Thursday, May 31, 2012

I Need a DeLorean

Aimee Mullins, born without fibulea she grew up to create record-breaking cheetah legs! 
We are capable of so much greatness.  I am in love with her story because I think it's a lot like mine.

Follow the story. 
Read the previous entry here.

*Trigger warning.  This was my darkest moment.  Read with caution.
** Note to Mr. Scabs, I know this one hurts.  Sorry.

November 2010

You wake up anxious with your heart pounding and in those first moments of lucidity your brain tells you it's all been a terrible dream.  That's when your hand reaches up to rub your eyes as they focus in the dim morning bedroom light.  Your fingers scratch lazily at your neck and shoulder, then stretching high in the sky your left arm reaches for your right arm but grasps at nothing but air.  Again, confused you yawn and reach your left arm intending to clasp fingers with your right and do a morning stretch.  Still, you grasp nothing but air!  Fear strikes you, the tightening in your chest, the lump in your throat, the rhythm of your heart speeds, the sickening in your stomach turns and your eyes widen.  Racing thoughts hint that your dream wasn't a dream.  Your eyes turn toward your right shoulder, gasping your left hand clenches the stump of wounded flesh were you arm was attached.  Your arm has been cut off, severed, removed from your wholeness.

There's no turning back.  You can't regrow an arm or sew it back on, a prosthetic is just that, prosthetic.  It's gone, your life forever changed.  You will adapt.  You have no other choice.

March 2011

Mr. Scabs would ask me what he could do.  What could he do to fix this living nightmare?  Shaking, with consuming pain I would scream,

 "build me a time machine!" 

Decisions had been made, conscience had been ignored, rules of marriage had been thrown out, lies had been told and retold.  There is no way to fix it.  I want a DeLorean.  I want to travel back like Marty and Doc to some event altering time in the past.  A place where I can make this all disapear.  Clenching my eyes, I hold my breath.

A heavy black fog fills my heart.  I walk daily with lurid feelings of betrayal, depression and loneliness.  I eat nothing and then I eat a whole bag of Oreo's and then I eat nothing again.  Days pass before I wash my hair or take a shower.  Flat and shallow, my eyes stare out the window.  My brain, my self-purpose and self-love know his addiction does not reflect me but my heart can't feel the truth in that statement.

His lies and sticky darkness have jumped ship and spread across the once clear ocean waters crushing me.  Like a bird drenched in oil spill slick, unable to fly and unable to escape.

I wished I were dead. 

My bright-eyed children skip into the room.  I watch them in slow motion.  Their laughing and giggling turns to teasing and then hurt feelings.  My daughter reaches down for her brother, holding him close.  Her bright eyes now regretful, she's sorry.  I witness the clarity and genuine feeling of a simple apology.  And just like that they are up and playing again.

I struggle for life.  I struggle to feel.  Numbess is a new state of normal.  Flattly, I stare out the window.  Life is still moving, even renewing.  It's spring but I am dead inside, whithering, like the darkest coldest day of winter.

And then, something shifts.  The dark longing for death shifts focus.  I'm no longer the target.  The long boney fingers of death reach for my spouse. 

I wish he were dead. 

Hit by a bus, suffocated in an earthquake, eaten by disease, anything that would free me of him.  I felt ambushed.  My heart and mind slipped into labrinth of darkness wishing death on the man I called my husband.  The women who went ballistic and shot their husbands to pieces or cut off their penisis in the middle of the night were not so far from who i had become.  

My sanity was fragmented.  My mind ill and diseased for never-ending lies and betrayal.  My neurosis had reached it's peak.  The only way through this hell was the death of one of us.  Divorce would eat away and erode our children. If we stayed together I would decompose into nothing.  Death would be hard to get over but it could be done.  In my darkest, most cheerless morbid moments, remembering all the times he screwed me over, I wished death upon him.

"Now and then I think of all the times you screwed me over
Part of me believing it was always something that I'd done
But I don't wanna live that way
Reading into every word you sa
You said that you could let it go
And I wouldn't catch you hung up on somebody that you used to know"

May 30, 2012

In case you are worried, he is still alive and so am I. 

If this is your first time reading and you need a pick-me-up after such a dark post, read about Mr. Scabs remorse here, or here.  Or if you need to get away from sex addiction all together check out one of my favorites Tomboy Style or be sure to read Aimee Mullins story.

Sunday, May 27, 2012

Too Many Hot Chili Flakes

Add caption

May 27, 2012

We're rolling, giggling, gut-busting laughing!  Did he really do that?!
Mr. Scabs face is drenched in drops of sweat!  He's gleaming, glossy even!  
We can't stop chuckling!

I made some delish Chicken Mango Wraps for dinner when a good friend stopped by.  We ate and laughed and talked openly with Mr. Scabs about his sex addiction.  He has come to a place where he can have a genuine conversation about his motives, thoughts and on a good day his feelings.  Yep, feelings.  My friend was asking some pretty hard questions.

"Did you ever think you would get caught?" and "How did you let it go so far?"

While sharing his story he stood up to fix another wrap.  Piling on a little chicken, a little mango and some garden basil.   The wrap calls for cumin but instead I added a small pinch of chili flakes.  The shaker of flakes was beckoning like too much of a good thing.  He piled on a mountain of blazing little peppers.  Fool.  I looked at his wrap and warned, "that's a lot of chilies".

Shrugging his shoulders he gobbled it up.  This is when we started laughing and couldn't stop!  He tried to play is cool but there was no hiding his glossy forehead and bloodshot eyes.  Red and dripping wet with spice induced sweat he sat paralyzed by the sweltering heat!

All I could think was, "this is so typical".  No moderation.  No heeding warnings.

His taste buds stinging and his head a glossy, sweaty mess!  It's hilarious!  I didn't get up to get him an ice water.  That's my new non-codependent attitude kicking in.  I don't mind watching him suffer.  Those are the natural consequences of his reckless chili-flake overdose and it has nothing to do with me! My friend and I were dying as he wiped up sweat and guzzled buckets of ice water trying to recover.

The wrap was YUM and so easy to make.  Try the recipe below but go easy on the chili flakes!

Thanks Martha!

Chicken Wraps with Mango Basil and Mint


  • For The Chicken

    • 1 garlic clove
    • 1/2 shallot
    • 1/4 cup loosely packed fresh basil leaves
    • 1 teaspoon extra-virgin olive oil
    • 1/2 teaspoon coarse salt
    • 1/4 teaspoon ground cinnamon
    • Freshly ground pepper
    • 2 boneless, skinless chicken breast halves (about 12 ounces total)
  • For The Dressing

    • 1/2 shallot
    • 1/2 mango, peeled and cut into 2-inch pieces
    • 2 teaspoons fresh lime juice
    • pinch of cayenne pepper
  • For Assembling

    • 4 lavash breads (3 1/2 ounces each)
    • 1/2 mango, peeled and cut into 1/2-inch-thick spears
    • 8 fresh basil leaves
    • 8 fresh mint leaves


  1. Preheat oven to 375 degrees. Make the chicken: Finely chop garlic and shallot in a food processor. Add basil and oil, and process until mixture forms a coarse paste. Stir in salt and cinnamon, and season with pepper. Make a few shallow 1/2-inch slits on both sides of chicken; rub all over with the basil mixture. Place on a rimmed baking sheet. Bake chicken until cooked through, 12 to 15 minutes. Let cool completely, then shred into small pieces; set aside.
  2. Make the dressing: Finely chop shallot in the clean bowl of the food processor. Add mango, and process until smooth. Add the lime juice and cayenne, and process until combined.
  3. Assemble wraps: Spread about 1/4 cup mango dressing in center of each lavash. Top with chicken, mango, and herbs. Roll up diagonally to form a cone.

Friday, May 25, 2012

The Summer of Nothing

School's out and we're ready for the summer of nothing!  

That's right, no horse lessons, no swim-team and no art class.  I have officially under-scheduled our summer.  We are slowing down.  The Art of Being Lazy.  
Soaking up every delicious summer moment.  
Nothing planned, nothing rushed.
Rebuilding. Cleansing.

Many of us are in the throws of dark things, struggling to breath.
This is how you take one day at a time.

When you see a river, lake, pool or ocean.  Do this:




or, if things are right, you could ride the bull  
(that was a joke, unless you really want to).

When temps rise and you need a little break, enjoy one of these:

Summer, summer, summer...



When you hear a funky beat, do this:
Shaking away all your worries.

dance dance

When dark feelings threaten, take your kids, your friend or just yourself and do this:
The wind will freshen your mind and sweep away the creeping feelings
 that keep you from being happy.  I promise.  I do this often.

Let's ride bikes together!

The Muppets ride bikes. Side by side.

i love to ride bikes

And, if you're feeling brave, maybe you could try this:


Have a safe weekend celebrating Memorial Day!  
Eat a hot dog, drink a coke and find something to laugh about.  

With so much love and so much respect,

memorial day.

Thursday, May 24, 2012

"I don't know how you do it"

circa 2012

 May 23, 2012

Mr. Scabs mother always says to me, "I don't know how you do it."

Not referring to his sex addiction (although, she wonders that too) but to his adventuresome and spontaneous spirit.  When Mr. Scabs plans something we find ourselves flying by the seats of our homemade pants!

I love a good adventure, the luck of spontaneity always finds me in a good place when I've wandered the world.  I suppose those are some of the reason I fell in love with him.

There was no hesitation when Mr. Scabs planned a last minute getaway to celebrate our daughter turning 10.  I packed a skirt, a toothbrush and a bottle of sunscreen.  Forty-eight hours later we found ourselves swimming in the waves of the Pacific Ocean, inhaling it's sweet humid air.

In another life, our daughter was a mermaid.  Sea water runs in her veins and her blue-green eyes darken and brighten with her mood, just like the ocean in calm or in storm. The water makes her confident and endlessly happy!  Our golden-haired mermaid.

Although it's strange to be vacationing as a family again, there were so many wonderful things about leaving life behind for a few days.

Stress washed off our shoulders and I watched my husband play and build deeper connections with our children.  I saw his kindness and love.

I was beginning to think it would never happen and then my almost 4 year old pooped in the toilet and peed on a tree!  That's considered potty-trained at my house.  We did the big boy dance!
circa 2012- Hurray for my Boy!
I witnessed this expression of tenderness.  Not sure if this was voyeuristic but I was absorbed by their obvious love as they waded the briny shallows for their first glimpse at the world under the waves.

circa 2012 

Amidst all this, I still felt a hazy sourness.  I couldn't find my happiness or my usual optimism.  A disjointed zig-zag rippled through me and I let it reach my heart.  I let it determine how I was going to react to the Asian triggers that seemed to be jumping out from behind every tree.  It's like they knew and were bent on tormenting me.  Their bikinis were stringier and stringier until you would barely recognize it as a swimsuit.

I saw Mr. Scabs purposely look away, obviously aware of my pain.  Many times his finger reached over to wipe the tears falling from under my sunglasses.  He guided me away from the Asian eateries and hooked my pinky finger with his.  So many times he expressed his sorrow, he didn't know we'd come in such close contact with trauma induced triggers.

I'm still feeling this pain.  Days later, it's lingering.  Whispering in my ear, taunting me, begging me to give into the hurt and embrace a teetering depression.  It's a battle.

Really, I could make anything a trigger.  My mind can connects dots that don't even exist.  I could release a single tear drop that morphs into a bomb, letting a mushroom cloud spread, darkening everything I see.  The emotional self control it takes to keep a trigger self-contained is behemoth!

I'm not there yet.

For those of you who can, I echo my mother-in-laws words, "I don't know how you do it?"

Friday, May 18, 2012

* do not try this at home

Hope your weekend is full of relaxing, recharging and loving 
those near your heart.
Life is full of really great things.

*do not try this at home

hoppy fathers day

Ur doing it wrong.



when push comes to shove_sm


01 copy


brush your teeth!

Project Unbreakable

The stories we tell are compelling and powerful.
I love this because our voices can heal us.

Project Unbreakable.  
"This photography project was created in October of 2011 by Grace Brown. Grace works with survivors of sexual assault, photographing them holding a poster with a quote from their attacker. Grace has photographed over a hundred people, received over eight hundred submissions."

The below photos are taken from the project tumbr, here.

Photographed in Seattle, WA on April 19th.
Not sure what Project Unbreakable is? Click here.
Want to be a part of Project Unbreakable? Email us at
Find us on Facebook & Twitter
View submissions here

Photographed in San Francisco, CA on April 16th.

Not sure what Project Unbreakable is? Click here.
Want to be a part of Project Unbreakable? Email us at
Find us on Facebook & Twitter
View submissions here

Photographed in San Francisco, CA on April 16th.

Not sure what Project Unbreakable is? Click here.
Want to be a part of Project Unbreakable? Email us at
Find us on Facebook & Twitter
View submissions here

Thursday, May 17, 2012

Mr. Scabs version of 'Going Berserk'


Mr. Scabs and I have worked together to write this post.  
Although I form the sentences, many of these words are his own.  Trying to capture raw honesty from the past.  


November 27, 2010

After 4 days overseas and a layover in Hong Kong, I'm closer to home.

Closer to that big wooden front door my wife found and refinished.  The door I personally hung on our home.  A door is supposed to keep your family safe.  It's supposed to keep bad things at bay.  A 747 jet can cross 9.5 miles per minute.  That's how fast I'm careening across the Pacific Ocean toward my real life.  And, in a few hours I will walk through our front door with all my bad things.

This time I went overboard.

Honestly, I went overboard years ago when I first stepped into a massage parlor or even years before that when porn replaced my wife.  But this, this is a different kind of overboard.  I knew it was time to go home when I'd lost interst--the women I met were hookers but they were begining to become real to me.  They had real lives.

Joy has dreams of finding true love someday.  She didn't like her work in the dance club and wanted to get a different job.  But, in a third-world country there aren't many ways to make good money.  Joy's sister despised me, her eyes filled with disgust.  Our conversations were abrupt, her words dripped with repulsion.  I left her alone.  Nina has 2 children and her heart has already been broken.  She hid her empty eyes by giggling and flirting; the life of the party.

These women had become real.  I lost interest, lost connection and I knew it was time to go home.

Something in me has shifted drastically.

Something in her has shifted drastically too.  It shows in every movement she makes.  I can see this from a distance, even her walk is changed. She crosses the baggage claim with our beautiful children in tow.  I regret not spending Thanksgiving with them.  Her eyes are cold and untrusting, I can't meet them.   Looking at my feet, I lean in for a kiss, she turns her lips.  Timidly, I kiss her cheek.  My real life.

She knows.

Shame instantly settles on my shoulders.  I dread the simplest questions.

"How was your trip?"
"What did you do?"
"Did you have fun?"

Cutting her out I snap, I don't want to talk about it!  The dark pit in my stomach hollowing out, making safe keeping for deeper secrets.  My heart beats faster, my face flushes red.  She knows.  How does she know?

I'm happy to be home, to walk through that homemade front door.  I'm happy to be in a place were I'm safe.  Her endless questions are souring my mood and it feels like an interrogation.   Even now, I look at her and she's a stranger.  Someone I knew in another life time.

My conscience is hot and old shames stab at me.  I suppose its like going on a cocaine-laced meth binge.  The high pushes you through the harshness of reality into a hazy fast-paced alternate world where you are King.  You don't care about anyone else and you can do whatever you want!   When I've reached the ragged edges of my high, I start tweaking.  Uncontrollable itching, scratching like a million tiny spiders crawling under my skin.  Trapped in my empty shell.  I'm vacant!  Guilt, pain, freaking out...nothing satiates my craving!  My mind burns and tantrums boil and then like it always does, the high fades and you come crashing with blunt force.  Unable to cope.  I'm crashing.

Jet lag and self-hate weigh on my eyelids.  They're so heavy.  I'm groggy and dozing.  Lying in our bed, my back to her,  trying to drown out her mistrust.  She drains me.  So, I tell a lie.  I need to sleep and I need her to leave me alone!  I confess a strip club, which isn't true, but it's less shameful than what i really did.

She takes it hard.  I can hear her breathing stop.  Frozen, I don't dare to move.  Maybe I'll implode.

More questions, more crying.  I placate her, giving the answers she wants.

The corner of my eye follows her shadow to the bathroom where I hear sobbing and the watery whine of the shower.

Safe.  My eyes close.  Exhausted I drift off, escaping.

Startled awake, she's dripping wet, demanding to know what else happened.  She knows the strip club wasn't the end.  Finally, I confess oral sex from a dancer, which isn't true either, but seems like a lesser sin.  In a blur she attacks. Her tiny, wet, slippery fists pelting me.  Furiously screaming. I deserve it.

Our relationship has always perplexed me.  Why can't I maintain a meaningful deep relationship with her?  I want that.  Why can't I see what the barrier is between us?  I want things to be better.  Desperately, I want to be happy.  I can fix this.

December 2010

It's almost Christmas.  Weeks have passed since my confession and I find myself falling into old comfortable patterns.  Struggling to stay away from the porn.  The anger's back in full force.  Our conversation is shallow.  She won't let it go.  Maybe she knows the real truth.  I set up an appointment with the quack lady shrink.  Whatever.

I'm going to hide it, forget about it all and just fix it.  That hollow spot in my gut is deep enough to harbor all my secrets.  I will bury them in the deepest tomb and start fresh.  I'm gonna solve this and make it up to her.  But, telling the truth isn't an option, the consequences are way too frightening.

Certainly, I'd end up like the homeless man who walked into the taco shop today asking for a glass of water.  As I ate my taco, I skipped over his hungry eyes to his ragged, dirty and hopeless frame.  Barely a wisp of a human.  A man, lost.

She can never know that bad things have crossed the threshold of our homemade front door.

Read my version of these events here.
Read more about Mr. Scabs here.
Or, if you feel particularly heavy after this post read this.

Tuesday, May 15, 2012

Going Berserk!


Follow the story.
Read the previous entry here.

December, 2010

I'm in a pain induced coma.  Insanity chipping away at the ragged edges of my lucidity.

I'm so fragile.

My nervous system has completely shut down.  All my senses are numb and I can't see, hear or feel.  The electrical impulses are bouncing around my cranium, bottled up, unable to escape, frantic, but never reaching the edges of my body.

The bells are ringing and old favorite carols are playing.  The tree is up and the kids are begging me to make cookies.  Christmas is just days away.  Many friends and neighbors come to visit.  We exchange plates of goodies and I give them my best plastic smile.  I'm pretending.

He said sorry.  That it was a mistake.  That it only happened once.  We're going to therapy.  And, oddly life moves on and the trip to "the-country-that-must-not-be-named" is forgotten.

We don't think about it or talk about it.  If it's mentioned, he gets angry.

"It's over!  It's in the past."
"When are you going to get over this?"
"I should never have told you."
"At least I didn't have an affair."
"What's your problem, I said 'sorry'."

What is my problem?

Is it the lurking feeling that there's more?  Or, the unsettling new Asian "friends" on Facebook?  Or, that he hasn't been STD tested as promised?  Doesn't he know you can get STD's from a blow job?  How casually I say this, as if it is normal and part of regular life.  Somehow, flying half-way around the world for an Asian blow-job is normal.  I stay silent, afraid.

Three weeks have lapsed since the tormented nightmares that revealed my husbands cheating .
When the moon rises and the sky is darkest, I re-live my D-day.

November 27, 2010


He confesses to a strip club.  The words pulse in my chest.  I can't believe it, a strip club?!  He's in bed, pretending to sleep, ignoring me in the darkness.   Dazed, I stumble to the bathroom.  Flipping the light, astonished by it's brightness, my eyes squint in automatic response.  I stabilize myself on the wall.  Heaving and sobbing.

"A strip club?  He flew half way around the world for a strip club!?"

My skin prickles under the piping water.  A shower usually relaxes my body but tonight it agitates me!  The water drops trickle in slow motion.  My breath migrates shallowly through my lungs.  The truth is hazy.

"Guys don't just go to strip clubs to watch."  I'd heard him say it a hundred times.

In a torrent of rain I storm from the shower, hair sopping, mascara smudged and dripping, my body quaking on the ragged edges of the typhoon.  I find the words, "what else?"

"what else?"

Thirty mintues pass before he confesses to being on the recieving end of a dancers blow job.

Screaming, staggering...

                                    tripping backwards I fall flat on my back....

                                                                                              stunned,  unresponsive.

Minutes pass, but I don't know how many.  For me, time has frozen.


The most terrible black, bubbly gunk is rising up from the back of my throat gagging me.  Bitter to the taste, I struggle.  Swallowing once, trying to keep it from spewing, to keep it from really happening, to keep it from being real.

But, there is no going back.

Just like last nights Chinese food and the poisoning that follows, my tongue hollows, my  throat retches spreading into full body heaves.  I vomit the most frenzied rage!!

In a split second I'm ramming my head against his chest, knocking him down, WWF style!  In un-lady-like fierceness I beat him!    Every elbow, knee and fist I own pounds into him as he curls into a fetal position, hands covering his head protecting his eyes and his nuts because he knows I will tear them out!  I want blood!!

Vile words spilling from my tongue.

I spend the night in a nervous state of awake.  Part comatose, part hemorrhaging mania.  By the next morning my eyes are crushed red from tears.  I still can't sleep.  My face is swollen from anguish.  My knuckles raw from fighting.  My skin is tepid and moist.  The sun beings to cross to the western sky and I still haven't slept.  Alone and despondent I sit on the patio, in the afternoon sun, looking at nothing.  The whites of my eyes are sticky and dry.  I haven't blinked in ages.  When the lids finally close a sting resonates into the deep wells of my eye sockets.  I become acquainted with pain.

Insanity has taken a permanent residence in my brain.


If you feel even the slightest bit heavy after reading this post read this.  There is hope.
To read Mr. Scab's version of these events click here.

Follow the story.
Read the next entry here.

Monday, May 14, 2012

I want to write but...

I'm feeling like a Pinterest night. 
How about you?


The Top-Knot



How would it feel to tap dance like this?


All-time favorite dining room


For Bubbles and one of her sweet commenters.


Old bikes = love



Domino Mag

Hoping our kitchen remodel looks something like this.


Nice hair.


Nice outfit.


Can you imagine the air in this place?  It must be delicious!


Wondering how Nora's patio remodel looks!


I kinda wanna color my hair super red.
Related Posts Plugin for WordPress, Blogger...

Template by Best Web Hosting