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emilys-write · 3 years

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Mistake

“Had I known how much I’d be struggling right now, I wouldn’t have done it. Doing this was just one huge mistake.”

I thought I had it all. I know how cliché that sounds, but I truly did. I was thriving at work as one of the stars of a TV show entering its 15th season—Forgotten Ones; I’d also been a part of one of the biggest movie franchises of the 21st century—the Voyagers trilogy. My co-stars Andrew and Eric are more like brothers to me than anything. I was content in my personal life. Sure, I was single, but I had amazing friends, and I was closer than close with my family, despite the fact that I only got to see them a few times a year. I was happy, and I put some need to conform to archaic societal norms ahead of that happiness. Everyone I knew had kids, and I was tired of being “Aunt Naomi.”

I wanted to be “Mom.”

I wanted it more than anything. I wanted to get to experience those firsts: the first word; the first time they sit-up, crawl, walk; the first time they get their haircut; cutting and losing those teeth. Everything I’d experienced second-hand through the eyes of the parents around me, I wanted for myself. I was even looking forward to the 3 AM feedings and not getting a decent night’s sleep for the foreseeable future, the times when I’d try everything to figure out why they’re crying but would never be able to find the one thing that’ll soothe them, and always having some kind of spit-up on my clothes because all of that would mean that I was finally a mom.

In September of 2016, three months after my 30th birthday, Andrew and his wife welcomed their second child, and I decided I was going to try In Vitro Fertilization. At the time, the longest relationship I’d had in four years was a one-night stand turned occasional late-night companion, so a natural conception was out. I wasn’t a fan of choosing a stranger from some national database to make up half of my child’s genetics, so I had to bite the bullet and ask someone I knew. Really, though, the only one I’d felt comfortable asking was my best friend Matt. I was closer to him than anyone, and given that he was—in the iconic words of Janice Ian—“almost too gay to function,” there was no chance of any kind of romantic feelings making an already complicated situation that much more.

Matt and I had met 9 years previous on the set of the first Voyagers film. He and I were in the same place in our lives—feeling stuck in our day-to-day lives and ready to quit acting—when we were cast, and so we hit it off immediately. We were there for each other through every high and low life threw at us, like the time our co-star and my then-boyfriend Derek cheated on me in the middle of shooting the second movie, and I was then stuck playing his loving girlfriend for the next year-and-a-half. Matt was the one to encourage me to take on new challenges, and I would do the same for him. He let me write and direct some inconsequential skit he was obligated to do for some website because he knew how interested yet apprehensive I was in entering those fields. A year later, I made my writing and directorial debut on Forgotten Ones.

To say Matt was wholly on-board with a baby, though, is a gross overstatement. He’d just broken up with his fiancée of two years when I sprung the idea on him. I’d meant to do it in a more meaningful way and approach the topic gently, but one too many Jägerbombs during one of his visits to Vancouver in early December led to a very loud and very slurred “D’ya wanna have a baby?” He ended the conversation with a very firm “Hell no!” followed directly by another shot. I didn’t bring up the idea again until I visited him in Pasadena the next month.

“Matt, I need to talk to you.” The words fell from my mouth in a jumbled frenzy after what was supposed to be a calming deep breath.

“Oh, God. That doesn’t sound good,” he joked, jumping over the back of the couch to sit next to me. “What’s up?” I kept my gaze on the glass of wine on the coffee table in front of me and continued to fidget with my hands—cracking my knuckles, checking my nails, anything that got rid of even the slightest bit of the anxiety I felt.

“I want to have a baby, and, well, I’m not exactly swimming in romantic partners at the moment, but I don’t want it to be with some stranger and I just—would you want to have a baby with me?” I finally looked over at him as I cut myself off and got the question out. He was silent for what felt like forever, which only prompted me to continue my nervous rambling. “You wouldn’t have to be involved—if you don’t want to, that is. You could totally just be, like, Uncle Matt, or whatever. A-and it’d be through In Vitro, so you and I wouldn’t be doing it the old-fashioned way, and—”

“Okay,” he interrupted me. “I’ll do it.”

We had our first appointment to have the Intrauterine Insemination done four months after that conversation, in April of 2017. And the second two months after when the first didn’t take. And the third two months after that when that one didn’t take. Finally, in early September, those two blue lines appeared on each of the ten pregnancy tests I took. Just to be absolutely sure, I made an appointment at the doctors for the next day. The pregnancy was confirmed two days later, and I was over the moon. The more and more we tried, the more Matt came around to the idea, but I don’t think he ever seemed willing to take on responsibilities further than being “Uncle Matt,” which was fine by me. He told me not long after he agreed that he’d done so mainly because of how much he knew I wanted to have a baby, but he’d never had any inclination to have children himself. He was always one who didn’t want to be tied down to anything, which is why his engagement had been so shocking to me. I had never really expected him to want to be that baby’s father, and the fact that he was even willing to help me in this was more than I could ask.

Early on in the process, we decided that we’d keep it a secret from anyone who didn’t absolutely need to know. I didn’t want some second-rate gossip column telling the world before I wanted it known. In order to give them enough time to adequately rework anything they needed to, the first people I told were the stunt coordinators, wardrobe department and the writers on Forgotten Ones. My character, Carter, had already had a child five seasons back, and so everyone decided to work with the pregnancy rather than around it and end the season with the birth of Carter’s second child. My family was the next to know.

Christmas Eve in Bantam, Connecticut. I was already at the tail-end of my first trimester and eager to finally spill the beans. My family had always celebrated together on Christmas Eve, and so this was my one chance to tell everyone at once. I kept the focus of the announcement on my mom, though. It was her first grandchild after all.

As tradition dictated, my family always opened gifts from youngest to oldest. My uncle acted as the guardian of the gifts, passing them out when the time came for each person to open theirs. I’d pulled him aside before dinner to ask him to “overlook” a gift for my mom, and act as though he’d just seen it after my grandfather had opened his final gift. He followed the plan perfectly. Everyone was getting ready to leave the basement and go back upstairs for dessert when he found the final gift.

“Oh, Michelle. There’s one more for you.” He grabbed the box adorned with red-and-white-striped wrapping paper and handed it to my mom.

“Huh. There’s no name,” she commented as she looked over the box. For the last month, I’d been incessantly telling her that she, my brothers and I should all get brand-new stockings to hang on her mantle this year. And so, when she opened the box to find a note resting on top of some tissue paper reading “Make sure to leave a space for me on your mantle next year,” she rolled her eyes and looked over at me.

“Naomi, I told you I like the stockings we have just f—” She pulled back the tissue paper to find a “My First Christmas” stocking with the first sonogram sticking out of the top and another card reading “Merry Christmas, Grandma! I’ll see you in May!” She jumped out of her seat and, as everyone huddled around the box she’d let fall to the ground, ran over to hug me. With the same shaking hands and tear-filled eyes she was sporting, I returned the embrace.

Two months later, we found out we were having a boy. Charles Alexander Collins. Around the same time, I’d finally let everyone on set know about the pregnancy. The scripts with the reveal of Carter’s pregnancy were about to come out, I was starting to show, and I couldn’t let Andrew and Eric find out through deduction instead of through me. The three of us, along with their spouses, were opening a wine bar in Virginia, Andrew and Eric’s home state. We all flew down for the weekend to check on the progress, and so the boys could spend time with their families. I arrived to the bar half an hour before we had planned to meet in order to set up. I’d ordered a fake label off of a store online that read “Babyfeet. Sweet Spring Baby. Connecticut. May 2018” and put it over one of the bottles we were supposed to be sampling that day, placing that towards the end of the line. Everyone began to arrive soon after I’d let Ali, our bartender, in on the plan and ensured my stock of red and white grape juice were set. We all sat at the table, and Ali brought over the first wine. After a lengthy discussion of the notes and bodies of the drinks we’d sampled—of which I faked my way through almost as badly as April on Parks and Rec had—Ali brought over five new glasses, four filled with the white “Babyfeet” wine and one with white grape juice. We sampled, and Eric asked Ali to bring the bottle over. I had to take another sip of my “wine” to cover my face as she did and they looked over the bottle. Andrew’s wife Jennifer was the first to catch the meaning and, with a squeal of excitement, jump out of her chair and hug me. Everyone else was quick to follow, a congratulatory chorus echoing in the space. As I’d assumed would be the case, we didn’t get much done after that.

I had my first real confrontation with people who had a more negative opinion towards my decision when I posted a picture of the bump online that same weekend. I’d included a brief explanation of why I’d chosen IVF, and left it at that. Of course, there were the many excited fans posting positive comments and posts, but there were those ones telling me I was wrong for doing it this way, that I was “going to Hell and the baby would be damned.” So many people telling me they’d lost respect for me because I couldn’t wait and do things the proper way. I’d love to say I took those comments in stride, that I ignored them and focused instead on moments like when Colton, who played my son Noah, started excitedly making plans for everything he was going to do with his “new best friend” Charlie, but they got to me. I worried that Charlie wouldn’t get the same love from our fans as Andrew and Eric’s children got, that instead he’d be ridiculed for my choices. I was afraid for the future, how everyone I wasn’t close with would treat him when they found out he was different. I wanted to believe I’d be enough for him, but was that just false hope? It’s not like his world wouldn’t be filled with strong male and female figures, but did he need a dad to really make it? Was I just being selfish, and was that selfishness going to ruin his life? Even worse than the comments, gossip magazines began running stories, using me as the poster girl of “alternative pregnancy.” It was like I wasn’t a person anymore, just some idea people could lash out at. It’s not as though I hadn’t received my fair share of hate comments in the past, but all of this was different. No longer were they shaming me because I cut my hair shorter than they thought or dyed it the wrong color, things that were so inconsequential in the long-run. They were criticizing me going after what I wanted, condemning me during what was supposed to be the happiest time in my life because the way I went about it didn’t fit their cookie cutter world.

We wrapped shooting in early April, the last scene filmed being the birth scene. Given the current plot of the show and our setting in a post-apocalyptic world, Carter had a vastly different experience than I was about to have a month after. Instead of a nice hospital room with doctors and nurses galore, this scene involved laying on a dingy table in a dimly lit room with her friends to help. Still, when they placed the all-too realistic doll on my chest, it just made me all the more eager to get to do this for real and finally meet Charlie.

May 2, 2018. Three days before the projected due date. I’d woken up early in the morning to sharp pains in my abdomen. I made myself busy until my water finally broke and my contractions had gotten to that “every 5-7 minute” point at 9:23 AM, 5 hours after I’d woken up. Go time. I was out of the house and in an Uber on the way to the hospital in 7 minutes flat, a new record. I made it to the hospital in just under 20 minutes, headed straight to the Labor and Delivery area and was admitted to the triage room. The nurses decided the labor was progressed enough to admit me, and the next thirteen hours turned into an ice-chip fueled waiting game. I was alone in Vancouver, everyone having already gone home now that the season was over. Matt was in Louisiana filming his next movie, and my mom was supposed to fly in on the 4th. At around 11 o’clock that night, I finally began to feel like I needed to push. I called a nurse who, in turn, found the doctor, and it was time to go.

For the first few minutes, everything was going well. Then, I started feeling light-headed and more tired than I’d been all day. I chalked it up to the pain and continued to follow the doctor’s orders. Moments later, the machines I was hooked up to began beeping rapidly. The nurses and doctor began working faster to get Charlie out. Once he’d made his arrival, they quickly took him to the table against the wall. He wasn’t crying like he was supposed to. He was silent.

“What’s going on? Is he alright?” No one answered. I listened to the doctor’s rushed commands as they worked on Charlie, every word he uttered hanging in the still air of the room.

He wasn’t breathing.

It wasn’t working.

They lost him.

It was determined that the drop in my blood pressure during the delivery led to Perinatal Asphyxia. Charlie couldn’t get enough oxygen; he went into cardiac arrest and died on the table before I’d ever even gotten the chance to see more than a glimpse of him.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

“I can’t do this. I need to stop.” I stood from my chair, handing the baby to Andrew as the director yelled “Cut,” and walked off the set. It had been three months since Charlie, but the wound was still fresh. I’d erased all the social media apps on my phone, unable to let myself use the sites as distraction when I was flooded with notifications from people expressing their sympathy once the news broke. I appreciated the sentiment, but I couldn’t keep seeing that every day. I spent our hiatus back in Connecticut with my family and Matt—who’d remained my rock through this—and only made the decision to come back to work because I thought it would distract me. But playing a doting mother of a newborn when my reality was so far from that pulled me right back into those initial moments after I had Charlie. I couldn’t take it. The director called to break for lunch, and I sprinted back to my trailer, tears welling in my eyes.

I was in my trailer alone for a few minutes before there was a light knock on the door. I wiped my eyes but remained in my spot on the couch.

“It’s open,” I called out, my voice small. Our Prop Master, Cathy, opened the door and walked up the steps.

“Hey, hon. Do you want to talk?” She came over and sat at the other end of the couch.

“I just…I just feel so hopeless now,” I started, skipping any kind of formality. “Charlie was my everything for so long, and now I’m stuck with this huge emptiness. I don’t know what to do. I want so badly to go out there and keep going. Carter, this show, all I’ve known for 15 years is this. I don’t want to give it up but…I don’t think I’m strong enough to do this.” Cathy put her hand on my arm sympathetically.

“Here.” She reached into her pocket to retrieve a card and handed it to me. “This is a support group for women going through what you did. A few years ago, my friend went through this, and she says she wouldn’t have been able to get through it the way she did without going and sharing with the group.”

“Thank you, Cathy,” I said, looking up from the card. “But—”

“Just think about it.” She smiled warmly and, like some fairy godmother here to point me in the right direction, gave me a tight hug and left.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

“And, uh, that’s what brought me here. I have to admit, I almost didn’t come. I just had those nasty comments going through my head along with the thought that some paparazzi would catch me coming out of here, and I’d be ridiculed for not being able to handle this. But I know I can’t. And I can’t keep going like this, either. I mean, I was so happy before this. I can’t help but think that had I known how much I’d be struggling right now, I wouldn’t have done it. I would have just found a way to be happy being “Aunt Naomi;” I wouldn’t have forced this. I don’t care how happy I was through the pregnancy, It feels meaningless now; everything does. I just feel like doing this, trying to have a baby like this…

it was just one big mistake.”

#emilys-write #my writing #fiction #tw miscarriage #cw miscarriage

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captainlasagna · 5 years

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I´m torn between the two sides of my thoughts.

The first side thinks I have to move on, thinks that he´s not worth it. It knows what he has done to me, all these terrible things that hurt me so much. It remembers all the nights I cried myself to sleep and all the classrooms I left mid-class to break down on the toilet because of his actions. It remembers all the hurt I´ve been trough in only 4,5 months of relationship - how much I had to suffer from in this actually short time of being together. It remembers all the lies he told even though always claiming to be so faithful. It remembers all the times he left me crying in front of him without trying to comfort me. It remembers all the times he told me I was annoying and that my behavior exhausted him. It remembers all the times he told me I was too demanding. It remembers all the times he made me feel so little and worthless when telling me I was overreacting every single time I tried to tell him why he hurt me. It remembers every time he told me what´s wrong about me and my appearance even though I was perfectly fine with how I looked before. It remembers all the times he got jealous out of nowhere and blamed me for it. It remembers all the times he made me feel so scared because he got aggressive and loud. It remembers all the times I waited hours for him to reply when he left me on read. It remembers all the times I let him have sex with me because I was too scared to risk a fight when saying no. It remembers all the times I broke down in his bathroom afterwards because even if it felt good for a short time because it was still him - it was terrible because I just felt forced to do it. It remembers all the fights I had with my friends because I spent less time with them and always texted him even when I met them. I remember all the fights I had with my family because they somehow knew he was no good but I still defended him until it all escalated. I remember all the times I risked relationships to people who are important to me because I always put him first. It remember all the times he broke his promises. It remembers all the times he didn´t defend me in difficult situations. It remembers all the time I had to hold myself back for him to feel better. It remembers all the times he forced me behave after his will, threatening to leave if I didn´t. It remembers all the times I was too scared to move or talk because I didn´t understand what he wanted me to do or say. It remembers being scared to meet his friends - not because of my shy side, but because I was frightened of doing something wrong and having to face his anger afterwards. It remembers all the times I spend sobbing in secret because I tried to hold everything back. It remembers all the times I had to lie to everyone I love because they would´t have liked him as my boyfriend anymore if I told them. It remembers how lost I felt when we fighter and how he always let me fix it up again - how he showed me he didn´t care as much as I did. It remember all the times he made me feel so damn shitty because I tried my hardest to somehow be good enough for him - but I never was. I remember all the times he told me to change but refused to better himself regarding his toxic behavior towards me and everyone else close to him. It remembers how I felt when he told me he cheated on me. It remembers how I begged him not to make me develop hope for us again if he leaves anyway and how he promised to stay and left only a week later. It remembers how I gave him everything I had and only received a little part of him in return. It remembers how I drank so much my friends had to carry me home and then lie in my bed the whole next days feeling totally dead inside. Because he destroyed every piece of confidence and self love I had had developed. It know - it really knows - that he just wasn´t the one I am supposed to spend my life with. It really knows that I deserve so much better, that someone out there will really love me. It knows that I´ll get over him some day because he wasn´t good enough for me. That he could´t see how beautiful and special I am. It knows that the sooner I move on, the sooner I´ll get back on track and maybe feel a little more alive again.

But there´s still the other side in my head. The side that remembers how beautiful we were, how special and how fucking life-changing. How he turned my whole life upside down by simply smiling at me. It remembers how it all started and how exciting it was to receive his text messages. It remembers how I stood infront of my closet for whole 30 minutes to figure out what to wear even though it was only between “friends”. It remember how I sat next to him in the cinema and couldn´t think of any other person I wanted to be there. It remember how proud I felt to walk next to him. It remembers how I was so embarrassed after totally failing to eat my kebab but him only laughing and saying it was alright. It remembers how we lay by the sea and how his fingers stroke my skin so softly. It remembers when I felt so safe and warm and cozy I never did before. It remembers going swimming and being so nervous about my belly but him looking at me like I was some kind of a goddess. It remembers driving to him with my friend because I was too scared alone, the whole thing being beautifully awkward. It remembers our first kiss next to her and then sneaking away for making out under the stars. It remembers my drunken call what that has happened to mean and how my heart exploded when he said he wanted a serious relationship. It remembers how much I missed him during the 4 weeks we didn´t see each after after that and how often he texted me about how much he wanted to see me. It remembers finally meeting again - to bake pizza together with candles burning and roses standing on the table. It remembers how our relationship struggled even after one month but got it again. It remembers how we laughed till he held our stomaches and how he teased each other so sweetly. It remembers how we cuddled and stroked each others for hours. It remembers how our relationship intensified and how special I felt when I was with you. It remembers how I gave him my virginity - fully trusted him with my body. It remembers going through orgasmns I never thought they were possible. It remembers how powerful and absolutely great I felt when I made his eyes roll back and his body shaking because he liked my kisses on his skin so much. It remember how invulnerable I felt when he held my hand and how I started to love him so much I could´t get back. It remembers ice skating with him and firstly thinking I could really trust him because he held me even when I was so close to falling down. It remembers how he told me he loved me and how these words were repeated in my head 24/7 the next time. I remember how we learned how to live really normal with each other by spending always whole weekends together - grocery shopping, family meetings, friends, studying, all these things and it felt so real. It remembers lying in his arms feeling so secure and warm and cozy and then singing our songs together - this was the moment I truly and fully recognized that I was lost and that there was no turning back. That I loved him so much I would to literally anything to keep him. It remembers us reconciling after every fight and discussion. It remembers how he promised to stay. It remembers him opening up to - even crying in front of me. It remembers how he held me in his arms and told me I´d never lose him when I was crying of fear. It remembers how he stroke my hair not even a week ago. It remembers how good he was for me. It remembers all these things nobody else has ever given to me before and probably nobody could give me in this way again. It remembers why I stayed even though he has treated me so poorly. It remembers all his good parts and why I fell in love with him.. and sadly, It remembers the reason I´d still fight for our relationship for, if it was possible. It remembers why I still love him. And this part isn´t ready to move on. This part still hopes for him to come back to me. This part still thinks of him as the person I want to spend my time and share everything with. This part still craves for his hands to touch my body and his text messages to arrive on my phone. This part thinks I maybe never can move on from him - because he was me first love and god, he was my love. This part searches for the fault in myself and blames my mistakes and problems for losing him. This part hates myself so much for letting him go that I don´t know how to overcome it.

But I don´t know which part is superior - I don´t know what I should do.

Because “Moving on” fully seems to be so damn early I don´t believe it would be real, just played for myself and everyone else to think I was strong. But keep on loving him as much as I still do hurts me so much I can´t breathe.

And it rips me in pieces. It fucking rips me in billions of fucking pieces that he is not here anymore. That I can´t text him to tell him that my day isn´t going so well. That I can´t listen to our songs anymore without bursting into tears no matter where I am or who I am with. That I can´t make myself a damn warming bottle without starting to cry. That I can´t drink wine, tea or coffee anymore without thinking of him. That I can´t watch some of my favorite netflix shows without remembering us talking about them or watching them together. That I can´t be with a couple without instantly going to the bathroom to have a nice little breakdown. Damn it, I spilled water today and cried 45 minutes afterwards. Everything, everything reminds me of him - and us.

And the worst of all - I know he does´t have the same struggles to face. Because he never felt the way I did. Because he never cared the way I did. Because he never sacrificed as much as I did.

And I am so jealous of the way he can deal with this. I am so damn jealous of the fact that he´ll be happy without me much sooner than I will be - if I will be.

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shareeanne-deactivated · 6 years

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This Weekend I Fell Apart, and That’s Okay

“Look for something positive each day, even if some days you have to look a little harder.” ~Unknown

This weekend I hurt more than I have in a very long time.

It all started on Friday, when my boyfriend and I headed out to spend the weekend with friends—two couples, both with babies in tow.

I’ve been trying, unsuccessfully, to get pregnant since the start of the year, yet I didn’t anticipate that it would be emotionally taxing for me to be around two little families. I was just excited to see our friends, who live in the Bay Area, hours away from our home near LA.

A little backstory: I’m less than three weeks away from my thirty-ninth birthday, which means I’m now in the category of “high risk pregnancy,” if I’m even able to get pregnant at all.

My boyfriend and I first discussed having a baby five years ago, but we kept pushing it off because our families live on opposite coasts, and neither of us was able to agree to live on the other’s coast full-time for the long-term.

We finally decided, at the beginning of this year, that I would be the one to visit my family—as often as I feel I need to, with our kid(s), for the foreseeable future—and we’d commit to staying in LA, which makes sense, since we’re working toward a career in film.

But biology doesn’t just fall in line because you finally get over your fears and decide to make a compromise. We’re both open to the idea of adoption, but there are other personal issues—that my fiercely private boyfriend would not want disclosed—that have complicated matters.

So there I was, on Friday, with our friends and their adorable babies—one actually a toddler, since he recently turned two.

We toasted our get-together around 5:00 with our first glass of wine, and the wine continued flowing throughout dinner. After, we all moved to the deck to partake in an at-home wine tasting.

The ladies and I discussed my road to pregnancy, and though I was discouraged, for the most part I was fine—until I wasn’t.

Having lost track of the amount of wine I was drinking, I eventually hit that emotional place I remember from my twenties—when alcohol eventually led to histrionics and tears. It is literally a depressant, after all, and generally not great to imbibe when you’re already feeling fragile.

I don’t remember all the details of that night, but I know I cried about my fears about not being able to have a family (which, as I mentioned, is an issue complicated by many factors).

I woke up at 4:00 in the morning and picked a fight with my boyfriend about our relationship. Then I woke at 8:00 with two things: a hangover and a shame-over. I was absolutely mortified.

I’d gotten drunk, turned a fun night with friends into something heavy and emotional, and had caused my boyfriend a lot of pain and embarrassment. It gave me a little comfort to realize everyone had drunk too much. But I still felt deeply ashamed of having lost control.

Ironically, I received an email that morning that I’d been waiting on for almost a month. My film mentor had just read the second draft of my first feature screenplay, and she said she was blown away by the massive improvement from the first draft.

I had never in my life simultaneously felt immense pride and deep shame, but I did right then.

Fortunately, the friend I cried to was extremely kind and empathetic. And no one judged me or put me down, as good friends never do.

But that day was pretty rough for me, physically and emotionally. And the next day, it got worse.

That night I noticed that a few people had commented on a meme I’d shared on Friday, using clipart with a hyper-sexualized female silhouette. They mentioned that it was demeaning to women to use what essentially appeared to be Barbie to represent the female form. One person called it “offensive.”

Though there were only a few critical comments, juxtaposed against 12,000 shares, I immediately realized I agreed with them. As someone who once struggled with an eating disorder, I’d like to represent women as more than a busty, high-pony-tailed caricature.

This didn’t fully or accurately represent my values or the message I’d like to convey. And I didn’t like the idea of young girls seeing it and concluding, as I may have as an adolescent, that this was what a woman is supposed to look like, even if some women actually look like this. So I decided to take it down.

With a mind still foggy I decided to write something on Facebook, as I wanted the community to know I felt I’d made an error in judgment. I didn’t want to just delete it. I want to make it clear I don’t agree with a society that puts pressure on women to be femme bots and suggests that our sexuality is our most valuable contribution.

I mentioned in my post that some people had pointed out that the image was offensive, and I agreed that it was triggering—and the backlash was swift and harsh.

In retrospect, I don’t think I accurately communicated why I decided to remove this image, since I didn’t address the cultural issue of how women are portrayed in the media, and the fact that I’d like to be part of the solution, not the problem. But I’m not sure if would have mattered if I did, since I’d used the word “offensive.”

I forgot that people often get offended by other people getting offended.

Over the next day, hundreds of comments came in, many attacking me on a personal level.

People called me spineless for catering to “snowflakes.” People said they lost respect for me and questioned my aptitude for even doing the work I do, since I clearly have no sense of conviction or belief in my own decisions. Even more alarming, many people mocked the idea of being “triggered,” and essentially belittled anyone with emotional or mental health issues.

I felt misunderstood, judged, and condescended.

I hid or deleted many of the worst comments, and resisted the urge to defend myself, deciding instead to leave one clarifying comment a couple hours in. But I’m not going to lie; this affected me deeply.

While on the one hand, I reminded myself that my power was in my response, and publicly, I only responded in one calm, clear comment, I also obsessively monitored the feed.

By this time my boyfriend and I were at his parents’ house in Nevada, where we planned to stay for a few days, and I wasn’t even close to present. I didn’t want to delete this new post, since I believed I’d done the right thing, but it pained me to see so much vitriol in a space that I hold sacred.

Then came another blow: I’d noticed a while back that since the start of the year, someone had been sharing every single challenge from my book Tiny Buddha’s 365 Tiny Love Challenges, on Facebook. Though this person tagged my page, none of the posts included the book’s title or a link—and some people actually assumed she was writing these posts, or getting them from my Facebook page.

I’d emailed my publisher a few weeks back to ask their thoughts on this, and they told me they could send an email asking her to stop. At the time, this seemed warranted.

Her Facebook friends didn’t see it that way. After she posted the letter from my publisher’s legal department, tagging my page, once again, the comments turned nasty.

F— you, Tiny Buddha.

You suck, Tiny Buddha.

More like “Greedy Buddha.”

Unbelievable! She should thank you for the free marketing!

For a while, I felt completely numb. And I knew I was doing the “wrong” things by obsessively monitoring my phone and letting these comments get to me.

I knew it wasn’t serving me to dwell in my self-righteousness and how wrong I believed it was for this woman, who enjoyed my work enough to share it, to like comments that attacked me on a personal level. But I did it anyways.

I was angry with the people who were angry. I was triggered by the people who were triggered.

And then something occurred to me: This whole weekend was an opportunity. It was a chance to practice some of the lessons that are much easier to practice when everything is going well.

This weekend was a chance to remember that:

I need compassion most when I think I deserve it the least.

Initially, I beat myself up over several things this weekend: drinking to excess, exploding emotionally, hurting my boyfriend, choosing clipart that I wished I hadn’t chosen, asking my publisher to speak for me instead of reaching out to the woman personally, and obsessing over the various challenges I was facing instead of being present.

I told myself I shouldn’t have made any of those mistakes. I should have been beyond this. I was a fraud.

Then I realized something: I was being as mean to myself as the people online. And not a single blow of self-flagellation was helping me move on. In fact, each self-judgmental thought cemented me further into the hole. Because telling myself I was sucking at life made it awfully hard to find the strength to do better.

Every time I criticized myself, I weakened myself, and a weakened person is far less equipped to reframe difficult circumstances and respond with equanimity.

The only way out was to cut myself from slack. I need to stop fighting with myself and let go, as if melting into a hug from someone who finally forgave me. I needed my own love and compassion.

So I drank too much and cried. I was hurting. It’s been a long journey toward starting a family, and it’s been hard. It’s okay to hurt.

So I made mistakes in my work—who doesn’t? I owned them and publically admitted them. What matters isn’t the fact that I messed up but that I acknowledged it and committed to doing better.

I don’t have to be perfect. Sometimes I will make mistakes, some public, and sometimes I’ll make many that compound. The only way to stop the cycle is to stop obsessing about having done things wrong. The only way to move into the future is to fully accept the past. Once I did this, I felt freer, and better able to be present.

The approval that matters most is my own.

It bothered me that people believed I removed the image because I needed approval from the “complainers,” as opposed to having made a decision based on my own beliefs and values.

But ironically, once the flood of negative comments came in, I did start feeling a need for approval. I wanted people to understand and honor my positive intentions.

It took me a day, but I was finally able to accept that some people were simply committed to judging me, and this wasn’t something to change; it was something to accept.

It didn’t matter if someone people derided me or questioned me if I felt in my heart I’d done the right thing.

I eventually deleted the second post because I wanted to put an end to the negativity. There’s far too much of that on Facebook already. But I’m proud I waited and resisted the urge to remove all criticism immediately. For a recovering people-pleaser, allowing a public character assassination requires immense strength. And I give myself a lot of credit for that.

It’s rarely personal.

Intellectually, I knew this when people were insulting me in both places on Facebook.

I knew that the people who were angry with me for catering to “snowflakes” were really projecting their feelings about what they perceive to be an oversensitive culture. It wasn’t just about this one image. It was about every time someone’s ever said they were offended, and their complex feelings about what that means to them.

I also knew that the people defending the woman who’d been sharing my book online were acting from a place of allegiance to their friend. They were more pro-her than anti-me. Many didn’t even have all the information—they didn’t realize she’d been sharing from a book. So really, I couldn’t take that personally either.

This wasn’t immediately comforting to me because the attacks were so public, but when I was able to fully absorb this, it did give me some peace.

Not everyone will see my side, and that’s okay.

I believe one of our deepest desires is to feel understood—to know that other people get where we’re coming from and that they may even have done the same thing if they were in our shoes.

I didn’t feel that way when people judged me personally based on the letter from my publisher’s legal department.

I left a few comments on that post, trying my best to respond from a place of calm, but I know there are some people who will forever think I am greedy and soulless because I didn't want my book’s content republished online.

I’ve decided that this is okay. Not everyone has to get me, understand me, support me, be considerate of me, or treat me kindly—so long as I do those things for myself.

Pain can be useful if you share it to help someone else.

I decided to share this post for two reasons:

First, I thought it would be cathartic for me. I felt ashamed for a lot of this weekend, and I wanted to be able to reframe this experience in a way that felt empowering. As I said when I first launched this site, when we recycle our pain into something useful for others, we’re able to turn shame into pride.

And that brings me to the second reason: I thought it might be helpful for someone else to realize that even someone who runs a site like Tiny Buddha can fall into so many self-destructive traps.

If you’ve ever drunk too much and fell apart emotionally, know that you’re not alone.

If you’ve ever obsessed over comments online and allowed something as trivial as a Facebook feud to get the better of you, know that you’re not alone.

If you’ve ever failed to apply what you know and regressed to the least evolved version of yourself, know that you’re not alone.

And know that all of these things are okay. They don’t mean anything about you as a person. They don’t define you. And they don’t have to dictate the future.

This is what I needed to hear this weekend when I was despondent and numb, so today it’s my gift to you. I hope someone benefits from something in my experience. But I suppose no matter what, someone has—me.

About Lori Deschene

Lori Deschene is the founder of Tiny Buddha and Recreate Your Life Story, an online course that helps you let go of the past and live a life you love. Her latest book, Tiny Buddha's Worry Journal, which includes 15 coloring pages, is now available. For daily wisdom, follow Tiny Buddha on Twitter, Facebook & Instagram.

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The post This Weekend I Fell Apart, and That’s Okay appeared first on Tiny Buddha.

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gta-5-cheats · 6 years

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The days leading up to Meghan Markle and Prince Harry’s first date

New Post has been published on http://secondcovers.com/the-days-leading-up-to-meghan-markle-and-prince-harrys-first-date/

The days leading up to Meghan Markle and Prince Harry’s first date

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In 2016, “Suits” actress combined business and pleasure when she traveled to London for work . . . and ended up falling in love with In this adapted excerpt from his new book, (Grand Central Publishing), out Tuesday, royal biographer Andrew Morton reveals the inside story of how the couple first met — from the friend who set them up on a blind date at Soho House to the heartbreaks that bonded them together, leading to May 19’s royal wedding.

As Meghan Markle nestled back in her seat in preparation for landing at Heathrow Airport, she had love and marriage on her mind. It was June 2016 and the “Suits” actress had just enjoyed a long weekend on the Greek island of Hydra — savoring wine, fresh seafood and yoga alongside her best friend from college, Lindsay Jill Roth, who was soon to be wed. As the maid of honor, Meghan had planned the luxe bachelorette bash, considerately organizing the party in this beautiful location rather than some raucous club.

“There is something wholly cathartic about being able to turn it all off — to sunbathe with no one watching, swim in the briny Mediterranean Sea, eat copious amounts of Greek salads and fried red mullets and toast to the day,” she wrote on her blog, The Tig.

The women, including Roth’s other bridesmaids, had undoubtedly discussed romance, the past and future. Meghan had also arranged a surprise wedding dress fitting for Roth — a TV producer who met the actress at Northwestern University — at the Toronto location of Kleinfeld Bridal boutique (the New York institution made famous by the TV show “Say Yes to the Dress”).

Meanwhile, Meghan’s own relationship with Canadian chef and restaurateur Cory Vitiello had recently ended, having withered on the vine as both of their lives became busier and busier, and she likely relished time away from Toronto and the house they had shared there.

She was officially flying to London for a week to promote the upcoming season of “Suits” and to attend Wimbledon as a guest of Ralph Lauren’s fashion house. And, although the newly single actress was open to finding new love, she never expected to be set up with a real-life prince charming.

After watching her friend, legend Serena Williams, play in the tournament, Meghan reached out to Piers Morgan. The morning show host — with whom she was Twitter buddies — was a favorable media friend for an up-and-coming actress seeking her name in headlines.

The two agreed to an early evening drink at his local pub, the Scarsdale Tavern in Kensington. Morgan was a “Suits” fan, but this was his first time meeting the woman who played paralegal Rachel Zane. “She looked every inch the Hollywood superstar,” he later recalled. “Very slim, very leggy, very elegant and impossibly glamorous.”

Meghan sipped a dirty martini as they chatted about the series, her days as a “briefcase girl” on the game show “Deal or No Deal,” gun control in America, women’s rights, her passion for calligraphy and her one‑time ambi‑tion to be a TV presenter. She also admitted to Morgan that she was “out of practice” with the dating scene and trying to fend off “persistent men.”

Meghan Markle in 2013WireImage

Morgan was impressed. “Fabulous, warm, funny, intelligent and highly entertaining,” he later recalled. “She seemed real, too. Not one of those phony actress types so prevalent in California.”

While in London, reportedly from the end of June until early July, Meghan was working closely with Violet von Westenholz, a Ralph Lauren public relations executive. “How much more can I adore this gem,” an effusive Meghan wrote on Instagram of her new bestie. Not only is von Westenholz a well‑connected fashion maven, but her father, interior designer Baron Piers von Westenholz, is a friend of Prince Charles.

For years Violet and her sister Victoria had joined Princes Charles, William and Harry on annual skiing trips to Switzerland. In fact, Victoria was once seen as a possible match for Harry.

Instead, it seems likely that Violet set up Meghan and the prince on their blind date, which probably took place at Soho House during her visit to the city.

It is certain that Meghan was excited the day of her first date with Harry. On that day, the actress had lunch with her friend Gina Nelthorpe-Cowne at the Delaunay restaurant in the chic Covent Garden neighborhood. The two women met in 2014 while both working on the One Young World youth summit; Nelthorpe-Cowne later became Meghan’s agent. She told the Daily Mail last week how Meghan broke the news.

“[She] told me, ‘I’m going on a date tonight . . . With Prince Harry!’’ . . . She whispered it so quietly I had to ask her to repeat it,” Nelthorpe-Cowne recalled.

“I couldn’t believe what I was hearing but I think she could barely believe it either. We were both extremely excited.

“I jokingly asked if she knew what she was letting herself in for and she said: ‘Well, it’s going to be an experience and at least it will be a fun night.’ ”

Had Meghan met Harry a few years earlier, she might have had a different expectation.

Princess Diana, Prince Harry, Prince William and Prince Charles circa 1995Getty Images

The prince would be the first to admit that during his 20s, his life had descended into “total chaos” as he struggled to process since the tragic death of his mother, Princess Diana, in a 1997 car accident in Paris.

Drilled with grief and absent a steadying, nurturing influence in his life, Harry had gone off the rails. He became notorious as an angry drunk who lurched out of London nightclubs, ready to throw a punch at the paparazzi who dogged his every footstep.

For years, he was carefully protected by highly paid public relations professionals who smoothed over his public escapades.

When he dressed up in a Nazi uniform for a “Colonials and Native” fancy dress party shortly before Holocaust Memorial Day in 2005, his minders accepted that it was a “poor choice of costume,” but that there was no malice in his decision. Similarly, when he was caught on video referring to a fellow officer cadet at Sandhurst as “our dear little Paki friend” and another as looking like a “raghead,” a pejorative term for an Arab, once again his p.r. minder Paddy Harverson came to the rescue.

If Meghan had been in his life at that time, she would not have been impressed by his casual racism. Nor were others. “He was a very lost young man,” a former royal official told me. “Harry was deeply troubled, unhappy, and immature, imbued with the slanted, quietly racist views of those from his class and background.”

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In 2012, he was pictured cavorting naked in a Las Vegas hotel room during a game of strip billiards with a bunch of strangers, some of whom had camera phones and uploaded photos of his antics for the startled world to watch. “Too much army, not enough prince,” was his rueful response.

But, in fact, the army had also helped give him a sense of purpose. At the end of his first tour of duty in 2008, he traveled with the coffin of a dead Danish soldier, which had been loaded on board his flight home from Afghanistan by his friends, along with three British troops all in induced comas who were being transported with their missing limbs, wrapped in plastic.

“The way I viewed service and sacrifice changed forever,” he recalled. “I knew it was my responsibility to use the great platform that I have to help the world understand and be inspired by the spirit of those who wear the uniform.” That flight set him on the trajectory that would culminate in the Invictus Games, an international multisport jamboree in which sick, wounded or injured servicemen and women compete.

In September 2014, after a year of planning, the first games, which involved army personnel from around the world, were held in London. The games were a triumph, giving the prince, who was due to leave the army in 2015, new focus and impetus. He was fully committed to using his unique position to help and encourage those who were at the sharp end of modern warfare.

“Since then, he has become the man he is today,” observes a former royal courtier. “It has not been an easy process. He has become more open and developed into someone who genuinely cares about social issues.”

By the time he met Meghan, Harry was also — after a series of failed romances — warming up to another big life change.

At a birthday party in January 2016, he told TV presenter Denise Van Outen: “For the first time ever I want to find a wife.” Three months later when he was in Orlando, Fla., for the Invictus Games, he again brought up the subject of love and marriage: “At the moment my focus is very much on work, but if someone slips into my life then that’s absolutely fantastic. I am not putting work before the idea of family and marriage . . . I just haven’t had that many opportunities to get out there and meet people.”

Prince Harry and Meghan MarkleGetty Images

But the difficulty of finding someone “willing to take me on” was an issue that always stayed at the back of his mind every time he met someone new. Were they attracted to him for his personality or his title?

As one of his friends pointed out to London’s Sunday Times, “You have to be a very special girl to want to be a princess.”

While Violet von Westenholz had the royal connections, Meghan’s friend Markus Anderson, the brand ambassador for Soho House who had just vacationed in Madrid with the actress, was on hand to rustle up a private room at the members-only club for an intimate evening away from prying eyes.

On July 1, 2016, Harry had just returned from France, where he had joined the then prime minister David Cameron, Prince Charles, the Duke and Duchess of Cambridge and other dignitaries at a service to commemorate the 100th anniversary of the start of the Battle of the Somme, one of the bloodiest days of warfare in British history. At an evening vigil for the fallen, Harry had read “Before Action,” a poem penned by Lieutenant W. N. Hodgson, who died in action. The event had been a moving reminder of the enormity of that day. He returned to London in somber spirits.

Until the day of the blind date.

Upon meeting Meghan and learning that she had given a speech at a UN forum, the prince realized — as he subsequently confessed — that he would have to up his game.

At the end of the evening, they said their goodbyes and went their separate ways, he to Nottingham Cottage at Kensington Palace, she to a hotel room at the Dean Street Townhouse in Soho, London. Both were buzzing. As Meghan relived the fateful evening in her mind, she perhaps wondered if she had been too eager to accept his invitation to meet again the following day.

“After the date, [Meghan] was telling me what a great guy he was, a real gentleman, genuinely nice,” “When I asked if she would see him again she said: ‘Well, it looks like it.’ ”

Prince Harry and Meghan MarkleAlexi Lubomirski/Courtesy of Kensington Palace/Handout via Reuters

As Harry later confirmed, the couple enjoyed back-‑to-‑back dates, making every minute matter before she had to fly back to Toronto on July 5 to continue promoting the new season of “Suits.”

The normally self‑-contained actress was smitten. Unable to keep her feelings to herself, her Instagram account gave away just a little; on July 3 she posted a picture of two Love Hearts candies that bore a simple message: Kiss me. Next to the photograph Meghan posted “Love Hearts in #London.”

She had even taken herself by surprise. When Harry asked if she would be interested in joining him on a safari for a few days in August — mere weeks after their first meeting — she found herself saying, “Yes, please.”

“I’m sure that the Botswana trip is what clinched the deal,” Nelthorpe-Cowne said. “When they were back, she showed me the most wonderful photographs of the two of them on her phone. They were so clearly already in love. She told me it was serious and they had started discussing the future.

“She said they’d said to each other: ‘We’re going to change the world.’ ”

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mypathtohappinessin2017-blog · 6 years

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November 26, 2017 I Sobriety Date

This is a date that I WILL celebrate the rest of my life. Now granted, today I am currently three days sober. I know, I know, some willpower huh – give me a break, it is a start isn’t it? Well, my story doesn’t come easy – but up until this point I have never addressed the real problem.

Let me introduce myself to you – my name is Brooke, and I’m an Alcoholic. I’m comfortable chanting that introduction, because for once in my life, I truly believe that I am. From the outside no one would ever guess. I am a 33 year old, daughter, sister, girlfriend, fur-mom to the most adorable Boxer Puppy (Tank), Chicago –living, successful career women. Not only that, but I am funny! There I said it – I make everyone around me laugh and make them feel good. I am caring and have a heart of gold. I would give up everything I have to make others around me feel happy (that is part of the problem – I have never truly found my path to happiness…but that will be a later blog post) I sound like a good person don’t I? Want to be best friends…or are we already besties?

All joking aside - I have a problem…when I drink I do not know when to stop. I don’t hit the bottle every day, hell I don’t event drink during the week, but the weekends roll around and I act as if I’m 21 years old again. I say to myself and those around me, “Just one more…”, we have that “one more drink” and then I course everyone and myself into shots – because I know this cycle all too well. Once the shots start rolling – who wants to leave then? Not me….but I’m guessing you already figured that part out. After a night of “one more drinks”, and “one more shot” I end up being a blackout drunk – and typically starting arguments with my boyfriend – who I’m sure he is the one, but he’s not sure yet if I am (mostly because he is disgusted with the drunk nights that have lead our relationship to a never ending dark hole).

After a full Thanksgiving weekend of being back in my hometown and literally going out every single night for four days straight – I had a breaking point on Sunday, November 26th. See I was out with my family Saturday night. We went to a local bar, then went to go watch my cousin play Hockey for the Wisconsin Badgers, and then went back to that local bar. We had been drinking since 5:00 pm. My mom wanted to leave at Midnight and I said no – I wasn’t ready. I ended up being a real jerk to my mom, disrespecting her, embarrassing myself, my boyfriend, and all those around me. I woke up Sunday morning ashamed – saddened, and knew something had to change. In the Twelfth step of AA they discuss having a spiritual awakening. I’m not sure that Sunday morning that I had a spiritual awakening of sorts, but I knew in my heart, head and gut something had to change or I would lose everything. Our new house that my boyfriend and I bought, our new puppy that we adopted, my boyfriend who is my love of my life and best friend (his name is Michael btw), but most importantly myself. I have lost myself to drinking over and over and over again.

The Talk- My mom and I sat down that Sunday morning for over three hours and had the best conversation maybe we have ever had. You know when parents say its tough love, I looked at this conversation as her saving me. I cried and poured my heart out. We talked about life, love, and being an Alcoholic. My mom and sister has always been ok with having one glass of wine and being done. However, Alcoholism runs on both sides of my family. I have had a uncle who has died of alcoholism, cousins that have had substance abuse issues, and the list goes on. Just as I’m sure whomever is reading this has their own “family secrets”….sorry fam, for exposing ours! Back to the talk…I felt such a relief after admitting that I knew I had a problem and would go get help. For once in my life, I felt ready – I knew it was time to start getting my life back together. I drove 2.5 hours back to Chicago that night and had a lot of time to think. I had clarity, I knew it was my time to find my path to happiness.

I invite you and your loved ones, or maybe just an acquaintance whom you think would find value in my blog to follow along in this journey to recovery, self-help, happiness, and finding my true self again. We all struggle with hardships in life…and this is mine. I vow to be open and honest with each and every one of you. I vow to not pretend that this will be easy, because it’s going to be really fucking hard at times, but as my mom said best, “Look at everything you have to lose, but look at how much more you will gain.” So please help me find light at the end of this tunnel. Guide me to the right direction with words of advice, positive mantras, and hopefully by me opening up with my struggles I can help someone else that might be having this same feeling of lost hope.

I will leave you all with this, “The comeback is always stronger than the setback” ….I’m coming back home y’all!

#recovery #alcoholics anonymous #self love #happiness #self care #bethebestyou #bethebestme #mypathtohappiness

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