I have not blogged in many moons. I thought I was saving it for a certain time, but felt a post stuck in my throat this morning.
one of my least favorite holidays.
I started the morning off in a fuss.
I shall digress.
Yesterday I was at home from work with the stomach bug—I had diarrhea and was throwing up, even water. I did not want to use a sick day, since I always go over on days. Last semester when I used all my absences, I was charged $222 per day I missed. My last pay check in December of 2017 was docked over $900 for sick days.
Life happens; kids get sick (or lice), I get sick, sometimes we just need a recovery day as teachers. So I have really been trying to save my days, especially with this thing I haven’t told y’all about coming up… I will be missing lots of days.
Anyways, after being sick yesterday, I fell asleep early, around 8:30 p.m. (to my boyfriend playing with my hair like the God he is) and woke up around 11:30 p.m. to Jeremiah hopping up. He is a wakeful sleeper, so I thought he was going to the bathroom.
But no. He’d fallen asleep not too long after I had, without eating dinner.
It was a must. At 11:30 p.m. he had to make his ground beef tacos.
He does, as well. Just the other night he fired up the grill, made chicken, and sliced it for fresh tacos. We had avocado, grilled onions and bell pepper, fresh onions and cilantro, limes, and fresh salsa. And cheese, but I don’t like cheese.
Those were good tacos.
Ground beef tacos, made with a taco seasoning pack, in hard shells… not good tacos.
However, he made these tacos. In the middle of the night. Since I had been sick, I felt repulsed at even the thought of these fake ass tacos.
After about 30 minutes, I checked on him via text, because I could not fall back asleep in bed alone. More so because I knew he was making those tacos and I was secretly starving. (I had eaten cucumbers with lemon juice on them for dinner).
I was correct he responded, and even made a grand appearance in the room letting me know he was almost done. (I think there was a FaceTime in there, of me rushing him back to bed). He told me he would hurry and eat, told me I was cute, and asked if I wanted some.
I hate fake tacos, so no thank you, darling.
I gave in, about 12:30 a.m. and headed to the living room.
Do not forget, that I had the stomach bug and do not like fake tacos, so I sliced half of a cucumber, squeezed half of a lemon on it, and sprinkled too much salt on it (Tiger hates how much salt I use on things). I do not think he knows I put too much salt on them for dramatics since I couldn’t eat tacos and he dislikes it so much.
I sat and ate about half of my cucumbers and I caved.
I ate two of his tacos.
Tortillas, ground beef (that was spicy), onions, cilantro, and they were good. I could not deny that they were so good, even though I hate fake tacos.
Anyways, he kept eating, and watched The Regular Show, and downed some Corona, and we were finally back to bed around 1:00 a.m.
He rubbed my head until I fell asleep again. (Yes, I am blessed).
I woke up abruptly around 4:00 a.m. I heard voices and sat up looking around. I reached to wake Jeremiah, and there he was, asleep, with anime playing on his phone from Netflix. I turned it off, and he woke up.
We were back asleep by 4:30 a.m.
I finally crawled out of bed at 6:46 a.m. I am supposed to be leaving with the girls for school by 7:20-7:25 a.m. Jizelle forgot to do her homework. It was math. Multiplication, but not regular multiplication memorization like we did. There’s boxes, and games, and triangles, and weird things that I know nothing about. I handed this off for Tiger to do.
I fussed at the kids, and was walking around in pajamas and an oversized shirt (with no bra) until around 7:20 a.m.
I yelled at Jizelle that she had 5 minutes to finish her homework. Spent time bitching and moaning to Tiger about how annoyed, tired, and sick I had been. Left with an attitude, told him I love him, he said “and I love you, baby girl,” and I responded, “yeah yeah I am sure you do,” with an attitude. (I know he does, though, obviously).
Moral of the story, I woke up in a bad mood because it is Valentine’s day and I was running late and bitched at my boyfriend.
Now back to the whole moral of the story, Valentine’s Day often feels like a tedious chore. Our society spends much time revolving around what we ought to do to show our love. There are the posts, weaving between social media platforms to make sure all your followers from various mediums see the love you all share. Now presents. Birthday, Christmas, New Year’s Kiss Post, Valentine’s Day…
This past year (in this current relationship) I came to an agreement with Tiger that we would not buy presents for our Birthday’s which are November 21 and 23, Christmas, and Valentine’s Day. We compromised for birthday’s, saying we would but one thing each, but it had to be $20 or less. We both pretty much got the perfect gifts for one another, for less than $20 and it was the most satisfying gift I’d received, like ever.
On the grand scale of life, I am certain if you know Jeremiah or I, you see a different type of happiness than we’ve previously had with past relationships. We know this, friends know this, family know this. While we both have shared moments of life from social media where we looked so happy, and of course, there is good moments with people even once a relationship ends.
All in all, that’s the real VALENTINE’S DAY gift
Love, hugs, and tons of kisses.
Side Note: This is a personal story that I've submitted to join a blogging team. It's long. Sorry.
It seems as if the wee age of eighteen wasn’t too long ago, right? I was one of those who walked the stage at high school graduation with a baby bump. I was in love with a sweet talking, motorcycle riding, salsa dancing, soccer player. Oh, he was the man of my dreams. Not even a month after turning eighteen, I delivered my first child, Jizelle. Ironically enough, now that I am looking back, she is the rearing force of my post-secondary education. My mom was alright—but I wanted to be amazing, awesome, freaking astounding.
Turns out, Señor Salsa Dancer was not the man of my dreams. (I know, we were eighteen, how could I have been wrong?). He even had proposed to me, while having another girl friend. That ring was living proof that he was ready to be devoted to me, and come home to his family, in our two bedroom shack every night—or not. I woke up one day, signed a new lease, and left.
I have always been quite spontaneous and horridly impulSive. It's a trend I am still trying to conquer!
During the time of my marriage, my husband was always great. Hell, even more than great. He allowed me to engulf myself into my English studies and back away from working. We spent nearly four years married, and I had my second child in September of 2012, another girl, Presley. Then delivered my third child not too long after, in July of 2014.
It is quite remarkable, now in 2017, I have begun calculating all of the mistakes I made in our marriage, that guided us straight to the ledge.
When I say he was a good guy, he was the best guy.
Even with my mistakes, flaws, and controlling ways, he still seemed to be patient, empathetic, and never teetered.
I mean, friends would gush about their guy, how he couldn’t keep it in his pants, texted other girls, gave the silent treatment—endless things.
I treated my husband worse than any could imagine, and he never lost love and hope for me.
I rushed into a marriage.
I know this now. I get it. I am fully aware that since I did not have the most stable and positive family aspect growing up as a child, and swept a failed household with my high school boo under the rug, my heart craved a family. I wanted a sense of completeness. I needed wholeness. I needed a family, a good husband, a degree, and a career to prove to myself that indeed was a worthy woman.
In February of 2015, I’d had it. I told him I was moving out. I couldn’t stand living with him. Looking at him. Sleeping next to him. Each day, I had a new reason why or a one more thing for him to change.
Now looking back, it should have been me gathering books, articles, and self-help guides to be a better wife
I should have been sprawled on the alter, begging the Lord for mercy and healing.
I packed up, got an overpriced 2-bedroom apartment less than 15 minutes from the house we owned, and left (again). Those days were the most sovereign of my life. The silence, small space, and time alone made me beam with joy.
People noticed a glow, and questioned if I was pregnant again!
“No, ma’am,” I’d say, “I’ve just left my husband!” Sorry, not sorry.
So, I’d spent six months alone, February to August of 2015. My husband had still wanted to go on dates from time-to-time.
One, free food is great.
Two, I didn’t want to look like a bitch and decline the offer.
As if moving out wasn’t bad enough, I know.
Towards August, I was like:
wow, we have been getting along so great, maybe it’s time I move home and commit to making this work for the kids. I can’t actually get a divorce without giving our marriage a try just one more time.
In comes that evil impulsiveness, I met with him and told him I wanted to move back home. Within a week, we were moving my things back home. I found somebody to take over my lease, and it was done.
I was home. Oh, home sweet home.
Actually not. As soon as I moved back home, I converted back into the evil woman I’d once been. Bitter. Belittling. Bitch, there, I said it.
P.S. That’s the woman famous for the “ain’t nobody got time for that” news interview.
I exhaled the moment he pulled out of my driveway. Bye, bruh.
Of course, now that it’s been over two years since our initial separation, and a year and a half since he moved, I can take the blame.
I didn’t realize this while we were married, no, defiantly not.
My parents never quite taught me things I needed to know to be in a healthy marriage. It seems I was pretty much free to do what I want, say what I want, and act how I wanted my whole life—and until I was married, it never posed a significant issue. It landed me an internship, jobs, two degrees, and ultimately, the wherewithal to raise three children on my own. Heck, I’ve even gotten published from some things I have mustered up at a local coffee shop.
Even the slightest difference in my past, would have led to me not having them. And my sweet babies are everything important on this planet. So, I’ve decided my sporadic decisions and nontraditional happenings were supposed to happen just this way.
My actions serve as a model of what not to do for women. As a guide of what to do if things do not go as planned for young ladies who may have a similar story to mine.
I am only twenty-six. I’ve been divorced. I’ve Graduated with a Bachelor’s in English and a Master’s in Education. I’ve adjusted to being a single mom. I’ve gotten used to working numerous jobs—full time teaching as my primary income, even though it isn’t near enough. Taking on homebound students to supplement pay. Working as an adjunct professor at the local technical college. Picking up journalism for a local agency. Building a small business from scratch, though I barely have two nickels jiggle in my pocket, as it. Paying out of pocket for therapy to heal the wicked woman I have buried inside. Seeking redemption in His name (faith is a new journey).
I'm tired, don't try this at home, kids.
Take your time.
Never lose focus of your goals.
Be an eager learner—read, write, research, seek professional help.
Be nice to people, it’s free.
Listen earnestly to those who need an ear.
Be unapologetic of who you are, but that’s not to say that its acceptable to be unapologetic for scornful words and unjust roles in relationships with your significant other, family, or friends.
And lastly, (definitely not the least), get to know what makes your own soul smile and your heart heal.
PSS-- I am still working on that last part.
Aim for progress, y'all.
Hugs, Kisses, and all the love.
Ironically enough, my first blog post was three months ago, when I had a rough night and had convinced myself that my marriage was over. Well, it is now 2016, and I've finally dug up the logins (after the billion failed attempts and excessive password resets) with confirmation that my poutey blog post from three months prior, is indeed reality.
My husband moved on Christmas. We opened presents with our three littles. I made breakfast-- bacon and eggs. He set up the WiiU and the kid's new BlueRay player. And after Canon went down for a nap, I lit a fire log, and watched my husband cry as he stood over the girls playing with their new goodies from St. Nick. I cried watching him cry-- it was one of those throat closing moments, where swallowing even becomes a lost function.
I walked him to his truck, and he gave my forehead the last kiss it would ever receive in South Carolina. I had already moved out of our home-- it was listed less than a week before it went under contract for full price (YAS) and I'd settled into my new three bedroom rental out on the island. He continued to cry, but my tears had seized. He drove away, and headed to his hometown of Baltimore, Maryland.
My exhale could have demolished even the three little pigs so-stable brick house. I felt relieved.
Horrible, I know. Oh, so horrible. I feel the embarrassment burning my face as my thumbs punch away on this iPhone.
I was relived that my husband left me with our three children, on Christmas Day. It wasn't spur of the moment. We'd found out he had an interview for the job in September. He nails interviews, and just so happens to be one of those irritatingly likable men. Everybody oozes at his 6' 2" bundle of charisma (do I sound jealous?). In October, we found out he had been selected for a job, and was placed at Washinton DC. This is an enormous opportunity-- Firefighting for the Department of Defense comes with opportunities civilian fire departments here in our small town could never provide. I was ecstatic that he was given such an opportunity-- it's really quite flattering to be offered a position.
I chose to not go.
Yes, that's right. I flat out refused to go-- not initially, of course. I played the good wife role. I looked into real estate in Baltimore (where my darling in-laws reside, hear my snark?) and even applied and interviewed for teaching positions. When I paused and thought of the reality of the situation, I could not go.
After our first separation, we cohabitated in August and the job stampeded us in Septemebr; I could not commit to leaving my hometown, my job (which has me in the middle of my teaching certification program), and take the leap of faith.
Months have come and gone since I knew my husband and I were too tired to keep fighting for our marriage. I am finally able to wholeheartedly admit, I drug the marriage out because I've never failed at anything. Tests here and there, whatever. But never a "life changing" failure. I had to fix it, beat it, win at it-- until I just didn't. And as simple as I can put it, that is how I exhaled when my husband left me for Maryland.
I can now shrug my shoulders and admit clinging on for fear of failure is complete rubbish. It is an idiotic remedy that drowns me further in the failure. Perhaps today is a chipper day; maybe I'll miss him after it sinks in (probably, like no). I love my husband (or husband that I'm separated from) but, really am so ready for the journey to being a person for myself and not squeezing into a mold that crumbles my soul.
I'm ready to throat punch the challenges to come with the three littles, teaching second semester seniors their dose of Brit. Lit., and single life-- which I know not a thing about.
One thing I have struggled with in accepting it was time to move on, was how do I know it is time to move on? I know I love this man, but with all certainty, I have grown to acknowledge, I will never provide him with the love he requires to remain satisfied in a marriage. Now, that being said, I know (better than most woman) that my husband loves me. He is a great man, a wonderful father, and can love deeper and display emotion better than anybody I know. Accepting that I am not his lady, was tough, until, finally I knew that for he and I both to be happy, it was time we acknowledged separate lives, will lead us to happiness once again.
Here are the five things I needed to accept, before knowing my marriage was over.