Part 1: Remorse for what I did and didn’t do.

To live a life with remorse is to live a life with hesitancy. While owning up and taking responsibility is grand and a huge part of anyone’s healing journey, we can also go past the other side of the pendulum, missing out on joy as we continually bash ourselves for past mistakes.

Keep blooming

Since my divorce in 2012, I’ve moved forward with aplomb. I remarried a wonderful human in 2017, so this continued behavior should no longer be an issue, right? And, by the way, what’s with the term healing journey? Are persons ever completely healed from life experiences? I digress.

Healthier behaviors develop over time. In my case, decades. It’s important to note who I was during a good chunk of my first marriage, most notably the last several. In truth, the best of times was when I became a mother, and this would be the accumulation of years between two individuals who were never quite sure how to navigate each other as we’d done before having a family. Did we ever?

In this space, I’ve written on more than one occasion how I’m the queen of acquiescence. Not so much today, yet I was the master in my first marriage. No conflict, please. Avoidance at any cost. I wasn’t aware of the difference between kindness and weakness, accepting myself as weak with extra doses of kindness sufficient to keep a marriage and family intact. My then-husband knew this. Over the years, the manipulation became more diluted, and he knew exactly how to raise fear and doubt within me – scared of my ex, scared of not being accepted, scared of his dominance, afraid of being myself. However, the longer I was married, the less I had an idea of what that looked like. Toward the end, I eeked out a voice to an extent, though he always dismissed me. 

There is no poor me, no victim. Becoming empowered doesn’t happen naturally. 

Here’s the thing to think about – not all abuse is direct, and it is not necessarily considered abuse. There are other ways in which manipulation comes into play, and in my case, it came slowly, stealth-like in action, elusive, and without much fanfare. I didn’t know how to leave, only that I no longer wanted to stay married to him. This is where the affairs come in at the last act of my marriage. It’s taken me years to write about this part of my life. The shame runs deep, even to this day. I must be honest to complete this part of my healing journey. I choose to write publicly; the idea is to help others who’ve decided to remain quiet yet need support. Coming out, so to speak, is part of my narrative in life; the most intense experiences are to be embraced and learned from, incredibly, the most painful. 

The narrative continues.

We’ll find each other soon.  💜

Today, I am a Nana

It occurs to me that family, whatever that definition means to you, we all long to belong.

Loving my late mother as I did and the closeness I was able to attain with my once-distant father before he died, I thought I had my family definition in check. I always loved my parents and married the same person for twenty-seven years. We raised two beautiful daughters together. My parents divorced, which significantly impacted me as a child of twelve; hence, I wasn’t too eager to get married. Yet, after five years with my future husband, it seemed to make sense that we would marry. Why wouldn’t we? He reminded me we’d invested five years together; thus, why would we invest so much time and energy in our relationship only to part?

Oh, life, how you surprise. Or, instead, how I’ve surprised myself over the years. We are what our choices are. Kids, you can make your own decisions, no matter what influences surround you.

Yet, forget that mess above. Here’s the dealio today: I am a Nana.

How did I get here? How am I filled with so much love after being estranged from my daughters over ten years?

The answer in a few words: Radical acceptance of what can’t be changed and gratitude for what can be transformed.

Not precisely a script for a Hallmark Channel flick, though rest assured, I’ve been through the wringer long enough to know life, the zest of life, is all about accountability. Not to the point where one continually beats oneself up, yet, at the very least, enough to know and accept the consequences of one’s actions. 

Eventually, after divorce and estrangement, a new relationship came. 

Choosing to marry again was a challenging decision. I wasn’t interested in being taken care of. I was far more curious and on the periphery of discovering the kind of person I was meant to be. Again, Hallmark Channel overload, and remember, I do not own a Christmas tree farm in reality, nor have I ever been involved with a past love in my imaginary Christmas tree farm. 

Life, as I knew it, brought a man and his family into my world. The last ten-plus years, reveling and sharing in life with four stepdaughters, I ended up here today: I am a Nana.

My grandson is the child of my oldest stepdaughter. His Papa, my husband, gets irritated when I say this, yet it’s imperative to share here: we share no DNA. This is pertinent because I am in awe of how much love is felt between two humans without sharing DNA. Seriously. He’s changed my world. Not because of anything I’m lacking in my own life, but because he is who he is, and I am who I am, and together, we found a new kind of love. He has no idea I’m his mother’s stepmom. 

One need not share DNA to love. It simply means we choose to love or we don’t choose to love. Love isn’t a joke. It’s HARD to love. Like gratitude, love is a practice. I’m tired; I decide to love. I’m stressed, I resolve to love, I’m angry, I choose to love. There’s no waiting to feel like I want to love – I LOVE.

That’s what my life coach (aka, grandson) is teaching me more and more. Without an idea of his influence in my life, as a toddler, he demonstrated that love is love is love. Not in any grandiose way but rather simply by laughter, bonking affectionate heads together, silly voices with his mommy and daddy, and brushing his teeth with his Papa. The simplicity astounds me.

I am a Nana.

He has five grandparents who adore the ground he walks on. A blended family, once fractured, we are finding our permanent glue. It’s hard, at times, unpredictable. It’s a long road. Yet, after almost seven years of marriage, the family blends more vibrant than ever. I am beyond proud to be a Nana, my grandson’s Nana. No one can ever shake that away. He and I are in life together forever.

We’ll find each other soon. 💜

Nana and her Grandson

Childhood, My Parents’ Exit, & the Aging Process

Childhood

I turned thirty, then forty. My former husband threw me a surprise birthday party for my fiftieth, ironically, at a senior center I once volunteered at. At fifty-one, I divorced him. My mom died the same year. Since then, I remarried, my adult daughters remain estranged from me, my dad died in 2022 (ten years after my mom), and I turned sixty in 2020.

I’m who I’ve always been, although they was aren’t here to witness my aging process. It’s the nature of life. I miss discussions we’ll never have. They would be fresh, different perspectives and deeper conversations. I’m amazed by how much more I know the kind of people they are now than when they were alive. I’m surprised by how much more I love and appreciate them. Toward the end of Dad’s life, he and I became closer. We both made a concerted effort to get to know each other. He’s my only dad, and we came to know each other, accepting our frailties and living with gratitude for our father and daughter bond late in life. I was always close to my mom, though I didn’t start to grow up until I began my divorce process. She was gone, and I made a choice: become a real adult and start looking more intently in the mirror, or be the scared little girl, albeit always lovely and sweet, and continue the pattern of reacting to events in my life rather than taking charge. One of the last conversations Mom and I had pertained to this. Sitting in her sweet, old, bungalow beach house, not yet knowing I would decide to divorce a month after her death, she looked at me and stated, “Honey, all you want to do is reclaim your life.” She loved so unconditionally. How was I to go on without her love and knowing how much I hurt my children?

I grew up

Becoming a grown-up can happen at times. It is our own personal choice. I’ve always been a late bloomer. Late to the party, I now show up as a more confident and assured individual. I am no longer fearful of what others think of me and am more determined than ever to give back as Connie and Paul’s daughter. My parents were human, as we all are. Their love continues to strengthen my life. Missing them equates to the love shared, and I embrace it.

We’ll find each other soon. 💜

In Step with Grief

Keep Lookin Up

Daughters, my own, my steps. The relationships have a life of their own. Estrangement alters any relationship, though I’m learning even with my girl’s decision to remain distant, after 10 years, I can still learn from them. And I am.

No relationship replaces another. They are only extensions of each other. No other parent replaces another. Today, I miss my children. Many years of no contact and ambiguous grief continue. To lose a person still living, who has chosen to let go of a relationship, the one still here must go on. Both parties must create a life, living in the here and now. I wonder how life is for them. My empathy, once a mere shade of existent in the nice person I’ve always been, now rarely recedes, only to become deeper each year. I have felt their pain. I do not precisely feel their pain, yet I have felt their loss. Loss of a family they once adored, the loss of a mother they trusted since early childhood, and the loss of expectations. Their dad and I built a loving home, but the facade became more challenging to attain as we all grew older. The show was subtle, and I only recognized this long after the divorce. Steeped in familial expectations, how can a mother who loved her family hurt them deeply? Though mired in expectations, I believe my love of family was sincere. How many years have I left without the possibility of seeing my daughters again? Without the chance of seeing their mother again?

Death of the physical being is final. The end of the living is ambiguous at best.

I grieve. I grieve my choices; I grieve my loss. I mourn young motherhood and the inability to do a few do-overs. I grieve.

I celebrate. I celebrate better choices. I applaud the gains of a woman who knows exactly who she is. I celebrate motherhood. I celebrate my daughters, stepdaughters, and all the young adults I’ve grown to love. I celebrate.

We’ll find each other soon. 💜

Dream a Little Dream: Do-overs for Parents

Dreams Provide Comfort When Least Expected

How often does one wake up from a dream, only a flash of a memory, then completely gone?

I haven’t dreamt of my daughters in a long time, not that I can remember. Looking through my laptop notes, I read two dreams not far from each other, the fall of 2022. I always dreamed of them as young children.

Dream #1: 8/29/22 (my firstborn)

Walking past an old green Honda, I see a young girl sleeping in the car’s back seat. The window is foggy; maybe it’s the frost from the inside? Slowly I get closer and see its (daughter) sleeping. She is about six years old and wearing the red coat, she loves. She briefly holds her head up, and our eyes meet for a few seconds. I smile, she smiles, then she puts her head down, back to sleep, and I walk away smiling. 

Dream #2: 9/2/22 (my second born)

(Daughter) is about 10 or 11 years old. She and I are outside with other kids, with other mothers. Not too far, other girls and their mothers are in their groups. (Daughter) comes to me, says a girl from the other group, upsetting her. Not sure what it was, but it doesn’t matter. She tells me the girl’s name is Tara. 

“Ok, honey. Thank you for telling me. I’ll take care of this.”

Walking over a small hilly area by myself, I approach the group of girls and their moms. Talking to a mom,

“Excuse me, is there a Tara in your group?” 

The mom brushes me off. I then see the entire group as they’re preparing to leave in their private helicopter (!), yelling,

“Excuse me, is there a Tara in your group?”

The mother looks at me, and this time, she asks why I want to know. I told her I wanted to speak with Tara as she said something to upset my daughter. I also notice a list of the girls’ names near the helicopter. Squinting to view, I can see the name “Tara.” 

Finally, Tara approaches me. I get on my knees to look into her eyes. She’s sweet, not unkind, and hesitant to share, though she eventually does. What the issue was, I can’t recall. Doesn’t matter. I then get (daughter), and we talk. Resolution occurs after discussing how conflicts happen and how we can resolve those conflicts if everyone involved wants it. 

Walking back with (daughter), tears welled in her eyes; she thanked me for not getting mad at her. 

“Honey, why would you think I would be mad at you?” 

“Because I didn’t know how to solve my problem?” 

Hugging her tightly, I felt vindicated as her mother, willing to demonstrate to her how a resolution could happen. Waking up, I know I wouldn’t have been strong enough to do what I did if that had happened when she was 10. She never knew me as the mother I am today.

We wish for do-overs as parents. The closest thing is our dreams.

We’ll find each other soon. 

Stagnation Reveals an Awakening

If we talk about something a lot, is this exercise therapeutic, or does the constant narrative manifest into consistent stagnation?

Of late, the latter finds itself comfortably numb in my day-to-day rumblings.

Perhaps it’s the private Facebook page for parents of estranged children, a page I’ve been involved with for years, though the last several, I stepped back, as one must when immersed to the point of another almost drowning of emotions. Yet, a post from a mother about her mother’s passing and the upcoming memorial, where she asked how she to navigate the grieving on such a poignant day while her estranged children would also be present? The trigger of my mother’s celebration of life, the beginnings of my estrangement, barely ripened, thrown back to one of the most challenging days of my adult life. The process of ambiguous grief laid dormant, now awakened one again.

In addition, the social impact, recent gatherings after that, my comfort level of sharing with a few others, voicing my plight, the unbridled vulnerability which seems to come more naturally than before. An attentive listener who I connect with, sharing lives and learning from those we are in tune with.

Perhaps there is slight stagnation at all. Awareness comes in all flavors. Maybe the discovery of a new flavor I’ve tasted, yet to fully realize its texture.

Family estrangement, advocacy, voice. Yet to completely define my personhood, my core forever changed. Eleven years later, a new flavor of awareness appeared, and I am listening carefully, ready and willing to taste, embrace, and accept new textures.

To be continued, as always.

We’ll find each other soon. 💜

Anxiety, Addiction: Breaking the Dysfunction

Hi, I’m Carin and I’m an alcoholic. Except I’m NOT. My addiction comes in the way of another form of a substance called sugar.

Sugar: May the Addiction Be Gone or at the Least, Morph into the shape of a Carrot

To be clear, I’m also a diabetic. Type 2. Not insulin dependent. Yet. My blood sugar is monitored by oral medication, diet and physical activity. I was diagnosed with diabetes about twenty years ago. Not a humongous surprise, as both my parents were diabetics.

Back to addiction. And anxiety. They are best friends, the co-dependent kind. Neediness is their ammo and for many years, a misunderstanding of the two has now become abundantly clear: one needs the other for survival.

Always thin, my childhood hours filled with ballet lessons. P.E. class, a form of physical prison as a teen, I never worried too much about my weight, or body image. Boobs came as noted in my early teens and serious ideas regarding my ballet career were then thrown to the side with each plié. Not as if there was a career in my future but little girls can dream.

When pregnant with my first daughter in 1990, tests revealed gestational diabetes. Water weight caused most of my pregnant body to adorn Birkenstocks for the two legs which resembled small tree trunks. Nonetheless, daughter arrived in 1990 and her sister joined the family in 1994. Diabetes, even the gestational kind, took a back seat, though little thought on my part, how it quietly lurked in the background of a young mothers world.

I can’t recall my diagnoses. Not the exact time, age, or how I physically felt. When prescribed Metformin, my first inkling I was so-called, sick, I thought, okay, so I’ll take these big white pills, can pretty much eat whatever, and I’ll be fine. Denial, thank you very much.

Carin, oh, ye of little awareness.

Anxiety, the main culprit since existence and it’s only been in the last few years, awareness took a front seat. Medication is a small part of anxiety and addiction to sugar. One can only place responsibility on chemical imbalance so far. The chocolate bar is fleeting, the blood sugar ain’t.

During the last three years, Covid and all, like many, anxiety at its peak, I realized how addictive my body became to sugar. Only at the time, well, a pandemic, what better excuse to partake in unhealthy eating patterns?

It’s more evident, my dilemma. Again, not a dilemma, it’s the possibility if not probability of a life cut shorter due to my unwillingness to combat the dysfunctional relationship of addiction and anxiety. I need those two to break up for good.

YOLO, another caveat. Nope. You only live once isn’t good enough for me anymore. Sure, a cookie now and then, probably won’t end my physical existence, yet the way my addiction to sugar stands right now, what quality of life during the rest of my sixties and seventies can I expect?

Hi, I’m Carin and I’m addicted to sugar. I’m a diabetic who deals with general anxiety on the daily. This is the first of other writings and the yearning to change eating patterns and document this chapter of my journey. You’re welcome to join and be part of the conversation.

We’ll find each other soon. 💜

Want, Accumulate, Purge

There is no beginning or end. There is a continuation. Thus, here is today. Here I am.

One of the most challenging issues in blogging is time, as in the time between writing. Much happened from the last time I wrote, only to become too overwhelmed and where to begin again.

I love this meme. My younger self would’ve laughed and paid little attention to its meaning, though I was never too much of a collector of things. I didn’t have shelves lined with little keepsakes or cozy tchotchkes in a glass cabinet. Mostly, experiences such as going to the ballet and live musicals were what I loved the most growing up.

But then we grow up. We live in a house, an apartment. We attain furniture; some bought, some given. We need dishes and utensils, soap, shampoo, toilet paper, and toothpaste. Where will we put our trash? What about the stark walls? Let’s put up some artwork and some old and new photos. If we’re lucky, greeting cards arrive in the mail. It’s Christmas, and a few more presents present themselves; what to do with the myriad of Christmas cards sent from old friends and new ones. Years and years. Our children’s preschool art, old essays written in college, our deceased parent’s black-and-white wedding album. The old wedding dress you once loved, though now divorced, the question, why am I saving this, one of many, why we keep accumulating, only to lose our minds on where to put shit.

As a Realtor, I deal with many clients who go through the agony and ecstasy of purging. My heart is with seniors and their families. A home lived in for twenty, thirty, sixty years, their adult children, what do to with all of mom and dads things? Then we have our own purging ahead of us. Only the actual purge doesn’t occur until and unless we are forced to deal with what’s in front of us.

Purging equals healing. Truly. It’s so freaking hard to let go of things. History, sentiments, those moments we hold onto. As if we rid ourselves, those moments are thrown away. Reasonable humans, we are, knowing we will not die if we give away our precious first stuffed animal collection or those art pieces purchased at Marshall’s ten years ago. “But what if I need them for another blank wall?”

I sold a sprawling home in the past two years and moved into an old RV. Then the old RV moved from the RV park to a new space, and the stuff in the RV remains. Four months ago, we decided to rent a room in our daughter, son-in-law, and grandson’s house. More choices, what to rid of, what to keep, what to store. The process is never-ending. It’s overwhelming. Silly me, thinking living with less, minimizing what I own, somehow, simplicity would magically evolve with each piece given away.

Silly me.

At sixty-two, living in two spaces, two places, a husband who is passionate about his work, a family I love dearly, new health insurance, honing in my diabetes, the concern about living a healthy life, slowly back to running without joint pain, so much fucking left to live. I’m not alarmed or panicked. I’m purposeful. There ya go. Purging is purposeful. No more wasting time accumulating. I wish to waste time for nothing but be in those moments and soak it all in.

We’ll find each other soon. 💜

Post Divorce: End of an Email Address, The Beginning of Renewal

Rediscovering this old draft, one might need encouragement during a painful moment. Divorce stips one away of many things, only to find that shredding brings new life. Let us learn from our pain, share with others, and bring forth gratitude.

2020 was the first year I didn’t recognize my divorce date of 12/31/2012. Wow. I almost didn’t remember even today, except in my yearning to re-read emails my late mother sent me years ago, I remembered something else. Almost immediately, post-divorce, I recall my former husband insisting I give up my old email address, which was my married name. We had had our email addresses for years as pacbell.net. In my constant fog, I thought I had misunderstood. “You want me to discontinue my email address now that we’re divorced?” Hence, I deleted my email address and all my past emails without question.

No misunderstanding. More of taking control of what he thought he could change. I remember the confusion I felt. I also started another email address on my Gmail account with my married name. One day he informed me that there weren’t any carinarrigo@gmail accounts and that I could take it and give up my previous one. (That, of course, is in line with giving up my married name, which I’ve written about in past blog posts) Yet, more reminders of resentment, confusion, control, acquiescence, punishment, placation, and deflation. I wasn’t what one would call fierce those days.

These thoughts are merely a blip in my mind today. But I don’t want to forget. These are the moments that would transform me, transform my strength, and reckon my resolve as a divorced woman. He did his best to strip me of my name; it was a shedding, the beginning of renewal.

If you’re in this place, these moments of a divorce make way for a strength you’re most likely to believe you have very little of. As minute as these moments might seem, chat with a good friend and open your heart to those closest to you who won’t judge. They are there. Seek your people. I didn’t. I chose to move inward, though most days, I don’t think it was a choice, but rather, a mechanism I felt I had no choice but to turn inward. Sometimes the most powerful and impactful moments come in small increments. Don’t allow anyone to take those moments away from you.

We’ll find each other soon. 💜

Marriage, RV Living, and the Whole Darn Thing

Now in our sixteenth month of living in an RV park, as we prepare to embark on another adventure, I am dumbfounded by this entire experience. Sincerely dumbfounded. Mostly, I am grateful and humbled.

My husband and I live here on purpose. The choice was ours to sell our ranch-style house summer of 2021 to pay off some of our home investments and figure out what we wanted to be when we grew up. As a Realtor, the price of homes, including ours, was going through several roofs, and we made the plunge. Moving from 2,700 sqft to a 1999 28 ft Fleetwood Bounder is not for the weak! As I tell others, living in “Sally,” one must garner a healthy sense of humor. In addition, the experience of an RV community is several separate blog posts.

Marriage and RV Living

Do not try this at home. Or, do. Married over 5 years, I’m damn proud of the marriage we’ve created. What is tested is not so much the tiny space; but how we react to the small space. Marriage is all about small spaces. Think about it: two people, their connection is intimate, no matter how ample the space. This has been my most significant revelation of marriage: space is the least essential component in a healthy partnership. Intimacy has its own space.

Marriage and Living with Family

A few months ago, our oldest daughter and her husband reached out, asking us if we’d be interested in living in their big 3100sqft home. Their previous roommates moved out, and they realized the extra income was still welcomed and a huge help. Thus, beyond honored, our kids wanted us to live with them, more than that, an opportunity to live with our baby grandson, his parents, and the live-in nanny who happens to be our grandson’s Auntie. In other words: la Familia.

There’s never a lack of material to write upon. Experiences are daily. What we go through matters. Moving forward, slowly assimilating from RV living to family living in a big house, wonders never cease. As if our lives are planned accordingly. Being open is the privilege of growing older. Thank you, sixty-two. Let’s keep on.

We’ll find each other soon. 💜