Hippos and zebras and penises, oh my!

I'm on a short vacation with my kids in San Diego. We are staying at a fancy schmancy hotel/resort. And I love it. Without guilt. Yesterday I hung out at the pool with the kids and saw an old friend from high school whom I haven't seen in more than twenty years. See Colleen and me with her daughter Claire here below.

Why Colleen befriended me more than 20 years ago I have no idea. She was cool. I was not. I was painfully shy, I don't think I spoke to anyone at all, in my third high school in less than 3 years. But she took me in for some reason and somehow made me into a little less of a dork. I'm pretty sure her friendship scored me a boyfriend. And it certainly made high school more fun - I went to prom (and drank whiskey), I had people to eat lunch with (I didn't eat but it was better not to sit alone) and I had plans on Friday nights - I was the designated driver when we trolled the streets of Allentown looking for parties while listening to Yaz. Woo hoo! The shyest dork on earth ended up having a little fun, all thanks to Colleeen and her siblings (she had no fewer than a gazillion Irish Catholic brothers and sisters) and her welcoming friends.

Today, I took the kids to the San Diego Zoo. I hate driving around in places I don't know. But I dealt. And we went to the Zoo. I am almost embarrassed to say it but I had moments of near transcendence with my kids at the zoo today. Just moments of pure, unadulterated appreciation. And joy. So grateful to be there with them. To have them be kind to each other. And to laugh.

When we came upon the hippos, Virgil was ecstatic. I love having kids that are young enough to still be super psyched about hippos. Virgil screamed: "Hippos are cool!" Wyatt would not let him have the last word.

"You know what else is cool?!" No. "My mom." I swear I'm not making this up. He was excited to be there, to be together. He was having fun. And he was grateful. This was after a morning of bickering that resulted in Wyatt throwing Virgil's toothbrush on the floor and stomping on it. Crushing it under the heel of his Adidas cap toes. He smashed that plastic green toothbrush because Virgil was giving him shit about not remembering to bring his own. We went from full on sibling battle with tears and breaking things, to a love fest over hippos and mom.

Later, we were looking at zebras. Here is what we saw:

Yes that is a giant zebra penis. It was shocking, to say the least. The weirdest part is none of the other zebras had quite such a display. The others all had normal (or what I'd expect "normal" to be) zebra appendages. This guy was a stud. It kept growing, getting bigger, and then oddly, getting smaller. Sometimes it came down past what I'd call his "knee". You'd turn around for a moment and it would shrink up to match those of his friends. The kids could not stop giggling. Nor could I for that matter.

Virgil said: "Zebras should wear pants, mom." Not sure that would help. This thing was like a third leg. Wyatt said: "He must attract the ladies." He must. But why would an 8 year old know anything about that? So much for my parenting skills. My 8 year old son thinks all that matters is dick size. It's not irrelevant, but why does he even have a point of view here?

So the zoo was fun. And then I got to meet up with my brother and his kids and wife later at the hotel. What more could a girl want in a day.

It was perfect.

Who you gonna call?

I find myself in this strange place in my life right now where I have a full life, lots of friends, great job, writing a lot... but no one to rely on. Except myself. I have dear friends - close friends who I'd do anything for and who'd do anything for me - but they don't live here in San Francisco anymore. My brother lives in Los Angeles. So while he'd certainly do anything for me (and did in the last year as I needed his help more than ever), he's a 7 hour drive away. If I'm in trouble, I need someone closer.

I've been at Levi's 13 years. I've been through my share of friend cycles there. And I find myself now, somewhat alone. My besties have left for greener pastures. Apple, Sephora, Converse. My old standbys have left as well. I'm in the throes of finding new compadres but the shut the door, say anything, keep a secret kind of friend - well, they're not there right now. Which doesn't mean I don't have plenty of people to eat lunch with, share a laugh with, have a drink with. I do. But what I need is a tad bigger than that.

I went to the doctor last week and had to fill in new forms. I was stopped dead in my tracks around the "emergency contact" line. It should be someone local. Hmmm. Should be someone that will show up. Hmmm. Should be someone I wouldn't feel too too badly for if I had to call them in the middle of the night. I don't ask much of people. So if you rank as someone I'd call in the middle of the night - say if I'm in labor - well, we're sistahs. With my brother gone, my college friends (the ones you'd lay down your life for kind of friends) all dispersed around the country, my parents in Pennsylvania, well - I didn't know who to put down. I found myself wishing I lived near my parents. Hmmm. I ended up picking my ex. He might be the last person I'd want to call. But he'd show up. If only because he'd need to bring the kids. And he might think he got the call because I forgot to update the form post divorce, so he probably wouldn't even be mad.

But I need a better answer. My gal S provided it tonight over dinner. She said: I have no family here either. Hubbie and I need help sometimes. If a kid is sick, or we just have some sort of crisis. Will you help? Yes. Then I'll help you. Give me your phone tree. I'll call your mom. I'm your girl. I love you. You're like my big sister. Now hand over the emergency digits.

Love that girl.

The Hunger Games

I took my kids to see The Hunger Games yesterday. I think I may have been more excited to see it than they were, even though my oldest read the books so fast he practically ate them. This won't be a review, though I did love the movie. It's more of a musing about why I like the story so much. And for me, it comes down to character development. While the characters in young adult books are generally pretty black and white depictions - it seems to me that "obvious" is the rule in "YA", nuance not part of the program - Katniss seems to have her gray areas. Or at least contradictions. She's complicated! Yes she's tough. Yes she's pretty pissed. Yes she's fiercely protective of her family, primarily her little sister, Prim. These are the notes she generally strikes. She's a stoic competitor having been raised in the darkest of circumstances in District 12 (the coal mining district), having lost her father as a young girl, and having stepped into take care of the family when her mom had a breakdown.

But she's a stoic who knows she isn't really all that tough. She weeps uncontrollably when Rue is lost to the Games. She orders her mother not to cry or fall apart after the Reaping, though she herself can't stop shaking. She falls into Peeta's affection and comfort though she'd never ask for it. I like this gal. And yes, I can relate. I've been called a "stoic" as well, by former gymnasts from my competing days. I was surprised by this assessment of my carriage during competition, during training. I felt like a mess, one step away from falling apart at all times. But I suppose I held it together. Through injuries, through disappointments, through losses. I learned the stoic's demeanor at a young age. Weakness in the gym, amongst competitors, got you no where. And I suppose Katniss feels the same way.

Will she accept kindness when it is offered? Surely. Will she ask for it... no way. But that is the lesson in adulthood - for me. To be willing to ask for help. To be willing to fall apart a little. Or a lot, if that is where it goes. Being a divorced mother of two doesn't help here really. Not a ton of places to go to ask for help. It's reinforcing my inclination towards stoicism as I actively try to unlearn these behaviors. It's a quandary, no doubt.

But back to the movie. I like Katniss. I relate to her. And Jennifer Lawrence played a mean Katniss. She's not too perfect looking. She's pretty but not preciously so. Yes she's older than the Katniss in the books but I'm not sure it matters. I suppose the weight of being the family caretaker is that much more intense when Katniss is fifteen as she is in the book. Whereas Jennifer Lawrence (not sure how old she is) reads more like 20. But her situation is still rough. She's had to volunteer for the Games to protect Prim! The Games are a fight to the death to pay penance and/or homage to a dastardly government who supposedly protects it's citizens from deathly uprisings. Someone a little older - and twenty isn't exactly old - brings some gravitas to the part. Worked for me, though I know some folks are a little riled up over it. Simmer down, it is just a movie. There is some license taken when translating a book into a movie. This worked in my humble opinion.

Elizabeth Banks as Effie. Loved. Lennie Kravitz as Cinna - worked for me, though I pictured Cinna way gay-er in the book. I pictured him as an over the top hair stylist, with Queer Eye for the Straight Gal flamboyance. But Lennie brought some dignity to the role, even with the gold eyeliner. And Josh Hutcherson as Peeta? Worked for me! Sweet, empathetic, kind but not useless. Strong, protective. Honorable. Woody as Haymitch? He treated Haymitch with a tad more kindness and dignity than the book conveyed. He clearly drank too much in the movie but he didn't come across as an angry, hopeless drunk. He kinda had it together. His heart still a bit more in tact than it seemingly was on the printed page. I wouldn't have minded a bit more darkness in that character. Rue - darling. Heartbreaking. How did I have no idea that she was black from the books? That the black people all came from District 11? I missed that racial commentary somehow.

So there. I liked everyone. I liked it all. Can't wait for the next one. And yes I'm a little too into the whole thing. But not really. It's fun to get swept up every once in a while though.

Single

I am once again single. I am no longer dating the nice man with three kids. It lasted 5 months, which I'm told is kind of the hurdle point for grown up adult daters. We didn't make it past that hurdle. It was me who called it. It wasn't easy. He was kind and giving and fun. But there were too many other things that didn't feel right, for me. I felt pressured into being a way that I am not. In the past I would've adapted my behaviors to the other's wants. That is my weakness, as a pleaser. I know I can't do that now. There were other divides - in what we want from a relationship. In how we communicate. In our geographies. In what we enjoy doing and how we expect the other to participate in that. And on. Not that divides aren't over-come-able. They are. But, for me, these were not. I knew it. And so I told him. And I feel terribly. I have to get used to believing that my feelings and perceptions are valid - I'm used to invalidating them in favor of the other party's, in a relationship, in a friendship, in any sort of situation at all.

I feel badly because I know he's sad and wanted to continue to try. And I hate making people feel sad. But if we'd have continued I would have been sad. So that isn't the answer.

Some might say: Jen, you just aren't ready for a real relationship. Maybe. But I don't think that's it. I'm 43. I know myself. After the last year of soul searching, I really think I know myself quite well. This wasn't it. I explored it. I learned a lot. I am grateful. But I was feeling crowded by what he needed (which he deserves) and how he communicated it. What he wants is utterly valid, it just isn't something I can provide.

And on we go.

I love what you showed me. And I wish you all that you want. And all that you deserve. And I'm sorry.

Stress Rejection

Just a few years ago, I was prone to be stressed out about work. (Now ... I was probably pretty anxious in general. Home life - eh. Pouring my life into the non-stop turmoil of work, wading through the quagmires and feeling triumphant, heroic! at the end... that felt good.) But I seem to do the opposite now. When the anxiety amongst others rises, I go to a calm and happy place. Maybe it's years of angst underneath my belt and finally realizing that freaking out simply never helps the situation. It's not like you work better. Or faster. Or somehow see the answers more clearly. Nope. Your brain fuzzes over and your heart beats too fast and you make mistakes. It can be an addictive feeling - the adrenaline buzz of STRESS!!!!! But I think I may have finally kicked the habit.

Maybe I just realized real life provides enough hurdles and seemingly unsolvable challenges, that work just isn't worth a freak out.

I go into calm mommy mode when everyone starts to lose it. Then they get more frustrated with me. Trying to convince me that I just don't understand. If I understood, I would surely be this freaked out too. Of course! Come join me in this mess and stress and angst because it really is crazy right nowandwe'renotgonnamakeitthroughthiscan'tyousee!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

No, I get it. But I'm gonna stay here. My body rejects the anxiety. My brain can't handle the speed. My heart wants to beat at a normal pace. And maybe, if I stay calm, I'll find a way out of whatever mess we find ourselves in at this particular moment. Or I won't. And it will be ok too.

But it feels better to quiet the mind rather than run endless laps around the problem. One calm lap. And a little progress is generally made. And then it doesn't seem quite so dire after all.

Starting New Stuff

Despite my eldest's magical insight - the reason you can't start writing that book MOM is that you don't want to write THAT book. Write something else - I started the book. I had every intention of abandoning the effort. Of telling my agent (I feel weird saying that - but that is what she is) that I just can't do it. Despite the request from a well regarded publisher, I'm laming out. Not gonna happen. Forgive me. I can't find my mojo.

And then I got on the stair master. Something I'm trying to do more of lately. The thing that has fallen by the wayside more than anything in the last 18 months is exercise. I suppose maybe I've exercised enough in my lifetime to not ever exercise again (though my expanding waistline and widening ass would disagree). Or that's what I tell myself anyway, when I don't feel like exercising. Which is always lately.

It actually started - this whole not exercising thing - before the last 18 months which shall be called "the extrication of a marriage". It started way before that if I'm truthful. It began to wane aggressively in late 2009. When I started the job I currently hold at Levi's. Job was hard. I sat in the chair and worked. Period. And then I had to have ankle surgery. A perfect excuse not to exercise! It took me a while to walk without pain (not that I couldn't have ridden a bike) and so I sat. And then I never got my ass back into the swing again.

The whole divorce thing didn't help. Rather than sweat my troubles away, I drank wine. And the kid schedule got complicated blah blah blah - it was just easier not to move my body. And then I just started to feel bad. Icky. Gross. Sloth-y.

The good news is that all those years of gym-ing means I get back in shape pretty darned fast. Faster than the everyday normal human. I suppose my baseline level of fitness is quite high from all the years of running, jumping, flinging and hand standing. Still it sucks to get started. Hauling your butt onto the treadmill when it has been so cozy on the couch or in an office chair for so long is no fun. Until you realize you feel better afterwards than you would have if you'd spent that same amount of time reclining. Funny how that works.

This time I'm being patient with myself. Lenient, if you will. If I can only go for 30 minutes to the gym, so be it. It's better than zero minutes. (In the past if I couldn't go whole hog, I just didn't go at all.) The new Jen is all about moderation (hah...if you know me AT ALL that will make you do a spit take.)

So I climbed on the stair master last night after a long day of work. And magically, as the sweat flowed, the words kind of came to me. Not too many. But at least a first chapter's worth. Hannah Gates is our heroine. At least for now. Names change so we'll see. I've never attempted to write fiction before. I'm shit at story and structure so this could be a total disaster. But now that I've begun, I've got some momentum. And I kind of like Hannah. And I want to see what happens to her.

Lazy Days

I did less today than maybe I've ever done in a day. Without having been in a hospital bed or a cast or something. The kids had a friend over - two actually, twins - and they played and I hung out in my room reading the paper, reading a book, dozing. I NEVER nap. Never. Kind of nice. I also got some stuff organized. Papers and the like. Nothing more satisfying that being organized, for me anyway.

I have an odd relationship with relaxing. I don't like it particularly. I have to force myself to do it. Makes me feel guilty. But today I kind of felt proud of myself. I left the kids to their own devices, let them do their thing, while I did mine.

I'd meant to write some chapters of this young adult book I've been propositioned to write. Once again, I failed. Couldn't do it.

I was bemoaning my laziness over dinner with my kids. "I just can't get this thing started," I said. "Why? Why can't I just do this? Am I lazy?" (I know this is ridiculous. I say I did nothing. And yet, I cleaned the house, grocery shopped, paid the bills, read the NYT, made a nice dinner of salmon & kale & rice pilaf. I'm a kook. With a capital K. In my head I know I'm not lazy. In my heart, I always worry/wonder.)

"I don't think that's it, mom. You're not lazy," said my oldest. This was on the heels of a conversation a few days ago about how men are lazy and women's aren't, according to Virgil. A subject he raised. I was torn about agreeing with him. I think there's some truth to it - my pride in the female work ethic rearing it's occasionally ugly feminist head; though certainly men aren't consistently lazy, they just like relaxing more than women, I think. The being torn comes because I certainly don't want to impugn the male gender to my two sons...hmmm what to do? Hell, he brought it up!

I'm not?

No.

Then why can't I get this started?

You don't want to write this book. Write something else.

And thus, the wisdom of our children guides us. Smart kid. And he's only 11. Imagine...

The Power of Love

Last night I went to dinner with a friend from work who lives in Europe. He's here in SF for a few weeks working and probably doesn't want to sit alone on a weekend evening (nor do I) so I figured, why not! He's not been a close friend in the past but I like the guy... not such a bad way to spend an evening.

A few glasses of wine and we started talking about relationships. He's about my age (29!) and he's not married but has been with the same woman for over 20 years and they have two kids. One is fully grown and in graduate school (proud poppa) and the other is a wee eight year old. They are unconventional this couple. But it seems to work. Over twenty years ain't bad.

He asked me about my dating life and offered some advice. Uh-oh. He said: in every relationship one person loves the other a little bit more. Yikes. Not too much more. There can't be a huge gap or it won't work. But it's true. And the one that loves a little less holds a bit more power. They get to make more of the choices. 


Ok I didn't like the sound of this. But he continued. And he's not some weirdo power hungry, heartless dude. Much to the contrary - he's a super nice guy, adores his kids. Laughs easy. Respectful of everyone.

I asked him: Who loves who more in your relationship? Without pause he said his girlfriend loved him more. (I think he means: she puts up with more shit). But... I love her. I will never find someone I can be as happy with. As compatible with. Or have such great sex with (he added earnestly). Ok we're getting to be better friends.

He continued: next time, you should be the one who gets to be with someone who loves you a little more. You've done it the other way. I furrowed my brow, about to protest, then realized he was right. Just from how you describe your marriage, you were willing to do anything. To try anything. He had limits. True. He's right. I loved more. I think. Not sure what the ex would say.

Don't you think it can ever be even? No. He didn't waver.

I thought about my friends, my family, the relationship I'd embarked on since my divorce. The other relationships I know. My brother. It seems even with my brother. Then I thought about it further. Maybe not. But it's just a hair tilted, if at all. (Not gonna say which way!)

So it's one view. I get why he'd offer this advice and recommend going the way of the one in more control. Perhaps you avoid some heartbreak. I can't do heartbreak again. But I'm not sure I'm built this way. I think I may be built to be the one that gives up the power. I think that may be what love feels like to me. But that's a fucked up story for another day...

Or maybe he's just wrong. And the love that works best is perfectly even. Give and take. Each willing to give up something for the other. The balance working itself out over years, not weeks or months. A dance where one leads and the other follows but it gets switched up over time depending on who can handle what at the time. I'd like to think this is what's in store.

Sharing a Laugh

I went to the movies with my kids this weekend. We saw The Lorax. Which was fine. Cute really. It's one Dr. Seuss book I never read with my kids so I have no idea how close the story - which seemed way to culturally salient to be lifted from the pages (?) - in the movie is to that in the book. But the movie was about all the ridiculous earth destroying, profiteering absurdities in our society. The town featured in the movie (Sneedville?) has no trees. They were all cut down to make the Sneeds (a weird scarf type thingamabob) and then some other profiteer decided to sell people air. So the town has no trees (other than the plastic ones that light up) and air is sold in plastic bottles (yes they are empty bottles), much like water we buy today. Something available for free, that we choose to pay for.

Of course it ends happily - everyone votes for trees. And the normalcy is hopefully restored. My too clever oldest son said he thought the movie was a farce because they probably hurt the earth making it. Touche. Smarty pants. Subversive. Green SF native.

But the part of this whole movie going experience that affected me the most was some silly promotional ad before the movie even started. I don't even know what it was for. I've seen it a million times. Some goofy guy is dancing on one of those video game dance machine things. He is super into it, in the way that people that love those things are. He's flamboyant and makes silly faces and dances way too seriously for a video game. I giggled. I do every time. My youngest said, "Dad always laughs at that part too." Yeah, I'm sure he does.

That man infuriates me. We should not be together. But I do miss that we shared a sense of humor in a very fundamental, slightly odd and askew kind of way. We laughed together at things no one thought were funny. Dark terrible things. We were politically incorrect on matters of race, gender, religion - perhaps the result of an inter-racial, non observant household. We were mean at times. But not in the world. We just let the meanness slip with each other. We made fun of people, the world, men, women, black people, white people, all people. No one was exempt.

Too bad that's not enough. Not even close. And maybe we were just too mean. Period.

Hipster no more

Tonight I went to a reading at the Make Out Room in San Francisco's Mission District. "Reading" isn't really the right description. It was a hipster event featuring words, humor and music. A salon of sorts. The Make Out Room is a hipster joint, one I used to frequent in my 20s. They sell PBR in cans, there is tinsel hanging from the ceiling and everyone has a sloppy unkempt beard. Needless to say, I felt out of place. I had on a high shoe and was carrying a designer handbag. I was me.

But I was there to hear my old friend Mark Sundeen read from his new book The Man Who Quit Money so I put my discomfort aside (I was the enemy - I work in corporate America and drive a relatively new car with leather seats) and bellied up to the bar to order a beer. One not in a can. How is it this was my home not too many years ago? Is it terrible that I don't fit now? No. I'm grateful I fit in once... an old person who was never a hip/liberal is just a Republican. Yuck.

I sat alone at the bar checking my email, waiting for Mark to read. I endured a not so funny comedian / former meth addict (he admitted this) and a medium-ly funny humorist (Top 10 reasons why you shouldn't sleep with poets) awaiting my friend.

Mark is the real deal. He writes books from time to time. Good books that don't sell all that well (though I suspect this one might). He occasionally has a travel piece that shows up in the New York Times. He leads people down rivers, or he did once. He lives in a shack (one that he owns, mind you) and does yoga. He has a beard but not really the hipster kind, though he could pass. He still wears big chunky belt buckles and western style vintage shirts (he's done this for years - we used to say he was Jon Voight in Midnight Cowboy - back in 1990). He's hip. But not because he's trying. Not anymore anyway, even if he once did, but I don't think he did. Mark is a unique blend of sweet, awkward, handsome and rugged. And smart and literary. He doesn't live in Brooklyn, he lives in Moab. And sometimes Missoula. He's not trying too hard. No one who tries too hard lives in Utah. Do they?

Boy did I used to have a crush on him in college. He's still charming no doubt. But since I'm not the Moab kind of girl and he's marrying a Buddhist, it's all well that he never liked me.

I sat at the bar feeling remarkably uncomfortable in a place I used to frequent, albeit fifteen years ago. I brought no friends. So I had no choice but to sit there, drinking my beer, waiting. I chatted with Mark. He said: Catch me up. I hear you're single. I'm sorry. And he meant it. He said: You'll be ok. You have a good heart.

It was hard not to cry at that one. Do I?

He left and chatted with some other friends. And then he read. He was quirky but confident. Comfortable on the stage. Utterly charming. I have my book here at my bedside. I can't wait to read it.

Congratulations Mark.

PTDD: Post traumatic divorce disorder

For the most part I am extracted from nearly all interaction with my ex. I wish there was more, I wish it was amicable. Maybe one day. For now, no. He barely makes eye contact with me when he drops the kids at my house. In fact, he usually walks away before I catch a glimpse. I don't think it's anger. I think it's still all just too hard. Or maybe he just doesn't care at all, feels no connection, no affection. But what do I know. Maybe he hates me. It's certainly possible. And even understandable. After years of unhappiness (mine, his, ours), endless vicious fighting, loneliness and tears (mine), I left. I had become so miserable and depressed in the last years of our marriage that I literally became someone else. I didn't know myself anymore. I was untethered, unhinged. I went to work and slowly, throughout the day, became a little bit more me. And then, on the ride home, in just 20 minutes, I retreated to this tentative, unsure, terrified person that was wholly unfamiliar. It made me so off-balance to not know myself in the place where I should have felt most me - my home.

I walked into the house and did what felt like groveling for any kindness from him. I talked around my thoughts, withheld feelings, stories of my day (talking about work too much was being self-obsessed or trying to make him feel bad about not working). I became a quiet angry introvert glued to the blackberry, no conversation possible in the room. I walked on eggshells to avoid threats and epithets. But I desperately wanted something anything a touch a smile a hug though I granted none myself at least not at the end. Still, I was hoping, dying for a hint of affection or gratitude. Or genuine wonder. Isn't that how spouses sometimes feel? They look at each other with wonder and go: how did I get this lucky? How did this person fall for me? I held him in such high esteem (and still admire him despite myself). And then I gave up. And sought (and found) kindness from another. They were virtual kindnesses across the world wide web but they were my lifeline. Any generosity - even of the email variety - felt like love.

I've felt guilty for a long time. But I've reconciled it. Sad people do desperate things. We become people we are not proud of. It is important to be happy for this reason alone.

I still mourn the loss of what I thought we were. Who I thought my husband was and would become. And who I still believe he may be. I dodge and weave trying to find 'the right way' to behave with him. His morality, intelligence and staunch ethics hold me in their sway. Even when there is sometimes hypocrisy woven throughout. And I'm afraid of him. It is so odd. I'm not afraid of anybody. CEO's, Board Chairmen, news anchors, reporters, rooms of 400 people that I have to stand up and speak to. Don't care. But him...he scares me. I'm left flat-footed never knowing what to say or how to say it. How to get the right response.

For all of these reasons, I'd put off telling him that I'd found a therapist for our youngest son, who is having panic attacks. He has been having them off and on for about 2 years. A terrible thing, to watch a 6 year old cry and rock and scream at the top of his lungs "I don't want to die mom!" Yeah that is no fun. It's like my heart is beating red and raw on the outside of my chest and it is all I can do not to descend into a puddle of tears with him. But I hold it together and calm him down and rock him softly til his breathing slows.

A therapist seems like a normal response to this, to me. But I knew that the ex wouldn't be supportive as he wasn't when we were together. He's not a fan of therapy or therapists, as many aren't. I myself am a believer. I look forward to what is now generally only a once a month session as "my time".  Watching the attacks got too scary and painful and I thought: I'm going to take care of my kid. He doesn't need to suffer this way (apparently anxiety attacks in children are treatable 9 times out of 10, in a relatively short period of time). Perhaps it's me that is causing them. I need to find out what is going through his little mind so I can be of help. So I found a lovely woman who specializes in kids and anxiety. I was so afraid to tell the ex that I put it off. I convinced myself it would be fine. I'd shoot him a note and he'd say ok let me know how it goes. But it wasn't. I told him and he said no, not a good idea. Lets not. This will need to be discussed before I grant my agreement (not those words exactly, but that was the gist). I need to talk to her to determine if this is right. (I imagine this all in a stern angry voice, which may or may not be how it was written, who knows anymore). Like it's his choice and his alone. And it was. He said no. I said ok.

And here we are. I'm back on the eggshells. I'm divorced and still beholden. Still in his sway somehow. I need to find a way beyond this. I will. I am better. So much better. But not there yet.