making a call.
“My tooth. My tooth. My tooth hurts.” The girl shrieked as other assistants gathered to help.
Another assistant walked up and slowly walked back. The girl loudly pleaded,
“I can’t! I can’t! I can’t! This is going to hurt. It is going to hurt. I can’t!”
The mother turned back, looked at her daughter and said,
“This is so embarrassing. I am so embarrassed.”
I looked at my son. He reminded me that it was now 11:15 a.m.
“I know.” I whispered and continued, “We will make sure you are out of here in time. I promise.”
Then I stood up and walked to the assistant who had walked back. She was standing behind a wall.
“Hey there. My son has an AP test at noon. When will the doctor be ready?” I asked and continued, “His day is so busy. He does not have time to polish his teeth later.”
“I could stand by his door and usher him to you when he is done.” She kindly said.
As she walked toward his office, the doctor’s door opened and he walked out. Together the three of us walked into the treatment room.
The assistant began to advocate for us. Before she could finish her sentence, the three of us were in a wash of the young girl’s screams. The doctor pushed past her words and sprinted to the girl, who was now surrounded by all available staff.
My son sat quietly.
I sat down. As the doctor huddled around the girl, I made eye contact with the assistant. I smiled. I pointed at my son and I pointed at my watch.
Now touching the girl’s shoulder, the doctor said, “Let’s give her a minute. Let’s have her sit up.”
As I listened, I thought, “they haven’t even started. No. Really. They have not even started working on her.”
Athens, Greece
I remembered all those tantrum days, specifically in grocery stores. My sons were two and four and then three and five years old. I remember leaving full shopping carts. I would ask my sons to calm down. I would tell them it would be ok. I would tell them,
“We are going to leave. I need you to calm down.”
Often they would. And often their screams only intensified. Then, as my sons shrieked, I would try to collectedly lift them out of the shopping cart. Then we would leave the store.
It was less than easy. Often I had no energy to go back to the store. I resented going back to the store. I also knew it would be easier in the moment to bribe them. Sometimes I did that too.
I acutely know anxiety. I was raised to fear and to think bad things would happen. I was raised to think things would not be ok. I also know how it feels as the stares of judging eyes wash over you. I have no idea what was really going on with this girl. I do not know if she has a severe mental health issue, if she has PTSD, or if she was being indulged. I do not know if it is my place to know her story. All I can do is have compassion for her, the staff and my son. I do.
Ultimately, my son is my responsibility. And in this moment, even though my son was not screaming, he was in distress.
Sugarhouse, Utah
He is graduating in four weeks. He leaves for college at the end of the summer. This is his second AP test in two days. True story: Yesterday during his Chemistry AP Test over the loud speaker the school announced that a student had committed suicide on school grounds. Shortly after that, the school counselor stopped the exam to explain. She left. Then completely shocked and broken-hearted, the kids continued their exams. We are still processing this extreme and confusing sorrow.
So, yes, as my son sat silent in that orthodontist’s office, I felt protective:
“Why can’t this be easier for him? Why won’t the screaming girl leave? Can’t her mom take her away until she gets it together?”
I do not know.
The orthodontist eventually came over. He put on his gloves and began to work. We actually really like him. As he polished my son’s teeth, I saw blood oozing. My son did not react.
The girl continued to scream. He face was purple and choked. She was hyperventilating. Her mom was crying.
As I looked at my son’s bleeding mouth, I kept thinking,
“It is bleeding everywhere. Man, that has to hurt.” I asked the doctor, “Does that swelling get better?”
“It does.” He thoughtfully said.
The doctor was done.
I remembered watching other kids get their braces off. Usually they celebrate. Today my son heard screams. I asked another assistant if there was anything else. She seemed distracted. I think we all were.
She quickly recovered and asked, “Did they give you a bag of candy? Kids like the bag of candy.”
“No.” I said.
She ran away and came back with a bag filled with Kit-Kats.
“Does he like Kit-Kats?” She asked.
“Yes.” I said.
She handed me the bag and I handed it to him.
“Thank you.” I said as my son and I left. He drove his car. I drove mine.
At home he could not find his keys.
“Mom, mom. I can’t find my keys. I need to go.” He screamed and continued to scream, “I have my test. I need to go.”
We rushed. We looked upstairs. We looked downstairs. We looked everywhere.
“Did they fall out of your pocket it?” I asked.
“I don’t know, but mom I have to go.”
Bordeaux, France
Then I looked outside. I found the keys in the ignition of his car as my other son quietly waiting for me to take him to school. (He also has an AP test at noon).
The other day I took both boys to the orthodontist. Kyle usually drives himself, but his car was in the shop. I had just returned from the dentist. I had two fillings — both related to clenching my teeth. It was lunchtime and the waiting room was clearing out. As I sat in the orthodontist’s office all numb-mouthed, the orthodontist’s wife, who also manages the offices, came up to talk with me.
The Day the Boys Got Braces, Salt Lake City, Utah, October, 2016
“Beth, you Adams’ have had quite a year. How are you all doing?” She asked.
“Yes. We have. With Eli’s broken jaw, Dave’s bad concussion and my broken hand, you would think we were accident prone. I like to say we are active.” I laughed and then explained why I was also talking funny. She said I didn’t have to talk, but then continued the conversation. After telling me about her six kids and telling me,
“The last one to leave home is the hardest.”
“I have the two. Kyle and Eli,” I said.
“Wow!” she said, and continued, “I just assumed you had more.”
Ok. I never hesitate to mention the truth anytime anyone, I mean anyone, including the sweet wife of my sons’ orthodontist, says anything about how I should have more children, which is,
“Yes. I wanted more. I tried for years.”
She was silent. And sure, that particular sentence usually does stop people in their tracks. My guess is within about ten seconds, she had done the math, and realized that Kyle will quickly be followed by Eli. Meaning, I am also at the end.
I am sure she was relieved when I was suddenly called back to talk to talk the orthodontist. Wait. Maybe she just #911s him when things get uncomfortable.
Anyway, with Kyle graduating from high school in two months and Eli graduating in two years, of course I have found myself extra reflective and totally weepy. My mom was right when she said,
“It will go by fast. Enjoy every moment.”
Us, Park City, Utah, December, 2007
Honestly, I think I have. Nevertheless, I still cannot believe we are here. In fact, I am shocked! Wasn’t Eli just practicing his pogo stick moves for the elementary school talent show? Didn’t Kyle just get bitten by a snake? Wasn’t Eli just learning to ride a bike? Ay-yi-yi!
Instead, here is where we are. I am surrounded by two giant and amazing man-children. Kyle is trying to figure out how he can he bleed every last moment out of high school. While he is making all the minutes count, he is also trying to decide which college to attend, how he can order a tux for prom, can he will handle life away from his girlfriend if he goes away for college. Then there is the huge concern regarding his braces. The question: will he have them off in time for graduation? We are doing everything possible to make that happen and we also understand why Kyle keeps complaining of these pounding headaches that hurt above his eyes and along his jaw.
“You might be clenching your teeth. We get it. Dude, life is stressful.”
Eli is not far behind. Not only is he planning his cross country running career, he is pining for the day his braces to come off, waiting for the snow to melt so he and the dudes can go mountain bike riding, and wondering if his dad will help him upgrade his gaming computer. Eli also thinks that college away from home might be very cool. What? Eli, man, you are my bestie. I thought you would stay close. In truth, I am certain Eli will soar near or far. We imagine he will write for Saturday Night Live or for Seth Meyers, or even the next Bob’s Burgers’ franchise.
The Boys, Avebury World Heritage Site, Avebury, Wiltshire, England
Ultimately, my love for my boys has always been and will always be fierce, protective, long winded and powerful. I will cut anyone who crosses their path. Ask the ones I have cut. They will tell you that I do not mess around. I will also do my best to give them the space they need to carve their own path. I want them to follow their dreams. I want them to fly — wherever they want to fly to. Of course I also want them to make good choices, be kind, thoughtful and gracious.
Alas, how do I transition from fiercely dedicated day-to-day mom to the mom who wants help them spread their wings? I have been worried about this moment since Dave and I started making babies. In fact, I always believed that if I modeled healthy boundaries and relationships that the boys and I would find healthy ways to ebb and flow. I always thought it was about maintaining a dedicated relationship with them. I like my sons, so that is easy to do. I also think Kyle and Eli know I am always there for them. I am loyal and I have been their strongest advocate. For them, I have and I will fight fire, monsters, bullies, or stupid people. I also see the importance and the need for them to live their own life, even if it is a life that I cannot imagine. I truly believe that they need to stand in their space, not mine.
Further, I was convinced that if I modeled a healthy and reciprocal relationship with my mom and my mother-in-law, that my relationship with my boys would remain strong. It was not hard. Dave’s mom and my mom are good people and are important to me. What they both do not realize (and do not need to realize) is that I spent way too much time trying to make sure they were happy, or better, I spent way too much time trying not to hurt their feelings, get along with them, and to accommodate them. But then, I began to see that maybe I missed the most significant lesson of all. In my attempt to show them my sons that I love my mom and mother-in-law, I forgot to stand in my own space, or better, I made accommodations and concessions for the women in my own life thinking it would reflect on how my sons treat me (kind of selfish really).
The boys back in my blogging days, Salt Lake City, Utah
For my mom, I stopped blogging. Ha ha, any of you early bloggers out there may think I stopped blogging because Heather Armstrong (Dooce.com) and I had a fight a million years ago. I wish it were that easy. I stopped blogging because it hurt my mom’s feelings. Again and again she told me how my words hurt her. Then I let her feedback dictate the terms of what I wrote. Ultimately, I did not how to reconcile integrity in my writing with breaking my mom’s heart so I stopped blogging. Sure, in her defense, maybe I could have been more mature about how I shared. I think if I had trusted myself, I would have gained that maturity. I think I have. I bet if I had kept writing, I would have arrived at a place where my mom would feel less pain and more pride regarding the words I put out to the world. If not, at least I would have learned to stand in my own space, not hers. At least I would have the confidence to know that I am not trying to hurt her. Instead I was weak and I did not have faith in either of us to grow. As a result, I was careful. I went out of my way not to hurt my mom’s feelings. And of course, by trying not to hurt her feelings, I always managed to hurt them anyway. My guess is that writing this will may hurt her feelings now.
In the end, our relationship did evolve. Instead of sharing myself, I closed myself off. Now I simply avoid any sort of complicated interaction. I sincerely try to agree with and support her. I respect her perspective and try to reassure her that things are ok. Upon reflection, I only wish I would have seen that had I continued blogging, we would have been ok. And actually, I think my mom and I were much closer way back when we were dialoguing about how I was hurting her online.
So in attempt to learn from my own experiences, I want to give that openness to my sons, even when it stings. Wish me luck.
My mother-in-law near the Cliffs of Moher, Ireland
Now onto my mother-in-law. I value her opinion probably to a crazy fault. She feels very differently about blogging than my mom. Instead of wanting things private, she is outspoken, often conveying how broken-hearted she is that I do not write about her online.
Here is a little story to illustrate why writing about family is difficult gymnastics routine at best, and why I understood my mom’s needs for privacy. Truth and perspective are messy:
…There we were. We were at the end of a long trip. My mother-in-law still insists she paid for all of it. She didn’t. I know even the suggestion that she did not pay for our entire trip infuriates her. My guess is the fact that I am writing that she did not pay for everything will bother her more than anything else I write.
Here is the thing. She takes both Dave’s brother and sister on trips, Mediterranean cruises, and more trips. She also helps them out a ton financially. We have always been grateful that she has been a position to lend Dave’s siblings a hand. That is a gift in of itself. We are also glad she can take Dave’s brother and sister on these fun adventures. In fact, we have always been cool with the generosity she shows them. This trip was her gift.
This trip was her gift.We are grateful for her gift. It was thoughtful. She was thoughtful. Unfortunately, I think she undermines her generosity. For instance, often when she takes say Dave’s brother to Spain, or his sister on another Alaskan cruise, she brings up that this one trip as a justification as to why everything is equal among the siblings. First. Let me be clear. We do not care that she takes Dave’s siblings on adventures. Second, No. It is not equitable. And third, it will never be equitable. And fourth, we do not care. We are happy she can do this for Dave’s siblings. Ok. I sound a little bitchy. I feel a little bitchy. And actually to move beyond my bitchy and to give her gift credibility, I think it is ok to be honest and acknowledge that we paid for part of it ourselves. Like for starters, we paid for our airfare to get on said trip [wink, wink]. And just because we paid for some of the trip in no way undermines that she was generous. She was. And being honest about the parameters, keeps it real, keeps it valid, and allows us to hold space not only for her gift, but what we did too. Does that make any sense? And do you understand why writing publicly about my mother-in-law may not be the best plan? Throwing caution and common sense to the wind, I will take an even deeper dive, and continue our story (and yes, it includes her).
Dave, his mom and the boys, Hampton Court Palace, Molesey, East Molesey, England, July 2014
It was July, 2014 and we were staying in Killarney, Ireland. It was our last day at our quirky bed and breakfast. We were sitting at breakfast in a room full of hotel guests. I suggested we stay at this bed and breakfast because I know my mother in law loves quaint bed and breakfasts. As breakfast finished, my mother-in-law looked up at me and proclaimed,
“Beth, everyday I read your blog. Everyday you write about Davy and the boys. You never say anything about me. You never post any pictures of me. I feel invisible.” (If you have read up until here, can you see why?)
I felt embarrassed that she publicly called me out this way. I felt sad that I had made her sad. Then she sat there quietly glaring at me.
I responded. “I do not write about friends or family. It is kind of my rule. I tend to hurt people when I convey my perspective.”
I paused and followed with, “This has been a complicated trip. I am tired and edgy. And I do not want to write anything that will hurt you.”
She assured,
“You already have!” I wanted to say, (but didn’t),
“Seriously. I know where opening my mouth gets me.”
Dave and his mom at the Cliffs of Moher, Lislorkan North, Liscannor, Co. Clare, Ireland
I wanted to show her what I had privately journaled (and why I try to follow the don’t-publicly-hurt-people rule). I should have shown her all the pictures I had quietly taken of her and her son. I refrained back then. I will share our story now:
Dave, Easy E and his mom in York, England, July, 2014
We were at a little family owned pub restaurant in Eastern Wales a few miles from Tintern Abbey. My mother-in-law asked that we order three desserts to share. The yummy desserts arrived. My mother-in-law sat at the table while Dave and the boys first stood and then eventually sat around her. She took a few large bites. Abruptly she swatted at Eli.
“Stop. Stop. STOP!” she proclaimed.
She decided Eli had taken too much of the mutually shared desserts and told him as much. I was watching. Regardless, reality had no impact. She looked at Eli, who was standing there holding a clean spoon, and assumed he was the one stealing all of her precious dessert. Both Dave and Kyle had taken a few bites. Still Eli had not had taken any. After she started scolding Eli (again), Dave and Kyle stopped eating. Undeterred, like a fast move train, she was convinced so she scolded and berated Eli (age 11), the youngest person in our group. Dave, snapped, asking her to stop.
“Mom, he is not eating your dessert! He has not had any dessert. I thought you suggested we all share. Mom. Leave him alone.”
She would not stop yelling at Eli. Dave circled her and demanded she leave Eli alone, urging,
“Mom, knock it off! Eli is not eating your dessert! Really! You need to stop this now!”
She ignored Dave.
Us and Dave’s mom, The Fountain Inn, Trelleck Grange, Llanishen, Chepstow, Wales (near Tintern Abbey) (Notice Eli’s clean spoon)
Steadfast, she persisted, gobbling up her dessert and reprimanding Eli (who was now terrified and standing a few feet from the table). I honestly thought my head would explode. I wanted to jump across the table and throttle her. I wanted to scream, “LEAVE MY SON ALONE!”
In that exact moment, a story she often tells ran through my mind. It goes like this. When Dave was very young his aunt rebuked him for eating popsicle in her living room. I remember how upset my mother-in-law was as she recalled this story to me. Dave does not remember the story. Maybe Eli will forget this moment. I hope so. My mother-in-law never forgets. She shares it with me almost every time I see her. Surely she would correlate, right? No. In this moment she was all tunnel vision. Someone was eating her dessert and she was going to fight til the death. In this moment, she was unable to see how her tunnel vision was hurting her grandson. As tears quietly fell down Eli’s cheeks, he motioned to me. Even though I see her as an authority figure and the mother of my husband,I needed to rescue Eli. I needed to resist my polite inclinations and fight. I needed to set a boundary. Angry, heartbroken and frustrated, I firmly asked her to stop. She swatted back,
“Well. Then. Beth. Eli needs to stop eating ALL of my dessert.”
“He is not eating ALL of your dessert!” I firmly said.
At that, Dave and I immediately stood up and asked the boys to follow us. We walked over to the backside of the little Welsh restaurant. In his traumatized frustration, Eli said,
“I keep trying to be grandma’s friend. She never listens. She wants it her way. I don’t understand. I am done.”
We took this photo behind the inn after leaving the table. Us. The Fountain Inn, Trelleck Grange, Llanishen, Chepstow (Tintern, Wales)
Last summer (June 2017) Dave, the boys and I found our way back in Eastern Wales. We made our way to Tintern Abbey and decided we would find our way to that little inn.
“Hey Eli let’s find that little inn. You can have all the dessert you want. You can have it all to yourself.”
We found the inn. We had built this place up in our memory, imagining the little farm in the back, the great food and the welcoming innkeeper. As luck would have it (or not), we arrived too early for dinner, which meant we were also too early for dessert. The dispassionate owner could not care less about our pilgrimage. Dinner would be served in two hours. He told us we could wait or we could leave. We decided to pass, and probably ate dinner from food that was purchased at a grocery store. Nevertheless, we were there for Eli. And Eli knew it. Eli still wants his dessert. We oblige regularly.
The Fountain Inn, Trelleck Grange, Llanishen, Chepstow (Tintern, Wales), June 2017
The Fountain Inn, Trelleck Grange, Llanishen, Chepstow (Tintern, Wales), June 2017
Here is why I am sharing this story now. Since that moment in Killarney, I realized that holding it all in or letting it all out publicly has no impact on the health of my relationships. I cannot control wether my mom likes what I write, wether my mother-in-law is happy with me, or wether Kyle and Eli’s future loves are cool with me. Now taking a huge breath I see that what impacts my relationships is communication, trust, a willingness to listen, accept, heal, and to forgive (on all sides).
Us, Northern Italy driving along Lake Maggiore, April, 2018
Just like my mom and Dave’s mom are responsible for their relationships with their children, I am the mom of these two boys. I am responsible to them. Meaning, my relationship with them is not dependent on how I do or don’t get along with my mom and mother-in-law. And as far as my relationship with Dave’s mom goes, I think my mother-in-law is pretty thick skinned and I should trust her. Things are not black and white. If she wants me to write about her, then I should. Hey, she might even be amused by her hoarding-desserts story or she may hate what I say. (Oh and yes, Plural hoarding desserts stories. We discovered hoarding desserts was kind of her thing. ). Maybe if I am brave enough to write, she might soften when she remembers that at the end of this trip I asked Dave to give her his first class upgrade so she could have a special flight home.
The boys and Dave’s mom at the Belfast Airport, July, 2014
Dave, Easy E and I on the plane from Belfast to Newark. Dave not only gave up his first class upgrade (to his mom), he sat in the middle. He is also wearing Kyle’s shirt because we were out of clothes. Love him!
Now back to my stuffing my stories way down my brain hole. See, what I also did by keeping this story and all the other stories hidden, is hide a part of myself, which is totally counter to what I want to teach my boys. I have encouraged them to stand in who they are. I have encouraged them to give me feedback, even the shitty feedback that either breaks my heart or calls me out. On several occasions, for instance, both boys (and Dave) have suggested that I talk (explain) way too much. We may disagree on this point, but not only should they be able to give me this feedback, I should be willing to listen and consider their perspective. Guess what? They are teaching me to be more succinct. Yay them.
And here is the big one. Along the way both boys have pleaded with Dave and me to stop fighting. (Dave and I are robust and impassioned, expletive-laden communicators, by the way). Recently, it was Eli who said to both of us,
“You need to knock it off. You are acting like bickering children.”
Eli was right.
Me and Easy I am sure this is another moment after he told Dave & I to chill out. The Tate Modern, London, England, August, 2017
But because I have been in a pattern of hiding who I am, I hid an opportunity to publicly share the fact that marriage is super hard, but marriage can also be really good. I have hidden the growth we have made as a family. Man, I love them. I have hidden so much like. And really, I am very sorry for hiding.
Ultimately, what I realize is getting along with Kyle’s girlfriend or Eli’s future wife is not dependent on how Dave’s mom gets along with me. Just like I want my sons to carve their own path, I need to trust my own path too. I adore my sons and hope we will figure out how to stay close around all of life’s turns. I hope do not annoy Kyle’s girlfriend. I probably will. But I also get it and I do not mind. Because the people they love are important to me!
NOW I hope it is ok that I end by leaving a personal message to Kyle and Eli here.
Barafundle Bay, Wales (near Stackpole Quay)
Boys, you are my heart!
In the end and moving forward, I apologize for hiding me. There is no shame in my past or in your future. I think it is ok that I miss those days of yesteryear. Dudes, you were very cute with all of your sweet dance moves and late night jokes. I also LOVE the men you are becoming. You are both very cool.
A little about me: personally, I think it is ok that I voted for Obama and that it took a very long time to finish college. It is also ok that I am still sad that I did not live in the dorms and it is ok to say that I wish had gone to a small Midwestern liberal arts college. Ok. Sure. That means I probably would not have met Dad. And maybe that implies that yes, there would not be you. So really, because I am saying it (writing it) out loud, I am also able to come full circle and see (and say) that I ended up absolutely where I wanted to be — with you (and dad).
Please know that if you end up going to BYU, or voting for Mike Lee, not only will I still love and accept you, I will listen to you — always.
Me, Ville de Cahors, France, August, 2018
Mostly, please learn from me. I do not want to let my fear of losing you force me to hide myself anymore. My moms are strong women. Moving forward, my mom can deal with stories about our life, or she can tell me she hates my writing voice and how much pain I cause her. Nevertheless, we will both be ok. My mother-in-law and your grandma can continue to think Eli is a dessert thief, and that I am the Second-Amendment-repealing, antifa, liberal, atheist woman-who-stole-her-best-friend, your dad. But guess what? She will also be ok. I love them and I love you. And if I want you guys to be ok and feel safe being yourselves, and if I want to maintain my relationship with you, then I need to stop being so afraid of losing my mom and Dad’s mom, or mostly, I need to not be afraid of losing you.
Get it? Be you! Trust yourselves. Remember that life is a journey. No one expects you to be perfect ever (especially not out of the gate).
