a greater spirit

I aspired to be a greater spirit.

I made mistakes.

I aspired to be a sweeter spirit.

I learned.

The fact that anything I ever did contributed to his downward spiral inspires me to prove my truth.

I aspired to be a sexier spirit.

I longed. 

I did everything I knew to do.

Key word. "I"

I got help, got services, got ideas, got inspiration, got faith, got HOPE, got books, got therapy, got meds, got toys, got connected, got tuned in.

There are no victims here. Just circumstances.

I aspired to be a simpler spirit.

I told him the truth.

All of it. Too much truth. I gave him, Dr. Phil style, get to business, here's the deal, let's do x, y and z truth. He needed softer, subtler truths. He was damaged. Patch one hole and a new one would appear.

Now I know. I know for sure; although, I had come clean entirely, he still had secrets. Bigger than life secrets that he never, not once admitted to me or any of our therapists over a TWO YEAR reconciliation period in any way. I see hints now. If I had aspired to be a better wife, I may have noticed the subtle hints he did leave... I was tired. Better became harder and harder. Hope became dimmer and dimmer.

I know not what is worse. Not being trustworthy enough to be told the truth, or knowing he died by his own volition based on his truth. More shitty secrets, and he left an easy trail that only I could find. He wanted me to be able to connect the dots. It didn't need to connect the dots to know where he'd taken his soul. The trail was a sad, gut wrenching, implausible, are you fucking kidding me journey. I keep thinking I'm going to find a note somewhere. Some kind explanation of how he felt we'd be better off without him.  How ridiculous. I still don't see the silver lining there. Fatherless children in an age where his pain was manageable, if one only asks for and wants the help.

What about the girls? He left them no note. He made a mean choice. How mean and violent and selfish. I have been outright blamed in writing and face-to-face conversation for his death.

I made mistakes.

But I never stopped trying. To fix me. To fix us. I told him he didn't need fixing, just tweaking. I admittedly gave up on trying to fix everything. I have solid reasons. My reasons have nothing to do with him, or any man. They were made on my gut. I didn't feel safe. I felt heavy. I felt the way my emotional affair made me feel. Guilty. Confused.

Our journey to wellness was progressive and expensive. We grew so much.... Emotionally, spiritually, sexually. Except for this one secret. His secret; we would've made it. Except he didn't feel like the man I married. My gut knew something was off. And even on a great family vacation, while having a great time, I knew. I needed to end the marriage. Our therapist, gave me this advice:

Don't make a decision on a bad day, during difficult circumstances. Make it on a good day when nothing is wrong.

I still stayed. I still stayed! And that is because I loved him. And we were so good at being parents together. Our girls deserved for me to stay.

Because...

I aspired to be greater.

I aspired to be sweeter.

I aspired to be sexier.

Of all the goodness I aspired to achieve, I never aspired to be richer.

FUCK OFF is pretty much my answer to the blame Dawn drama. But it still hurts. He abandoned three beautiful daughters! It was his choice. His long planned, long threatened, long standing view on problem solving. He succeeded. Not only did he succeed, but his choice was the worst one can choose! Drowning takes the longest, and is the MOST painful way to die, and it was HIS CHOICE. That is how much pain he felt. His pain in this life had to equal how he ended it. How absolutely tragic and awful as well as totally preventable had he stayed with the systems that were proven to work. The meds worked. But he didn't like taking them. So he didn't. And he faded away...

Our middle child, the one who was closest to him has a tough time in water. She often holds her breath until it hurts. She can't imagine he did not choose her. She's very mad at him. And I love the sea. And I love water. And I'll be damned if she won't swim like a fish and dream like a mermaid despite her loss.

I'm just so sad for him, and them.

And I still do not accept any blame. Suicide is painful for all involved. It is also very mean. Very, Very, Very Mean!

I can pinpoint the month, July, and year, 2008 that my marriage ended; although, I didn't find that insight until I processed his death and all the circumstances leading up to his death. Summer 2008 was supposed to be the summer of fun. Money was flowing. Girls were healthily growing. And he was suicidal. And I was numb with fear.

I didn't even know he was depressed. Much less thinking of dying! How can you not share that with the person you have trusted your entire being with, the person you call your best friend. I came home from our doctor toting free drugs and a survey having three of seven symptoms for anxiety and depression. I handed him the survey. He had all seven. We cried. We took the pills. Once the medicine started to work, he got sadder and weepier and remorseful for what he called "leaving us." The pills made him sleep better, feel better and think clearer. It's the thinking part that he always struggled with most.

Then came autumn. Then came hope. Hope that I was great, sweet, sexy. I had some secrets of my own. My HOPE came in via email and mp3files. Not one, but two music men filled my proverbial inbox with compliments and personal performances any girl would blush to receive. My husband even saw my blushes. He knew about the songs. We were spending 1-2 hours a day connecting and communicating. He said, "I can't write music and sing to you, but I can love you like no one else as the father of your children." That seemed plausible. Real. Logical.

Before any songs were ever sung/performed, I confessed my feelings. How could I have such massive, ignite my bones kind of feelings for someone I only saw once, in a group setting. HOW?! I told my husband the truth. I wanted out. He wouldn't budge. Now I look back and see a ton of times manipulated me. Controlled me and I'm not easily reigned in. But my girls are my life. But I wanted to stay. But I could not.

My weapon was always the truth. His was always guilt and thick promises. Declarations of love that I didn't feel. I don't know why. But once I'm gone from a relationship, I'm gone. I even told him that when we met. I said, "I'm a bird. Never try to clip my wings and we'll be fine."

His death did not destroy me. His choice was his own truth. But now I'm left in search of my true love who must also be a GREAT dad. My girls deserve no less than genuine, old fashioned, sweet, undying love.

I aspire to be a better spirit.

I don't aspire to be a better wife. In fact, I don't think I will ever get married again. Now my life is complicated. For now, I'm going to hunker down and simplify motherhood and career. I'd love some great, sweet, sexy man to sweep me off my feet, but after a month on online dating sites, I'm a little weary.

Whatever happened to serendipity.  I know... serendipity is what got me flirting in the first place.

if my pillow could talk

I'm dreaming about him again.
He always comes to me in my dreams.
Sweet, sweet dreams. 
I wake up feeling bold.

But he thinks less is more.
How much less is really less.
I'm full of less. 
How much more must I endure.

joy slumbers on my bed

It seems my darkest hour is behind me. It was actually the whole month of October. I'm not a crier for the most part. I especially don't like crying in front of anyone. I saved most of my tears for late night, or the shower. But October left me crying morning, noon and night. Not for any reason. Just a wave of sadness would hit. No one had to say anything, or do anything. It just hit me like a tidal wave without warning.

I didn't realize I hadn't already been through the worst of it. I thought I was doing great. Staying strong. It wasn't hope keeping me strong, it was survival. I had to keep it together for the girls. Hope was overshadowed by need.

Hope was always brighter when it dawned from fear. Fear of failure. Fear of loss. Thankfully, I don't live in fear anymore. The worst has already happened. So I continue.

I open every door. I keep marching on. Sometimes joy hits me so hard, I feel like running.

After rappelling a breathtaking, 196 foot waterfall in Costa Rica, I enjoyed the passionate kisses of a 28 year old hot, hot Latin man. With our large group well ahead, we kissed. Our only witness, the spray of the waterfall we just descended. After that kiss, I ran, and I mean RAN up the 400+ foot rocky path. The guide leading the way was surprised I wanted to run it, so he ran. I arrived huffing and puffing minutes behind him.  We both smiled and laughed.

Andre, the gorgeous guy in his forties I couldn't help but notice, passed me half way and also met me with a smile. He didn't laugh when I arrived, he told me I started too fast and should've paced myself. Ugh! As if I don't already know that about myself mister! Andre is tall, smart, handsome, educated, athletic, never been married, no kids, great teeth, funny, I could go on. He sat with me at our very first sit down meal. His choice. My radar was on him. Mr. Latino literally came at me like a freight train. He escorted me to my room, to be sure my bags arrived safely. I opened the door and my breath was taken away with the view. An active volcano and floor to ceiling windows will do that to you. He made a noise that called my attention back to him, another grand view,  and he called the view beautiful, but said I was "wild beautiful" and before I blinked an eye he was right there, arms embracing me and already kissing me before I could truly comprehend. He was sweet and tender rough. So me! Not bad for a first kiss. Not bad for an older woman. Not bad at all.

Don't get me wrong, this trip wasn't about men in the slightest, or getting noticed at all. It was my trip to show the girls how we can enjoy life and trust that all will go well. Being kissed was not my mission. But when in Rome...

I only mention the age of Daniel because my radar guessed he was in his twenties. At my age, twenty-eight is a stretch, or so I thought. I was stunned to learn he even noticed me. Of course I noticed him, but the thought never crossed my mind. He was our guide, our Julie from The Love Boat. Plus, there was a super cute, super hot, twenty something girl on our trip. Why bother with the old lady? 

It wasn't Vegas, but I kept that door open. The kissing door is my favorite door. I don't remember ever kissing anyone as passionately as he and I kissed that weekend. That is saying A LOT. That kind of kissing usually leads straight to other things that distract you from kissing. But he loved that way I kissed him, and I loved the way he hugged me when he kissed me. I felt a little sparkly every night because of Daniel's affection. Like Tinker Bell herself sprinkled me with just a smidgeon of what's to come. It woke me up. I felt very alive. It was very surreal. It still is. I didn't even get his last name or contact info. Not a shred of him came home with me, other than a little glow I carried around. Fresh glow.  Until the last day.

On our final day in Costa Rica we went ziplining. This time sorrow socked me one. I felt so alive, and a little scared. Each zip was about a half mile long and although some were a little shorter, zipping along at 45mph for over a half mile above the rainforest overlooking an active volcano only reminded me of one place. My honeymoon. (I remember every time in my adult life I've had my breath taken away. In Hawaii, it happened so frequently. The aloha spirit one gets while there is a real fact). We zipped six times. I wept 5 of the 6 zips. Happy tears came at the very end, but mostly I wept sad tears, mad tears, high and dry tears, sobs of wet tears that dripped down my cheeks like rain. Everyone noticed. Everyone left me alone.

Joy and sorrow. Highs and lows. I know for a fact that while sorrow sits inside of me, joy slumbers on my bed.

And so I...

March on. Persevere. No matter how undulating the seas or crooked the path. I've nearly drowned in sorrow and most definitely jarred my brains with missteps.

I am reminded of H.W. Longfellow, “The dawn is not distant, nor is the night starless; love is eternal."

O M G!

I wasn't wrong.

I was actually really right.

I know what I know and I like what I like.

O M G!


I was right.

And I fought.

And I sought.

And I am stronger.

And wiser.


I know what I know.

I know.

I know now.

It was all right.

And it still went wrong.

I still love.

I still long.......

cursed or blessed?

I am losing the ability to hold back my feelings for anyone or anything. I live in the moment, every moment and I want to see past next week for a change. I am also more alive than I have ever been. I am scared to death some days. Then some days I feel I can save the world. If the truth is supposed to set you free, then why do I feel caged up.

At the same time...

I am gaining the ability to build a wall tall and strong, fortified with love and forgiveness. I live in the moment, every moment. I am more alive than I have ever been. Some days I feel I can save the world. The truth has set me free.

The trouble is, I'm really afraid to fly.

i got it wrong

i followed the light

i followed you home

perfect kisses

and i'm still alone

i heard your voice

i felt your pain

i only have

myself to blame

your sweet embrace

you sang a song

it felt like home

i got it wrong

effing sweatpants!

An effing repost. Because it still makes me LOL and this is my blog to express myself however I wish. If you don't like what I write, then get out of my grill.


When a new boy-friend shows up to my friend's house on a special occasion sporting sweat pants and rock hard abs with no sentimental gifts in tow my outwardly shy and super sweet friend texts me this message...

SWF: He wore effing sweatpants last night. Dawn! He was still hot but come on! Sweatpants?!

ME: Lol. He's a boy.

SWF: If u could c his body....ugh.

ME: Is he really everything you want and need?

SWF: He doesn't know what he doesn't know. And I haven't even shown him a quarter of what I know.

ME: Take it for what it is then. He's a good start. This is the beginning of the end of your divorce.

SWF: Ud think he'd want 2 increase his chances of continuing to get laid and; laid well cause my game's tight. 

ME: Lmfao

And this is my shy, quiet friend. She tells me shit she'd never tell another soul. It doesn't startle me in the slightest to have this friend vent to me. I'm tickled she trusts me so much. Despite or because of my loss, I've become both an expert and a novice at being intimate. I learned so much in my marriage about physical and spiritual expression, or withholding expression, and I know for sure that although great abs are nice to look at, hopefully, you're looking in each others eyes more than rubbing your hands on the washboard. Good sex is more mental than physical. Without emotional intimacy, you may as well be using a toy. Just sayin'. Great abs in sweatpants or Ralph Lauren chinos, it doesn't really matter if you're brain isn't totally into it.

Then there's my outwardly vivacious, sexy friend who will drag you in the men's room if you have to pee at a concert (there's never a line for the stalls) who loves to fuck and recently admitted sexting pictures of her vagina to her younger man. I must LOL, not at her, but with her because that's beyond frisky and horny in my book. I've been known to send some emails I should have never hit send on, but that's one that causes me to pause and reflect on the other party involved when they receive said picture.

I honestly think there's no greater compliment than to hear a man say FUCK when he sees you naked, or when he groans FUCK when he feels you naked, but I want to be there, when the FUCK word comes out. I prefer to be all present for that word. FUCK!

Besides. I think all cursing should be saved for close friends and fucking.

mourning morning

I've been mourning the loss of Adrian a LOT longer than the rest. He has been gone, the man I knew and loved and married, for years. :(((( makes me so mad and sad that no one could help... that he never asked for help, not then, not now....

And now I mourn a different way. 

How could a man so gorgeous, so kind, so worthy feel otherwise? The answer is a monster, a family member stole his innocence and his self esteem at the ripe again of five. That man not only had a sick mind he lied about what happened until the day he died. They always lie. They make their prey lie too.

No thing I told AC, about his worth, his handsomeness, his amazing soul, meant a thing. He didn't believe me. He believed the lie. I understood best because I was molested by a cousin many times. But it was not rape. It was not violent. We often used to discuss, with each other, with our therapist, how most people who've been violently violated as children are drug addicts, alcoholics, or dead. Adrian never smoked a cigarette much less did drugs. Not even one cigarette! Not once. We didn't drink. He only drank with his buddies, on occasion. But he had another coping mechanism. He didn't always tell the full truth and he never asked for help. The last one is the big one. Asking for help is huge in recovery. We were told we are forever in recovery. He was drowning in little untruths. One here, one there, and sometimes, I didn't know what to believe. That's why we decided to split again. I felt, my intuition felt something was not right. He didn't act like him, feel like him, smile like him. I guessed it was because he didn't love me like he professed. I guessed wrong.

Even when we were 'dating' others during our separation, he always told me I was an amazing mother, an amazing woman, he always told me he loved me unconditionally. I could do no wrong. If a woman did something (a facebook post would get back to me like wildfire), he'd make her take it down. He'd say, "She's with our daughters and I don't want anything upsetting her while she's parenting our daughters." And down the misdirected (and incorrect) post would come. The one that got me was "If she knew how to treat him, he'd have stayed." (It was ME who figured out his abuse two weeks into knowing him, it was me who got him into treatment, me who cuddled him through the sobs of recovery, me who held the secret for him for 8 years. I couldn't stand it any longer. Watching that man hug and kiss on our babies grated my every nerve). Even while we were with other people, he was always looking out for his girls. I was always looking out for the return of the man I loved, the one I adored, the one I married, the one I had three beautiful daughters with and loved so deeply and intimately.

That's what childhood sexual abuse does though. It robs ones ability to be intimate. Not just sexual intimacy, but all the intimacies (see below).  We had them all for 8 years. And then, well, once the treatment started... we had to really work hard to achieve them. We often did. But it was sporadic. Funny, that's what his college baseball coach at UCF called him. He'd have scouts at games considering him for the pros and he'd play great one day, and bomb on the next. Sporadic. That's what got me in the end. He was all or nothing. He was either 100% present, or in the room and a million miles away. Unreachable.

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EIGHT TYPES OF INTIMACY

        Assess what YOU Need/Want & Discover What Your Partner Needs/Wants:

l. AFFECTION—DAILY..NOT SEX…could be touching/kissings/acts of service or kindness

2. SOCIAL—DOES NOT HAVE TO END IN SEX….together and with others…DATE TIME…once a week

3. EMOTIONAL—Once a Week…Not a Marathon…Debrief your FEELINGS:

           I’m Feeling……; I’d Like….; I don’t want….; Do you want to Discuss Now or Later (set time)

           Appreciations & Apologies

4. INTELLECTUAL—Sharing of Daily Events/Plans/Politics/Sports, etc

5. PHYSICAL—NOT SEX…gardening, shopping, cooking, working out, biking etc…together

6. AESTHETIC—Sharing Something Beautiful…NOT SEX…Music/Art/Pets/Travel/Nature/Theatre, etc

7. SPIRITUAL—Religious Events, Meditation, Nature, Reading, Prayer, Music, etc.

8. SEX—Once a Week Body Connection that Includes Genitals…Intercourse or Outercourse (of course)

               Does not have to include orgasm…showering, massage, “good morning/good night” to body

Truth and intimacy are the keys to any relationship. If truth be told, I actually told him to go get a girlfriend a few years back. I could never imagine life without him, but I also didn't recognize him. I read this book "Kosher Adultery," and I took it a little further. He was not okay with this suggestion. He was not okay that I was okay with this suggestion. It was more innocent than dirty. I wanted him to see how others perceived him. Because he was off, way off. And my tough love tactics, my medical, therapeutic, get tough tactics were not working.

In March of 2010, he was offered a chance to have dinner with the Yankees players and to meet Yogi Berra and go to the second to the last Yankee game at THE Yankee Stadium for free and he didn't want to go. I had to FORCE him to go. His mentor was dying of cancer, they had the chance to go together and he didn't want to go! He lost his swag, his mojo. He lost his happy thoughts. He felt unfit, unattractive and not worthy and I couldn't convince him otherwise... and then I started believing him...then it was just a big mess. A BIG FUCKING MESS. He went on the NY trip and had the experience of a lifetime, but I had to force him. I was tired of forcing him to live life to the fullest. And now he's gone. And I've been mourning his loss so much longer than anyone else on the planet.

double rainbows

I promised with all my heart, with all my grief and madness, I promised. Promised the girls I'd be the fun parent. The Littles (aka Emma and Ava's) first coherent words when I said "Daddy died and went to heaven" were "who's going to play with us!?" The grand perplexity of our loss hit us all a little deeper. Adrian was the fun parent. Good cop. I'm bad cop. Daddy was only bad cop when someone pushed the bad cop too far. Even through difficult times, we parented like a well oiled machine. And I could not imagine a world without their playful laughter so, I blurted out, in the unrealistic, impulsive manner that I often do...that "I will be the fun parent now." I'm wanting to kick myself for saying that. There's this panic of knowing I can never compare. I now have to be stronger than I have ever been. I was already down. I was already tired. And now I have to be stronger than I've ever been in an alien land.

Adrian and I both worked from home for at least six years, in the same office, under the same roof. I ran my classroom, he ran his camps. We dreamed up this life on our honeymoon, a life that allowed us to do exactly what we were doing, so we could spend as much time together as possible. He wasn't a weekend golfer, fisherman, or softball player. He preferred to be home, with us. We were best friends. We spent every possible moment together (except for during our separation) and today is a day we'd be on opposite sides of the house working. Me, by the pool in the shade of the patio, and him, in a chair in the shade of the oak tree out front. We'd cross paths now and then. It's usually too hot and smarmy to work outside, but it's March. It's Florida. It's glorious outside.

Spring is everywhere in our neighborhood. We have a huge oak tree and a tree that blooms purple flowers. I'm not sure of the name, but I love this tree. The neighbors tree blooms yellow.  I love that first pop of color we get each year and I always make everyone take notice. The grass is a sea of purple in our yard and confetti looking yellow on the other side of the street. The trees bloomed this year on the day of Adrian's burial. I took notice alone. Then I dropped Emma off at Pony Camp and saw this double rainbow. My iPhone doesn't really capture the second one, which is always above and a bit more faint than the larger one. This particular rainbow (below) was a complete arch. Pot of gold to pot of gold.

That double rainbow was Adrian. I was still in such a blur, I hadn't yet asked him to let me know he's with us and this is what he sent me to take me out of a trance. Emma and I hooted and hollered and clapped real fast, as Junie B. Jones would say. "Daddy sent us a double rainbow". Of all the wonderful moments on our honeymoon, nothing surpassed the end of a four hour hike on the North Shore of Kauai. We were booking it on the way back so as not to be stuck on the mountain after sunset and we came charging around the corner of a steep pass and VAVOOM. Double rainbow. It wasn't raining, but the wind hit the spray off a waterfall on the next ridge to create it. They formed a half arch from green mountain to the sea. We stood there taking pictures for a few minutes. Of just him. Just me. The long armed reach didn't get both rainbows. We tried to figure out ways to use the timer, but it was useless. If the camera fell, it was ocean bound. We couldn't get both of us in the double rainbow shot. :( Boo!  But, as we started to leave, we heard another couple, two guys came barreling around the corner and freaked out when they saw the rainbows and two giggling people handing them a camera. We freaked out when we saw them. YAY! We got our shot. I remember thinking happily, we have our holiday card. What a perfect start to our marriage. Our first holiday card is of us, complete with six packs, and double rainbow. We took so many pictures, multiple ones, multiple ways, just to be sure.  So, I know he's right here. My angel. I just know now, more than ever, what he was dealing with because now I'm dealing with it. 

 My only regret... wearing overalls!

Some other amazing adventures of that trip were swimming in the Seven Pools in Maui, hang-gliding by a waterfall and over George Harrison's home, hikes to active volcanoes on The Big Island, kayak adventures with wild dolphins and snorkeling with turtles in Kauai (lots of famous movies made there like Jurassic Park and From Here to Eternity), and the best part was once we left the airport, we never saw other people (which was my intention) and we never once stayed in a hotel. We had outdoor showers, hot tubs with views of the Pacific, not a hotel in sight, free roaming horses, you name it. Solitude was our guide. I planned many honeymoons to Hawaii for friends after that trip. Planning this trip gave me a vision I could one day freelance as a travel writer carving out romantic sights all over the world, selling dreams more than reservations. To this day the rainbows on the Na Pali Coast and neighboring Tunnels Beach, in Kauai are two of the most splendid visual sights I've ever seen. Incidentally, it's the same beach that the young surfer girl lost her arm to a shark. The surf surges about a mile out, perfectly smooth waves that don't even make a ripple on the beach by the time they roll in. I completely understand why she still surfs that beach.

Tunnel Beach, Kauai

This picture doesn't even do it justice. There are waterfalls and bungalows scattered about the mountain.

I planned this vacation using a romantic travel guide called The Best Places to Kiss in Hawaii. I devoured that book with the intention of creating the most amazing honeymoon that we'd remember forever. We even stayed in an real tree-house overlooking a black sand beach in Hana, Maui.  In Hana, Adrian completed the last leg of the Iron Man (not really, but that's a great story too). So, when I say, ours was a fairy tale, complete with monsters. I truly mean it. We had it all...until he got sick. Really, really, really sick. And from then on out, we fought hard to get back to each other, but we failed. This time, I was the depressed one. I used to kid him, what would happen if we BOTH were depressed at the same time? Be careful what you ask. You just may receive the answer of a lifetime. 

Delving into his businesses, his employees, (and their opinions of me) as I settle his affairs, I see how he was profoundly alone, with too much on his plate, unreachable by me, because of new secrets. Secrets that are caused and created because of the first secret. The one he was willing to share with Oprah. The one that ultimately changed the man he might have been.  

Our story wasn't the prince trying to save the princess. It was the princess trying to save the prince. And I failed. No one may ever love me and accept me like he did. He used to argue with me that he loved me unconditionally. I never believed him. I even had our therapist confirm that unconditional love is usually not for spouses, but children. I believe him now. He already forgave me. He keeps sending me hearts. I see them everywhere. In chewing gum that's been spat on the ground, in patterns in the clouds, leaves that blow in the door, shadows on the wall. He's still loving me now. I miss him so much. I was such a fool to doubt him. Such a fool. I'm helplessly hopeful there's a happy ending in store. One that Adrian and I are both at peace. I know he is. Now I just need to forgive myself. 

AC DC

I don't want to make anyone cry. I don't want to cry myself. I just feel so sad that we were no longer ACDC. We were a rock star couple, impenetrable from any storm, we never fought. Seriously, ask anyone. He was my beloved. He thought it was cute when I got mad, and he made me LOL about it, and then I wasn't mad anymore. When my brother found out we were separating, he said, "Damn, if you and Adrian can't make it, then who can." But when the economy tanked, and our children showed us their innocence, we realized the profound impact that our loss of innocence had on us, and we never saw that rock star couple again. I have been mourning the loss of that couple for a while now and now this. And all I can think to do is honor him. Honor that love. Honor our existence. I'm going to make it okay for us all. He's going to guide me. I can't wait to see how he makes me LOL from heaven. I'm waiting. Patiently. Waiting.

rest in peace, love

I am so thankful Marshmallow died one week before Adrian. Had he not, I would've never shared that last hug, that last kiss, as husband and wife, with him. Our love was still there. But part of him was missing. I know why. I know more now about how he was struggling to keep his business going, how he never took a paycheck, how he robbed Peter to pay Paul/his employees.

It's no secret we were having troubles, but it was never 'I don't like you or love you anymore'. It was more 'let's move onward and upward' and 'let's get past this.' But there were some monsters in the house with us. Ultimately, those monsters led to his death IMO. He was overworked, underpaid, under appreciated. He couldn't catch a break with the schools he was working with, and because of his past, he didn't ask for help. He was tired. So very tired. He now is at peace, as we all mourn. 

Shine on us A. We miss you so. So much more that you'll ever know...

Maya Angelou’s ‘When Great Trees Fall’

 When great trees fall,
rocks on distant hills shudder,
lions hunker down
in tall grasses,
and even elephants
lumber after safety.

When great trees fall
in forests,
small things recoil into silence,
their senses
eroded beyond fear.

When great souls die,
the air around us becomes
light, rare, sterile.
We breathe, briefly.
Our eyes, briefly,
see with
a hurtful clarity.
Our memory, suddenly sharpened,
examines,
gnaws on kind words
unsaid,
promised walks
never taken.

Great souls die and
our reality, bound to
them, takes leave of us.
Our souls,
dependent upon their
nurture,
now shrink, wizened.
Our minds, formed
and informed by their
radiance,
fall away.
We are not so much maddened
as reduced to the unutterable ignorance
of dark, cold
caves.

And when great souls die,
after a period peace blooms,
slowly and always
irregularly.  Spaces fill
with a kind of
soothing electric vibration.
Our senses, restored, never
to be the same, whisper to us.
They existed.  They existed.
We can be.  Be and be
better.  For they existed.

AC, I love you

Please come home safely. We'll start over. Let the past be the past. Make a new beginning. Fresh and new!

Whatever you need, I'm here for you. We'll work it out together. WHATEVER IT IS.

Please God, hear my prayers.

sending go juices

I never got bulgy eyes. Thankful!

Although I'm in remission, I have to check in with my endocrinologist once a year for life. I don't mind having Graves' Disease (hyperthyroidism, it includes nervousness, anxiety, fatigue, bulging eyes, weight loss, hypertension and irritability), because thankfully, it isn't that grave anymore and if I had to get a disease, I can manage this one. I consider myself lucky. I'm lucky to have it nowadays when there's a pill for every ill. Not long ago, I would have died from it eventually. My body was basically a metabolic super machine. My resting heart rate was 144 when I was first diagnosed. I was burning calories just sitting still. I had shaky hands and feet and a goiter the size of a peach pit and I only went to the doctor asking for PROSAC.

I didn't really even think of it as a physical problem. In my eyes, I had finally become my mother, I was crazy. I needed medication. I had a baby in the winter, went back to work in the fall and had night sweats, goiter and accelerated heart rate by October. I figured I was weak. I figured my mind couldn't handle all the stresses of needy students and baby and hubby and and and and....and I was grumpy. Not mean grumpy, but tired grumpy. Like, leave me the fuck alone, grumpy.

I was off. If I tried to relieve stress by working out, I'd feel like I was going to pass out immediately, so then I couldn't work out and that made me even more ornery. I've been told by males and females alike that I can be a mean bitch and divinely sweet simultaneously. Sentimental bitches are bad ass. We don't take shit from anybody. We can't be lied to (at least not for long). We can cut like a knife and heal like no salve ever created. If truth be told, I didn't mind the ornery part, or hungry part, it was the tired part that bothered me. It's hard to sleep when your heart is pounding like that. It's hard to drive too, but who knew that when I drove myself to and from my first few appointments.

I'm one of those fortunate people who had an overactive thyroid. That means I was eating and eating and eating and losing weight rapidly. There's another side to that cycle of eating. And that's when I got "caught."  My portable was next to the custodial, um... facilities, and one of the coaches noticed me running in there, every day, like clockwork. He even swung by my cubicle in the planning area during lunch one day. He was watching me eat and stuff. We went to college together, he kicked the goals and I did the cheer, and he knew me pretty well. I was getting skinny. Me. Skinny. So, he waited for me at my room one morning, and he asked, "Are you okay? You aren't going bulimic on us are you? I see you in there a lot." I gave him a sentimental bitchy remark, like, why the fuck are monitoring my shit and how sweet of you to notice, but I promise, I'd never do that. Ever. But I was skinny. And grumpy. And those two words just don't sit right with me. I'm happy and curvy. Not skinny and bitchy. Not me. I didn't ever want to be a skinny bitch.

It was so odd. To be so skinny, and get so many compliments for it, and to feel so fucking sick. It took me two weeks after getting diagnosed to find a doctor that would work with me. Radiation is the cure for Graves' these days. They basically eradicate the thyroid altogether, and then you take medication for the rest    of    your    life. Hell to the NO! I had been too fit, for too long, to have this thing they called Graves.

So I researched and researched and researched. I found out some thyroid conditions are reversible with medication. I just had to slow it down. I could do that. I could chill out. I found one doctor who agreed with my self diagnosis of 'post-partum hyperthyroiditis, a completely temporary, completely normal after pregnancy condition for many women. I found one doctor in one medical journal that said you could medicate hyperthyroiditis while nursing. The first two insisted I couldn't. The author in that medical journal that referenced this condition and deemed the meds as safe happened to be from Miami. Lucky! The man I needed, the man that writes for and about the disease has a practice nearby. I was there in no time. I was nursing Skye for eight months by then, she never ever ever took a bottle and the first two doctors said I needed emergency treatment. Diagnosis on a Thursday. Treatment that Monday. They scheduled me and I was supposed to ween an infant, in that condition, in three days. Fucking morons.

So, I found the right doctor, and got a diagnosis, (he never changed it from Graves on my forms, but admits it was post-partum related off the record) and he took me from insanity back to wellness in less than a year. I took 75mg of PTU a day at first. I'd fall into a deep coma if I took that much today. Without doctor approval, I titrated myself down to 10mg over a period of a year proving that it was temporary. Today I'm medication free. Being sick makes you appreciated feeling well. I raced my first triathlon that year. And, after every baby, my thyroid kicks in, I lose weight, heehee, poor me, and then I medicate until my hormones get back in touch with my brain, I ween myself off, then I'm fine again. No radiation needed. No having to pop a pill everyday for the rest of my life. No getting the grumpies. No lumpies in my throat. I mock you Graves dis-ease. I'm in-ease. I'm thankful I know my body well enough to trust my instinct that my condition was reversible. Just because a doctor has a title, doesn't mean they have anything more than a notion of what's going on in my body.

Funny thing is, even though I did all that research, and knew my facts, and had permission, I filled that prescription and still didn't take the pills right away. I figured I was now aware it wasn't my mind, it was my body. I thought I could think my way well. I was too sick to actually accomplish that though. I ended up having to take medical leave from work to get my strength back even with the medication. It was a rapid little disease. I'll never forget what I felt like after just one pill. Just one 25mg little pill. Peace!

Every pill was like an instant moment of happy highness, a veil of fear uncovered and released, a soft steady white light. With every day, the fog was lifted, and my vision was restored. I looked forward to taking those peacemaker pills that brought me pleasure like I was about to enjoy a large glass of something yummy while sitting on that rock above with the one I love. Relief was just a swig and a few minutes away...ahhhhhhh. Peace!

Plus, it was legal and perfectly okay to pop those pills and no one is going to judge. I was a hyper, but high kind of happy on those pills, hyper because my heart was still at 120bpm even asleep, if you can even call that sleep, and high because it calmed me down enough to relax and know my mind was well, and happy because I knew I was going to be okay eventually. All that felt real good. Within two weeks, I was back to 100bpm. Then I really became high on life because a gland that had been overworking finally stopped sending go juices. I remember feeling myself come back to myself Oh, THERE YOU ARE! I KNOW YOU. HHEEEEYYY, I KNOW YOU. FUCKING A, I'M NOT CRAZY AFTER ALL. What a month that was. Skye turned one, we had a big party at the park, under the gorgeous trees, and I took my first pill. I went about a month from diagnosis to first treatment. Once I took that first pill, I was hooked on recovery. That little pill made me chill. I loved that pill. 

One of the toughest parts of that time was deciding not to go back to work. I had a rough bunch of students in class that year. The substitute would call me from class to speak to certain students about their rowdiness. I'd be all, "Now Cambriel, you know your parole officer isn't going to put up with that crap either, just because I'm not there, doesn't mean you can act like a caged animal. Sit down and shut up already. She's just doing what I asked of her. I'll be back soon." I'm sure I even said, be good for me. Sappy, but true. I was supposed to return after spring break that year. Three months of R&R and I was rested, well, sorta, because I kept Skye home with me. So it was more like three months off from your day job, but this one, this parenting thing is 24/7 for the rest of your life. 

So I decided to stay home the rest of the school year. When my students found out, they rioted, and I guess they said whatever mean things they felt like saying to my replacement and she quit by the end of the week. I was sad and mad. But I couldn't be there for all of them, as much as I wanted to, I had to take care of me, if I was going to take good care of Skye. I needed more time than medical leave would allow. So I took time. I essentially took off until August when I returned for the fall semester and have been goiter free ever since. Apparently, goiters only develop when the other symptoms are ignored. I can always catch them before my goiter grows. Fucking gross, right? Goiters and shit. Graves Disease will mess your shit up. Seriously. :)

This time off, this next month, is me doing that finding peace process all over again. I've healed myself in many ways, mostly physical, and I heal fast. Childbirth just makes me hungry. I'm up and about in minutes trying to take a shower. Graves is gone. Check. Check. Now it's time for forgiveness and moving on. It's time for peace.

boss intervention

So, I started feeling guilty about taking so much time off and I decided to work on Mondays. What we do is too specialized for a substitute, so when we take time off, our load just jumps to someone on our team. This is the reason we all never take any time off. It's a lot of freaking work for someone, and you can't really enjoy your time off when you know someone is busting their ass for you. But! They are also getting paid extra, so it's not all bad. But, still...

The last time I really felt on vacation was when Hurricane Wilma hit and we drove to Orlando and had a Disney adventure. Skye was three and Emma was teeny tiny and although we didn't worry about milk going bad (nature doesn't spoil), we got the hell out of here. Those were great times economically. I highly recommend Disney's log cabins in Ft. Wilderness. They're basically a doublewide trailer dressed like a log cabin in the middle of a Disney forrest. Deer will roam. Marshmallows will be roasted. Horses and golf carts are a fun way to travel there. Next, I highly recommend Epcot's Food and Wine Festival coinciding with your hurricane retreat because then you can drink beer, (small servings actually increase milk production and aid in sleep cycles, duh, right?), while pushing strollers full of happy kids. The only reason I felt like I was on vacation at that time is because at home, there was no electricity for over a week. No power meant no students submitting assignments. No power really means no work when you teach online. It was a GLORIOUS, unexpected, unplanned vacation. And I haven't had one since. Virtual school is yearlong. It makes for a better paycheck, but not necessarily a better life.

So the guilt set in and I told my boss I'd work on Mondays so I could at least help with oral exams. Oral exams are the backbone of our instruction and without them kids would cheat more. We have huge efforts in place to hamper cheating. Plagiarism software. Knowledgable staff. You can't cheat on a oral exam. You either know Brutus was an asshole and Caesar was ambitious and can find the words to communicate that for a kid of your age, or you can't. So I decided I'll do Mondays. 

Then my boss got me on the phone, and told me to take it all off. So, here's the catch. The person who has to take my load is my friend Nadine. I helped her get on board and now she's stuck working for me. She's about to feel what full-time status feels like and she's still a reading coach at a high school in the daytime. Right before FCAT. Her busiest time. Fuuuuck! Plus, he wants me to train her to do my oral exams as well. See, it's even work to take off work and now my good friend, a single mother busier than a one armed paper hanger, has to take my load and DANG IT, I feel so badly! But, then again, this goose is tired. That goose will fill her coffers. But I have guilt nonetheless. Why does everyone think this goose can handle everything on her plate? 

The Goose Story

Next autumn, when you see geese heading south for the winter, flying in their familiar “V” formation, you might be interested in knowing why they fly that way. Science has learned that, as each bird flaps its wings, it creates an uplift for the bird immediately behind it. By flying in a “V” formation, the flock together gains over 70% more flying range than if each bird flew on its own.

Like the geese, people who share a common direction and a sense of community can get where they are going quicker and easier, because they are traveling on the thrust of one another.

Whenever one goose falls out of formation, it suddenly feels the drag and resistance of trying to go it alone. It will quickly try to get back into formation to take advantage of the lifting power of the birds in front. If we have as much sense as a goose, we will stay in formation with those who are headed the same way we are going.

When the lead goose gets tired, it rotates back in the wing, and another goose takes over the point position. It pays to take turns doing hard jobs!

The geese from behind honk constantly, as you’ve no doubt heard whenever a flock passes overhead. They do this to encourage those up front to keep up their speed. An encouraging word goes a long way!

Finally, when a goose gets sick or is wounded by gunshots, and falls out of the formation, two geese follow it down to stay with it and protect it. They stay until the goose is either able to fly again, or dies. They then launch out on their own or with another formation to catch up with the group. If we have the sense of a goose, we will stand by each other.

~ Author Unknown

leap year

I sent in my official paperwork for my leave. I waited for today so I could do it on a Leap Day of a Leap Year. I confess, I do enjoy a little numerology in my life. I wish I could get one tiny little glimpse of Leap Day in 2016. Just a peek. But that won't work, it never works how you think it's gonna work. It's the same logic, either way you look at it.

bewares the ides of March

This soothsayer just took the whole month of March off. Paid leave. That's right bitches. I'm tired and I want to be a mom for a while. Take a vacation. Go to the beach. Read a book from cover to cover in one day. Right before FCAT. Right before that damn state exam that measures my performance and pays me accordingly. I'll show those stupid fuckers. I have been teaching all year, not just right before, or directly to some stupid multiple choice test; besides, I've already taught them what they need to know by now and I didn't tell them what I was teaching them. I just taught.

In a traditional brick and mortar school, my friends all have to preach and teach to that damn test. They must display their instructional goals on the board, i.e., W.9-10.2., they must all be in the same book, at or around, the same time of the year, and they must put up with non-sense behaviors of adults and children, and they must go to time wasting meetings, and pep rallies to hype up the students, not about the big game, but the test, and I didn't once mention that fucking test this year. Well, if you count making fun of it, then I did. My students will outperform the state and the district. Kiss my big ass FCAT, you big PUSSY you. Now I'll be able say, I didn't even show up the month before, and still...

Pssst! Washington. It doesn't matter what you teach it matters HOW you teach. It doesn't matter how many bodies you have to teach it matters HOW you teach. It doesn't matter what instruction you deliver, virtual or real time, synchronous or asynchronous, it's HOW you deliver and engage and connect that matters. It doesn't matter where you're headed educationally, as long as everyone's making progress, and wants to go where they're headed. We can't and don't measure progress by one stupid fucking exam. Are my students employable, good citizens with good manners and hopefully good grammar when they leave me? I think they are. This stupid test doesn't measure any of that. IMO, when the student is ready, the teacher will come. You can't force kids to perform. It's more like an invitation to travel with you. Why do I have to go THERE their way all the time when I can get there, just on a different road, all on my own. Scope and Sequence is for beginners, Mr. Politician!

It's time to have a little pep rally of my own.....I am THRILLED to take this time off. FREEDOM to do whatever the hell I feel like doing.  Hmmmm, where am I gonna go?.......beware the ides of March. I am getting my turtle tattoo that weekend for sure. I wanted to get it on the 15th, but I'm afraid it'll ruin the wedding  and the bachelorette party in the Keys. I don't want to be bothered by it, or bandaged, or that girl with my shoes off the whole time. Gross. It'll need to be the day after the wedding. Sunday. Sun day. Maybe I should book another night at the hotel.

Peace is a Verb.

Peace is a verb; I keep reminding myself of that fact.... It makes me want to get a tattoo on my left foot, that looks like a loggerhead turtle, but the turtle is made up of words that say either "Peace is a Verb" or the Oscar Wilde quote below. Or, maybe she won't have any words...  

I have always loved turtles, especially loggerheads. The mythical Turtle is a creature of two elements; land and sea, as such the Turtle reflects an ability to adapt and flourish in any environment. I have always been a turtle. I know where home is.  I just do. I can't explain why  or how I know.  I know when I'm not there. I know when I'm headed away. I also know how to get back home. I'm home sick. 

Charismatic Megafauna

Can I find an artist to combine the two....???

Love Interruption by Jack White
Cover by DnA

Once in Dawnland, it's tough getting out. 

high five to all the pretty bitches

High five to my pretty bitch, Dawnie, friend of 30 years. We met when I was twelve and I had to spend my every middle school day at the local high school athletic facilities.

We laid out by my pool yesterday and puttered around the house together like we were 12 and 16 again. (I'm the younger one). The Dawns have held up pretty well so far. High five pretty bitch! Hive five to all the woman who manage to take care of themselves with great care while balancing their pretty bitch selves in this topsy turvy world! Here's to having.....Brains and Braun (we're steam cleaning the patio ourselves) and Body (same bathing suit, and we didn't buy it together or do it on purpose) and Beauty and only Bitchy to those who need a bitch in their lives. ;)

:)

HIGH FIVE PRETTY BITCHES:

sometimes you can't make it on your own

Blogs and bloggers are so egocentric. I don't know if I like that yet or not . A blog is basically a little soap opera, or a novela, or a platform where voyeurs and soul mates meet up. I'm on the fence right now with this online blogging business. My real journal misses me. My middle finger has no callous (insert metaphorical middle finger). On pretty paper with favorite pen, is where the real fun takes place. I have manifested every dream I've ever dreamt up on those pages. I used to keep an illustrated discovery journal. If a picture or idea caught my eye, I'd cut it out and I'd glue it in this journal.  In today's world, we call that Pinterest. I just joined and I absolutely love it. But right when I really start loving it, then I start hating it again, and not wanting all this progress. I want the world to be simpler. Scissors, glue, and a vision that you had to create, all on your own. Pinterest is like my illustrated discovery journal on steroids. I can't decide if I want a real, old fashioned lifestyle, or a fully virtual, fully connected, 24/7 life. It's odd how I am waist deep in both lifestyles. I need to make a move soon. I wish I knew how to play life like a game of chess. It annoys me when I play more like checkers, where my fate is bound to some good moves and a little bit of luck. And then, I also love that life is more like checkers most of the time because I'm pretty good at checkers, and can't remember the rules to chess.

This applies to friends and lovers. 

Sometimes you can't make it on your own by U2


Tough, you think you've got the stuff
You're telling me and anyone
You're hard enough

You don't have to put up a fight
You don't have to always be right
Let me take some of the punches
For you tonight

Listen to me now
I need to let you know
You don't have to go it alone

And it's you when I look in the mirror
And it's you when I don't pick up the phone
Sometimes you can't make it on your own

We fight all the time
You and I, that's alright
We're the same soul
I don't need, I don't need to hear you say
That if we weren't so alike
You'd like me a whole lot more

Listen to me now
I need to let you know
You don't have to go it alone

And it's you when I look in the mirror
And it's you when I don't pick up the phone
Sometimes you can't make it on your own

I know that we don't talk
I'm sick of it all 
Can - you - hear - me - when - I -
Sing, you're the reason I sing
You're the reason why the opera is in meâ

Where are we now?
I've got to let you know
A house still doesn't make a home
Don't leave me here alone...

And it's you when I look in the mirror
And it's you that makes it hard to let go 
Sometimes you can't make it on your own
Sometimes you can't make it 
The best you can do is to fake it
Sometimes you can't make it on your own