life · memories · thoughts · unapologetically me · writing

Unapologetically Me

I’ve spent most of my life trying to be what I thought others wanted of me.

No more.

It’s time to finally feel comfortable in my own skin.

I’m done apologizing for being me.


death · healing · life · memories · mom · mothers · pain · regret · thoughts · writing


When someone you love dies, there’s always a hole that’s left behind in their spot. Over the years, I’ve lost many dear friends and a handful of relatives.

But nothing compares to the death of a mother.

Today makes exactly one month since my mom died and the wound feels just as fresh.

One of the worst parts for me is that our relationship was strained. Unfortunately, I was abused as a child. Because of this, as a teenager, I became a cutter. And tried to kill myself several times. I figured that it would be best for everyone. Since no one loved me, no one would miss me.

Then, as a young adult, I distanced myself from most of my family. It was the only way for me to heal from the pain of everything that I had been through. As an adult, I started sifting through my memories, trying to piece together the shattered and forgotten parts of myself.

Unfortunately, it was only after my mom died that I realized that she was also a victim of my father’s abuse.

And that I had punished her because of him.

I always thought that he would die first. We all did. And I thought that when that happened, that I would find common ground with my mom. That we would move past our shared pains and experiences. That I would be able to forgive her for sitting by, doing nothing, while my father exploded on me time and again.

But I was wrong.

And now, now I’m mad. I’m pissed. I’ll never get the opportunity to let my mom know that I forgive her. I’ll never get to tell her that no matter how far away I was, she was always on my mind. Every success, every failure, every decision. She was there. Even when she wasn’t. I’ll never get to have the relationship that I’d always hoped we’d have when my dad died.

Because it’s too late. I let time get away from me. I let pride betray me. I let pain rule me.

I don’t know if God is real or if reincarnation is or anything like that. But I do hope that my mom somehow knows how I feel and if she doesn’t, maybe one day, I’ll get to tell her.

It’s raining today. It feels appropriate.



life · thoughts · writing

Marley Bear and Pudgy Potato

I have 2 wonderful little dogs.


Marley Bear, my 7-year-old, is a Shih Tzu that was rescued from a puppy mill. He had kennel cough and they threw him away. I nursed him back to health and he’s been a model citizen ever since.

Pudgy Potato, my 3-year-old, is a Havanese that was rescued from drowning. He was very skittish we first adopted him, hiding under the bed anytime someone raised their voice even just a little, but he’s come a long way this past year.

Honestly, I wouldn’t change either of them.

Everyone that meets my two little critters comments on how they could be twins, but to me, they couldn’t be more different.

Marley is black and white, weighs 18 pounds, and is the sweetest, most sensitive dog I’ve ever known. He’s fearless and has a strong need to protect his family. He’s drawn to humans more than other dogs and loves to cuddle and be brushed.

Pudgy is silver and cream, weighs 12 pounds and still has most of his puppy brain cells. He’s still learning that it’s ok to join me on the couch and most nights, rather than sleeping on my bed, sleeps under my bed. His motivation in life is food. He’s drawn to dogs more than people, and runs away anytime I bring out a brush.

Before adopting a second dog, my biggest concern was that Marley would become territorial – no, that’s my human; my bone; my food bowl; my bed. But that never happened. Marley treats Pudgy like a beloved brother. They play perfectly together, tearing through my house, play growling and submitting one another. Even on walks, Marley, who is a trooper and will walk 5 miles – if you ask him to – will slow down to match Pudgy’s meandering gate. I joke that his legs are only 2 inches long, whereas Marley’s are 4, so we have to cut the little guy some slack.


I often take them to the park, both excitedly running out to my car, “Yay! Car ride!” Marley will stand by the side of little Honda, waiting to be picked up and put inside; Pudgy, meanwhile, will shove past and jump in on his own. Every time, I look at Marley and ask, “Why can’t you do that? You’re bigger than him.” But Marley will look at me with his beautiful brown eyes, which are slowly turning blue, with an expression that says, “Please, just do it. I don’t wanna talk about this,” until finally, sighing, I reach down and lift him up.

Once inside, all of Pudgy’s excitement disappears, but Marley is just getting started. Marley LOVES car rides. Pudgy tolerates them. Marley jumps all around the back seat, needing to see everything from every angle. Pudgy will sit calmly on the seat, sometimes floor, just waiting for the trip to be over.

In the end, we arrive, and they both want to tear out of the car. It’s time to PEE!!! Every dog that every lived anywhere, needs to know that my two have not only visited this park, but CONQUERED IT. Everything you see belongs to them and no other dog ever.

It’s adorable.


life · thoughts · writing



Being an extrovert doesn’t necessarily mean that you share all of your thoughts and experiences. For the truth is, although I have become an extrovert (wasn’t always this way), I’m a very private person.

Although I’m outgoing and the least shy person that I know, I normally only share general facts about myself and my life.

For example, I don’t mind telling people that I’m number 6 of 7 children. Or that I have 2 dogs. I have a degree in Accounting.

But what I don’t share, is that I’m estranged from all of my siblings but one. That I love my two dogs more than I’ve ever loved my parents. Or that I despise accounting so much that it makes me want to slit my wrists.

Now, I understand that in polite society, these are things that you don’t easily, readily share with just anyone. But the fact is, outside of my husband and the people actually affected, no one knows these things.

I bury these, and so much more, deep inside.

Which is why I like to thing of myself as being friendly but standoffish.

But I’m tired of burying. I’m tired of hiding. And I’m tired of keeping these things to myself.

So, for better or worse, here goes. Wish me luck. I’m going to need it.