You, alright. I learned it by watching you.

When I was five, my little sister and I went to live with my aunt and uncle and cousin, Brad in Michigan. Yes, there really is a Kalamazoo. My parents were separated, headed for divorce, and the stress of the new family dynamic, compounded with the generational traumas of her own, caused my mom to have a nervous breakdown of sorts. In order to get sober and centered she checked into a rehab. And because my father refused the responsibility of keeping us in his charge while she was gone, we were shipped off to the mid-west. And so defines the next two decades (plus) of my life. The repetitious themes taught from a very young age. You are too much: my mother. You are not enough: my father.

I was also taught to appreciate the little things in life, though. Like sharing a can of coca-cola and a package of TastyKake Butterscotch Krimpets with my mom and sister. Making wax paper aquariums with brightly colored crayon shavings and an iron. Catching salamander and crayfish in the creek and building forts out of the neighbors' trash. My sister and I spent Saturday mornings playing in our bedroom and trying not to kill each other while my mother slept in her make shift bed in the living room. The rule was not to wake her before ten. AND not to scratch each others eyes out while we were waiting for her to rise.

We were poor. And it sucked. My dad's failure to pay child support left my mom with a heavy burden. And while she struggled to provide food and a warm, safe home, the stresses of such difficult endeavors seeped into every crack and crevice. I can joke now, about eating $0.88 Prince Macaroni and Cheese every night for dinner. And heating the apartment with a fan on the open oven door. Wearing the boss' daughter's hand-me-down cloths, even though I was sometimes teased in school by the preppy girls who were friends with the articles' original owner.

But my mom has a way of stretching nothing into something. And she tried to make it fun. I learned to settle for what we had. To make do. To even enjoy it. But because of the stress and strife that surrounded the situation I also learned that it was wrong to ask for more than that. Any greater expectations for myself were too exhausting and troublesome. So, while I often wanted certain things, I knew they were not for me. They were meant for other people. Better people. More worthy people. And I settled into settling. I still remember sitting at lunch, sixth grade, crowded cafeteria, and I longed to be at the preppy girls' table. But I wore clothes from Burlington Coat Factory and my mom drove a Datsun you could hear coming from a block away. And while I was allowed to play on their sports teams and pair with them on class projects, I would never be truly welcome at their pool parties and sleepovers.

We moved a lot while I was growing up. Seven times in fourteen years. And although part of me always craved the attention the cool kids' table would afford me, I never felt deprived of good friendships. This was my one true survival skill. That sink or swim mechanism that kicks in subconsciously. (Side Note: my mom dropped me in the pool when I was a baby -KNOWN FACT = INFANTS FLOAT- but I sank like a rock and she had to jump in after me. A metaphor for all the burden I was to become). I learned to make friends quickly. To adapt to my surroundings. I learned to be funny. To share. To listen. To be reliable. Those lessons seemed to make people want to stick around. At least the girls. At least for a while.

Boys on the other hand have always been a much shiftier situation. I grew up playing with my cousin's Matchbox Cars and He-Man action figures. I loved Legos and my father seemed to enjoy bequeathing me with more masculine versions of my original requests. I asked for roller skates, he gave me a skateboard. I asked for My Little Ponies and he gave me Transformers. I learned there was something wrong with my requests. And I grew up playing touch football in the street, and filling containers with bugs and frogs and lizards. Boys were my teammates and my opposition. And I don't think I have ever managed to understand how to engage them in any healthy, acceptable male-female interaction. Other than friends, that is. I am really, really good at being the buddy and the sister and the mother hen. But I am almost entirely inept at romantic relations with the opposite sex. Abandonment breeds begging. And I settle for scraps. I find myself infatuated instead of in love. Standing on a slack-line attempting to cross. It's shaky and unstable. You fall off and hop back on, but the efforts only prove exhausting.

My last relationship was like this. (as were many of those prior).

"The problem with infatuation, of course, is that it's a mirage, a trick of the eye-indeed, a trick of the endocrine system. Infatuation is not quite the same thing as love; its more like love's shady second cousin who's always borrowing money and can't hold down a job. When you become infatuated with somebody, you're not really looking at that person; you're just captivated by your own reflection, intoxicated by a dream of completion that you have projected on a virtual stranger. We tend, in such a state, to decide all sorts of spectacular things about our lovers that may not be true. We perceive something almost divine in our beloved, even if our friends and family might not get it...An infatuation-based affair is a sanity free zone, where misconception has no limits and where perspective finds no foot hold." -Elizabeth Gilbert (Committed)

I found myself, late at night, standing in the middle of the street, bawling my eyes out. Literally begging this person I had been spending so much energy to be with, not to leave me. For as intense and passionate as our time together was, it was equally reckless and thus brief. All I remember through my tears is his repeated refrain, "I'm not going anywhere. I promise. I'm not going anywhere." And he walked me home. And he held me close. And he sent me to bed. And he left. For good. And even now, writing this, I find myself still slightly shaken. I'm exhausted by this pattern. I have once again fallen off the slack line, but I feel no closer to solid ground. I have spent the last few months tearing myself apart. Unable to move past this. Unable to move forward. If only I was stronger. If only I had been more patient. If only...The prayer of self-flagellation. I beg for love and I vomit affection. Too much and not enough.


I remember Easter at my aunt and uncle's house. My cousin and I snuck out of our rooms to watch for the Easter Bunny. We fell asleep by the fireplace and when we awoke baskets were left with stuffed bunnies and loads of chocolate. And we spent the morning taking turns re-hiding the dyed eggs so that the hunt could go on all day long. We went about pretending that everything was great. And everything was normal. But it was a holiday. And what six year old doesn't miss their parents during a celebration? But my mom arrived some time after. Once school was out for the summer. She arrived after we had gone to bed. And she stole into my room and woke my sister and me and I remember thinking it was my aunt. That it was all a dream. But she and my grandmother loaded up the Volkswagon Rabbit, piling my sister and I in the back. Seats folded down, padded with blankets and pillows, we drove East to Pennsylvania. The hot sun melting our new box of Crayola Crayons into a colorful swirl of wax and paper.

It's impossible to say exactly what events have affected and defined me as an individual. We are all a sum of all the parts we have encountered. And I can only speak of the things I remember. Memory can be an illusive and unreliable resource. And I am left questioning how exactly I got to where I am right now. It is no ones fault. For finding fault would mean that someone has intentionally caused me harm. And even on my darkest days I do not believe that to be true. But I find myself dependent again. That six year old little girl all over again. Scared and vulnerable. And once again whisked across the county, packed up in the back of my car, padded with pillows and blankets. And I'm frightened because we have no money. And I'm worried about taking up too much time. And I watch my mom stress about bills and an extra mouth to feed, while my bank account dwindles down to zero. And I feel like a burden again. And I feel burdened by the difficult task of being patient with my body while it heals and forgiving it for not not performing at its fullest potential. And I struggle with the seemingly impending doom that crushes my shoulders and steals my breath when I even begin to think about how I am going to get home once I am healed. The costs of gas and travel and rent and food. I need a little refresher course in making something out of nothing. So I read and I write. And I listen to Heidi's advice. And I smooth my fingers over the ink embedded in my wrist. And I close my eyes and wait for the echoing refrain to fade into the darkness.

People always ask me what my tattoo means. And I feel shy and embarrassed translating its reminder You Are Loved. I think it is sad that I have to wear it like a talisman. But I think it is better to crawl across solid ground than to walk a tightrope. Better to be reminded of the love you have, than to find yourself begging for the love you think you need.