Discretion

Discretion: the quality of behaving or speaking in such a way as to avoid causing offense or revealing private information.

Integrity: the quality of being honest and having strong moral principles; moral uprightness.

I really appreciate being able to stay caught up on the news, current events and emergencies through  social media pages and postings.  I believe that news providers are providing a very valuable service to our community; however I am concerned about giving reader's the ability to comment on such stories.

The primary objective in releasing news onto social media is usually to target an audience that has a higher online presence than perhaps say those who would pick up a newspaper. 

When you pick up a newspaper or magazine, you read an article and if it impacts you, perhaps you clip it and send it to a friend or co-worker. There isn’t the ability to share your comments publically or provide judgments to those involved. The only ways that really allows for a response would be a letter to the editor, or sharing the article directly.

Through the development of social media and the “liking,” “sharing,” and comment ability, there has been a shift in the presenting of news. Now, when a story is released, each reader has the ability to provide their input, comments, judgments, assumptions and criticism for all to see. The problem with this is includes but is not limited to the following things:

•  Very rarely is a commenter directly involved
• Often details are not fully disclosed and the existence of social media sharing alters that, sometimes inadvertently (such as releasing names of victims or people involved)
• Privacy for family members, friends or others impacted is limited by lack of discretion by commenters
• Commenters are free to share their judgments, call names, and walk the line of slandering those involved
• The reputations of those involved (primarily in tragic stories such as child abuse, rape or other criminal acts) are often destroyed before legal action is taken and innocence or guilt is determined.

Is there an easy solution to this problem? I believe there is. While they can’t control what an individual chooses to “share” and provide comments on for their personal page, they are able to disable comments when they share stories that could contain delicate information.  

Disabling comments would allow for the news story to be shared but would limit the reader to strictly reading.  Any insights they then felt the need to share would occur on their private page rather than on the news provider's page.  It eliminates the question of the integrity of the news provider this way. News providers are removing the forum for discussion that more times than not becomes a lynching session.

I do not feel that disabling comments violates freedom of speech, nor would it negatively impact the story shared. I do believe that it would restore the integrity to the story, those involved, and the author by allowing what is shared to simply be enough. I strongly urge news providers to consider the idea of disabling comments for stories of a more delicate nature in the future. Perhaps a base line could be established to determine what stories fall under that umbrella to remove the ability for readers to question their decision. 

If disabling comments is not an option, are there ways to edit, pay closer attention to and monitor conversations occurring. A news platform is not the place to air someone's dirty laundry for all to see and open things up for stone throwing.  I do think that upholding integrity in the news reported includes providing an umbrella of protection, however small it may be, to those written about and this would help provide that. 

Mom

Moms come in all shapes, sizes, ages and backgrounds. Some moms have birthed us and some come to us through other relationships. A mom can be a grandmother, an aunt, a friend, a parent's girlfriend, or just someone that has chosen to invest in your life and the shaping and molding of who you are.

According to Urban Dictionary, the top definition for “mom” is:

“The woman who loves you unconditionally from birth, the one who puts her kids before herself and the one who you can always count on above everyone else. Just telling her your problems makes you feel better because moms always know how to make it all go away. Even if you fight, you know that she's just looking out for your best interests.”

So what do you do when you're mom... but you're not “mom?” When you haven't birthed the children, but you love them as your own. Turning my “momness” off is just not something that I can do whether I birthed the children or not.

This week, two of my children were involved in an incident and sustained significant injury.

Now, I'm sure most of you are saying to yourself “she only has two children.” I don't... I have 5. Two that I birthed, and three that have stolen my heart just as their dad has. And so yes, I consider them mine (with no disrespect at all to their mothers in any way), even though I'm not “mom” to them. I feed them, stay home when they're sick, plan special things for their birthdays, braid their hair, buy their toiletries and tampons, buy their groceries, take them to the doctor, clean up their vomit, and all of the other things associated with “mom” when they're in my home.

I cannot explain to you accurately the horror and panic I felt when I got the call about Nicholas and Emma on Thursday. As I ran out of the house without shoes or regular clothing all I could think about was getting to them as fast as possible, not even knowing at that point the extent of their injuries.

Running to them and not being sure how to hold them both in my arms at the same time while being able to assure them that they were safe. Driving them to the hospital as fast as I could without getting pulled over while trying to put my arms between the back and front seat to make sure I could comfort them both. Checking them into the hospital and then going between both rooms so that neither of them were alone any longer than they needed to be until Grandparents arrived to help.

I never really understood “loving them as my own” being an option, but it wasn't until this occurred that I really realized how much they have taken up residence in my heart. There is no going back for me. I may not be their “mom,” I may not ever be even close, but they are “my children.”

I've had a couple of different moms in my life. Women who provided things in different seasons that have helped shape and mold me into the woman I am today. And while I've had the benefit of having my biological mother as my “mom.” I am most grateful for what those other women brought to the table along with what my mom taught me.

To me... my definition of being a mom...

… providing unconditional love, putting their needs above my own, and trying my damndest to be one they can always count on....

Take a moment this Mother's Day to love on the moms in your life. Mom can be much more than the woman who birthed you. Moms can come in all shapes and sizes. 

They've helped make you.... you... by being them....

And they... are moms.  

Food

In society today there are many categories that fall under the “addiction” subtitle. Sobriety is defined as “not affected by alcohol” but that definition has been adapted to include a variety of substances which one might abstain from.

Often, the lifestyle of an addict is stereo-typed to include legal troubles, relational issues and to infer that the only acceptable way to pursue sobriety is through the 12 Step Program... Don't get me wrong... the 12 Step Program is great... I am in NO way suggesting that it hasn't been highly effective for millions of people.

Unfortunately, what has become the cultural norm of addiction, or, the addict stereo type, does not include those of us who live daily with probably one of the most common addictions and deathly cycle there is... food.

For me, food has been my constant. It has always been there for me. I know what to expect, I know how it will make me feel, and I know how and where to get it. It's not an illegal substance, it doesn't actually hurt people or lead directly to death through impairment. It is necessary to survive. It makes me feel better.

Those are the lies I've told myself all of my life. My dependence on food rather than another addictive substance has been easily justified through societal allowances and my own deception.

The reality... it's killing me. It is damaging my relationships and while it hasn't caused me any legal troubles, it has impacted and hinders my daily functioning beyond what is acceptable. It has impacted my children and the decisions they make while at the same time causing them to buy into the mind set that “it's safe.”

In attempting to restart my life over the last month or two, it became very clear to me that my dependence on food had reached a place that required adjustment... right now! I could no longer live in the denial that “I was doing ok” or “I'm just big-boned.” That I was the smart and witty one and so no one really cared if I was chunky. That my intellect and ability to fix things was outweighing the need to be healthy; that even if I could give really good advice, I was still modeling an unhealthy pattern that people could actually pick up on.

I quietly watched as two people whom I admire greatly in many areas, and who have been very dear friends of mine, sought to become healthy and change their lives... and they aren't really overweight like I am... They just decided to be better for themselves and their children. I didn't say anything to them, and I doubt they have any idea how much they impacted my desire to seek change. Not just to lose weight, but to be healthy, and in the end... to be there for my children as the best mom I can be. Thank you so much for inspiring me.

And thus begins my journey of change. I'm not going to lie... it has SUCKED! I have cried through work outs, sobbed in the shower, had every muscle in my body ache and to be even more honest... it's not getting better... yet... But, I am better. I'm happier, I have more energy, and for the first time in a very long time, I feel ok about being me. I haven't been successful every day, but I have been honest about it. I have sought accountability and they have cheered me on through small successes and what seemed like huge mountains.

Now, of course I'm only 3 weeks in. But I am more determined than ever that this is my time. That I can make this change and overcome these obstacles coming out on the other end thinner and healthier, but more than that... proud of who I am. Not just mentally, but physically. To be the best I can be for you, my children, and most importantly, for me.

I'd love to have you join me on my journey. Either out loud, or quietly. Perhaps you want to start a journey of your own. Maybe your area of struggle is not the same as mine. That's ok... I have learned that the more honest I am, and the more I can be open about it, the easier it is. I don't even hesitate now to text a girlfriend and let them know that I'm struggling. Or that I feel like I'm STARVING.

Three is not a crowd in this case. Hop on board, change your life for you, with me. To be the best you can be, not only for the people you love, but more importantly for you.

Trauma

Some content may be inappropriate for young readers.

I love karaoke. When I was younger and had my eyes set on being the first woman president, my first presidential act was going to be to declare “National Karaoke Day.”  (Turns out there is now a National Karaoke Week… my heart soars)

I had just turned 21 and had been frequenting a local bar whose name has changed since then several times, for karaoke as many nights a week as I could.  I was never a big drinker, had lots of “karaoke friends” and even the bar staff watched out for me. I was the little sister so to speak of that crazy group and I loved it!

The first time he came into the bar I was helping out behind the bar. He came in with a regular and was sweet, funny and a steady flow of conversation provided an evening of entertainment and intrigue. By the end of the evening he had convinced me to give him my number along with a promise to “meet again soon.” I was flattered by the attention and in the few days to follow, the flattering texts and just thinking about you moments continued to fill my head with excitement as we made plans to meet again at karaoke the following week.

I rang in the new year with some dear friends… my first indicator that something might be off was the over 45 phone calls and text messages that I missed during a 5 hour  celebration with my friends.  I chalked it up to a little over exuberance and continued on toward the karaoke date with a bit of hesitation but not enough to keep me from going.

During the two days prior to our next meeting time, he continued to call and text incessantly… I began to feel wary, something just did not seem right. But our mutual friend convinced me that I was overreacting, that he was really a great guy.

The night finally arrived; I wore my favorite shirt and my new pink pants that I had gotten for my birthday. They were velour and the most comfortable pants I had ever owned. Did my hair, put on make up, and to karaoke I went. I ordered a beer and jumped into my normal karaoke routine waiting for him to arrive.  When he did arrive, much later than planned, he had a friend with him and had some story about his friend’s car not working and did I mind us all hanging out together.  While it seemed odd, I shrugged it off, said sure, and went up to sing the song I had selected especially for when he got there (it showed off my ability the best and he had said it was his favorite). He sang once that evening, a song he dedicated to me and my heart swooned… not because he that good but more because of the sweetness of the idea.

The evening continued on and they kept talking about a friend who has having a get together at his home and did I want to check it out. I said I would think about it but I wanted to stay a little longer. He offered to get me a beer, (my second for the evening) and I agreed. I sang once more and started to feel a little funny. Overwhelmed by the noise and lights and like I couldn’t breathe right.  It was then that they suggested leaving and I agreed quickly.  As we were leaving, my dear friend behind the bar questioned me as to my condition saying that something seemed wrong and was I sure that I was ok.  I readily assured him that I was ok, just felt a little off and I was going to leave with them and they had promised to take me home.

The rest of the evening is somewhat a blur… I remember bits and pieces.  I remember driving to a house and there being 4-5 other people there.  I remember him instantly being very physically attentive, calling me “his girl” and making sure I was never out of his sight.  I remember my head pounding and my going through the medicine cabinet desperate for some sort of Tylenol to ease the pain. I remember telling him directly “I am not going to have sex with you I don’t even know you” and him laughing and telling me not to worry.

In the morning I could not find my keys, or my pants and I wasn’t sure where I was.  My keys were across the room underneath my neatly folded pants along with my cell phone which had been turned off. Feeling panicked as to where I was or how I got there I quickly dressed and left noting that everyone else was sleeping.  Still feeling very off I went home desperate for more sleep. I had to work that night and so I got up, dragged myself to the shower feeling very sore and more “hung over” than I should have been after 2 beers.

While I was in the shower, I began to have flashbacks of the evening before. I remembered him pushing me up against the wall all the time telling me how beautiful I was and that I would be his Portuguese princess.  I remember trying to squirm away but him holding his hand around my neck just tight enough to keep me there.  I remember trying to pacify him by saying “let’s just go to sleep, tomorrow will be a new day.” I remember putting my keys and my phone next to me on the couch and having my pants ON! I remember him trying to come on to me and my pushing him away saying “I said no, leave me alone.” I remember waking up and he was on top of me, my pants were on the ground, one arm was holding my neck and shoulders down while the other hand was doing things inside me. I remember crying. I remember him starting to pull his pants off and my flailing trying to get away. I remember him speaking to me in a low quiet tone telling me “it’s ok, it’s all going to be alright, I won’t hurt you if you stay still.” The feeling of his arm tightening around my neck; praying in my head “get me out of here please.” Then mustering everything I possibly had, using my entire body weight and pushing him off me yelling “I said no.” Then everything going black.

It took me 24 hours to decide to go to the police, I didn’t know what to do, I was ashamed, scared, and because my memory was somewhat spotty I had no idea if anyone would even believe me.  The creepy police officer that took me to the hospital who was saying “call me if you need anything” while trying to slide his hand onto my leg. The nurse that was cold and hard, questioning me as to why it took me so long to come in. Clearly not understanding how scared and confused I was.

The months to follow carried with them significant heart ache, trauma and pain.  I was plagued with nightmares each time revealing a detail that I had remembered from the event.  My friends were angry, some at him, some at me (one friend told me I ruined their wedding, they were getting married a couple of days after everything happened and I was catering for them… which for the record I still did), and I was so ashamed that I told the most vanilla version of the story that I could just so that it would be over, so that I didn’t have to talk about it anymore.  The re-traumatization of needing to tell the story over and over had paralyzed me. I walked around in a fog.

I spent years that way. To this day I refuse to wear or be near anything velour. I’ve never sung that song again or been able to listen to the song he sang without wanting to vomit. I’ve avoided that house and anything near it.  Around this time every year I’m plagued with nightmares, irritability, the desire to hide in a hole and not come out.  It feels like everyone that looks at me can see my pain, the dirtiness, the scars that I carry.  As if I’m carrying my insides on my outside.

It’s always been easier to not talk about it.  Even though I have found a lot of healing from the event in my brain, my subconscious, my insides are still wounded.  The biological response, although I’ve fought desperately against it, still manages to rear its ugly head and remind me as if saying… “hey you… I see you… everyone sees you… you’re disgusting, you let that happen to you, you probably deserved it.” And the kicker… I never remember that it’s happening until I look at the calendar after wondering why I haven’t slept, or woken up soaked in sweat, or felt like I’m constantly looking over my shoulder and feeling like I might jump out of my skin. That I would just like to go hide in a hole until it’s over.

If you carry pain like mine, or experiences like mine and can’t understand why you just “can’t seem to move on from them.” Know that you aren’t alone. 

It wasn’t your fault. 

Everyone can’t see your scars, and they aren’t ugly. They are beautiful. They mean that you survived, that you have gone on to live the best that you can, they show pain transformed into beauty. And if you can’t seem to see that part yet, keep trying. It will come.  

Does it ever fully go away? I don’t think so. I’m not sure that it is supposed to.  But I do know that in sharing who I am, how I feel and what I see, it gives someone else who is hiding like me the freedom to know… they are not alone.

You are not alone. We are together. There is room in my hole. You are welcome here.