Mr. Wonderful

I’m a flawed person. I know that we all are so this isn’t remarkable. However…. I think the difference in the flaws is important.

*I have an ache, a hollowed out feeling, in my chest and a lump in my throat*

There are times like now that it is without a doubt a blessing that this blog is anonymous. I know there may be people I know that read it (Hi Mel!) but WordPress is smart to hide that from me. Keeps me honest and pure in my writing.

Over the last two years since I came to CO there are so many things that have changed, that I’ve worked on, that I’m grateful for…. but I have so far to go.

My therapist used to tell me not to look back. The past was never going to be a comfort to me. All of the things I’d been through (trauma, depression, sexual assault) they weren’t going to find my smile in the now. She was right of course, but what if leaving the past behind is harder than it sounds?

I have a long list of things that have become part of my thoughts and who I am that stem from the past and… I don’t know how to fix them.

I fear rejection.

Again, I’m sure there are others that this is their biggest thing. I wouldn’t say that I’m unique here. My struggle is to recognize actual rejection. Things sometimes feel that way, but aren’t. Your mind will fool you, play tricks on you, make you think you’re being rejected, when really… it has nothing to do with you. Not everything is personal.

As I lay here in the dark I realize it’s time to tell you all about an amazing man I was close to for a hot minute. The dark parts of my head and heart are laughing in glee because… they will use this against me for a while. Make me feel as fucked up as possible.

I met this guy online. He turned out to be… one of the greatest things for me since I was in my 20’s. He reminded me of what it felt like to find someone with a similar soul. I know that sounds deep, and in some ways it felt like it was, but really all I mean by that is… we were in some ways the same person. He used to say we were “separated at birth”. Like minded people, that appeared to want the same things, and who connected on a different level.

This man’s heart… I wish I could explain it better than I will end up doing. Such a kindness, and sweetness, almost purity to his actions and words. *this is making my chest ache again* He made me laugh, and feel good in every interaction we had. He stuck it out with me communication wise even from a distance. I feel like I lost one of the most important things to come into my life in the last few years, and the pain is more than I can explain in words.

*deep breath*

He works in a foreign country for chunks of time and comes back for paid time or at the end of a contract like this time was. We did most of our chatting online. I always felt like that was important because we didn’t have to look each other in the eye while we confessed our fears and flaws. While we learned about each other, we had the advantage of space and difference in time. Never underestimate the circumstances that bring you close to someone, they can make all the difference.

The trouble for me in my mind started before he came back from overseas. It was planted there… like a seed that I didn’t want to water but ended up growing anyway. Since my split with my husband, and the things done and said during my marriage, my self esteem has been irreparably broken and then pieced back together. Needless to say… they are still big cracks, huge gaping holes.

To be in an intimacy free marriage, no sex, no kissing, no touching, holding, caressing, cuddling…. I can’t ever explain how touch deprivation manifests other issues over time. My body image and overall self esteem has never taken such a hit.

Back to Mr. Wonderful, as we’ll call him (he’d laugh at this nickname I think).

I met him once, one date, during his time off in the middle of his contract. We had a very nice, but we’ll say unremarkable, night together at the movies. Nothing special happened, and I felt as if he wasn’t interested. Thinking about it now… if I’d known the back story he has, I’d have known that this was just the wall he has up. He’s very sweet, and so funny, but he does sit behind a very tall wall of his own making. He guards his heart with an immense, brick and mortar, sturdy, fortified, wall. I can’t blame him… I get it.

He contacted me again but it wasn’t in the cards for me to see him before he left to go back to his remote job. After meeting him now, more things make sense. He has a lot of family and friends and a fierce loyalty and duty to visit with them. See? Wonderful… but I digress.

We spent 4 months chatting online, getting to know each other in a very safe, yet honest and open way. I like to think we were both vulnerable with each other.

The one thing that always nibbled at my mind was… he didn’t really remember me in a physical way. Not in an “I remember your physical type” way. He didn’t even remember the girls, and they’re hard to miss. He had no idea how heavy I really am.

Let me pause here a second and say this: I have come to terms with my curves. I love my hips, my thighs, and my butt (let’s skip over the T’s because… of course I love those too but it sounds weird to list here). Despite my self-love and image that I work on every day, I still hate my stomach. My biggest insecurity is in my middle section. It’ll never be the same after being pregnant and… I hate how it looks.

I admitted ALLLLLLLL of this to Mr. W. He knew about why I hated my stomach, how I felt about it, all of that. He liked to… pat it. Poke it. Touch it. I have yet to decide if he was repulsed or fascinated, or just didn’t even think about what he was doing. It never really bothered me, but I noticed. It fed my own insecurity.

Before he came back, we talked A LOT about weight. He describes his dad as “a big boy”, his brother as “overweight” and his friend’s new wife as “bigger”. He even described a close friend overseas as a “bigger but beautiful girl” and… he told me “she has to be at least a size 10”. *cringe*

I never told him what size I am, or my weight. Within the first day of us meeting again in person I knew his brother’s weight and his weight…. and that I…. outweigh him. NOT his brother, thank the lord, but I do outweigh Mr. W by a small margin. *sigh* you see my struggle I know you do dear reader.

So, as we spent time we got closer. We spent a good amount of time together considering how long he’d been back and that I’d gotten a horrible cold from my outbreak monkey son, and then passed on to Mr. W.

The first night he stayed with me things were like you’d expect… lots of makeout and holding each other. No sex. I tell you this friends as informational, not out of bitterness. I was thankful he wanted to wait so I didn’t feel like it was all about that.

Second night was the same but he left early, or that could have been the first night. It blurs together because all I could think about was this handsome fit man laying next to me. In total he must have slept in my bed at least 5 or more times. The last three times more important than the first two. We spooned andddd… he didn’t even get turned on. Not even once.

This is so much more detail than I expected to subject you to my lovelies, but… it’s the truth and the reason for my major mistake. One I can’t ever take back and… I wish I could.

I couldn’t let my confusion and hurt over the seemingly chaste nights in bed get the best of me. I tried to talk to him about them. I think he was amused and just said that it was him not me. He realized sex would make him vulnerable and he wasn’t ready.

I should have been relieved. Instead… my insecurities festered… and grew. I started to think he just didn’t want to tell me that my stomach and weight were unattractive. He couldn’t say “your Pillsbury dough girl stomach turns me off”.

Ones own mind is a horribly mean thing sometimes.

The last night he spent with me… we barely touched. The cuddling was minimal and, when he left the next morning I felt… melancholy. Gloomy. Blue. Down. I felt like if I was the right person for him things shouldn’t seem so… hard.

So I did what I do best. I pushed him away. I told him I didn’t think I was the right girl for him. I backed away instead of dealing with my insecurity in a healthy way. Or… at least talking to him about all of this. I hurt him before he could hurt me. I was… am… an idiot.

During our time these last two weeks he made me laugh, held me, kissed me (chastely, like the kind of kiss you do in front of your mother) and told me things. He admitted to his own insecurities of not being able to connect to his people, his friends and family, anymore. He said he wanted to “go slow” and that he was afraid of commitment. He just needed time. It’s not me… it’s him.

I saw hurt allllll over this. I should be relieved we never slept together yet… I’m sad. I think it would have brought both of us closer together. But, he wasn’t ready and I may be wrong about it fostering intimacy. It may have made this whole thing worse.

When I “pulled the plug” I was bawling on the floor in my bathroom. I was praying I was wrong about being the wrong girl for him. Part of me was hoping he’d fight back. I was secretly hoping he’d fight for what we were developing and what we had. I don’t blame him that he didn’t, He’d already given me so much and been so open with me. My pushing him away meant his own insecurities of not being good enough were correct. He couldn’t be more wrong.

So… here I am… in bed in the dark… tears streaming from both of my eyes because I can’t go back. I can’t fix it. I tried to message him an apology. I tried to tell him I was wrong. I tried to backpedal and fix things… but he won’t read my messages. He won’t respond. He’s with his father, his best friend, at the moment so… hopefully he’s having fun and not feeling shitty about my letting him go. He’s obviously not thinking about me, and that’s for the best.

Actually… I’m hoping he’s over all of this. I want to picture him smiling, laughing, enjoying time with his dad. I want to picture him with a girl that lights up his heart and makes him feel so great about himself. I want to picture him in love. *yes, I’m still crying*

His eyes… those eyes… that last look he gave me on my doorstep… I’ll never forget any of that. I want to picture him at his best. I want to picture him so happy it shines through those eyes.

Lord help me… this one really hurts, and it’s my own fault.

I have a dream…..

that one day I’ll be able to get 8 straight hours of sleep again. That I’ll be able to sleep in and feel rested. This may be a pipe dream, but I still have hope.

I love my child, and I am thankful that most mornings he wakes up happy. He does so at 6:30am, but that’s not the problem. The problem is the two wake ups before the final up and at ’em that I have a hard time with. If I were different person I’d be ok with giving him teething tablets, kissing him on the forehead, and passing out face first. I don’t care what the bottle says, those tablets knock your kid out. It’s lovely….if they’re truly teething. I only give them to him if I can tell he really feels rotten, and the most obvious culprit is those mean old baby teeth.

God gave me a busy bee of a baby boy, and I wouldn’t have it any other way. He’s a lively little character, which helps momma not worry about his metabolic disorder affecting him much. More sleep would help me keep up with him better though.

In all seriousness, the sleep thing has been a huge factor in my mood, and ability to cope. The postpartum was probably inevitable with my mental health history, vitamin D levels, and the hormones, but add lack of sleep and it exponentially grows. Most of the early days after his birth I don’t remember. Sweet little bugger, but very draining.

It’s very hard to take care of yourself while caring for a very defenseless baby, or super busy toddler. Either way, as my therapist says “mother’s cupboard is bare” at times. This is one of those times, and I’m feeling very rough. I don’t wear makeup most days, and I may or may not fix my hair while sitting at my desk at work. I am off today, and it’s harder to put myself together today than it is usually. I haven’t had a pedicure in months, and my feet look horrible. Breakfast today was a Belvita, goldfish crackers and a Popsicle. Ridiculous. I need him to take a morning nap!!!

****

Mission accomplished-little man is out, momma had a 20 minute power nap and now I’m watching Food Network. When dada is home ESPN is constantly on so I gotta take advantage while I can.

I should be doing a Jillian Michaels DVD or something but I literally have zero energy and motivation at the moment. I asked my hubby the other day if my flabby ass turned him on and he just scowled and shook his head like I was being a little crazy. This is the heaviest I’ve ever been, and I wish I was not only in a better mental space but a better health place. It’s not about my skinny jeans, or being able to wear a bikini, it’s about being comfortable in my own skin. When I’m heavier, my joints hurt more, my back aches, my feet ache…you get it. My body isn’t healthy. I’m not too bad off, according to healthy BMI ratios I need to lose about 35, but again…I don’t feel great. I will say this, regardless of the number on the scale, my body has taken on a different shape. It’s like pregnancy rearranged the furniture for me and I’m still getting used to bumping into the coffee table. My girls will never be the same…not without surgery. I’m not into pain regardless of why so I’ll pass on that option. I look in the mirror often and try to remember my younger, pre-pregnancy body shape. Makes me tear up every time because I don’t have an attachment to this body like I did the old one. I look at it with a passive air and ask myself “who is that? Do I know her?”.

My genes aren’t in my favor. I love my mother with my whole heart and when she passes I pray God will give me enough strength to pull myself out of my dark closet of grief. She is my mentor, and my strength, and I hate to think of her getting old and feeble and passing away. Despite my extreme love for her, or maybe because of it, I can “say” this….she gave up on herself a long time ago. You can see it in how she carries herself, what she wears, and yes…my mother is very heavy.

My heart aches as I type this…but I want to know what happened? I’ve seen her younger pictures, I know she used to go do more things, and laugh more often and dress like she still felt sexy. Where did that go? How do I help her find it again? How do I avoid falling down that far? Was it the exhaustion and stress of being a mom? Was it all of the energy that she put into us and let herself come last one too many times? I see the embarrassment in her eyes when we clothes shop, or she doesn’t fit somewhere out in public, like a restaurant table. Just thinking about it now makes me hurt for her.

As I sob while typing this I cry for her, I cry for me, and I cry for things that are lost or broken and may never be found or fixed again.

Do we lose part of ourselves with every child we birth? I can tell you I feel like a totally different person, and I am not sure that is how it should go.

My mom wants me to do weight watchers with her. It’s the only thing that has ever worked for her. I can’t tell you why I’m resisting. Time? Money? Pride? I have no good excuse so inevitably I will. I hate the counting and constant measuring of everything you put in your mouth, but I’ll do it for her.

Dinner tonight is grilled steak, and fruit and veggies. No recipe because I don’t usually take the time to marinate my steaks. I’m lucky if I remember to defrost them in time, marinade would require more brain power than I have most mornings. Remember….not on my game till about noon. Taco soup for a fund raiser tomorrow, but that recipe can wait…till tomorrow.

Happy Thursday all! My bundle of busy should be up any minute, and he’s going to be huuuungry!